"Confederacies in vice, or leagues in pleasure."
"Confederacies in vice, or leagues in pleasure."
"Lady Denham, when applied to," resumed Lady Belfield, "said, that she was extremely sorry for them; but as she thought extravagance the greatest of faults, it would look like an encouragement to imprudence if she did any thing for them. Their extravagance, however, had never been objected to by her, till the fountain which had supplied it was stopped: and she had for years made no scruple of winning money almost nightly from the woman whose distresses she now refused to relieve. Lady Denham further assigned the misery into which the elopement of her darling child with Signor Squallini had brought her, as an additional reason for withholding her kindness from Mrs. Fentham."
"It is a reason," said I, interrupting Lady Belfield, "which, in a rightly-turned mind, would have had a directly contrary operation. When domestic calamity overtakes us, is it not the precise moment for holding out a hand to the wretched? for diminishing the misery abroad, which at home may be irretrievable?"
"Lady Bab Lawless, to whom Mrs. Fentham applied for assistance, coolly advised her to send her daughters to service, saying, 'that she knew of no acquirement they had which would be of any use to them, except their skill in hair-dressing.'"
"It seemed a cruel reproach from a professed friend," said Sir John, "and yet it is a literal truth. I know not what can be done for them, or for what they are fit. Their accomplishments might be turned to some account, if they were accompanied with real knowledge, useful acquirements, or sober habits. Mrs. Fentham wishes us to recommend them as governesses. But can I conscientiously recommend to others, girls with whom I could not trust my own family? Had they been taught to look no higher than the clerks of their father, who had been a clerk himself, they might have been happy; but those very men will now think them as much beneath themselves, as the young ladies lately thought they were above them."
"I have often," said Mr. Stanley, "been amused, with observing what a magic transformation the same event produces on two opposite classes of characters. The misfortunes of their acquaintance convert worldly friends into instantaneous strictness of principle. The faults of the distressed are produced as a plea for their own hard-hearted covetousness; while that very misfortune so relaxes the strictness of good men, that the faults are forgotten in the calamity! and they, who had been perpetually warning the prodigal of his impending ruin, when that ruin comes, are the first to relieve him."
It was agreed among us that some small contribution must be added to a little sum that had been already raised, for their immediate relief; but that nothing was so difficult, as effectually to serve persons whose views wore so disproportioned to their deserts, and whose habits would be too likely to carry corruption into families who might receive them from charitable motives.
The conversation then fell insensibly on the pleasure we had enjoyed since we had been together; and on the delights of rational society, and confidential intercourse such as ours had been, where minds mingled, and affection and esteem were reciprocal. Mr. Stanley said many things which evinced how happily his piety was combined with the most affectionate tenderness of heart. Indeed I had always been delighted to observe in him a quality which is not so common as it is thought to be, a thorough capacity for friendship.
"My dear Stanley," said Sir John, "it is of the very essence of human enjoyments, that they must have an end. I observe with regret, that the time assigned for our visit is more than elapsed. We have prolonged it beyond our intention, beyond our convenience: but we have, I trust, been imbibing principles, stealing habits, and borrowing plans, which will ever make us consider this visit as an important era in our lives.
"My excellent Caroline is deeply affected with all she has seen and heard at the Grove. We must now leave it, though not without reluctance. We must go and endeavor to imitate what, six weeks ago, we almost feared to contemplate. Lady Belfield and I have compared notes. On the most mature deliberation, we agree that we have lived long enough to the world. We agree that it is time to begin to live to ourselves, and to him who made us. We propose in future to make our winters in London much shorter. We intend to remove early every spring to Beechwood, which we will no longer consider as a temporary residence, but as our home; we will supply it with every thing that may make it interesting and improving to us all. We are resolved to educate our children in the fear of God. Our fondness for them is rather increased than diminished; but in the exercise of that fondness, we will remember that we are to train them for immortality. We will watch over them as creatures for whose eternal well-being a vast responsibility will attach to ourselves.
"In our new plan of life, we shall have fewer sacrifices to make than most people in our situation; for we have long felt a growing indifference for things which we appeared to enjoy. Of the world, we are only going to give up that part which is not worth keeping, and of which we are really weary. In securing our real friends, we shall not regret if we drop some acquaintances by the way. The wise and the worthy we shall more than ever cherish. In your family we have enjoyed those true pleasures which entail no repentance. That cheerfulness which alone is worthy of accountable beings, we shall industriously maintain in our own. I bless God if we have not so many steps to tread back as some others have who are entering, upon principle, on a new course of life.
"We have always endeavored, though with much imperfection, to fill some duties to each other, to our children, to our friends, and to the poor. But of the prime duty, the main spring of action, and of all moral goodness, duty to God, we have not been sufficiently mindful. I hope we have at length learned to consider him as the fountain of all good, and the gospel of his Son, as the fountain of all hope. This new principle, I am persuaded, will never impair our cheerfulness, it will only fix it on a solid ground. By purifying the motive, it will raise the enjoyment.
"But if we have not so many bad habits to correct as poor Carlton had, I question if we have not as many difficulties to meet in another way. His loose course was discreditable. His vices made him stand ill with the world. He would, therefore, acquire nothing but credit in changing his outward practice. Lady Belfield and I, on the contrary, stand rather too well with the world. We had just that external regularity, that cool indifference about our own spiritual improvement, and the wrong courses of our friends, which procure regard, because they do not interfere with others, nor excite jealousy for ourselves. But we have now to encounter that censure, which we have, perhaps, hitherto been too solicitous to avoid. It will still be our trial, but I humbly trust that it will be no longer our snare. Our morality pleased, because it seemed to proceed merely from a sense of propriety; our strictness will offend when it is found to spring from a principle of religion.
"To what tendency in the heart of man, my dear Stanley, is it owing, that religion is commonly seen to excite more suspicion than the want of it? When a man of the world meets with a gay, thoughtless, amusing person, he seldom thinks of inquiring whether such a one be immoral, or an unbeliever, or a profligate, though the bent of his conversation rather leans that way. Satisfied with what he finds him, he feels little solicitude to ascertain what he really is. But no sooner does actual piety show itself in any man, than your friends are putting you on your guard; there is instantly a suggestion, a hint, a suspicion, 'Does he not carry things too far?' 'Is he not righteous over much?' 'Is he not intemperate in his zeal?' 'Above all things, is hesincere?' and, in short—for that is the centre in which all the lines of suspicion and reprobation meet—'Is he not a Methodist?'
