n war, had but few executions in times of seace; and, in all commencing governcents that have the print of nature still trong upon them, scarce any crime is held capital.

It is among the citizens of a refined comnunity that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while it grows older, seems oquire the moroseness of age; and, as f our property were become dearer in proporon as it increased as if the more enormous our wealth the more extensive our fears-all our possessions are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every invader. I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this country should show more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing to both; for they mutually prodace each other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds the same psshment affixed to dissimilar degrees of gut, from perceiving no distinction in the palty, the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, and this disfaction is the bulwark of all morality: thus the multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh restraints.

It were to be wished, then, that power, tead of contriving new laws to punish e; instead of drawing hard the cords of Bociety till a convulsion come to burst them; instead of cutting away wretches as useless before we have tried their utility; instead of converting correction into vene-it were to be wished that we tried the restrictive arts of government, ad made law the protector, but not the tant of the people. We should then find that creatures, whose souls are held as ds, only wanted the hand of a refiner: we should then find that creatures, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the state times of danger; that as their faces are like ours, their hearts are so too; that few minds are so base as that perseverance Cannot amend; that a man may see his last crime without dying for it; and that

very little blood will serve to cement our security.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Happiness and Misery rather the result of Prudence than of Virtue in this life; temporalevils or felicities being regarded by Heaven as things merely in themselves trifling, and unworthy its care in the distribution.

I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apartment, leaning on her sister's arm. The change which I saw in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that once resided there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have moulded every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek.

"I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I; "but why this dejection, Livy? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see happier days."

"You have ever, sir," replied she, "been kind to me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here; and I long to be rid of a place where I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill; it may in some measure induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in dying.'

'Never, child," replied I; "never will I be brought to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute; for though the world may look upon your offence with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place, however dismal it may seem; and be assured, that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by marrying another."

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated on my

F

obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me freedom. He observed, that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only one who had of fended me. "Besides," added he, "I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy." "Sir," replied I," you are unacquainted with the man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. But though my submission and approbation could transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as something whispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who wish for a union. No, villain as he is, I should then wish him married, to prevent the consequences of his future debaucheries. But now, should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus, to escape one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand?'

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid observing, that he feared my daughter's life was already too much wasted to keep me long a prisoner. "However," continued he, "though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying your case before the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for everything that is just and good. I would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all his nephew's ill usage; and my life for it, that in three days you shall have an answer.' I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about complying; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions: however, he supplied me.

For the three ensuing days I was i state of anxiety to know what recepts my letter might meet with; but in meantime was frequently solicited by wife to submit to any conditions rather th remain here, and every hour receiv repeated accounts of the decline of daughter's health. The third day and t fourth arrived, but I received no answ to my letter: the complaints of a strang against a favourite nephew were no w likely to succeed; so that these hopes so vanished like all my former. My min however, still supported itself, thoug confinement and bad air began to make visible alteration in my health, and my ar that had suffered in the fire grew wors My children, however, sat by me, an while I was stretched on my straw, re to me by turns, or listened and wept at m instructions.

But my daughter's heal

declined faster than mine: every messa from her contributed to increase my a prehensions and pain. The fifth mornin after I had written the letter which w sent to Sir William Thornhill, I w alarmed with an account that she w speechless. Now it was that confineme was truly painful to me; my soul w bursting from its prison to be near the p low of my child, to comfort, to strength her, to receive her last wishes, and tea her soul the way to Heaven! Anoth account came: she was expiring, and y I was debarred the small comfort of wee ing by her. My fellow-prisoner, son time after, came with the last accoun He bade me be patient : she was dead!The next morning he returned, and four me with my two little ones, now my on companions, who were using all their inn cent efforts to comfort me. They entreate to read to me, and bade me not to cry, I was now too old to weep. "And is n my sister an angel, now, papa?" cried t eldest; " and why, then, are you sorry f her? I wish I were an angel out of th frightful place, if my papa were with me

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Yes," added my youngest darlin Heaven, where my sister is, is a fin place than this, and there are none b good people there, and the people he are very bad."

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmle

prattle by observing, that, now my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own life, which was every day declining for want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added, that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who depended on me for support; and that I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord.

