THE Family Inſtructor IN Three PARTS;
The Second Edition.
Corrected by the Author.
LONDON, Printed for Eman. Matthews at the Bible in Pater-noſter-row, 1715.
THE Firſt Edition of this Work was ſo ill Printed, and by Reaſon of the Author's Abſence from the Preſs was ſo uncorrect, that it ſtood more than ordinarily in Need of the Help of a good Intro⯑duction; yet it is hoped the Work has not diſ⯑honour'd the Reverend Perſon, who did it the Fa⯑vour to give it the firſt Recommendation.
The Ʋſefulneſs of the Subject, and the Honesty of the Deſign, has prevailed to give it a good Re⯑ception in the World: And notwithſtanding the Caſual Imperfections of the Firſt Part, ſome good Men have been pleaſed to accept the Performance, to uſher it into the World much to its Advantage, and to recommend it as well from the Pulpit as from the Preſs.
[] The Ʋnworthy Author earneſtly deſir'd, and to his utmoſt endeavour'd to be for ever conceal'd; not that he was aſham'd of the Work, or ſees any Reaſon yet to be ſo; profeſſing to have a firm Belief, that he was not without a more than or⯑dinary Preſence and Aſſiſtance of the Divine Spirit in the Performance. But being fully ſatis⯑fied with the Proſpect of doing Good by it: He deſir'd his Praiſe might not be of Men, but of God.
To this End he took ſuch Meaſures at firſt for effectually preſerving the Secret, and for his entire remaining in the Obſcurity he deſir'd, that for ſome time after the Publication he continued ungueſs'd at, and he flatter'd himſelf for a while, that the Author would be no farther enquired into: But Satan hindred.
The Succeſs of the Work, and the many Teſti⯑monies given to the good Effect it has had in Families, notwithſtanding their Knowledge of the Author, has fully deliver'd him from the Diſ⯑couragement he was under on that Occaſion; and this alone has prevail'd with him for a Second Edition, which he had for ſometime reſolv'd againſt; it was not without Reaſon that he had great Appre⯑henſions, leaſt ſome Men ſuffering their Prejudices to prevail even over their Zeal for publick Good, might be tempted to lay the Imperfections of the Author of this Book, as a ſtumbling Block in the way of thoſe who might otherwiſe receive Benefit by it, and ſo the good Effect of his Labour might be in Part obſtructed.
[] But God, who as before, he firmly believes di⯑rected his Hand in the Work, has given his vi⯑ſible Bleſſing to it; and has thereby from Hea⯑ven own'd the Author to his inexpreſſible Satis⯑faction and Joy. To his Name be all the Praiſe!
AFTER THIS, Let who will reject him or his Book, it is not poſſible to give him the leaſt Diſturbance.
AFTER THIS, if any Man will rob him⯑ſelf, or any one elſe, of the Good this Work might otherwiſe do, at his Door be the Sin.
The Preſent Edition is more carefully corrected, and the Errors of the Preſs are ſo few, and of ſo ſmall Conſequence, that an ordinary Judgment will correct them in the reading.
The Author in reviſing it has made no Ad⯑ditions, thinking his firſt Deſign fully exhauſted, and alſo eſteeming it injurious to thoſe, who have bought the firſt, to make a Second Edition vary ſo much from it, as to make them think their Money loſt, and to oblige them to buy it over again.
Some few Things are omitted indeed, but not conſiderable, and thoſe principally in the Notes; from the meer Senſe the Author had of the Com⯑ment's being leſs beautiful than the Text; and that others are able to make better Annotations than himſelf.
The whole Work being deſign'd both to divert and inſtruct, the Author has endeavoured to adapt it as much as poſſible to both thoſe Ʋſes, from whence ſome have call'd it a Religious Play.
[] It would more have anſwer'd that Title, had the Author's firſt Deſign been purſued, which was to have made it a Drammatick Poem: But the Subject was too ſolemn, and the Text too copious, to ſuffer the Reſtraint on one Hand, or the Excurſions on the other, which the Decora⯑tion of a Poem would have made neceſſary.
As to its being called a Play, be it called ſo if they pleaſe; it muſt be confeſt, ſome Parts of it are too much acted in many Families a⯑mong us: The Author wiſhes that either all our Plays were as uſeful for the Improvement and Entertainment of the World, or that they were leſs encouraged.
The ſame Reaſons which obliged the Author to conceal his Name at the firſt Publication, prevails with him to forbear it now; ſo that tho' he neither declines owning the Work, or being known by his Name, yet referring it to Provi⯑dence, he leaves the Diſcovery to go no farther than others think fit to carry it.
CAtechiſing of Children, and inſtruct⯑ing them in the Principles of the Chriſtian Religion, has been a Pra⯑ctice in the Church as Ancient as Religion it ſelf; and beſides the Nature of the Thing which re⯑quires it, was deduc'd from that ſtrict Injunction laid upon the Children of Iſrael, Deut. 6. 7. And thou ſhalt teach them diligently unto thy Children, ſpeaking of the Laws and Statutes which God then commanded Moſes. And again, Deut. 4. 9. But teach them to thy Sons, and thy Sons Sons.
[2] It is not the Deſign of this Undertaking to give a Liſt of Authorities in Scripture for Catechiſing and Inſtructing of Children, or the Commendations and Teſtimonies given there to thoſe that did in⯑ſtruct their Children in the Knowledge and Practice of Religion: That eminent Text is ſufficient to this, being the bleſſed Character given to Abraham from God himſelf, I know Abraham, ſays the Lord, Gen. 18 19. that he will Command his Children and his Houſhold after him, &c.
But we live in an Age that does not want ſo much to know their Duty as to practiſe it; not ſo much to be taught, as to be made obedient to what they have already learnt; and therefore I ſhall take up no Time in proving this Matter to be a Duty, there's hardly a Wretch ſo hardned but will readily ac⯑knowledge it.
But we are, I ſay, arrived at a Time in which Men will frankly own a thing to be their Duty which at the ſame time they dare omit the Practice of; and innumerable Arts, Shifts and Turns they find out to make that omiſſion eaſie to themſelves, and excuſable to others.
One Part of this Work is pointed at ſuch; if poſſible, to make them bluſh at their unacountable Raſhneſs, and to ſhame them out of ſuch a fordid inconſiſtent Courſe as that of living in the allow'd Omiſſion of what they acknowledge to be their Duty.
The way I have taken for this, is entirely New, and at firſt perhaps it may appear ſomething Odd, and the Method may be contemned; But let ſuch blame their own more irregular Tempers, that muſt have every thing turned into new Models; muſt be touch'd with Novelty, and have their Fancies humour'd with the Dreſs of a thing; ſo that if it be what has been ſaid over and over a thouſand [3] times, yet if it has but a different colour'd Coat, or a new Feather in its Cap, it pleaſes and wins upon them, whereas the ſame Truths written in the divineſt Stile in the World, would be flat, ſtale and unpleaſant without it.
If then, after all the pains which have been taken by miniſterial Labour and Inſtruction, and by the preſſing Exhortations and moving Arguments of eminent Divines, even of all Opinions, in their Wri⯑tings on this Subject, this mean and familiar Me⯑thod ſhould by its Novelty prevail, this will be a happy Undertaking, but no Reproach at all to the Labours of others.
In the purſuit of this Book care is taken to a⯑void Diſtinctions of Opinion, as to Church of Eng⯑land or Diſſenter, and no Offence can be taken here either on the one Side or the other; as I hope both are Chriſtians, ſo both are treated here as ſuch, and the Advice is impartially directed to both with⯑out the leaſt Diſtinction.
If thoſe who call themſelves Chriſtians and Pro⯑teſtants, will not inſtruct their Children and Ser⯑vants, here they will find their Children and Ser⯑vants inſtructing them; and reproving them too; and both they and their Children may here meet with Inſtructions together.
The Father repreſented here, appears knowing enough, but ſeems to be one of thoſe profeſſing Chri⯑ſtians who acknowledging God in their Mouths, yet take no effectual Care to honour him with their Practice; that live in a Round of Religion, as a thing of courſe; have not the Power of Godlineſs, nor much of the Form; a kind of a Negative Chri⯑ſtian, a God-I-thank thee Phariſee, found in know⯑ledge, but negligent in Converſation; Orthodox in Opinion, but Hetrodox in Practice; and that I have found out ſuch a Perſon, is to ſignify, that let [4] him be where he will, and who he will, this Work is calculated to reprove and admoniſh him.
The Mother here repreſented, is likewiſe a for⯑mal looſe-living Chriſtian, a Proteſtant Profeſſor of Religion without the Practice of it; but yet ſhe is a Profeſſor, one that knows how to talk of Religion, and makes a ſhow to belong to it, but—alas for the reſt! the Conſequence will appear in the Book; in which I doubt a great many may ſee their own Pi⯑cture drawn: May the Sight of it have the ſame healing, convincing Efficacy, as appears upon the Perſons here, whoſe Story is therefore brought for an Example to them.
May they ſee it and bluſh; like the Father here mention'd: Like him may they be aſham'd of their Likeneſs: May they ſee it, and like him effectually reform the dreadful Practiſe: This would com⯑pleatly anſwer the End and Deſign of the Author of this Book, and rejoice the Hearts of all ſerious Chriſtians in the Nation.
The Child who is here made the Inquirer. has no Queſtions put into its Mouth but what are Natu⯑ral, and Rational; conſiſtent with Principle, and as near as could be are ſuch as are proper even to a Child; none but what the Author wiſhes every body would put ſeriouſly to themſelves as often as they look about them in the World, and none but what even a Child is capable to enquire into. The Author has endeavour'd to produce the Queſtions with an Air of meer Nature, Innocence and Child⯑hood; yet ſuch as being naturally adapted to the general State of things may be appoſit and direct: Such as being the meer product of the moſt common Reaſonings, and even of the Underſtanding of Chil⯑dren, a Child's Underſtanding may juſtly be ſup⯑poſed to have propoſed them.
[5] Tho' much of the Story is Hiſtorical, and might be made appear to be true in Fact, yet the Author reſolving not to give the leaſt hint that ſhould lead to Perſons, has been obliged to leave it Uncertain to the Reader, whether it be a Hiſtory or a Para⯑ble; believing it may be either way adapted to the ſincere Deſign: Which is (1.) to reprove thoſe Parents who neglect the Inſtruction of their Chil⯑dren; And (2.) to direct young Perſons in their firſt Reflections, guiding them to enquire about themſelves, their Original, their State, their Pro⯑greſs in this World, the reaſon of their being born into it, their paſſing out of it, and which is the main Cogitation, their Condition beyond it.
The Method is New, as is ſaid above, but per⯑haps may be more pleaſing: Any Thing, or any Method, if we may but bring the main End to paſ, (viz.) to bring Young and Old to ſet earneſtly and heartily about the great Work of ſerving, glorify⯑ing, and obeying the God that made them.
The Child is ſuppoſed to be come up to ſuch Years as to be thinking and inquiring, ſuppoſe about five or ſix Years old; and as Nature is always prompting the Soul to be ſearching after ſomething, which it did not know before, ſo that Inquiſitive Temper is in ſome ſedater than in others; however, our little Child asks but very little of his Father, but what a Child at that Age may be very capable of asking.
The Scene of this little Action is not laid very remote, or the Circumſtance obſcure; the Father walking in a Field behind his Garden, finds one of his Children wandred out, all alone, under a Row or Walk of Trees, ſitting upon a little riſing Ground, by it ſelf, looking about, and mighty bu⯑ſie, pointing this way, and that way; ſometimes up, and ſometimes down, and ſometimes to its ſelf; ſo that the Father coming unperceived pretty near, [6] found the little Creature very buſie about ſomething he could not tell what; when the Father, after much Obſervation, and ſome Surpriſe, diſcover⯑ing himſelf, asks the Child What he was doing, and ſo ſits down by him, which Queſtion begins the FIRST DIALOGUE.
I Was looking up there, ſays the Child, pointing up in the Air.
Well, and what did you point thither for, and then point to the Ground, and then to your ſelf afterwards, what was that about?
I was a wondring, Father.
At what, my Dear?
I was wondring what Place that is.
That is the Air, the Sky.
And what is beyond that, Father?
Beyond! my Dear; why above it all there is Heaven.
Who lives there, Father? My Nurſe talks of Heaven ſometimes, and ſays GOD is in Heaven; Is that the Place up there?
Yes, my Dear.
Why Father, does God dwell there? Sure it is a fine Place; how do we know that he dwells there? Have you been there Eather?
No, my dear, but we know it two ways, (1.) The Scripture tells us Heaven is his Throne, that he has ſpoken from Heaven, and has been ſeen come down from Heaven, and the Son of God was ſeen to aſcend into Heaven: Beſides, (2.) Child, he made Heaven for his Eternal Habitation, and the making of, and preſerving all things, is a To⯑ken of his Being, and of his being GOD.
But, dear Father, my Nurſe tells me that God made me too, and that was it I was pointing to my ſelf about; if God made me, how [7] did I come from thence hither Father? I was a wondring, for 'tis a huge Way.
Child, GOD made you by the Courſe of Nature; having made the whole World at firſt, and all the things therein, he gave a Command, and with that Command, gave a Power to Nature to grow and increaſe; by Vertue of that Com⯑mand every thing increaſes, and every Creature is produced by its own kind; but at firſt all was made by his infinite Power who made the whole World.
Why, Father; did God make all thoſe Creatures we ſee about us, this Graſs, and the Trees, and theſe Cows and Horſes, and the Dogs and Cats, and every thing?
Yes, my dear; He made Heaven and Earth and the Sea, and all that in them is, as you read in your Commandments, Child.
And what a Creature am I Father? I an't like them; I can ſpeak; they can't ſpeak Father.
No, Child, You are not like them; GOD has made you a rational Creature, and given you a SOUL.
A Soul Father, WHAT IS THAT?
It is a Part of his own Image ſtampt upon you, and the Breath of an Inviſible Power, by which you can think of things to come, and re⯑member things paſt; reflect, argue, and know both your ſelf, and Him that made you.
Why, dear Father! cannot the Horſes and Cows do ſo too?
No, Child, not at all.
Why, has he made me a better Creature than they?
Yes he has, and has given them to you for Food and Service; don't you ſee that we eat them, and ride upon them, and the like.
I am glad I am made a better Creature than they, I'd thank him for it if I knew how; ſhould I not do ſo Father?
Indeed you ſhould, Child.
But you never told me ſo before, Father, as I remember.
Not ſo often as I ſhould have done, my Child, but remember it now my Dear.
So I will. . . . . But how muſt I thank him for it Father?
You muſt pray to him to bleſs you Child, and then give Thanks to him for your Creation and Preſervation.
Do you do ſo Father?
Yes Child.
O, ho; becauſe I never heard you do ſo Father.
Well, but you have been taught.
Yes, my Mother and my Nurſe taught me to ſay my Prayers, but I don't ſee a Word there that thanks God for making me a Boy, and not a Horſe or a Cow, or giving me a Soul, Father.
But it is included, Child, when in the be⯑ginning of your Prayers you ſay, Our Father. . . . . for God is a Father in giving you a Soul, as well as a Creator in making your Body.
But may I not ſay ſo in my Prayers then.
Yes Child, if you were taught.
Indeed I can ſay that without teaching; ſure I can thank God for giving me a Soul, and making me better than the Horſes and the Cows, without my Nurſe, I wiſh I had known it ſooner Father; won't God be angry that I never thank'd him for it yet?
I hope not Child, ſince you did not know it.
Dear Father, won't God be angry with you that you never told me before?
Indeed he has reaſon.
Dear Father, why did you not tell me?
Well Child, do not cry, come take care you thank God for it, now you do know it.
Indeed I'll thank him for it, for my Heart jumps within me, to think he has made me better than other Creatures.
My dear Child!
But, dear Father; if God ſhould be angry with me for not thanking him, will he not take this Soul away again, and turn me into a Horſe, or a Cow?
No Child; God does not puniſh that way, it is true, GOD may take away the uſe of it, take away the Reaſon, or the Speech, or the Senſes, and leave you in ſome kind worſe, than if you had no Soul at all; he may do all theſe things, and more.
Then ſhould not I, when I ſay my Prayers, remember to pray that God would not be angry that I never thank'd him for it before?
Your Nurſe will teach you to do ſo.
Indeed Father I'll do that, whether my Nurſe teaches me or no; ſure if God made me, I may pray to him not to be angry with me: If you was angry with me, Father, I don't want my Nurſe to teach me to come and ſay, My dear Father do not be angry. . . . Beſides, if God has made me ſo much better than other things, won't he teach me to thank him for it?
I hope he will Child.
But, dear Father, wherefore has God made me better than other Creatures; had he not ſome reaſon for doing ſo?
No reaſon Child on thy ſide.
But does not God expect then that I ſhould do ſomething that the Cows and Horſes cannot do; is there not ſomething for me to do for it?
Yes indeed there is Child.
What is that Father? For I have been won⯑dring what my Buſineſs is in this World, as well as how I came hither; what am I to do here?
You are to live here to the Glory of him that made you.
How's that, Father?
You muſt fear God, and keep his Com⯑mandments.
What the Ten Commandments, Father?
Yes, my Dear.
Truly if God has made me, and made me better than the reſt of his Creatures, and can take away from me, as you ſaid, Father, all that he has given me, and make me worſe than the Cows and the Horſes, ſure I ſhould do what he commands me.
That's true Child.
But mayn't I do more than that, may'nt I love him too, Father; for ſure he loves me, or elſe he would not have made me ſo and given me all this?
Yes Child, you muſt love him too.
But Father, that is not in my Command⯑ments; won't God be angry with me if I ſhould love him?
No, Child, to obey God, and to fear God, is to love God; for to fear him as your Father, and to ſerve him as your Father, is to fear and ſerve him as a Child, and that is to love him.... Don't you love me my dear?
Yes, dear Father.
Why do you do what I bid you; and why do you cry when I am angry with you?
Becauſe I love you, dear Father.
So if you fear God, and ſerve God, as your Father, and as his Child, that is loving him; for they that love him keep his Commandments.
Indeed I think it need not be put into my Commandments; for ſure when we know what he has done for us, to make us Souls, and not make us like the Horſes and Cows, we muſt needs love him.... Don't you love him, Father?
Yes, my Dear.
And do not every body elſe love him Fa⯑ther?
No Child, a great many wicked Children, and wicked People don't love him.
And has he given them Souls too, Father, and made them better than the Beaſts, as he has done for me.
Yes Child.
But ſure they do not know it then!
They do not think of it, as thou doſt, my Dear.
'T may be their Fathers and Mothers never told them of it Father, as you do me now.
They don't ſo much as they ſhould, nor ſo ſoon as they ſhould.
I wiſh you had told me of it ſooner Father.
I hope 'tis not too late now Child.
But, Father, if thoſe wicked Children do not love God, nor thank God, for giving them Souls, and making them better Creatures than the Horſes and Cows, is not God angry with them for it?
Yes, my dear Child, God is very angry with them.
But why does he not take away their Souls again, and turn them into Horſes and Cows, or take away the uſe of their Reaſon, and leave them worſe than the Beaſts, as you ſaid he could do, Father? Sure God is not angry with them at all.
Yes, my Dear, God is angry with them for all that, but he lets them go on; ſometimes till they amend and repent, and turn to God again, and then he forgives them; other times he lets them run on, and grow worſe, and puniſhes them for all together at laſt.
That's a ſad thing Father; ſure God is very angry when he lets them go on, and takes no Care of them, Father, is n't he?
Yes indeed, it is a ſign of his ſevereſt Anger, when he lets them go on and does not puniſh them till laſt, for 'tis a Signal that he has no Thought of Mercy in Store for them.
And when God leaves them ſo, are they not ſorry for it, Father?
No, no, they always grow worſe and worſe; till they grow meer Reprobates, and hard⯑ned againſt him that made them.
They are ſad Folks indeed; but Father, does not God deſtroy them at laſt?
He does worſe, Child; he puniſhes them. Everlaſtingly in Hell.
Dear Father, don't let me make God an⯑gry with me, as they do; won't you tell me what I muſt do to ſave me from God's being angry?
Yes I will Child.
But you never did yet Father, I am afraid he is angry with me already; for I am almoſt ſix Years old, and never thank'd him, nor lov'd him, nor fear'd him, nor nothing Father; he has let me alone, and let me go on, juſt as you ſay he does the wicked Folks, I am ſure he muſt be angry [13] with me, and he will puniſh me Everlaſtingly, in Hell, as you ſaid Father. O what muſt I do!
Why Child did you not do all this?
Dear Father, I never knew what God was, or what he had done for me; you never told me a Word of him in all my Life till now! I never heard you pray to him in all my Life! I know no⯑thing of him; how ſhould I, Father!
But Child, your Nurſe, and your Mother taught you, that God made you.
Yes, but they never told me what God was, and what he had done for me, and what I was to do again. . . . I thought nothing not I, Father; I liv'd juſt as I ſaw you live Father! I never pray'd to God in all my Life Father.
Why Child, did not your Mother teach you to ſay your Prayers every Night and Morn⯑ing?
Yes, Father, I ſaid the Prayers over, but I never thought a word what they meant; I only ſaid them by rote, ſure God does not take no⯑tice of that, does he, Father! If he does, our Parrot can pray as well as I.
True, Child; God requires the Heart, and regards no Prayers but what the Heart joins in.
You ſay, I may pray to God for what I want, and I may thank him for making me, and for making me better than the Horſes and Cows.
Yes, I do ſay ſo.
But Father, am I to do nothing elſe? Did God make me for nothing? Have I no other Buſi⯑neſs now I am made? What do other Folks do that are made as I am?
Yes Child, you were made to ſerve him—You know your Catechiſe.
What's that, the Queſtions and Anſwers my Nurſe taught me?
Yes, the Queſtions and Anſwers: There you are told, your Buſineſs here is to ſerve God.
Dear Father, did God make me to ſerve him?
Yes Child, he made you to ſerve him.
And do you ſerve him Father?—What is it to ſerve him? How muſt I do it? I would fain ſerve him; becauſe he has made me, and made me better than the Horſes and Cows.
The Father was ſo ſtruck with the Child's Que⯑ſtion, viz. [Do you ſerve him Father? that he gives no preſent Anſwer, and the little inqui⯑ſitive Creature goes on again.
Dear Father, may not I be taught how to ſerve God?
Yes, my Dear, ſays the Father.
Will you teach me, Father?
Yes Child.
Why, you never did yet, Father; may be I ben't big enough yet; when ſhall I be big enough Father, when I am a Man?
You may learn to ſerve God tho' you are a Child.
Does my Brother know how to ſerve God, Father, he is a great Boy, and I never ſaw you teach him.—Can you teach me Father?
God will teach you himſelf, Child.
God teach me himſelf! How can that be?
He has many was of teaching Child, viz. by his Word, his Miniſters, and his Spirit.
What are they, Father; you ſaid juſt now you would teach me?
I may teach you too, Child; but the Word of God is given to teach you; Miniſters are ſent to inſtruct by that Word, and Parents are Mini⯑ſters of God to inſtruct their Families and Chil⯑dren; and the Spirit of God is given to ſeal the Inſtruction, and make it effectual.
Do the Fathers teach their Children?
Yes, 'tis their Duty to do ſo.
And be they Miniſters to their Families?
So far as to inſtruct and teach their Chil⯑dren they are, my Dear.
And when will you be a Miniſter, Father, that I may be inſtructed how to ſerve God?
My Dear, I am ſo much a Miniſter at any time.
I wonder!
What do you wonder at, my Dear?
Dear Father, you ſay the Fathers are to teach their Children, and are Miniſters to their Families, and you are a Miniſter, and yet I was never taught; I wonder what all this is, for I have never been taught any thing but to play, and ſing the Song my Nurſe teaches me, and read in my Siſter's Song-Book.
Well, my Dear, you ſhall not want teach⯑ing.
Will you teach me to ſerve God, Father?
Yes, My dear.
I am glad of it, I would fain ſerve God, Father, for I Conviction of Sin thus working up to a love to God, a fear of God, and a deſire of ſerving God, which is Holineſs; may be very well allowed here to be an Appearance of converting Grace in the Heart of a little One. The Father takes notice of it as ſuch. love him already dearly.
That is a true Principle to begin to ſerve God from, my dear, for God accepts no Fear but what is founded in our Love to him; pray then, my dear, that he will increaſe your Love to him, that you may ſerve him acceptably.
But, dear Father, you ſay God dwells up there in Heaven, how can he hear what I ſay? I can't ſpeak loud enough to be heard ſo far; and then, tho' God could hear me, how does he know when I ſpeak as my Heart means?
Yes Child, God can hear and know, for he is infinite.
What's that Father?
Why, Child, it takes in all the Attributes of God.
I don't know them hard Words, Father; pray who is God, and what is he? can't you tell me Father, ſo as I may underſtand it?
It is very hard to give a Deſcription of God to thy Underſtanding, my Dear.
And that is the reaſon you never ſaid any thing of him to me, Father, is it not? Muſt not I know who God is till I am a Man, Father?
Yes Child, the Scripture ſays, Remember thy Greator in the Days if thy Youth.
But dear Father; how ſhall I remember him? I never heard any thing of him, you never told me a Word of him yet, may be I an't a Youth yet; I long to be a Youth Father, then you'll tell me who God is, that I may remember him Father, won't you?
Dear Child! You ought to have been told who God is before now; indeed I have neg⯑lected to inſtruct thee as I ought to have done, but I'll tell thee now my Dear.
I'n't it too late Father? O why would you neglect it Father! Was you angry with me, and would not Inſtruct me Father? What if God ſhould let me go on now, and puniſh me Ever laſt⯑ingly, as you ſaid? I wiſh you had not neglected it Father.
No Child it is not too late, as you ſhall know by and by.
Tell me then Father what is God; I would fain know God; can't I ſee him? to be ſure I ſhould know him if I could ſee him.
No Child, you cannot ſee him, no mortal Eye hath ſeen God at any time.
How ſhall I know then what he is?
You muſt know God by the Scripture, by reading, and by meditating on the Revelation he has given of Himſelf there; you muſt read of him in your Bible.
But Father, I can't know him by reading my Book; I have read my Book often, but I know nothing about God; can't you tell me what God is Father?
No Words can expreſs his Being, or de⯑ſcribe him.
How ſhall I know then by reading Father?
I mean Child, no Words can expreſs it fully; but the Spirit of God expounds the Word of God to us, and by that Spirit he teaches us the Knowledge of Himſelf.
But you can tell me ſomething of him Father, you ſay he dwells up there; what is he like Father?
God is ONE, infinite, eternal, incompre⯑henſible, inviſible BEING, the firſt Cauſe of all things; the Giver of Life and Being to all things; exiſting prior, and therefore ſuperior to all things, infinitely perfect, great, holy, juſt, wiſe, and good.
Theſe are all hard Words, Father, how ſhall I underſtand them; what do you mean by that word INFINITE, for I ſee you put that in among the reſt over and over?
Why Child, INFINITE is a Word to ſignifie ſomething beyond all that is known, and can only be deſcribed in Thought; and thoſe Thoughts only deſcribe it by acknowledging that they cannot deſcribe it; but thus much you may underſtand by it:
That God was before all things, and ſhall con⯑tinue after them; that he had Power to make all things, and by the ſame Power preſerves and main⯑tains all things, and at laſt will put all things to an End: Of the Particulars you may under⯑ſtand thus; That he is infinitely Great, ſignifies, that he has made thee, my Dear, and all the Peo⯑ple in the World; that he is infinitely Wiſe, ſig⯑nifies that he knows every Thought in the Heart, and that implies, that he hears every Word that is ſpoken, and ſees every Action that is done, tho' never ſo ſecret; that he is infinitely Holy and Juſt, ſignifies that he hates all that is Evil, and will pu⯑niſh it; that he is infinitely Good, ſignifies that he loves every good Action, and will reward it: That he is infinitely Powerful, ſignifies that all other Powers move and act by him; for by him we live, and mo [...]e, and have our Being. Doſt thou know him Child by this Deſcription?
I am wondring! Father, I don't ſay I know, but I wonder! I am afraid, I tremble! Fa⯑ther, ſure God is very Dreadful!
He is ſo, Child.
Does he never ſpeak, Father, can't I hear him ſpeak?
His Voice is terrible, and he is a conſuming Fire; thou can'ſt not hear him ſpeak, my Dear.
My Nurſe ſaid, Father, that when it thun⯑der'd, it was God ſpoke; what is the Thunder and Lightning, Father, is that God?
No, my Dear, it is the Work of God, as all the reſt of the Creation is his Work, but no o⯑therwiſe; the Voice of God is compared to Thun⯑der indeed, but God ſpeaks to us in another kind of Voice than that.
What Voice is that, Father?
The Voice of the Goſpel, and the Voice of his Creatures.
What is that Father? I never heard it; may I hear that Voice? I would fain hear God. ſpeak Father, for I would do what he bids me, and never make him angry.
The Goſpel is the Word of God, the Meſſage of Life ſent from Heaven, revealed in the Scriptures, and preached by his Servants the Miniſters, this is the Voice I mean Child.
I don't underſtand it Father.
Why, the Bible is the Word of God, it was dictated by the Inſpiration of the Spirit of God; when you read the Bible, you are to believe that God ſpeaks to you in the Words you read; this is his Voice.
Why, does God ſpeak to me when I read my Book, Father?
Yes, my Dear.
But then, what if I do not underſtand it, then it is nothing to me; how ſhall I do to know what I read?
You ſhould be taught, my Dear.
Who ſhould teach me; won't God make me underſtand what he ſays when I read my Book?
Indeed I ſhould have taught thee, my Dear, that is true.
Dear Father tell me, what does my Book ſay? What ſhall I learn there of God?
You will learn that God is from the Be⯑ginning, and to the End; from Everlaſting to Ever⯑laſting; has created all things, and knows all things.
Knows all things! that's ſtrange, Father, does God know all things?
Yes, my Dear.
If God knows all things he knows how old I am, and that all this while I never thought of him, nor ſerved him, and never knew any thing of him till now; and he knows, Father, you never told me any thing of him before now; ſure he is very angry, and will puniſh me, what muſt I do?
But God is Merciful too Child.
What is that Father?
Why, to thoſe that repent of their Sins paſt, and reform their Lives, he is Merciful; that is, upon their Repentance he forgives them, for the ſake of Jeſus Chriſt, and is reconcil'd to them as though they had not ſinned againſt him.
Jeſus Chriſt! Father, who is that?
He is God.
Why Father, you ſaid God was one firſt Being; is there more Gods than one, is there two [21] Firſts? My Commandments ſay there is but one God.
No Child, there is but one God; yet Jeſus Chriſt is eſſentially God, tho' in a ſecond Perſon; he is God co equal, co-eternal, that is, the ſame in Being, Nature, and Attributes, God manifeſted in the fleſh, ſent from Heaven to redeem a loſt World.
I don't underſtand a Word of all that, Father? what does it mean?
Why Child, you are to underſtand, that when the firſt Man and Woman in the World was created, God having made a Covenant or Agree⯑ment of Holineſs and Life with them, and in them with all that ſhould be born of them, they broke that Covenant, and ſo involved all their Poſterity in their Guilt, the Puniſhment of which was Eter⯑nal Death: But God, who, as I told you child, was Infinitely Good, tho' provok'd utterly to de⯑ſtroy the whole Race for that Sin, and being under the Engagement of that Covenant to do it, yet in the meer Operation of his own Goodneſs, deter⯑min'd to recover ſinful Men from the Gulph of Death: To make this adequate or ſuitable to his own infinite Juſtice and Holineſs, he incarnated by a Miraculous Birth, the Divine Nature into the Humane; and cauſed this Bleſſed Conjunction to appear in the World in the likeneſs of Sinful Fleſh; ſo being infinite, God on the one hand, and Man on the other, he became capable of be⯑ing a compleat Sacrifice for Satisfaction of God's Juſtice; and afterwards ſuffering the Divine Wrath, made Peace for us by the Blood of his Croſs; was Cru⯑cified, Dead and Buried, as you ſay in your Creed, roſe again, is aſcended into Heaven, ſits at the Right Hand of Power, and ſhall come again to Judge us all: And this, Child, is call'd our Savi⯑our, [22] the Son of God, and is indeed God him⯑ſelf.
I don't know how to underſtand all this Father!
You muſt underſtand it gradually, my Dear, a little at a time; you can underſtand this, That we are all under a Sentence of Death for the Firſt Man's Sin: By one Man Sin entred into the World, and Death by Sin, Rom. 5. 12.
That is a ſtrange thing Father: What are we all condemn'd to ſuffer for that Man's Tranſ⯑greſſion?
The Scripture is plain in it, by the Offence of One, Judgment came upon all Men to Condemna⯑tion, Rom. 5. 18.
But Father, you ſaid juſt now, God would be reconcil'd to me if I repented, and was ſorry for my Sins.
Yes Child, I did ſo.
But how can that be, when you ſay I ſhall be Condem'd for another Man's Tranſgreſ⯑ſion?
It is very plain, that the Effect of that firſt Man's Sin is a corrupt Taint which we all bring into the World with us, and which we find upon our Nature, by which we find a Natural Pro⯑penſity in us to do Evil, and no Natural Inclination to do Good; and this we are to mourn over, and lament, as the Fountain of Sin, from whence all our wicked Actions do proceed; and this is call'd Indwelling Sin.
Have I this in me, Father?
Yes Child: Did you not ſay, How ſhould you do this or that, for you were not taught? You can be a naughty Boy without teaching, to Sin is natural! but you muſt be inſtructed and la⯑bour'd with to be a good Child. To Will is preſent [23] with me, but how to Perform that which is Good I know not: In me, that is, in my fleſh dwelleth no good thing, Rom. 7. 18.
What will become of me then Father, if I was Wicked when I was born?
This, my Dear, is that which I nam'd Jeſus Chriſt for.
Why, what will he do for me?
He will deliver thee from this Body of Death. Who ſhall deliver me from the Body of this Death? I thank God, through, (OR FOR) Jeſus Chriſt our Lord, Rom. 7. 24, 25.
How can he do this?
He has deliver'd us from the Curſe of the Law by being made a Curſe for us, and whereas we are not able to perform any thing, he hath fulfilled all Righteouſneſs for us, if we believe in him, for being juſtified by Faith we have Peace with God; and ſo, as by the Diſobedience of one Man many were made Sinners, ſo by the Obedience of one Chriſt ſhall many be made Righteous, Rom. 5. 19.
But Father, will Jeſus Chriſt anſwer for me for that firſt Tranſgreſſion, and take away the Sentence you ſay I was under? For if he does not, I am undone; to be ſure I can't do it my ſelf.
Yes, my Dear, the Blood of Chriſt cleanſeth from all Sin, as well of Nature as of Life; and there is now no Condemnation to them which are in Chriſt Jeſus, Rom. 8. 1.
And now we are all ſav'd again by this New Saviour's Satisfaction, a'n't we Father?
No Child, not all! we cannot ſay all are Saved, but all thoſe who are Saved, are ſo Saved (viz.) by the Satisfaction of the Bleſſed Redeemer, being choſen from Eternity by the meer Grace and [24] Good-will of God, to whom, after they come in⯑to the World, God of the ſame Grace gives Re⯑pentance and Faith, ſanctifies and juſtifies them, and then accepts them for the ſake of the Saviour of the World.
So there is none Saved but ſuch as God has choſen again out of the reſt?
We have no Warrant to ſay any other are Saved; and yet we dare not ſay who ſhall not be Saved.
But who are they then that are choſen Father, don't you know their Names?
No Child, God has left that uncertain to us.
But, dear Father, I would fain know if my Name be among them; for what will become of me if I ſhould not be one of them!
I hope thou art, Child; God has not let us know who are ſhut out, but by their ſhutting out themſelves.
But is there no way to know, Father?
Why Child, it may be preſumptively known by this, That ſince to all that God has thus choſen, he by his Spirit gives Faith and Re⯑pentance, Sanctification in Heart, and Juſtification of Perſon: Whoever the Spirit of God worketh this Faith and Repentance in, have a very good Aſſurance that they are in the Number, the Spirit witneſſing with their Spirit that they are the Sons of God, Rom. 8. 16.
But how ſhall I know if I have Faith and Repentance; what are they Father? I never heard of them in my Life; you never told me a word of them before.
REPENTANCE Child, is a ſence of, and ſincere ſorrow for Sin in all its Parts; as well Original as Actual; and this Sorrow muſt be always attended with a ſincere Deſire of [25] Pardon, and Sanctification, and earneſt Endea⯑vours after Reformation and Amendment. And FAITH, Child, is a fidutial, fillial Confidence in the Promiſes of God, and conſequently in God himſelf; thereby humbly realizing and appropri⯑ating to our ſelves the whole Purchaſe of the Death of Jeſus Chriſt, with a relying upon his Merits, reſting on him, and adhering to him for Life and Salvation.
I ſhall never remember all this Father, how did you come to remember it? Did your Fa⯑ther only tell it you as you do me, are there no Books that teach it me? If not, won't you write it down for me Father? You know I can read.
It is all written down already Child, and you have it every Word in your Bible.
I do remember ſomething Father of Adam and Eve there; Were they the Folks that ſinned firſt Father?
Yes Child, and ha'n't you read of Jeſus Chriſt?
Yes Father, but I do not underſtand a Word of him, no body ever taught me; beſides I have heard my Brother cry, O Jeſus! and O Chriſt! at his Play, and Nurſe chid him for it, and ſaid it was a naughty Word.
Your Brother is a naughty Boy, and ſhould be whipt when he uſes thoſe Words.
Who ſhould whip him Father? You don't.
But I ſhall if I hear him ſay ſo again.
But why Father; if Jeſus Chriſt be God, how is it a naughty Word?
It is a naughty prophane thing to name his Name on ſlight Occaſions; that Name ſhould only be named with Fear and Reverence, and on a ſerious Occaſion, as we uſe it now, my Dear; your Commandments ſay, you muſt not take the [26] Lord's Name in vain, that is, upon common Oc⯑caſions, ſuch as Paſſion, Play, Imprecation, Pro⯑phane Curſing, Swearing, and the like.
But who is this Jeſus Chriſt, Father? I have never heard any thing of him before, but only his Name.
He is GOD manifeſted in the Fleſh, and the Son of God ſent down from Heaven to die for Sinners, and to ſave us from Eternal Death. Here the Child is ſilent, and Tears fall from its Eyes.
Don't cry, my Dear, why doſt cry?
I muſt cry, dear Father, there is ſome⯑thing bids me cry! I cannot tell what you ſay at all Father; but my Heart beats, I am frighted; die for Sinners! Jeſus Chriſt God! God, and yet die! and die for Sinners! what is all this! Am I a Sinner?
Yes, my Dear, all of us are Sinners.
What, and did GOD die for me! Jeſus Chriſt DIE for me!
Yes, my Dear; and will Save thee I hope, for he is thy Redeemer.
Then God is not angry with me for my Fault in not knowing him ſooner?
No, my Dear, he is reconcil'd by Jeſus Chriſt, who died to bring thee to God, to make Peace for thee by the Blood of his Croſs, and pro⯑cure Pardon for all thy Faults.
How does he do it?
He gives Repentance and Remiſſion! Have you not read in your Bible of Repentance, my Dear?
I don't know, I believe I have, but no body told me any thing what it is, and I do not remember
Is all that in my Book too?
Yes, my dear, I will ſhew it thee there, and explain it to thee, thou ſhalt not want teaching any longer, if thou wilt but learn.
Indeed I'll learn it Father with all my Heart: ſhall I know what God is, and what Jeſus Chriſt is, if I learn my Book, Father?
Yes Child, all that I have told thee, and a great deal more is there, my Dear, and you muſt read the Bible, and there you will learn it all.
Did you learn it all there Father?
Yes, my Dear.
But did your Father never ſhow you where to find it, and tell you what it meant? For I have read a deal in that Book, Father, but I never knew what it meant, and you never ſhew'd it me, Father! You know it was not my Fault, dear Fa⯑ther, was it? You know I am but a Child.
That's true Child, you will underſtand it better when you are a Man.
But Father! Could not I underſtand it now, if I were ſhew'd? I begin to underſtand a great deal of what you ſay, That I am born with a Wicked Heart, and that if I do not repent and believe in Chriſt, GOD, who is angry with all Sinners, will Judge me at laſt, and puniſh me E⯑verlaſtingly; and Father, I underſtand now by what you ſaid before, that God has been very good to me, and has made me a better Creature than the Horſes and the Cows, and given me a Soul Fa⯑ther, and all this makes me love him; and you ſay it is lawful for me to love him, and I am ſorry I have not loved him before, and afraid he ſhould be angry with me that I have not thanked him be⯑fore, for what he did for me, and would ask him Forgiveneſs, if I knew how: Now Father, you ſay this Faith and Repentance is to be learnt out of this Book, but ſhould I not have ſomebody to [28] teach me the Meaning of it? And may I not be taught the Meaning of it Father though I be not a Man? What if I ſhould die, and never be a Man? what will become of me then Father? Dear Fa⯑ther, won't you teach me the Meaning of this Book before I am a Man?
Yes Child, I will teach it thee now, as far as I can, but you muſt read your Bible too, my dear.
What is this Book Father, that I call my Bible? who made it?
It is the Word of God, written by himſelf.
What did God print it for us himſelf, Father?
No Child, God did not print it, or write it on the Paper, that is not the Caſe; it was firſt written by Holy Men of God, but it was dictated to them by the immediate Inſpiration of the Holy Ghoſt.
The Holy Ghoſt! Father, What is that?
Why that is God.
Dear Father, you ſaid firſt there was but one God, then you ſaid Jeſus Chriſt was GOD, now you ſay the Holy Ghoſt is God; are there three Gods? I remember my Commandment ſays, Thou ſhalt have none other Gods but me.
No Child, there are not three Gods, GOD is but one infinite and undivided Being; but the Godhead is received and underſtood by us in Three Perſons, the Father, the Son, and the Spirit, and theſe Three are one God, the Maker and Judge of all.
I wonder!
What do you wonder at Child?
When you, ſpeak of GOD, I can do no⯑thing but wonder! I cannot think of GOD! He is a great ſomething, from whom I am, and for whom I am, and to whom I am; but I can't tell what God is, I wonder!
He is incomprehenſible, Child, you cannot by ſearching find out God: But in this Book, the Bible, you may learn enough to ſave you, and bring you to him.
May I Father! Then I'll get it all with⯑out Book.
It is not ſo much the getting the Words by Heart, Child, as getting the Word of Life wrought in your Heart.
How is that Father?
Why, Child, to have the Spirit of God which wrote that Word, print it in your Mind, and give you Underſtanding both to read and obey it.
And will he do that for me, Father? then I ſhall not want you to teach me: But how if he won't teach me, Father?
You muſt pray to God to open your Under⯑ſtanding, and give you the teaching of his Spirit; for he has promis'd in his Word, that he will give his Spirit to thoſe that ask it.
Has he promis'd that! then I'll read the Bible every Day, ſhan't I Father?
Yes Child, by all means.
And every time I open the Book ſhould I not pray for the Teaching of his Spirit, to in⯑ſtruct me?
Yes Child, and to guide and keep you in his Way.
Why, can the Spirit do that too; Father?
Do that Child! the Spirit of God is GOD, and therefore can do all things; but it's the pecu⯑liar Work of the Spirit in this Caſe; the Spirit is your Sanctifier; it is the Light of your Paths; it works Faith, and gives Repentance; it puts every good thing into you, and works every good Work for you; it gives a ſaving Efficacy to every Ordi⯑nance; it brings you to Chriſt, to rely on him for [30] Salvation, and he brings you to God the Father, whoſe Acceptance in Chriſt, is your Life.
And will this Spirit be had by praying to God for it?
Yes, Child, for you cannot pray to God in Faith without the help of the Spirit; and when the Spirit works in you a Diſpoſition to pray, it cannot but anſwer its own Image, and the Breath⯑ings of the Soul, which its ſelf has created; for the longing Soul ſhall be ſatisfied.
But, Father, you ſay the Spirit of God has given the Word, which you ſay is the Bible, for my teaching, and yet you ſay the Spirit teaches; what, do they both teach the ſame thing?
Child, the Bible is your Rule of Life: Tho' the Spirit is the ſecret Inſtructor, the Scripture is the Key of Inſtruction; there you are to learn how God is to be worſhipped; how to order your Con⯑verſation aright; how to perform your Duty, and what it is the Lord thy God requires of thee: There you have an Hiſtorical Account of the whole World, of its Creation, the Fall, the firſt Con⯑demnation of it, to a general Deluge; typical of the great Deluge of God's Wrath, which ſhall drown all ungodly Men for ever: There you have the Hiſtory of God's Church from the Beginning to the Fullneſs of Time, and the fullfilling Old-Teſtament Types, and Old Teſtament Promiſes; there you have the Hiſtory of our Saviour, of his miraculous Conception and Birth, holy Life, won⯑drous Doctrine, ſtupendious Miracles, his Death, Paſſion, Reſurrection, and Glorious Aſcenſion: There you have an Account of the firſt Miſſion of the Holy Ghoſt, and at laſt the whole Doctrine of the Goſpel of Truth, founded upon the Redemp⯑tion purchaſed by Chriſt: There you have the whole Myſtery of Godlineſs unfolded; the great [31] Wonder of Wonders! the Immortal to die! and the Eternal to begin! the great Deſtruction of Sin, the Condemnation of the Devil, and the Salvation of the World.
