CHAP. XXXII.

THE ardour of your sentiments, sir, becomes your age, and I am pleased with your compliment, because I perceive it is the effervesence of a sincere heart—I was going to say, that if—but we will proceed to our more familiar illustrations!—Imagine that when these children were five weeks old, the mother of the poorest, re­duced to extreme necessity, puts her in­fant [Page 2]in a basket, and lays it at the door of a person equally celebrated for wealth and benevolence—the gentle­man takes it into his house, clothes, feeds, and educates it as his own —that very infant which with the parent would be the lout I have de­scribed, would with its protector be as different a creature as could exist. His pains, passions, pleasures, and ideas, totally reversed—imagine like­wise that some gypsey steals, or kid­naps, as it is called, the rich child from the cradle, and strolls with it up and down the country: it will have its education in the open air, its lodging in a barn, and its dirty diet under a hedge. Probably it will imbibe the craft and subtlety of the gypsey, and limit its utmost [Page 3]ambition to trick the traveller out of sixpence, cross the palm with sil­ver, and tell the events which have happened (or are still to be brought forward) by the line of life. Thus, in every other instance, (with a few peculiar exceptions, that have nothing to do with general rules,) habit and education form the mind, and colour the human character.—

But how does this influence, what we call virtue and vice? said I—Virtue and vice, (rejoin'd the gentleman,) are as dependent upon external as inter­nal circumstances: they are properties not more hereditary than adventitious and artificial: nor do they issue more from the heart than from habit.—You astonish me, I replied.—You are now, (cried he,) at the period of human life, [Page 4]when curiosity is often caught in sur­prizes. Experience will teach you to hear what now seems strange, without emotion I have said nothing but what will too soon be intelligible.—

Pray go on, sir—pray go on—

CHAP. XXXIII.

—There are, doubtless—resumed the gentleman — some constitutions so adapted by nature to virtue, that no troubles, situations, or tempta­tions, can subdue, or extirpate, their a­miable propensities—but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a character takes its bias and bearing from mere tuition, and the line it is either led or [Page 5]thrown into, in the first stage of the hu­man journey. If there are no innate ideas, sir, it follows that the mind of every new-born babe is equally pure —If there are those infantine seeds of the understanding and little embrios of intellect—they are easily turned into what channel the parent thinks proper —so that I cannot but think the father of a family one of the most aweful charges upon earth:

After which, ‘Nothing can efface them, but death or heaven.’ Yet we behold said I, many children unlike their parents, both good and [Page 6]bad. It is admitted, said Mr. Greaves: yet you will, at the same time, observe, where the notions of pa­rents and children are dissimilar, the dissimilitude arises rather from difference of ages, or improper cul­ture, than any thing else; in general children are not liker in features than habits, and I do assure you family­ minds are as often transmitted as family-faces. There is a tractabi­lity in youth which receives like snow, every impression—and it is almost as difficult to erase the im­pression of one as the other: no­thing but heaven can effect it.—If a son is trained up early to de­cency of manners, and has the example of dignity living and moving before his eyes (unless his temper is [Page 7]particularly untoward) he will turn out an elegant character—If he is trained up in different principles, he will act accordingly.—The Hoyden and the Prude, amongst the other sex, take not their tint of character one time in ten from nature, but from a neglect early to give them a proper idea of de­portment. But yet, said I, very sedate women have romping, runaway daugh­ters, and very prudent fathers have very perverse sons.—I mean, (replied Mr. Greaves,) to say no more than this, that, generally speaking, men and wo­men act and think as they are taught whilst they are only able to lisp out their meaning—that education will have some influence on the most abandoned; and that, upon the whole, virtue and vice depend very essenti­ally [Page 8]on our primary sentiments and examples; which, whether good or ill, will externally attend us in some measure, through all possible transitions from the time we leave our cradles, to the time we shall be deposited in our coffins—If I have not wearied you, we will now see how far habit, influ­ences our judgments in the great and important article of reputation.

CHAP. XXXIV.