"I trust, however, that, through divine grace, our minds will be fortified against all attacks on this our weak side; this pass through which the sort of assaults most formidable to us will be likely to enter. I was mentioning this danger to Caroline this morning. She opened her Bible, over which she now spends much of her solitary time, and with an emphasis foreign from her usual manner, read,
"'Cease ye from man, whose breath is in his nostrils, for wherein is he to be accounted of?'"
As Sir John repeated these words, I saw Lucilla, who was sitting next Lady Belfield, snatch one of her hands, and kiss it, with a rapture which she had no power to control. It was evident that nothing but our presence restrained her from rising to embrace her friend. Her fine eyes glistened, but seeing that I observed her, she gently let go the hand she held, and tried to look composed. I can not describe the chastised, but not less fervent, joy of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley. Their looks expressed the affectionate interest they took in Sir John's honest declaration. Their hearts overflowed with gratitude to him without whom "nothing is strong nothing is holy." For my own part, I felt myself raised
Above this visible diurnal sphere.
Above this visible diurnal sphere.
Sir John afterward said, "I begin more and more to perceive the scantiness of all morality which has not the love of God for its motive.Thatvirtue will not carry us safely, and will not carry us far, which looks to human estimation as its reward. As it was a false and inadequate principle which first set it a going, it will always stop short of the true ends of goodness."
"Sir John," said Lady Belfield, "I have been seriously thinking that I ought not to indulge in the expense of this intended conservatory. We will, if you please, convert the money to the building of a charity school. I can not consent to incur such a superfluous expense for my amusement."
"My dear Caroline," replied Sir John, "through the undeserved goodness of God, my estate is so large, and through your excellent management it is so unimpaired, that we will not give up the conservatory, unless Mr. Stanley thinks we ought to give it up. But we will adopt Lucilla's idea of combining a charity with an indulgence—we will associate the charity school with the conservatory. This union will be a kind of monument to our friends at the Grove, from whom you have acquired the love of plants, and I of religious charity."
We all looked with anxious expectation at Mr. Stanley. He gave it as his opinion, that as Lady Belfield was now resolved to live the greater part of the year in the country, she ought to have some amusements in lieu of those she was going to give up. "Costly decorations and expensive gardens," continued he, "at a place where the proprietors do not so much asintendto reside, have always appeared to me among the infatuations of opulence. To the expenses which they do notwant, it is adding an expense which they do notsee. But surely, at a mansion where an affluent family actuallylive, all reasonable indulgences should be allowed. And where a garden and green-house are to supply to the proprietor the place of the abdicated theatre and ball-room; and especially when it is to be a means in her hands of attaching her children to the country, and of teaching them to love home, I declare myself in favor of the conservatory."
Lucilla's eyes sparkled, but she said nothing.
"It would be unfair," continued Mr. Stanley, "to blame too severely those, who, living constantly in the country, give a little in to its appropriate pleasures. The real objects of censure seem to be those who, grafting bad taste on bad habits, bring into the country the amusements of the town, and superadd to such as are local, and natural, and innocent, such as are foreign, artificial, and corrupt."
"My dear Stanley," said Sir John, "we have resolved to indemnify our poor neighbors for two injuries which we have been doing them. The one is, by our having lived so little among them: for I have now learned, that the mere act of residence is a kind of charity even in the uncharitable, as it necessarily causes much money to be spent, even where little is given. The other is, that we will endeavor to make up for our past indifference to their spiritual concerns, by now acting as if we were aware that the poor have souls as well as bodies; and that in the great day of account, the care of both will attach to our responsibility."
Such a sense of sober joy seemed to pervade our little party that we were not aware that the night was far advanced. Our minds were too highly set for much loquacity, when Ph[oe]be suddenly exclaimed. "Papa, why is it that happiness does not make one merry? I never was half so happy in my life, and yet I can hardly forbear crying; and I believe it is catching, sir, for look, Lucilla is not much wiser than myself."
The next day but one after this conversation our valuable friends left us. Our separation was softened by the prospect of a speedy meeting. The day before they set out, Lady Belfield made an earnest request to Mr. and Mrs. Stanley that they would have the goodness to receive Fanny Stokes into their family for a few months previous to her entering theirs as governess. "I can think of no method so likely," continued she, "to raise the tone of education in my own family as the transfusion into it of your spirit, and the adoption of your regulations." Mr. and Mrs. Stanley most cheerfully acceded to the proposal.
Sir John said: "I was meditating the same request, but with an additional clause tacked to it, that of sending our eldest girl with Fanny, that the child also may get imbued with something of your family spirit, and be broken into better habits than she has acquired from our hitherto relaxed discipline." This proposal was also cordially approved.
Dr. Barlow came to the Grove to take leave of our friends. He found Sir John and I sitting in the library with Mr. Stanley. "As I came from Mr. Tyrrel," said the Doctor, "I met Mr. Flam going to see him. He seemed so anxious about his old friend that a wish strongly presented itself to my mind that the awful situation of the sick man might be salutary to him.
"It is impossible to say," continued he, "what injury religion has suffered from the opposite characters of these two men. Flam, who gives himself no concern about the matter, is kind and generous; while Tyrrel, who has made a high profession, is mean and sordid. It has been said, of what use is religion when morality has made Mr. Flam a better man than religion makes Mr. Tyrrel? Thus men of the world reason! But nothing can be more false than their conclusions. Flam is naturally an open, warm-hearted man, but incorrect in many respects, and rather loose in his principles. His natural good propensities religion would have improved into solid virtues, and would have cured the more exceptionable parts of his character. But from religion he stands aloof.
"Tyrrel is naturally narrow and selfish. Religion has not made but found him such. But what a religion has he adopted! A mere assumption of terms; a dead, inoperative, uninfluencing notion, which he has taken up; not, I hope, with a view to deceive others, but by which he has grossly deceived himself. He had heard that religion was a cure for an uneasy mind; but he did not attend to the means by which the cure is effected, and it relieved not him.
"The corrupt principle whence his vices proceeded was not subdued. He did not desire to subdue it, because in the struggle he must have parted with what he was resolved to keep. He adopted what he believed was a cheap and easy religion; little aware that the great fundamental Scripture doctrine of salvation by Jesus Christ was a doctrine powerfully opposing our corruptions, and involving in its comprehensive requirements a new heart and a new life."