All this is to be ſeen in the Bible; which being the Word of God, you are to read it with Reve⯑rence, regard it with Faith, as the Word of God, and obey it, as your Rule.
And to pray for the Spirit to help me to do ſo, muſt I not, Father? For you told me I could not believe or underſtand it without the Spirit to aſſiſt me.
That is true, Child.
But, Father, are you ſure that the Bible is the Word of God?
Yes, Child, very ſure of it.
And that the Spirit of God can only teach us to underſtand it?
Yes, Child.
Why, don't the Miniſter underſtand it, and teach Folks to underſtand it; what do they go to Church for?
The Miniſters are call'd Miniſters of the Word, that is, Expounders of the Scriptures; and the Preaching of the Goſpel is one of the ordinary Means, as the reading the Word is another, by which the Bleſſed Spirit of God inſtructs the Hearts of his People, and turns them to himſelf; reading the Word written, that is, the Bible, and hearing the Word preached, that is, the Sermons Preach⯑ed by God's Miniſters, are the common Methods appointed, by which the Knowledge of God is con⯑veyed to us.
Then I muſt go to Church and hear the Miniſter preach, as well as read the Bible?
Yes, Child.
Why, Father, my Mother has carried me to Church a great many times, but I thought I was carried there only to ſhow my new Coat, and my fine Hat, I don't know what the Man ſaid when I went.
But you were a naughty Boy then, you ſhould have minded what he ſaid, you were not carried there to ſhew your fine Cloaths.
Why Father, I thought ſo; for when it Rain'd, and I could not wear my beſt Cloaths, my Mother would not let me go out; or when the Wind blow'd the Powder out of my Hair, my Mo⯑ther would not let me go; and I heard you ſay, Father, laſt Sunday, that you could not go to Church, becauſe the Barber had not brought your new Perriwig home; and another Sunday, for want of a pair of Gloves you ſtaid at Home and play'd with me all Sunday long, or lay down on the Couch to ſleep: I thought, Father, I had gone thi⯑ther for nothing but to ſhew my fine Cloaths.
No Child, there is other Work to be done there.
What Father? to remember what fine Cloaths other Folks have on, is not that it? I know my Siſters go to Church, and they do nothing but look about them, to ſee how every body is dreſs'd, and when they come home, my Mother and they, you know Father, take up the whole Night in telling one another what every body had on, and they do it ſo well, I wondred Father; and I thought I'd try if I could do ſo too, but I could not remember half of it.
They might have been better employ'd, my Dear.
What my Mother! Indeed Father I thought it had been all they went for; and I could not think any thing elſe, you know, when my Mo⯑ther [33] did ſo too; I am ſure my Mother would not have done ſo, if it had not been good; for 'tis my dear Mother, and I love her dearly, and I am ſure ſhe would not do a naughty thing.
Well Child, thou wilt know better in time; the Buſineſs of going to Church is quite of another Nature, it is to hear the Word of God expounded and preach'd, and it is Hearing for thy Life! It is a Duty in the Miniſters to Preach, they were firſt ſent by our Saviour himſelf, who appointed Apo⯑ſtles and Prophets for the Work of the Miniſtry, and gave them their Errand in his Command, Ga⯑preach the Goſpel to every Creature; and it is a Duty in us to hear, and to hear diligently, and not to⯑forſake aſſembling our ſelves together.
Why, Father, you ſeldom go your ſelf, it is only for little Boys to learn then, is it?
No Child, it is every one's Duty to hear the Word preach'd, and to mix it with Faith in the hearing.
Then you will let me go to Church, won't you, Father? For ſometimes my Mother won't let me go to Church, if it be but a little ill Weather and if a little Wind does but blow, and if God re⯑quires me to go, and my Mother won't let me, what muſt I do? Won't God be angry with me for not going to hear his Word preach'd?
If your Mother won't let you go; then Child, it is none of your Fault.
But will not God be angry with my Mo⯑ther, dear Father, for not letting me go, that is all one?
Well Child, be not troubled at that, thou ſhalt go to Church every Day, and not be hinder'd.
[34] Come my dear, thou wilt catch cold to be ſo long out, let us go in to your Mother.
THE Father, as may be well imagined, warm'd with the various Thoughts that occurr'd to him upon this ſurprizing Diſcourſe, was willing to get the Child away, that he might give Vent to his own Mind; and bringing the Child in, walks out again, till he was gotten to a Retirement, and then breaks out in a moſt paſſionate manner upon himſelf, giving full Vent to his Convictions in ſuch a Manner as this:
"What an ungrateful Creature have I been to the Goodneſs and Bounty of God! That Good⯑neſs and Bounty which has given me ſo much Advantage, and ſo many Ways to glorifie him, and honour him in the World, and to whom I owe my Life, my Being, and Well being in the World! And how has God reproved me in this little dear Creature!
"Wretch that I am! how have I liv'd as without God in the World! and in my Family! that I have not ſo much as told my Children who made them, or let them know or gueſs by my Beha⯑viour that there is ſuch a thing as a God in the World, or that any Worſhip is due to a Sove⯑raign Almighty Being! How has this little Lamb complain'd to me! that he has never heard me pray to God in all his Life! and it is but too true! How did it reproach me when I ſpoke to it of Jeſus Chriſt! To hear the little Creature ſay, Who is that, Father! And of the Holy Ghoſt, Who is that, Father! And of ſerving God, Do you ſerve him, Father!
[35] "What a Life have I led! Good Lord, what have I been doing! How ſhall I account to thee for the Souls committed to my Charge! That I ſhould have the Bleſſing of Children given to me, and my Children have the Curſe of a Prayerleſs, uninſtructing Father to them!
Tears followed the Parent's Speech, and he prays earneſtly to God to forgive him the Neglect and Omiſſion of his Duty to his Children and Family, and enters into a ſecret Engagement between God and his own Soul, that for the future he will ſet up the due and daily Worſhip of God in his Family, and will diligently and carefully inſtruct his Chil⯑dren, teaching them the Knowledge of God, and how to ſerve him, and walk in his Ways.
After ſome Compoſure of Mind upon this Reſo⯑lution, a new Trouble breaks in upon him; he had elder Children than this, and he had liv'd in a con⯑tinual Neglect of his Duty, either in teaching them the Knowledge of God, or ſhewing them a Reli⯑gious Example: Theſe Children had contracted a prophane Habit both in Words, Manners, and conſtant Practice; had little Inclination to Reli⯑gion, leſs Knowledge, and no Thoughts at all about their Souls, and began to be too Old, and too Big to be wrought upon by Inſtruction or Perſwaſion, much leſs by Violence and Correction.
When this Reflection came upon the Parent's Thoughts after the Convictions he had met with from the little Enquirer aforeſaid, this brought a ſecond Flood of Tears from him, and he breaks out thus:
‘"Lord what will become of my poor wretched Family! my other Children! my uninſtructed unreproved Children! What an Inſtrument have I been in the Ruin of their Souls! How does it all lie upon me as a Weight never to be [36] remov'd; they are grown up, yet they know nothing of God, but to take his Name in vain! They neither call upon him, nor have I taught them to do ſo! If this poor Lamb reproaches me with having never pray'd with it, or for it; and too true it is, God knows! What may theſe ſay to me, that have let them go on thus far in a looſe, prophane, ignorant, irreligious Life, and have neither reprov'd or inſtructed them, ei⯑ther by Word or Example, pray'd with them, or taught them to pray for themſelves! Merci⯑ful God! why have I not been removed, and in Mercy to them as well as in Judgment to my ſelf, been ſnatch'd from them, that ſome other Perſon might have been ſet over them more for the good of their Souls.’
Upon theſe Convictions, the Man prays earneſtly to the Lord to pardon the heinous Offence of his neglecting his Duty to his Children; that God would ſupply by the teaching of his Bleſſed Spirit, that great want of Family-Inſtruction in his Chil⯑dren which he has been the Cauſe of; that he would work Convictions upon them, and would continue to ſtir him up to his Duty in the future directing, teaching, and governing his Family.
But what a hard Task he has with his other Children, and how difficult a Work it is to bring Children to a Senſe of God and Religion after their green and tender Years are paſt, in which they are moulded like Wax to a Seal, to receive ſuch firſt Impreſſions as the Perſwaſion and Example of Parents are apt to make, will be apparent in the fol⯑lowing Dialogues.
THE obſerving Reader will ſee here, that the Author to obſerve a juſt Equality between all Opinions, and in order to make this work generally uſeful and acceptable to all Denomina⯑tions of Chriſtians, and to all among them who ſe⯑riouſly apply themſelves to the great Buſineſs of their Eternal Salvation, has kept himſelf in the Anſwers to this little Child's Enquiry, to the plain general Principles of the Chriſtian Religion, where⯑in he has neither preſcribed himſelf in Method or in Words to the Catechiſms of either the Church of England, the Aſſembly's Catechiſm, or any o⯑ther; but laid down the Principles of Religion conſonant to them all, as plainly as he could, as they are deduc'd from the Holy Scriptures, and as they agree with the ſeveral Confeſſions of Faith and Doctrinal Articles as well of the Church of England, as of all the Proteſtant Churches and Congregations in Europe, who profeſs the ſame Faith, believe the ſame God, and hope for Eternal Life thro' Faith in the ſame ever Bleſſed Interceſ⯑ſor and Redeemer.
If any particular Chriſtian's Opinion may carry them further, or not ſo far as the Author has ex⯑preſs'd himſelf here in the Doctrines of Original Sin, Election of Grace, Repentance, and Faith in Chriſt, he prays, that while they can allow what is laid down here to be Orthodox in the Subſtance, they will extend the ſame Charity to his Deſign, as he does to their Opinion, (viz.), To leave room for further Explanations, to judge the beſt, and to conſider that as this Part is ſpoken to a Child, and is for Children to read for their Inſtruction, it requires to be plain and conciſe, and ſo be it [38] that it be eſſentially right; the more adapted it is to the meaneſt Underſtandings, the better it an⯑ſwers the Deſign of this Undertaking.
Some may think the Child here is brought in too often falling upon the Father with a Charge of not inſtructing him, and not praying with him, and not telling him theſe things ſooner; but to ſuch it may be ſufficient to ſay, that as this is one of the great Deſigns of this Work, and is not ſpoken ſo directly to, in any other Part, it requir'd to be more than ordinarily pointed out here; eſpecially becauſe that upon theſe iittle Reprehenſions of this infant, are grounded the ſeveral moſt conſiderable Parts of the Dialogues which follow in the firſt Part: As particularly, the Convictions wrought by it upon the Father, mention'd at the end of the Dialogue, where he is brought in retiring himſelf to give Vent to his Soul, in reflecting on the breach of his Duty, and in Prayer to God; alſo the con⯑curring Convictions wrought by the ſame Method, and by the ſame Inſtrument, upon the Mother, as in the ſecond Dialogue, and more eſpecially the Reſolution of both to reform themſelves, and to do their Duties more effectually in their Families.
Theſe appearing, as is obſerv'd to be the main Deſign of this firſt Part, and indeed ſomething of this running thro' the whole Courſe of the Work, it could not but be needful to let thoſe little ſharp Reproofs innocently expreſs'd by the little Child in the firſt Dialogue, be often repreated; eſpecially where the Senſe brought them in with a kind of natural, unconſtrain'd Innocence in the Expreſſion, as is generally carefully ordered where-ever thoſe Reproofs are to be met with: Nor indeed could the Expreſſions of the Parents, either in their pri⯑vate Ejaculations, or mutual converſing upon that Part one with another, have been conſonant to the [39] reſt of the Work, or the cadence of things pre⯑ſerv'd, if this had not been laid as a Foundation.
Theſe Notes are not deſign'd to talk over again the whole Subject of every Diſcourſe, if the Parts deſerve any Comment, every conſidering Chriſtian will make it to themſelves as they go; but where the Caſe is particular, a Word may be ſaid, which in the Dialogues would have been digreſling too long, and have made it tedious.
From the Enquiries of the Child may be obſerv'd, how naturally the Connexion of Goſpel-Truths, one with another, appears; I mean thoſe eſſential to our Salvation: How bright a Chain, and how cloſely hanging one upon another, in a Climax that cannot but be admirable to obſerve, is the great Myſtery of Man's Fall and Recovery, Sin entring into the World, Death by Sin, Nature cor⯑rupted by the Fall, ſanctified by redeeming Grace; by the Offence of one Man many made Sinners; by the Obedience of one many made Righteous; Juſtice offended by Sin, eternal Death denounc'd as the Puniſhment; Juſtice ſatisfied by a Redeemer, Eter⯑nal Life the Conſequence; No Condemnation to them who are in Chriſt: Theſe things lie ſo plain, ſo natural, and in ſo exact an Order, that Nature ſeems to direct the Child, who knows nothing of them, to force them from the Father, by the Power of the moſt Innocent uninſtructed Enquiries.
How unaccountably to blame are thoſe Parents who let their Children know nothing of theſe things, till their own little, innocent Enquiries ex⯑tort it from them!
How naturally does the Diſcourſe of this little Child reprove Parents for their Neglect of the Sab⯑bath Day's Work, (viz.) of attending the publick Worſhip of God; and how could the Child but ſup⯑poſe that going to Church was only a light Matter, [40] ſince his Father very ſeldom went himſelf, and ſtay'd at home upon the moſt frivolous Occaſions.
The Child's Diſcourſe about going to Church only to ſhew his fine Cloaths, and his Mother and Siſter's being chiefly employ'd there, to obſerve the Faſhions and Dreſſes of their Neighbours, with the Converſation they have of thoſe things after they come home, needs no Enlargements here; the Conſciences of moſt young People in our own Fa⯑milies will teach them to apply that Part to them⯑ſelves; and the Author is content to leave it out, if it is not generally acknowledg'd to be a needful Reproof. The Child is brought in here ſeveral times ſaying to his Father, when he ſpeaks of ſer⯑ving, loving, and praying to God, Do you do ſo, Father? This puts me in mind of a Story not im⯑proper to be related: A wicked Boy that had been addicted to Swearing and ill words, was reproved by his Father with more Seriouſneſs than uſual, and his Father toid him, that God heard him: The Father, it ſeems, was a Man of no Religion, or at⯑leaſt of very ill Morals himſelf; but what he hap⯑pen'd to ſay to the Boy, ſtruck him ſo deeply, that it was a means of Conviction to the Child; but Ignorance having been the Boy's greateſt Un⯑happineſs, when he came to conſider of what his Father had ſaid, he asks one of the Family whether God could ſee as well as hear? when he was an⯑ſwer'd, yes, That God was Infinite, and could hear and ſee all things: He told them he could not believe it; for my Father was drunk laſt Night, ſays he, ſure he would not have been Drunk if God could ſee him, elſe why did he tell me I ſhould not Swear, becauſe God could hear me?
If Parents knew, or at leaſt conſider'd, the Influence their evil Examples have upon their Children, and how fatal an Encouragement to [41] Sin it is to any Children to be able to ſay, My Father does ſo himſelf, the Preſence of their Children would be a greater Reſtraint to Con⯑ſcientious Parents, even in Things in themſelves indifferent, much more in Things really ſinful, than it is poſſible the Preſence and Awe of the Parent can be to the Children: It is enough that Religious Parents have to ſtruggle with in the per⯑verſe and wicked Inclinations of their Children; but they will find, thoſe Liberties their Children take from the Encouragement of their Parents Example, will be ten times more difficult to reſtrain afterwards, than thoſe they have from their own Inclination, or the Example of others: It enner⯑vates all the Exhortations of a Father; takes the Edge off from their Reprehenſion; makes their Reſentment ſeem unjuſt and unreaſonable, and makes the Child rather apt to retort the Practice of the Parent upon themſelves, than receive pa⯑tiently and meekly the Admonition.
I humbly recommend this Thought to thoſe Pa⯑rents who indulge themſelves in any Vanities or Exceſſes, ſuch as in Paſſion, in haſty Expreſſions, in Expences, in waſte of Time, in ill Words, in Gaming, nay, or any of thoſe things which the World are apt to call Lawful and Innocent; If ſuch things muſt be indulg'd, and you will allow your ſelves in them, upon a Preſumption that you can do them innocently; at leaſt then, conceal them from your Children, leſt what you can uſe with Moderation, they fall into with Exceſs, and juſtify the Practice from your Example.
It will be a very uncomfortable Reflection, and will fill the Mind with bitter Reproaches if ever God pleaſes to try ſuch Parents, when they ſhall ſee the Introduction to their Children's Ruin for⯑med and begun in their [the Parents] Example; [42] nor will it be any alleviation to their Sorrow, to ſay, I us'd thoſe Diverſions moderately, and kept my ſelf within Compaſs; it was but very ſeldom that I us'd an ill Word; I play'd at Cards but very moderately, and never for much Money; I ſeldom drank hard, and the like. Our Moderation in Diverſions ſhall introduce our Children's Exceſs; and if the Apoſtle, rather than offend a weak Bro⯑ther, would wholly abſtain even from Part of his neceſſary Suſtenance, (viz.) eating of Fleſh; how much more ſhould Parents refrain their Exceſſes, nay, even their lawful Diverſions, rather than lay a Foundation of the Ruin of their Children, and prompt them to Sin, by giving them a Pretence from, or Encouragement by their Father's Example.
From the whole of this Dialogue, Parents may ſee, beſides their Duty to God, what they owe to their Children, in timely and early inſtructing them; how much inſtructing our Children is a Debt to them; and how unjuſt and injurious we are to our Children in omitting to Inſtruct them. What moving Expreſſions of the Child to the Fa⯑ther are theſe: Dear Father, ſays the Child, why would you not tell me of it before? Was you angry with me, Father? And what if it ſhould be too late now! Will not God puniſh me Everlaſtingly now becauſe I have not known this ſooner! How cutting muſt it be to a Parent that has any Senſe of Eter⯑nity, to think that his dear Children ſhould be loſt by his Example, or remain blind by his Omiſſion.
Theſe and many other Obſervations might be made here from the Particulars of this firſt Dia⯑logue, but it is hop'd the reading the Dialogue its ſelf will cauſe many of them to occur; and the Brevity of this Work admits not our Notes to be too long.
THIS Dialogue begins upon the follow⯑ing Occaſion: The next Day after the former Diſcourſe with the Father, the Child was carried to Church, and the Miniſter happen'd to be preaching up⯑on the Death of our Saviour; his Text was, God ſo loved the World that he gave his only begotten Son, &c. And the Miniſter giving ſome Hiſtorical Ac⯑count of the Death and Sufferings of Chriſt, and making ſome practical Improvements of it in his Diſcourſe, the Child, when he came home, was found crying in a Room by its ſelf, and the Mother being call'd, begins the Dialogue thus:
CHild! What doſt cry for?
After ſome Difficulty the Child anſwers, the Miniſter made him cry.
How ſo! why what did he ſay?
He ſaid that God was dead.
Child, he did not ſay any ſuch thing, you have forgot what he ſaid.
No I han't Mother, I am ſure he ſaid Jeſus Chriſt was dead, and my Father told me yeſter⯑day that Jeſus Chriſt was GOD.
But Child, Jeſus Chriſt is riſen again.
I know that, he ſaid ſo too; but he was dead firſt, and the wicked Jews kill'd him; ſure they were ſad Folks Mother; why did they kill him?
You will read it in your Bible, my Dear.
But Mother, the Miniſter ſays he died for us, and my Father ſaid he died for me; did the Jews kill him for me, Mother?
He died for thee, my Dear, and me, and every body elſe that believes in him.
Why did he die for me, Mother? I don't know what you mean, tell me dear Mother, did I make him die?
My dear, he died to ſave his People from their Sins, and I hope thou art one of them.
Why Mother, have I any Sins? What are they, Mother?
We are all Sinners Child, Sin is offending God in Thought, Word and Deed, at which he is angry.
When I do a Fault, is God angry for that? Is that Sin, Mother?
Every Fault you do, my Dear, is not a Sin againſt God.
When did I make God angry then?
When you break any of God's Command⯑ments, then you ſin againſt GOD; as when you take God's Name in vain; when you diſobey your Father and Mother, and the like; theſe are Sins againſt God, and theſe he is angry at.
I never take God's Name in vain, Mother, nor never diſobey you, Mother; I love you dearly, and do every thing you bid me, don't I, dear Mo⯑ther?
Well, my dear, and I hope God is not angry with thee; be a good Boy then, I am not angry with thee, my Dear
Why doſt cry, my Dear? I tell thee I am not angry with thee, do not cry.
God may be angry with me for all that, Mother?
No, no, God is not angry with thee, do not cry, my Dear,
Why Mother; will God never be angry with me but when you are angry? I am afraid God is angry with me tho' you kiſs me, and be Friends with me, and love me.
Why ſo, my Dear?
Why, dear Mother, my Father told me Yeſterday, that God has done a great many things for me, and given me a great many good things, and I never thank'd him, nor lov'd him for it yet, nor ſerv'd him, nor pray'd to him yet, and is not God angry with me then?
That is very true, my Dear, but I hope God is not angry; do not cry, my Dear.
But ſhould not I have thank'd God for all that? Is it not a Fault, Mother?
Yes, my Dear, you ſhould have thank'd him, pray'd to him, and praiſed him.
But how ſhould I have done it, Mother? I did not know, and The Mother was but cold and indifferent all this time, but now ſhe found herſelf TOƲCH'D, and was confounded with the Child's Diſcourſe, and taking the Child in her Arms, ſhe kiſs'd it, and wept, but could not ſpeak to it a great while; at laſt ſhe ſaid with great Tenderneſs, you never told me, and my Father never told me, nor ſhow'd me how; will God be angry that I did not thank him, when I could not tell how to do it?
My dear Child, It is not thy Fault, it is our Fault; it is my Fault, and it is thy Father's Fault; we have not ſhown thee, nor taught thee, nor given any good Example to thee how thou ſhould'ſt thank God, or ſerve or know God!
Yes, my Father did it laſt Night.
Alas poor Child! thy Father, and I too ſhould have done it many Nights and Years ago; more Shame for us that we have neglected it till thou ſhould'ſt reprove us for it thy ſelf.
But, my Father ſaid it was not too late now, Mother.
I pray God it be not, but that's no thanks to us, my Dear; thou may'ſt have Cauſe to blame us Here the Mother finds the Heart of the Child is touch'd, and it immediately enter'd into her Thoughts that ſhe might be made a Tem⯑ptation to the Child to deſpair and caſt off Conviction, this allarms the Mother on the other Hand, and therefore ſhe adds, to thy dying Day.
But is it too late for me then, Mother?
No, my Dear, God forbid! the Sin has been ours, not thine; but it is never too late to pray to God.
What muſt I do when I pray to God?
You muſt confeſs your Sins to him, pray to him to forgive your Sins, to bleſs you and ſan⯑ctifie you, and preſerve you; you muſt pray to him to give you your daily Bread, and keep you from [47] all Evil; you muſt give Thanks to him for all his Mercies, and all the good things he has done for you.
Muſt I thank God when I pray! Mother, How can I do ſo? Is that praying?
Yes, my dear, praiſing God for Mercies receiv'd, is part of the Duty of Prayer, as well as ſeeking to him for Mercies we want; for ſo God has commanded, in every thing by Prayer and Sup⯑plication, WITH THANKSGIVING making our Requeſts known unto God.
But if I have made God angry, how can I ask him Forgiveneſs? Will God forgive me?
Yes, my dear, he will forgive thee, he is a Merciful God, it is his Nature and Property ever to have Mercy, and to forgive.
How do you know it? Are you ſure, Mo⯑ther, that God will forgive me my Fault, if I ask him Forgiveneſs?
He has promiſed to do ſo, my dear.
How Mother? I never heard him ſpeak, Did he tell you ſo, Mother?
My dear, he has promiſed in his Word, it is in your Bible, which is the Word of God.
O, I am glad if it is there; my Father told me, that God ſpeaks to me, and I hear him ſpeak when I read my Book; ſhow it me there, Mother.
There it is, my Dear.
The Blood of Chriſt, Mother, what is that?
Why, my Dear, this is that the Mini⯑ſter made thee cry about; Jeſus Chriſt is that great Saviour, which the Miniſter told thee ſhed his Blood for our Sins, Died, and was Crucified to ſave a Loſt World.
But, dear Mother, my Father told me, Chriſt was God; can God die?
My Child, Chriſt was God Eternal, one with the Father; but Chriſt to fullfil the great Pur⯑poſe of Man's Redemption, according to the Eter⯑nal Council of God, before the World began, in the fullneſs of Time, became Man, took upon him not the Nature of Angels, but of the Seed of Abra⯑ham; and this he did that he might be God-Man, and therefore be a Mediator between God and Man, partaking of the Nature of both, and laying his Hand upon both, to make Peace for us thro' the Blood of his Croſs.
I cannot underſtand this, it is all wonder⯑ful! A wonderful Myſtery!
It is ſo, my Dear: This is the great My⯑ſtery of Godlineſs, God manifeſt in the Fleſh.
And did this God-Man, die FOR ME, Mother, how is that?
He died for the Sins of all that believe on him.
But what is it you mean by dying for Sin, and dying for me, Mother, I do not underſtand it?
Sin, my dear, is offending God, or ma⯑king God angry, and this Sin, or this Anger of God would end in Death; for the Wages of Sin is Death: But God, in his own Original Love to us, ſent his Son to die in our ſtead, that whoſoever Be⯑leiveth in him might not periſh, but have Everlaſting Life.
And ſo if I ſin, I muſt die, Mother?
Yes, my dear.
And muſt you die if you ſin, Mother?
Yes, my dear.
But you never ſinn'd I hope then.
Alas, my Dear, I am a great Sinner.
Why, you muſt not die, Mother, you ſhall not die Mother, ſhall you?
We muſt all die, my dear, but this is meant of Eternal Death, going to Hell, Child, dying for ever! This is that which is the Wages of Sin.
Muſt all that Sin go to Hell, Mother?
No, my dear, this is what I was ſaying before, that God being thus angry with Sinners, and the Wages of their Sin being Death, this Bleſ⯑ſed Son of God, this God-Man the Mediator, came into the World, and taking on him our Nature, died FOR ƲS; there 'tis my dear, in your Bible, Romans 5. 6. That while we were yet without Strength, in due time Chriſt died for the Ʋngodly. And there again, 1 Tim. 1. 15. This is a faithful Saying, and worthy of all Acceptation, that Jeſus Chriſt came into the World to ſave Sinners: And in abundance of other Places.
Let me ſee it Mother, for my Father ſaid God ſpoke in my Bible, and I ſhall be ſure it is true, if it be there.
I'll turn the Leaf down at it, my dear, that you may find it again.
Dear Mother, Did Jeſus Chriſt die for me! what, for me! I did not know him! I have done nothing to make him die! nor I have done nothing to pleaſe him! I never loved him! how ſhould he love me! and love me ſo as to die for me! why for me, Mother!
This, my dear, is the great thing for which we ſhould praiſe, and love, and adore God, and Jeſus Chriſt; that all this ſhould be done FOR ƲS, before we had either done Good or Evil; as thou haſt ſaid, my dear, thou haſt done nothing to pleaſe him, nor haſt loved him, it is all his own Love to us, not our Love to him.
Why! would God love me, whether I loved him or no, Mother!
Yes, my dear; ſee in your Bible, John 3. 15. For God ſo loved the World that he gave his only begotten Son, that whoſoever believeth in him ſhould not periſh, but have Everlaſting Life. And again, 1 Joh. 4. 10. Herein is Love, not that we loved God, but he loved us, and ſent his Son to be a Propitiation for our Sins.
But may not I love God now, for all this Love to me, Mother?
Yes, my dear, his Love to us moves us to love him; 1 John 4. 19. We love him becauſe he firſt loved us.
Indeed I will love God! ſure I muſt love him if he will not be angry, tho' I ſin againſt him! Don't you love him, Mother?
I deſire to love, and fear, and ſerve him as long as I live, my dear.
And may I not do ſo too, Mother?
Yes, my dear.
And did you do ſo before, Mother?
I hope I did, my dear.
But I have not done it before, Mother, Was not that a Fault in me, Mother? And is not God angry at that?
Well Child, but you have heard that Jeſus Chriſt died to turn away God's Anger for that, and all other Sins.
Indeed, dear Mother, I did not know I muſt love God, and fear God before; I never heard any thing of it in my Life!
My Dear, That is my Sin, and thy Fa⯑ther's Sin, and not thine; we ought to have taught thee long ago, and we have reaſon to mourn for it, and repent of it as long as we live.
But may I not love God now, Mother?
You muſt love God, and love Jeſus Chriſt, and ſerve and fear him; this is one End of your Creation.
How can I love Jeſus Chriſt now Mother? you ſay he is dead; can I love him now he is dead?
He is riſen again, Child, from the Dead.
Riſen again, Mother! How is that?
My Dear, as I told thee before, it was neceſſary for him to be Man as well as God that he might in our Nature ſatisfie Divine Juſtice; ſo likewiſe it was neceſſary, he that was to be a Me⯑diator, ſhould be GOD as well as Man, that he might juſtifie us before God, and interceed with God for us for ever.
How is this! I wonder at it, but do not underſtand it; how is it, Mother? dead! and alive again! and riſen! and intercede! What is it all? I do not underſtand it.
As Man, he could die, Child; but as God, he could not remain dead.
Is this in my Bible too, Mother? does God ſay this there too?
Yes, my dear, look here, Acts 2. 24. Whom God hath raiſed up, having looſed the Pains of Death, becauſe it was not poſſible he could be holden of it
But is he riſen again for me too!
Yes, my Dear, he has both died for thee, and is riſen again for thee too.
Show me that in my Book, Mother.
Here it is, Child, Rom. 4. 25. Who was delivered for our Offences, and is riſen again for Here the Child in a little Extaſie of Soul, mov'd by the bleſſed Spirit of God, graſps the Book, and kiſſes the Leaf eagerly, clapping it to its Breaſt, at which the Mother ſurpriz'd, ſays, our Juſtification.
Why doſt thou do that, my Dear?
I love him, dear Mother, I love him!
Doſt thou know why thou loveſt him, my Dear?
I love GOD, Dear Mother, that has loved me ſo much before I knew him, and I love Jeſus Chriſt becauſe he has died for me, and is riſen again for me! may not I love him, Dear Mother? For tho' I love him, I am afraid, for my Father told me he is a dreadful God.
It is true, he is a conſuming Fire to Sin, and the Workers of it; but to thoſe who love and fear him he is a Faithful Creator, and a merciful Re⯑deemer.
Then I may love him for that?
May! my Dear; you not only may, but muſt. Matt. 22. 37, 38. Jeſus ſaid unto him, thou ſhalt love the Lord thy God with all thy Heart, and with all thy Soul, and with all thy Mind. This is the firſt and great Commandment.
Will he not be angry Mother, if I don't love him?
Yes, my Dear; for he has commanded you to love him. John 15. 9. Continue ye in my Love. And G [...]. 5. 22. He ſaith, The Fruit of the Spirit is [53] Love. And he has promiſed a bleſſed Return to thoſe that love him. John 14. 21. He that loveth me ſhall be loved of my Father, and I will love him, and will manifeſt my ſelf unto him.
I wiſh I could love him more, Dear Mother.
You will, my Dear, as you grow up.
How, Mother?
Why, the longer you live, the more you will know him; and the Knowledge of God, and the Experience of his Goodneſs will increaſe your Love.
How ſhall I know him more?
I hope he will fill thy Heart with Know⯑ledge, according to the Promiſe of the Covenant of Grace.
What is that, Mother?
It is the bleſſed Declaration of God in his Word, wherein he has engag'd himſelf, and his Faithfulneſs to his believing People, both to be their God, and to preſerve them in his Fear.
And has he promis'd me that I ſhall know him, Mother?
Yes, my Dear.
Is that in my Book too, Mother?
Yes, my Dear, here it is; Jer. 31. 34. And they ſhall teach no more every man his Neigh⯑bour, and every man his Brother, ſaying, Know the Lord; for they ſhall all know me, from the leaſt of them unto the greateſt of them, ſaith the Lord: For I will forgive their Iniquity, and remember their Sin no more.
And what ſhall I do when I know him?
Knowing him, you will believe on him; and believing, you will have Life thro' his Name, John 20. 31.
When ſhall I do this Mother?
As thou groweſt up, my Dear.
FIrſt obſerve of the Child's being carried to Church, That by the Word Church, or going to Church, in all theſe Dialogues, is to be under⯑ſtood the Place, and going to the Place of publick Worſhip, whether in the Church of England People to their Pariſh Churches, or in Diſſenters to their ſeveral Meeting-Houſes, the particular diſtinguiſhing it one way or another being ſtudiouſly avoided here; the Subject, as the Author humbly conceives, being not at all concern'd in our diver⯑ſity of Opinions, Sects, or ſeparate Aſſemblies, but equally inſtructing to all who call themſelves Chri⯑ſtians, and eſpecially Proteſtant Chriſtians; he believes it would be very much Wrong to lay a Stumbling-block at the Threſhold, and to put any Prejudice in the Minds of the ſerious Readers; which alſo might prevent by Partiality to Opi⯑nions, the Benefit which may otherwiſe be univer⯑ſal to Chriſtians of all Opinions whatſoever; and this Latitude in his Charity, and in his Deſign of doing Good to all, he hopes none will be offended at.
The Father and Mother of this little Child ap⯑pear here to be no ignorant Perſons in the Princi⯑ples or Duties of Chriſtianity; but as to the reſt it may be obſerv'd. (1) What a wretched irreli⯑gious [55] Life ſome of thoſe who have the greateſt Share of Knowledge in Matters of Religion do lead, eſpecially in their Families. (2.) What Re⯑gret it brings upon their Minds when they are convinc'd of their Wickedneſs in the Neglect of their Families, and when, as in this caſe, much of it may be too late to be retriev'd.
(3.) What bitter Reproaches ſuch Children oftentimes caſt back upon their Parents, when they [the Children] come to find what they have loſt for want of a godly, religious Education, and early Inſtruction, either good Children or bad.
If the Children prove ſober and religious with⯑out the helps of Inſtruction, for the Spirit of God is not confin'd or conſtrain'd to theſe outward Helps, how are they aſham'd of, and a Shame to their Parents! And how muſt the Parents bluſh when they may upon any Occaſion be told, that the Knowledge, the Piety, the Fear of God, which is found in their Children, is no Product of their planting, no Fruit of what they had ſown; Reli⯑gious Children of prophane or negligent Parents, are a double Teſtimony to powerful invincible Grace, but a dreadful Reproach to the Parents.
This may be a Thought worthy the Conſidera⯑tion of any Chriſtian Parent, that having neglected the Inſtruction of their Families, and neglected teaching, and praying with, or for their Children, what a juſt Contempt will thoſe Children naturally have for thoſe Parents, eſpecially if ever God comes to enlighten their Hearts, and open their Eyes, as he ſometimes does without the help of Pater⯑nal Inſtruction; when the Children come to reflect how their Parents totally neglected the Salvation of their Souls, compar'd to which, the Proviſion made for their Bodies was but of little Value, the Diſguſt at the Omiſſion of the former, will be too [56] apt to take off all the Gratitude and Affection due for the latter.
Nothing but meer Duty can be ſuppoſed to pre⯑ſerve the Child's Reſpect, and even common Civi⯑lity to its Parents, when he comes to be ſenſible how unnaturally they abandon'd his Immortal Part; how unchriſtianly they expos'd his better, his intellectual Part, to Eternal Deſtruction, as if the Duty of a Parent had ended, or been reſtrain'd within the narrow Compaſs of the Office of a Nurſe, or a Schoolmaſter; and that they had no Obligation upon them to regard the eternal Hap⯑pineſs of that Part of their Poſterity which can never die.
Such Parents are certainly the moſt unnatural, and may juſtly be reproach'd by their Children, not with neglect of their Duty only, but with their being without Natural Affections, and conſequently can by no means expect ſuitable returns of Af⯑fection from their Children, when they come to be made ſenſible of the Treatment they have re⯑ceiv'd from them; if they ſhow them common Reſpect, as above, it muſt be all owing to that very Grace, which in ſpight of the Obſtructions of a Godleſs Education, has been planted in the Heart by the powerful Influence, and invincible Operation of the Spirit of God.
For Parents to pretend Love to their Children, and Natural Affection, as they are the Fruit of their Bodies, and (as is vulgarly expreſs'd) their own Fleſh and Blood, and at the ſame time neglect to inſtruct them, or educate them either in human Learning, or religious Knowledge, is juſt as if, when their Children are taken ſick, they ſhould employ themſelves in mending or making them Cloaths, or dreſſing up fine Banquets or Entertain⯑ments for them, and wholly omit the neceſſary [57] Cordials or Applications for the Recovery of their Health; only with this difference, that the Soul to the Body has infinitely a greater Diſproportion than the Health, and the daily Food.
But our Caſe extends yet farther, viz. That the Defect complain'd of here, is not the want of E⯑ducation and Inſtruction, from the Ignorance or Incapacity of the Parent; for this had been the Hand of God immediately in bringing forth the Child from Parents that knew not God; but the Caſe here is yet more aggravated, in that this hap⯑pens in Families where the Parents have the Know⯑ledge, and have the Capacity, and know, and acknowledge it to be their Duty to inſtruct their Children, and yet entirely neglect it, which adds to the Crime in the Parent, and will be ground of Aſtoniſhment and Reflection in the Children, if they ever come to the Knowledge of God without the due Aſſiſtance of their Parents. Nor will the Re⯑flections of the Parents be leſs bitter on themſelves than thoſe of their Children, as will be more lively repreſented in the other Dialogues of this Part.
But this Subject may alſo be of preſent Uſe to Children who have not the Bleſſing of Godly Pa⯑rents to inſtruct them, and for this it is alſo de⯑ſign'd; and theſe as well as thoſe whoſe Parents neglect the great Duty of inſtructing them, are deſir'd to conſider from the Example of this little Child theſe few things.
1. That the moſt plain, moſt natural, and moſt⯑eaſie queſtions that it is poſſible a Child can ask, will lead them to know both their Creator, and their Duty to him: Such as,
The little Babe here repreſented, infers by the meer Power of Natural Reaſoning,
(2.) It is alſo obſervable, that as ſoon as ever the Soul is but able to enquire rationally about its ſelf Nature and Reaſon; concur to lead him to the Knowledge of a God, a Firſt Cauſe, a chief Good, and an ultimate End; OF whom, and FOR whom, and TO whom are all things; and theſe Im⯑pulſes go on, till natural Religion, join'd with reveal'd Religion, diſcover Chriſt, and God in Chriſt reconciling us to Himſelf, not imputing our Treſpaſſes, which is the Sum and Subſtance of the Chriſtian Religion.
This is the great End of theſe Dialogues, as they reſpect Children, viz. That they may, where per⯑haps Family-Inſtruction has been wanting, guide themſelves to the Knowledge of God, and of their Duty, by theſe familiar Steps which Nature it ſelf will be moſt certain to concur with. As they reſpect Parents, their End is plain, viz. They are a Satyr upon their neglect of Duty, and a Reproof to them in Order to Amendment.
THE Mother of this pretty Infant, ſen⯑ſibly affected with the Diſcourſe ſhe had had with him in the laſt Dialogue, and in teaching her Child, being parti⯑cularly taught how ſhe had neglected her own Duty, appears under a great and more than ordinary Concern: Her Husband was under the ſame Convictions, and each were very deſirous to unboſom themſelves to one another, tho' utterly ignorant of the reſpective Circumſtances: This occaſions the following Dialogue or Diſcourſe be⯑tween the Husband and the Wife; the reſt of the Family being withdrawn, the Husband perceiv'd his Wife melancholly, and that ſhe had been weep⯑ing, and being a very tender loving Husband, be⯑gins with her thus:
MY Dear, what is the Matter? I be⯑lieve ſomething troubles thee.
I cannot deny it, and if I did, you ſee I cannot conceal it.
Tell me, my Dear, what afflicts thee; if it be in my Power to relieve it, you have no reaſon [60] to doubt, but as in Duty I ought, ſo in Affection I am inclin'd to give you all the Comfort, all the Advice, and all the Aſſiſtance I am able.
Alas! You cannot aſſiſt in my Caſe, no nor any one in the World; and the reaſon why I am backward in telling it, is becauſe when I do, you will, perhaps, be ſo far from eaſing my Grief, that you will add to it, by falling into the ſame your ſelf, for my Affliction equally concerns you and my ſelf.
My Dear, there is no Affliction can befal thee, but either I muſt have an equal Share in it, be wanting in Affection to thee, which I never was yet, or want a concern for my own Happineſs, ſince, ever ſince we have been One by Conſent or by Contract, I have but one Intereſt, one Wiſh, and one Deſire with you, and this not by Duty only, but by Inclination.
I have a full Experience of that, and thought my Happineſs always compleat in it, and the more, in that I have not been able to charge my ſelf with the leaſt Breach on my Part to render that Affection leſs pleaſing to you, or leſs ſatisfying to me; but we have hoth been wanting in one thing, and I fear, have nothing to excuſe, or to accuſe one more than another, and this is my pre⯑ſent Grief.
I know not what you can mean, unleſs it be want of performing ſome Duties which we owe to God and our Children.
O you have touch'd it! there it lies; and if you had had ſuch a Meſſenger ſent from God to reprove you for it as I have had to Day, I queſtion not but it would have touch'd you as nearly as it does me.
I know not what thou haſt had to day, but I had ſuch a Lecture preach'd to me Yeſterday by [61] a little dear Infant, even our own youngeſt Child, that has almoſt broke my very Soul within me; and you may know part of it by this, that you know I ſlept not a Wink all laſt Night.
O my Dear! the ſame is my Inſtructor! he has certainly been ſent from God to me.
And to me too; whether it be for a bleſſed reſtoring End, or for Judgment, and the terrible Part of Conviction, he only knows.
It is impoſſible to expreſs to you how the little Creature mov'd me; it was a Dagger ſtruck into my very Heart to hear the dear Lamb ask me, Father, will not God be angry with me that I have not thank'd him, and lov'd him, and pray'd to him before? And how ſhould I know it, Father, you ne⯑ver told me! When I told him he muſt pray to God, was it not cutting me to the Heart to hear it ſay, Do you pray to him, Father? And when I told him Yes, to have him ſay, I never hear'd you, Father: I was not able to bear it, I was fain to ſtop, and turn away from him.
I believe we may both ſay as the Diſciples at Emmaus, Did not our Hearts burn within us when he talked to us by the Way? For my Part, I am amaz'd when I look upon the Child, but when I look in, and reflect how I have neglected the great Duty of inſtructing not this Child only, but all my Children, I am confounded, and not able to hold up my Head: How juſtly may my Children re⯑proach me! not only with omitting to teach them to do good, but with abominably encouraging them [62] to Vanity, and neglect of God, by my Example: O I have ruin'd all my Children!
No no, you have not ruin'd them, it is I have ruin'd them; for it was my Duty to have exercis'd the Authority of a Father, and of a Go⯑vernour of a Houſe; to have ſet up the Worſhip of God in my Family; to have prayed with them, and for them, and inſtructed them to pray for themſelves; they could not have ask'd me then whether they might pray to God, or whether ever I prayed to God or no.
And I have been a great Cauſe of your neglecting that Part too, for I have ſlighted it, and ridicul'd it in others, and thought it meer Oſtentation, and Form; as if none but Perſons of higher Quality ſhould have Prayers in their Fa⯑mily, and thought it look'd too big for us.
Ay, but my Temptation has been of another kind, I have thought it a Solemnity I was not fit for; I have queſtion'd my own Performance; I have often thought, if I was a Nobleman I would keep a Chaplain, but I was aſham'd to pray in the Hearing of my Servants and Children, as if that was diſhonourable and mean, which was my na⯑tural Duty; or as if I was aſham'd to own that which was the Glory of a Chriſtian, viz. To wor⯑ſhip and call upon him that made him; as if Nature, which dictates to the leaſt Child, to call and cry to its Father and Mother for Bread, when it is an hungry, did not dictate to me, and to every ratio⯑nal Creature to worſhip that God in whom we live and move, and have our Being!
And what Courſe ſhall we take now?
There is no Difficulty in reſolving what Courſe to take with this little Infant, he is taught from Heaven, and the Spirit of God is viſibly working in him; if we do not inſtruct him, he [63] will every Day inſtruct us, and reprove us too; but what ſhall we do with our other Children! who are grown up, and have imbib'd a Courſe of Va⯑nity and Levity without any Reſtraint? There will be our Difficulty!
And who are very likely to be impatient of Reſtraint, and perhaps not ſo eaſily to be go⯑verned now; for my Part, I do not think I ſhall ever be able to break my Daughter from her fooliſh Habit, ſuch as playing all Night at Cards, going to the Play-houſe, wearing Patches, reading fooliſh Romances, ſinging idle Songs, taking God's Name in vain, and an intollerable Looſeneſs of Behaviour, which I have too much given her a Liberty in, and encourag'd her alſo from my own Example.