I listen to you, sir, (said I) with joy, and only lament that I am contribut­ing to your fatigue, at the time that I am receiving such a fund of enter­tainment.—

[Page 9]—Habit, my young friend, said the gentleman, operates with equal energy upon man and beast. I could easily produce evidences of the fact, by casting an eye upon the very horses now engaged in the dutiful drudgery of dragging us along, and upon the herds and flocks which are grazing or sporting beside us: but we will confine ourselves to our own species, which are certainly the most interesting objects of speculation. I was about to observe, that Custom has much to do with our moral cha­racters. There are certain actions, so naturally and palpably, good, or evil, that neither sophistry, nor slander, nor address, can either injure, mend, or mar them. To question the light at noon day, or the dark in the zenith [Page 10]of the night, would argue a mala­dy beyond madness: so in like man­ner to dispute, whether downright wickedness is wickedness, and evident excellence is excellence, would be a lunacy in ethics, so absurd, that the poetical frenzy of poor Lee would be cool argument to it—on the other hand, my good sir, if you live and mix long with mankind, you will find many of your fellow-creatures, pining away existence under the lashes,— the bleeding lashes of reproach, merely because it is the custom to call one thing right and another wrong, without trac­ing either to the bottom. It is a maxim that the Vox Populi, is the Vox Dei —that (as you know it is translated) "what every body says must be true." I know nothing so deserving refuta­tion [Page 11]as a collection of those old saws and proverbs, which, acquiring force from antiquity, and estimation from rust—for there are virtuosos in let­ters, as well as in coins—are at length considered as utterly incontestible. Now, certain I am, that upon an examination into those very maxims we put so much credit in, some will turn out futile, some disputable, and many unfaithful—for minute scrutinies we have not time: it will be sufficient to look into that I have just mentioned, and there is none more implicitly believed. "What every body says must be true"—I have myself seen many instances to disprove this; but I shall beg your acceptance of one which is now uppermost in my me­mory.—A young gentleman of my [Page 12]particular acquaintance, has for some time been deserted by his old compa­nions, and branded as a man of un­steady principles, whose heart I know to abound with all those sensibilities which have hurried him as it were into the vortex of liberality, till he is be­come an object of liberality himself. He has those glowing feelings, and sen­timents, which do at once honour and service, to human-nature: notwith­standing which, like poor Mr. Blewitt (whose history was recited by the gro­cer) embarrassments have beset him, and the world sets him down an undone man. The world gets hold of a pre­judice and then it is called Vox Dei. The Vox Populi, is given as the sen­timent of every-body, and thus many reputations are mistaken and misre­presented, which deserve a better fate. [Page 13]There are various persons likewise now particularly reprobated for a few indelicate concessions, to which necessity may, in violence of their bet­ter judgments, have constrained them to yield, who (had they possessed hap­pier circumstances) would have made a much more respectable figure than those which now mark them with insa­my. Many an unfortunate female too, at this time wandering up and down the streets—many an insulted and de­serving character—But I am rambling too miscellaneously—I feel myself a little weary—Heigho—

Here the gentleman stoped abruptly —His countenance became suddenly clouded—his lip quivered—his eye remained fixed; and clasping his hands forcibly together, he at length burst [Page 14]into tears—After he a little recovered himself—he caught me hold by the arm, and exclaimed—Oh! sir—my daughter! my daughter!—my Alme­ria!

CHAP. XXXV.

I am now composed, my young friend —the idea of a domestic misfortune obtruded itself upon me, and I could not help feeling the stroke of huma­nity—of nature, and a father—Heaven! cried I,—you distract me. I was about to take notice, replied Mr. Greaves—of one cruelty in the Vox Populi, which is certainly against every notion of the Vox Dei. 'Tis the custom, sir, to abandon the weakest part of our species, for that ruin which [Page 15]the artifices of our sex have perpe­trated; nor can any future repentence remove the sense of their error, or re­store them to the bosoms of more for­tunate women: ‘They set like stars to rise no more.—’ I had a wife, sir, with whom I have mourned many years,—though I bu­ried her but six weeks ago—She died of a broken heart, and there was, I assure you,—a woe in the family big enough to break it.—About eleven years ago, sir, an only child was taken from me—I was robbed of her by a man whom I held the nearest to my heart—and for five years it has been my incessant business to recover my darling, but in vain. My wife fell into a deep and rapid consumption, [Page 16]and I was obliged to reside with her in the country—She grew worse and weaker every hour—but two days be­fore she resigned her last breath—we received (by a special messenger) a packet—how shall I speak it—from— from my beloved—misguided—re­penting wanderer!—The poor thing had (the better to persuade) thrown the pathetic parts of her story into poetry. —But that which delighted me more— far more—than all the rest—and which would have more magic for a parent's heart, than the poetry of a Milton— was an attested account from a man of reputation, that my child was actually at last under the protection of that noble institution which offers an asylum to insulted penitence.—In the first transport, I could not conceal the [Page 17]news from my wife, but she had only power to press the paper, trembling to her bosom, and feebly lifted up her eyes to heaven—the rest—you must spare me, sir, upon the tender subject —she is dead!—she is in heaven!—

The poor gentleman covered his face in his hankerchief, and I have no words to describe my own feelings—

CHAP. XXXVI.

