O Mr. Worthy, said Bragwell, this blow is too heavy for me, I cannot survive this shock. I do not desire it, I only desire to die. We are very apt to talk most of dying when we are least fit for it, said Worthy. This is not the lan­guage of that submission which makes us prepare for death, but of that despair which makes us out of humour with life. O, Mr. Bragwell, you are indeed disappoin­ted of the grand ends which made life so delightful to you; but till your heart is humbled, till you are brought to a serious conviction of sin, till you are brought to see what is the true end of life, you can have no hope in death. You think you have no business on earth, because those for whose sake you too eagerly heaped up riches are no more. But is there not un­der the canopy of heaven some afflicted being whom you may yet relieve, some modest merit which you may bring forward, some helpless creature you may save by your advice, some perishing christian you may sustain by your wealth? When you have [Page 3] 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 favourable 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 [...]oun­try with her child, and was taken in a [...]t [Page 4] under the church-yard wall? At first they thought she was dead, said the man, but finding she still breathed, they have carried her into the workhouse till she could give some account of herself. Mr. 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 on 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 workhouse, about the door of which stood a crowd of people. She is not dead, said one, she moves her head. But she wants air, said they all, while they all, according to cus­tom, [Page 5] pushed so close upon her that it was impossible she should get any. A fine boy of two or three years old stood by her, cry­ing, Mammy is dead, mammy is starved. Mr. Worthy made up to the poor woman, holding his friend by the arm: in order to give her air he untied a large black bon­net which hid her face, when Mr. Brag­well, at that moment casting his eyes on her, saw in this poor stranger the face of his own run-away daughter, Mrs. Incle. He groaned, but could not speak, and as he was turning away to conceal his an­guish, the little boy fondly caught hold of his hand, lisping out—O stay, and give mammy some bread. His heart yearned towards the child, he grasped his little hand in his, while he 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 with the mean revenge [Page 6] of little minds, they paid themselves by abuse, for all the airs and insolence they had once endured from her. Pride must have a fall, said one. I remember when she was too good to speak to a poor body, said another; where are her flounces and her furbelows now? It is come home to her at last. Her child looks as if he would be glad of the worst bit she former­ly denied us.

In the mean time Mr, Bragwell had sunk in an old wicker chair which stood behind, and groaned out, Lord forgive my hard heart! Lord subdue my proud heart, "create a clean heart, O God and renew a right spirit within me." This was per­haps the first word of genuine prayer he had ever offered up in his whole life. Worthy overheard it, and his heart re­joiced, but this was not a time for talking, but doing. He asked Bragwell what was to be done with the 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 [Page 7] thee. This was a joyful found to Mr. Worthy, who began to hope that her heart might be as much changed for the better as her circumstances were altered for the worse, and he valued the goods of fortune so little, and 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 heart-felt 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 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 [Page 8] steps of his daughter, who once more en­tered her father's door's; but the dread of seeing her mother quite overpowered her. Mrs. Bragwell's heart was not changed, but sorrow had weakened her powers of resistance, and she rather suffer­ed her daughter to come in, than gave her a kind reception. She was more astonished than pleased; and, even in this trying moment, was more disgusted with the little boy's mean cloaths, than delighted with his rosy face. As soon as she was a little recovered, Mr. Bragwell desired his daughter to tell him how she happened to be at that place just at that time.

In a weak voice she began, My tale, Sir, is short, but mournful.

I left your house, my dear father, said Mrs. Incle, with a heart full of vain tri­umph. I had no doubt but my husband was a great man who had put on that dis­guise to obtain my hand. Judge then what I felt to find that he was a needy im­postor, who wanted my money but did not care for me. This discovery, though it mortified, did not humble me. I had [Page 9] 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 misfortunes only taught me to rebel more against him. I thought God unjust; I accused my father, I was envi­ous of my sister, I hated my husband; but never once did I blame myself. My hus­band picked up a wretched subsistence by joining himself to any low scheme of idle pleasure that was going on. He would follow a mountebank, carry a dice-box, or fiddle at a fair. He was always taunt­ing me for the gentility on which I so muc [...] 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 burthen to her husband and a plague to society. Every tria [...] 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 pr [...]ss-gang, and [...] to [...]. I was now left to the wide world, and miserable as I had thought myself before▪ I soon found there were higher [...] [Page 10] 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 labour, yet I was welcome to share their hard fare, for they trusted that God who sent mouths would send meat also. They gave me a small room in their cottage, and many necessaries, which they denied themseves.