At this moment Mr. Flam called at the Grove. "I am just come from Tyrrel," said he. "I fear it is nearly over with him. Poor Ned! he is very low, almost in despair. I always told him that the time would come when he would be glad to exchange notions for actions. I am grieved for him. The remembrance of a kind deed or two done to a poor tenant would be some comfort to him now at a time when every man stands in need of comfort."
"Sir," said Dr. Barlow, "the scene which I have lately witnessed at Mr. Tyrrel's makes me serious. If you and I were alone, I am afraid it would make me bold. I will, however, suppress the answer I was tempted to make you, because I should not think it prudent or respectful to utter before company what, I am persuaded, your good sense would permit me to say were we alone!"
"Doctor," replied the good-tempered, but thoughtless man, "don't stand upon ceremony. You know I love a debate, and I insist on your saying what was in your mind to say. I don't fear getting out of any scrape you can bring me into. You are too well-bred to offend, and I hope I am too well-natured to be easily offended. Stanley, I know, always takes your side. Sir John, I trust, will take mine; and so will the young man here, if he is like most other young men."
"Allow me then to observe," returned Dr. Barlow, "that if Mr. Tyrrel has unhappily deceived himself by resting too exclusively on a mere speculative faith—a faith which by his conduct did not evince itself to be of the right sort—yet, on the other hand, a dependence for salvation on our own benevolence, our own integrity, or any other good quality we may possess, is an error not less fatal, and far more usual. Such a dependence does as practically set at naught the Redeemer's sacrifice as the avowed rejection of the infidel. Honesty and benevolence are among the noblest qualities; but where the one is practiced for reputation, and the other from mere feeling, they are sadly delusive as to the ends of practical goodness. They have both indeed their reward; integrity, in the credit it brings, and benevolence, in the pleasure it yields. Both are beneficial to society: both therefore are politically valuable. Both sometimes lead me to admire the ordinations of that overruling power which often uses as instruments of public good, men who, acting well in many respects, are essentially useful to others; but, who, acting from motives merely human, forfeit for themselves that high reward which those virtues would obtain, if they were evidences of a lively faith, and the results of Christian principle. Think me not severe, Mr. Flam. To be personal is always extremely painful to me."
"No, no, Doctor," replied he, "I know you mean well. 'Tis your trade to give good counsel; and your lot, I suppose, to have it seldom followed. I shall hear you without being angry. You, in turn, must not be angry, if I hear you without being better."
"I respect you, sir, too much," replied Dr. Barlow, "to deceive you in a matter of such infinite importance. For one man who errs on Mr. Tyrrel's principle, a hundred err on yours. His mistake is equally pernicious, but it is not equally common. I must repeat it. For one whose soul is endangered through an unwarranted dependence on the Saviour, multitudes are destroyed, not only by the open rejection, but through a fatal neglect of the salvation wrought by him. Many more perish through a presumptuous confidence in their own merits, than through an unscriptural trust in the merits of Christ."
"Well, Doctor," replied Mr. Flam, "I must say that I think an ounce of morality will go further toward making up my accounts than a ton of religion, for which no one but myself would be the better."
"My dear sir," said Dr. Barlow, "I will not presume to determine between the exact comparative proportions of two ingredients, both of which are so indispensable in the composition of a Christian. I dare not hazard the assertion, which of the two is the more perilous state, but I think I am justified in saying which of the two cases occurs most frequently."
Mr. Flam said: "I should be sorry, Dr. Barlow, to find out at this time of day that I have been all my life long in an error."
"Believe me, sir," said Dr. Barlow, "it is better to find it out now than at a still later period. One good quality can never be made to supply the absence of another. There are no substitutes in this warfare. Nor can all the good qualities put together, if we could suppose them to unite in one man, and to exist without religion, stand proxy for the death of Christ. If they could so exist, it would be in the degree only, and not in the perfection required by that law which said, dothis and live. So kind a neighbor as you are, so honest a gentleman, so generous a master, as you are allowed to be, I can not, sir, think without pain of your losing the reward of such valuable qualities, by your placing your hope of eternal happiness in the exercise of them. Believe me, Mr. Flam, it is easier for a compassionate man, if he be not religious, to 'give all his goods to the poor,' than to bring every thought, 'nay than to bringanythought' into captivity to the obedience of Christ! But be assured, if we give ever so much with our hands, while we withhold our hearts from God, though we may do much good to others, we do none to ourselves."
"Why surely," said Mr. Flam, "you don't mean to insinuate that I should be in a safer state if I never did a kind thing?"
"Quite the contrary," replied Dr. Barlow, "but I could wish to see your good actions exalted, by springing from a higher principle, I mean the love of God; ennobled by being practiced to a higher end, and purified by your renouncing all self-complacency in the performance."
"But is there not less danger, sir," said Mr. Flam, "in being somewhat proud of what one reallydoes, than in doing nothing? And is it not more excusable to be a little satisfied with what one reallyis, than in hypocritically pretending to be what one isnot?"
"I must repeat," returned Dr. Barlow, "that I can not exactly decide on the question of relative enormity between two opposite sins. I can not pronounce which is the best of two states so very bad."
"Why now, Doctor," said Mr. Flam, "what particular sin can you charge me with?"
"I erect not myself into an accuser," replied Dr. Barlow; "but permit me to ask you, sir, from what motive is it that you avoid any wrong practice? Is there any one sin from which you abstain through the fear of offending your Maker?"
"As to that," replied Mr. Flam, "I can't say I ever considered about the motive of the thing. I thought it was quite enough not to do it. Well but, Doctor, since we are gone so far in the catechism, what duty to my neighbor can you convict me of omitting?"
"It will be well, sir," said the Doctor, "if you can indeed stand so close a scrutiny, as that to which you challenge me, even on your own principles. But tell me, with that frank honesty which marks your character, does your kindness to your neighbor spring from the true fountain, the love of God? That you do many right things I am most willing to allow. But do you perform them from a sense of obedience to the law of your Maker? Do you perform them because they are commanded in his word, and conformable to his will?"
"I can't say I do," said Mr. Flam, "but if the thing be right in itself, that appears to me to be all in all. It seems hard to encumber a man of business like me with the action and the motive too. Surely if I serve a man, it can make no difference to him,whyI serve him."
"To yourself, my dear sir," said the Doctor, "it makes all the difference in the world. Besides, good actions performed on any other principle than obedience, are not only spurious as to their birth, but they are defective in themselves; they commonly want something in weight and measure."