—When Mr. Greaves could again lift up his head—he told me, that having trusted to the ground the remains of his wife, he was now going to visit his long-lost daughter, who was in —he stopt—and I was unwilling to enlarge upon the subject, though I [Page 18]desired most ardently to see the poetry he spoke of—But for the present we dropt the matter, and a profound si­lence ensued till we again changed horses. At last, however, Mr. Greaves perceiving my anxiety, and guessing the cause, put his hand into his pocket, and produced a small bundle of papers, fastened by a piece of red tape—from these he took a manuscript, of which he thus declared his inten­tions, as he held it in his hand.

Here it is—here is that unhappy girl—my poor Almeria's petition— read it, young gentleman—read it, and pity the daughter—and the father. —If it should particularly strike you, take a copy, and if you continue long in London, perhaps you may see it in print—If you should not, and you [Page 19]should chance to survive me, (as it is most probable you will)—publish it— and at the same time, publish with it this Letter of Gratitude—there are rea­sons why—I would not chuse (being but too much interested in the con­tents) to appear in the business—take it therefore, and give it to the world at your best leisure—There, sir,—it were improper to suppress it—perhaps it may fall into the hands of the young and dissipated—perhaps it may find its way into the closets of the chaste and beautiful—The libertine may snatch it up in the intervals of his gay career; and the parent, afflicted by the loss of his child, may be in­duced to read it from affection and curiosity—In all, or in any of these cases, it will afford some salutary re­flections, [Page 20]and the heart, the conscience, and the understanding will point them out immediately—He put the paper into my hand—I reminded him of the pleasing prospect of seeing his restored daughter—He did not seem insensible of my wishes to dissipate his melancholy, but said nothing—As I knew it must be some time before he could collect himself, and perceiving he began to close his eyes, as if he de­sired silence, I left him to his reflec­ions (which it would have been im­pertinent to interrupt after the hint he had given me) and began to open my papers, which melted me so many times into tears during the perusal, that I was heartily glad the poor gen­tleman affected slumber.—As I have now had the performance so long by [Page 21]me I shall set it down in my journal in this place, where (though it some­what interferes with my further con­nection with Mr. Greaves) it properly belongs, because I would not disjoint the subject from the sentiments which introduced it to my knowledge—So that if ever my history is found, the history of this unhappy lady will be found with it; and in so publishing an age, they can fall into few hands, which will not send them to the press.

CHAP. XXXVII.

The Letter of Gratitude directly fol­lows; and was, I believe, designed as a short dedication to the work. It was written by the father.

CHAP. XXXVIII.
ALMERIA; OR, THE PENITENT.
Being a Genuine Epistle from an Unfortunate Daughter in —, to her Family, in the Country.

CHAP. XXXIX.

Before I proceed to set down other matters which fell out to chequer the adventures of my journey, I cannot but observe that about two years af­ter this period I met Mr. Greaves in the Park, with a beautiful young crea­ture under his arm; and some time afterwards I paid him a visit, when he took me cordially by the hand, and spoke to me as follows.

My dear BENIGNUS, where have you been buried since our last inter­view? When I told you upon the road the occasion of that melancholy you detected through my efforts to conceal it, you may remember I told you the motive of my journey. Upon my ar­rival [Page 48]in London, and taking leave of you, I call'd an hackney coach, and drove directly to ***—In one word— I found my daughter.—I felt the faint­ing penitent in my arms. I received of her with an anxiety of joy—a tremor transport—Oh! BENIGNUS, think for me—colour the scene in the paint of youthful ardour—do justice to nature, and imagine the delicacies which were never spoken. You have seen my daughter—I never walk without her —and yet, sir, all this joy is dashed with an ingredient of sorrow. The prudes (untouched by the pathos of her penitence) carry an air of ceremonious civility towards my child.—The faded virgins who have never passed the fiery trial of temptation, and a set of haughty matrons, who have every [Page 49]other vice that disgraces the sex, but that of which even nature predeter­mined they should never be guilty— treat my Almeria with a coy and in­sulting reserve, which goes too near her heart—an heart, BENIGNUS, ge­nerous and gentle as—

Here our discourse was interrupted by ALMERIA herself, who came to in­form us the chocolate waited for us in the little saloon.