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 favour done to them. When my father brought me home any little dainty which he could [Page 11] 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 behaviour was not likely to gain their affection, it was plain they did not love me: and as I had no notion that there were any other motives to good ac­tions but fondness, or self-interest, I was puzzled to know what could make them so kind to me, for of the powerful and constrainnig law of christian charity I was quite ignorant. To cheat the weary hours, I looked about for some books, and found, among a few others of the same cast, Dod­dridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul. But all those books wer [...] [...]dress­ed to sinners; now as I knew I w [...] not a sinner I threw them away in d [...]st. Indeed they were ill suited to a tast [...] [...]r­med by novels, to which reading I chiefly trace my ruin, for, vain as I was, I should never have been guilty of so wild a step as to run away, had not my heart been tainted, and my imagination inflamed, by those pernicious books.

[Page 12]At length my little George was born. This added to the burthen I had brought on this poor family, but it did not dimin­ish their kindness, and we continued to share their scanty fare 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 [...] 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 me the danger of dying in that hard and un­converted state so forcibly, that I shudder­ed to find on what a dreadful precipice I stood. He prayed with me, and for me, [Page 13] so earnestly, that at length God, who is sometimes pleased to magnify his own glo­ry in awakening those who are dead in trespasses and sins, was pleased, of his free grace to open my blind eyes, and soften my stony heart. I saw myself a sinner, and prayed to be delivered [...]om the wrath of God, in comparison of which the po­verty and disgrace I now suffered appear­ed as nothing. To a soul convinced of sin, the news of a Redeemer was a joyful sound. Instead of reproaching Providence, or blaming my parents, or abusing my husband, I now learnt to condemn my­self, to adore that God who had not cut me off in my ignorance, to pray for par­don for the past, and grace for the time to come. I now desired to submit to pen­ury and hunger in this world, so that I might but live in the fear of God here, and enjoy his favour in the world to come. I now learnt to compare my present light sufferings, the consequence of my own sin, with those bitter sufferings of my Sa­viour which he endured for my sake, and I was ashamed of murmuring. But self-ignorance, conceit, and vanity, were so rooted in me, that my progress was ve­ry gradual, and I had the sorrow to feel, [Page 14] how much the power of long bad habits keeps down the growth of religion in the heart, even after it has begun to take root. I was so ignorant of divine things, that I hardly knew words to frame a prayer; but when I got acquainted with the Psalms, I there learnt how to pour out the fullness of my heart, while in the Gospel I rejoiced to see what great things God had done for my soul.

I now took down once more from the shelf Doddridge's Rise and Progress, and, oh! with what new eyes did I read it! I now saw clearly, that not only the thief, and the drunkard, the murderer and the adulterer, are sinners, for that I knew be­fore; but I found that the unbeliever, the selfish, the proud, the worldly-minded, all, in short, who live without God in the world are sinners. I did not now apply the reproofs I met with to my husband, or my father, or other people, as I used to do, but brought them home to myself. In this book I traced, with strong emoti­ons, and close self-application, the sin­ner through all his course; his first awa­kening, his convictions, repentance, joys, sorrows, backsliding, and recovery, des­pondency, [Page 15] and delight, to a triumphant death-bed; and God was pleased to make it a chief instrument in bringing me to himself. Here it is, continued Mrs. In­cle, untying her little bundle, and taking out a book, accept it, my dear father, and I will pray that God may bless it to you as He has done to me.

When I was able to come down, I passed my time with these good old people, and soon won their affection. I was surprized to find they had very good sense, which I never had thought poor people could have; but, indeed, worldly persons do not know how much religion, while it mends the heart, enlightens the under­standing also. I now regretted the even­ings I had wasted in my solitary garret, when I might have passed them in reading the Bible with these good folks. This was their refreshing cordial after a weary day, which sweetened the pains of want and age. I one day expressed my sur­prize that my unfortunate husband, the son of such pious parents, should have turned out so ill: the poor old man said with tears, I fear we have been guilty of the sin of Eli; our love was of [Page 16] the wrong sort. Alas! like him, we honoured our son more than God, and God has smitten us for it. We shewed him what was right, but through a false indulgence, we did not correct him for what was wrong. We were blind to his faults. He was a handsome boy, with sprightly parts; we took too much delight in those outward things. He soon got above our management, and became vain, idle, and extravagant, and when we sought to restrain him, it was then too late. We humbled our­selves before God; but he was plea­sed to make our sin become its own punishment. Timothy grew worse and worse; till he was forced to ab­scond for a misdemeanor; after which we never saw him, but have heard of him changing from one idle way of life to another, unstable as water: he has been a footman, a soldier, a shop­man, and a strolling actor. With deep sorrow we trace back his vices to our ungoverned fondness; that lively and sharp wit, by which he has been able to carry on such a variety of wild schemes, might, if we had used him to reproof in his youth, have enabled [Page 17] him to have done great service for God and his country. But our flatte­ry made him wise in his own conceit and there is more hope of a fool tha [...] of him. We indulged our own vani­ty, and have destroyed his soul.