"Why, Doctor," said Mr. Flam, "I have often heard you say in the pulpit that the best are not perfect. Now as this is the case, I will tell you how I manage. I think it a safe way to average one's good qualities, to throw a bad one against a good one, and if the balance sinks on the right side the man is safe."
Dr. Barlow shook his head, and was beginning to express his regret at such delusive casuistry, when Mr. Flam interrupted him by saying, "Well, Doctor, my great care in life has been to avoid all suspicion of hypocrisy."
"You can not do better," replied Dr. Barlow, "than to avoid itsreality. But, for my own part, I believe religious hypocrisy to be rather a rare vice among persons of your station in life. Among the vulgar, indeed, I fear it is not so rare. In neighborhoods where there is much real piety, there is no small danger of some false profession. But among the higher classes of society, serious religion confers so little credit on him who professes it, that a gentleman is not likely to put on appearances from which he knows he is far more likely to lose reputation than to acquire it. When such a man, therefore, assumes the character of piety, I own I always feel disposed to give him full credit for possessing it. His religion may indeed be mistaken; it may be defective; it may even be unsound; but the chances are very much in favor of its not being insincere. Where piety is genuine it can not be altogether concealed. Where 'the fruits of the Spirit abound, they will appear.'"
"Now, my dear Doctor," replied Mr. Flam, "is not that cant? What do you mean by the fruits of the Spirit? Would it not have been more worthy of your good sense to have said morality or virtue? Would not these terms have been more simple and intelligible?"
"They might be so," rejoined the Doctor, "but they would not rise quite so high. They would not take in mywholemeaning. The fruit of the Spirit indeed always includesyourmeaning, but it includes much more. It is something higher than worldly morality, something holier than mere human virtue. I rather conceive morality, in your sense, to be the effect of natural temper, natural conscience, or worldly prudence, or perhaps a combination of all three. The fruit of the Spirit is the morality of the renewed heart. Worldly morality is easily satisfied with itself. It sits down contented with its own meagre performances; with legal honesty, with bare weight justice. It seldom gives a particle 'that is not in the bond.' It is always making out its claim to doubtful indulgences; it litigates its right to every inch of contested enjoyment; and is so fearful of not getting enough, that it commonly takes more than its due. It is one of the cases where 'the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.'
"It obtains, however, its worldly reward. It procures a good degree of respect and commendation; but it is not attended by the silent train of the Christian graces, with that 'joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith,' which are the fruits of the Spirit, and the evidences of a Christian. These graces are calculated to adorn all that is right with all that is amiable, 'whatsoever things are honest and just,' with 'whatsoever things are lovely and of good report.' And, to crown all, they add the deepest humility and most unfeigned self-abasement, to the most correct course of conduct, a course of conduct which, though a Christian never thinks himself at liberty to neglect, he never feels himself permitted or disposed to be proud of!"
"Well, well, Doctor," said Mr. Flam, "I never denied the truth of Christianity, as Carlton formerly did. 'Tis the religion of the country by law established. And I often go to church, because that too is established by law, for which you know I have a great veneration. 'Tis the religion of my ancestors, I like it for that too."
"But, sir," said the Doctor, "would you not show your veneration for the church more fully if you attended it twice instead of once? And your veneration for the law, if instead of going sometimes, you went every Sunday, which you know both the law of God and man enjoins."
"Why, unluckily," returned Mr. Flam, "the hour of service interferes with that of dinner."
"Sir," said Dr. Barlow, smiling, "hours are so altered that I believe if the church were to new model the calendar, she would say that dinners ought to be placed among themoveable feasts. An hour earlier or later would accommodate the difference, liberate your servants, and enable you to do a thing right in itself, and beneficial in its example."
Mr. Flam not being prepared with an answer, went on with his confession of faith. "Doctor," said he, "I am a better Christian than you think. I take it for granted that the Bible is true, for I have heard many men say, who have examined for themselves, which I can not say I have ever had time or inclination to do, that no opposer has ever yet refuted the Scripture account of miracles and prophecies. So if you don't call this being a good Christian, I don't know what is."
Dr. Barlow replied, "Nothing can be better as far as it goes. But allow me to say, that there is another kind of evidence of the truth of our religion, which is peculiar to the real Christian. I mean that evidence which arises from his individual conviction of the efficacy of Christianity in remedying the disorders of his own nature. He who has had his own temper improved, his evil propensities subdued, and his whole character formed anew, by being cast in the mold of Christianity, will have little doubt of the truth of a religion which has produced such obvious effects in himself. The truths for which his reason pleads, and in which his understanding, after much examination, is able to rest, having had a purifying influence on his heart, become established principles, producing in him at the same time holiness of life and peace of conscience. The stronger evidence a man has of his own internal improvement, the stronger will be his conviction of the truth of the religion he professes."
"There are worse men than I am, Doctor," said Mr. Flam, rather seriously.
"Sir," replied he, "I heartily wish every gentleman had your good qualities. But as we shall be judged positively and not comparatively; as our characters will be finally decided upon, not by our superiority to other men, nor merely by our inferiority to the divine rule, but by our departure from it, I wish you would begin to square your life by that rule now; which, in order that you may do, you should begin to study it. While we live in a total neglect of the Bible, we must not talk of our deficiencies, our failings, our imperfections, as if these alone stood between us and the mercy of God. That indeed is the language and the state of the devout Christian. Stronger terms must be used to express the alienation of heart of those, who, living in the avowed neglect of Scripture, maybe said, forgive me, sir, 'to live without God in the world.' Ignorance is no plea in a gentleman. In a land of light and knowledge, ignorance itself is a sin."
Here Dr. Barlow being silent, and Mr. Flam not being prepared to answer, Mr. Stanley said, "That the pure and virtuous dispositions which arise out of a sincere belief of Christianity, are not more frequently seen in persons professing themselves to be Christians, is, unhappily, one of the strongest arguments against us that can be urged by unbelievers. Instances, however, occur, which are too plain to be denied, of individuals who, having been led by divine grace cordially to receive Christianity, have exhibited in their conduct a very striking proof of its excellence; and among these are some who, like our friend Carlton, had previously led very corrupt lives. The ordinary class of Christians, who indeed scarcely deserve the name, as well as skeptics and unbelievers, would do well to mark the lives of the truly religious, and to consider them as furnishing a proof which will come powerfully in aid of that body of testimony with which Christianity is intrenched on all sides. And these observers should remember, that though they themselves may not yet possess that best evidence in favor of Christianity, which arises from an inward sense of its purifying nature, they may nevertheless aspire after it; and those who have any remaining doubts should encourage themselves with the hope, that if they fully yield themselves to the doctrines and precepts of the gospel, a salutary change will in time be effected in their own hearts, which will furnish them with irresistible evidence of its truth."