I ſhall have as hard a Task with my el⯑der Sons, that have got a Habit of Company, of ill Words, and of Idleneſs; it is impoſſible to re⯑claim them! they are gone too far! What ſhall be done! they are loſt thro' my Neglect! and juſtly may they lay their ruin at my door, both Body and Soul.
My Dear, we are in a ſad Condition! and mine is worſe ſtill, for I have not only negle⯑cted my Duty to my Children, and praying with my Children, but my Duty to God too, I mean my private Duty; for Ineither prayed with them, nor for them, nor by my ſelf, nor for my ſelf, the common going to the publick Worſhip excepted, which I have paſs'd over as ſlightly and unconcern'd alſo, as if it were only a thing of courſe.
This touches me too, my Dear; for it was my Duty not only to have prayed with my Children, and with my Family, but in private with you, and for you, and we both ought mutually to have aſſiſted, encouraged, and exhorted one another in and to our Duty; I ought to have [64] watch'd over you, and mov'd you, and perſwaded you to your Duty, and you me, both as to pri⯑vate, and Family-Worſhip: It all lies at my door, and at my hand will God require the Souls of thoſe he had put under my Roof!
I have been as guilty as you, for I have ſhewn a general Contempt of this Duty, I have never encourag'd you to it, or ſhewn you in the leaſt that I deſir'd it, or would be willing to join in it; on the contrary, you have always ſeen me as wild, and as vain, as if I was not a Mother of a Family, but a ſingle Perſon without any relative Obligations on me.
Well, it muſt be done! however difficult; however ſeemingly fruitleſs, and to no purpoſe; by how much the greater it has been a Sin in us both to neglect it, by ſo much ſtronger is the Obli⯑gation upon us both to undertake it; the poor Chil⯑dren are well-nigh undone already, it is never too late: Who knows but God may bleſs Inſtruction, tho' begun at an unſeaſonable time? It may be we may yet meet with Succeſs in the way of our Duty, if not, we muſt leave that to God; we muſt begin, and muſt go on, for as we both know it is our Duty, our Children may be ſtill loſt, not⯑withſtanding our Endeavour; but we are ſure to be loſt, if we willfully neglect it.
Alas! what can we do? Where can we begin now? Which of our Children will mind what we ſay? How will they humble us, by throwing our own Example in our way, and ob⯑ject our former Practice as an Anſwer to all our future Inſtructions! I think verily it is too late now; it will be all to no purpoſe to go about it; it will have no effect at all!
My Dear, you ſay you are ſenſible it has been a Sin that you have not encourag'd me in it, and joyn'd with me in it before; it muſt be there⯑fore ſtill a Sin to continue to do ſo, and a greater Sin than before, by how much we are convinc'd now that it was our ſinful neglect before.
Nay, I will not obſtruct it! God forbid! I only ſay, I fear the Event will not anſwer, and I am at a loſs which way to go about it.
I'll tell you, my Dear, which way we will go about it; let us firſt join together ſincerely to God in Prayer, acknowledging with a deep Humility, and hearty Repentance, our great Sin in neglecting his Worſhip in our Family, as well as in private, and our diſhonouring him in our Converſation, imploring for the Sake of Jeſus Chriſt, our only Mediator and Advocate, Pardon for thoſe our paſt Sins of Omiſſion and Commiſſion, ſeeking his Bleſſing upon our Reſolution of A⯑mendment; and begging, that our Inſtructing our Family and Children, however late! and long omit⯑ted, may yet be ſucceſsful, and have a double Effect, to the Salvation of the Souls of our Children, and to the Glory and Honour of Sovereign Grace.
My Dear, however doubting I am of the Succeſs, yet I'll join with you with all my Heart in that, and in every thing elſe that I can, which may ſerve to reform, reclaim, and reſtore our poor Children, whoſe Danger is ſo plainly occa⯑ſion'd by our Neglect.
As to my Family, I'll tell you what I purpoſe to do; I deſire you to let your Daughters know, that we are reſolved to reform ſeveral Practices which we do not like in their Behaviour; that their Father diſlikes their general Conduct; expects they uſe more Modeſty in their Dreſs and Converſation; will have them wear no more [66] Patches, go to no more Plays, ſpend no more pre⯑cious time at Cards, nor walk out in the Park or Fields any more on the Lord's Day: But on the contrary, that they apply themſelves to reading the Scriptures, and to think of worſhipping God after a different manner than they have hitherto done, and I ſhall take care to do the ſame by my Sons.
I will do all I can with them; tho' I fear their Compliance.
Then, as ſoon as they come home next Sabbath-day from the Sermon, I will call them all together, and to the beſt of my Capacity tell them their Duty in general both to God, them⯑ſelves, and their Parents; and that where as I have thought they have taken too much Liberty for the time paſt, becauſe I have not reſtrain'd them, and ſhow'd them their Duty, they ſhall have no reaſon for the future to make that Excuſe from me; but that from this time I reſolve to oblige all my Family to ſerve God both publickly and privately as much and as well as I can; that they may both incline to pray to God themſelves, and know how to do it: I ſhall, beſides the publick Worſhip of God, which I ſhall expect they conſtantly attend, always have proper times ſet apart for worſhipping God together in the Family, will pray with them and for them as I am able: And having ſaid thus, I will begin with reading the Word of God to them, and then, as well as I can, will go to Prayer with them my ſelf.
My Dear, I'll be glad of this with all my Heart, and rejoice at the Thought of it; but O! my Soul trembles for the poor vain Creatures our Children, eſpecially our Two Eldeſt, Son and Daughter; I am certain they will but laugh at it, and deſpiſe it; they are run on too far, we ſhould have begun this when they were young: I know it by their Temper and Carriage in other things.
My Dear, it is our Duty to do it, and it is our Duty to make them obſerve it, and tho' they are too old to correct, yet I aſſure you, if I don't find a ready Compliance with it, I ſhall find ways to ſhow my Reſentment; for we have too long dallied with our Duty already, and as God will not be mocked by us, ſo we muſt not be mocked by our Children.
My Dear, I am moſt deſirous of the thing, only my Heart fails me in the Caſe of Succeſs.
We muſt do our Duty; if God will bleſs us in doing it, he will bleſs the Work too, and will cauſe ſuch an Awe of his Majeſty to go with the Performance, as that they ſhall not dare to deſpiſe it, or to ſhew any Contempt of us for it.
The God of Heaven give it ſuch a Bleſſing, if it be his Will! I go as willingly about it as you, but with many diſcouraging Thoughts for the Event; but however, I'll do all my Part according, to your Direction.
WHat a great deal of Work have thoſe People behind-hand, who do not begin to inſtruct and reſtrain their Children till they are too big for Correction! Folly that is bound up in the Heart of a Child, ſays Solomon, is driven thence by the Rod of Correction: But when it remains in the Child, and neither the Rod of Correction, or the Voice of Inſtruction is made uſe of to drive it out, [68] till the Child grows up to be a Man, it is very hard, nay impoſſible, but by a ſupernatural Aſſiſtance, to drive it out at all. What this Folly is, needs no Deſcription here, other than an allow'd Cuſtom in doing Evil, a natural Propenſity we all have to Evil; with this we are all born into the World, the Soul is originally bent to Folly; this Bent or Inclination muſt be rectified, or driven out either by Inſtruction, or if that proves inſufficient, by Correction; and it is to be done while the Perſon is young, while he is a Child, and then IT MAY be done. The Child may be wrought upon; Na⯑ture like ſome Vegetables, is malleable when ta⯑ken green and early; but hard and brittle when condens'd by Time and Age; at firſt it bows and bends to Inſtruction and Reproof, but afterwards obſtinately refuſes both.
The Temper of a Child miſled by Vice or Mi⯑ſtake, like a diſlocated Bone, is eaſie to be reduc'd into its Place, if taken in time; but if ſuffer'd to⯑remain in its diſlocated Poſition, a callous Subſtance fills up the empty Space, and by neglect grows e⯑qually hard with the Bone, and reſiſting the Power of the Surgeon's Skill, renders the Reduction of the Joynt impoſſible.
The Heart of the tender Youth, by forbearance of Inſtruction, grows opinionated, and obſtinately embraces the Follies he has been indulg'd in, not being eaſily convinc'd of the criminal Quality of what he has been ſo long allow'd the Practice of by his negligent Parents; and this renders late Inſtruction fruitleſs: THEN as to Correction, the Heart being hardned, as before, by Opinion and Practice, and eſpecially in a Belief that he ought not to be corrected, the Rod of Correction has a different Effect; for as the Blow of a Stripe makes an Impreſſion on the Heart of a Child, as ſtamping [69] a Seal does upon the ſoft Wax, the Reproof even of Words on the ſame Heart when grown up, and made hard, is like ſtriking upon Steel, which in⯑ſtead of making an Impreſſion on the Metal, darts back ſparks of Fire in your Face.
As this whole Work is chiefly deſign'd to con⯑vince Parents of the Neceſſity of beginning early the great Work of inſtructing and managing their Children, ſo two things will run more viſibly thro' every Part of it.
(1) For their Encouragement, the Examples of the eaſineſs and advantages of early Inſtruction will be ſeen: How ſoft! how pliable the Minds of little Children are! how like Wax they lie, ready to be moulded into any Form, and receive any Impreſſion, that the diligent Application of Parents thinks fit to make upon them! From whence alſo Parents are warned to be very careful, that by their Example or Negligence, thoſe firſt ſoftned Circumſtances of their Childrens Minds are not paſs'd over without ſuitable Applications, to forming them a right, filling them with Learn⯑ing and Knowledge, and with juſt Principles, both religious and moral; above all, that they receive no bad Impreſſions from the Practice of their Pa⯑rents, whoſe Example, eſpecially in Evil, takes ſuch deep Root in their Children, that nothing is more difficult to remove.
(2) For Warning, and ſerious Caution, by letting them ſee the dreadful Effects of the neglecting their Children when young; what Work it makes for Repentance in both; what breaches it makes in Families, when Neceſſity drives them to begin that Work late; what Treatment they are like to meet with from their Children; how theſe will think it hard to be inſtructed when grown up; count it impoſing upon them in their Parents, re⯑ject [70] the Arguments their Parents ſhall uſe; deſpiſe and contemn their Reproof; think themſelves paſt Correction, and turn their Backs not only upon all the Methods their Parents ſhall take with them, but even upon their Parents themſelves, when they attempt by Government and Diſcipline to retrieve the Error they have committed.
In this laſt Dialogue the Husband and Wife ap⯑pear ſenſible of their Miſtake this way, and the Difficulties they have before them in retrieving it, juſtly appear terrible, almoſt drive them to deſpair of the Succeſs, and to give over any Thoughts of the Attempt; in the ſubſequent Parts of this Work we ſhall find they were not miſtaken in the Proſpect they had of the Difficulty before them, or of the Obſtinacy and Oppoſition which they ſhould meet with from their Children.
As to their being ſo diſcourag'd as not to make the Attempt, the Husband argues wiſely, that it is not leſs their Duty for its having been delay'd; that it muſt be ſet about, let the Difficulty be what it will; and that therefore he is reſolv'd to attempt it, and if poſſible, to go thro' it, leaving the Succeſs to God.
This is a wiſe and Chriſtian Reſolution, and argues that the Convictions the Parent was under, were ſanctified by the Spirit of God, and carried on to effectual Converſion; for all Conviction of Sin that do not go on to Reformation and effectual Application to our Duty, are ineffectual Con⯑victions; like waking in a Dream, while the Heart is aſleep, when ſlumbering on, we fall into the ſame Dream again.
For the encouraging Parents to purſue theſe Convictions, and to hope for ſome ſucceſs in their Work, tho' begun late, and under ſome weighty Diſcouragements, the following Part of this Work [71] will ſhew how far he met with Succeſs in his Family Reformation and Inſtruction, as well as what Ob⯑ſtruction he met with from his Eldeſt Children, for all were not alike obſtinate and refractory as the Eldeſt were; and the Mother was but too true a Propheteſs of the Conſequence from their Ob⯑ſtinacy.
From the Diſcourſe between the Husband and Wife under their Convictions, may be ſeen ſomething of the Duty of ſuch Relations.
(1.) To communicate to one another their Griefs, and moſt inward Afflictions of Mind, as well as their common Diſaſters and Troubles of the World: This is one Part of the Duty of Husband and Wife to one another, tho' underſtood by few, meant and included in that Phraſe, AN HELP-MEET; and it is obſervable, that when ſuch near Relations do affectionately communi⯑cate to one another their Souls Concerns in ſuch a manner as I ſpeak of now, God is often pleas'd ſo variouſly to act in the Minds of ſuch by his Spirit, that they ſhall in their Turns be mutually able to aſſiſt, comfort, direct, and counſel one another: This, if it were well obſerv'd, would be very uſeful and encouraging to Chriſtian Relations in their moſt ſerious and reſerv'd Reflections; where they might take notice how that Party that is diſcou⯑rag'd and dejected to Day, and receives Support and Encouragements, Relief and Direction from the Counſel and comforting Aſſiſtance of the other, ſhall be reſtor'd and comforted, and perhaps enabled the next time to give the ſame Encourage⯑ment, Counſel, Advice and Comfort to the other, who may in like manner be ſunk under his own Fears and Temptations!
This I thought fit to recommend in the moſt earneſt Terms, and from juſt Experience, to the [72] Conſideration of Chriſtian Relations, as a uſeful Obſervation, in hope it may be improv'd by the Experience of others, to the Glory of God, and their own Comfort.
(2) The Duty of Parents may be ſeen here, as it reſpects the Neceſſity of ſetting about the great Work of Family-Reformation, however late, and whatever the Diſcouragements may be: The Father here expreſſes this affectionately to his Wife, Our Children, ſays he, may be ſtill loſt, notwithſtanding our Endeavour; but we are ſure to be loſt if we continue to neglect it.
From theſe Conſiderations the Father reſolves to ſet about the Work, and immediately gives his Wife an Account of the Method he propoſes to himſelf to go upon; in which Method, like a prudent Man, and good Chriſtian, he propoſes a ſerious mutual Humiliation to his Wife for their former neglect of their Duty, and a fervent praying to God for his Bleſſing upon their Endea⯑vours in their Family-Reformation.
Hence is intimated, and ſeriouſly recommended to Parents and Heads of Families, the great Work which is ſo much neglected, or rather ſo little regarded, of a Family joining in Confeſſion of thoſe Sins, I mean of Husband and Wife, which they have joined in the committing; would Hus⯑bands and Wives join ſeriouſly in humbling them⯑ſelves together before God, for thoſe Family-Sins which they have join'd in the guilt of, Family-Reformation would be ſet about with much more Earneſtneſs and Application than now we ſee it is, and many Obſtructions to it, which happen by our Willingneſs to excuſe our ſelves, would be removed.
From the manner of the Husband and Wife's Diſcourſe here, may be noted, That where thorough [73] Conviction works in the Mind, both Parties are, as it is here, forwardeſt to accuſe themſelves; whereas in moſt Family-caſes the Heads of Families ſeem always forward to ſhift off the Fault from themſelves, tho' they acknowledge the Error, ſee plainly the defect, and the Conſequences of it alſo in the Ruin of their Children; yet they are dili⯑gent, like Adam and Eve, in throwing the Guilt of it off from themſelves, either upon one another, or upon Accidents and Circumſtances, which they think may ſerve to excuſe themſelves; but if they were thoroughly touch'd with the thing it ſelf, with the Guilt of it upon themſelves, and the fatal Conſequences of it upon their Children, they would mutually own the firſt, and depre⯑cate the laſt, as our two Penitent Parents do here. Oh! I have ruin'd all my Children, ſays the Mo⯑ther. No, no, you have not ruin'd them, It is I have ruin'd them, ſays the Father; I have negle⯑cted my Duty to them, ſays the Father. But I have been the Cauſe of your neglecting your Duty, ſays the Mother.
Here is a compleat View for Parents, both of the Error, the Repentance, and the Reformation, the Diſeaſe, the Effects of it, and the manner of the Cure; and as theſe are the Foundation of what follows, ſo the following Dialogues are an Exemplification of moſt of the things contain'd in theſe Diſcourſes of the two Parents, and the Con⯑nexion of them will be taken notice of throughout the whole Work.
FOR the better underſtanding this Diſ⯑courſe, it is to be underſtood, that the Father and Mother, according to their Reſolution in the laſt Dialogue, had ſet effectually about the Reformation of their Family, and about proper Methods for reducing their Children to an Obedience to, and Sence of their Duty.
Their Children were moſt of them grown up, and had run a great length, they had been in⯑dulg'd in all poſſible Folly and Levity, ſuch as Plays, Gaming, Looſeneſs of Life, and Irreligious Behaviour; not immodeſt or diſhoneſt, That they were not yet arrived to; but they were bred up with Gayety and Gallantry, as being of good For⯑tunes and Faſhion; but nothing of Religion, more than juſt the common courſe of going to Church, which they did becauſe it was the Cuſtom and Faſhion, rather than with any other View; and being thus unhappily Educated, we ſhall find the Inſtruction they were now to bear, met with the more Oppoſition in them, and we ſhall ſee how it had a various Effect according to the different Temper and Conſtitution of the Children.
[75] Their eldeſt Daughter was about eighteen Years old, and her Mother, it ſeems, began with her firſt: Her Mother found it a very difficult matter to deal with her; for when ſhe came to tell her of laying by her fooliſh Romances and Novels, of which ſhe was mighty fond; leaving off her Patches and Play-Books; refuſing her going to the Park on the Sabbath-Days, and the like, ſhe flew out in a Paſſion, and told her Mother, in plain words, ſhe would not be hinder'd; ſhe was paſt a Child, ſhe would go to the Park, and to the Play, and the like, ay that ſhe would.
But the Mother, whoſe Reſolutions were too well fix'd, after ſuch an Occaſion as has been ſaid, to be conquer'd by her Daughter; having try'd ſofter Methods to no purpoſe, took her roundly to task, and told her, That as ſhe took thoſe Meaſures with her for her good only, and that ſhe could not ſatisfie her own Conſcience, to ſee her ruin'd Body and Soul together; ſo ſhe was reſolv'd to be obey'd, and that ſince ſhe would not comply by fair means, ſhe would take another Courſe; this Courſe, it ſeems, beſides other things which will appear in the following part of this Dialogue, was particularly, that it being then Sabbath Day, after they came home from Church, when her Mother began this Diſ⯑courſe, her Daughter call'd for the Coach to go to the Park, as their Cuſtom, it ſeems, had always been; but her Mother would not ſuffer her to ſtir out, and upon their being a little ſtubborn or re⯑ſolute, had uſed ſome little Violence with her in ſhewing her Reſentment, and threatned her with worſe, as will appear preſently.
Upon this Repulſe ſhe flings up Stairs into her Chamber, where ſhe ſat crying, when her elder Brother, whom the Father, it ſeems, [...]d not yet begun with, came to her, between which Couple begins the following Dialogue.
SIſter! what in Tears! what's the mat⯑ter now?
She cries on, but makes no Anſwer.
Dear Siſter! tell me your Grievance, I ſay tell me, what is it troubles you?
I won't; don't trouble me, I won't tell you, let me alone.
Prethee what is the matter, Siſter? Why, you will ſpoil your Face, you won't be fit to go to the Park; come, I came to have you go out, we will all go to the Park.
Ay, ſo you may if you can.
If I can! what do you mean by that? I have order'd Thomas to get the Coach ready.
It's no matter for that, I can aſſure you he won't do it.
I'll Cane the Raſcal if he don't, and that preſently too; come, do you wipe your Eyes, and don't pretend to go Abroad with a blubber'd Face.
I tell you, Thomas will not obey you, he is otherwiſe order'd; you will find, that neither you nor I are to go out to Night.
Who will have the Impudence to hinder us!
I have been hinder'd already; and my Mo⯑ther has told me in ſo many Words, I not only ſhall not go to Night, but never any more of a Sunday, tho' I think I ſhall fail her.
What does my Mother mean by that? not go to the Park! I muſt go, and I will go, as long as Sermon is done, what harm is there in't? I warrant you we will go, come get you ready, and wipe your Eyes.
You'll find your ſelf miſtaken in my Mo⯑ther, I'll aſſure ye; I told her I would go, as you do me, and ſhe was in ſuch a Paſſion with me, ſhe [77] ſtruck me, which ſhe never did in all her Life be⯑fore, and then read me a long Lecture, of the Sab⯑bath-Day, and being againſt her Conſcience, and I know not what, Things I never heard her talk of in my Life before; I don't know what ails her to be in ſuch a Humour.
Conſcience! What does my Mother mean by that! Why, have we not gone every Sunday to the Park, and my Mother always gone with us! What, is it againſt her Conſcience now, and ne⯑ver was againſt her Conſcience before! that's all Nonſenſe; I'll warrant you I'll go for all this new Buſtle you make about it.
I'd go with all my Heart, but I tell you ſhe is in ſuch a Paſſion you had better let her alone, it will but make her worſe.
Prethee don't tell me, I will go to the Park if the Devil ſtood at the Door; what, ſhan't I have the Liberty to go out when I pleaſe! Sure I am paſt a Boy, an't I!
I tell you, my Mother is very poſitive, and you had better let her alone, you will but provoke her; you may do as you will.
Not I, I won't provoke her at all, for I won't ask her; I'll go without her.
Then you will go without a Coach too; for I aſſure you, as I ſaid before, you won't get Thomas to go.
Then I'll take a Hackney, and go to the Mall.
Come, Brother, we had better let it alone for once; my Mother will be better condition'd another time, I hope this will be over.
Nay, I don't care, come let's read a Book then: Have you never a Play here? Come I'll read a Play to you.
Ay, what will you have?
Any thing.
Oh, Thieves! Thieves! I am robb'd!
Robb'd! What do you mean, Siſter?
All my Books are gone! they are all gone! all ſtole! I han't a Book left!
What, all your Books!
Every one, that are good for any thing; here's nothing but a Bible, and an old fooliſh Book about Religion, I don't know what.
I think, as you ſay, they are all gone! No, hold, here's a Prayer-Book, and here's the Practice of Piety; and here's the Whole Duty of Man.
Prethee what ſignify them to me? But all my fine Books are gone; I had a good Collection of Plays, all the French Novels, all the modern Poets, Boileau, Dacier, and a great many more.
What's the meaning of this!
I'll lay a hundred Pound this is my Mother.
I believe ſo too; I wiſh my Mother be not mad: This is horrid! What can my Mother mean!
What's the matter with my Siſter? What, is ſhe not well?
I don't know what's the matter very well, but my Mother has been ruffling her a little, and put her out of Humour.
What has ſhe done?
Why, She won't let her go to the Park; and when ſhe ſaid ſhe WOƲLD go, my Mother, ſtruck her, and we find ſhe has taken away all her Books; I can't imagine what the meaning of this is? I think my Mother is mad.
No, no, Brother, my Mother is not mad, if ſhe is mad, my Father is mad too; you won't want long to know what the Meaning of it is, for you will hear of it quickly too your ſelf, that I can aſſure you.
I hear of it! What, from my Father?
Yes, from my Father; he has told me his Mind already, and the Reaſon and Occaſion of it, and I know he is enquiring for you, to do the like.
He may talk what he will to me, but I'll do what I pleaſe for all that.
Hark! You are call'd juſt now; you will be of another Mind when you come back, I'll warrant you.
Never as long as I live.
If my Father's Reaſons do not perſwade him, I can aſſure him his Authority will, for he is reſolv'd upon the thing.
What thing is it, Brother? What is our Father and Mother a going to do with us: For my Part I cannot imagine what they mean!
Why really, Siſter, I find they have be⯑gun with the Youngeſt firſt; for my Father has been upon me, and my Mother has begun with my Siſter Betty, but you will have your Turn too.
I think my Mother has begun with me al⯑ready; for I was but humming over a new Song this Afternoon, tho' Church was done, and all over, and every body come home; but my Mother was [80] in ſuch a Paſſion with me, that I never had ſo many Words with her in my Life; ſhe would not let me go to the Park, and had much ado to keep her Hands off of me.
I heard ſhe was angry with you, but it ſeems, you anſwer'd her rudely.
I ſaid nothing but that I would go to the Park.
Well, but you told her you would go whether ſhe would or no.
Why, was that ſuch a Crime? And ſo I would ſay again.
Well, but if you did, you would not ſay it was well done, would you? And as it ſeems ſhe told you then, ſo I can ſatisfie you now, ſhe will not take it from you, nor none of us, as ſhe has done.
It may be ſo, and I have found. it otherwiſe already.
What, has ſhe not taken ſome Books out of your Cloſet?
Some! No, ſhe has only taken all my Books away.
I warrant ſhe has left your BIBLE and Prayer. Books, and ſuch as thoſe.
Ay thoſe! What does that ſignifie? She has taken away all my Plays, and all my Songs, and all the Books that I had any Pleaſure in.
Yes, I heard of it.
But I will have them again, or I'll lead her ſuch a Life ſhe ſhall have little Comfort of me.
Truly Siſter, you may fancy you may have them again; but I can ſatisfie you, moſt of them are paſt Recovery, for I ſaw them upon the Parlour-Fire before I came up.
THE FIRE! I'll go and pull them out before her Face.
Come Siſter, you had as good be eaſie, for I find both our Father and Mother are agreed in the thing; and I muſt own I begin to ſee they have reaſon for it: For my Part, I am inclin'd to ſubmit to all their Meaſures, for I think in my Conſcience we have all been wrong, and if my Father and Mo⯑ther ſee reaſon to have me alter my Conduct, and eſpecially when I am convinc'd it is for the better⯑too, I think it is my Part to ſubmit.
I'll never ſubmit.
Perhaps you will be perſwaded, when my Mother talks a little calmly to you; I believe my Siſter Betty is of another Mind already.
I have had talk enough already; my Mother tells me, I ſhall not go to the Park, nor to the Play houſe, nor patch, nor play at Cards, I think this is Talk enough; what does my Mother think to make a Nun of me.
No, I dare ſay ſhe does not.
No, and if ſhe does ſhe will be miſtaken, for I ſhall not be hinder'd of my Innocent Diverſions, let my Mother do what ſhe pleaſes.
But Siſter, I do not think you will find my Mother unreaſonable in what ſhe deſires, if you will but allow your ſelf Leiſure to think of it a little.
Unreaſonable in her Deſires! Prethee can you tell me what it is ſhe does deſire? For I can⯑not imagine what my Mother would be at.
As for my Mother, I cannot be particu⯑lar, but if you are willing to hear me, I'll tell you what my Father ſaid to me.
You may tell me if you will, tho' I don't much care, I won't be made a Fool of: What! I an't a Baby, to go to School again.
Why, look you Siſter, you may ſtand out if you will a great while, but I warrant, you muſt be content at laſt, for I do not ſee how you will help your felf.
I warrant you I'll help my ſelf.
Then you muſt renounce your Father and your Mother, and leave the Family; and I do not ſee what good that will do you, for I am ſa⯑tisfied my Father is reſolute.
Reſolute in what, prethee? What is it my Father would have? Does he think to make us all Fools? What is it he talks of?
I was going to tell you the ſhort Hiſtory of it, if you would have Patience:
"I not only liſtned very attentively to my Father's Diſcourſe, but looking ſteadily upon him, I thought I ſaw more than uſual Tender⯑neſs and Affection in him all the while he was ſpeaking; whenever he mention'd his having omitted his Duty to his Family, I thought I ſaw Tears ſtanding in his Eyes, and to hear him ſay, he begg'd God's Pardon for the neglect of it, brought Tears into mine; when he told me he would make us all amends for the future, it ſug⯑geſted to my Mind, that my Father ſuppoſed that this want of more early inſtructing us, who are his Children, was our Loſs as well as his Fault, and that we were not ſuch Children as we ſhould [84] have been if we had been better taught. I muſt own to you, Siſter, theſe Thoughts have ſince made a great Diſturbance in my Mind; I thought I ſaw the Two young Ladies at next Door, and their Brother too, look'd quite another Sort of People than we did; they appear ſo modeſt, ſo ſober, and yet ſo decently and genteely affable and pleaſant, that I think they live quite another Lite than we do: They never ſwear, nor uſe lewd and prophane Words in their Diſcourſe; they never ſit up all Night at Cards, or go a Vi⯑ſiting a Sundays, nor do a hundred fooliſh things that our Family makes a Trade of, and yet they live as merrily, comfortably, ſociably, and genteely as we do.
"I muſt own to you, tho' I have often laugh'd at them, and ridicul'd them before, yet my Thoughts often told me they liv'd a more ratio⯑nal Life than we did; and when I heard my Fa⯑ther talk thus, it preſently came into my Thoughts, That if my Father took the new Courſe with his Family as he talk'd of, we ſhould begin to be like them, and I thought that would be very well for us all.
"Well, after my Father had gone on thus, and paus'd a while, I ſuppoſe to hear whether I would ſay any thing to it or no; I told him, I would be glad to do any thing to anſwer his End, and de⯑ſired to know what it was he expected of me: My Father ſaid, The chief End of his Diſcourſe was then to convince me of the Reaſonableneſs and Neceſſity of an Alteration in my Life, and of the Advantages of a Religious Family, and of a ſober, religious Education, and for the reſt, if I was firſt ſatisfied of the general, he knew it would be eaſie to bring me to comply with all the Meaſures he ſhould take to bring it about.
[85] We had a great deal more ſuch Diſcourſe, but I told him I was very well ſatisfied that he deſign'd nothing but our Good, and I ſhould be ready to ob⯑ſerve all the Injunctions he ſhould lay on me; and truly Siſter, now I begin to reflect upon it, I find a great deal of Satisfaction in it; for, upon my Word, I think we have liv'd very odly all along, whether it were my Father's Fault or our own, I don't enquire; but if we knew no more, none of us; of the Town, than we do of Religion, we ſhould be a very unfaſhionable Family.
Prithee don't fill my Head with all this canting Stuff, I don't value it a Farthing.
Why, Siſter, have you no manner of In⯑clination to live Religiouſly, and like a Chriſtian, or to liſten to what your Father may ſay to you?
I think I am Religious enough in all Con⯑ſcience; and I don't intend to diſturb my Thoughts with any more Religion than needs muſt.
You talk wildly now; I hope you would be a good Chriſtian?
A Chriſtian! Why, what do you take me for, a Mahometan! I think I am a very good Chriſtian.
Why, ſuppoſe that too, yet if it were no more than that my Father deſires it, and ſays, he reſolves to have it ſo, you will hardly perſwade your ſelf not to ſubmit to him; you know beſides, that he is our Father, and we ought in Duty to obey him; and not only that, but he has been the kindeſt, tendereſt, obliging'ſt Father in the World TO ƲS, and it would be very ungrateful to ſhow your ſelf rude to ſuch a Father, as it would be wicked to diſobey him; I am ſure you would not be a Chriſtian if you ſhould.
Don't tell me, I think my ſelf as good a Chriſtian as any of you, but I won't be made a [86] Fool of, for all that; I had as live you ſhould think me no Chriſtian, as you ſhould think me a Fool; ſure I am paſt my Horn book!
And what, becauſe you are paſt your Horn-book, do you think you are paſt teaching! Have you nothing to learn but your A, B, C?
No, no, I'll learn any thing too, but I won't be taught to be a Hermit: if they have a Mind to breed me up for an Abbeſs, let them ſend me to a Monaſtery? I'd as live be in a real Cloiſter, as be Cloiſter'd up at Home, uſe none of your new Cant with me I tell you, Brother, my Mother may ruffle me as much as ſhe will, I'll have my own Way ſtill.
Siſter! Siſter! You may talk, and huff, and flounce about as much as you will, but you will have the worſt of it at laſt; for if both Fa⯑ther and Mother ſet upon it, as I find they are both of a Mind, they will conquer you at laſt; and perhaps it may mortifie you more than you think of.
I am not ſo ſoon conquer'd as my Father may think; if they won't let me be quiet at Home, I'll take another Method, I am not ſo much to ſeek.
Pray Siſter don't be angry with me for my Good-will, I'm not threatning you, nor my Father by me.
No, no, I won't be threatned neither; ſure! I'm too old for Correction.
But not for Advice, I hope, Siſter, nor for Inſtruction, and if my Father ſhould think you deſerv'd Correction, do you think there is no way for him to ſhow his Reſentment but laying his Fingers on you?
You may all do your worſt, I won't trouble my ſelf about it, 'tis in vain to threaten me.
Nay, Siſter, I think you are ſo above my Father's threatning you, that you talk as if you were threatning him; would you be willing my Father ſhould hear you?
You may tell him if you pleaſe.
Tho' that is very diſobliging, Siſter, yet I love you too well to go of that Errand, or to obey a Command that would be ſo much to your Prejudice.
I care not a Farthing if you did.
It is a Satisfaction to me that I know you will be of another Mind hereafter.
Not I, I defie you all, I'll go as far as my Legs can carry me, before I'll be confin'd, or made a Fool of.
Where-ever you go, I would have you take this Hint with you, That you leave your Reputation behind you, and eſpecially the Chriſtian will be left behind you.
Don't you trouble your Head about that, I ſhall take care of my own Reputation.
While it is in your own keeping, I hope you will, Siſter, but you talk fooliſhly enough of going away from your Father; if you once go out of your Father's Doors, take my Word for it, your Character is at every Body's Mercy.
For what, pray?
Why ſhould you ask, for what? Pray what will you ſay, or what would you have ſaid to any that ſhall ask you, or ask us why you are gone away from your Father? you won't venture to ſay, that you came away becauſe your Father was about to reform his Family? That you came away becauſe you would not ſubmit to be inſtructed by your Father! That you came away becauſe your Father and Mother would have you more Reli⯑gious than you were before! And if you will not [88] ſay that, pray what can you ſay, or what can any body ſay for you?
I warrant you I ſhall have enough to ſay; and as for what you or others ſhall ſay, you may ſay your worſt of me, I don't care.
Truly, the greateſt Misfortune will be, that when we ſay the worſt, we ſhall ſay the Truth, and that when we ſay the Truth, we muſt ſay the worſt of you that can be ſpoken; and upon that Ac⯑count I hope you will conſider what you do when you think of going from your Father's Houſe, tho' it were to the beſt Friend you had.
Indeed, if they put hard upon me, I ſhall make no Scruple of it.
I cannot tell what you will ſay then to bring your ſelf off: Pray, what do you call putting hard upon you? Will you call my Father's Deſire to reform your Life, a putting hard upon you? I hope you will firſt prove that he deſigns to preſs you to ſome wicked thing, ſome forbidden, unlawful Courſe; but to call my Father's Deſire to regulate your Conduct, and reform your Life, I ſay, to call this putting hard upon you, every body that hears it will reflect upon you.
No matter for that, I won't be confin'd, not I.
Not from the worſt Wickedneſs! Do you mean you will not be confin'd ſo?
I deſire no Wickedneſs, I don't know what you mean, I have never expos'd my ſelf yet, to be charged with any Wickedneſs.
But you will do it now, it ſeems, becauſe your Father requires you to be ſober.
Prethee what do you mean by ſober? I thick I am ſober enough, and want no more reforming than any of you; what would you have?
I am no way taxing your Sobriety; but ſhould be very glad you would encreaſe the Stock, and improve it, and I believe, my Father means no other.
Can't I be ſober as well with all my Books my Mother has taken away, as without them? What can you tax me with that is not ſober, that here is ſuch a Rout about it?
Dear Siſter! I do not find that my Father or Mother is inclin'd to tax you in particular any more than all of us, but all of us together, nay, even our Father and Mother themſelves have been neg⯑ligent, godleſs, and graceleſs; and if they now reſolve to repent, and turn, and to carry it after another manner, and to have us do the ſame, pray what taxing can you call this? Does not my Father ſay, he confeſſes he has been negligent, and has not done his Duty, as well as any of us? And what is all he deſires of us? But only, that as he begs Pardon of Almighty God for himſelf, ſo we ſhould ask the ſame for our ſelves; that as he reſolves to reform the Practice, ſo we ſhould do alſo; that ſo at laſt we may be a ſober Family, a reform'd Fa⯑mily, and may ſerve God for the future after an⯑other manner than we have done; pray where's the Hardſhip of all this?
Well, you may go on with your Reforma⯑tion, and Confeſſions, and all that, if you have a Mind; for my Part I'll have nothing to do with it, I'll let you all go your own way.
Well Siſter, I am ſorry for you; if you hold of this Mind, we are like to have a foul Houſe with you quickly, for I know my Father will go thro' ſtitch with what he has begun.
My Father may go on with what he will, I ſhan't hinder him; he may let me alone, and reform the reſt of you, can't he? I need no Reformation, as I know of.
I am not ſo ſorry for the Difficulty my Father will meet with, as for the Hazard you will run for your ſelf, and the Breach you will make in your own Happineſs; but here comes my Siſter Betty, I ſee by her Looks ſhe has ſomething to ſay upon the ſame Subject.
How long have you too been together?
A great while.
I ſuppoſe I know ſomething of your Diſcourſe, at leaſt, I gueſs at it by your looking ſo grave: Pray, how long have you been here?
I told you a great while; but ſince you would be anſwer'd particularly, I believe we have been here juſt as long as you have been with my Mother, for I know ſhe has been talking to you.
That's true, my Mother and I have been talking.
Talking! do you ſay? or Fighting?
Fighting! What do you mean, Siſter! Do you think I fight with my Mother!
No, but it may be your Mother may fight with you; why not with you as well as with your Elder Siſter?
My Mother never ſtruck me in her Life, and I never gave her any Cauſe that I know of.
That's more than I can ſay, and yet I think I never gave her any more Cauſe than you did.
If my Mother has ſtruck you, certainly you muſt ha' given her more Cauſe than I have done; for every body knows ſhe loves you to a diſtinction above every Child ſhe has.
I don't believe a word of it, nor do I deſire ſuch Love.
Well Siſter; but you may tell us a little how you like things, and what Diſcourſe my Mo⯑ther has had with you, for we all know the Subject already.
My Mother ſaid nothing to me but what I like very well, and am very willing to comply with.
I am very glad to hear you ſay ſo, I wiſh we were all of the ſame Mind.
I hope we ſhall; I think what ſhe propoſes is ſo rational, and the Reaſons of it ſo unanſwe⯑rably good, that I ſee no room to object againſt it in the leaſt, nor do I ſee any thing deſign'd in it all, but what is for our Good.
I am perfectly of your Opinion, and am glad to find you of mine; but here is my Siſter MARY quite of different Sentiments from us all.
And with a great deal of Reaſon, for ſhe has not been treated with the ſame Kindneſs that you have been treated with.
Wherein, pray?
Why, I ſuppoſe my Mother has not been in your Chamber, and rifled your Cloſet, and ta⯑ken all your choice Books, and your Plays, and your Songs, and your Novels, &c. and carried them away, and thrown them into the Fire.
No, no my Dear! For what my Mother ſaid to me was ſo affecting, ſo fully convincing, and ſo unanſwerable, that I immediately fetch'd them all down my ſelf, and put them into the Fire with my own Hands, before her Face.
A pretty complying, eaſie Fool, I war⯑rant ſhe kiſs'd thee, and call'd thee dear Child, and cry'd over thee, for thy Pains, did ſhe not, my Dear?
I am aſham'd to hear you talk ſo of my Mother, Siſter; ſure you ha'n't loſt your Manners, and Duty, as well as Reſpect, and Religion, Siſter! I beſeech you what is the Matter with you!
And have you really burnt all your Plays to pleaſe a Humour?
Indeed I have burnt them, but not to pleaſe a Humour; I have done it to oblige the beſt Mother in the World; and I have done it from a Senſe of its being very fit to be done.
A fine Child! And are not you a deal the wiſer for it; do you not repent it already?
No, Siſter! So far from repenting it, that I never did a thing in my Life that gave me more Satisfaction; and if it were to do again, I ſhould now do it with Ten times the Pleaſure I did it then; and if God give me Grace to keep my Re⯑ſolution, I never deſign to ſee a Play, or read a Play more.
Pretty Child! Thoroughly reform'd at once: This is a mighty ſudden Converſion, and may hold accordingly, I ſuppoſe, as moſt ſuch haſty things do.
It will hold, I hope, longer than your Ob⯑inacy againſt it.
When it has as good Reaſons, I may think ſo too.
I ſhall debate that with you hereafter, when you have heard the ſame Reaſons for it that I have heard.
Well, but come, pray let's have a few of your Reaſons juſt now, if you can ſpare them; pray, what harm is there in ſeeing or reading a Play? Is there any ſufficient Miſchief in them to juſtifie your burning them, and to juſtifie my Mother's uſing me about them as ſhe has done?
In the firſt Place, Siſter, the Time we have before us, compar'd to the Eternity that is to be prepar'd for, is ſo little, and ſo ſhort, that if it be poſſible to employ it better, there is none to ſpare for what has ſo little Good in it as a Play.
I have learnt a great deal of Good from a Play.
But might you not have learnt more from the Scriptures?
It may be not.
You would have been a bad Scholar then.
Well, and what's next?
In the ſecond Place, the little Good which you can pretend is to be found in them, is mix'd with ſo much Evil, attended with ſo much lewd, vicious and abominable Stuff, that no ſober Perſon will bear with the wicked Part for the ſake of the good Part; nor can any one juſtifie it, that the good Part is ſuch, or ſo great, that ſo much Hazard ſhould be run for it.
Very well; ſo you are afraid you ſhould be tempted when you go to the Play; I ſuppoſe that is becauſe you are ſo tempting your ſelf.
No Siſter, I am in no more danger, I hope; than another; but ſure, if I am to pray to God, as in the Lord's Prayer, Lead me not into Temptation, I muſt not lead my ſelf into it.
And is this all you have to ſay for throw⯑ing the beſt Collection of Plays the whole Town had, into the Fire?
I have many more Reaſons which I ſhall beſtow on you when you have anſwer'd theſe, but there is one more which I will beſtow upon you now, which you may give an Anſwer to before the reſt, if you pleaſe, viz. That it is my Mother's Deſire and Reſolution, that I ſhould do ſo; and that ſhe declares, it is againſt her Conſcience to permit me the uſe of theſe things as formerly; and therefore deſires, and in one kind commands, that I ſhould do thus, and I am bid in the Scripture many ways to obey; Children obey your Parents in all things, &c.
That is the beſt Reaſon you have given yet.
I think not, neither; for the other Reaſons are better, as they are drawn from the Nature and Authority of God, and this but from the Autho⯑rity of my Mother; which, tho' it is great, and ought to be very prevalent with me, and ever ſhall be ſo, yet not quite equal, or up to the Authority of him that made us all; nor will my Mother think hard that I ſay ſo.
Siſter, Indeed I think my Siſter Betty has fully anſwer'd you there.
Yes, yes, you are two fine new Converts.
Which I hope we ſhall never be aſham'd of.
Well, and pray what ſaid you to her about going to the Park a Sundays? Had you nothing to ſay about that?
Yes, yes, my Mother ſhewed her Diſlike of it, and ſaid it was a plain Violation of the Com⯑mands of God; I muſed a little while about it, and being convinc'd that it was ſo, I preſently reſolved never to go any more.
So; and you had not a Box on the Ear then as I had?
I gave my Mother no Occaſion for that, Siſter, as I underſtand you did.
No, no, You are a mighty good, obedient thing.
I am not aſham'd to own that I obey my Mother, and am willing to do ſo in every thing; eſpecially every thing that is right, more eſpecially in every thing that is for my own Good, and moſt of all, where my Duty to God joins with it; if you think it below you to do ſo, I am ſorry for it, I cannot follow you in that Example; for the Scri⯑pture ſays expreſly, Children obey your Parents in all things, much more where the Command of God, and the Command of our Parents concur together, as it does in this Caſe.
You preach nicely, Siſter; You ſhall marry a Parſon, and when you turn Quaker you ſhall be a ſpeaking Siſter.
Any thing rather than a Rebel to God and my Parents; break the Commandments of the firſt, and abuſe the Tenderneſs of the laſt.
You are mighty mannerly to your Siſter.
Much more to you, than you to my Mo⯑ther; I love my Siſter very well, but I know neither Brother or Siſter when they riſe up againſt my Mother, and that ſuch a Mother as ours is; who, I muſt tell you, Siſter, deſerves other things at your Hands; and unleſs you behave better, you will find the whole Family againſt you, as well as I, for every body ſays, you treated my Mother very rudely; the very Servants ſpeak of it with Abhorrence, and of you with Contempt; for every body muſt deſpiſe you if you carry it ſo to your Mother.
With all my Heart; if every body deſpiſes me, I'll deſpiſe every body, and ſo I'll be even with you all.
You'll be ſoon tir'd of that.
If I am, I'll bear my Affliction with Pa⯑tience.
You are like to be a Martyr in the worſt Cauſe that ever Saint ſuffered in; no doubt but you will ſuffer for Conſcience ſake; Two Excellent Points in Divinity you maintain, viz. Contempt of God, and Rebellion againſt your Parents: I wonder what Evil Spirit is your Inſtructor.