Her own epistle has so pathetically de­scribed the misery of her situation, that she has not left room for any thing but pity.—And yet who that considers such a creature has been, as it were, public property—that reflects, [Page 50]how many are at this very moment chained down to a necessity equally sore; many of them exposed to the want of that daily bread, which even nightly impurity cannot supply— some of them beating through the streets by the barbarity of their be­trayer—some hunted from one hid­ing place to another, by the vigilance of the bailiff; and all of them liable to contempt, indignity, and dis­temper—who, I say, that collects to­gether these facts in his mind, can be content with expressing barren com­passion?—Who can forbear mixing relief with their tears, and blessing the benevolence which first suggested, and still continues, their Asylum.—

I have a little violated chronology, by placing these transactions some­what [Page 51]out of the order of time, but as my history is written at a venture, and may never visit the world, I have been less cautious of observing critical rules. However, as I by no means de­sign to make a book of digressions, I shall now turn back to Mr. Greaves, who having sat with his eyes closed, was, when he opened them again, much more fitted for society. There are, in truth, certain moments when the music of the spheres would be dis­cordant, and when the condolence of our dearest acquaintances is an unwel­come interruption. The human soul settles on her darling subject, descends into herself, and indulges in a luxury, which, bee like, extracts honey from the poison of calamity. In one of these dispositions was Mr. Greaves, [Page 52]when he counterfeited repose: he had now reconciled himself to the events he had contemplated, (for he was both a philosopher and a christian) and with an affability peculiar to well-bred people, begged my pardon for his reveries.

CHAP. XL.

We were now just stepping into our last stage but one, and though the glories of the sun were over, his de­parting beams were extremely agree­able. Mr. Greaves resumed a look of complacency, and I being willing to keep as clear of the only subject that could perhaps again discompose it, ask­ed what sort of sensations were created [Page 53]in his mind by the story of Mr. Blewitt. Though his history was related (an­swered my companion) in unpolished language, it contains a folio of va­luable facts. But what a pity it is, repeated I, that such mercenary hearts as are lodged in the bosoms of the Quaker and Grocer, should be, in ge­neral, more undisturbed through life, than such as guided the feelings of the generous Mr. Blewitt. Alas! re­turned the gentleman, you are yet an infant in terrestial events. I dare swear you have an excellent heart, and I am sure a good understanding, yet you know but little of life.—You profess to be travelling in pursuit of happiness, and to dedicate your for­tune to the service of society. From hence I should conclude that you are [Page 54]flying from misery. I related my ad­ventures at the village. He said if I could not find Contentment in the shade, it was doubtful whether I should meet her in the city. But I fear, continued he, you expect from the world more than it can bestow; you have, perhaps, placed the standard of felicity too high, or your ideas of it are probably a little romantic.

All I want upon earth, replied I, is comprized in three things, friendship, fidelity, and gratitude.—At your age, resumed Mr. Greaves, (smiling,) I entered the world, animated by the same hopes, and fascinated by the same notions. My head—my hands, and my heart, were busy to derive a reflect­ed blessing to myself, by having pro­moted the blessedness of others. To [Page 55]this end I continued in the world till that agonizing accident I have already related.—

At this crisis our chaise having just ascended a hill arrived at a very beau­tiful spot indeed. It was an eminence that topt an extensive prospect, and commanded the scene below, which was composed of intermingled towers, and spires, woods and waters, the verdure of fields, and the variegation of vallies—I could not help ejaculat­ing with some energy—Is it not strange that a world like this, so fitted for the reception and happiness of every being which inhabits it, with such noble capacities of pleasure adapt­ed to each, should nevertheless be the seat of general torment and fretfulness, disaster and distress.—Is it not strange that—that—

[Page 56]The gentleman took hold of my wrist, and fixing his eyes very seriously upon me, spoke in a tone of unusual dignity.

CHAP. XLI.