I could easily perceive, that though Mr. Stanley and Dr. Barlow entertained small hopes of the beneficial effect of their discourse on the person to whom it was directed; yet they prolonged it with an eye to Sir John Belfield, who sat profoundly attentive, and encouraged them by his looks.
As to Mr. Flam, it was amusing to observe the variety of his motions, gestures, and contortions, and the pains he took to appear easy and indifferent, and even victorious: sometimes fixing the end of his whip on the floor, and whirling it around at full speed; then working it into his boot; then making up his mouth for a whistle, but stopping short to avoid being guilty of the incivility of interruption.
At length with the same invincible good nature, and with the same pitiable insensibility to his own state, he arose to take leave. He shook us all by the hand, Dr. Barlow twice, saying, "Doctor, I don't think the worse of you for your plain speaking. He is a knave or a fool that is angry with a good man for doing his duty. 'Tis my fault if I don't take his advice; but 'tis his fault if he does not give it. Parsons are paid for it, and ought not to be mealy-mouthed, when there is a proper opening, such as poor Tyrrel's case gave you. I challengedyou. I should perhaps have been angry if you had challengedme. It makes all the difference, in the event of a duel, which is the challenger. As to myself, it is time enough for me to think of the things you recommend. Thank God, I am in excellent good health and spirits and am not yet quite fifty. 'There is a time for all things.' Even the Bible allows that."
The Doctor shook his head at this sad misapplication of the text. Mr. Flam went away, pressing us all to dine with him next day; he had killed a fine buck, and he assured Dr. Barlow that he should have the best port in his cellar. The Doctor pleaded want of time, and the rest of the party could not afford a day, out of the few which remained to us; but we promised to call on him. He nodded kindly at Dr. Barlow, saying, "Well, Doctor, as you won't come to the buck, one of his haunches shall come to you; so tell madam to expect it."
As soon as he had left the room, we all joined in lamenting that the blessings of health and strength should ever be produced as arguments for neglecting to secure those blessings which have eternity for their object.
"Unhappy man!" said Dr. Barlow, "little does he think that he is, if possible, more the object of my compassion than poor Mr. Tyrrel. Tyrrel, it is true, is lying on a sick, probably a dying bed. His body is in torture. His mind is in anguish. He has to look back on a life, the retrospect of which can afford him no ray of comfort. But heknowshis misery. The hand of God is upon him. His proud heart is brought low. His self-confidence is subdued. His high imaginations are cast down. His abasement of soul, as far as I can judge, is sincere. He abhors himself in dust and ashes. He sees death at hand. He feels that the sting of death is sin. All subterfuge is at an end. He is at last seeking the only refuge of penitent sinners, I trust on right grounds. His state is indeed perilous in the extreme; yet awful as it is, heknowsit. He will not open his eyes on the eternal world in a state of delusion. But what shall awaken poor Mr. Flam from his dream of security? His high health, his unbroken spirits, his prosperous circumstances and various blessings, are so many snares to him. He thinks that 'to-morrow shall be as this day, and still more abundant.' Even the wretched situation of his dying friend, though it awakens compassion, awakens not compunction. Nay, it affords matter of triumph rather than of humiliation. He feeds his vanity with comparisons from which he contrives to extract comfort. His own offenses being of a different kind, instead of lamenting them, he glories in being free from those which belong to an opposite cast of character. Satisfied that he has not the vices of Tyrrel, he never once reflects on his own unrepented sins. Even his good qualities increase his danger. He wraps himself up in that constitutional good nature, which, being partly founded on vanity and self-approbation, strengthens his delusion, and hardens him against reproof."
In conversing with Mr. Stanley on my happy prospects, and my future plans; after having referred all concerns of a pecuniary nature to be settled between him and Sir John Belfield, I ventured to entreat that he would crown his goodness, and my happiness, by allowing me to solicit his daughter for an early day.
Mr. Stanley said, the termearlywas relative; but he was afraid that he should hardly consent to what I might consider even as a late one. "In parting with such a child as Lucilla," added he, "some weaning time must be allowed to the tenderest of mothers. The most promising marriage, and surely none can promise more happiness than that to which we are looking, is a heavy trial to fond parents. To have trained a creature with anxious fondness, in hope of her repaying their solicitude hereafter by the charms of her society, and then as soon as she becomes capable of being a friend and companion, to lose her forever, is such a trial, that I sometimes wonder at the seeming impatience of parents to get rid of a treasure, of which they best know the value. The sadness which attends the consummation even of our dearest hopes on these occasions, is one striking instance of thatVanity of human wishes, on which Juvenal and Johnson have so beautifully expatiated.
"A little delay indeed I shall require, from motives of prudence as well as fondness. Lucilla will not be nineteen these three months and more. You will not, I trust, think me unreasonable if I say, that neither her mother nor myself can consent to part with her before that period."
"Three months!" exclaimed I, with more vehemence than politeness. "Three months! it is impossible."
"It is very possible," said he, smiling, "that you can wait, and very certain that we shall not consent sooner."
"Have you any doubts, sir," said I, "have you any objections which I can remove, and which, being removed, may abridge this long probation?"
"None," said he, kindly. "But I consider even nineteen as a very early age; too early, indeed, were not my mind so completely at rest about you on the grand points of religion, morals, and temper, that no delay could, I trust, afford me additional security. You will, however, my dear Charles, find so much occupation in preparing your affairs and your mind for so important a change, that you will not find the time of absence so irksome as you fancy."
"Absence, sir?" replied I. "What then, do you intend to banish me?"
"No," replied he, smiling again. "But I intend to send youhome. A sentence, indeed, which in this dissipated age is thought the worst sort of exile. You have now been absent six or seven months. This absence has been hitherto justifiable. It is time to return to your affairs, to your duties. Both the one and the other always slide into some disorder by a too long separation from the place of their legitimate exercise. Your steward will want inspection, your tenants may want redress, your poor always want assistance."
Seeing me look irresolute, "I must I find," added he, with the kindest look and voice, "be compelled to the inhospitable necessity of turning you out of doors."