"Heaven be praised,” replied I, “there is no pride left me now: I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parishjoner, I hope one day to present him up an anpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no resentment now; and though he has taken from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, for I am sick almost toanting, very sick, my fellow-prisoner, |yet that shall never inspire me with geance. I am now willing to approve s marriage: and, if this submission can him any pleasure, let him know that I have done him any injury I am sorry 'frit."

Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my submission nearly as I have expressed it, to which I signed my e. My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went, and, about six hours, returned with a verbal swer. He had some difficulty, he said, get a sight of his landlord, as the serTs were insolent and suspicious: but he acidentally saw him as he was going out business, preparing for his marriage, ich was to be in three days. He conted to inform us, that he stept up in the bmblest manner, and delivered the letter, wich, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he that all submission was now too late ard unnecessary; that he had heard of our application to his uncle, which met with contempt it deserved; and, as for the rest, that all future applications should be directed to his attorney, not to him. He served, however, that as he had a very good opinion of the discretion of the two

young ladies, they might have been the most agreeable intercessors.

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Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "you now discover the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be facetious and cruel: but, let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I leave an helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken: some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them for the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly Father."

Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable, to speak. "Why, my love," cried I, "why will you thus increase my afflictions by your own? What though no submissions can turn our severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no more. "We have indeed lost," returned she, a darling child. My Sophia, my dearest is gone; snatched from us, carried off by ruffians !"-" How, madam," cried my fellow-prisoner, "Miss Sophia carried off by villains! sure it cannot be?"

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She could only answer by a fixed look, and a flood of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives who was present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct account she informed us, that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together on the great road, a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped; upon which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bade the postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment.

"Now," cried I, "the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left!-not to leave me one! -The monster!-The child that was next my heart!-she had the beauty of an angel,

and almost the wisdom of an angel.-But support that woman, nor let her fall.-Not to leave me one !"

"Alas! my husband," said my wife, "you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great, but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave me but you."

My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful. "My child," cried I, "look round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave?""My dear father," returned he, I hope there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfaction; for I have a letter from my brother George.""What of him, child?" interrupted I; "does he know our misery? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers ?"-"Yes, sir," returned he, "he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant."

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And are you sure of all this?" cried my wife; are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?"-"Nothing, indeed, madam," returned my son ; you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure; and if anything can procure you comfort, I am sure that will." "But are you sure," still repeated she, "that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so happy?"-"Yes, madam," replied he, "it is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and support of our family."-"Then, I thank Providence," cried she, "that my last letter to him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," continued she, turning to me, "I will now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and

sister, and avenge our cause. But, than be to Him that directs all things, it h miscarried, and I am at rest."—"Woman cried I, "thou hast done very ill, and, another time, my reproaches might ha been more severe. Oh! what a treme dous gulf hast thou escaped, that wou have buried both thee and him in endle ruin! Providence, indeed, has here be kinder to us than we to ourselves. It h reserved that son to be the father and pr tector of my children when I shall be awa How unjustly did I complain of bein stripped of every comfort, when still I he that he is happy, and insensible of o afflictions; still kept in reserve to suppo his widowed mother, and to protect brothers and sisters! But what sisters ha he left? He has no sisters now: they a all gone, robbed from me, and I am u done."-" Father," interrupted my so "I beg you will give me leave to read th letter-I know it will please you." Upo which, with my permission, he read a follows:

HONOURED SIR,-I have called off m imagination a few moments from the plea sures that surround me, to fix it upon ob jects that are still more pleasing,-the dea little fireside at home. My fancy draw that harmless group, as listening to ever line of this with great composure. those faces with delight, which never fel the deforming hand of ambition or distress But, whatever your happiness may be home, I am sure it will be some addition t it to hear, that I am perfectly pleased wit my situation, and every way happy here

I view

Our regiment is countermanded, and f not to leave the kingdom. The colone who professes himself my friend, takes with him to all companies where he acquainted, and, after my first visi I generally find myself received wit increased respect upon repeating it. danced last night with Lady G could I forget you know whom, I mig be perhaps successful. But it is my fat still to remember others, while I am myse forgotten by most of my absent friends and in this number, I fear, sir, that I mu consider you; for I have long expected t pleasure of a letter from home, to

and