Never allow amazement to hur­ry you into expressions unbecom­ing the character of a christian; nor let either the insults or miseries you see or feel in the world, make you charge Heaven with the shadow of in­justice. Take my word for it, God is not, nor ever was in fault—You see before you, this moment, enough to convince you, that he has done every thing on his part—the sun warms us —the moon in his absence sets off the [Page 57]face of the earth, in a sort of shady majesty—the rain descends to bless us—the ground feeds and entertains us, and the ample intentions of uni­versal nature are universally kind and beneficent. MAN has perverted the sys­tem—the invention of coins, the pas­sion for negotiation, and the love of barter have extended an ambition of the lowest kind amongst all classes of people. The motive of commerce is no longer rational; and business, which was originally designed to promote health, and circulate interchanged con­veniencies, is now for the most part ava­riciously carried on, to swell the coffers of the individual by impoverishing the species; nay, the mercenary spirit of the times extends to nations and climates divided by the remotest part of the [Page 58]ocean. But if you please we will trace this evil ab origine. The Almighty cre­ated a world, then peopled it, and after­wards found that it was good. The management of it was put into the hands of man—not, however, to be too minute, let us take notice, that every thing was once indiscriminately enjoy­ed. The earth was a common pro­perty, and it was fertile without labour—the error of our first parents considerably changed the system, and tillage and druggery became necessary to subdue a soil, that no longer pro­duced plenty spontaneously. No absolute right however or proprietor­ship was yet ascertained, and every one fixed on, and cultivated the spot he chose: this miscellaneous participa­tion soon created disorder; for, as [Page 59]the bad passions were now let loose upon the world, indolence seized upon the comforts which had been acquired by industry; and hence sprang domestic contest and civil dis­pute, and half mankind were at war. Those that obtained the victory held the conquered as his slave; and from hence originated those distinctions, which, obtained by rapacity, and kept by force, were after sanctified by poli­tical institutions: for upon this (find­ing men were to be restrained from violence and invasion only by com­pulsion, terror, and authority,) the laws came in to the assistance of the stronger party: the difference betwixt meum and tuum was soon understood, and every individual maintained him­self upon that which was now secured [Page 60]to him by certain compacts, to vio­late which was henceforth to be con­sidered as a punishable crime. By this time an idea of property became sacred and general, and by these means the civilized part of the earth was said to belong, not as formerly, to all alike, but to a third part of its inhabitants. Subordination therefore of necessity took place. The pride of power gained ground every day, and one hu­man creature usurped dominion over another, because the distinction was now known betwixt master and ser­vant. From master and servant rose notions of great privileges, and po­verty dropt submissive at the knee of riches. Pastorals and Arcadia were no more. Instead of every man dress­ing the glebe, and turning up the soil [Page 61]in common, such as had now domi­nion over the acres, insisted upon hav­ing the essential drudgery they requir­ed, performed by those whose fathers might probably possess the spot upon which they were to toil.—

CHAP. XLII.

—Affairs once settled on these par­tial principles, resisted every effort of revocation—for who that could eat his bread without sweating his brow, would give up the advantages he had gained. Centuries are now behind us, since things were thus regulated, and every year hath given force and ve­nerableness to the establishment. E­very [Page 62]man has given up the point, and makes the most of his situation: the clown rises early to the task of culti­vation, and the master looks indolently on, and receives the profit. Luxury was introduced under these auspices —the beverage of the field—the sal­lad of the brook, and the water of the spring—with the homely apparel that decently veil'd and warmed the body, were rejected, and Voluptuousness turned Simplicity blushing away. The moment in which man became possest of more than was necessary to the wholesome purposes of life; the mo­ment in which his industry became nerveless, and his love of labour to slacken; pride soon taught leisure, to misuse abundance, and the passions to wanton with authority—Hence, [Page 63]some revelled in the riots of dissipation, others found a pleasure in accumula­tion, and some better spirits had a bliss in distribution. At length through the natural chain of consequences, we are arrived at the crisis. We are polish­ed, populated, and resined in the extreme. Distinctions are so minute, property so tenacious, splendor so su­perior, and trade so jealous, that no distresses you observe should sur­prise you. Money hath acquired a universal ascendency, property hath "subdued all things under her feet;" and luxury sickens in despair, because novelty is wanting to give an edge to the blunted appetites. Had the use of a metal-currency been restricted by any reasonable rule of moderation, it might have settled the system upon [Page 64]a noble principle, for it is equally con­venient to the great purposes of bene­volence and business. But the lucky and fortunate have run into two ex­tremes so egregiously absurd, that the one opens upon us a fountain of poisoned pleasures, and the other a source of sordid maxims. The passion for wasting on the one hand, and of hoarding on the other, have not only involved the world in confu­sion, and thrown the passions into an uproar but have actually left almost one half of the human species naked and starved, to cloath and accommo­date the other.

CHAP. XLIII

You have discovered to me Mr. Greaves, said I, a train of observations of which I had no idea—but you are preparing to speak—and I would not interrupt you for the universe—