"Live without Lucilla three months!" said I. "Allow me, sir, at least to remain a few weeks longer at the Grove?"
"Love is a bad calculator," replied Mr. Stanley, "I believe he never learned arithmetic. Don't you know that as you are enjoined a three month's banishment, that the sooner you go, the sooner you will return? And that however long your stay now is, your three months' absence will still remain to be accomplished. To speak seriously, Lucilla's sense of propriety, as well as that of Mrs. Stanley, will not allow you to remain much longer under the same roof, now that the motive will become so notorious. Besides that, an act of self-denial is a good principle to set out upon, business and duties will fill up your active hours, and an intercourse of letters with her you so reluctantly quit, will not only give an interest to your leisure, but put you both still more completely in possession of each other's character!"
"I will set out to-morrow, sir," said I, earnestly, "in order to begin to hasten the day of my return."
"Now you are as much too precipitate on the other side," replied he. "A few days, I think, may be permitted, without any offense to Lucilla's delicacy. This even her mother pleads for."
"With what excellence will this blessed union give me an alliance!" replied I. "I will go directly, and thank Mrs. Stanley for this goodness."
I found Mrs. Stanley and her daughter together, with whom I had a long and interesting conversation. They took no small pains to convince my judgment, that my departure was perfectly proper. My will however continued rebellions. But as I had been long trained to the habit of submitting my will to my reason, I acquiesced, though not without murmuring, and, as they told me, with a very bad grace. I informed Mrs. Stanley of an intimation I had received from Sir George Aston of his attachment to Ph[oe]be, and of his mother's warm approbation of his choice, adding that he alleged her extreme youth, as the ground of his deferring to express his hope that his plea might one day be received with favor.
"He forgot to allege his own youth," replied she, "which is a reason almost equally cogent."
Miss Stanley and I agreed that a connection more desirable in all respects could not be expected.
"When I assure you," replied Mrs. Stanley, "that I am quite of your opinion, you will think me inconsistent if I add that I earnestly hope such a proposal will not be made by Sir George lest his precipitancy should hinder the future accomplishment of a wish, which I may be allowed remotely to indulge."
"What objection," said I, "can Mr. Stanley possibly make to such a proposal, except that his daughter is too young?"
"I see," replied she, "that you do not yet completely know Mr. Stanley: or rather, you do not know all that he has done for the Aston family. His services have been very important, not only in that grand point which you and I think the most momentous; but he has also very successfully exerted himself in settling Lady Aston's worldly affairs, which were in the utmost disorder. The large estate which had suffered by her own ignorance of business, and the dishonesty of a steward, he has not only enabled her to clear, but put her in the way greatly to improve. This skill and kindness in worldly things so raised his credit in the eyes of the guardian, young Sir George's uncle, that he declared he should never again be so afraid of religious men; whom he had always understood to be without judgment, or kindness, or disinterestedness.
"Now," added Mrs. Stanley, "don't you perceive that not only the purity of Mr. Stanley's motives, but religion itself would suffer, should we be forward to promote this connection? Will not this Mr. Aston say, that sinister designs influenced all this zeal and kindness, and that Sir George's estate was improved with an eye to his own daughter? It will be said that these religious people always know what they are about—that when they seem to be purely serving God, they are resolved not to serve him for nothing, but always keep their own interest in view. Should Sir George's inclination continue, and his principles stand the siege which the world will not fail to lay to a man of his fortune—some years hence, when he is complete master of his actions, his character formed, and his judgment ripened to direct his choice, so as to make it evident to the world, that it was not the effect of influence—this connection is an event to which we should look forward with much pleasure."
"Never," exclaimed I, "no not once, have I been disappointed in my expectation of consistency in Mr. Stanley's character. O, my beloved parents, how wise was your injunction that I should makeconsistency the test of true piety! It is thus that Christians should always keep the credit of religion in view, if they would promote its interests in the world."
When I communicated to Miss Stanley my conversation withherfather, and read over with her the letters ofmine, how tenderly did she weep! How were my own feelings renewed! To be thus assured that she was selected for their son, by my deceased parents, seemed, to her pious mind, to shed a sacredness on our union. How did she venerate their virtues! How feelingly regret their loss!
Before I left the country, I did not omit a visit of civility to Mr. Flam. The young ladies, as Sir John predicted, had stepped back into their natural character, and naturalun-dress; though he was too severe when he added, that their hopes in assuming the other were now at an end.
They both asked me, if I was not moped to death at the Grove; the Stanleys, they said, weregood sortof people, but quitemauvais-ton, as every body must be who did not spend half the year in London. Miss Stanley was a fine girl enough, but knew nothing of the world, wanted manner, which two or three winters in town would give her. "Better as she is," interrupted Mr. Flam, "better as she is. She is a pattern daughter, and will make a pattern wife.Hermother has no care, nor trouble; I wish I could say as much of all mothers. I never saw a bad humor, or a bad dinner in the house. She is always at home, always employed, always in spirits, and always in temper. She is as cheerful as if she had no religion, and as useful as if she could not spell her own receipt-book."
I was affected with this generous tribute to my Lucilla's virtues; and when he wished me joy, as he cordially shook me by the hand, I could not forbear saying to myself, why will not this good-natured man go to heaven?
I next paid a farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. Carlton, and to the amiable family at Aston Hall, and to Dr. Barlow. How rich has this excursion made me in valuable friendships; to say nothing of the inestimable connection at the Grove! I did not forget to assure Dr. Barlow that if any thing could add a value to the blessing which awaited me, it was, that his hand would consecrate it.
Through the good Doctor I received a message from Mr. Tyrrel, requesting me to make him a visit of charity before I quitted the neighborhood. I instantly obeyed the summons. I found him totally changed in all respects, a body wasted by disease, a mind apparently full of contrition, and penetrated with that deep humility, in which he had been so eminently deficient.