Here Mr. Worthy stopped Mrs. In­cle, saying, that whenever he heard i [...] lamented that the children of pio [...] parents often turned out so ill, [...] could not help thinking that the [...] must be frequently something of th [...] sort of error in the bringing them u [...] he knew, indeed, some instances [...] the contrary, in which the best [...] had failed; but he believed, that [...] Eli the priest, to Incle the labourer▪ more than half the failures of this sort might be traced to some mistake, [...] va­nity, or bad judgment, or sinful indul­gence in the parents.

I now looked about, continued Mrs. Incle, in order to see in what [...] I could assist my poor mother [...] gretting more heartily than she [...] that I knew no one thing that [...] of any use. I was so desirous of [...] [Page 18] bling myself before God and her, that I offered even to try to wash.—You wash! exclaimed Bragwell, starting up with great emotion, Heaven forbid that with such a fortune and education, Miss Bragwell should be seen at a washing-tub. This vain father, who could bear to hear of her distresses and her sins, could not bear to hear of her washing. Mr. Worthy stopped him, saying, As to her fortune, you know, you refused to give her any; and, as to her education, you see it [...]nd not taught her how to do any [...]ng better. I am sorry you do not [...] in this instance, the beauty of Christian humility. For my own part, [...] set a greater value on such an active proof of it, than on a whole volume of professions. Mr. Bragwell did not quite understand this, and Mrs. Incle went on. What to do to get a pen­ny I knew not. Making of fillagree, or card-purses, or cutting out paper, or dancing and singing, was of no use in our village. The shopkeeper, indeed, would have taken me, if I had known any thing of accounts; and the [...]ergyman could have got me a [Page 19] nursery-maid's place, if I could have done good plain-work. I made some aukward attempts to learn to spin and knit, when my mother's wheel or knitting lay by, but I spoilt both through my ignorance. At last I luc­kily thought upon the fine netting I used to make for my trimmings, and it struck me that I might turn this to some little account. I procured some twine, and worked early and late to make nets for fishermen, and cabbage-nets. I was so pleased that I had at last found an opportunity to shew m [...] good-will by this mean work, that I regretted my little George was no [...] big enough to contribute his share to our support by travelling about to se [...] my nets.

Cabbage-nets! exclaimed Bragwell; there is no bearing this.—Cabbage-nets! My grandson hawk cabbage-nets! How could you think of such a scan­dalous thing?—Sir, said Mrs. Incle mildly, I am now convinced that no­thing is scandalous which is not wick­ed. Besides, we were in want; and necessity, as well as piety, would hav [...] [Page 20] reconciled me to this mean trade. Mr. Bragwell groaned, and bade her go on.

In the mean time, my little George grew a fine boy; and I adored the goodness of God, who, in the sweetness of maternal love, had given me a re­ward for many sufferings. Instead of indulging a gloomy distrust about the fate of this child, I now resigned him to the will of God. Instead of lamenting because he was not likely to be rich, I was resolved to bring him up with such notions as might make him contented to be poor. I thought, if I could subdue [...] vanity and selfishness in him, I should make him a happier man than if I had thousands to bestow on him; and I trusted, that I should be rewarded for every painful act of present self-denial, by the future virtue and happi­ness of my child. Can you believe it, my dear father, my days now past not unhappily? I worked hard all day, and that alone is a source of happi­ness beyond what the idle can guess. After my child was asleep at night, I [...]d a chapter in the Bible to my pa­rents, whose eyes now began to fail [Page 21] them. We then thanked God over our frugal supper of potatoes, and talk­ed over the holy men of old, the saints, and the martyrs, who would have thought our homely fare a lux­ury. We compared our peace, and liberty, and safety, with their bonds, and imprisonment, and tortures; and should have been ashamed of a murmur. We then joined in prayer, in which my absent parents and my husband were never forgotten, and went to rest in charity with the whole world, and at peace in our own souls.