You are very pert, Madam, and ſhew abundance of Affection and Reſpect.
I follow your own Example ſtill, Siſter, but I'll be very honeſt to you, I'll neither have Reſpect nor Affection to you, or any body, that ſhall carry it to my Mother as you have done; I would not [96] load you, or add to your Sorrows, but no body in this Houſe can do otherwiſe, who have ſuch a Father, and ſuch a Mother as we have.
I have no Sorrow about it, and am reſol⯑ved I will have none.
I think the beſt way to deal with you, is to leave you; your Crime will be your ſufficient Puniſhment: But I muſt tell you before I go, which I ſhould have told you at firſt, that my Buſineſs was not to viſit you now, but to call you to my Fa⯑ther and Mother, who want to ſpeak with you in the Parlour, and where, I ſuppoſe you will hear more of it.
I won't go.
As you ploaſe, Siſter, for that; I have de⯑livered my Meſſage.
And you may carry that for an Anſwer.
No, Siſter, I'll have no Hand in your Mis⯑fortunes; beſides, I believe here comes another Meſſenger from them.
I am indiſpoſed, tell my Mother, I can't come, I am upon the Bed.
If you won't go, Madam, I doubt they will come to you.
Go you, and deliver your Meſſage.
And are you ſo reſolute againſt your ſelf, Siſter! Can nothing perſwade you to your own Good! Certainly you will be wiſer.
What would you have me do? What is the matter with you all?
Nay, Siſter, I am not fit to give you Advice, who are my Elder Siſter: but methinks you do not want Advice to go down to your Fa⯑ther, when you are ſent for.
I won't.
What ſhall I ſay to them? I dare not ſay you won't, for your own Sake.
Tell them, I an't well, can't you? That I am upon the Bed, and have ſhut my Door, and won't be ſpoke with; tell them any thing: Don't you ſee I an't fit to be ſpoke to?
As the Maid ſaid, I am certain they'll come up to you, for they know your Diſtemper; I would fain have you go down, I dare ſay, you will be treated very tenderly and kindly; Perhaps better than you can expect, eſpecially if you do not force them to treat you ill.
Yes! After they have burnt all my Books; robb'd me of what they knew was my Delight; refus'd me the Liberty of going abroad; and gi⯑ven me a Blow in the Face for nothing; now they'll treat me kindly, will they! I deſire none of their Kindneſs: I won't go.
Well, Siſter, then they muſt wait upon you, I ſuppoſe.
If they do, I won't ſpeak to them, She cries vehemently. or open the Door.
I hope you will alter your Mind, I'll leave you to think of it.
[98] THIS Dialogue needs no Obſervation, ſave on the different Temper between Children dutifully ſubmitting to Family-Government, and affectionately complying with their Parents juſt Deſires; and on the other hand, Children obſtinate⯑ly adhering to the Dictates of their Paſſions; and this will appear to every common Reader; be⯑ſides much of this firſt Part being Hiſtorical, and the Family known, I forbear farther Obſer⯑vations on the particular Conduct of the Perſons. The Deſign of this Work being rather to inſtruct other Families, than to reproach thoſe who may think themſelves concern'd: The Author leaves theſe Dialogues therefore without particular Re⯑marks, and leaves Room for abler Hands to anno⯑tate upon them hereafter, when the Perſons con⯑cern'd may be gone off the Stage, and then it may rather appear as a general Reproach to thoſe that are guilty, than a patticular Satyr upon Perſons or Families; and this he conceives will alſo tend more to the Uſefulneſs of the Work.
THE laſt Dialogue is a kind of a Sketch or Draught of the whole Family we are ſpeaking of. The Eldeſt Son and Daughter, as their Father and Mother had ſuggeſted, being grown up in a long allow'd Courſe of Looſneſs in Behaviour, all manner of Liberties having been given them; with⯑out any Family-Reſtraint, without Government, and rather encourag'd by their Parents, than li⯑mited either by Example or Command, prov'd, as might well be expected, very obſtinate and refracto⯑ry, eſpecially the Daughter, who being hot and in⯑ſolent, her Mother, at the firſt Attempt, was ſo provok'd as to uſe her ſomewhat roughly; The other Children, who were grown up, being alſo a Son and a Daughter, are not only brought to ſub⯑mit to the Reformation propoſed by their Parents, but embrace it with Willingneſs and Chearfulneſs, and make their Duty be their Choice, to the great Satisfaction of their Parents.
The following Dialogue is between the Father and Mother with their ſaid Sons and Daughters reſpe⯑ctively, and apart, which are the ſame that are referred to in the former Diſcourſes.
[100] The Mother, it ſeems began with her Eldeſt Daughter upon ſomething in her Behaviour about breaking the Sabbath, and this by the Imprudence of the Daughter, ended rougher than ſhe [the Mo⯑ther] deſign'd it.
The Father began with his Second Son, and find⯑ing him very tractable, proceeded to his Eldeſt Son, but met with great Difficulties and Diſcou⯑ragements in him.
The Mother found the Second Daughter ſenſibly affected with her Diſcourſe, and chearfully willing to ſubmit to her Inſtructions, which was a great Comfort to her, and encourag'd her to deal the better with her obſtinate Siſter.
Their other Children were younger, and rather to be govern'd by Authority than Perſwaſion. The Dialogue with the Eldeſt Daughter began thus: After Sermon, every Lord's Day, it had been their Cuſtom to walk abroad, or go to the Park, or a Viſiting, and ſo to wear off the Evening, and then come Home to Supper; but the Caſe be⯑ing now alter'd, the Father had let the Servants know they muſt all ſtay at Home, and had told his Younger Son, with whom he had diſcourſed in the Morning, that he would have no more going to the Park on the Lord's Day; but the Daughter had not yet heard of it, nor the Eldeſt Son, or if they had, they did not believe their Father was in earneſt; ſo that according to their uſual Cuſtom, they were preparing to go abroad, and the Son had bid their Coachman get ready to carry them out; the Mother perceiving the Daughter to be putting on her Gloves, calls to her thus:
WHat are you Dreſſing for, Child?
To go to the Park, Madam.
I would not have you go to Night, my Dear.
Why, Madam?
I have a Reaſon which I had rather tell you another time.
I muſt go, Madam, I have appointed Company.
Well, however diſappoint them for once at my deſire.
It's impoſſible, Madam, I can't do it.
O, the Impoſſibility is not ſo very great as you make it; I warrant you, you can excuſe it.
I never did ſuch a Thing in my Life; 'tis rude, Madam, to the laſt Degree, I cannot look my Lady Lighthead in the Face.
Lay the Fault on me, my dear, I'll bear the Blame.
I'll ev'n lay the Fault on no body, nor ask any body Pardon, but go my ſelf.
I wonder, Child, you ſhould force me to the Neceſſity of telling you, that you muſt not go.
Why, Madam, I muſt go; I can't put it off.
But I tell you, Miſtreſs, ſince you will be put off no other way, you ſhall not go.
Shan't I?
No, you ſhan't.
But I will go.
I never thought to have had ſuch Language as that from you Daughter, and I aſſure you I ſhall not take much of it.
Why ſhould not I go out then, as well now as at another time?
Why, Daughter; ſince I muſt come to Par⯑ticulars with you, I aſſure you, that you ſhall not [102] only not go to the Park to Day, but never any more of a Sabbath-Day, as long as I have the trou⯑bleſome Office of being your Mother.
What have I done, to be uſed ſo?
Nothing more than the reſt, nor was I bla⯑ming you; but you have been all guilty of propha⯑ning the Lord's Day; and to the beſt of my Power you ſhall do it no more.
Why, han't you done it your ſelf? And have you not always gone with us?
Tho' that is very unnatural, and unman⯑nerly in you, to reproach me with it; yet I confeſs, it is but too juſt upon me, and I deſerve it; how⯑ever, I pray God forgive me, that I have done it, and eſpecially, that I have let you all do it; well may you upbraid me with it, and I deſire to be aſhamed that you have had my Example to encou⯑rage you to it; but it is the more my Duty to re⯑form it, and I expect your Compliance with the more Willingneſs.
I ſee no harm in it, not I.
What, not on the Lord's Day!
No, As long as Sermon is over, and Church is done.
Why, does not the Commandment ſay, Remember the Sabbath-Day to keep it holy, and therefore God bleſſed the Sabbath-Day, and HAL⯑LOWED it.
Why, don't I keep it Holy enough? don't I go to Church every Sunday?
Well, and do you think that the Sabbath-Day is over when you have been at Church?
Over! Why, what would you have us do after we have been at Church?
I ſhall take a Time to let you know, what is your Duty on the reſt of the Day; but I did not deſign to talk of that now, nor of this neither, [103] if you had not mov'd me to it by your undutiful Language.
I don't trouble my ſelf about it.
Unſufferable Inſolence! Have I been telling you of the Command of God to keep holy the Sab⯑bath Day, and of my Reſolution to do it my ſelf, and to cauſe you to do it, and do you deſpiſe God and your Mother at this rate! It is not to be born with.
Your Contempt of your Mother I place to my own Account; but for your Contempt of your Maker Takes that on God's Account.
Ha! Is it come to that!
Only take this with you in your Fury, That I'll have no going out of door.
But I will, for all this.
I adviſe you to provoke me no farther.
You have done your worſt.
Theſe are the curſed Roots from whence this bleſſed Fruit grows up! Here her Sabbath-Days [104] Study! and the Bait to all her Pleaſures! Theſe ſhall be the firſt Sacrifice to the beſſed Re⯑ſolution I have taken of reforming my Family.
This little Adventure being over, and the Mo⯑ther having compoſed herſelf, ſhe ſends for her Second Daughter, about Fifteen Year Old, and begins the following Dialogue with her.
Child, Where are you? What, are you beſpoke to Night too?
No Madam, who ſhould beſpeak me?
Why, your Siſter, to go to the Park.
No indeed, Madam, I know nothing of it, and if ſhe had, I have no Inclination to it.
How ſo?
I don't know, but I never cared for it a Sundays, but when you go, and every body, and then I muſt.
Dear Child, don't cut me to the Heart, by telling me of my going! Your Siſter has upbraided me with it juſt now, in her Fury, but your inno⯑cent Way of telling me of it, ſinks deeper ſtill.
Ʋpbraid you, Madam! It's impoſſible! I hope my Siſter is not gone mad; ſure you won't call my ſpeaking ſo, upbraiding you with any thing, I abhor it.
But, my dear, I upbraid my ſelf with it.
God forbid I ſhould do it, dear Mother; u t was there any harm in your going?
Only the wickedeſt thing in me, that I was capable of doing; eſpecially, as it was an Example to you, my dear, and to your Brothers and Siſters,
But if it was a wicked thing, Mother, it was ſo in me too, was it not?
Moſt certainly.
I cannot tell what it was, but I had al⯑ways ſome Uneaſineſs when I was out at the Park, or a Viſiting on the Sabbath-day; but I conſider'd my Mother was with me, and ſure it could not be wrong THEN, and that carried me on; but, dear Mother, do not call this upbraiding you with it; it would break my Heart to have you think ſo.
I don't, my dear; but I cannot help upbraid⯑ing my ſelf with it, though no body in the World was to upbraid me with it; for I have run the riſque of ruining thee, my dear, and all the reſt of my Children, both Soul and Body, and I am afraid ſome of them are quite ruined already.
I won't be one of them, Mother; I'll do any thing you ſhall direct me to.
I would be glad to direct you for the beſt, my dear, but the Work has been ſo long neglected, I am almoſt diſcouraged, and know not where to begin, or how to hope for Succeſs.
Why, dear Mother, I hope I am not ſo hard to be inſtructed, or ſo backward to learn; I am ſure I am willing to change my courſe of Life for a better, not only out of Obedience to you, as you are my Mother, but out of meer Inclination and Choice; for I have often thought we were not in the Way to do our ſelves good, and that the Life we led, was not as it ſhould be.
I thank God for that Foundation laid in thee, my dear, and hope the Rules for Amendment will be the more agreeable.
Dear Mother, all your Rules ſhall be agreeable to me, but more eſpecially, ſuch Rules as ſhall deliver me from the Evil of an irregular Life; ſure I cannot be ſo ungrateful as to neglect the Directions you ſhall give, ſo much to my own Advantage.
My dear, It is true, that bare Amendment of Life is not all the Duty that is before us; it is not enough that we forbear the Follies which we have ſo long committed, but we muſt perform the Duties we are commanded; a Chriſtian's Life conſiſts, as well in diſcharging commanded Duties, as in avoiding forbidden Evils, BOTH muſt be done, and BOTH ſubmitted to chearfully.
I have been uneaſie a great while, at the Life we live; I always thought it was not right; but I did not know what Courſe to take to alter it, nor what I ought to do, or not to do; beſides, I thought if I ſhould refuſe going to the Play, and refuſe going abroad on the Sabbath-day, I ſhould an⯑ger you, Madam, for I always found you were for them, and yet I cannot ſay I took any Pleaſure in them; but ſaw other Families did not do ſo, and I thought they look'd ſoberer, and liv'd better than ours; I thought my ſelf in Heaven laſt Winter, when you let me ſtay at my Aunt's a few Weeks.
And yet theſe are the very things your Siſter calls the Pleaſure of her Life.
Much good may they do her.
And puts ſo much Value upon them, that ſhe will affront her Mother at any time, rather than deny herſelf the leaſt Satisfaction of that kind.
She ſhall have all my Share in the Pleaſure at a very low Price.
Indeed, ſhe provoked me juſt now to the higheſt Degree; when I ſaw her preparing to go to the Park, and deſired her to put it off; ſhe told [107] me, 'twas impoſſible, and her Honour was engag'd; becauſe, forſooth, ſhe had made an Appointment to meet the young Lady Lighthead.
Her Honour engag'd! What, her Ho⯑nour engag'd to break God's Commandments! Sure, Madam, you did not tell her, as you do me, of the fourth Commandment, Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day.
Yes, I did ſeveral times; and when, at laſt, I added my own Authority, and told her, ſhe ſhould not go, ſhe told me flat and plain, ſhe would go.
I am amaz'd!
Nay, I ought not to wonder; for when ſhe had laugh'd at its being a breach of God's Command, how could I expect ſhe would lay any weight upon mine?
It is impoſſible! Certainly ſhe could ne⯑ver do it in Contempt of the Commandment; ſhe muſt rather pretend it was Lawful, and that it did not break the Command.
No, my dear, no body breaks the Com⯑mandments of God avowedly, and obſtinately, as God's Command; no body is ſo abbſurdly wicked as to ſay, I will break God's Commandments in defi⯑ance of him; but ſhe pretended there was no harm in it, becauſe Sermon was done; as if God, who hallowed the Sabbath-day, had only hallowed ſo much of it as was taken up in the publick Worſhip, and no Part of the Sabbath was to be kept holy but the Sermon time.
That's the Divinity of the Day, Madam.
Nay, and which is ſtill more ridiculous, as if one Part of the Day being dedicated to the beſt things, the worſt were to come juſt in the Heels of them; I muſt own, I think People had better open their Shops as ſoon as Sermon is done, and fall to their Buſineſs every Sabbath Evening; for ſure it [108] would be leſs Sin to ſpend the Day in Lawful Em⯑ployments, than in Sports and Recreations. Wor⯑ſhip and Diverſion is putting the Two Extreams next to one another; and it ſeems a Contempt of the Day, to ſet one piece of it apart for the beſt things, and the other for the meaneſt, for Recreation is the meaneſt lawful thing that can be done; but your Siſter thinks her Pleaſure the reaſon of her Life, and the end-for which ſhe was born.
Then ſhe ſeems to be born for very little Purpoſe; I hope I am born for ſomething elſe, Madam.
Yes, ſhe thinks ſeeing and reading Plays, Company, Viſits, the Park, and the Mall, ſuch material Points of Life, and ſo eſſential to her Happineſs, that ſhe will not only contradict my Authority, but God's Command, rather than not enjoy them.
I know Plays and Romances have been too much my Siſter's Study, and mine too, but I con⯑feſs I ſee nothing in them now ſo diverting as I have thought of them; but if I did, if I thought it was diſpleaſing to you, Mother; more, if I thought it was an Error, or an Enemy to Religion and Virtue, I would ſoon let you ſee what my real Value for them is.
How dear they are to your Siſter, you will know to her juſt Reproach, when you come to hear how ſhe treats me for taking them from her; and how dear they are to me, you may gueſs by my having put them into the Fire juſt now.
I am ſorry for my Siſter; and eſpecially, dear Mother, that you ſhould meet with ſo much Affliction in your Children; but depend upon it, Madam, you ſhall meet with nothing from me; to add to it; and as to Play-Books and Novels, I hope, if they were no way offenſive on a Religious Ac⯑count, I could ſacrifice them all to give Satisfaction to my Mother.
My dear, can you do ſo!
I'll ſoon put you out of that Doubt, Madam, if you'll have Patience till I fetch them.
Well, how ſaid my Husband to me, that if we bgan this Work heartily, it would perhaps be bleſſed and ſucceeded from above beyond our Ex⯑pectation! How does this dear Child cloſe chear⯑fully with the very firſt Notion of a Reformation! Who knows, but God in time will mollifie the Ob⯑ſtinacy of her Siſter! This ſhall, however, encou⯑rage me to go on with my Work; to continue in⯑ſtructing and exhorting her, and not deſpair of a Bleſſing, tho' the Difficulties, by reaſon of a long Delay and Neglect, have been doubled upon me.
Here, Madam, is the willing'ſt Sacrifice ever I made in my Life.
And do you do this freely, my Dear!
With more Pleaſure, Madam, than ever I read them, and I reſolve them to the Fire.
I think, my dear, thou art the only qua⯑lified Perſon to be truſted with them; becauſe if there be any ſuch thing as good in them, which I will not ſay there is, thou alone art able to pick it out without touching, or being tainted with the bad; of taſting what has any Reliſh, without being ſoil'd with the Dirt, or infected with the Diſeaſe of the other.
Well, Madam! but were I ſo capable, I am not above being entic'd; and beſides, other of my Brothers and Siſters may my Example their Rule, or may claim to uſe them, tho' in my [110] Poſſeſſion; I had rather have them follow my Si⯑ſter's, and therefore make it my Deſire, Madam, in order to put an Argument into your Mouth from my Example, that I may put them all into the Fire with my own Hand.
The Bleſſing of thy Father and Mother be upon thee, my dear Child! Thou haſt made my Heart rejoice, that was almoſt ſunk before, for fear leſt all my Children were irrecoverably loſt, by my neglect of their more early Inſtruction.
My dear Mother! I am happier in that Bleſſing, than in all that ever you gave me before.
What wilt thou ſay, my Dear, to thy Siſter, when ſhe hears of it?
Nay, Madam, what will my Siſter ſay to me, when ſhe ſhall know that I have heard how ſhe us'd my Mother for a few Ballads and Play-Books!
She will mock and flout at thee, my dear.
Then I'll pity her, Madam, for I am ſure ſhe is in a worſe Condition than I; I have your Bleſſing and Affection, Madam, which I value above all the World, and ſhe has a heap of Plays and Novels in the room of it.
My Bleſſing, my dear! Alas, what is that! May He be thy Bleſſing, whoſe Bleſſing maketh rich, and adds no Sorrow to it; if God gives thee Grace to go on, thou wilt be a Bleſſing to me, ra⯑ther than I to thee; for I have been the Ruin of you all, and have brought you into the danger of be⯑ing never recall'd for want of inſtructing you before.
Dear Mother! do not load your ſelf with that; I hope it is not too late for us to learn now.
It is very late, my dear, very late! and what would have been eaſily taught, and eaſily learnt before, will be hard now both ways; I fear, my Dear, you do not ſee what other things are neceſſary to be done.
What things are they, Madam?
Why, my Dear, on our Part, thy Father and I, we muſt ſet up a Family-Government en⯑tirely new: We muſt be angry now at what we were pleas'd at before, and pleas'd now with what we were angry at before: What we laugh'd at, and made a Jeſt of in our Children before, we muſt now mourn over, and correct them for: What we not only allow'd to be done, but even did our ſelves before, we muſt forbid now: What we ac⯑counted pleaſant before, muſt be frightful now; and what we delighted in before, muſt be dreadful to us now: IN SHORT, every Part of our Go⯑vernment, or of our Children's Obedience, muſt be alter'd. O the Task that I have to go through! O the difficulty of a late Reformation in a Family!
I cannot underſtand what all this mighty Change muſt be, Madam, or wherein there will be ſo much Difficulty; ſure none of the Family can be backward to liſten to ſuch Directions as you will give them; will any of my Brothers and Siſters be againſt being made better; or render your Task difficult, when it may be made ſo eaſie, and when ſo much for their own good? I am ſure I will not, Mother.
I know the Mortification muſt be great on your Side too, I mean, all of you; it is not an eaſie thing to bring Children off from their Levities, and Pleaſures, which are become ſo Natural to them, by a long uninterrupted Allowance of their Parents and Governours; nay, it is not eaſie for Children themſelves to bring their Humours and Inclinations, Fancies and Paſſions, off from the Pleaſures of Life; which perhaps they have, as all mine have, had an unreſtrain'd Enjoyment of; the Work is very hard, my dear.
I believe it will not be half ſo hard to me to deny my ſelf any, or all of thoſe Diverſions, and criminal Enjoyments you ſpeak of, Mother, as to guide my ſelf to thoſe things which are neceſſary to be done, or engag'd in afterwards.
My dear, a Religious Converſation is not the eaſieſt thing in the World.
But, I believe it is the pleaſant'ſt thing in the World, Mother.
Child, I wonder to hear thee ſay ſo, for thou haſt never ſeen any thing of it at Home.
'Tis true, I have not at Home, but I have abroad, Madam; when you ſent me to my Aunt's, where you know I was Nine or Ten Weeks; I thought I was in Heaven there, to what I was at Home; every thing there was ſo ſober, ſo pretty, ſo grave, ſo exact, and ſo regular, and yet ſo chearful, ſo pleaſant, ſo innocently merry, and withal, ſo pious, and ſo religious, that I thought nothing ſo happy in my Life; nor did I ever ſpend ſo many Weeks ſo well in my Life.
Child, Your Aunt is a Diſſenter, you know.
But Madam, My Uncle is a Churchman; and let them be which they will, I ſee no difference in their Converſation, they all agree to be a re⯑ligious, ſober, pious Family: The Children are all under ſuch Government! do all things ſo pret⯑tily, and their Behaviour is ſo agreeable; they love one another ſo entirely, and enjoy one another ſo perfectly, that I believe they are the Pattern of all the Town: My Ʋncle every Night and Morning calls them all together to Prayers: My Aunt takes all her Daughters together once a Day, and makes one of them read a Chapter, and then ſhe ſays any thing ſhe finds occaſion to ſay to them, by way of Reproof or Direction; and I obſerv'd when I went [113] up Stairs at Night, not one of my Couſins would go to Bed, till they had retir'd into their Cloſets to their Prayers by themſelves.
Poor Child! That was a ſtrange way of Life to thee I believe.
I thought it ſtrange, indeed, at firſt, but I was ſoon able to recollect my ſelf, and was aſham'd to let them know, that I thought it ſtrange, much leſs that I did not do ſo my ſelf.
Poor Child! If thou had'ſt been taught, as well as they, thou would'ſt have done ſo too.
Indeed, Madam, as I was almoſt left alone, I could not but ſay my Prayers too; and this kind of Life began to be ſo pleaſant and agree⯑able to me, that I never enjoy'd my ſelf like it in all my Life.
And did'ſt thou not think thy Father's Family a kind of Hell, when thou cam'ſt home again, my dear?
No, Madam, I confeſs it was odd at firſt, when, inſtead of a regular Family, I came Home to all manner of Looſneſs, and Liberty; but it ſoon began to be Natural to me again, and I for⯑got my good Aunt's Inſtructions, ay, and my Uncle's too, who us'd to ſay a great many good things to me, and give me a great deal of good Advice.
How ſeldom is good Inſtruction loſt, or thrown away! I am perſwaded the little good Advice they gave thee, was the Foundation of that Willingneſs to be govern'd and reform'd, which appears in thee now; my Bleſſing on her Heart for doing thee ſo much good!
I believe it has done me no harm, Madam.
How then would good Inſtruction have wrought upon thee, if I had begun it Ten or Twelve Year ago!
Dear Mother, I hope it is not too late.
Well, my dear, how do they ſpend the Subbath at your Aunt's? Not as we do, I dare ſay!
No indeed, Madam, after quite another Faſhion: The young Ladies are oblig'd to be down Stairs half an hour after Nine in the Morning, ready dreſs'd; then my Ʋncle calls to Prayers; and ſoon after, they go all away, either to the Church, or to the Meeting houſe; but whichſoever it is, they are almoſt ſure to meet together after Sermon, ſometimes at the very door, and then Children and Servants, not one ſtirs from Home: In the Evening my Uncle calls them all together, reads to them in ſome good Book, and then ſings Pſalms, and goes to Prayers; when that is over, they go to Supper, then they ſpend an Hour perhaps or two in the moſt innocent, and the moſt pleaſant Diſcourſe and Converſation imaginable; it is always about ſome⯑thing Religious; and then every one retires to their Appartments, and the young Ladies ſpend their Time in their Cloſet Devotions, till they go to Bed.
The Sons, you know, Madam, are grown up, and thoſe young Gentlemen are the very Picture of their Father; ſober, virtuous, religious, and modeſt, and yet are really Gentlemen, and behave themſelves as much like Gentlemen as any Men do: Dear Mother, when I came home, and heard my Brother damn the Coachman, and curſe the Maids; when I heard the Noiſe, the Clamour, the prophane Words that our Servants have in their daily Converſation, it amaz'd me; I thought at firſt, all Gentlemen had been like my Brother, but I was ſoon convinc'd when I had been a while at my Aunt's.
All this, my dear, is the Conſequence of the Difference of Education, and all ſignifies, my [115] dear, that your Aunt has done her duty, and I have not done mine; nothing elſe has made the difference indeed, God's Grace excepted.
Dear Mother, do not afflict your ſelf with what is paſt, ſure none of us will be ſuch re⯑fractory Creatures, as to reſiſt your good deſign of reforming us now.
O it's too late to bring your Brothers to any Government now.
I hope not, Madam; if they are grown up, and thereby may think themſelves paſt Govern⯑ment, yet ſure they are not paſt Perſwaſion: They may want Judgment when little, and are then rather to be taught by Compulſion and Correction; but as they are now Maſters of more Reaſon, ſo they will the ſooner ſubmit to the Affectionate Perſwaſions of a tender Father and Mother; eſpe⯑cially in a thing ſo apparently and convincingly for their own good, Soul and Body.
I have a great deal of reaſon to fear the con⯑trary, as well in your Siſter as in your Brothers.
I think my Siſter is paſſionate, and very fond of Pleaſure and Gayety; but, Madam, Time and your Authority, I hope, will prevail upon her to reflect upon her own Intereſt as well as Duty.
Go to her, my dear, and ſee if you can work any thing upon her.
Alas Madam! I ſhall be a very ſimple Inſtructor to her, who thinks her ſelf ſo wiſe! She reckons me but a Child, fitter to come to School to her.
A leſs Child than you, my dear, has been my Inſtructor; why may not you be hers.
I'll viſit her, Madam; but I queſtion whether ſhe will ſpeak to me, for I know ſhe is in a great Paſſion.
Well, go, and bid her come down into the Parlour, here's your Father a coming; tell her your Father and I want to ſpeak with her.
Yes, Madam.
THIS Dialogue chiefly diſcovers the Diffe⯑rence of Two Families; One religiouſly Edu⯑cated, faithfully Inſtructed and Taught both by the Care and Example of the Heads of the Fa⯑mily; the other abandon'd to the Guſt of their own Inclinations, and let looſe in the Purſuit of their Pleaſures, without any Regard to their preſent Duty, or future Happineſs.
The Benefit the young Lady receiv'd in the Religious Family of her Aunt, and the Effects of it, ſhow us, 1. How pleaſant a Religious Life, when duly conform'd to, and willingly comply'd with, appears to be; and, 2. What convincing Force it has in it, even upon the Minds of thoſe who have no Part in it themſelves.
WHILE the Mother was thus managing her Daughters, the Father was as much engag'd with his Two Sons, and his Hard⯑ſhips were every jot as great as the Mother's, and his Encouragements the ſame too.
It is to be obſerv'd here, that the Difficulty in this Part of Education of Children, does not lie ſo much in the Queſtion what to teach them, and what Principles of the Chriſtian Religion to go upon, as to bring them by Reaſoning and Argu⯑ment to be teachable; to perſwade them that they have any Occaſion to learn, or that any are ca⯑pable of teaching them, and to cauſe them to ſub⯑mit to Inſtruction in general.
The Father call'd his Second Son up to him on a Sabbath Day in the Morning, before he came down Stairs, and taking him into his Cloſet, be⯑gan this Dialogue with him: The Son you are to ſuppoſe had been bred a Gentleman, and a Scholar, was about Seventeen Years of Age, and was newly come from the Univerſity.
[118] The Father begins thus:
SON, I ſuppoſe you know what Day this is.
Yes, Sir.
But, perhaps you do not know that not you only, but all the Family, my ſelf not excepted, have never taken a due Notice of the Sabbath-day, or of the Manner in which we ought to behave on that Day: The Duty appointed for the Day has been too much neglected; above all, the great Duty of ſetting it apart for the Worſhip and Service of God, and keeping the Sabbath-day Holy.
I remember the fourth Commandment, Sir.
Yes, We can all repeat the Commandments by rote, and do every Day at Church ſay them over and over; but the little Regard we have ſhown to them in the Week, is too plain a Proof of our thinking but little of what we ſay; for, God knows, in my Houſe, there has been little Difference be⯑tween a Sabbath-day and another Day, unleſs it be, that the Sabbath-day has been ſpent the worſt of the two; for excepting our juſt going to the Church, which alſo is made a meer Diverſion, and a kind of Entertainment, all the reſt is ſpent in meer revelling, feaſting, viſiting, and either riding abroad, or Mirth and Gayety at Home; and this is ſo Notorious, more in my Family than in any other, that I am ſenſible it is high time to put a Stop to it, and I deſign to tell you all my Mind this Evening, that the Reformation may be effectual: I hope none of my Children will oppoſe their own Good.
I hope not, Sir.
Nay, if they oppoſe me never ſo much, I am reſolv'd of this; if they will be fooliſh and wicked, they ſhall be fooliſh and wicked for themſelves, not [119] for me, or for any body elſe; for my part, when I look back upon my Family, and conſider how we have liv'd hitherto, I wonder that the Judgments of God have not diſtinguiſh'd my Family, and made us as publick, and as much the Amazement of the World for our Puniſhment, as we have been No⯑torious for our Sin; and therefore if it were only for the Fear of the Hand of Heaven, tho' I hope I act from another Principle too, I think it concerns me to ſet about a Family Reformation with all poſſible Diligence and Application.
Indeed I never conſider'd it, Sir, till of late, but for ſome time paſt I have begun to ſee, we have not been right: It is true, we do not live as other Families do, and I have often thought ſo, but perhaps not with ſo much Concern as I ſhould have done.
Well, Child, my Deſign of altering it will be ſo much the more agreeable to you then, when you come to practiſe it.
If it were not, Sir, it ſhall be the more agreeable to me if it is your Command.
I would not command any thing that ſhould not be agrreable, if it were not abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary; but in things indiſpenſibly our Duty, the Humours of any Side are of no weight at all: The Duty muſt be conſidered, rather than the In⯑clination of thoſe who are to perform it.
I am not only inclin'd to obey it, for its be⯑ing your Command, Sir; but my own Inclination concurs to ſet about any thing that will rectifie my Life, and teach me to govern my ſelf according to my Duty.
What you ſay, Child, is very obliging, as it relates to me, and as I have always ſhow'd you by my own Conduct in your Education, that I have entertain'd a particular Affection to you more [120] than to the reſt of your Brothers and Siſters, ſo this Return is ſo very pleaſing to me, that I cannot but tell you I will not forget to ſhew it you; and that I think my ſelf very highly engag'd by it to diſtinguiſh you in my Affection, and in my Con⯑cern for you, as you have diſtinguiſh'd your ſelf in your Duty and Regard to me on this Occaſion; but the Readineſs you ſhow to this Work of Re⯑formation, from an Inclination to the thing it ſelf, is a Particular which I rejoice in, and love you for, with an Affection which I was not Maſter of before? But, tell me Child, whence came this In⯑clination? How firſt came any Thoughts into your Mind about it? I am ſure I have never before ſpo⯑ken a Word about Religion to you in my Life.
I won't ſay ſo, Sir.
Ay, but I have too much Cauſe to ſay ſo; and I am convinc'd I have not only fail'd of my Duty, for which I heartily beg Pardon of Almighty God, but have been injurious to you, Child, and to all my Children, in not furniſhing you with the Knowledge of your Duty when you were Young, and giving you early Inſtruction, by which much of the Follies of your Lives might have been pre⯑vented, all the Time you have now miſpent had been ſav'd, and you had all been long ago what now, I doubt, you will not obtain without great difficulty to me and your ſelves.
I am ſorry to ſee you afflict your ſelf, Sir, about that; I hope it ſhall not be too late ſtill.
But, if not too late, the Work is double, the Task hard, the Attempt almoſt deſperate, and the Succeſs very doubtful.
Dear Sir, You ſhall have no Difficulty with me; I am entirely reſolv'd to be guided by your Inſtructions, to follow your Rules, obey your Dictates, and ſubmit wholly to your Direction, [121] let the Difficulty be what it will to me; and therefore I only deſire to know what the firſt Steps are you would have me take.
The firſt Steps, my dear, are the breaking off the ill Practices of our Family, and the regulating the Houſe by the Rules of Virtue, Sobriety, and a Chriſtian Life, things we have all been Stran⯑gers to here.
This, Sir, is that which I told you before I had an Inclination to formerly, and 'tis with a great deal of Pleaſure I ſhall cloſe with all your Schemes of that kind; becauſe it is ſome time ago ſince I have ſeen and obſerv'd, that as I thought we did not live like Chriſtians, but rather like Heathens; and that other Families were quite an⯑other Sort of People than we; and I could not but be in love with them, and weary of ours: For I cannot but think, that Nature it ſelf dictates to a Man of Senſe, that a Life of Virtue and Sobriety is more agreeable to us, as Men, than a vicious, wicked, profligate Courſe, which ever, not only ruins the Eſtate, the Conſcience, the Health, and the good Name of the Perſon, but even his Repu⯑tation as to the World alſo.
I was asking you before what firſt rais'd theſe juſt Reflections in you, my Dear, for as I acknowledged then, I ſay again, I own thou art not beholding to me for them.
The firſt Hints I had of this kind, Sir, were a great while ago, from ſome accidental, Conver⯑ſation with Mr. — our Neighbour, when we were little Children.
What, the Old Gentleman?
No, the Young; and afterwards with his Mother, when after our uſual Recreations he car⯑ried me home to their Houſe.
How was it, Child? For I long to hear the Story: If any good Perſon has help'd me to do my Work, or done it for me, I ſhall be very thankful.
No, Sir, not much of that; but when I firſt began to play with that young Gentleman ſome Years ago, his Mother heard me uſe ſome ugly Words, ſuch as I was but too much given to then, and ſending her Son away, the Old Lady took me into her Parlour, and gave me Sweet⯑meats, and ask'd me a great many Queſtions.
What Queſtions?
She ask'd me, if ever I was taught to ſwear? I anſwer'd, NO: She ask'd me, if my Father would not chide me if he heard me ſwear? I told her, NO: but I was ſorry for it, Sir, for I preſently thought that to ſay ſo, reflected upon my Father, whether it was true or no, and that I ought to have ſaid, Yes, he did, tho' it was not true.
Dear Child! The Sin was mine, and the Shame of its being true ought to be mine, and ſhall for ever be mine; I am glad thou did'ſt not ſpeak a falſe thing to her: What ſaid ſhe then?
She did not ſay much to me the firſt time, but only ſhe told me 'twas a ſad thing that a pret⯑ty Boy, as ſhe ſaid I was, ſhould be ruin'd; and I thought I ſaw her weep.
Did you ſee her again after that?
Yes, Sir, She got me in again the next Day, and gave me more Sweat meats, and ask'd me ſe⯑veral Queſtions about God and Heaven, and I was ſadly aſham'd I could anſwer her to nothing at all, for I knew nothing of it but what I had heard by chance, or learn'd by rote: She ask'd me if I was willing to know any thing for my own good in another World? and I told her, Yes, with all my Heart: She told me, if I would come and viſit [123] her Son every Day, ſhe would uſe me like her own Child; but ſhe deſired me to promiſe her one thing before hand; I ſaid, I would promiſe her any thing ſhe pleaſed; then ſhe ſaid, I muſt promiſe her not to ſwear, nor take God's Name in vain: She told me, that I was a Gentleman, and my Father and Mother were Perſons of Diſtinction; that it was not only a Sin againſt God, but below me, as a Gentleman, to ſwear, and uſe ill Words; that if I ſhould ſwear when I grew to be a Man, it would ſpoil all my Education, and no ſober Man would keep me Company; that if I would not leave off Swearing, and taking God's Name in vain, ſhe muſt not let her Son play with me, for ſhe ſhould be afraid her Son ſhould learn ſuch Words too, and then he would be undone.
And did you promiſe her, my dear?
Yes, Sir; I promis'd her, but I could not forbear crying; and when I got away from her, I could not help crying a great while by my ſelf.
What did you cry for, when you came away?
I cry'd for ſhame, to think I ſhould do any thing that wanted ſuch a Reproof, and that it ſhould be counted ſcandalous, or dangerous for any Children to be permitted to play with me.
And did it not make you angry with the Lady that had reproved you, and hate her?
NO, Sir, it made me love her, and ever after that, to this Day, I have at ſeveral times gone to her, and made her long Viſits.
And does ſhe continue to talk to you ſo, Child, ſtill.
Yes, Sir, to this Hour, and calls me her Son, and but that I would not diſhonour my Mo⯑ther, I ſhould call her Mother too; for ſhe has been better than a Mother to me.
How did ſhe go on with you?
When ſhe had gain'd my Promiſe againſt Swearing, ſhe brought in all the wicked Words I had learn'd among our Servants, and made me promiſe to leave them all off; ſometimes ſhe would perſwade me, otherwhiles give me Money, and other good things; after that, ſhe ask'd if I uſed to pray to God? I told her I ſaid-my Prayers: But, my Dear, ſays ſhe, do you know what Prayer means? I told her, yes, but gave her ſo weak an Account of it, that ſhe told me very affectionately, ſhe would tell me what Prayer was; and after having explained the Meaning of it, ſhe gave me a few ſhort Directions what I ſhould ſay when I pray'd, and then told me, I ought to pray to God every Morning and Evening, as the Jews offered up their Morning and Evening Sacrifice, and that God expected ſuch a Worſhip; and after ſhe had for two or three times talk'd ſo to me, ſhe made me kneel down by her, and ſhe ſtood up and prayed a ſhort time over me.
This bleſſed Woman! what does my Fa⯑mily owe her! And what did'ſt thou think of it, Child?
Truly it made my very Heart turn within me when I heard a Stranger ſo earneſt in her Prayers to God for me, who did not belong to her, and ſome of her Expreſſions cut me to the Heart.
What were they, Child?
I fear they will trouble you, Sir, if I mention them.
Well, let me hear them, however.
She prayed that God would ſupply the want of Inſtruction to that poor neglected Child, and teach him by the powerful Influence of his Spirit; that he would give the Knowledge of himſelf to me, and reveal Chriſt in my Heart; [125] that being taught of God I might believe in him, and believing, might have Life thro' his Name: She prayed that God would bleſs her Endeavours to inſtruct me, tho' I were not committed to her Charge, and that I might be convinc'd of Sin, and then converted unto God.
How canſt thou remember all this?
It is written ſo deep in my Heart, dear Father, I can never forget it while I live.
What Effect had it upon you, Child?
Why Sir, the Effect was of many kinds. Firſt, I entirely left off all the ill Words I had uſed, according to my Promiſe, and I went about mighty penſive and ſad for ſome time, muſing and conſi⯑dering what my Condition was! that I was pray'd for as one neglected and abandoned, and what ſhe meant by the teaching of the Spirit, and what by tue Work of Conviction, and Converſion, and the like.
And how were you informed?
I was then as impatient to be with her every Day as ſhe was to have me, and I conti⯑nually harraſs'd her with Queſtions and Impor⯑tunities, and ſhe open'd and explain'd every thing to me in ſuch a manner, that I ſoon became able to underſtand the moſt difficult Points in Religion.
And what Effect had it upon thee, Child? did'ſt thou not loſe it all when thou cam'ſt home to thy Father's wicked Family.
No, Sir, not at all, I began from that time to read the Scriptures, to pray by my ſelf, and to conſider to what Purpoſe I was Born, and what was to befal me in a future State.
And how long did this laſt, Child?
I thank God it is not wrought out yet, Sir.
And is it poſſible, my dear Child! Has there been ſuch a Thing as a Child of mine praying to God! Has there been a Creature that has thought-a Word of Heaven and his Maker in my uninſtructed, Prayerleſs Family!
Little enough, Sir.
And how comes it to paſs neither thy Bro⯑thers or Siſters ever heard of it, and that I never heard of it?
I knew they would but laugh at me, and mock me, and think me a Fool, and they have done ſo, as it is, when I would not go with them to Plays, and to their Sabbath-day Rambles.
Why, my Dear, was it you that refuſed to go; I always thought they ſlighted you, and did not care to take you with them, and have been angry with them for it.
No, Sir, they would always have had me with them, but I durſt not go, I abhorr'd it.
How cam'ſt thou to be againſt it?
My New Mother always perſwaded me againſt it, told me the many Judgments of God that attended Sabbath-breaking, and how many miſerable Lives and Deaths took their Beginning at a Neglect of the Sabbath day: She perſwaded me too not to go to Plays and Balls; and bade me, if I wanted Diverſion when my Brothers and Si⯑ſters were gone to the PLAY, I ſhould come and ſee her; and that when my Brothers and Si⯑ſters went out to the Park, or a Viſiting on the Lord's-day, I ſhould come thither, and, ſee how they ſpent their Time; or go up into my Chamber and pray to God.
And did you do ſo?
Yes, Sir, I went to her almoſt every Sab⯑bath day Evening.
What, and no body know it?
No, every body thought I had Companions of my own to be merry with.
And ſo thou had'ſt, bleſſed be God for caſting thy Lot in ſuch Company, when thy Father's Houſe has been a Neſt of Prophaneneſs and Abomina⯑tions: But how did they ſpend the Sabbath-day, Child, when you were with them?
Very well, Sir, for they are all good Peo⯑ple; before Supper they were all call'd down to Prayers; Mr. — their Father, read a Sermon, and every one of the Children read a Chapter, and then ſung Pſalms, and then all kneel'd down to Prayers.
And did you learn to pray there, my Dear?
Yes, Sir, Madam — my new Mother, us'd to take me, and let me kneel down juſt in her Hand, as it were, and when there was any Word ſpoken, that ſhe thought I ſhould remem⯑ber particularly, ſhe would touch my Cheek; and then after Prayer was over, ſhe would tell me why ſhe did ſo, and how that Sentence was proper for me to remember, and to make uſe of for my ſelf.
She has been a Mother to thee indeed! A truer Mother than ſhe that bore thee! and has acted a truer Parent to thee, than either thy Father or Mother ever did! God, that inclin'd her Heart to pity my Children, double the Bleſſing of it upon her own; I'll go and thank her for it, and acknowledge how little I have done my Duty, and how much of my Work ſhe has done for me: But my dear, how long ago was this?
Eight or Nine Year, Sir.
And how long did you do ſo?
All along, Sir, till you ſent me to the Univerſity for a Year and a half, and then I could not, you know.
And have you been to give her Thanks for her Trouble ſince you came home?
No indeed, Sir, but I have e'en given her new Trouble; for I go to her ſtill every time I can get out, not to be ſeen, and as often as I can find her at Leiſure.
Still, my dear! Why, what does ſhe teach thee now?
O Sir! I find more Occaſion of her, the more I go to her; ſhe has taught me all the firſt Principles of Religion, and, I hope, has put me in a way how to encreaſe and go forward in Knowledge and Experience, Piety and Virtue, till I come to be more able to inſtruct my ſelf with⯑out help; ſhe is a moſt excellent Perſon, and all her Family are like her.
Indeed they are another kind of Family than ours is! Well, go on, my Dear, and the Lord, that has found out an Inſtrument to do thee good, be himſelf thy Inſtructor: As for me, how I am aſhamed! when I look into my own Houſe, and ſee what a Soil I have had to plant in, and have neglected to cultivate it; what Children would theſe have been, if I had begun betimes to inſtruct them! Well, go, my Dear, it is late, we will talk more of this another time.
[129] NOTE, the Father was ſo affected with the Circumſtances which his Son had diſcover'd to him, that he could not contain the Surprize, but retir'd to give vent to his Paſſions; he found that God had taken his Children, as it were, out of his Hand; and had ſupplied the Defect of In⯑ſtruction, by good People in the Neighbourhood, as if he had not been worthy to be the Inſtru⯑ment of their Good; and this affected him deep⯑ly, as will farther appear in the next Diſcourſe between the Husband and his Wife, when they come to talk about it.