The observations I have made, (con­tinued Mr. Greaves,) have been no doubt made, (and much more sagaci­ously,) by many others, for contem­plation, philosophy, and science, have now gone very far; our discoveries in letters and in lands, may perhaps have been pretty equal. There may be yet unknown tracks in speculation; the in­tellect may still abound with new re­serves of wisdom. There is still, it is [Page 66]presumed, a terra incognita; there may be still an undug mine of know­ledge—To explore this, must be the labour of some literary Columbus—I pretend not to such skill; and indeed can only assure you, that I offer you frankly, on this subject the unadorned facts which I have collected from early readings and practical observations. —You run your eye hastily over the world, and then complain that it abounds with misery. After what has been said, should you not be sur­prised to find a great deal of happi­ness: and yet, distributed up and down the various parts of it, there really is a very considerable share. That the infelicity grows out of all proportion still more considerable cannot easily be determined—for [Page 67]though the fate of thousands can only be made supportable, by the chearful expectation of a better, and though the human heart is in general blinded by temporal prejudices, yet coarse as the mass of gratifications are that endear life to the multitude, they are nevertheless gratifications, and re­ceive attachment from custom. The joys of more delicate minds are indeed less extended, and lie in a small com­pass, being confined to the little circle of the few, whose feelings are softened by nature, and refined by art. But were the agonies of existence, still greater and acuter than they are, the DEITY is not the author of it—he made the world—survey it, sir, (even through the shadings of the evening) and tell me, if it is not worthy of a divine [Page 68]artificer. He made man to inhabit it —has he not bestowed amiable and ample faculties upon him—fitted him equally to enjoy society and solitude —given him a power to derive a plea­sure from the freshness of the gale, or from the convivial glass—has not he bestowed upon him eyes to see missor­tune, an heart to feel it, and arms to re­move it? Has he not implanted in the mind a sympathy between the sexes, so attractive, that by a kind of magnetic power, we are irresistibly drawn to each other, that life may be perpetuated while love is unpolluted? Has he not given us early ideas of more disinter­ested attachments, and inspired us with dispositions, to philanthropy and friendship! has he not seated in the bosom a monitor, to compliment [Page 69]us for every thing that is becoming, and accommodated the taste with end­less variety,—is not the ear enchanted by the harmonies of nature—and the smell gratified with perfume; and to crown the whole, has he not placed certain intimations in the soul, which assure it that however agreeable the Deity may have rendered the present slate, it is but a passage; and upon the easy terms of our acting properly to him, and each other, will lead us gently along, till it terminates in eter­nity?

CHAP. XLIV.

—This, my young friend, is a saint sketch of the works and intentions of the Deity—that those works and in­tentions are abused, can never be imputed to their all-kind Author, but to man.

If the beauties and benefits of na­ture are perverted; if the faculties of the mind and body are obstinately bent to actions evidently contradic­tory to the purposes for which they were given; if love and friendship are overborne by their opposite pas­sions; and, if—as has been before hinted, interest carries away the palm from earth and heaven—who but man [Page 71]is chargeable with the consequences of this general inversion of bless­ings?—

The fact is indisputable, sir, said I— I tremble, and I adore; but as Mr. Blewitt seemed always to perform the purposes for which he was born a man, how is it, that he, and others like him, should not pass smoothly through the sea of life. Because, said the gentleman—to carry on the meta­phor—when the storm is violent, and the hurricane extreme, it is certain the good and bad sailors will be wrecked alike. Is not that strange, said I—"Shall gravitation stop as you go by, replied Mr. Greaves?—no, sir. The chain of causes and consequences is irrefragable—that innocence should suffer in a world of guilt is morally [Page 72]inevitable, but depend upon it, the suffering will not be ultimately in vain.

As to Mr. Blewitt, I compassionate and admire him, but he is one of those characters, whose amiable weaknesses expose him to almost certain poverty. The poor man was kind, to a fault— the world would call him, a good-na­tured fool—Indeed he was wrong, sir, to indulge the tenderness of his feeling in the extreme; though this cannot be owned, without its implying at the same time a very cutting satire against the depravity of human nature —a depravity I have all along taken notice of, as the source of so much disaster, and calamity.—

Mr. Blewitt did not reflect that —as money is the property by [Page 73]which every passion is gratified, man will naturally idolize it as the golden calf; and that, to adopt a few saving maxims, in relation to keeping a part of such property always at command, would be favourable even to his gene­rosity; because it must needs be a deep misfortune to find the hand, ac­customed to liberallity, compelled to contract, when it can give no more. —In a country where appearances of wealth, can claim veneration, where money acquires the chymic quality of turning every thing it approximates into gold, and where that gold is moreover able to array insamy in the robe of integrity, and lead the judgments of the wisest blind-fold as it pleases—In such a country, every apparent want of this property, [Page 74]will be liable to neglect and ill treat­ment—and every degree of indigence will meet desertion, for this plain rea­son, because indigence has nothing either to procure or excite the idea of authority, nor to observe those rules which externally distinguish the master from the servant. You will say perhaps, all this sort of distinction is ridiculous. No doubt of it; but as more than fifty, out of sixty have adopted such distinctions,—as they are actually the general standards of con­duct,—as they are also more than two thousand years old—it is in vain to dispute their propriety—one might as well dispute the customs of a country —tell the Indian, it is indecent to go naked, or that a Toledo dangling by the side of the Spanish peasant, must [Page 75]be extremely inconvenient. Oeco­nomy therefore is now almost the only security from contempt, and though it were too narrow a line to tread in the track of the grocer, as no real joy could arise from such a rigid policy, neither to lend six-pence, nor borrow six-pence, yet I (and I think my heart not an unfeeling one) —have always found it sound pru­dence, to keep a friend in my pocket, and on no terms to lie at the mercy and compassion of another.—

CHAP. XLV.