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

Whether my father-in-law had work­ed beyond his strength, in order to support me and my child, I know not, but he was taken dangerously ill, While he lay in this state, we re­ceived an account that my husband [Page 22] was dead in the West-Indies of the yellow fever, which has carried off such numbers of our countrymen; we all wept together, and prayed that his awful death might quicken us in pre­paring for our own. This shock, joined to the fatigue of nursing her sick husband, soon brought my poor mother to death's door. I nursed them both, and felt a satisfaction in giving them all I had to bestow, my atten­dance, my tears, and my prayers. I, who was once so nice and so proud, so disdainful in the midst of plenty, and so impatient under the smallest inconvenience, was now enabled to glorify God by my activity and my submission. Though the sorrows of my heart were enlarged, I cast my bur­then on him who cares for the weary and the heavy laden. After having watched by these poor people the whole night, I sat down to breakfast on my dry crust and coarse dish of tea, without a murmur; my greatest grief was, lest I should bring away the in­fection to my dear boy. I prayed to know what it was my duty to do be­tween my dying parents, and my [Page 23] helpless child. To take care of the sick and aged, seemed to be my duty. So I offered up my child to him who is the father of the fatherless, and he spared him to me.

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

Mr. Bragwell felt this remark more deeply than his daughter meant he [Page 24] should. He wept and bade her pro­ceed.

I followed my departed parents to the same grave, and wept over them, but not as one who had no hope. They had neither houses nor lands to leave me, but they left me their Bible, their blessing, and their example, of which I humbly trust I shall feel the benefits when all the riches of this world shall have an end. Their few effects, con­sisting of some poor household goods, and some working-tools, hardly sufficed to pay their funeral expences. I was soon attacked with the same fever, and saw myself, as I thought, dying the second time; my danger was the same, but my views were changed. I now saw eternity in a more awful light than I had done before, when I wickedly thought death might be gloom­ily called upon as a refuge from eve­ry common trouble. Though I had still reason to be humbled on account of my sin, yet through the grace of God, I saw Death stripped of his sting, and robbed of his terrors, through him, who loved me, and had given himself [Page 25] for me; and in the extremity of pain, my soul rejoiced in God my Saviour.

I recovered, however, and was chiefly supported by the kind clergyman's charity. When I felt myself nourish­ed and cheered by a little tea or broth, which he daily sent me from his own slender provision, my heart smote me, to think how I had daily sat down at home to a plentiful dinner, without any sense of thankfulness for my own abundance, or without enquiring whe­ther my poor sick neighbours we [...] starving; and I sorrowfully remembered, that what my poor sister and used to waste through daintiness, woul [...] now have comfortably fed myself a [...] child. Believe me, my dear mothe [...] a labouring man who h [...] been broug [...] low by a fever, might often be restore to his work some weeks sooner, if o [...] his recovery he was nourished an [...] strengthened by a good bit from farmer's table. Less than is [...] thro [...] to a favourite spaniel would suffice, that the expence would be alm [...] nothing to the giver, while to the [...] ceiver [Page 26] it would bring health, and strength, and comfort.

By the time I was tolerably recover­ed, I was forced to leave the house. I had no human prospect of subsistence. I humbly asked of God to direct my steps, and to give me entire obedience to his will. I then cast my eyes mournfully on my child, and though prayer had relieved my heart of a load which without it would have been intolerable; my tears flowed fast, while I cried out in the bitterness of my soul, How many hired servants of my father have bread enough, and to [...]pare, and I perish with hunger. This [...]ext appeared a kind of answer to my prayer, and gave me courage to make me more attempt to soften you in my [...]avour. I resolved to set out directly [...]o find you, to confess my disobedi­ence, and to beg a scanty pittance, [...]ith which I and my child might be [...]eanly supported in some distant [...]untry, where we should not disgrace [...]ur more happy relations. We set out [...]d travelled as fast as my weak [...]lth and poor George's little feet [Page 27] and ragged shoes would permit. I brought a little bundle of such work and necessaries as I had left, by sell­ing which we subsisted on the road. —I hope, interrupted Bragwell, there were no cabbage-nets in it?—At least, said her mother, I hope you did not sell them near home.—No; I had none left, said Mrs. Incle, or I should have done it. I got many a lift in a wag­gon for my child and my bundle, which was a great relief to me. And here I cannot help saying, I wish dri­vers would not be too hard in their demands, if they help a poor sick traveller on a mile or two; it proves a great relief to weary bodies and naked feet; and such little cheap cha­rities may be considered as the cup of cold water, which if given on right grounds, shall not lose its reward. Here Bragwell sighed, to think that when mounted on his fine bay mare, or driving his neat chaise, it had never once crossed his mind that the poor way-worn foot traveller was not equally at his ease, or that shoes were a necessary accomodation. Those who want nothing are apt to forget how [Page 28] many there are who want every thing. —Mrs. Incle went on: I got to this village about seven this evening, and while I sat on the church-yard wall to rest and meditate how I should make myself known at home, I saw a fune­ral; I enquired whose it was and learnt it was my sister's. This was too much for me. I sunk down in a fit, and knew nothing that happened to me from that moment, till I found myself in the workhouse with my father and Mr. Worthy.