THE Father had not been ſo happily ſurprized in his Diſcourſe with his Second Son, in the Morning, but he is as unhappily mortified with the Rencounter he meets with in his Eldeſt Son, in the Afternoon: The Young Gentle⯑man was above Stairs with his Eldeſt Siſter, as no⯑ted in the Fourth Dialogue, when his Father call'd for him, and being a little ruffled in his Humour with the ill Uſage, as he thought it, that his Mother had given his Siſter, he came down with a grave, diſcompos'd Look, and appear'd not very reſpectful in his Behaviour: His Father, who knew him to be hot and fiery in his Diſpoſition, was not willing to have been angry, and deſign'd to treat him, as will appear, very kindly; but he takes up the Caſe firſt, and began with his Father.
SIR, did you forbid Thomas letting us have the Coach?
I ordered in general, that none of the Servants ſhould ſtir out to Day.
I thought ſo, and told the Dog that I was ſure you had not forbid him, I'll break the Raſ⯑cal's Head this Minute.
Hold, George, I muſt ſpeak with you firſt.
I'll come again, Sir, immediately.
No, no, I muſt ſpeak with you NOW; ſit you down, I'll have no body's Head broke to Day: Don't you know it is Sabbath-day?
Better Day, better Deed, Sir; It's never out of Seaſon to correct a Raſcal.
George, ſit down I ſay, and be eaſie; per⯑haps you may be better ſatisfied preſently, if you can have Patience.
Sir, I am ſatisfied from your own Mouth, that the Villain not only refuſed when I order'd him to get the Coach out, but told me a Lie, and ſaid you forbid him; which I then told him I did not believe, and promiſed to cane him if it were not true, and I muſt be as good as my Word.
Well, well, but let it alone for the preſent, I ſay.
I muſt and will beat the Villain, by —
The Coachman's Uſage is not ſo rough to you, but I think yours is as rude to your Father.
Why Sir, what do I ſay? I don't ſpeak diſreſpectfully to you, Sir; but I ſpeak of this ſame Fellow.
I heard what you ſaid, Sir, and what you might be ſure I did not like; and where-ever you uſe ſuch Language, if you had any reſpect to your Father, you would not take that Freedom where I am.
If it had not been in reſpect to you, Sir, why did I ſpeak ſoftly?
That was a ſeeming Reſpect indeed, but you took care I ſhould not be ignorant.
I did not deſign you ſhould have heard; I intended no diſreſpect.
Well, ſit down here then, and ſuſpend your fooliſh Paſſion about the Fellow, at leaſt for the preſent.
I ſuppoſe you don't keep Servants on purpoſe to affront me at that rate.
If my Son had as much Patience with his Father, as he obliges his Father to have with him, he might have had an Anſwer to that before now; but you are too hot for your Father to talk with you, it ſeems.
No Sir, I am not hot, but it wou'd pro⯑voke any body, to be us'd ſo by a Servant.
Then you muſt turn your Anger this way, and quarrel with your Father; for the Fellow has done nothing but what I commanded him.
Why, you ſaid Sir, you did not bid him refuſe me.
You muſt have every thing nicely explain'd to you, it ſeems; I tell you, what he ſaid to you was the Natural Conſequence of what I order'd, tho' perhaps the Fellow did not give you the true Reaſon, but in general I had bid him ſtay at home.
He might have ſaid ſo then.
No, perhaps I had commanded him other⯑wiſe too.
I find I am not to know how it is, nor what it means; nor do I care whether I do or no.
In time you may.
As you pleaſe, Sir.
Well, in this it ſhall be as I pleaſe then; but if you had thought fit to have come to talk with me with leſs Heat in your Temper, and waited a little till I had ſpoke what I had to ſay to you, all your Fury at him, and your Indecency to me, might have been ſpared.
I did not know what you ſent for me for.
And did not deſign to know it, I ſuppoſe, for you gave me no Time to ſpeak.
I only told you of the Treatment of the Coachman, I have no more to ſay.
Then I may take my Turn, I hope: I ſhall tell you then, that I ſend for you, as I purpoſe to do for all your Brothers and Siſters, to tell you, That whereas we have liv'd in an open, profeſs'd Contempt of God's Commands, Prophanation of the Sabbath-day, and Omiſſion of all Religious Duties, it is high time to take up a New Courſe; that I was convinc'd of what was my own Duty as a Father, and a Maſter of a Family; that hi⯑therto the Sin lay too much at my Door, but for the future I would diſcharge my ſelf better: That if my Children would go on, it ſhould no longer be through my Omiſſion, but their own: To this Purpoſe I began with my Servants, who, as ſoon as I came from Church, I commanded to be all at Home, and that I would have no going abroad; then I reſolv'd to tell my Mind to my Children, who I expected would not give me the Trouble of Commanding, or uſing the Authority of a Father, or Governour, with them; but that I might with Reaſon and Argument perſwade, and with Affe⯑ction and Tenderneſs invite them to a Thing which muſt neceſſarily ſo far convince their Conſciences, as to leave them no room to queſtion but it was infinitely for their Advantage, and for their gene⯑ral Good, both Soul and Body.
I knew nothing of this, Sir.
Well, that's true; but, as I ſaid, you might ha' known it before, if you had had Patience, or had thought fit to have given me time to ſpeak to you.
Nay, I do not underſtand it, now I do know it.
Your Ignorance ſhall ſerve you but a ſhort while; you can eaſily underſtand this Part of it, that without troubling you with any more of the Reaſons of it, I will have none that are under my Roof, Children or Servants, ſtir out of my Doors on the Sabbath-day after Church is done.
You will take it ill perhaps, if your Chil⯑dren ſhould ask you the Reaſon why they muſt be ſo confin'd; and your Children will not fail to think it hard to be confin'd ſo, and not know the Reaſon of it.
I might with much more Juſtice inſiſt upon my undoubted Right to govern my own Family, with⯑out giving an Account to my Children of what I do; alſo in a Caſe ſo plain as this, methinks, they need not ſeek for a Reaſon for ſuch an Order, but ſince they pretend Ignorance, let them read the Com⯑mands of God to keep holy the Sabbath-day.
Thoſe Commands were as ſtrong before, as they are now, and yet we never were thus con⯑fin'd before.
The worſt of that is mine, Son, and all that can be ſaid for an Anſwer to that, is, That BE⯑FORE I was to blame, and neglected my Duty, NOW I reſolve, God willing, to do my Duty, and neglect it no longer; and if it be otherwiſe, they that are guilty ſhall be to blame, not I
Every body may do their own Duty for themſelves.
But it is my unqueſtioned Duty, to make all that are under my Command, do their Duty.
I do not deſire to be confin'd.
My Deſire, or my Deſign was not to confine you, but to perſwade you to confine your ſelf by the Rules of your Chriſtian Duty; but you have [135] puſh'd it farther than I expected, and if you will not do it your ſelf, I muſt do it for you.
I hate to be confin'd, or to confine my ſelf.
That makes it more my Duty to confine you; and ſince I think your Buſineſs is to obey, and not to diſpute, I deſire no more of your Arguments, but expect to ſee my Orders obſerv'd, ſince I know they are founded upon both Religion and Reaſon.
You may oblige us to ſtay within, but you cannot oblige us to be willing.
Then I muſt be content with as much of your Obedience as I can get.
And I hope will expect it no longer than while we cannot help it.
But will take Care that you ſhall not help it while you call me Father; for I will not bear the Title without the Authority.
Liberty is a Native Right, the Brutes ſeek it; not a Bird will be in a Cage, if it can be free.
Liberty to do Evil is an abandon'd Slavery, the worſt of Bondage; and Confinement from doing Evil, is the only true Liberty: But to cut this Diſ⯑courſe ſhort, I can give Liberty no longer to any under my Roof to break God's Commands, or pro⯑phane his Sabbath, it is not in my Power; if you will not ſubmit to my Government, you muſt quit my Dominions; and as I foreſee you will be forward enough to carry it high, you are miſtaken if you think I ſhall wait to be told by you, that you will go abroad, or that you will not ſtay in the Family; for unleſs you will ſubmit to regulate your Life after a different manner than you have done, and to receive Advice from your Father for your Con⯑duct, flatter not your ſelf with your Father's Affe⯑ction, I'll love none that hate God, nor ſhelter none of his Rebels, my Doors ſhall be open to let you out when you pleaſe.
I care not how ſoon.
That's what I expected from you: My An⯑ſwer ſhall be very plain; you ſhall be at Liberty to go this Hour, Son, before the next; but take this with you whenever you go, that if ever you ſet your Foot without the Door on this Account, you never get leave to ſet your Foot within it again, but upon your Knees, and with the humbleſt Re⯑pentance and Submiſſion both to God and your Father, for I am not in jeſt with you.
Note, No wiſe Father ought to ſuffer himſelf to be threatned by his Children with going away from him; but rather to make their being thruſt from their Parents be the grea⯑teſt Puniſhment they have to fear.
I did not expect this Treatment at your Hands, Son.
I do not know what you would have me do.
What I would have you do is very plain, and is nothing but what your Duty to God requires, viz. To ſubmit to the Regulations and Orders which I ſhall give in my Family, for the Worſhip of God, and for regulating our Morals, and our way of Living; and eſpecially, for reſtoring a Ge⯑neral Face of Religion and Virtue upon our Con⯑verſation, that we may, according to the Scripture, live ſoberly, righteouſly and godly in the preſent evil World, and not be eminent in the Place we live in for the looſeſt, and moſt profligate Family in the whole Neighbourhood.
I think we are Religious enough; what ſhould we do more than we do?
I think my firſt Work is to let you know what you ſhould not do; for if this cannot be ob⯑tain'd, viz. to refrain from what we do that is [137] Wrong, how ſhall we come to aſcertain what is Right; and if we know not what Evils to refuſe, how ſhall we know what Duties to perform?
I know nothing we do, that we ought to leave off.
That is the Reaſon why I bewail ſo much your want of Inſtruction and Education, and that I am ſo willing to retrieve the Loſs: I can ſoon tell you what you ſhould leave off, viz. You ſhould leave prophaning the Lord's Day in Sports, Diver⯑ſion, Viſiting, riding to the Park, Company, and the like; and ſpend it, as it was appointed to be ſpent, viz. IN Acts of Religious Worſhip, IN hear⯑ing and reading God's Word, and IN other Du⯑ties proper to that Purpoſe: Next, you ſhould leave off the Play houſes, and reading Plays, as not only introductory to Vice, and an extravagant Miſpender of Time; but as they lead to engaging in ſuch Society and bad Company, as will be de⯑ſtructive to any ſober Character in the World-Thirdly. That a general Sobriety of Behaviour be fix'd upon the whole Scheme of your Converſa⯑tion; free from Paſſion, ill Words, Swearing, blaſpheming God's Name, and from Drunkenneſs, and all other Exceſſes: Theſe are the main Heads of the Negatives which I ſpeak of, and which I de⯑ſire to be obſerv'd; and this is ſo juſt, ſo eaſie, and ſo equitable, that I cannot but expect; eſpecially conſidering how many Children are Circumſtanc'd, a ready Compliance with it; I ſhall direct you to poſitive Duties afterwards.
I know not how we are Circumſtanc'd! or what you would have me underſtand by that Word.
I find your Temper is ſuch, that I am rather to let you know what I expect, than to hope for your obſerving it, and that you will put the Hard⯑ſhip [138] upon me of doing all with you by force: This is a Treatment, I think, very diſingenuous, and unlike a dutiful Son: I am willing to indulge you in every thing that is reaſonable and juſt: but as I am convinc'd what I deſire is not only your Duty, but your Intereſt to comply with, I therefore can⯑not indulge you to your own Ruin; and for that Reaſon, if you will oblige me to uſe violent Me⯑thods to reſtore you, and to reſtore my Family, altho' I ſhall be ſorry for it, yet as it is my Duty I muſt do it; and I let you know therefore very plainly my Reſolution, and the Reaſon of it; if you can give better Reaſons why you ſhould not comply with theſe Things, I am ready to hear them.
What ſignifies giving Reaſons againſt what you reſolve to do?
It might take off the Scandal of Diſobe⯑dience from you, when you pretend to oppoſe your Practice to my Directions.
I don't concern my ſelf about Scandals, not I.
You fortifie your ſelf againſt every thing a Wiſe Man ought to be concern'd at; and that by a General Negligence of God and Man, as if you were unconcern'd for Conſcience or Reputation; I hope you don't deſire to be known by ſuch a Character.
I don't ſee that I do any thing that deſerves Reflection.
Well, come, examine a little; is your Lord's-Day Conduct to be juſtified? Do you think you keep the Sabbath day as you ought to do?
Why Sir, do I not go conſtantly to Church?
Where do you find in God's Law, that going to Church is the Sum of the Sabbath-Day [139] Duties: If you can ſhew me that in the Scripture, then I am put to Silence.
I ſee no harm in taking the Air a little after Sermon time.
If Sermon-time be the whole of the Sabbath⯑day, you are in the Right; but then you muſt prove that the Fourth Commandment ſhould have been Tranſlated thus, viz. Remember that thou keep Holy THE SERMON-TIME on the Sabbath Day.
I think there is no need of ſo much Strictneſs:
God and your Father are of another Opi⯑nion: or elſe neither the Rules of One, or the Diſcourſe of the other are to be credited; I ſee all your Arguments againſt theſe things are only in general, that you do not think thus, or you do not ſee that; but have you any juſt Objections a⯑gainſt the expreſs Commands of God? If you have, let us hear them.
I do not object againſt the Commands of God; but I do not ſee, on the other Hand, that I break the Commands of God in taking a Turn in the Park, or viſiting a Friend on a Sunday, after Sermon.
I'll lock up all Argument on that Side a⯑gainſt you, THƲs; If you can prove that taking your Pleaſure on the Sabbath-day is keeping it ho⯑ly, you may juſtifie your ſelf; if not, you cannot; and for that read this Text, Iſ. 58. 13. If thou turn away thy Foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy Pleaſure on my Holy Day, &c. There is the Word of God directly againſt you; would you have any further Authority?
I cannot diſpute of theſe Things.
They that cannot diſpute, ſhould not contra⯑dict; however, I think it my Duty to let all of [140] you know, that as I have no reaſon to doubt but the Command of God is clear, and that I ought to ſee it obey'd; I join to it my own Command, viz. That in my Family I will have no more prophaning the Lord's Day; no more going to Plays; no more Swearing, Drunkenneſs, or Immorality whatſoever, if I can help it; and I expect to be put to as little Trouble as poſſible in having this order of mine ſubmitted to.
I ſuppoſe you may find ſome Oppoſition beſides what you think I ſhall make; you have more Children than me.
You have the leſs need to make my Task harder, and join with them; however, I am ſpeaking now not of their Obedience, but yours
Perhaps I may obey as much as they; but I ſuppoſe I may bear the Blame of their ſtanding out.
If you do well you are ſure to be accepted, if not, Sin lies at the Door; if you are an Encou⯑ragement to their Diſobedience, you take your ſhare of the Guilt, whether it be by Words, or by Example: My Buſineſs, however, is not with them now, but with you, and I deſire to know your Mind, having now told you what I expect.
I know not what you would have me ſay; you ſay you will be obey'd, then I muſt obey, I think, I know nothing elſe to be ſaid; if you will make the Houſe a Monaſtery, I muſt turn Monk, I think; but nothing is more certain than that we ſhall all think it hard, and think we are not us'd kindly.
The Commands of God are not grievous, nor are my Reſolutions hard or unjuſt; and that makes the Oppoſition which you make, the more Unnatural; However, ſince you are not to be wrought upon to think it reaſonable, I muſt con⯑tent my ſelf to take your outward Compliance, whether willing or unwilling; though I think your [141] Behaviour highly diſobliging, and ſhall always let you know I reſent it as ſuch.
You will find ALL your Children will think it hard as well as I.
That cannot be true; for I know ſome of them to whom God has given more Grace.
I am ſure then others have not.
Yes, I know your Siſter has ſhown herſelf, much to the Diſgrace of her good Breeding, as ob⯑ſtinate as your ſelf; and has been very inſolent to her Mother, and I hear ſhe talks at a rate of her Mother that does not become her; I ſhall aſſure her it ſhall not be born with.
I think my Mother us'd her very ill.
I find you are too partial to be Judge of it, and therefore ought to let it alone: What has her Mother done to her?
She has taken away all her Books of Value, and not only ruffled her with hard Words, but even ſtruck her with very little Provocation.
You have a truer Account of the Fact, I find, than of the Provocation; as to ſtriking her, I regret that ſhe had not done it ſooner, and repeated it oftner; her Saucineſs to her Mother, and her Contempt of God, were unſufferable: It was her good Fortune that I was not there; and as to taking her Books, I have had the Mortification to look them all over, and with a great deal of Affliction, to think that any Children of mine ſhould ſpend their time in ſuch fooliſh, filthy, and abominable Books.
What, do you mean the Plays?
Yes, I do mean the Plays, Songs, Novels, and ſuch like, which made up her whole Study; were they fit for a young Maid's Contemplation?
I muſt own I think them very fit.
Then your Sin is come up to a Maturity [142] very fit for a publick Reformation, and it is high time you were begun with; wherefore I tell you very plainly, I ſhall cauſe you to paſs the ſame Trial with your Siſter, and if I find any ſuch like Books in your Cuſtody, you may be ſure they ſhall all go the ſame Way.
Then you will put me to the Expence of buying more, for I cannot be without my Plays they are the Study of the moſt accompliſh'd Gen⯑tlemen, and no Man of Senſe is without them.
No Man of Vice (you might ſay) is with⯑out them; but I am poſitive againſt Plays, as before, and I had rather have you not accompliſh'd than that the other Inconveniencies of Plays ſhould be your Lot; but I can ſhew you many accom⯑pliſh'd young Gentlemen who are no ways con⯑cern'd with them.
What, who never ſee a Play!
No, never.
It is impoſſible!
No, no, far from impoſſible!
I can never promiſe not to go to the Play.
Then you and I ſhall differ to the greateſt Extremity.
This is intollerable! I had as live you would turn me out of your Door; I'll be content to go to the Weſt Indies, or be a Foot Soldier, or any thing, rather than be made ſuch a Recluſe: Why was I not bred like a Prieſt? Then you might ha' ſent me to a Monaſtery, and I might have been us'd to a Cloyſter Life; but to breed me up for a Gentleman, and then confine me as no Gentleman is confin'd; this is expoſing me, and making me look like a Fool among all Company!
I had rather ſee you a Foot Soldier, or any thing, than liſted in the Service of the Devil; but [143] here is no need of theſe deſperate Reſolutions; here is nothing requir'd of you but what becomes a Gentleman very well; and as much a Gentleman as any body: Can you pretend you cannot ſerve God, and be a Gentleman? That you cannot live a Virtuous Life, and obey the Commands of God, and yet be a Gentleman? This is a Reproach upon the very Name of Quality, and ſuch a Slander on a Gentleman, as no Gentleman in his Senſes will al⯑low: However, this, in ſhort, is the Caſe, Son, and if confining you from unlawful Pleaſures, and from ruining your own Souls, will make you deſ⯑perate, and you will be a Foot Soldier, or run away to the Weſt Indies, you muſt; I cannot help it, I ſuppoſe you will be weary of it quickly.
I care not what I do, or whither I go.
Unhappy fooliſh Youth! Had I extorted Obedience to any unreaſonable unjuſt Thing; had I put you to any Hardſhips; had I expos'd you to any Dangers, or depriv'd you of your Lawful Pleaſures; theſe Things might ha' been alledged, and you might have had ſome Pretence for talking thus to your Father; but all this for laying before you your unqueſtionable Duty; for requiring no⯑thing of you but what your Great Maker commands, nothing but what is equal, juſt, and good! This is a deplorable Inſtance of the woful Depravity of your Judgment, and Corruption of your Nature: However, tho' I heartily pity and grieve for you; yet the thing I deſire is ſo juſt, ſo reaſonable, ſo neceſſary, ſo much my Duty to command, and your Intereſt to obey, that I cannot, I will not go from it, or abate one Tittle of it; and therefore you may conſider of it, and act as you will; you know my Reſolution, and fall back, fall edge, I will have [144] it done; ſo you may take your Choice; for God or the Devil.
You may be as reſolute as you will, you will never bring me to your Beck: What! muſt I forſake all my Mirth and good Company, and turn Hermit in my young Days! Not I, I'll go to the Gallies rather; I'll ſeek my Fortune any where firſt; not go to the Park! nor ſee a Play! be as de⯑mure as a Quaker! and ſet up for a Saint! what ſhall I look ſwears aloud. like?—I won't be a Mountebank Convert not I; I hate Hypocriſie and Diſſimulation, I have too much Honour for it. Well, I'll go up to my Siſter, ſhe is an honeſt reſolute Girl, if ſhe will but ſtand to me, we will take our Fate together. What can my Father do? Sure we are too big for his Correction; we will never be made Fools on at this rate.
The Father had ſent for his Eldeſt Daughter, and ſhe had refus'd to come, as before, and the Servant had juſt brought word ſhe would not come.
Will not come!
She ſaid ſhe would not, indeed firſt, but afterwards ſhe ſaid ſhe could not, Sir.
Go to her again, and tell her from me, if ſhe does not come immediately, I'll come and fetch her.
Sir, ſhe was laid upon the Bed, and ſaid ſhe was indiſpos'd, and could not come.
Well, go back then, and tell her, her Mo⯑ther and I will come to her.
Indeed I told her that I thought you would do ſo.
Well, and what ſaid ſhe?
She ſaid Sir, ſhe was not fit to ſpeak to you, I believe ſhe is ill, for ſhe has been crying vehe⯑mently.
I ſuppoſe you and ſhe have conferr'd Notes.
I told you Sir, you would have more Op⯑poſition to your Deſign, than from me.
Perhaps by your Means.
If that could be without my Knowledge, ſomething might be, but I ſaid before, I ſhould be tax'd with it, whether guilty or no.
I'll deal with it, let it be where it will.
THE Son as ſoon as he could get away from his Father, goes up to his Siſter's Apartment; it ſeems the Father, tho' he had reſolv'd to talk to his Daughter, had deferr'd it for ſome time, and did not go up to her Chamber preſently.
Being then in ſome Paſſion at his Son's behaviour, and withal being preparing for the great Work which he had reſolv'd to begin that Evening, he was unwilling to diſcompoſe himſelf, and make himſelf unfit for what was before him: The reſt of the Conduct both of the Son and Daughter, and alſo the Hiſtory of the Father's Management at his firſt beginning his Family Reformation, will [...]ll be largely ſet down in the next Dialogue.
BEING between the Eldeſt Son and El⯑deſt Daughter, her Brother going di⯑rectly from his Father's diſcourſing him, as in the laſt Dialogue, up to his Siſter's Chamber, and calling at the Door, begins thus:
SIſter (where are you) were you not ſent for by my Father?
Three times in vain, and ever ſhall be ſo, till they ſhall treat me in a better manner, or invite me by a more pleaſing Meſſage.
But I bear all the weight of thoſe Refu⯑ſals; my Father ſays they all lie at my door, and angrily ſuggeſts that you are all made Rebels but by me.
I know no Rebellion in it, I do not under⯑ſtand what they would have.
They would have you come down, and be inſtructed.
I ſent them word I was indiſpos'd, and they cannot but believe it, when they know how they have us'd me; beſides I know their Buſineſs, and deſire no more of their Inſtruction; at leaſt, of the kind they have already given me a Taſte of.
I have had a long Diſcourſe of it with my Father.
Well, And what does the good Reformer preach! I ſuppoſe it is much the ſame with what I had from my Mother.
Exactly, (Kick and Cuff excepted) and tru⯑ly, tho' he kept his Hands off from me, he has not ſpar'd abundance of Threatnings, and other poſitive Teſtimonies of his Patriarchal Authority.
Well, but what is the Sum of the Matter? What is the Courſe we are to take?
I know not in the leaſt, I have heard a great deal of Stuff of reforming the Family, li⯑ving after a new Faſhion, ſerving God, and I know not what; I wonder who my Father thinks we have been ſerving all this while.
And does he not ſay we ſhall not go out a Sundays?
Ay, and a great deal more than that; we muſt go to no more Plays or Opera's, nor have any of the Plays brought home to read, and a new Family Government is to be erected, I don't know of what kind.
Well, and when are we to begin? When are we to be cloyſter'd for the firſt time? Won't he give us a Week to our ſelves before we begin?
Not an Hour.
Nay then, I ſhall break the firſt Command⯑ment he gives me; for I have made an Appoint⯑ment, you know, to be at the Play to Morrow with my Lady Lighthead, and it is impoſſible to put it off.
Ay, and I will go too, or I ſhall think it very ſtrange, let him ſay what he pleaſes to it.
I ſuppoſe I ſhall have another ſlap o' th' Face for it; but I muſt venture it for once, for I will not be worſe than my Word to my Lady.
What do you talk of venturing it ONCE, as if this was the laſt time, and we were never to go to a Play again: Do you think I will be abridg'd of ſo dear a Liberty? No not I, let my Father depend upon it, tho' I never come into his Doors again, as he has threatned me.
Very well! What did he threaten to turn you out of Doors, then?
No, not directly; but I told him, I would be a Foot Soldier before I would be confin'd ſo; and in return he told me, if I went out in a huff at this, I ſhould never come in again; and a great deal more ſuch as that.
Would I were a Man as you are, if I was I'd try him; what need you care whether you come in again or no? You know you have an E⯑ſtate left you by your Uncle, which my Father cannot hinder you of, you can live without him; I wiſh I could.
Ay, that's true, but I ſuppoſe we ſhall not come that length.
It may be not with you, but I know not how far it may go with me; for I hear, they are mighty hot and angry with me, which I care little for, and am reſolv'd they ſhall not conquer me, whatever comes of it; I ſuppoſe they think I cannot tell where to go, or how to live without them.
They may be miſtaken perhaps in that too.
Nay, tho' they were not miſtaken in it, I'll go as far as a pair of Shoes will carry me, be⯑fore I'll be made a NƲN of: Nay, I'll go to Service firſt.
You need not go far, you have Friends enough, you will be very well receiv'd at my Aunt —'s Houſe, and if they puſh theſe things to Extremities, I would ev'n have you go thither.
And what will you do? where will you go?
O, I'll do well enough, I warrant you? I won't go for a Foot Soldier, whatever I ſaid to him; I'll take me a Lodging at Weſtminſter, take my Pleaſure, and never trouble my Head with it.
Agreed then; but ſhan't we go abroad to Night? Shall we be baulk'd at this rate, and let them think they have conquer'd us already?
Why, it's too late now to go to the Park; my Lady Lighthead is gone to be ſure; beſides, we can't have the Chariot, and there's no going in a Hack. . . .
I'll tell you what we will do then, I am for putting the Caſe to a Tryal, and ſee what my Father will do, when he thinks we have gone in ſpight of him; and yet we will be able to come off of it too at laſt, if we find him furious.
That's well contriv'd, if it can be done, but how will you go about it?
I'll tell you; let you and I go out thro' tho' Garden, and take a Walk in the Cloſe behind, under the Lime-Trees; when my Father calls for me, my Maid ſhall ſay we are gone to the Park, if he bears it quietly, well and good, we will let him remain in the Belief of it, that it may ſerve another time; if he flies out furiouſly, we muſt come in again with Good Words, and tell him where we have been, and that we have not been any farther than the Cloſe behind the Garden.
Admirably well thought of, let us go imme⯑diately, for my Father and Mother both will be here with you preſently, and if you are not gone, it will ſpoil all the Contrivance.
Pru.
Madam.
Here, take the Key of my Chamber, and ſtay in it till ſomebody comes to look for me from my Mother.
What Anſwer ſhall I give them, Madam?
Tell them my Brother and I are gone out together; you may ſay, you ſuppoſe we are gone to the Park.
Shall I ſay, Madam, that you ſaid you were gone to the Park?
No, no; ſay you do not know whither we are gone, but that you ſuppoſe we are gone thither; do not we uſe to go thither, you Fool you?
If they ſhould be very inquiſitive, they may ask me what Reaſon I have to ſuppoſe ſo.
Is not that a good Reaſon for you to think ſo, becauſe we uſed to go thither always on Sunday. Night, without ſaying that we told you ſo?
Yes Madam, I think it is; for indeed, if you had ſaid nothing to me, I ſhould have thought you had been gone thither, and ha' told them ſo of my own Accord.
This is a clear Thought, my Dear, but now we muſt do it quickly, for I find we are to have a general Conference here this Evening, and I ſuppoſe we that they call CHILDREN too, are to be tutor'd before all the Servants.
Pru, if you find my Father and Mother make a great Stir for us, ſlip out thro' the Gar⯑den, and perhaps you may find ſomebody at the Back Gate to tell you where we are, and then you may come and bring us Intelligence.
Yes, Madam.
Come, we are far enough here, They are walking under a Row of Trees, juſt where the Father found his little Child in the firſt Dialogue. we are quite out of Sight of the Houſe; and if your Maid comes, we ſhall ſee her at the Garden Gate well enough.
Now I cannot but laugh to think what a Fright my Mother will be in, when ſhe miſſes me,
As bad as if you were run away with a Chaplain.
She has not been without ſome Whims of that kind in her Head too, but ſhe need not, I am not ſo fond of a preaching Husband.
I doubt we ſhall diſcompoſe them for their new Devotion which they are ſetting up to Night.
Pray Brother, have you learnt what they are to do; they treat me ſo odly, they will have me comply with I know not what; I want to know what their Deſign is, and what they pretend we are to do, or to be; it is all a heap of Nonſenſe to me.
O, they talk of a great Family-Reforma⯑tion, and we muſt ſubmit to ſuch Rules, and ſuch Orders as they ſhall pleaſe to give us; and as I told you, we Two were to be call'd down all to⯑gether, to be talk'd to among the reſt of the Children.
What, are we to turn Babies again, and ſay our Catechiſe?
I don't know, but my Father, as I hear, intends to make a long Diſcourſe of his new Schemes for the Management of his Family, to give them all new Rules, and tell them what ſhall be the ſtanding Orders of his Houſe for the future.
We ha' Preaching enough at Church I hink, can't he let us alone at Home.
I can't tell what to ſay to it, but he will do it, and ee'n let him go on in his own way, let him make a School of his Family, turn Pedagogue him⯑ſelf, and make all his People School Boys; let him but let me alone, I care not what he does.
Why that's what I ſaid before; the Ser⯑vants are here to Day, and gone to Morrow; if he can't get a Parcel of Fools this time, he may another; and in time, perhaps, he may get a whole Houſe full of good pious Creatures, that will ſay as he ſays, and do juſt as he bids them; there's my Brother Will, and pious Betty, they are grown mighty good Things already, and for the little Children, they may make them do what they pleaſe, but as we are grown up to be paſt it, they may ev'n uſe the Rod and the Frown where it is fit to be uſed, and let us anſwer for our ſelves: I think they cannot in reaſon deny us this.
Beſides, had they done this gradually, and begun it ſooner, we might by degrees have been brought to ha' liked it, or at leaſt to have born with it; but to be driven headlong into a thing of this kind, and forc'd at once to a whole Change upon every Part of our Lives; this is the fooliſheſt thing: What ſhall we look like in the World!
What indeed! I am in a fine Caſe already, I can ſay nothing to my Lady Lighthead, but make a Lie, and ſend her Word I was not well.
Yes, you may ſay you are but a Child, and your Mother box'd your Ears for being a naughty Girl, and would not let you go abroad.
Yes, And you may ſay to my Ld. — when he asks you why you diſappointed him, that you are but under Government, and your Father would not let you ſtir out of Doors.
To be ſure I ſhall affront all the Perſons of Quality of my Acquaintance, and ſhall look always [153] like a School-boy; when I am in Company they will ask me how I'ſcap'd out; if I have given my Governor the Slip; and if I have play'd Truant: When I am for breaking off at Night, and not willing to ſtay, they'll mock me, and tell me I muſt go home to Family-Duty, and go ſay my Prayers like a good Boy!
Yes, and that if you ſtay any longer you ſhall be whipt, or lock'd out of Doors when you come home.
In ſhort, I had as good be out of the World; I am ſure I ſhall be fit for no Company in the World.
I wonder my Father ſhould not conſider theſe Things, he is no ignorant Man, he knows well enough what belongs to being genteel, and has kept as good Company himſelf as any body.
Why, that is true too; but he is ſo be⯑witch'd with this new Whimſie of having neglected the Education of his Children, and the Govern⯑ment of his Family, that he is coming to Con⯑feſſion even to us; he talks of asking God For⯑giveneſs for it, and I know not what, a deal of ſuch Stuff; I am perſwaded he will bring his whole Family into Confuſion.
I can't tell what to make of it all, it is the oddeſt thing that ever I ſaw in my Life.
However, ſince he will do ſo, and we can⯑not help it, I think it may be our beſt way to let him alone, let him go on, only let him leave us out, we are paſt Tutelage, out of our Minority, and I think they may let us alone, that's all I am for asking of him.
I wiſh they would but hear Reaſon; if they would let us alone, we would let their Reformation go on as it will.
But I ſee it will not be done; my Father [154] is ſo over ſubmiſſive in his Confeſſions, and ſo warm in his Proceedings, that I doubt he will alſo be obſtinate, for nothing is more ſo than theſe Enthuſiaſtick Fits of Repentance.
What a Tale is this! HE repents, and WE muſt perform the Pennance; for my Part, Brother, I cannot entertain any ſettled Thoughts of the ridiculous Change of Life my Mother talk'd of, there's not the leaſt Conſiſtency in it; ſhe ſays, ſhe has ſinned in neglecting to inſtruct us, and therefore we muſt all be cloyſter'd up upon the Notion of Reformation; if ſhe has ſinned, ſhe muſt repent of it, I think, what is that to us? We did not make her do it; what can we do in it? We are brought up now, ſhe cannot educate us over again.
Yes, ſhe ſays we ſhould have been taught ſo and ſo a long time ago, and ſince it was not done then; it muſt be done now.
What will ſhe teach us?
Nay do not ask me; I ſuppoſe ſhe told you herſelf what ſhe would teach you.
No, ſhe did not, perhaps ſhe intended it, but ſhe flew out in a Rage, and her Paſſion would not give her leave to ſay it out.
She ſays, ſhe intended to have diſcours'd at large with you quietly and calmly, but you provok'd her, and would not give her time, for you began.
Indeed I was vex'd, that we might not go out as we uſed to do, and I think it was Reaſon; but that was over, and I was only humming to my ſelf the Tune of the laſt Opera, and ſhe flung to me, and ſtruck me becauſe it was Sabbath-day forſooth; for my Part, I know no harm in it, not I, I did not ſing the Song out, as I told you, I only humm'd ſoftly, it might be a Pſalm Tune for ought ſhe knew.
Well, but come Siſter, what ſhall we do next?
We muſt take our Meaſures according as the Conduct of my Father and Mother ſhall direct.
Yonder's Pru, I warrant ſhe brings ſome News, ſhe ſtays at the Garden Gate. Miſtreſs goes towards her.
Well, what is the matter, Pru?
Matter Madam! I beſeech you come in! I ſear my Maſter will go diſtracted, and you'll all be ruin'd.
Prethee don't tell me of that; let him be mad if he pleaſes: Did they ask for us? Tell me the Particulars.
Ask for you, Madam! Yes you may be ſure of it.
Well, how! Tell us all, Pru.
Why, Madam, about half an Hour af⯑ter you were gone, your Mother ſent Mrs. Betty, your Siſter, up to your Chamber for you; ſhe ask'd for me, and I ſaid, as you bid me, you were gone out; ſhe ask'd me whither? I told her, I did not know: Why, ſaid ſhe, ſhe is not gone to the Park, is ſhe? I told her, yes, Madam, I believe ſhe is, for I heard her ſpeak of it.
Well, that was right; what ſaid Betty?
Poor young Lady! She fell out in the greateſt Paſſion imaginable, weeping and crying out for her dear Siſter, meaning you, and that you were loſt and undone both Soul and Body.
Poor Child! What followed that Scene?
She went down Stairs to your Mother, and the Old Lady came up immediately, and ſoon after her came your Father, all into your Cham⯑ber.
Very well, it works as I would have it now: What ſaid they to you, Pru?
Firſt they examin'd me where you was? then, when you went out, and whether you were alone, or your Brother with you? I told them, I believ'd you were gone together; but I was not ſure, nor you did not tell me whither you went.
Well, that was right again, Pru; what ſaid they then?
Your Father made few Words, but it might eaſily be obſerv'd, they were both very angry; your Mother ſaid you would repent it, and I perceived, Madam, tho' your Mother ſaid moſt, yet your Father ſeem'd moſt provok'd; he ſaid he would not diſcompoſe himſelf then about it, for he had other Work before him; but he would take a Courſe to prevent his being inſulted at this Rate, and ſo went down.
And is that all, Pru?
No, no, Madam, that is not all, I aſ⯑ſure you.
Well, go on then.
Why Madam, my Maſter call'd all the Family together, and —
What! And made a long Preach to you all, did he?
Dear Madam, do not mock at your Fa⯑ther; I am ſure there was not a Child, nor a Servant in the Houſe but wept, and I am perſwaded had you been there, you could not have refrain'd.
What, are you grown godly too, Pru!
Nay Siſter, come, don't let us jeer them to the Servants neither.
Well but Pru, come tell us the whole Matter.
I cannot repeat Particulars, Madam; but when your Father had call'd us all in, the Miniſter, for my Maſter had ſent for him on pur⯑poſe, made a Diſcourſe for about half an Hour [157] about Family-worſhip, and took his Text in Jerem. 10. 25. Pour out thy Fury upon the Heathen that know thee not, and upon the Families that call not on thy Name.
Why then you have had a Sermon, Pru! What has my Father ſet up a Meeting-Houſe?
Good Madam, do not let me tell you any more; it grieves me for you, to hear you make a Jeſt at good things, and at your own Fa⯑ther too.
Go on Mrs. Pert, you was not ſent to Preach too, was you?
I wiſh you had heard what I have heard, if you had had a Heart of Flint, it would have moved you; but my telling you will do no good I fear, I wiſh you would excuſe me, Madam, and if you love your own Welfare, I beſeech you come in, there is ONE STEP left you to ſave all ſtill, and but one; if you miſs it, I am ſure you are undone.
Prethee Pru, firſt tell us the Hiſtory, and give your Advice when you are ask'd for it.
I will Madam, if you will have Patience with me: The Miniſter, I told you, made a Diſ⯑courſe about Family-worſhip, and directed himſelf chiefly to us Servants; he told us, that our Maſter and Miſtreſs being ſenſible that they had too long neglected the Inſtruction of their Children and Servants, and omitted the Worſhip of God, and ſetting up good Orders in the Family, were re⯑ſolv'd to alter the ſame, and he deſired the Ser⯑vants to conſider the Reaſonableneſs of it, and how much it would be our Advantage, and that we would all yield a chearful Obedience to ſuch Orders as ſhould now be ſet up in the Family, and to behave our ſelves ſoberly and modeſtly in the. Houſe, avoiding looſe prophane Talk, [158] wicked Words, Oaths, Drunkenneſs, and the like; and if we were all willing and deſirous to be thus reformed, he deſired we would ſignifie our Wil⯑lingneſs by ſtanding up.
And did you ſtand up, Pru?
Yes, Madam, do you think I would not? And every Servant in the Houſe ſtood up too, but Thomas the Coachman went farther than any of us.
What did he do?
He ſtood up, and making a Bow to the Miniſter, he ſaid he agreed to it with all his Heart, and he thank'd God that he had heard ſuch a Propoſal in the Houſe, and a great deal more that I can't remember.
He is a hypocritical Raſcal, I owe him a Caneing for all this.
Let us hear it all Brother; Well, and what then, Pru?
Why, Madam, after the Miniſter had done, my Maſter directing his Speech to the Mini⯑ſter, ſaid, he thought it his Duty to acknowledge with Shame, that he had, in a great Meaſure, been the Ruin of his Family; that he had totally neglected either the Worſhip of God in his Houſe, or the teaching and inſtructing his Children; what he meant by what followed, I cannot tell, but he held your little Brother Tommy in his Hand, and lifting up the Child, and kiſſing it, he ſaid theſe Words: This little Creature has been the bleſſed Meſſenger from God to alarm me, and convince me of the great Breach of my Paternal Duty, and has innocently reproach'd me with not praying to God for it, or with it, and with not inſtructing it or teaching it to pray for its ſelf: Then turning to us all, and, ſaid he, ye have all Cauſe to reproach me with it as well as this Child, and more too, for he is not too [159] old to receive Impreſſions yet, as I doubt ſome of you are, and as appears by their Abſence, my Eldeſt Children ſeem to be, whoſe Ruin both Soul and Body lies at my Door.
Did my Father ſay all this?
Yes, Madam, and a great deal more that I cannot repeat.
It was very moving I confeſs.
It was ſo, and that made me ſay, Madam, I wiſh you had heard it, as I did.
It is as well from thy Mouth, Pru, for I ſee thou art affected with it, and ſo am I a little too, I think, in ſpight of my Reſolutions to the contrary.
How would you then, Madam, to have ſeen your Father when he ſpoke of you two that were abſent? How the Tears run down his Face, and he was fain to ſtop ſpeaking a good while; do you think you could ha' contained? I aſſure you Ma⯑dam, there was not a Servant in the Houſe could refrain weeping.
You almoſt perſwade me to cry, Pru; but go on.
When he had ſaid this, Madam, he told us how he was reſolv'd to live, and that ſince we had all expreſs'd our Readineſs to comply with it, he was very thankful that he ſhould have ſo little Trouble: He told us, that all he expected was eaſie and reaſonable, and nothing but what every one would acknowledge was moſt ſuitable to the Happineſs of us all, as Men and Women, as well as Chriſtians; that he required nothing un⯑eaſie, nothing but that all manner of Vice might be retrain'd, and a ſober and well order'd Life might be our Rule; that the Sabbath-day might be ſtrictly obſerv'd, and that all his Servants ſhould [160] attend Family-Prayer, which he reſolv'd to have kept up every Night and Morning.
After this the Miniſter went to Prayers, and after the Miniſter, my Maſter, Madam; but had you heard him!
What then, Pru?
I would have gone a Mile on my bare Knees that you had heard him.
Heard what, Pru? What ſhould I have heard?
You would have heard what you never heard in your Life.
That's true, Pru, for I never heard him pray in my Life, nor no body elſe, I believe.
Well, Madam, I wiſh you had heard it now.
What was it, That would have mov'd me ſo, Pru?
Would it not have moved you, Madam, to hear your dear Father pray for you at the ſame time that you are grieving him as you do, and beg of God to forgive you, and reclaim you, and to reſtore you to him, that you might ſtill be a Child to him, and he may have an Opportunity to make up to you what Injury he had done you by his Neglect in your Education, and that your Ruin may not be the Effect of his Omiſſion? Would not this have mov'd you, Madam?
Truly Pru, I cannot tell but it might.
If the Words had not mov'd you, it would have made ſome Impreſſion on you to have ſeen the reſt of the Family.
What are they concern'd in it?
Why, they are all concern'd for you two?
For what, Pru?
If you will not be diſpleas'd, Madam.
No, Pru, ſpeak freely.
And if my Maſter will not be offended neither.
No no, Pru, let us know it all, and ſpeak your Mind freely.
Why really, Madam, they are concern'd on ſeveral Accounts, to ſee ſuch a Breach in the Family; to ſee my Maſter ſo griev'd at it, and yet to ſee him ſo reſolute againſt you, that they ſee plainly it will be the Ruin of you both, and then to think upon how unjuſtifiable a Ground you act; pray pardon me, Madam, it is not fit I ſhould talk thus.
Go on, Pru.
Why, Madam; was it ever known that a young Gentleman, and a young Lady, the Eldeſt Branches of the Family, ſhould break all to pieces with their Father, and ſuch a Father too, and on no Quarrel, but that he would have them reform, and ſerve God! What will the World ſay? I be⯑ſeech you Madam conſider of it, all the Houſe condemn you now, and all the World will con⯑demn you as ſoon as you are gone.
Well Pru, but we are not gone yet.
I am afraid of it.
Why ſo, Pru? I ſuppoſe that belongs to the latter Part of my Father's Diſcourſe.
Yes, Madam.
Tell us that too, Pru.
Why, that is it which gives me the great⯑eſt Concern for you, Madam, that when my Ma⯑ſter had prayed ſo earneſtly and ſo affectionately for your reclaiming and returning to your Duty, he went on to pray for himſelf, that he might not be ſuffered to yield to your Obſtinacy; that his Af⯑fection might not prevail over his Duty; that if God in Judgment had reſolv'd totally to caſt you off, he might be able to do ſo too; and that in the [162] mean time he might be ſupported in maintaining his Reſolution of not receiving you again but as Penitents, and on good Aſſurance of your Refor⯑mation as well as Repentance; and this, Madam, made me ſo earneſt with you; I think I ſhall break my Heart for you.