—It was now night, and we were in the middle of Finchley Common— The driver bid us secure part of our money, if we had any great quantity about us, for that he saw a fellow lurking by the side of the road, at a little distance.—In five seconds we were up with the man, who was groan­ing piteously upon a grassy hillock. Mr. Greaves, (who knew the arts of his own species) suspected this to be an imposition, and opposed my desire to have him lifted into the chaise— But these ideas were presently re­moved, for the stranger got up, and coming to the window, presented [Page 77]not a pistol, but—a purse. The chaise stopt—

Half an hour ago, gentlemen—said the man—a horseman came by me, and I was tempted, (to supply the wants of a large family) to demand his money—He put into my hand this purse.—I conjure you, gentlemen, if by any stroke of happy chance he should be any part of your company— take it, and return it to him just as I received it—It is my first violation of the laws, either of hospitality or my country—I might possibly return home undiscovered, but I feel that I cannot bear it. My conscience is vic­torious even over my necessities If you should not know the traveller I have plundered—it is still in your power to do my bleeding soul some [Page 78]service—Upon your arrival in Lon­don advertise the circumstances of the robbery—take the property and re­deliver it, upon the first application.— This I cannot do for myself, without throwing myself into the arms of jus­tice; and the situation of a wife, (whom I doat on, with the fate of my poor little ones,) forbid my deser­tion—so saying—he threw the purse into the chaise and was going to re­tire.—

There was something so very un­usual in this new mode of attacking, that it was some time before Mr. Greaves could speak.—For my own part I was in a state of mind betwixt trembling and crying.—At length Mr. Greaves, who could no longer doubt of the offender's sincerity, invited him [Page 79]to accompany us in the chaise, if he was going to town, pledging him­self at the same time, as a man of honour, not to betray him.—The poor man after the deliberation of a minute —sighed and ascended—though the postilion muttered that we might be transported for harbouring robbers, and might repent it before we got over the common yet.—

Our conversation on the way was such as might have touched the hard­est heart.—As soon as we were upon the pavement, the gentleman got out, but not before we had obtained the secret of his address—The driver seeing him escape—said—he had a great mind to cry stop thief, for that he was sure 'twas hanging matter— and he was not certain whether [Page 80] he should not come to the gallows for it himself, seeing as how he was aiding and abutting. In this conjecture he was perfectly prophetic, for upon my travelling the same road in my way to the village, about six months after, I understood that this very identical nice­minded driver, had actually mounted, some little time before, for being de­tected in confederating with a gang of highwaymen, to whom he gave intel­ligence, what company had made ap­pointments to pass by his master's house, in their return to town.—The poor man insisted upon leaving the purse, but we did our best to alleviate his miserable condition, by an equal present of five guineas—I was going to give ten, but Mr. Greaves geatly pluckt me by the button, observing [Page 81]to me afterwards, that five, at another opportunity, would very likely double their utility.

CHAP. XLVI.

As soon as the man was gone— There, said Mr. Greaves, is another reason why money should be cau­tiously parted with—What a noble soul must that gentleman possess, and yet to what deplorable shifts is he re­duced—He is a man of education— but 'tis a custom to shun decayed gen­tlemen, or at best to assist them in a way that must pierce them to the quick— A beggar who has served a long ap­prenticeship to the business of whimper­ing and wailing—who lies down at the [Page 82]door in despite of denial, and who is, in short, a master of his calling, feels slightly, the neglect and abuse of his fellow-creature; and if the footman hunts him from one haunt, he hobbles on towards another: but an unfortu­nate man of breeding—a poor creature whose education shines through his rags and dirt, feels the acumen of every insult that is cast upon him—by the random sons of success—in its ut­most bitterness, and cannot help reflect­ing severely on the inhumanity of man­kind—Take care therefore, my dear sir, what you do—You are now, I suppose, for the first time, in London —a place of various danger to all men, but more especially to those of your complexion.—Pleasure and busi­ness seem to lie upon the surface— [Page 83]and at the first glance neither misery or imposture will be discovered—When you rise in the morning, every object will be gay; and curiosity will pay the debt to surrounding splendor; but you will be soon convinced that the fronti nulle fides was never more pro­verbially applicable than to this great city. Proceed, therefore with di [...]i­dence, and step with caution—Your simplicity and kindness of heart have made me take an interest—almost pa­ternal—in your welfare; and I could rejoice to pass some time with you— but you already know the irresistible —pathetic cause which draws me to town—when that is over, I shall be at your service—In the mean time— (taking my hand with a soft pressure, which brought the water into my eyes) [Page 84]—once again, let me conjure you to be circumspect. Beware that your bounty, like fire, does not burn itself out, by its own force—Husband the blaze, and be sure some sparks remain to warm yourself—I give a great deal, to a great many—but, as I have happily a great deal yet to bestow, I pass the mus­ter of my friends, whose severest cen­sure is a prophecy that I shall not die rich. But certain it is, if I were to di­vest myself of every thing, and give the last penny to a starving creature, I should be the jest of men, the tittle­tattle of women, and the pity of man­kind.—Mr. Greaves gave me his di­rection—stept'd into an hackney coach, and bade me farewell.—Some time after this, I paid a visit to the high­wayman, who at my departure gave [Page 85]me the following manuscript, which contains some reflections he made upon the transaction at Finchley Common. — But before I introduce this into my Legend, I think proper to take notice that I had an opportu­nity to return the purse, to the person from whom it was taken, and that person forms no inconsiderable cha­racter in the remaining part of these Memoirs.