Here Mrs. Incle stopped. Grief, shame, pride, and remorse, had quite overcome Mr. Bragwell, He wept like a child; and said, he hoped his daughter would pray for him, for that he was not in a condition to pray for himself, though he found nothing else could give him any comfort. His deep dejec­tion brought on a fit of sickness: O! said he, I now begin to feel an ex­pression in the sacrament which I used to repeat without thinking it had any meaning, the remembrance of my sins is grievous, the burthen of them is intole­rable. O, it is awful to think what a [Page 29] sinner a man may be, and yet retain a decent character! How many thousands are in my condition, taking to themselves all the credit of their prosperity, instead of giving God the glory! Heaping up riches to their hurt, instead of dealing their bread to the hungry. O, let those who hear of the Bragwell family, never say that vanity is a little sin. In me it has been the fruitful parent of a thou­sand sins, selfishness, hardness of heart, forgetfulness of God. In one of my sons vanity was the cause of rapine, injustice, extravagance, ruin, self-murder. Both my daughters were undone by vanity, though it only wore the more harmless shape of dress, idleness, and dissipation. The husband of my daughter Incle it de­stroyed, by leading him to live above his station, and to despise labour. Vanity ensnared the souls even of his pious pa­rents; for while it led them to wish to see their son in a better condition, it led them to allow him such indulgencies as were unfit for his own. O, you who hear of us, humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God; resist high thoughts; let every imagination be brought into obedience to the Son of God. If you set [Page 30] a value on finery look into that grave; behold the mouldering body of my Betsey, who now says to Corruption, thou art my father, and to the worm thou art my mo­ther and my sister. Look at the bloody and brainless head of her husband. O, Mr. Worthy, how does Providence mock at human foresight! I have been greedy of gain, that the son of Mr. Squeeze might be a great man; he is dead; while the child of Timothy Incle, whom I had doomed to beggary will be my heir. Mr. Worthy, to you I commit this boy's education; teach him to value his immor­tal soul more, and the good things of this life less, than I have done. Bring him up in the fear of God, and in the government of his passions. Teach him that unbelief and pride are at the root of all sin. I have found this to my cost. I trust­ed in my riches; I said, tomorrow shall be as this day and more abundant. I did not remember that for all these things God would bring me to judgment. I am not sure that I believed in a judgment.

Bragwell at length grew better, but he never recovered his spirits. The con­duct [Page 31] of Mrs. Incle through life was that of an humble Christian. She sold all her sister's finery, which her father had given her, and gave the money to the poor, saying, it did not become one who professed penitence, to return to the gaieties of life. Mr. Bragwell did not oppose this; not that he had fully acquired a just notion of the self-deny­ing spirit of religion, but having a head not very clear at making distinctions, he was never able, after the sight of Squeeze's mangled body, to think of gaiety and grandeur, without thinking at the same time, of a pistol and bloody brains; for, as his first introduction into gay life had presented him with all these objects at one view, he never after­wards could separate them in his mind. He even kept his fine beaufet of p [...]te always shut, because it brought to his mind the grand unpaid-for sideboard that he had seen laid out for Mr. Squeeze's supper, to the remembrance of which he could not help [...]acking debts, prisons, executions, and self-murder.

[Page 32]Mr. Bragwell's, heart had been so buried in the love of the world, and evil habits were become so rooted in him that the progress he made in re­ligion was very slow; yet he earnestly prayed and struggled against vanity; and when his unfeeling wife declared she could not love the boy unless he was called by their name instead of In­cle, Mr. Bragwell would never consent, saying, he stood in need of every help against pride. He also got the letter which Squeeze wrote just before he shot himself framed and glazed; this he hung up in his chamber, and made it a rule to go and read it as often as he found his heart disposed to VANITY. Z.