Prethee don't grieve, Pru, but tell us what is to be done then: What did you mean by talking of our coming in? I don't ſee what we have done, that we muſt repent ſo much.
Why no, Madam, I hope not, if you will but be prevail'd on now, and that made me ſay there was one STEP left to ſave you ſtill.
I obſerv'd you ſaid ſo, Pru; prethee good Pru, What Step is that? I did not think Things were come to ſuch an Extremity with my Father.
Why, Madam, all this, and more that I have not told you, is upon a firm Belief which both your Father and Mother have, that you are both gone to the Park, as you know you bade me ſay.
That's true.
Now Madam, if you will give me leave to go in, and ſay you are both of you here, and have been no farther, perhaps this will alter the Caſe.
You do not know my Father, Pru, he is not ſo ſoon alter'd.
Perhaps, Madam, you may not know him neither in this Caſe: Do you think if he reckons your Diſobedience or Fault ſo much his Affliction, he will not be glad to hear that you have not been guilty?
Guilty of what, Pru? What is the Fault?
Why Madam, my Maſter believes, that in Defiance of his Command, and God's Command, and on purpoſe to let him ſee you reſolve not to regard what he has ſaid to you, you are both gone to the Park, to take your Pleaſure now on the Sab⯑bath-Day; and on this Suppoſition he has comman⯑ded, when you come back, none of the Servants ſhall dare let you in till they call him, and that though he be gone to Bed, he will be call'd up.
Nay, I knew if he was angry, he would be very warm.
Now, Madam, here is a few Minutes left; my Maſter may be convinc'd you have not been any farther than this Place, and you may come in the ſame Way you went out, and I dare ſay my Maſter will be glad of ſo juſt an Occaſion not to be ſevere with you; try him, Madam, dear Madam, for your own ſake do, you are quite undone I am ſure, if you do not.
He won't believe us now, Pru.
I ſhall be a Witneſs for you, Madam; beſides your Brother there is in his Gown and Slip⯑pers, and that will prove he cannot have been at the Park.
Ay, ay, he cannot but be ſatisfied, go Pru, let it be ſo, we will follow you; I would not puſh things too far neither, Siſter.
Indeed we have tried him far enough for the firſt time, we'll go in after her then.
If you pleaſe to be walking a little while, I'll make you a Signal when to come nearer.
Do ſo Pru, we will come forward till we are in Sight; if my Father continues very angry, do you open my Chamber Window, and then we will come into the Garden.
Come let us go directly in after her.
No, no, let us wait a little, that will look as if ſhe had fetch'd us.
I can't think of provoking my Father too much neither.
But let us get off of this then as well as we can.
Oh Madam! I am undone! 'Tis I have made all this Miſchief!
Why, what's the matter, Pru?
Why, Madam, I told you I thought my Young Maſter, and my Miſtreſs were gone to the Park, and that made my Maſter ſo angry with them both, and 'tis nothing like it; 'tis all my Fault!
How do you know that, Pru? I ſhould be glad for their own Sakes it was as you ſay, and ſo would their Father too; for though he is reſolv'd to reſent it, as he ought to do, being Maſter of his Family; yet, as a tender Father, I am ſure he would rejoice if it were not ſo.
So Madam! Do but go up Stairs to our Window, you may ſee them walking together in the back Cloſe, under the Lime-Trees.
That may be, Pru, then they are come back.
Nay, Madam, that is impoſſible too; for my Young Maſter is in his Gown and Slippers, and I dare ſay, if you ſend up into his Chamber, you will find his Cloaths there.
What is that Pru ſays?
Are they come back? Has any The Father comes. of my Servants let them in? I [165] aſſure them I'll be as good as my Word if they have, no ſuch Servant ſhall ſtay another Day in my Houſe.
My Dear, be not too raſh, we are all mi⯑ſtaken, come along with me; look yonder they are, and Pru ſays they have been there all this while.
I am not to be cheated; this is a Feint, they have their Intelligence within Doors, and are come back, and walk there to blind us; but it will not do, I will not be impos'd upon, and I hope you will not neither, my Dear.
No, my Dear, I will not be impos'd upon neither; but if it be really ſo, I believe you would be glad to be ſatisfied, and would be agreeably diſappointed, as well as I, for I know your Reſent⯑ment is the Effect of your Duty, and not the De⯑fect of your Love to them.
Indeed I would be ſo glad to know that they were not guilty, I could let out ſome of my Blood to have it ſo; but I can receive no Satisfaction in being impos'd upon; I never believe a thing meerly becauſe I would have it ſo.
Nor I neither; but Pru ſays, they cannot have been farther, for they are undreſt, and I am going to my Son's Chamber, to ſee if it be ſo.
Do ſo, that may be ſome Satisfaction.
The Thing is plain, I hope, for here is his Hat, and Sword, and Coat.
He may have come in, and undreſs'd him.
Somebody muſt ha' let him in then, and you know we have had all the Servants in our View; beſides, they would not have been ſo weak, when [166] they had gotten in, to have gone out again, after hearing what Orders we had given; and that Servant who had been ſo kind to have let them in, would not fail to ha' told them of it.
That is true; I begin to hope they have not been ſo wicked as I fear'd, I'm ſure I ſhall be very glad of it if it prove ſo.
Look, they are coming into the Garden, it does not look as if they were guilty, I conſeſs
I'll go and try them before they ſhall come within my Doors; for not to keep Laws, is all one as not to make them.
I deſire a poſitive Anſwer to a plain Queſtion from you both; where you have been ſince you went out.
We have been walking under the Lime-Trees, Sir.
That I know; my Queſtion implies where elſe.
My Anſwer was ſo ſimple and plain, I did not think it could have been ſuſpected, Sir; and therefore I did not add, tho' it is moſt true we have been no where elſe.
Your Conduct juſtifies the Suſpicion; why was no Servant acquainted with it, that when you were call'd for, might have anſwered for you?
That might be an Omiſſion, but could not be a Deſign.
Why not a Deſign?
Becauſe it ſeems to anſwer no End, or at leaſt, that I know of.
Perhaps you was willing to try me with a Belief of your being gone to the Park, contrary to [167] my expreſs Command; I am not fond of being play'd with in ſuch things as theſe.
It is a Sign to me, Sir, that you are very angry at ſomething, that you can ſuppoſe ſuch a thing of me; unleſs there were ſome great Satis⯑faction in your Diſpleaſure, it can be none to try whether you can be angry or no.
I ſee no other End in your walking here ſo long.
You having expreſly forbidden our going to the Park, I could not but think our walking here ought to be taken for a Compliance with your Order.
While you diſputed the Reaſonableneſs and Juſtice of my Order, I had the more reaſon to ſuſpect your Compliance.
But if I complied when I diſputed the Ju⯑ſtice of the Command, it would more unanſwe⯑rably argue an entire Obedience to it as your Com⯑mand only.
I had rather you had obey'd it as God's Com⯑mand, than as mine, and then you would no more have ſpent your time here, than at the Park.
But if it be the firſt Sir, your preſent Diſ⯑pleaſure will remove, if it was raiſed upon a Sup⯑poſition of our having been at the Park.
Your Abſence on another Account has been offenſive.
But cannot be juſtly charg'd as a Fault, Sir, for I had no Command, except negative, not to go to the Park, which you will eaſily ſee is obey'd.
I muſt ſuppoſe it.
Our Dreſs will be Evidence for us, if your Suſpicions are not to be ſatisfied by the Aſſurances of one who never prevaricated with you; perhaps if I could have diſſembled more, as others have, I might have been leſs ſuſpected
You have much Advantage, you think, in not being guilty this time, I ſhould have been more glad to have ſeen your Inclination reform'd too.
I do not ſee my Inclination is vicious, and am not a little ſurpriz'd at the Conſtruction that is put upon my moſt Innocent Actions.
And I do not ſee that what I expect is un⯑reaſonable, and am as much concern'd to ſee my ſelf contradicted by my eldeſt Son and Daughter, in a Propoſal to their good both for Soul and Body.
I oppoſe nothing as I know of.
And comply with nothing.
We had no Command from you to ſtay within.
I demand of you both, whether you have been in no Company, or any where elſe than as you ſay, walking under the Lime-Trees, and I expect to be anſwer'd without the leaſt Prevarication.
You may be aſſur'd, Sir, we have been no where elſe.
I am glad for your own Sakes; for the Meaſures I had reſolved to take, would have been very irkſome to me, tho' abſolutely neceſſary: I ſhall ſay no more now, it is on the Condition only that your Anſwer is literally true, that I can ad⯑mit you to come into my Doors: I ſhall ſtate your Duty more exactly to you in the Morning, and perhaps too exactly expect your Compliance.
I never ſaw my Father look ſo in my Life, I am frighted.
He convinces me he is in earneſt, after a manner I never expected: It falls out very well that we contriv'd this Shift, we ſhould have made ſuch a Breach as would never have been re⯑concil'd; I'll carry the Jeſt no farther.
What muſt we do then? I cannot think of being a Nun, and being abridg'd of thoſe Liber⯑ties and Pleaſures I always enjoy'd: Why did they not bring us up to it from Children, then it had been Natural to us, and we had known no better.
I'll tell you Siſter, what I'll do; my Father promis'd me I ſhould Travel, I'll ſee if I can get leave to go abroad, then I ſhall be a little out of Company, and ſhall not look ſo like a Fool under Government, as I muſt do now.
And what muſt I do?
Ask their Conſent to go and live at your Aunt's, as we ſaid before.
So I will then.
Well, Pru, how ſtands Matters?
Maid. I'm glad you're come in, Sir, I trem⯑bled for fear you ſhould quarrel, when I ſaw my Maſter go to you, for he was in a great Paſſion, and declar'd when he went out to you, that if he was not very well ſatisfied that you had been no farther than the Lime-Trees, you ſhould not come within the Doors.
MY Dear, we have had a hard Day's Work, but I hope it will iſſue well.
Alas! How eaſily had all this been pre⯑vented, if we had begun well, and how great Ad⯑vantage have they who begin their Family-Work when they begin to have Families.
I have eaſed my Heart in the publick Ac⯑knowledgment I have made of that Omiſſion, and I hope we ſhall teſtifie our ſincere Repentance for that Sin, by our exact obſerving our Duty in time to come.
But the Difficulty of our Two Eldeſt Children, I doubt, will every Day renew our Af⯑fliction.
I muſt take it for a juſt Puniſhment upon my paſt Neglect, but I will not for that ceaſe to go through with my Work; I will not ceaſe to pray for their reducing, NOR to uſe my Endeavour, as well by Perſwaſion, as by Seve⯑rity, to oblige them to a Reformed Life; and I have a full Dependence upon God's Goodneſs, that he will reſtore them both to me yet, tho' they may ſtand out a great while; and this hope, preſerves my Reſolution to omit nothing that may reclaim them.
I ſee them both ſo wedded to their Plea⯑ſures, that they think it a moſt intolerable Burden to be abridg'd of them, and I find my Daughter ſullen and melancholly upon it; ſhe tells me, ſhe cannot appear among Company, and ſhe is aſham'd to be ſeen, and deſires me to let her go to her Aunt's, and live with her a while.
By all means let her go; I think it a Step of that Providence to reclaim her, that I was telling you I hope in; for my Siſter will allow her or encourage her in none of her Levity, I am ſure of that, and my Brother keeps juſt ſuch an Orderly Houſe as I ought to have kept, and hope to keep for the future.
Indeed I am very willing to it, for her Siſter owns to me, ſhe receiv'd the firſt Impreſ⯑ſions of Religion and ſerious Thoughtfulneſs at her Aunt's; I'll e'en ſend her away.
But what ſhall we do with your Son? For I have a ſecret Hint given me to Day, that he deſigns to ask me leave to travel, and pretends that I promiſed him.
Yes, and I have been told; that if you refuſe him, he will go without your Conſent, de⯑pending upon his own Eſtate.
I ſhall be more willing to let him go now than ever, becauſe as I would have no Obſtruction to the Reſolution I have taken to reform my Fa⯑mily, ſo I would be very ſorry to ſee him expoſe his Reputation ſo much as to contradict me in it, and appear obſtinate in doing ſo, which muſt em⯑broil me with him, for I ſhall not yield to my Son, eſpecially where I am ſure he is in the wrong; and indeed, his Carriage hitherto has been a very great Affliction to me; if he proves impertinent, I ſhall be oblig'd to reſent it: Therefore I ſhall only put in one Condition, if he asks me, (viz.) [172] That he take Mr. B— for his Tutor to tra⯑vel with him, and he ſhall go when he will.
That I dare ſay he will not do.
Then he goes without my Bleſſing or Conſent.
The Daughter is ſent to her Aunt's, where ha⯑ving a ſober, religious Family to converſe with, ſhe begins to be leſs fond of her old Humours, and a Foundation is laid there in her, by the In⯑ſtruction and Example of her Aunt and her Chil⯑dren, which ends at laſt in her compleat Refor⯑mation, by marrying one of her Couſins, a ſober, religious Gentleman.
The Son travels without his Father's Conſent, ſpends his Eſtate, gets a Commiſſion in the Army, is disbanded, comes Home a Cripple and a Beg⯑gar; and tho' always very penitent for rejecting his Father's Government and Inſtruction, yet ne⯑ver ſubmits himſelf to his Father, ſo as to be re⯑ceiv'd again, and dies miſerable, as will be ſeen in the laſt Part of this Work.
THE Firſt Part having hiſtorically treated of a Father's Conduct with his Houſhold, the Foundation of his Re⯑ſolution to reform his Family, inſtruct his Children, &c. I hope it may af⯑ford ſuitable Leſſons to Fathers, Mothers, Maſters of Families, &c. in their Duty of Family-Inſtru⯑ction; as alſo Examples, and ſuitable Hints to Children, to warn them againſt deſpiſing and con⯑temning the Inſtruction of their Parents, from the Conſequences on either Side, which appear in the foregoing Hiſtory of this unhappy, yet happy Family.
The enſuing Part will go the ſame Length in the following Caſes, viz. (1) Maſters to Servants. (2) Servants to Maſters, and to Fellow-Servants. (3) Companions and Sociates one to another; from all which may be learnt ſome Leſſons to inſtruct us how to fill up every Relation, every Occaſion, every Circumſtance of Life, and every Converſation, with ſomething uſeful and inſtru⯑cting to one another.
The Scene lies now among the meaner Sort of People, where the Value of a Religious Family, the Extent of its Influence, and the Advantage of good Family-Government, as well to thoſe who are [174] out, as to thoſe who are in the Family, may be particularly obſerv'd from the remarkable Conduct of ſome Perſons belonging to Two or Three Fa⯑milies in a certain known Country-Corporation at ſome Diſtance from London.
THERE liv'd in a Country Town, an indu⯑ſtrious Trading Man, in middling Circum⯑ſtances, whoſe Employment being a Clothier, caus'd him to take ſeveral Apprentices, and ſeve⯑ral Journey-men; and who had alſo ſeveral Chil⯑dren of his own: He was a Man of an exact up⯑right Converſation, of a moſt devout and religious Behaviour, but more eſpecially in his Family; one that conſtantly maintain'd the Exerciſe of Religious Worſhip in his Houſe, inſtructing and educating his Children and Servants in the Fear and Knowledge of God, with great Care and Re⯑gard, as well to their Good, as to his own Duty; and this with all poſſible Modeſty and Caution; avoiding all hypocritical Shews and Appearances of Oſtentation, being a ſerious uſeful Chriſtian in every Reſpect, and his Wife was in her Place every way like him.
There was in the ſame Town a wealthy Shop⯑keeper, a Man in great Buſineſs, a Magiſtrate or Alderman of the Corporation, who had likewiſe a large Family of Children and Servants: The Man was bred to buſineſs, drove a great Trade, and grew Rich apace; he was an honeſt ſober Man, had the Reputation of a very fair Dealer, the Credit of what we call a good Man, that would do no body any Wrong; but as to Reli⯑gion, he made no great Stir about that, he ſerved God a Sundays as other People did, and troubled his Head very little with any thing that was Religious all the Week after; indeed, he liv'd in [175] a conſtant hurry of Buſineſs, ſo that he had really no time to think of, or to ſpare about Religious Affairs.
His Children, as they grew up, he put honeſtly to School, enquir'd ſometimes ſuperficially if they were good Boys, and learn'd their Books, and the Maſter as ſuperficially giving an Anſwer that they did pretty well, he was mighty eaſie as to their doing well in the World.
As to his Servants, it was none of his Care in the leaſt what they did, ſo they minded his Buſineſs; as to Idleneſs, he took pretty good Care to prevent that, by finding them conſtant Employment in his Ware houſes, and about his Buſineſs; and as to either their Morals or Reli⯑gion, he counted it none of his Buſineſs, except at any time ſome groſs Indecency came in his Way, which oblig'd him to find Fault, and then his Diſpleaſure reſpected the Neglect or Obſtru⯑ction of his Buſineſs, or ſome Complaints or Un⯑eaſineſs in the Neighbourhood, rather than any thing of Religion.
It appears by the Story in hand, that two young Lads, much about the ſame Age, and pretty near the ſame time, came Apprentices to theſe Two Men; The Youths were very different in their Behaviour, tho' otherwiſe agreeable to one ano⯑ther, their Conduct was, as in ſuch Caſes it will be, ſuitable to the Families of their Parents, with whom they had been Educated; the one a ſober, well inclin'd, ſerious Lad, that had been brought up by Religious Parents, well inſtructed, and formed early to deſire the beſt things; the other a looſe, profligate, prophane Boy, perfectly wild, that had been taught nothing, and deſir'd to learn nothing but his Trade, given to ſwearing, lying, and ill Words, but of a good Capacity [176] enough to learn, if he had been taught in time, ſo that he was meerly loſt for want of early In⯑ſtruction.
The ſober religious Lad was unhappily put Ap⯑prentice to the Rich Shop-keeper, who regarded no Religion but his Trade; and the wild pro⯑phane Boy was put Apprentice to the Religious Tradeſman the Clothier, and being Neighbours, the Boys became acquainted it ſeems: Altho' there was very little Suitableneſs between the manner of the young Men's Education, yet their Age, Neighbourhood, and Opportunity of Converſa⯑tion concurring, and other Circumſtances per⯑haps in their Temper, or in the time of their coming to their Maſters, making them more a⯑greeable to one another than ordinary, they be⯑came Companions, and contracted an intimate Friendſhip, the Conſequence of which will ap⯑pear in the following Dialogues.
AFTER, as is noted, the Two Youths had contracted an Intimacy, ſo that it was grown up to a kind of Affection between them, they agreed in the firſt Place to call Brothers, and then, that every Evening when their Shops were ſhut up, and their Buſineſs over, they would ſpend any Time they had to ſpare, always together, either at their Maſters Doors, or walking, or as their Liberty would permit; and, as may be ſuppoſed to be pretty uſual in ſuch Caſes, it was not the laſt of the Queſtions they asked one another at theſe Meetings, how they lik'd their Maſters, their Employments, their Uſage, and the like: In theſe Diſcourſes it fell out they wanted no Grievances to complain of on both Sides; for that neither of them, tho' they had both gone ſo far as to be bound, lik'd their Circumſtances; but it ſeem'd, that the greateſt of their Diſlike was at their Ma⯑ſters, and the reſpective Management of their Families, rather than at any thing in the Trades they carried on, which they otherwiſe lik'd well enough.
Says Will, who liv'd with the good Clothier, I'll tell you plainly, Brother Tom, I am quite [178] tir'd out with my Maſter, I can't imagine what my Father meant when he pick'd out ſuch a Man for me; I'm ſure my Father is none of thoſe kind of People himſelf; Why, our Houſe is a Mona⯑ſtery inſtead of a Shop, or a Work houſe.
A Monaſtery, Will! ſays the other, what do you mean by that? Don't we hear your People and your Servants about their Buſineſs every Day; they don't dreſs Cloth, and comb Wool in the Monaſteries.
Why no, Brother, ſays Will, it is not a Mona⯑ſtery ſo, I don't mean that, but we have ſuch a World of Ceremonies, and Religious Doings a⯑mong us, 'tis enough to weary a Body off their Legs; I'm ſure I ſhall never endure it long.
Perhaps you are ſooner tired with theſe Religious Doings, Brother, that you ſpeak of, than you would be with other things: Is not that it, Brother Will? ſpeak honeſtly.
Nay, I do not know much about it, I confeſs; it don't ſignifie much, I ſuppoſe, but to torment us.
Nor do you mind it much, I ſuppoſe, when you are at it, Brother, do ye?
No indeed, not I; I take care to get a good Sleep all the while, if I can.
Fie upon you, Will.
Why, what does it ſignifie to me?
What their Prayers, Brother?
Ay, their Prayers; why they pray for themſelves, not for me, do they?
No doubt they pray for you too.
I don't care whether they do or no.
Nay there I think you are wrong, Brother Will; ſhould we not be glad to have any body pray for us? I remember, at Church there are Bills ſent in, for the Miniſter to pray for Folks; [179] they would not put up Bills to be pray'd for, if it was of no Signification.
Ay, that's when they are ſick, Brother, but what's that to me, I am well enough, and it is but when they deſire it, now I never deſir'd them to pray for me; what need they trouble their Heads about me in their Prayers?
Well, but Brother, you ſay they pray for themſelves, why ſhould you be againſt that?
Not I; but then they may do it by them⯑ſelves, can't they? What need they keep us up at Night, and raiſe us up in the Morning? Can't they let us alone, we work hard enough all Day, they ought to let us ſleep at Night, ſure.
Why, do they take up ſo long Time at it?
Ay, I think it is long for us that work hard at our Buſineſs all Day, here we are haul'd out of our Beds every Morning by Six a Clock to come to Prayers, before we open the Shop, or go into the Work-houſe, and at Night we are kept up, I know not how long, to read, and go to Prayers, when we might be all a bed and aſleep; I tell you 'tis a meer Monaſtery, I can⯑not endure it.
Well, but Brother, I remember one thing by the By, it ſeems this can't be much Trouble to you; for you acknowledge you ſleep all the while if you can; ſo that you do not loſe much of your Reſt.
Ay, that's true, but that can't be always; beſides every now and then they catch me at it, and then there is ſuch a Noiſe with them—Then there's our Maſter's Son, he is ſuch a Reli⯑gious Monkey, he is always a jogging a Body, that I can't get a good ſleep for him; but this is not all, Brother, we have abundance of ſtrange Doings of this kind, beſides going to Prayers.
But hark you, Brother Will, about calling you up in a Morning, let me hear that again; you ſay your Maſter calls you up by Six a Clock in the Morning to come to Prayers.
Yes, and that is, I ſay, juſt as they do in the Monaſteries: I know 'tis ſo, for I had a Couſin that was a Nun, and made her Eſcape out of a Nunnery, and ſhe is turn'd Proteſtant, and ſhe uſed to tell me they were obliged to riſe at ſuch Hours in the Night to go to Prayers, I wonder my Maſter don't do ſo too; I don't queſtion but in a little time he will, and we ſhall be all Monks inſtead of Clothiers.
But, Brother Will, you muſt do your Maſter Juſtice now; for, if I miſtake not, you wrong him very much by your own Account, as I was going to ſay.
How Brother? I don't wrong him at all.
Why, you ſuppoſe of him he takes the Time he ſpends in thoſe Religious Things out of your Sleep, or out of the Time when you ought to be in Bed, and you think that an Injury to you, becauſe you work hard; pray what time do your hir'd Journey men come to work in a Morning?
At Six a Clock.
Well, and do they actually go to work by Six a Clock?
Yes, why not, is not that the uſual time?
Yes Brother, but then you ſay your Ma⯑ſter does not call you up till Six, and then he goes to Prayers; now if he did not go to Pray⯑ers, he would go to work, and you could not expect but to be at Work, who are his Appren⯑tices, as well as the Journey-men; ſo that the Time he ſpends at Prayer, he takes out of your Working Time, and not out of your Sleeping [181] Time, and the Loſs is his own, not yours; I think there you do your Maſter wrong, Brother.
What care I whoſe Time it is; I wonder what need there is for making ſuch a Pother, I am as tir'd as a Dog with it; I warrant they don't do ſo at your Houſe.
Our Houſe, Will! No indeed we are not troubled with it, I never heard a Chapter read, or a Word ſpoke of Prayer ſince I came into the Houſe, and that's as much my Uneaſineſs, as this is yours.
You are very happy, Brother, I wiſh I had been in ſuch a Place.
I cannot be of your Mind, Brother, what makes you talk ſo wickedly?
What do you mean by wickedly? I ſay you are happy that you are not tormented as I am.
I Ay, Will; but at the ſame time all this that torments you, is, your Maſter calls you up in the Morning, and keeps you up at Night to do your Duty, and what you ought to love, I mean, to go to Prayers, and the like.
Why ay, Is not that Torment enough? What do you tell me of their Prayers and Duty? I deſire none of it not I.
You make me tremble Will; I am frighted at you.
Frighted! at what!
Why, if I ſhould talk as you do, I ſhou'd be afraid the Devil would take me away alive: Do you know what you are talking of!
Yes ſure, I ſpeak plain enough.
Why, is not all you complain of, nothing but ſerving God, as they are commanded to do; and are we not all to do ſo too, if we would be ſav'd?
Prethee Thomas, don't thou talk Goſpel too; I ben't againſt their ſerving God, not I.
But you a'n't for doing it your ſelf tho', and you ſpeak contemptibly of the Thing it ſelf.
I don't know what belongs to it, not I; what need they make ſuch a do about it?
About what, Will? what, about ſerving God!
No, about their ſaying ſo many Prayers.
You are mighty uneaſie, methinks, about ſaying your Prayers; is not that ſerving God? I am amaz'd at you, indeed, Will.
Why, but as I told you, Brother, that is not all.
No, is not that all? What then?
No nor half; for every Night in the Week we muſt read every one a Chapter, and there our Maſter tells us a long Story of ſome⯑thing or other about what we read; and asks us a great many fooliſh Queſtions, that I can give no Anſwer to; then every Sunday we are examin'd about what the Miniſter ſaid at Church, I never heard of ſuch blind Doings; why, how ſhould I remember what he ſays, it may be I am at Play without Doors, or in the Church-yard half the time.
Well but Brother, you ſhould not, you ought not to do ſo, you know that, I hope; and I ſuppoſe your Maſter puts you to remember what the Miniſter ſays, that you may be oblig'd to ſtay, and hear him, as you ſhould do; I think he is very kind to you, I wiſh I had ſuch a Ma⯑ſter, Will.
I don't value ſuch Kindneſs, let him be kind to me in other things.
Why, can any thing be kinder than to keep you from doing what you ſhould not do, I [183] mean playing in the Fields or Streets, or Church-yard all Sermon time.
Yes, I would fain have him let me go Home every Sunday to my Father's, that would be kind to me, but he won't let me do that.
Brother, that would not mend the matter, to be ſure your Father would take care you ſhould go to Church all the Day, and go to Prayers again at Night, and you ſay you can't abide that.
You are quite miſtaken in my Father, he is none of them; he goes to Church himſelf in⯑deed, but he never troubles himſelf to hinder us, we may go where we will for all him; if he would but let me go home to my Father, I ſhould do well enough.
Well, nor don't your Father call you to Prayers at Night?
No indeed, nothing like it, he knows better things.
What, nor a Sunday Night neither!
No, nor a Sunday Night neither; Prayers! I dare ſay no body ever heard my Father ſay any Prayers in his Life, except when his Horſe fell on him, and broke his Thigh, and every body thought he would ha' died, or muſt have had his Thigh cut off; then he ſent for the Miniſter indeed, and they had a deal of Prayers in the Chamber, I re⯑member; but as ſoon as that was over, and my Father was well again, he never troubled his Head any more with it, what ſhou'd he for, there was no need of it then, you know.
For the Lord's ſake, Will, do not talk ſo!
What do you mean? What do I talk?
Talk! Why you talk Blaſphemy almoſt; you have been dreadfully Educated, Will; pre⯑thee [184] what is your Father? Is he a Proteſtant?
Talk Blaſphemy! What do you mean, Tom? What did I ſay?
Say! Why I am afraid to repeat what you ſaid.
What makes you look at me ſo, Brother, you look as if you were ſcared? what ails you?
Truly, Will, you have terrified me; I was looking at you, to ſee if you did not begin to look pale, and ſtagger, for I wondred God did not ſtrike you dead when you talk'd ſo horridly.
And what did you look about upon the Ground for?
To ſee whether it did not begin to cleave and part; for I expect every Moment it ſhould open and ſwallow you up!
You Fool you, what do you mean?
Indeed, I ſhould have expected all that, if I had ſaid ſo.
What did I ſay, that you make ſuch a ſtir about it.
Truly, Will, I wiſh you would conſider a little your ſelf what you ſaid, or at leaſt; what you meant, when you ſaid your Father knew bet⯑ter than to pray to God, and that, after your Father had broke his Thigh, and was well again, there was no need of praying to God: Are not theſe dreadful Words, Will!
No, I think not; what Harm is there in them? I thought no Harm, not I.
But are you in earneſt, Will, when you ſay your Father never prays to God?
Nay, Tom, I did not ſay never; I told you he went to Church a Sundays.
Well, but never elſe, never at home; ne⯑ver call'd his Family to Prayer, as your Maſter you ſay, does.
No, never in his Life, that ever I heard of.
Why, what is your Father? Is he a Hea⯑then or a Chriſtian? Is he a Papiſt or a Pro⯑teſtant?
My Father a Heathen! No I think not; he is as good a Chriſtian as any of our Neigh⯑bours.
Ay! That's ſtrange; I thought there had been no Chriſtians liv'd ſo, Will: Is he a Prote⯑ſtant or a Papiſt?
Why, a Proteſtant, what ſhould he be do you think; my Father a Papiſt! No indeed my Father's as good a Proteſtant as any of you; did not I tell you he went to Church every Sun⯑day, nay, ſometimes, eſpecially when it is bad Wea⯑ther, he goes to the Meeting-houſe, becauſe the Church is a good way off.
Will, Will, I never heard the like, or ſaw the like till I came to my Maſter; I thank God I have never been bred up among ſuch Chriſtians, or among ſuch Proteſtants; I thought there had been no ſuch Proteſtants in the World; nay, there is a Popiſh Family lives next Door to my Father's, and they are conſtantly Morning and Evening, and often at other times of the Day too, at their Worſhip and Prayers, ſerving God in their Way; nay, I have heard, that the Turks ſay their Prayers Five Times a Day: Why, it is natural to pray to God, Will, did not he make us?
I can't diſpute, not I; what do you call ſerving God? Is not going to Church ſerving [186] God? I told you my Father went every Sunday to Church, I think that's ſerving God, isn't it? And he may ſay his Prayers at home too for ought I know; I ſuppoſe he does not tell Folks when he does that, as my Maſter does, who makes all the Houſe hear of it.
But, Brother Will, thou talk'ſt as if thou had'ſt been bred a Heathen, and not a Proteſtant; Prethee Will, did'ſt every read the Bible?
Yes, I learnt to read in it at School.
Was that all? Did you never read at Home? What, have you never a Bible in the Houſe?
Yes, we have a great Bible in the Parlour Window.
What, and does no body uſe it?
Yes, my Mother reads in it ſometimes, and my Father ſets down how old his Children are, in it; there's the Time when we were all Born.
But were you never us'd to be bid to read in it by your Father or Mother?
Yes, my Mother would ſometimes call me from Play, to come and read my Book; but I would not come, I lov'd my Play too well for that.
What, would not you come!
No, not I.
What, not when your Mother call'd you!
Mother! no, what car'd I for my Mother.
I never heard the like in my Life; why 'tis a Sign you never read the Bible.
Why, what if I had?
Why there you would have read, Curſed be he that ſets Light by his Father or Mother, Deut. 27. 16. Beſides, Will, cannot you ſay the Ten Commandments?
Yes, I think I can.
Well, and don't you remember the Fifth Commandment, Honour thy Father and thy Mother?
Why, what's that to my going to Play?
But it was ſomething to your refuſing to come and read your Book when your Mother call'd you.
What ſignified that? I knew my Mother was not angry, ſhe did not much trouble her Head whether I came in to read or no.
So indeed it is plain as you ſaid, that nei⯑ther your Father or your Mother troubled their Heads about you, whether you ſerved God or no! I do not wonder that you think it ſo troubleſome that your Maſter goes to Prayers, and ſerves God in his Family; I wonder how you, that have been bred ſo wickedly, came to be put out to ſo reli⯑gious a Family as your Maſter is!
Why, I heard my Father ſay once, before I came to my Maſter, that he was the willinger to put me to him, becauſe he was a good Man, and I might learn good Things there, for I had never learnt any at home.
So that your Father owns then, Will, that theſe are good Things, tho' he does not practiſe them himſelf, that is very ſtrange, Will!
Yes, yes, My Father us'd to ſay he lov'd my Maſter, becauſe he was a good Man, and that he was a Man kept good Orders in his Family; and one Day he told me, that if I was a good Boy, and follow'd my Maſter's Advice, I ſhould be made a good Man, better than ever my Father was, and that my Maſter went to Prayers, and ſerved God, and ſuch as that, but I knew nothing what he meant; if I had known how it was, I ſhould never have come.
Why, you own, that tho' your Father did not call you to Prayer himſelf, he lik'd your Maſter the better becauſe he did, why ſhould not you too.
Not I, I lov'd to live as I had been bred.
But you ſee your Father own'd that your Maſter was a better Chriſtian than himſelf, and that the Orders he kept in his Family, was the way to make you a good Man, nay, to make you better than your Father too; methinks you ſhould be⯑lieve your Father.
I don't know as to that, but I don't like it, not I.
You are then not for being made a good Man, or elſe you don't believe your Father.
I don't ſee how he'll make me any better than I am; I tell you I don't like it at all, I dare ſay you would not like it neither.
Would I not! I wiſh I was to be try'd, Will.
I wiſh you were, I am ſure you would be ſick of it.
Why now, Brother Will, that cannot be, for my Grievance is juſt the contrary to yours, for I have been the uneaſieſt Boy alive; I have got a Maſter that lives exactly like your Father.
My Father! Alas my Father is but an or⯑dinary Man, your Maſter is an Alderman.
I mean as to Religion, Will; 'tis true, my Maſter goes to the Meeting-houſe, and my Miſtreſs goes to Church, and they ſerve God there after their Way, and we have nothing of Swearing, Curſing, or Drunkenneſs in the Houſe, or ſuch as that, I muſt do them that Juſtice; but as to Religion, I never heard a Word of it in the Houſe ſince I came to it.
Well now, and yet every body ſays your Maſter is a very good Man.
That may be.
Why then, Brother, you ſee you were miſtaken before, when you fancied a Man could not be a good Man without making ſuch a Pother about his Praying and his Religion, as my Maſter does; I do not ſee that my Maſter is a jot better Man than yours.
Nay, Will, it was not I was miſtaken, it was your own Father was miſtaken, who you acknowledge, told you, he loved your Maſter be⯑cauſe he was a good Man, and that you might learn good Things there, and that if you followed your Maſter's Advice you would be a good Man too, and a better Man than your Father; he muſt be miſtaken in all that, Will.
Well, but I a'n't talking of my Father, they may be any of them better than my Father, he knows that himſelf; but I ſpeak of your Ma⯑ſter, every Body ſays he is a good Man, and a religious Man, and he has the beſt Reputation in the Town.
Ay, Will, he is an honeſt Man, a very fair Man, he does no body any Wrong, but I have never been bred that Way in my Life; I have never heard any ſuch thing as Praying to God, or reading the Scriptures in the Houſe ſince I came hither, and yet when I came to him I was told he was a mighty Religious Man.
Why, that's what I ſay, he is counted a re⯑ligious Man, and they ſay he goes to the Meeting⯑houſes too.
So much the worſe for him if he appear religious only, and his Practice makes him appear to be otherwiſe; however, I will not ſay what he is privately, but this I am ſure of, it does not ap⯑pear [190] in his Family, we that are Servants ſee no⯑thing of it, nor his Children either.
Why, that is as I would have it be at our Houſe; he is a very good Man, every body ſays ſo, and what need he trouble you with it? I don't like this making ſuch a Show of Religion; can't they be Religious, but they muſt trouble all the Family with it? I believe your Maſter is a very honeſt good Man, Tom, tho' he makes no Show of it, as mine does.
You talk prophanely again, Will, I am no more for making a Show of Religion than you, but if there be no Religion where there is ſome Show of it, to be ſure there is no Religion where there is no Show at all of it; but what do you call Show? Is it not every Chriſtian Man's Duty to teach his Hou⯑ſhold and Family to ſerve God? Do you call that a Show? Every one ought to make ſuch a Show of Religion, and if he does not, he plainly makes a Show of having very little Religion himſelf: I might give you a great many Places out of Scripture for this, but it ſeems you han't read much out of the Bible.
Why, what would you have your Maſter do? You would not have him make ſuch a Rout as my Maſter does, would you?
I would have him ſerve God in his Family, as other religious good People do.
Well, but you ſay they all ſerve God a Sundays.
What's that to his Family? We may run about where we will for all him, Sabbath-day, or any Day or Night, he never takes any Thought for us, we are but in the Counting-houſe next Morning, when he wants us, we may ſerve God or the Devil, it's all one to him.
That's what I want now; I wonder you ſhould be uneaſie at it.
I have not been uſed to ſuch a Life, Will, tho' you have; it terrifies me ſo I cannot bear it.
Why what would you have? what is it to you what your Maſter does?
A great deal; God has ſaid, He will pour out his Fury upon the Families that call not upon his Name, Jer. 10. 25. And I am one of the Fa⯑mily now.
Well, but can you not ſay your Prayers by your ſelf?
Truly, I have no manner of Convenience for that neither, for we all lie together in a Room, and at firſt I us'd to kneel down and pray by my ſelf, but the reſt of the Apprentices jeer'd me out of it, and made ſuch a Noiſe at me, I was forc'd to leave it off, and now I go to Bed and riſe like a Beaſt, as they do; but it grieves me ſo, I can⯑not tell what to do, for I am ſure it is a Sin to do ſo, and I am afraid God ſhould ſhow ſome Judg⯑ment upon me for it.
Why, is there any Danger of that Tom! why, I never prayed to God in my Life.
Then you are in a fad Condition, Will, and ſo am I too; ſometimes I think it will break my Heart; I think my Father has put me in the Devil's Mouth, and I am going the ſtrait Road to Hell; I am ſure he does not do ſo himſelf.
And ſo you have left off ſaying your Prayers, Tom, now quite; han't you? And then you live as bad as I do, don't you?
No, I han't left off praying neither; for if my Maſter does but ſend me of an Errand, I pray as I go along the Streets; and ſometimes I get up into the Hay-loft over the Stable, or any where that I can be private; but this is ſo ſeldom, [192] and it grieves me ſo, that when I come to pray, I can do nothing but cry, I can't ſpeak a Word hardly.
I do not underſtand theſe Things; ſure I am a ſtrange Creature! Why, it never troubles me; I don't know what 'tis to pray to God, I ne⯑ver knew there was any harm in not doing it; I wiſh I could learn, I'd ſay my Prayers too.
You have a good Maſter to teach you; I have a Maſter will do nothing but teach me to forget all that my good Father and Mother have been teaching me theſe Fifteen Years.
Why, if what you learnt is good, what need you forget it?
Why, I'll tell you, Will, when I was at Home, and had all the Encouragement in the World by the Example and Inſtruction of my Father, and the Exhortation of my Mother, tel⯑ling me my Duty, and ſtrictly charging me never to lie down or riſe without praying to God, in the Evening for Protection, in the Morning for Direction; yet I found a wicked Inclination with⯑in me, often prompting me to omit my Duty, and now when I want theſe Helps of Example and In⯑ſtruction, and inſtead of them have had ſo many Diſcouragements, and find it ſo difficult to get a retir'd Place for it, I find that wicked Inclination to omit my Duty, encreaſes, and ſometimes I am for perſwading my ſelf I have a ſufficient Excuſe to leave it quite off, and I am afraid ſome time or other I ſhall do ſo, and ſo grow an Atheiſt, and then I ſhall live without God, like a Heathen, juſt as you do, Will.
Indeed, Tom, I have liv'd like a Heathen all my Days, I begin to ſee it now, but what muſt I do? How can I help it now?
Do Will! You muſt leave it off, and learn to live a better Life.
But, Brother Tom, how muſt I do that? I am a poor ignorant Wretch, I know nothing at all, I have never been taught any thing in my Life; if to live as I do, is to be a Heathen, my Father is a Heathen, and my Mother is a Heathen, and my Brothers and Siſters are all Heathens.
You are in a ſad Condition Will, as I ſaid before, and I think I am in a worſe.
How can that be, Tom?
Why, you have been taught nothing, and I am in a fair way to loſe all I have been taught; I think my Condition is worſe than yours.
No, no, You know what to do, and what you ought to do, you have been well Educated, Tom, I have no body to teach me any Thing: Tell me dear Brother, what I muſt do; teach me what is my firſt Duty, I begin to ſee ſome⯑thing very deſirable in Religion, that I never va⯑lued before.
Why, Will, I am but a Boy, as well as you, and can't teach you much, but I can tell you what my Father uſed to tell me, and what he taught me to do.
Do, tell me that then, for I long to hear.
Why, he uſed to tell me, that God made me, and that being born in Sin, and liable to Eternal Death for Sin, Jeſus Chriſt redeemed me.
All that I have heard too, tho' I do not underſtand a Word of it.
Then he told me, I muſt every Day pray to God to bleſs me, to preſerve me, and to pardon my Sins for Jeſus Chriſt's Sake; that I muſt give Thanks to him for my Life and my Preſervation in Health, and for all Things that I receive; that I muſt pray to him for my daily Bread, and to give me Wiſdom and Direction in all I go about.
How can I do this?
I remember I ask'd my Father that very Queſtion, and he anſwer'd me thus; Do you not come to me, Child, when you want Cloaths, and ask me for them; and to your Mother when you are hungry, and ask for Victuals; and do you not do this without teaching?
And what did you ſay?
What could I ſay? I kneel'd down every Night and Morning, and ſaid over the Lord's Prayer, then I got a good Prayer out of a Book, and ſaid that, and ſometimes a Word or two would come into my Thoughts, that I would ſay of my own Head, as I thought of ſuch Things as were proper.
I ſhall never learn! why, I can hardly ſay over the Lord's Prayer without Book!
I'll tell you, Will, if I thought you were in earneſt, I would do my Endeavour to teach you; but you that have led ſuch a wicked Life, and cry out of your Maſter and Miſtreſs ſo much about Praying, I don't think you mean any thing but to jeſt with me.
No, but I do not jeſt now; you ſay it is ſo wicked a Thing, and I am in ſuch a dangerous Condition, that you look'd for the Ground to open and ſwallow me up; why, you can't think I would be willing to have the Devil take me away, what ever I may ſay ſometimes; but I am a poor ignorant Boy, how ſhall I know what to do?
Truly, Will, and I alſo am but ignorant as I ſaid before, and unfit to teach you, I am but a Boy, you know, but this I know, and have been taught, that God has made me; do you believe that, Will?
Yes, ſure!
Well, if God made you, then he can deſtroy you.
That is plain.
Then ſure, 'tis your Intereſt to ſerve God, as well in Thankfulneſs to him becauſe he made you, as that he may not be provoked to deſtroy you.
But what is this ſerving God? I thought it was nothing but going to Church a Sundays.
To be ſure worſhipping God at Church is good, and our Duty, but we muſt worſhip God other ways than at Church.
What, by ſaying our Prayers?
Nay, that is not all neither; we muſt fear God, and keep his Commandments.
How ſhall I do all that? You know that I know nothing of it.
Why therefore, Will, your firſt thing as, the firſt Thing my Father told me I was to do, was, to pray to God to teach me to know him, and to fear him, and to keep his Commandments.
How do I know what his Commandments are? I can ſay the Ten Commandments, but I don't underſtand what they mean.
Why, my Father next directed me to read the Bible, which is the Word of God, and is given for our Inſtruction, that we may know his Will.
And will that teach me to know what to do?
Reading the Scripture daily, and praying to God daily to open our Underſtanding, to know [196] the Will of God written in his Word, certainly this muſt be the way, Will.
I can't Pray, I never pray'd in all my Life, I tell you.
You ought to tremble at the Thought of that, Will!
I begin to be afraid indeed, it may be God won't hear me now, if I ſhould Pray.
Yes, there's a Scripture for that to encou⯑rage you; Let the wicked forſake his way, and the unrighteous Man his Thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and he will have Mercy, Iſaiah 55. 7.
Is that in the Bible?
Yes, and a great many more encouraging Things; You muſt read the Scripture diligently: Have you never a Bible?
No, not I, nor never had in my Life.
I am not capable to direct you, Will; but I will tell you there are two Things which I would have you do, pray to God to forgive your Sins, and to teach you his Will, and read the Bible di⯑ligently, I'll give you a Bible, Will.
Indeed, Brother Tom, if you will give me a Bible, I'll read it over and over, you ſay that will teach me; I'll read it, and thank you for it heartily, for I never had a Bible to read in yet.