CHAP. XLVII.

[Page 94] At this place, madam, we must stop—after Benignus reached London, he met with a great variety of adven­tures, all of which, were strongly calculated to fix the assertions and hypothesis in the 12th and 13th chapters, beyond any sort of doubt— those adventures, are of the most inter­esting nature—some of them are pa­thetic—all are full of that agonizing knowledge, which is usually purchas­ed at the price of a broken heart— The manuscript in my possession is not large, but it is in so small and close a character, that it would yet furnish out at least six window-feat, fashion­able volumes—As I have already got beyond the limits of a letter, (unless it had been written upon one of those leaves, which travellers assure us, will [Page 95]cover, an acre of ground) I must re­serve the remainder of his Legend, till another opportunity—at present I can only spare my unfortunate hermit, a few more pages for an extract or two from the record.

Here, madam, we must make a se­cond gap in the history, and continue it from

This history, madam, together with other adventures in the world (with which at some future period, that world may be made acquainted) —have led me to a seclusion almost as retired from the bustle and intrigue of life, as the unhappy author of the Legend. I intend my memoirs shall serve as the counterpart of his; and both will indisputedly prove and vali­date, the peculiar truth of these singu­lar sentiments.

That, nine times out of ten, a life of benevolence is a life of insult and pain.

That an unwearied attention to the pleasure and comfort of others, is [Page 101]generally repaid by ingratitude from the world.

And that (in a terrestrial sense)— tracing the fact through all classes of life, from the nobleman in his villa to the beggar in his shed—goodness is not often, in this world, rewarded by such returns from our fellow crea­tures, as constitute those sensations, which are included in our ideas of happiness.

The result of the whole, madam, will be,

First, To be good, would, to all intents and purposes, be to be happy, had not man degenerated in the extreme; and had not his worldly interest prevailed over the prospects and promises of futurity.

[Page 102] Secondly. That the world is permitted to exist, for the same reasons it was spared in years which are far behind, when the Omnipotent declared with his own facred voice that—if ten, or even five, just people could be found, the city (over which the almighty arm of vengeance, was raised in suspension) should be spared.

Thirdly. That, the perversion of money, and the abuse of riches, has contributed more to the corruption of human na­ture, over every part of the habitable globe, than any other thing, since the invention of a commerce with it.

Fourthly. That, this world (and more particu­larly the polished and voluptuous parts [Page 103]of it) would be intolerable, to a truly good mind, and, of all possible places of torment, the most severe, (to men engaged in society, but unengaged in its general aims) were it not for two reasons, which will not only be fully given in the promised histories —but may be briefly seen in the con­clusive parts of these volumes.

But before we pursue subjects of so grave a nature, I shall beg your lady­ship's leave to offer some lighter amuse­ment—I fear I have made you gloomy —let us then instantly return to our fancy-pieces—amongst these I must number a little piece of poetry, wrote a year after leaving school. I shall present your ladyship with this with all the marks of juvenility about it—poor Benignus thought much [Page 104]of robbing an orchard. His idea might be right, but I must confess to you, that for my part, though I had a pretty early knowledge of meum and tuum, I was not quite so scrupulous, as to this particular. Benignus was likewise frequently insulted for this be­nevolence—now I avoided insult, by the only way to escape it, either in a school or in the world—for I was one of their own sort,—did as they did, and was as thoughtless, and as trickful as the best, or rather—the worst of them—the evils of life, did not seize me so soon, as they seized Benignus— When your ladyship, at a future day, shall read my memoirs, you will per­ceive too many reasons for an altera­tion in sentiment.