He earnestly intreated my prayers, adding, "though it is presumption in so unworthy a being as I am, to suppose his intercession may be heard, I will pray for a blessing on your happy prospects. A connection with such a family is itself a blessing. Oh! that my nephew had been worthy of it! It is to recommend that poor youth to your friendship, that I invited you to this melancholy visit. I call him poor, because I have neglected to enrich his mind: but he will have too much of this world's goods. May he employ well what I have risked my soul to amass! Counsel him, dear sir; admonish him. Recall to his mind his dying uncle. I would now give my whole estate, nay, I would live upon the alms I have refused, to purchase one more year, though spent in pain and misery, that I might prove the sincerity of my repentance. Be to Ned what my blessed friend Stanley would have been to me. But my pride repelled his kindness. I could not bear his superiority, I turned away my eyes from a model I could not imitate." I now intreated him to spare himself, but after a few minutes' pause he proceeded: "As to Ned, I trust he is not ill-disposed, but I have neither furnished his mind for solitude, nor fortified his heart for the world. I foolishly thought that to keep him ignorant, was to keep him safe. I have provided for him the snare of a large fortune, without preparing him for the use of it. I fell into an error not uncommon, that of grudging the expenses of education to a relation, for whom I designed my estate. I have thus fitted him for a companion to the vulgar, and a prey to the designing. I thought it sufficient to keep him from actual vice, without furnishing him with arguments to combat it, or with principles to abhor it."
Here the poor man paused for want of breath. I was too much affected to speak.
At length he went on. "I have made over to Dr. Barlow's son two thousand pounds for completing his education. I have also given two thousand pounds apiece to the two elder daughters of Mr. Stanley in aid of their charities. I have made a deed of gift of this, and of a large sum for charitable purposes at the discretion of my executors. A refusal to accept it, will greatly distress me. Ned still will have too much left, unless he employs it to better purposes than I have done."
Though deeply moved, I hardly knew what to reply; I wished to give him comfort, but distrusted my own judgment as to the manner. I promised my best services to his nephew.
"Oh, good young man!" cried he, "if ever you are tempted to forget God, as I did for above thirty years; or to mock him by an outward profession as I have lately done, think of me. Think of one who for the largest portion of his life, lived as if there were no God. And who, since he has made a profession of Christianity, deceived his own soul, no less by the religion he adopted, than by his former neglect of all religion. My delusion was this, I did not choose to be good, but I chose to be saved. It was no wonder then that I should be struck with a religion which I hoped would free me from the discipline of moral rectitude, and yet deliver me from the punishment of having neglected it. Will God accept my present forced submission? Will he accept a penitence of which I may have no time to prove the sincerity? Tell me—you are a Christian."
I was much distressed. I thought it neither modest nor prudent for me to give a decisive answer. He grasped my hand. "Then," said he, "you think my case hopeless. You think the Almighty can not forgive me?" Thus pressed, I ventured to say, "To doubt his will to pardon, and his power to save, would, as it appears to me, sir, be a greater fault than any you have committed."
"One great comfort is left," replied he, "the mercy I have abused is infinite. Tell Stanley I now believe with him, that if we pretend to trust in God, we must be governed by him, if we truly believe in him, we shall obey him; if we think he sent his Son to save sinners, we shall hate sin."
I ventured to congratulate him on his frame of mind; and seeing him quite overcome, took leave of him with a heart deeply touched with this salutary scene. The family at the Grove were greatly moved with my description, and with the method poor Tyrrel had found out of eluding the refusal of his liberal-minded executors to accept of legacies.
The day fixed for my departure too soon arrived. I took a most affectionate leave of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, and a very tender one of Lucilla, who gratified my affection by the emotion she evidently felt, and my delicacy by the effort she made to conceal it. Ph[oe]be wept outright. The children all hung about me, each presenting me some of her flowers, saying they had nothing else to give me; and assuring me that Rachel should be no loser by it. Little Celia was clamorous in her sorrow, when she saw me ascend the curricle, in which neither she nor Lucilla was to have a place. I took the sweet child up into the carriage, placed her by me, and gently drove her through the park, at the gate of which I consigned her to the arms of her father, who had good-naturedly walked by the side of the carriage in order to carry her back. I drove off, enriched with his prayers and blessings, which seemed to insure me protection.
Though this separation from all I loved threw a transient sadness around me, I had abundant matter for delightful reflection and pious gratitude. I experienced the truth of Ph[oe]be's remark, that happiness is a serious thing. While pleasure manifests itself by extravagant gayety, exuberant spirits, and overt acts, happiness retreats to its own proper region, the heart. There concentrating its feelings, it contemplates its treasures, meditates on its enjoyments, and still more fondly on its hopes; counts up its mercies, and feels the consummation of them in looking to the fountain from whence they flow; feels every blessing immeasurably heightened by the heart-cheering reflection, that the most exquisite human pleasures are not the perfection of his nature, but only a gracious earnest, a bounteous pre-libation of that blessedness which is without measure, and shall be without end.
Before the Belfields had quitted us, it was stipulated that we should, with submission to the will of a higher power, all meet for six weeks every other summer at Stanley Grove, and pass a month together every intermediate year, either at the Priory, or at Beechwood.
I passed through London, and spent three days in Cavendish-square, my friends having kindly postponed their departure for the country on my account. Lady Belfield voluntarily undertook whatever was necessary for the internal decoration of the Priory; while Sir John took on himself the friendly office of arranging for me all preliminaries with Mr. Stanley, whose largeness of heart and extreme disinterestedness, I knew I durst not trust, without some such check as I placed in the hands of our common friend.
As soon as all personal concerns were adjusted, Lady Belfield said, "I have something to communicate, in which, I am persuaded, you will take a lively interest. On my return to town, I found, among my visiting tickets, several of Lady Melbury's. The porter told me she had called every day for the last week, and seemed very impatient for my return. Finding she was still in town, I went to her immediately. She was not at home, but came to me within an hour. She expressed great joy at seeing me. She looked more beautiful than ever, at least the blush of conscious shame, which mingled with her usual sweetness, rendered her more interesting.
"She was at a loss how to begin. With a perplexed air she said, 'Why did you stay so long? I have sadly wanted you. Where is Sir John? I have wanted counselors—comforters—friends. I have never had a friend.'
"I was affected at an opening so unexpected. Sir John came in. This increased her confusion. At length, after the usual compliments, she thus addressed him: 'I am determined to conquer this false shame. There is not a worse symptom in human nature than that we blush to own what we have not been afraid to do. From you, Sir John, I heard the first remonstrance which ever reached my ears. You ought to be informed of its effect. You can not have forgotten our conversation in my coach, after we had quitted the scene which filled you with contempt for me, and me with anguish for the part I had acted. You reasonably supposed that my remorse would last no longer than the scene which had inspired it. You left me alone. My lord dined abroad. I was abandoned to all the horrors of solitude. I wanted somebody to keep me from myself. Mrs. Stokes dying! her husband dead! the sweet flower-girl pining for want—and I the cause of all! The whole view presented such a complication of misery to my mind, and of guilt to my heart, as made me unsupportable to myself.