But remember, Will, I ſaid you muſt pray to God to teach you when you read; to open your Underſtanding, that you may underſtand the Scriptures; and to teach you that you may know your Duty; and then pray to God to guide you in the doing his Will, and your Duty, according to the Scripture, which is his own Word.
What will my praying to God ſignifie? Will God do this for me, if I pray to him? And how can I pray! I don't know what Praying is, not I, what muſt I ſay?
It ſeems you do not know what Prayer is; ſure, if you remember the Beginning of our Diſcourſe, and how you complain'd you were tormented with Prayers at Home, you will not ſay, you do not know what it is.
Don't tell me of that now, dear Tom, I begin to be of another Mind already; I wiſh I knew how to pray for my ſelf.
The Spirit of God teaches us to pray, and helps our Infirmities; do you know the Story of the Poor Publican?
No not I, what was he?
Juſt ſuch another as thou art, Will, a poor, wicked, prophane Wretch, that had liv'd all his Days in Wickedneſs, and perhaps without Prayer too.
And what then? What became of him? Did he go to Hell?
Why, he ſaw the Phariſees, and all the great Profeſſors of Religion, go up to the Temple to pray, and being ſenſible of his Condition, he thought once to go up along with them; but when he conſider'd what a wicked Creature he had been, he was afraid; he durſt not only not go, but not look towards the Temple, nor caſt his Eyes up to Heaven.
That is my Caſe, indeed, exactly: Pray what became of him?
Why, he ſtood at a Diſtance, ſmote his Breaſt, aſtoniſh'd and amaz'd at his own Caſe, and with a deep Sigh, broke out thus: Lord be merci⯑ful to me a Sinner! Luke 18. 13.
Well, and was he heard? You ſay, he durſt not go up to the Temple to pray.
Heard, Yes; one Groan, one Sigh, one Look, nay, a Heart not daring to look, ſending out but one Sentence, yet from a broken, ſincere [198] repenting Heart, is heard in Heaven beyond the long and loud Pretences and Devotions of the ſelf opinion'd Hypocrite: The Scripture ſays ex⯑preſly, this Man went away juſtified rather than the other, Luke 18. 14.
And do you think, if I knew how to pray, God would hear me, and give all that Teaching and Knowledge, you ſpeak of, to me?
Yes, Will, I do more than think ſo, I am ſure of it.
What mean you by that?
I have God's own Word for it, Will, and that Word is the Foundation and Comfort of all the Prayer, and of all the praying Chriſtians in the World.
How is this? explain your ſelf, for you ſpeak ſtrangely poſitive.
The Scripture ſays he will, and that is my Aſſurance, and may be yours; for it is his own Word, John 16. 23. WHATEVER we ask of the Father in the Name of Jeſus Chriſt, he will do it for us.
But I have been a wicked Boy all my Days, that never thought of any thing of God or Religion in my Life, as you know very well by what I have told you, nor ever was taught any thing about it; will God hear ſuch a one as I, if I ever pray to him?
The ſame Scripture ſays, he will, Brother, and we have no Reaſon to doubt it, for the Scri⯑ptures are the Word of God; and, as I told you, the Scripture ſays, Iſaiah 55. 7. Let the wicked forſake his way, and turn unto the Lord, and he will have Mercy, and the Poor Publican went a⯑way juſtified that ſent up but one Sigh.
AY, that may be, to ſuch as ſin now and then a little, but I have done nothing elſe all my Days.
But he ſays in the ſame Text, that he will abundantly Pardon.
But that may not reach me.
But the Scripture is full of PROMISES, and calls to as bad as you, to come to him; I could ſhew you ſome, if I had the Bible here; you can't have been ſo wicked, but you are in⯑cluded in them.
Tell me one of them, I intreat you, I ſee you have a deal of it without Book, dear Tom tell me one of them.
This is one; Him that comes unto me, I will in no wiſe caſt out: Here is no Exception; this Him is all one as WHOSOEVER.
WHOSOEVER! That's a large Word, is there no Exception?
None at all; WHOSOEVER, that in⯑cludes how bad ſoever.
What, and how LONG ſoever too?
Ay, and how long ſoever; WHOSOEVER turns unto God, how bad SOEVER they are, or how long SOEVER they have been ſo bad, yet he will in no wiſe, or by no means, caſt them out.
My Heart revives at that Word, for I have been a ſad Wretch you know, Brother, I have never ſo much as thought of my Soul, or of God, of his making me, or his Power to deſtroy me; I have never pray'd unto him, or call'd upon him, unleſs in wicked Swearing and Curſing by his Name; will God pardon me! Brother, are you ſure of it?
I cannot be ſure he will pardon you, or my ſelf either; but I am ſure it is your Duty to pray for Pardon, and to repent of your Sins; and there is another Scripture, which ſays, if we re⯑pent and forſake, we ſhall find Mercy.
Repent, what's that, Tom?
Repentance is a hearty Sorrow for your Sins already paſt, and ſolemn, ſerious Reſolutions to commit no more; and this Sorrow muſt pro⯑ceed not only from a Fear of Eternal Puniſhment, but from a Hatred of Sin, for its own evil Na⯑ture, and as it is offenſive to the Holineſs of God.
I cannot underſtand this at all; ſhall I learn it in my Bible, Brother? How muſt I learn to repent?
You muſt pray to God to give you Repen⯑tance too, for Repentance is the Gift of God?
I will pray to God, tho' I do not know how, or what to ſay; I am amaz'd at my ſelf when I ſee what a wicked Creature I have been; indeed Brother Tom, I don't wonder that you look'd ſo earneſtly at me, and expected I ſhould drop down dead, or be ſwallow'd up alive; I am afraid I ſhall be ſo ſtill.
I am glad what I have ſaid has made you ſenſible of it.
I begin to love you, dear Brother, better than ever I did, I ſhall be the better for you as long as I live.
I wiſh you had ſome better Inſtructor than I.
Ay, Brother, if I had had a religious Fa⯑ther and Mother, as you have had, I might have known all this from a Child, then all the paſt Wickedneſs of my Life had been prevented; but you ſay WHOSOEVER, Brother, don't you? Are you ſure the Words are ſo?
I am very ſure, Brother; but to make you eaſie, I'll go in and fetch you a Bible, and ſhew it you preſently.
What muſt I do to know how to pray will God hear ſuch a Wretch! and what if not? [201] then I am undone, loſt and damn'd for ever! O what a Condition am I in! but WHOSOEVER.
Lord God that has made me, and haſt ſaid, WHOSOEVER comes, thou wilt not c [...]ſt out, pardon all my Wickedneſs.
What was you ſaying, Brother? Did you ſpeak to me?
No, no, I did not ſpeak to you.
I heard you ſay ſomething.
I hardly know what I ſaid, but my Heart ſtruck me, and I cried out.
To God, I hope.
I hardly know, yet I feel a ſecret Joy in what I ſaid.
Well, Brother, if it was but like the Publican, it may be heard.
I know not what it was, but I am trem⯑bling ſtill; Is this Praying, Brother?
The more your Affection was engaged, the more likely it is to be from a true Work of God.
Have you brought the Bible? You have ſtaid a long while.
I have been looking ſome Places for you.
And will you ſhow me them?
Yes. I have folded 'em down, and here they are, in the firſt Place; here's that I nam'd to you, John 6. 10. Him that comes unto me, I will in no [202] wiſe caſt out; and here is another Place, which is equal in its Encouragements, and expreſly tells us, that the Word HIM is to be taken for WHO⯑SOEVER, without any Exception of Perſon, as I ſaid to you before, Rev. 22. 17. Let him that is a thirſty come, and WHOSOEVER WILL, let them take of the water of Life freely.
You have folded them down, you ſay, I'll read them when I come home, for it is too late for us to ſtay any longer.
THO' this Dialogue, and indeed, this whole Part of the Book, is more a Hiſtory than the reſt, and that the Families which it points at, if they happen to ſee it, may be able to ſee them⯑ſelves in it, and to make ſome Uſe of it to their own Advantage, if they pleaſe: Yet as even this Hiſtory will be the ſame thing as a Parable to the Ages to come, in which it may, I hope, be as uſeful now; and, above all, as this Work is de⯑ſign'd for a general, not a particular Reproof, I am willing to let it lie hid entirely as to Perſons, that it may, perhaps, look leſs by that means like a Hiſtory, than really it is.
If the Perſons whom it more really concerns, may ſee themſelves reproved, they will make not the leſs profitable Uſe of it, for the Civility ſhown them in concealing their Names; if they do not [203] the Author can never want Opportunity to expoſe the Folly, if he ſees Cauſe.
But the Deſign of this Book is of a Nature above a Perſonal Satyr; the Errors in Family-Conduct⯑are the Buſineſs here, not the Families themſelves; and the Names and Perſons are ſo entirely con⯑ceal'd, and the real Hſtory ſo couch'd, that it is impoſſible for any body, but the Perſons them⯑ſelves, to read the People by the Characters.
The firſt Thing reproved here, and worth ob⯑ſerving, is a good Man, who had carefully educa⯑ted and inſtructed his Child, and who he might eaſily ſee, was a ſober, well inclin'd Youth, knowing in good Things, and deſirous of them; yet had this Religious Parent forgotten himſelf, and ſo far forgotten the Good of his Child alſo, as to place him out with a Maſter who had either no Reli⯑gion at all, or, which was all one to the Child, exerciſed none of it in his Family; nor took any Care, or had any Concern for the Souls of his Servants, whatever he had for their Bodies.
The Child laments this very pathetically, tho' in a familiar way, to his Comrade; he is at firſt weary of the prophane way of living, and then juſtly afraid that the Interruptions he meets with to his Duty, ſhould bring him to an Indifference about it, and to believe the Difficulties he found in his way, were juſt Excuſes for him in omitting it totally at laſt.
NOTE, We have natural Hindrances enough in the way of our Duty, from the Averſions of a corrupt Nature, ſo that at the beſt we ſhall be ofren backward in, and prompted to, the Omiſſion of Religious Performances; we have therefore great Need to remove all oc⯑caſional [204] Obſtructions, leſt Natural Inclina⯑tion ſhould plead thoſe Obſtructions as a juſt Reaſon for a total Neglect of Duty.
It was not without a juſt Reaſon that the poor Child entertain'd a Jealouſie of himſelf, leſt he ſhould grow cold in Religious Matters, from the general Diſcouragement he met with in a Family where all Religious Duties were totally neglected, and himſelf made a Jeſt for attempting to do his Duty.
This may be a ſeaſonable Caution for ſuch Pa⯑rents who have any Concern for the Souls of their Children, and have taken any Pains with them in their Education.
It is very ſtrange, but too common, that religious Parents, who have taken great Care with their Children, when they were at home, wholly ne⯑glect this, and throw their Children away, by placing them where the Duties of Religion are not at all regarded; and where the Examples of their Maſters, and the Families they live in, quite raiſe all the Remembrance of former Inſtruction out of the Mind of the Servant, and they grow hard⯑ned [205] in that Neglect by the Authority of their Maſters.
It is remarkable here farther, how the Duty of Servants is entirely neglected, even in thoſe Fami⯑lies where they do regard Religion, and where inſtructing of Children is taken care of; as if the Souls of Servants were not under the Inſpection of the Maſter of a Family, and were none of his Charge, as well as the Souls of his Children.
NOTE, Apprentices taken into our Houſes, ought, as far as it reſpects their Souls, to be reckon'd as Children; for as we take them from the Tuition of their Parents, if we act not the Parent to them as well as the Maſter, we may teach them their Trade, but we breed them up for the Devil.
It cannot be omitted here to obſerve what Im⯑preſſions of Religion; what Awe of God; what Dread of his Judgments the good Inſtructions of the Father had left on the Mind of this Youth.
NOTE, Tho' 'tis true, that in the ordinary Courſe of Providence God does not deal ſo with thoſe that blaſpheme and provoke him, yet ſince ſometimes God has done ſo, and Hi⯑ſtory, as well as Scripture, is full of dreadful Examples of that kind, it is not without its Uſes, and therefore very commendable to ac⯑quaint young Children with ſuch Examples, [206] and to fill their Minds with a due Fear of God's Judgments in the like Caſes.
Here is Room alſo for a uſeful Remark in the Complaint the poor Child makes, that having no Retirement for performing his Duty by himſelf; when he went about it publickly, the other Ser⯑vants mock'd and jeer'd him out of it.
The other Part of this Dialogue affords a dread⯑ful inſtance of a Father and Family wholly deſti⯑tute of Religion, living entirely without God, without Scripture, without ſo much as a Form of Religion: The Effects of this are eſpecially two, and both viſible in the Caſe here laid before us.
[207] NOTE, Such is the Beauty of a religious, con⯑ſcientious Life in thoſe that practice it, that thoſe who can taſte nothing of it themſelves, yet have a Value for it in others: The pro⯑phane Boy's Father told him, he lov'd his Maſter becauſe he was a good Man, and that if he (the Boy) would take his Maſter's Advice, he would make him a better Man than his Father.
NOTE, The Averſions which want of Inſtru⯑ction in this Youth had bred in him againſt the Religious Behaviour of his Maſter, and againſt the publick Exerciſes of Religion in his Family, were ſo fooliſhly grounded, that they would bear no weight in his diſcourſing it, even with a Child; and therefore the Reli⯑gious Youth preſently objects againſt what he ſays, and he himſelf ſooner ſees the Folly of his own Diſcourſe; and yet the Author of this Work is juſt alſo to the Thing it ſelf, for that really our ridiculous Notions in Con⯑tempt of Religion, will admit no better Ar⯑gument to excuſe them.
Averſions to Religious Duties grow naturally ei⯑ther by Diſ-uſe of thoſe Duties, or by the Diſaſter of an ill Education, even where the poor hardned Child may think no Harm, or deſign any willful Rebellion againſt God, that Ignorance being the natural Conſequence of want of Inſtruction.
Obſerve here, when the wicked Boy being con⯑vinc'd, asks his Comrade what he muſt do, he goes back to tell him what his own Father uſed to teach him: Whence note, that well inſtructing our Children makes them capable to inſtruct others, as Occaſion preſents, and conſequently their Chil⯑dren, when they come to have Families of their own.
[208] From the beginning of the wicked Boy's Con⯑victions, Note, that Senſe of Danger is the firſt thing ordinarily that diſcovers it ſelf in Conviction of Sin, and this leads to enquiring after what we are next to do; as the Jailor who firſt came in trembling, then asks, What muſt I do?
When the Boy, after his firſt Conviction, re⯑collects things by himſelf, while his Companion is gone for the Bible, he is ſtruck with Horror at his Condition, but the Spirit of God working graci⯑ouſly in him, lays the Promiſe of God, as it were, full in his way, in order to give him hope, and at the firſt Appearance of hope he breaks out vehe⯑mently in Prayer; when his Comrade returns, and innocently inquires about what he ſaid, it appears from him, that his Prayer was a kind of Extaſie, mov'd by a ſupernatural Power in his Heart, that affected him in a violent manner, ſo that he hardly could give an Account of it himſelf, but ſays wildly, he trembled and cried out.
There are, no doubt, ſuch ſtrong Impreſſions of the Spirit of God accompanying true Convi⯑ctions, and the great regenerating Work of Grace in the Heart, as may be inexpreſſible, even by the Perſons themſelves, yet far from Enthuſiaſtick, or affected, nor are theſe Impreſſions to be ſlighted, much leſs ridicul'd; perhaps this may be in Part ſignified in Regeneration, being called a New Birth, tho' the main Intent of that Alluſion be to ſignifie the entire Change of the State.
From the whole of this Dialogue may be ob⯑ſerv'd the great Duty and Advantage of Young Men ſpending the Hours they have to ſpare for Converſation, in Religious Diſcourſes, and enqui⯑ring of one another about Things relating to Hea⯑ven, their Duty here, and their Way thither; this, no doubt, was enjoin'd in the ſame Text [209] where the Inſtruction of our Children is com⯑manded, Deut. 6. 7. Thou ſhalt talk of them when thou ſitteſt in thine Houſe, and when thou walkeſt by the Way: THAT IS, they ſhall be the general Subject of your Converſation and Communication one with another. Note, The Advantages of Re⯑ligious Converſation are many, the preſent Caſe is brought to deſcribe them; the young, untaught, uninſtructed Youth, who came out of the Hands of his Parents, to be an Apprentice, as perfectly naked of Knowledge and Inſtruction, as he came naked into the World, becomes a Convert by his keeping Company, and converſing with a religious well inſtructed Companion, and became after⯑wards an excellent Promoter of Knowledge and Piety in the Place where he lived.
THE Young Lad who was put Appren⯑tice to the religious Tradeſman above⯑mention'd, tho' he had no Education from his Parents, was, as you have heard in the paſt Dialogue between him and the Youth his Comrade, brought to a Condition quite different-from what he had al⯑ways been brought up in, he had a full Conviction of the deſperate Condition he was in by reaſon of his ſinful Nature and Life: He had receiv'd ſome Light from the little Inſtruction his young, but pious Companion, was capable to give him, and his Conſcience was thoroughly awaken'd; his lit⯑tle Inſtructor had been providentially made the Inſtrument to lay a Foundation of Hope in him, and to encourage him to pray to God, and to read the Scriptures, and to believe that God would re⯑ceive him, would not reject him for his ſinful Life, or for his ſinful Nature, but would grant him what⯑ſoever he ſhould ask, and upon this Confidence in his firſt Agony he breaks out, as before, into a ſhort, but vehement Prayer, being the firſt he had ever made in his Life; and which, as it was made from a Heart deeply touch'd with the Danger of his Soul, ſo it left great Impreſſions upon his Mind, [211] as I have noted; and having gotten a Bible from his Companion, he goes away with two happy Reſolves, (1) to read, and (2) to pray.
The Alteration this made in the Youth, could not be long hid in the Family where he was plac'd, where his wicked way of Living, his prophane Tongue, and his Contempt of Religion, had made him not very well receiv'd, and made his Conver⯑ſation ſo much their Averſion, that the Maſter of the Houſe, and the Miſtreſs too, had warn'd their little Children from converſing with him; and they had had ſome Diſcourſe together about turning him away, finding him of a Temper, as they thought, too refractory to be wrought upon by Advice, paſt the Benefit of Example, and who had ſeveral times made a Jeſt of, and a Scoff at their Attempts to inſtruct him.
But the Boy being changed within, as is noted above, it could not be that ſuch a Work could long conceal it ſelf in his Converſation; he ap⯑pear'd penſive, retir'd, and grave in his Deport⯑ment, was obſerv'd to ſigh very often, and look as if he had been crying; as ſoon as his Buſineſs was over, he was never to be ſeen, but always hid in the Dark, among the Work-houſes, of which his Maſter had ſeveral; he was obſerved to be always ready at the times of Family worſhip, and on the Lord's Day, when his Maſter examin'd him about the Sermons he had heard, they were all ſurpriz'd at him, for the ready Account he gave of what the Miniſter had preached: His Maſter and Miſtreſs, who could not but obſerve this Alteration in the Boy, took the more Notice of him in his Conver⯑ſation the Week after, where they found him di⯑ligent at his Work, more than ever, but nothing of the Mirth and Sport his Fellow Servants uſed to have with him: They obſerv'd he had left off [212] all his ill Words, and wicked Expreſſions, Swear⯑ing, Curſing, and the like; he play'd none, laugh'd none, and hardly was ſeen to ſmile: Several of the Servants and Workmen that obſerv'd it alſo, had been jeſting with him, and ask'd him what ail'd him; but he gave them no Anſwers that were to the purpoſe, ſo that it was hardly gueſs'd at in the Family, at leaſt, not among his Fellows.
But his Maſter and Miſtreſs, who from his Be⯑haviour, as above, had entertain'd ſome Notion of it, or being willing to hope the beſt, had pleas'd themſelves with ſome Thoughts of the Child's be⯑ing grown rather ſerious, than melancholly, made it their Buſineſs to obſerve him more narrowly; and ſeeing him one Evening take a Candle, and go up into a Room over their Work-houſe, by himſelf, the Miſtreſs ſilently followed him, and plac'd her ſelf ſo, as ſhe might ſee him, and he perceived nothing of it.
As ſoon as he came up he ſet down the Candle, pull'd a Book out of his Pocket, and turn'd over the Leaves, folding up here, and folding down there, but not reading long in any one Place, ſhe obſerv'd him to ſigh grievouſly all the while, and at laſt, to throw down the Book, and burſt out into a vehe⯑ment Fit of crying, ſitting down upon the Ground, wringing his Hands, and the Tears running down his Face, but not ſpeaking a Word.
While he was in this Agony, ſhe diſcovers her⯑ſelf to have ſeen him, and begins thus:
WILL, what's the Matter with you, Child?
The Boy ſurpriz'd, ſnatches up the Book haſtily, and puts it in his Pocket.
Will, what's the matter, Will? tell me.
Nothing.
Come, Will, do not be backward to tell me what troubles thee, for I have ſeen all you have been doing; what Book's that you had there?
No Book of any harm.
Child, I do not think it is a Book of any harm, I believe it is a good Book; is it not the Bible, Will? Come, tell me.
Yes, it is.
Let me ſee it, Will.
You may believe me, it is the Bible, I hope you'll not be angry.
Angry Child, I am glad to ſee you look⯑ing in the Bible, I am not angry, I hope you are minding good things.
Oh, it's too late now!
Too late, Will! do not talk ſo.
Yes! It's too late, too late!
Child, if it be ſo; thy too late is much ſooner than my early was: If it be too late for thee, what will become of any of us!
That is all one to me, it's too late for me.
Let me ſee thy Bible, Child; where haſt thou been reading, that has put thee into this Condition?
O, Every where! every where!
Show me the Book, Will, let me ſee it.
What are all theſe Leaves turn'd down for; and who directed you to theſe terrible Texts [214] of Scripture, Child? You have found all the dread⯑ful Places, where God threatens hardned Sinners with his Diſpleaſure, but not one of thoſe Places which gave Comfort to a returning Penitent.
Theſe and abundance more ſuch as theſe, the poor Boy had folded down, the reading of which had terrified him to ſuch a Degree as above.
Child, what are all theſe Scriptures to thee?
All to me! All to me! He told me, all that was ſaid in the Book, was ſaid to me.
HE told thee, Will, prethee who told thee?
He that gave me the Book, my Brother Tom, over the Way, he told me ſo, and he is a very good Young Man, and would not ſpeak wrong, I am ſure it is all ſaid to me.
Well, Will, he is a very good Young-man, I am glad you have been talking with him, and he meant well, no doubt; but he is but a young Lad, a Boy, a Child like thy ſelf, and you may be in⯑ſtructed farther about it, do not be caſt down; was this it you cried about?
Yes, yes, this was it; was not this enough?
Well, but you need not be ſo diſcourag'd, Will, let me ſhow you ſome other Texts.
What, not to be loſt for ever! and go to Hell! Not be diſcourag'd!
But are you willing to be better inſtru⯑cted, Child?
What can inſtruct me; is not this the Word of God? and is it not plain! Am not I ſuch a wicked one as is deſcrib'd here? And is not all that is ſaid here, true?
But, Child, you muſt take that Part of the Scripture, which is a ground of Hope, and ſet it againſt theſe terrible Places; this is only an Artifice of the Devil, to terrifie you.
What would he terrifie me for?
That you might deſpair of the Mercy of God, and not hope in Jeſus Chriſt.
What can I hope for, when theſe plain Things are ſaid, ſhall belong to ſuch as I am?
No, Child, I hope they are not threatned to ſuch as thee; they are all to be underſtood of thoſe that are Impenitent in their Sins, and go on hardned, without Repentance, to the laſt: I hope you will not be found among them; are you not ſorry for your Sins?
What does that ſignifie now, if I am?
A great deal; even ſo much, that it takes away the Edge of all thoſe dreadful Scriptures that have frighted thee ſo much; and if that Sorrow for thy Sins be true and ſincere, the Scripture is full of Encouragement for thee to hope.
Ay, ſo he ſaid, but he never told me a word of all thoſe Places I have found, and I can't find the Promiſes he told me of, I can't find one of them!
That's for want of ſome body to aſſiſt thee, and open, and explain the Scriptures to thee; poor Child! thou haſt had but little teaching.
Little! I never had any teaching at all! I never had a Bible in my Life, never knew what it was till now; and I think it had been well I had not ſeen it now.
NO, NO, Will, do not ſay ſo; it is the beſt thing ever was given thee in the World, and I hope you ſhall thank God as long as you live, that you meet with that honeſt Young Man that gave it you; he is a godly, ſober Young Man, and has ſhown thee what it is to be well Educated; he came of good Parents, and their Inſtruction is ſeen in his very Countenance; every body loves him, he is ſo ſober, ſo religious, and talks ſo well of good Things; and it appears, I find, in his talk to thee, tho', being but a Youth, he might not be ſo able to prepare thee for the right Under⯑ſtanding [217] of the Scriptures when you were to read in, as others may.
Why, he told me it was the Word of God, and that all that was written here, was true, and that it was all ſpoken to me, and I ought to underſtand it ſo, and bid me read it.
Well, and you have read ſome of it, but not all.
Yes, I have read all the New Teſtament over and over; for I ſat up three Nights laſt Week, and read all Night long, for I promiſed him I would read it.
Well, and have you not found encoura⯑ging Places, as well as thoſe that terrified you in this manner?
No, none at all.
How is that poſſible, if you have read it all over?
I am ſure I have read it all over Three times, from the firſt of Matthew, to the laſt of the Revelations.
Then your Fears have ſo prevailed over your Hope, that your Eyes have been ſhut to your Comfort, and open only to your Diſcouragement; this is all from the Devil, Will; you muſt pray againſt it.
So Tom ſaid; but I can't tell how to pray; I never pray'd in my Life but once.
Once, Child, when was that?
That Night he talk'd to me.
What did you pray for then, and how?
I know not how, but I trembled, and cried out to God to pardon my Sins.
Poor Child! What mov'd thee to it then?
I felt ſome ſtrange Motion in my Heart, which I cannot deſcribe, that made my Tongue ſpeak I almoſt know not what, for I thought it a [218] dreadful thing to ſpeak to God; and when I cried out Lord pardon my Sins, it ſet me a weep⯑ing, and a trembling.
Well, that was a bleſſed Beginning; why did you not go on, Child? You ſhould have prayed again.
My Heart did, but I could ſpeak no words.
Alas, Child! that's the Prayer God de⯑lights in; SO may I pray all my Days! tho' I was never to ſpeak again!
But Brother Tom told me I muſt ſpeak too.
Yes, Child, you may ſpeak, and it is proper for your own ſake that you ſpeak words, both to expreſs your Meaning, and move your Affections; but unleſs your Heart joins, it is not Prayer; God hears no Words that the Heart joins not in; but he hears many a Sigh from the Heart, which cannot be expreſs'd in Words: As is plain from that Text, Rom. 8. 26. The Spirit alſo helpeth our Infirmities, for we know not what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit it ſelf maketh Interceſſion with groanings which cannot be uttered. I hope it was the Spirit helped thy Heart to pray, when thou could'ſt utter no Words, Child, there⯑fore do not be diſcouraged.
I know nothing what it was, or what the Spirit means, unleſs that I have ſerved the Evil Spirit all my Days, and now I muſt have my Por⯑tion with the Devil and his Angels; this Book ſays ſo, look here elſe.
Child, You muſt not make Concluſions againſt your ſelf, any more than for your ſelf, from the Word of God, till you are taught to underſtand it aright.
Why, do I not underſtand this Place right?
No, you do not.
How ſhall I underſtand it then?
You muſt take the Scriptures as they explain themſelves; and you are bid to ſearch the Scripture, that is, to ſee how one Place is ex⯑pounded by another; you ſhould always pray to God to open your Underſtanding, that you may underſtand the Scripture; and the want of this makes even thoſe very Parts of the Scripture which ſhould be our Comfort, be our Terror.
Indeed the Young Man told me ſo, but I did not do it.
What did he bid you do?
When he gave me the Book, I thank'd him, and promiſed him to read it, but he ſaid, that was not all, I muſt pray to God to teach me to underſtand his Word, and to ſhow me my Duty, and to guide my Heart to do it; but I did not know that I ſhould always do this when I read the Bible.
No doubt but you may pray very ſea⯑ſonably for that at all times, and he was a good Child that taught thee to do ſo; but it muſt needs be more eſpecially ſeaſonable to pray ſo, when you are going to read the Bible, that you may be inſtructed to reap Comfort from God's Word, and not Terror only, as you have done.
What Comfort can I get from the Scripture when it ſpeaks ſo dreadfully of my very Caſe?
Why there lies your Miſtake: I ſay it is not your Caſe, and therefore you may reap Com⯑fort from the Scripture; come, Child, let us ſee and examine ſtrictly what your real Caſe is; it may be we may find Reaſon even from this very Book to make you hope, that your Caſe is not in⯑cluded, or ſpoken to in any of theſe Texts; and if it ſhould appear ſo, would you not be very glad?
Yes, I ſhould be glad; but I believe that's impoſſible.
No, no, Child, it is not impoſſible; the firſt Part of your Caſe is this, That you have been a great Sinner.
As ever was born in the World!
Well, ſuppoſe ſo, tho' that is not true nei⯑ther; for, poor Child, you have not ſinned againſt Light, and againſt Knowledge, and againſt Con⯑ſcience; for thou waſt never taught to know God, or his Ways, or inſtructed in thy Duty; I am a worſe Sinner than thou a great deal: But ſuppoſe all you ſay, ſuppoſe you are a great Sinner, yet you ſay you are ſorry, and if you thought God would forgive you, would it not rejoice your Heart?
Oh! If that were poſſible!
And are you as willing to go on wickedly as you were before?
No, I abhor and abominate it.
And would you ſerve and obey, and pleaſe God, if he will forgive you?
Ay, with all my Heart; nay, whether he would forgive me or no, I would never be wicked again if I could help it; it is the abominableſt Life! I hate my ſelf for it.
But if you were aſſur'd God would par⯑don you, what would you do?
O! If that were poſſible!
Come, Child, look then into this bleſſed Book again; you are a Sinner, but you are not an impenitent Sinner; you ſay, you abhor and abo⯑minate your Sins, and hate your ſelf for them; you ſay, you would not go on in Wickedneſs, nay, tho' God ſhould not forgive what is paſt; you ſay, you would ſerve and pleaſe, and obey God with all your Heart: If all this be true, then I tell thee, Child, not one of theſe terrible Scriptures which have ſo diſcouraged thee, and ſo frighted [221] thee, are ſpoken to thee, or meant of thee; no, not one of them.
Why, my Brother Tom ſaid all that was written in this Book, was ſaid to me.
That is, Child, if thou art SO and SO, as theſe Scriptures deſcribe; and if not, then they are ſpoken to give thee hope; otherwiſe the Scri⯑ture would contradict it ſelf, and not be true, which is blaſphemous to imagine.
I do not underſtand how you mean.
Why, Child, look here; look upon the very Texts you have folded down; ſome of them ex⯑plain themſelves to be juſt as I ſay: Rom. 2. v. 5, 6. After thy Hardneſs and impenitent Heart treaſu⯑reſt up Wrath, &c. Now it is plain, thou art not hardned and impenitent; but God has given thee a penitent, repenting Heart, I hope it is a ſincere one; therefore by the Words themſelves, thou art not one of them that treaſure up Wrath againſt the Day of Wrath; ſo for that Scripture, Iſaiah 9. 6. Thine Eyes are not ſhut, nor thy Ears heavy, nor thy Heart fat, that is rebellious, and contemning God; for that Text is plainly ſpoken of ſuch whom God judicially hardens, and of no other; in like man⯑ner all the other Texts, every one of them, are Expreſſions ſignifying the Wrath and Vengeance of God againſt ſuch as die in their Sins, or conti⯑nue perverſe, hardned, and impenitent.
How ſhall I be ſure that is ſo?
By comparing thoſe Scriptures, Child, with ſuch other Texts as explain their Meaning, as are given to encourage our returning to God, and contain his Promiſes of Pardon to thoſe who repent.
Where are they? I have read the whole Book, and cannot find them.
Look here, Child, 1 John 1. v. 9. If we confeſs our Sins, he is faithful and juſt to forgive us our Sins, and to cleanſe us from all Ʋnrighteouſneſs: Here 'tis plain tho' you are a great Sinner, yet if you confeſs, he will forgive you; and you may ob⯑ſerve, he does not ſay he is gracious and merciful to forgive; but juſt and faithful; implying, that ha⯑ving before in his Grace and Mercy paſs'd to us his Promiſe of Forgiveneſs, it becomes, humbly ſpeak⯑ing, a kind of Demand; and as he is juſt and faith⯑ful, therefore he muſt and will, nay, he cannot fail to make good thoſe Promiſes to us.
But where are thoſe Promiſes then? I can find none of them in all the Bible.
O, the whole Scripture is full of them, Prov. 28. 13. He that covereth his Sins, ſhall not proſper; but WHOSO confeſſeth and forſaketh them, SHALL have Mercy. Iſaiah 55. 7. Let the Wicked forſake his Way, and the Ʋnrighteous Man his Thoughts, and turn unto the Lord, and he WILL have Mercy, and to our God, for he WILL abun⯑dantly pardon.
That he told me of, but I can't find it.
Here it is, Child, in the Prophecy of Iſaiah.
Is that the Word of God too?
Yes; and that Prophet is counted the moſt excellent of all the Prophets for theſe things, and is therefore called the Evangelical Prophet.
But there are more in other Places, are there not?
Yes, Child, eſpecially in thoſe Places that ſpeak of Chriſt; in whom all are to be ſaved.
Let me hear them; for I do not under⯑ſtand this being redeemed by Chriſt's Death at all, tho' Tom ſaid ſomething of that to me.
You underſtand that you have been a wicked Boy, a great Sinner, and was born in Sin, your Father was a Sinner before you.
Yes, I underſtand that too well.
Well, Jeſus Chriſt, who is the Son of God, came into the World to ſave ſuch as you, nay, and worſe than you; and he died to bring this to paſs; this you muſt believe.
Does the Scripture ſay this?
Yes, look here, Rom. 5. 6. For when we were yet without Strength, in due time Chriſt died for the ungodly. 1 Pet. 3. 18. For Chriſt alſo hath once ſuffered for Sins, the juſt for the unjuſt, that he might bring us to God. Acts 5. 31. Him hath God exalted with his Right Hand to be a Prince and a Saviour, for to give Repentance and Remiſſion. 1 Tim. 1. 15. This is a faithful Saying, and worthy of all Accepta⯑tion, that Jeſus Chriſt came into the World to ſave Sinners. Matth. 9. 13. I am not come to call the Righteous, but Sinners to Repentance: Are not theſe Things plain, Child.
But I am afraid!
Of what, Child?
That it is not for me, I am not one of them; elſe why was I not taught to know this before?
Here is a Text for that too, Child, Mark 5. 36. Be not afraid, only believe.
What muſt I believe? And what if I do believe?
The Scripture is plain, that we ſhall be ſaved by Faith in him, notwithſtanding all the ter⯑rible Scriptures you have found out. Matt. 1. 21. His Name is Jeſus, for he ſhall ſave his People from their Sins. Acts 13. 39. By him all that believe, are juſtified. Rom. 20. 31. Theſe Things are written that ye might believe that Jeſus Chriſt is the Son of God, [224] and that believing, ye might have Life through his Name. John 5.24. He that heareth my Word, and believeth on him that ſent me, has Everlaſting Life, and ſhall not enter into Condemnation. Rom. 81. There is therefore now no Condemnation to them which are in Chriſt Jeſus. Fold all theſe Texts down Child, and remember to read them over when thou art tempted to be doubting of God's Mercy in Chriſt.
But will Chriſt receive me now?
Yes, yes, He has made a gracious Promiſe to thee himſelf for that, John 6.37. HIM that cometh to me, I will in no wiſe caſt out.
What do'ſt ſtart at, Child?
That's the bleſſed Place that my dear Teacher told me of, and that work'd ALL; and now I can't find it.
Work'd all what, Child?
That was the Text that made my Heart melt, and tremble, and made me pray to God; and I have read over the whole Book, and can't find it, tho' I made him turn down a Leaf at it; I am ſure it is not in the Book.
Not in the Book! God forbid; why here it is, Child, look at it, read it, and God give thee Comfort of it.
Ay, here it is! here it is! I will come to him! I will pray to him!
THE Impreſſions of the ſerious Diſcourſe men⯑tion'd in the firſt Dialogue that this Young Man had with his Comrade, were ſo great, that they could not be concealed.
Note, A Change wrought in the Heart, will in⯑fallibly ſhew it ſelf in the Converſation.
The Maſter and Miſtreſs being good People themſelves, receiv'd Impreſſions of the Alteration in the Boy, ſuitable to the Nature of the thing, but the reſt of the Servants dreamt nothing of it.
Note, The Symptoms of Converſion are eaſily diſcovered by thoſe who know the working of the Spirit of God, while they are perfectly inviſible to others.
By the Agony the Boy was in at the reading the Comminations of the Scripture againſt Sin, with⯑out the promiſory Part, may be obſerv'd.
That meer Convictions of Sin drive to Deſpair, but neither direct to, nor enquire after a Remedy.
That Comforting Scriptures generally want ex⯑plaining; terrifying Scriptures explain themſelves.
Here may be worth obſerving,
If this poor Child had not fallen in ſuch a Family as this, the Temptation he was under to deſpair, might in all Probability have prevail'd over him, and either have led him to give over his Enquiry after Religious Matters or, if God had not re⯑ſtrain'd [226] him, have driven him to Extremities, ſuch as Diſtraction, and perhaps, Self-deſtruction, as is often the Conſequence too in like Caſes; for, a wounded Spirit who can bear.
Obſerve the poor Child's Fear of its being too late for him to find Mercy, or be accepted.
If it might be too late for him, what have they to fear who run on to grey Hairs in an impenitent State! Well might his Miſtreſs obſerve, that his too late was ſooner than her early, and ſo it is with many.
From the good Woman's applying the Scrip⯑tures to him for Comfort, obſerve how the Scrip⯑tures are to be read.
Obſerve, The good Woman finding the Boy had receiv'd Comfort from that bleſied Promiſe of our Lord; and that he was affectionately ex⯑preſſing his Reſolution to caſt himſelf at the Foot of Chriſt, crying out, I will come to him; and in [227] a kind of a Rapture kiſſing the Words which ſhe had ſhewed him, ſhe wiſely withdrew; believing it was a happy Juncture, in which the Child ought to be left alone, that he might give him⯑ſelf full Vent, with Fervency and Earneſtneſs to call upon God; and tho' this cauſes the Dialogue to break off ſooner, and more abruptly than it might have done, yet it is conceived, as much is here ſet down as may anſwer the Deſign of it, (viz.) The Inſtruction of others.
Ending theſe Notes with this Obſervation for the Reader's Information; That as far as this Account is really Hiſtorical, and points at any particular Family, this Boy, or young Man, came to be eminent for Piety, and a Religious Life, in the Place where he liv'd; and being ſettled in that Country, was a very uſeful Inſtrument in the pro⯑pagating Chriſtian Knowledge, and ſupporting the Intereſt of true Religion in all the Country round him, and perhaps is living ſtill.
THE Young Lad who had been ſo hap⯑pily Inſtrumental in the Conviction and Converſion of his Comrade, had thereby render'd himſelf ſo agreeable to the good People, who, as I ſaid before, was Maſter and Miſtreſs of the other Lad, that they could not but be very willing to con⯑verſe a little with him themſelves; and to that End cauſed their Apprentice, who called him Bro⯑ther, to bring him to their Houſe; where in time, he became very intimate, and they were much pleaſed and diverted with his pretty Diſcourſes, which were always about Religion, and ſerious Things.
Among the reſt of his Diſcourſe, he never forgot to bemoan himſelf for his being placed in a Family of no Religious Orders, without the Worſhip of God in it; and where he had neither publick Op⯑portunity to ſerve God, or private Retirement for the Diſcharge of his Duty.
The good People encouraged him to bear it, and ſeriouſly adviſed him not to let the Senſe of his own Duty to wear off, or allow himſelf in the Omiſſion of private Prayer to God, whatever Obſtructions he met with for Want of Retire⯑ment [229] and Opportunity; and invited him to come over to their Houſe, as often as he could at their Hours of Family-Worſhip, and join with them.
This he not only gladly accepted, but conſtantly attended, and did it ſo avowedly, not regarding how it might interfere with his Maſter's Hours, and his own Conveniencies, that his Maſter took Offence at his being ſo often out of the way, and not knowing the leaſt of what occaſioned his Ab⯑ſence, complain'd to his Father of it, as if it had been ſome wicked Courſe he had followed; telling him, that his Son did not behave himſelf orderly; that he was out of his Buſineſs unſeaſonably; that he muſt have ſome bad Haunts, for that he gene⯑rally went out every Morning very early, (being then Winter) long before Day; and in the Eve⯑nings was abſent often at Supper; that on the Lord's Day Evening he was never to be found; and the like; and therefore deſired his Father to take ſome Care about him, for that if he went on, he would be ruin'd: He farther acquainted his Father, that the Boy had appear'd very melan⯑cholly, and diſcontented; that he had ask'd him often if any thing ail'd him, or that he was not well, and he always anſwer'd, yes; that he had ask'd him if he did not like his Buſineſs, and ſtill he anſwer'd, yes, very well; ſo that he knew not what ail'd him, and deſir'd his Father to talk with him, for if he carried it thus, he could not bear it, but muſt ſend him Home again.
The Father, who knew his Son to be a ſober, re⯑ligious Child, and partly knew the Reaſon of his Diſcontent, was not at all ſurpriz'd at that Part of his Maſter's Complaint, which related to his appearing melancholly, and diſſatisfied; but the other Part of his Diſcourſe alarm'd him a little, about being out of the Houſe at unſeaſonable Hours, [230] and giving no Account of himſelf; and therefore he readily promiſed to talk with his Son, and exa⯑mine him about it, that his Conduct might be rectified.
Accordingly he finds an Opportunity to talk with the Lad, and lets him know all his Maſter had laid to his Charge, charging him to tell him the Truth of the whole Matter: The Boy, not at all ſurpriz'd, told his Father the whole Caſe very honeſtly; how that his Maſter had no ſuch Thing as Family-worſhip in his Houſe, but that they li⯑ved all like Heathens there; purſuing the World, as if it was their Heaven, without the leaſt regard of their Duty to God, or any thing that was reli⯑gious: ‘"And you, Sir, ſays the Boy to his Father, having always inſtructed me in other Things, and taught me to live after another Manner; it was very uneaſie to me, as I have formerly hin⯑ted to you; but I have of late made my ſelf a lit⯑tle eaſie, by getting an Acquaintance in Mr. —'s Family, an honeſt Clothier, who lives over a⯑gainſt our Houſe, who are very good People, and who conſtantly go to Prayers every Morn⯑ing at Six a Clock, and every Evening about Eight or Nine; and I get up every Morning to go over there to Prayers with their Family; and every Lord's Day I go thither in the Eve⯑ning, where the good Man reads to his Family, and examins his Children and Servants, and then prays with them; while, at our Houſe, all the Evening is ſpent in Feaſting, and Viſiting, or idle Diſcourſe, not at all to the Buſineſs of the Day: And this is the whole Caſe.’
When the Lad had ended his Diſcourſe, and the Father was aſſur'd of the Truth of it, he took his Son in his Arms, and kiſſed and embraced him very affectionately, and ſaid,
[231] ‘"The Bleſſing of God and thy Father be upon thee, my Dear, that has made ſo good a Uſe of ſo unhappy an Omiſſion of mine: It was my Sin, my Dear, and an inexcuſable Error in me, to put thee out in a Family where the Name of God is not call'd upon, and the Worſhip of God not regarded; by which I run the Venture of thy Soul's Good, and of having all the Pains I had taken in teaching and inſtructing thee in the Ways of God, and in the Knowledge of Reli⯑gion, loſt and abuſed; and had it been ſo, thy Ruin had been at my Door; having regarded the Trade, and the Proſpect of worldly Advan⯑tage only in placing thee out, not the good of thy Soul; but ſince God has given thee Grace to prevent the Evil, which might through my Neglect have befallen thee, the Praiſe be to his Mercy, I am fully ſatisfied in what you have done; and if your Maſter ſpeaks of it to you, as I ſuppoſe he will, I would have you tell him the whole Truth as you now do to me; and if he diſlikes you for it, offer to go back to your Father; and if he conſents, I ſhall as gladly take you from him, as I received you from God, when you was born.’
The Child encouraged by his Father thus to deal plainly with his Maſter, and being a Lad very ready of Speech, tho' modeſt withal in his Beha⯑viour; reſolves, the firſt Occaſion his Maſter ſhould give him, to do it effectually; which his Maſter not failing to do the ſame Evening, pro⯑duc'd the following Diſcourſe between them.
The Youth, it ſeems, had been over at the good People's Houſe, as uſual, during their Family-Worſhip; and coming in about Nine a Clock at Night, his Maſter begins with him thus:
THomas, where are you?
Here, Sir.
Have you been abroad to Night?