"'It was Saturday! I was of course engaged to the opera. I was utterly unfit to go, but wanted courage to frame an excuse. Fortunately Lady Bell Finley, whom I had promised to chaperon, sent to excuse herself. This set my person at liberty, but left my mind upon the rack. Though I should have rejoiced in the company even of my own chambermaid, so much did I dread being left to my own thoughts, yet I resolved to let no one in that night. I had scarcely passed a single evening out of the giddy circle for several years. For the first time in my life I was driven to look into myself. I took a retrospect of my past conduct—a confused and imperfect one indeed. This review aggravated my distress. Still I pursued my distracting self-inquisition. Not for millions would I pass such another night!
"'I had done as wrong things before, but they had never been thus brought home to me. My extravagance must have made others suffer, but their sufferings had not been placed before my eyes. What was not seen, I had hoped might not be true. I had indeed heard distant reports of the consequences of my thoughtless expense, but they might be invented—they might be exaggerated. At the flower-maker's Iwitnessedthe ruin I had made—Isawthe fruits of my unfeeling vanity—Ibeheldthe calamities I had caused. O how much mischief would such actual observation prevent! I was alone. I had no dependant to qualify the deed, no sycophant to divert my attention to more soothing objects. Though Sir John's honest expostulation had touched me to the quick, yet I confess, had I found any of my coterie at home, had I gone to the opera, had a joyous supper succeeded, all together would have quite obliterated the late mortifying scene. I should, as I have often done before, have soon lost all sense of the Stokes's misery, and of my own crime.'"
"Here," pursued Lady Belfield, "the sweet creature looked so contrite, that Sir John and I were both deeply affected."
"'You are not accustomed, Sir John,' resumed she, with a faint smile, 'to the office of a confessor, nor I to that of a penitent. But I make it a test to myself of my own sincerity to tell you the whole truth.
"'I wandered from room to room, fancying I should be more at ease in any other than that in which I was. I envied the starving tenant of the meanest garret. I envied Mrs. Stokes herself. Both might have pitied the pangs which rent my heart as I roamed through the decorated apartments of our spacious house. In the gayest part of London I felt the dreariness of a desert. Surrounded with magnificence, I endured a sense of want and woe, of which a blameless beggar can form no idea.
"'I went into the library: I took up a book which my lord had left on the table. It was a translation from a Roman classic. I opened it at the speech of the tragedian to Pompey: 'The time will come that thou shalt mourn deeply, because thou didst not mourn sooner!' I was struck to the heart. 'Shall a pagan,' said I, 'thus forcibly reprove me; and shall I neglect to search for truth at the fountain?'
"'I knew my lord would not come home from his club till the morning. The struggle in my soul between principle and pride was severe; but after a bitter conflict, I resolved to employ the night in writing him a long letter. In it I ingenuously confessed the whole state of my mind, and what had occasioned it. I implored his permission for my setting out next morning for Melbury Castle. I entreated him to prevail on his excellent aunt, Lady Jane, whom I had so shamefully slighted, to accompany me. I knew she was a character of that singular class who would be glad to revenge herself for any ill-treatment by doing me a service. Her company would be at once a pledge to my lord of the purity of my intentions, and to myself a security against falling into worse society. I assured him that I had no safeguard but in flight. An additional reason which I alleged for my absence was, that as I had promised to give a grand masquerade in a fortnight, the evading this expense would nearly enable me to discharge the debt which sat so heavy on my conscience.
"'I received a note from him as soon as he came home. With his usual complaisance he complied with my request. With his usual nonchalance, he neither troubled me with reproaches, nor comforted me with approbation.
"'As he knew that Lady Jane usually rose about the hour he came home from St. James's street, he obligingly went to her at once. I had not been in bed. He came to my dressing-room, and informed me that his aunt had consented at the first word. I expressed my gratitude to them both, saying that I was ready to set out that very day.'
"'You must wait till to-morrow,' said he. 'There is no accounting for the oddities of some people. Lady Jane told me she could not possibly travel on a Sunday. I wondered where was the impossibility. Sunday, I assured her, was the only day for traveling in comfort, as the road was not obstructed by wagons and carts. She replied, with a gravity which made me laugh, 'That she should be ashamed to think that a person of her rank and education should be indebted, for her being able to trample with more convenience on a divine law, to the piety of the vulgar who durst not violate it.' Did you ever hear any thing so whimsical, Matilda?' I said nothing, but my heart smote me. Never will I repeat this offense.
"'On the Monday we set out. I had kept close the preceding day, under pretense of illness. This I also assigned as an excuse in the cards sent to my invited guests, pleading the necessity of going into the country for change of air. Shall I own I dreaded being shut up in a barouche, and still more in the lonely castle, with Lady Jane? I looked for nothing every moment but 'the thorns and briars of reproof.' But I soon found that the woman whom I thought was a Methodist, was a most entertaining companion. Instead of austerity in her looks and reproach in her language, I found nothing but kindness and affection, vivacity and elegance. While she soothed my sorrows, she strengthened my better purposes. Her conversation gradually revived in my mind tastes and principles which had been early sown in it, but which the world seemed completely to have eradicated.
"'In the neighborhood of the castle, Lady Jane carried me to visit the abodes of poverty and sickness. I envied her large but discriminating liberality, and the means she had of gratifying it, while I shed tears at the remembrance of my own squandered thousands. I had never been hard-hearted, but I had always given to importunity, rather than to want or merit. I blushed, that while I had been absurdly profuse to cases of which I knew nothing, my own village had been perishing with a contagious sickness.
"'While I amused myself with drawing, my aunt often read to me some rationally entertaining book, occasionally introducing religious reading and discourse, with a wisdom and moderation which increased the effect of both. Knowing my natural levity and wretched habits, she generally waited till the proposal came from myself. At first when I suggested it, it was to please her: at length I began to find a degree of pleasure in it myself.
"'You will say I have not quite lost my romance. A thought struck me, that the first use I made of my pencil should serve to perpetuate at least one of my offenses. You know I do not execute portraits badly. With a little aid from fancy, which I thought made it allowable to bring separate circumstances into one piece, I composed a picture. It consisted of a detached figure in the background of poor Stokes, seen through the grate of his prison on a bed of straw: and a group, composed of his wife in the act of expiring, Fanny bending over a wreath of roses, withered with the tears she was shedding, and myself in the horrors in which you saw me,