A little, Sir.
How long have you been out?
Not above half an Hour, Sir, at moſt.
Where have you been?
I have been no farther than at Mr. —'s over the Way.
Well, but Thomas, I muſt talk with you a little; I have obſerv'd it, and others have ob⯑ſerv'd it here in the Houſe, that your Conduct is alter'd very much from what it us'd to be, and you ſeem dull and melancholly, I muſt know what is the matter with you: If you do not like your Buſineſs, tell me honeſtly, Thomas; tho' you are bound, I will not keep you againſt your Will; I have a Reſpect for you, and for your Father, and I won't force your Inclination; if you are willing to go, Thomas, you ſhall; and therefore I would have you ſpeak plainly, what is it you diſlike the Trade for?
No Sir, I don't diſlike the Trade at all; but and you pleaſe to let me go I ſhall be very —
Well, Thomas, but I am willing to know wh'at the Reaſon is, too; what do you diſlike? do you diſlike your Maſter?
No Sir, not in the leaſt, I aſſure you; I have no Reaſon for it.
What then? Has any body in the Houſe ill us'd you?
No indeed, Sir.
What then?
Nothing; but if you think fit to let me.—
No Thomas, never without a Reaſon for it; that would be to have ſome other Reaſons gi⯑ven afterwards for it, which are not true.
If you think ſo, Sir, I am very willing to ſtay, and do my Buſineſs.
Well, Thomas, but whether you go or ſtay, I muſt know the Cauſe of your Diſcontent.
I'll be better contented, Sir, than I have been, if I can, rather than diſpleaſe you.
No, Thomas, that won't ſatisfie me nei⯑ther; for I have ſome Diſcontents as well as you, Thomas, and if you ſtay with me, you muſt re⯑move my Diſcontents, as well as your own.
I ſhall be very willing to remove any Diſ⯑contents you have, Sir, if I can; I hope I do not neglect your Buſineſs, Sir.
I do not ſay my Buſineſs is neglected, but you take a Liberty to go out, and ſtay out ſo very often, as makes me uneaſie; I muſt be a little ſa⯑tisfied, Thomas, about that.
Sir, you were pleaſed to tell us, when I was firſt bound, that if we were in the Warehouſe at ſuch and ſuch Times, when your Buſineſs re⯑quired, you cared not whither we went at other Times; and I never have fail'd your Buſineſs, Sir, nor your Hours.
But you are out at unſeaſonable Hours, Thomas, and that is not of good Reputation to your ſelf.
I thought, Sir, you did not regard that, when you left us ſo entirely to our ſelves; if it is offenſive to you, I will refrain it, tho' I ſhould be very ſorry to be reſtrain'd.
But I muſt know the Occaſion of it, as well as of your apparent Diſſatisfaction alſo, Tho⯑mas; ſure you may be free with me, come, let me know the Truth.
You will, perhaps, be diſpleas'd with me, Sir, if I tell you the Truth, or think I do not.
If that Truth be juſtifiable, why ſhould I be diſpleaſed; if not, why ſhould I not be diſ⯑pleaſed?
There may be Reaſons for your Diſplea⯑ſure, tho' the thing be juſtifiable.
Let the Thing then appear to be juſtifiable firſt, and if I am unreaſonable, we ſhall talk of that afterwards: If you can juſtifie the Thing it ſelf, why ſhould you be backward to let me know it?
Sir, As you are my Maſter, and I am your Servant, I was bound to give you an Account of my Time, but the Liberty you gave all your Ser⯑vants to go where they pleas'd, provided they were at Home at ſuch and ſuch Times, has ſufficiently, as I conceived, juſtified my being abroad, even without giving an Account.
But I did not take from my ſelf the Li⯑berty of enquiring whither you went, or of al⯑tering that Licenſe I had given, if I ſaw it abuſed, and ſince you have taken the Liberty, and refuſe to give me a reaſonable Account of it, I now re⯑call it, and expect you to be found always at Home, unleſs I give you leave.
As I took only the Liberty you gave, Sir, I ſhall exactly obey you in the Reſtraint, however hard I may think it.
But there are ſome other Reaſons why I ought to inſiſt upon knowing where you have been, and how you have ſpent your Time at the Hours you have been miſſing; and I think it concerns your Reputation to have me ſatisfied.
Whether it concerns my Character or no, Sir, if you command it, I think it my Duty to obey you, I avoided it only, that you might not be diſpleaſed with me.
Since you chuſe to obey it as my Command, rather than comply with it as my Requeſt, you muſt be gratified then by telling you, I do demand an Account of it.
Sir, all the Time I have ſpent out of your Houſe, or out of your Buſineſs, except only the Times I have ask'd you leave to ſee my Father, has been over the Way, at Mr. —'s the Clothier:
What, is it there you have been gone in the Morning before Day?
Yes, Sir.
What can the Meaning of that be? Sure you have ſome earneſt Buſineſs there; and I ſup⯑poſe it muſt be ſomething he or his Wife was not to know, that requir'd you to be there with his Servants, every Day before their Maſter and Mi⯑ſtreſs was up.
I have told you nothing, Sir, but the Truth.
Well, I ſhall enquire nothing of your Buſi⯑neſs, I know my Neighbour —s is a good Man, and it is his Buſineſs to look after his Servants, I ſhall give him Notice to do ſo; in the mean time I ſhall acquaint your Father of your Practice, and let him enquire after it, it is no Buſineſs of mine; I don't trouble my ſelf with what Courſes you take; but while you are with me, I expect you attend your Buſineſs.
I muſt obey you, Sir, tho' I think it hard; if you will not diſmiſs me your Buſineſs, it muſt be as it pleaſes God.
How do you, Sir; I doubt I have no very good News to tell you.
About what, Sir?
About your Son; he and I have had a little Bruſh this Evening.
I am ſorry for that; I hope he does not miſ-behave himſelf, or neglect his Buſineſs.
I can't ſay much for that; but, as I told you formerly, he has gotten ſome ill Haunts among the Neighbours Servants; and he is out with them every Night and Morning; nay, in the Morning before Day; and every Sabbath day after Sermon, I ſee nothing of him at leaſt for that Night; and I can get nothing out of him; but if I talk a little to him, he is for going away, and coming back to you again.
What can this Buſineſs be, before Day?
Nay, I have nothing to do with that; take him to Task about it your ſelf; it is your Buſineſs, he is your Son, he is none of mine; you ſaid you would talk with him before.
But, Sir, tho' he be my Son, yet he is your Servant; tho' I did talk a little with him, yet I ſaid the leſs, becauſe I cannot be of your Opinion, that you have nothing to do with it; is he not en⯑tirely under your Government?
Ay, as to Buſineſs, I have the Government of him, indeed; and I am to teach him his Trade, and to ſee that he does my Buſineſs, and ſo I will while he ſtays with me; what can I do farther?
But Sir, as I put him Apprentice to you, I committed him to your Government entirely, Soul and Body; I hope you have ſome little Con⯑cern for your Servants, beſides juſt their doing your Buſineſs.
Why, what can I do more than reſtrain them, if I ſee them take bad Courſes? And I have done ſo to yours, I have forbid him going there any more.
It is not for me to teach you, Sir, what to do; but if you will bear with me.—
Ay, very freely, very freely; you know I have Reſpect enough for you, to hear any thing, may, and for your Son too; I'd do any thing I can, I ſhould be very ſorry to have the Boy ruin'd; he is a promiſing Young Man enough.
Why, as to that, Sir, in particular, I will ſpeak afterwards; but I am firſt upon the general; you ſeem to go upon this Point, That you think your ſelf not oblig'd to take any farther Concern upon you about your Servants, than juſt to reſtrain them, if you ſee them take ill Courſes, or to ac⯑quaint their Friends with it; and that your main Care is, to ſee that your Buſineſs is done: If I take you right, this is what you ſaid.
It is ſo; why, what can I do more?
A great deal, Sir; And I think a great deal more is your Duty, as a Maſter.
What more can be expected of me?
Really, Sir, If you will pardon me, I think you have the whole Duty and Authority of a Pa⯑rent devolv'd upon you, for the Time; and as you make your Apprentices a Part of your Family, all the Duty you owe the reſt of your Family, you owe to them, both as to their Souls and Bodies; except ſuch as relate to Eſtate, which is peculiar to Children; I need not tell you your Duty, but I'll tell you what I underſtood by putting my Child into your Hands, if you pleaſe.
Well, What's that?
Why, I underſtood that I put him entirely under your Government, in the firſt Place; and under your Care, in the ſecond; that this Govern⯑ment reſpected firſt the Authority of your Com⯑mand, which was to be a perfect Superſedeas to mine, even ſo much, that if I had commanded [238] him one thing, and you another that interfer'd with it, his obeying you was not to be counted a diſobeying me: For Example, if I commanded him to meet me at any Place or Time, were the Occa⯑ſion ever ſo great; if you commanded him to ſtay at home, he ought to neglect my Command, and obey yours, which contradicted it, his Time being yours, and not mine; and this I always told him, and therefore charg'd him never to come to me without asking you leave.
This is all very juſt, and I believe he has always done ſo.
Then Sir, Secondly, as I put him entirely under your Government, ſuſpending my own Au⯑thority over him, as a Father; it becomes a neceſ⯑ſary Conſequence of it, that I entirely committed him to your Care, both Soul and Body; how could this be otherwiſe? Since as I reſerv'd no Power to command him, ſo I had of courſe remov'd him from my Inſpection.
Well, and do I not diſcharge this Duty, by acquainting you of his ill Courſes?
No, not at all, Sir; for I may indeed take upon me to caution and adviſe him, and ſhew my Diſlike of his Conduct; but the Power and Au⯑thority of warning him, inſtructing him, repro⯑ving him, reſtraining him, and, if need be, of correcting him, is all yours.
Thoſe Things are out of Doors long ago; prethee do you think, I'll trouble my ſelf with my Apprentices at that rate? No, no, not I; I never ſtruck a Servant in my Life, and if I ſhould, who do you think would ſtay with me? Apprentices now a days are not like what they were when you and I were Apprentices; now we get a Hundred Pound, or Two or Three Hundred Pound a Piece with them; they are too high for Reproof and Correction.
I know not what Cuſtom may have done, Sir, to alter the Practices of Maſters, and their Apprentices; but I am ſure the Rule is not alter'd; the Duty of a Maſter to Servants, and of Servants to their Maſters, is ſtill the ſame.
We don't trouble our Heads with thoſe Things now.
I am ſorry for it; you know beſt, how then you can anſwer to God for the Souls committed to your Charge; do you think every Religious Parent, when he puts his Child Apprentice to you, does not reckon that he commits his Soul to your Care, as well as his Body?
I do not ſay; but in the Nature of the thing it ſhould be ſo; but as I told you, we do not under⯑ſtand it ſo now-a-days.
I aſſure you I underſtood it ſo, when I put my Son Apprentice to you; and I hope you will underſtand it ſo too, or elſe you will neither act like a Friend, or like a Chriſtian.
Why, do I not act like both now, in giving you an Account of this Piece of your Son's Beha⯑viour, that you may enquire into it?
I allow your giving me an Account of it, and thereby an Opportunity to join my Enquiry and Aſſiſtance with you to reform any thing amiſs, is Friendly; but we are upon another Point now, which is this; That you think, by this you diſ⯑charge your Part, that the Duty lies upon me now, and you have no more to do; and this I can by no means allow.
Why, what would you make of me? muſt I be a Father and Maſter too?
No queſtion of it; he is under your Family Care, as to his Body, he is your Servant; but as to his Soul, I think, he is as much your Son as any Child you have; and I cannot acquit you of [240] the Obligation and Duty of a Parent to your Servants; do you diſcharge your Conſcience of it how you pleaſe.
Why, what, would you have me Catechiſe and Inſtruct my Apprentices, as if they were my Children? Then I muſt turn Schoolmaſter; I hope you have done that already; and I think it ought to be ſuppoſed, all Parents have done that; before they put their Children Apprentices; they do not put them Apprentices to learn Religion, but to learn their Trades.
It is true; they do not put their Children Apprentices to learn Religion; but neither do they put them Apprentices to loſe their Religion; and to have all the Pains their Parents have taken with them, ſunk again: There is a kind of Inſtru⯑ction ſubſequent to Catechiſms, and Examinations; there are kinds of Inſtructions ſuited to the Age, and Circumſtances; and ſuch an Inſtructor every Maſter of a Family ought to be, to his Servants, as well as to his Children.
I do not underſtand what Inſtruction you mean.
Why, ſuppoſe your own Children were grown up, paſt ſaying their Catechiſe; would you think your Duty of inſtructing them ceaſed? Is there nothing for a Parent to ſay to his Children, after he has done with Queſtions and Anſwers?
That may be, as he ſees the Occaſion, if they take ill Courſes.
Why, is there no previous Advice to be given; no Cautions to avoid Company; no Exhor⯑tations to preſerve Virtue, and to behave ſoberly and modeſtly? No preſſing them to their Duty to God, and to avoid thoſe Sins that will ruin their Souls? Is not this a Duty upon us all to our Children?
Yes; but would you have me do this to Apprentices too?
Moſt certainly; eſpecially when you take Apprentices that you know were religiouſly edu⯑cated, and on whom ſuch things are likely to make due Impreſſions; and I muſt own, if you do not, I think, you do not diſcharge the Duty of a Ma⯑ſter; for a Maſter is a PARENT, tho' he is not a Father.
You have no Scripture for this in the whole Bible.
Suppoſe that were true, the Nature of the Thing is ſo plain, that there needed no particular Scripture to command it in expreſs Terms; and yet you will find Scripture enough for it too; in the Examples of good Men; particularly in Joſhua, who reſolv'd to ſerve the Lord, he, and his Houſe; And how could that be, if he did not inſtruct, or command his Servants to do ſo? Da⯑vid ſays, a Lyar ſhall not dwell with him: What is more plain, than that he reſolved to correct the irreligious Behaviour of his whole Houſhold, as well Servants as Children, and to turn away thoſe who were incorrigible? But the Fourth Com⯑mandment puts it cut of Queſtion, and is ex⯑preſs in the Caſe of the keeping the Sabbath; mark the Words, In it thou ſhalt do no manner of Work; THOƲ, there's the Maſter's Duty for himſelf: The next Part, is his Duty in ſeeing that his Family ſhall perform it as well as himſelf; NOR thy Son. NOR thy Daughter; there's his Duty as a Father; NOR thy Man Servant, NOR thy Maid Servant; there's his hired Servants; NOR the Stranger in [...] is within thy Gates; there are his Apprentices: And what's the Meaning of this Word NOR, but this? Thou ſhalt do no manner [242] of Work, NOR permit or ſuffer thy Son or thy Daughter, or thy Servants to do any.
This Commandment expreſly declares, that the Servants are ſubjected to the Maſter's Command, in matters relating to their Duty to God; and that Maſters are oblig'd to ſee that their Servants perform it.
Indeed you have ſaid ſomething in this that is new to my Thoughts, and ſeems to give an Authority to what you ſay; I confeſs, I never conſider'd that Part of it before; but what can I do? If I ſhould go about this Work with my Ser⯑vants, they would laugh at me, it would make me ridiculous.
If you are to be laugh'd out of your Duty by your Servants, I am ſorry for it; you are very ill qualified then to be a Maſter; I hope, and am perſwaded, my Son would not be one of them.
I know not whether he would or no; I find him not the moſt complying, particularly in my Enquiry about this matter, which I now tell you of; it was a long time before he would own where he ſpent his Time; and now he has told me, I have no Account of what he has been about, or what his Buſineſs was there, at thoſe unſeaſon⯑able Hours.
This is the very Thing I complain of.
Why, how ſhall I help it? What would you have me do?
Do! I would have you act like a Maſter, and oblige him to do as becomes a Servant, viz. give you an exact Account of his Behaviour: His Time is yours, and you ought to know how he ſpends it; if any of his Time is employ'd out of your Buſineſs, you ought to exact an Account of it from him, how it has been diſpoſed of, as much as [243] you would of Money that you had truſted him with, how he had paid it.
I thought this more your Work than mine.
If he was your own Son, and my Appren⯑tice, I ſhould think ſo too; but as it is, as I ſaid before, his Time is not mine, nor his own, but yours; and 'tis to you he is to give an Account of it,
But, pray, why do you put it off from your ſelf? You know I have a great hurry of Buſineſs, and cannot have Time, and he will be more in Awe of you, than of me; I think it is much better for you.
I am very far from putting it off from my ſelf; I ſhall concur with you moſt readily in the ſtricteſt Examination into his Behaviour; but I am ſurpriz'd to hear you put it off from your ſelf, as if you were not concern'd in it; and by which, if his Courſes are evil, as you ſuggeſt, he may be ruined at any time, and I may know no⯑thing of it; and you muſt allow that this ought to give me ſome Concern as a Father, whatever it does to you as a Maſter.
I am ſomething of your Mind now, as to its being my Duty to my Servants, tho' as I am circumſtanc'd, I do not ſee how I can perform it.
If God gives you a Senſe of its being your Duty, I leave the Senſe of your living in the Neg⯑lect of it, to his Mercy, who, I hope, will open your Eyes to the Neceſſity of performing it; it is a ſad Thing to be in ſuch a Circumſtance as renders what is your known Duty impracticable to you.
What can I do?
That is for you to conſider, not me; if you are convinc'd of what you ought to do, I have ſpent my Time well enough.
But, what would you have me do with your Son?
Do! Act the Maſter with him, and com⯑mand him to give you an exact Account of the Time you charge him with; where he has ſpent it, in what Company, and about what Buſineſs.
If I do, he will refuſe it, and deſire me to diſmiſs him, he does as good as do that already, which I took ill from him.
What muſt be the Occaſion of that?
Why, it had been obſerv'd by all the Houſe as well as by me, that he has been melan⯑cholly and diſcontented a great while, and I very kindly ask'd him the Reaſon, but he declined to tell me; I asked him if he diſliked the Trade? he ſaid NO; if he diſlik'd his Maſter? NO; I told him, if he was uneaſie at any thing, tho' he was bound, I would releaſe him, for I would not keep him againſt his Inclination; at this he ſeem'd pleaſed, and mighty deſirous to go; now what can I do? If I challenge him with his going out, and pretend to demand a ſtrict Account of his time, and he refuſes, what can I do, but threaten to turn him away? and that it ſeems he deſires, and yet he will not tell me the Reaſon of it nei⯑ther, which does not ſhew him to have much good Nature, or good Manners: Indeed I took it ſo ill, that, but in Reſpect to you, I had ſent him Home that very Minute; and now I have told you of it, what would you have me do?
I have ſaid what I would have you do; viz act the Maſter with him, and tell him in plain terms, you will have an Account of his Behaviour, you may be ſure he ſhall get nothing by complain⯑ing to me, if his Caſe be bad; and if he refuſes po⯑ſitively, as I believe he will not, we will enquire of your Neighbour, Mr. —'s, for he has the [245] Character of a very good Man; perhaps he may find it out for us.
I know Mr. —'s is a very pious, religious, good Man, and his Wife is a very religious Wo⯑man, and 'tis indeed, a very ſober Family; which makes me wonder what the Boy can be doing there, which he ſhould be ſo earneſt to conceal; if you will, I'll go and enquire of him firſt.
No, I think you had better talk with the Boy firſt; I am perſwaded he will ſubmit to you, and, I hope, tell you the Truth; and if that Truth be to your Satisfaction, you will be better pleaſed to have it from the Boy, than to make it more publick.
Well, I will have another Dialogue with him to Morrow; and you ſhall hear what will be the Iſſue.
Thomas, It ſeems your Maſter has been talking with you about this Matter.
Yes, Sir.
He is very angry; and takes it very ill you ſhould refuſe to give him an Account of your ſelf, and where you uſed to be when you go out in a Morning and Evening.
I did tell him where I was, and aſſured him I was no where elſe.
But it was a long time before you would tell him that.
I was ſo afraid he would enquire what my Buſineſs was there, that I could not think of telling him.
Why, you muſt tell him ſtill, Child; for he is mighty earneſt to know what you are there [246] ſo much for; he imagines it is ſome wicked thing, by your being afraid to tell him; I hope the Ac⯑count you gave me of it, is true.
Dear Father, I hope you do not doubt its being true, I never uſed to tell you an Untruth.
No, Child, I do not doubt of its being true; and why then ſhould you be afraid to tell him of it?
I am more aſham'd than afraid to tell him of it; I think it does not become me to make my Maſter bluſh at himſelf.
But here is a Neceſſity now, ſo that I do not ſee how you can avoid it, let him take it how he will; for it paſſes in the Family that you have ſome ill Correſpondence, or ſome bad Company there, and they will make a great deal of it, if you are ſo backward to give an Account of it; and therefore to clear up your own Reputation, you muſt tell your Maſter.
I had rather you would do it for me, Sir; I am not fit to talk to my Maſter about ſuch things.
I have prepar'd the way, by a long Diſpute with your Maſter, about his Duty to his Servants; and I am perſwaded let what you ſay be never ſo courſe, or Boyiſh, God will bleſs it ſo, as to car⯑ry Conviction along with it, that he has not done his Duty to you, whatever you have done to him.
I can ſay nothing to him of that, Sir, he will fly out in a Rage at me.
No, no, you are only to anſwer his Que⯑ſtions, and give an Account of your ſelf, and of the Reaſon why you go over to the Clothier's Houſe every Morning and Evening; you can do that eaſily enough, let the Will of God be done in what ſhall follow one Way or other.
I will do as you order me, Sir, as well as I can.
Thomas, come hither.
Yes, Sir.
Well, I have given your Father an Account of your Behaviour, and he is very much concern'd, as well as I, about it.
I am ſorry for it, Sir.
Well, but that is not enough; your Father and I too, are reſolv'd to find out the Bottom of it, if you will not confeſs ingenuouſly.
Sir, you ſpeak of it, as if I was guilty of ſome ſtrange thing; I hope I have committed no Crime, Sir.
It will be very well, if it appears ſo, Sir; however, our Suſpicions are juſtified by your be⯑ing ſo very careful to conceal your ſelf; and if this has made me reſolve to examine into it, you might ſave me that Labour, as I told you, by an ingenuous Confeſſion.
I never declin'd it, Sir.
No! Did I not preſs you to it before, and you declin'd it, and your Father's coming preven⯑ted, or elſe, I ſuppoſe, I had had a flat Denial?
I never denied to obey any of your Com⯑mands, Sir, in my Life; I only told you that I was backward, becauſe I fear'd it might diſpleaſe you; but I little thought it ſhould be ſuggeſted that my being abroad was for any thing criminal.
How could you expect any other?
Becauſe, being perfectly innocent, I had no thought of being ſuſpected.
Clear up all then, Thomas, by ingenuouſly giving an Account of your ſelf to me now.
Be pleaſed, Sir, to tell me, what Part you mean, whether as to my being abroad, or my being diſcontented; for you charg'd me with both.
Begin firſt with your being abroad; you ſay, you were only at my Neighbour's, over the [248] Way, I have not examin'd into it yet, but I take it for granted that you ſpeak Truth.
Indeed, Sir, I was no where but there:
Well, your Buſineſs there; the Occaſion of your going ſo early; how you employ'd your ſelf there, and with who? Theſe are the Queſtions,
You will not take it ill, Sir, I hope then, if my Anſwers may ſeem not to become me, or leſs dutiful or reſpectful to you, than you may think they ought to be.
Not at all, ſo you ſpeak Truth, Thomas.
I hope I ſhall ſatisfie you of that, Sir, by the Conſequence: You know, Sir, I have been brought up under my Father, with a Religious Education, and in his Family, where the Worſhip of God has been conſtantly kept up; and coming hither, Sir, as an Apprentice, where I found you were not pleas'd to permit me, or to let me come up when you, I doubt not, went to Prayers, and reading with your Family; it made me afraid either that you did not think me worthy to be reckon'd one of your Family, or that it was a Judgment of God upon me, to be ſhut out from his Worſhip; this, Sir, made me very ſad, which is the Diſcontent you ſpeak of, but hearing of that other good Family over the Way, and that Mr. —'s the Clothier went conſtantly to Prayers every Morning and Night, I got Ac⯑quaintance with the Young-man, his Apprentice, and got him to ask his Maſter to give me leave to come there at thoſe Times.
Well Thomas, this is a well contriv'd Story truly; you want not Cunning I find; but what is this to Six a Clock in the Morning, Thomas? which at this time of the Year, is always before Day, and before he is up to be ſure.
If you pleaſe to enquire, Sir, into the Or⯑ders of his Family, you will find that he is up every Morning in the Year by Six a Clock, and calls them all to Prayers before they go to work.
And what mean you by getting that Boy to do this for you? That does not hang together at all: Why, he is the moſt profligate young Vil⯑lain that ever came into any good Man's Houſe: His Maſter was talking, in my Hearing, but the other Day, of ſending him to the Houſe of Corre⯑ction, and ſpoke to me for a Warrant; your Ac⯑quaintance with ſuch a Boy as that, is not likely to be for ſo good a Purpoſe; and this Part makes all the reſt unlikely, and to be ſuſpected.
He was ſo, Sir, that is true; but if you enquire, you will find he is another thing now: God's Grace has made a ſtrange Change in that Boy in a few Weeks paſt; if you pleaſe to in⯑form your ſelf of it, Sir, you may hear it from other Hands.
And is this the whole Truth, Thomas? Has this been your whole Buſineſs there?
Indeed it has, Sir.
You muſt not think much if I enquire, in order to be better ſatisfied.
I cannot expect any other, Sir.
I ſhall talk with you farther about it, it is late now.
THERE ſeems to be more Circumlocutions in this Dialogue, than in any of the reſt; but they will be found not uſeful only but neceſſary at leaſt to preſerve the Cadence of Things, and introduce the Subſtance of the real Story by neceſſary Gradations; the Boy's ſhifting off ſo many Ways, before he directly tells his Ma⯑ſter the whole of his Buſineſs: Is a Mark of com⯑mendable Modeſty in a Servant; his Shyneſs of ſpeaking what he knew touch'd his Maſter's Be⯑haviour more than his own, may be very in⯑ſtructing to Servants, if they pleaſe to mark it, in Things where their Maſter's Character may be concern'd: But above all, it may be noted, that all theſe Things tend to bring the Conviction home with the more Energy and Force upon the Con⯑ſcience of the Maſter.
The Maſter's Diſcourſe with the Young Man's Father contains a great many uſeful Hints about the Duty of Maſters to their Servants. (1.) That they ought to reckon them under their Care as well as under their Government. (2.) That the Charge of the Souls of our Servants lies upon us, as well as thoſe of our Children; the juſt Diſtinction between a PARENT and a FATHER, is fruitful of many uſeful Obſervations, the laſt is tied by Na⯑ture; the firſt, by the God of Nature; the laſt, by Affection; the firſt by Duty; but both are tied to diſcharge the Part of a Chriſtian Parent to the Souls under their Charge, whether Servants, Children, or Relations: That a Servant taken [251] into the Family, becomes a Child of the Family, and ought equally with our Children, to partake of every Part of our Religious Duties; ſuch as Prayer, Exhortation, Examination, Inſtruction, Reproof, Reſtraint, and Correction: This is farther plain, from what God ſays of Abraham, Geneſis 18. 19. That he will command his Children and his Houſhold; that is, He will diſcharge faithfully the Duty of a Parent, or Guide and Governor of a Family; which is ſhown in his commanding his whole Houſe, to walk in the Ways of God.
Note. How Cuſtom has wickedly of late years ſeem'd to diſcharge Maſters of this Duty.
From the whole, Maſters of Families may ob⯑ſerve, the Duty of inſtructing, and religiouſly guiding their Servants, lies indiſpenſably upon them, as much as that of inſtructing and educating their Children: They are PARENTS, that is, Guides and Governors to their whole Houſe, tho' they are FATHERS only to their Children.
THE Maſter of the Young Man afore⯑ſaid, now makes a Viſit to his Neigh⯑bour the Clothier, who lived over a⯑gainſt his Houſe, whether he had any doubt of the Truth of what the Boy had ſaid to him, and had a Mind, as he had ſaid to the Lad himſelf, to find out the bottom of it; or perhaps, to ſatisfie himſelf farther about the Alteration of the wicked Boy, which his own Ser⯑vant had acquainted him of, or to pleaſe his own Curioſity, or directed by Providence for his far⯑ther Conviction, is not material; but here diſ⯑courſing of other Things with the good Man and his Wife, he begins the following Dialogue thus, talking of their Servants.
I Remember, Neighbour, you were once com⯑plaining of a very bad Servant you had, and talk'd as if you wanted a Warrant of me to ſend him to the Houſe of Correction.
Yes an't pleaſe your Worſhip, I did ſo.
Note, He was an Alderman in the Country Town, and ſo a Magiſtrate at that time.
Well, and pray how does he behave himſelf now? Shall you want a Warrant, Neigh⯑bour? [254] You know I ſhall always be ready to ſerve you in any thing I can; it ſhall coſt you nothing if you have any ſuch Occaſion.
I hope not now, Sir, I think that Lad is much reformed; tho' I have had many bad Ser⯑vants, I never had a worſe than he was, but he is wonderfully changed; however, I thank your Worſhip for your kind Offer.
Wife. You are very happy, Sir, in that Part, for you have very good Servants.
Truly, but indifferent; I have had my ſhare of Trouble that way as well as you.
I am ſure you have ſome very good ones.
Well, but I am very glad to hear that your bad one is mended.
I thank you, Sir, indeed he is very much mended.
It is very rare that bad Servants grow better; I have often heard of good Servants that have grown worſe; I am ſure with me they do ſo.
Indeed, Sir, I hope this Lad of mine will prove a very good young Man.
Good! Why you repreſented him to me as one of the worſt Wretches that ever came into your Houſe; if I remember right, you ſaid he was given to Lying, and Swearing, Scoffing at Reli⯑gion, and at every thing that was good, and was himſelf every thing that was bad.
Indeed he was ſo, Sir.
I doubt not you did all you could to re⯑claim him, I know you would.
I endeavoured, Sir, to diſcharge my Con⯑ſcience towards him; but I had no Satisfaction in it, only ſo far, that I had done my Duty; I could do no more, and I was quite tir'd out with him; indeed I reſolved to put him away, for I could not [255] bear him among my Children; he was enough to ſpoil all the Children in the Pariſh.
You have a great Advantage Neighbour, that I have not; I am in ſuch a continual hurry of Buſineſs, that I cannot look after my Family as I would do; I have no Leiſure to diſcharge my Duty to my Servants; you have Leiſure, Neighbour, and your Servants have the Advantage of it.
Truly, Sir, If I have Leiſure, it is my Loſs, for my Livelyhood depends upon my being em⯑ployed, as well as my Servants; but they that are taught to know their Duty, will always find Lei⯑ſure to do it; I doubt not, Sir, but you diſcharge your ſelf better that way, than I can do.
It is ſeen plainly in your Servants them⯑ſelves, that you do your Duty to them, Sir; ſure never any body had ſuch Servants as you have!
Nay, Neighbour! do not ſay I diſcharge my Duty better than you; God forgive me! I don't diſcharge it at all, I mean to my Apprentices; I take no Care about them.
Wife. That is then, becauſe they are ſo good, and ſo religious, that they need no Inſpe⯑ction; for you know, Sir, we are to inſtruct our Servants as well as our Children.
Well, I cannot ſay that I have made that much of my Concern; for our Apprentices gene⯑rally come of pretty good Families, and bring Mo⯑ney with them, and they think themſelves above being talk'd to about ſuch things.
Then they are among thoſe who Solomon calls Fools, that Deſpiſe Inſtruction; and if they reject your Offers to inſtruct them, I cannot ſee what you can do in that Caſe: That was my very Caſe with this Boy.
I perceive you have had a great deal of Trouble with him.
Yes indeed, ſo I have; I was quite weary of him.
He had the Report of a very wicked Boy,
Indeed I was aſham'd to have it ſaid, ſuch a Boy was in my Houſe: I was afraid any of the Neighbours Children ſhould come near him.
Indeed I have a Young Man, I believe is not much the better for him; I have been chiding him a little about it: But is he really chang'd and reform'd think you?
Indeed that he is, and moſt wonderfully too, I bleſs God for it.
I queſtion not but you have taken a great deal of Pains with him; but are you not deceiv'd? Is he not a Cheat, and plays the Hypocrite?
If ever there was a true Convert in the World, I believe he is one.
You are very happy that God has ſo far bleſs'd your Endeavours with the Child.
Wife. Not our Endeavours, Sir, at all; we were denied that Bleſſing; it comes all from you, Sir; the Bleſſing is from your Houſe.
What do you mean?
It is a plain Caſe Sir.
Wife. If I underſtand you right, you ſpoke as if ſome of your Servants had received no good from our William; If that be ſo I know not, but I am ſure William has received Good from ſome in your Houſe.
Yes indeed, I found that a young Lad I have newly bound, was acquainted with this Boy of yours: And that he was often abroad with him, and it has cauſed ſome Diſturbance among us; for knowing your Lad was ſo wicked a Boy, I forbid him his Company.
Pray what do you call the Lad you Speak of?
His Name is Thomas, he is my youngeſt Prentice.
Wife, I know not what Harm he may have received from our Boy, but I can aſſure you, our Youth has received much Good from him.
Ay that's the Youth that GOD has made the Inſtrument; He is a wonderful Child!
He the Inſtrument! How's that poſſible?
With GOD Sir, all Things are poſſible: Aſſure your ſelf, Sir, ſo it is: And ſuch a Convert as this Child is, I neither ever ſaw, or read of.
Why our Thomas is a poor melancholly diſcontented Boy, a meer Child.
He is ſuch a Child, Sir, as I never met with the like; I find you do not know him.
Why, I never thought there was any thing in him; he is but young; and indeed we all thought him young in every Thing; it is true, He is a ſober modeſt Sort of a Boy, and talks pretty well; but I never ſaw any thing extraor⯑dinary in him; he is ſo melancholly and diſcon⯑tented, we thought him diſtemper'd; and I have been at the Point of turning him away.
You know Sir, the Scripture ſays, That out of the Mouths of Babes and Sucklings he has ordained Praiſe; this Child as you call him, is an excellent Chriſtian, and beyond his Years capable of ſhew⯑ing it. Perhaps Sir, you never tried him.
No indeed not I, as I ſaid to you before Neighbour, I have no Time to trouble my ſelf a⯑bout my Prentices; I mean as to ſuch Things.
Wife. And as I ſaid to you before Sir, You have no need for it, for your Prentices are fit to Teach others.
I am glad to hear it is ſo; but I confeſs you ſurprize me with the Thing; how are you ſa⯑tisfied with the Truth of theſe Things?
My Wife can give you an Account of the whole Matter, if your Worſhip pleaſes to have Patience to hear it.
I'll hear it, with all my Heart.
I am amazed at this Account you give; but Pray tell me, was all this begun by his keeping Company and converſing with my young Man?
Yes, all of it; he was the general Mocker of every Thing that was good; and began to do ſo in your young Man's Company; and he was the firſt that reproved him for it: And he did it ſo ſeriouſly, and ſo effectually, that it has pleaſed GOD to work on him as you ſee.
Then I have done that young Man of mine a great deal of Wrong.
Wife, If you have thought any Evil of him, you have wronged him indeed; for he is ſuch a young Man, as will be a Bleſſing to any Family he comes into.
Indeed I have wronged him very much, eſpecially if you can give me Satisfaction about one Thing, and which to be free with you, was the Principal Reaſon of my coming to viſit you at this Time.
We will give you all the Satisfaction we can Sir.
Why then I'll tell you, That firſt, as ſaid before, I have had ſome Uneaſineſs at my young Man's keeping Company, as I was informed he did with this Boy; who I had heard you ſay was ſo wicked, that ye knew not what to do with him; and talked of ſending him to the Correction Houſe, [259] but this was not all; I found my Young Man grew Melancholy and appeared diſcontented, as I told you juſt now, as if he did not like his Buſineſs; tho' we cannot ſay, that he omits or neglects any Thing; but every Morning before Day he riſes up in the Dark, and goes out ſome where or other, and ſtays about half an Hour, and then comes in again, and ſits by himſelf all the reſt of the Time till Buſineſs begins; every Night he is miſſing again till about 9 a Clock, and all the Houſe takes Notice of it; when I came to examine him about it, it was a long time before he would give me an Account of it: Nay he rather deſired to be put away, and go back to his Father, than to give an Account where he ſpent his Time; till at laſt I acquainted his Father with it, and threatned him, I would find out the Bottom of it, unleſs he would make an ingenious Confeſſion, then he gives this for an Anſwer, that he was over the way at your Houſe here: This increaſed my Suſpicion becauſe of the Hours he kept, which I was ſure muſt be in the Morning before you were up; and I con⯑cluded, this wicked Boy of yours, and he, ſpent their Time together in ſome clandeſtine Wicked⯑neſs or other, and the Boy would be ruin'd, which I was very ſorry for, his Father being my very good Friend.
I hope Sir, you need not be apprehenſive, that he ſhould get any ill in my Houſe.
No indeed Neighbour I ſhould not, ſo far as you know of it; but what could their Morn⯑ings Meetings be for, before you or your Family was up?
Wife, What Time is it exactly Sir, that you ſay he comes and goes.
As I underſtand it he goes out about Six, and is back between Six and Seven, which looked [260] to me as if he came hither before you were up, and aſſoon as he found you beginning to ſtir, comes off again, and would not be ſeen.
That cannot be the Caſe Sir, for we are all of us up every Day if we are well, before Six, and at our Work preſently after Six.
Well; But does he come at thoſe Hours in the Morning, and about Eight a Clock at Night is he here as he tells me, or is he not?
Yes, I cannot deny but the Young Man is here at theſe Hours very often.
Nay, if you do but know of it, I am eaſie to be ſatisfied, eſpecially if this had been his Buſineſs.
Wife, I hope your Worſhip will not be an⯑gry with us for the young Mans coming hither.
Not at all, if you are aſſured what his Bu⯑ſineſs is.
It is not for us to ſay we are ſatisfied, he is your Servant Sir, and if you are not ſatisfied; I ſhould be very ſorry to have him come hither againſt your Mind.
I ſay, if you are ſatisfied that his coming hither has been as you relate it, and that he has been a means of doing the Young Man ſo much Good, I ſhall be ſatisfied to be ſure; but what need is there of his coming ſo early in a Morning, and ſo late at Night? that indeed I do not underſtand; it ſeems to leave me in the Dark a little, and this makes me ask if you are ſure of the Thing.
I will by no means deceive you Sir, you do not rightly underſtand us: That our Lad has been inſtructed and brought to a Conviction, and as I believe and hope to a thorough Converſion, by his converſing with the Young Man that is your Ser⯑vant, this is true, Sir, there is no Room to doubt it; but that his coming over hither Night and Morning is to converſe with our Lad William, [261] that is not the Caſe at all Sir; I hope the Young Man did not tell you ſo, if he did I ſhould be ſorry; I can hardly ſuſpect him of ſuch a Thing, I be⯑lieve he makes more Conſcience of his Words, than to ſay ſo.
No indeed, I will not do him ſo much wrong, he did not ſay ſo; but when firſt I asked him where he had been, he told me he had been no where but here; I told him if that were true, it was well, and I ſhould ask no further of his Bu⯑ſineſs, till I was ſatisfied about the Fact it ſelf.
Wife. I ſhould ha' thought it very ſtrange, if he had told you ſo; their Converſation has not been here I can aſſure you; but as I underſtand it has been at your Houſe, or walking in the Fields, or at ſuch Times as you know Youth can find enough to converſe in.
What then, can his Buſineſs be here?
And your Worſhip will not be angry.
Not I indeed, I am ſatisfied he can have been doing no Harm here, and if he had, I ſhall but diſmiſs him, and let his Father take him to Task, it is no Buſineſs of mine, he is not my Son.
You miſtake me again, I did not mean angry with him, but angry with us.
What ſhould I be angry with you for?
Perhaps you may think hard of us, That we ſhould do any Thing where your Family Af⯑fairs are concerned, or ſpeak our Minds too freely: I am very ſure we have ſhown no Diſreſpect to you in it Sir, in the leaſt.
I give you my Word, I will take nothing ill from you; do but tell me freely the whole Caſe; the making me eaſie in one Reſpect, ſhall fully make me amends for any Thing you ſhall ſay that may concern me.
Why then Sir, the Caſe is this; when my Wife heard from our Lad, what ſhe has already related to you, and had examined William more fully about the Particulars; as how, and upon what Occaſion he became acquainted with your Young Man, in what Manner he had diſcourſed with him, and what Principles of Inſtruction he had laid in him, William gave her a long Ac⯑count of the Conference they had had together, and how Thomas gave him a Bible, and turned down the ſeveral Promiſory Texts, to encourage him to hope in, and pray to GOD, and —
And when we heard all this, you cannot think it ſtrange, that we deſired to ſee and ſpeak with this young Man, to ſee what kind of Youth it muſt be, to whom GOD had ſo early given ſo much Grace, and ſo eminently made an Inſtrument of, to work on his Companion: And meerly to ſatisfie this Curioſity, my Wife ordered William to invite him hither, which he did: And brought him over with him, I hope your Worſhip does not blame us for this; it was with no Deſign at all but to ſee and talk with him upon ſerious Matters, and ſee whe⯑ther there was that Foundation in him which our Lad related.
I cannot take any Thing of this ill, I am very well pleaſed with it; pray go on.
After we had talked a while with him on theſe Things, he went home again; we did not detain him at all, but my Wife invited him to come again at his Leiſure, which he did; this we hope you will not be diſpleaſed with, for we are much taken with his Society.
I am not at all diſpleaſed.
In one of theſe Viſits the young Man ap⯑peared more melancholy and more reſerved as we thought than uſual, and my Wife preſſed to know if any Thing troubled him, or if he was not well? He anſwered he was very well, but mo⯑deſtly declined telling what troubled him.
Why this is his Caſe at Home, he appears reſerved and diſcontented, and no Body can get it out of him, what is the Matter with him.
Well, my Wife got it out of him ſome time after, when preſſing him to tell her what it was that troubled him, he told her his Caſe was very ſad; his Maſter was a good Man, and he liked his Buſineſs very well, but that his Maſter looked upon him as a Heathen, or as ſome vile Creature, for that Morning and Evening when he went up as he ſuppoſed to Prayers with his Children, he would never let him be called up, or admitted among them; ſo that he ſaid he believed his Ma⯑ſter thought him not worthy taking any care of; or elſe it was a Judgment of GOD upon him for his Sins; and this troubled him ſo, he could not enjoy himſelf, and the poor Child wept grievouſly when he had told it her: Now Sir, as this relates to your Family Affairs, I was very unwilling to mention it, leaſt you ſhould be angry.
Go on, I have no Reaſon to be angry at all, neither at you nor at him.
We could not but pity the poor Young Man, and my Wife exhorted him, however to take Care to be the more diligent in his private Duty to GOD, and not to let the want of Family Prayer be a Means to thruſt out Prayer altogether: At this Diſcourſe he wept again more than before, and told her; that he had no Retreat for private Prayer, and that when at firſt he did kneel down [264] by his Bed ſide to pray to GOD, when he went to Bed, the other Apprentices would laugh at him, jeer him, and interrupt him; ſo that he was for⯑ced to leave it off again; that he was afterwards tempted to believe, that having theſe Hinderances he was diſcharged from the Duty, and having no Conveniencies for it, was a juſt Excuſe for omit⯑ting it; and the Fear that he ſhould grow looſe, and willing to omit his Duty entirely; oppreſt his Mind ſo, that he thought it would break his Heart. For he thought his Father had placed him juſt in the Devil's Mouth, I am too plain, Sir, I hope you will excuſe me.
You need no Excuſe, Pray go on.
I was exceedingly concerned for the Young Man, and ſo was my Wife; and we were both minded to have invited him to come over at our uſual Hours of Family Prayer, and join with us; but as he was your Worſhip's Servant, and we did not know how our Hours might interfere with your Buſineſs, we thought it was not proper, leſt it might give you Offence.
Well, that was very obliging too; but I ſhould have taken no Offence, I aſſure you.
Then you will take the leſs Sir, at what has been done, which was only this: The Young Man finding we did not invite him, which it ſeems he expected, ſpoke afterwards to William to ask my Wife, if we would give him Leave, when he might be ſpared, to come over at our Times of Worſhip, and join with us in Praying to GOD: Then indeed we thought our ſelves more obliged than we were before to do it; and my Wife ſending for him, told him ſhe had invited him before, but that we thought it might give his Maſter Offence, but that he ſhould be welcome to come when he would, leaving it to him to take care that he did [265] not offend his Maſter, by being out at ſuch times as he might be wanted; withal telling him that ſhe believed he could not be here at our Morning Prayer, becauſe our Buſineſs requiring us to be early at Work, we went always to Prayer exactly at Six a Clock in the Morning, in Winter, and at Five in Summer: The Poor Young Man was ſo glad of the Liberty, we had given him to come, that he ſaid he would be ſure to be here by Six, or Five if we begin ſo ſoon, tho' he was to ſit up all Night; and indeed we have obſerved, that he has never miſt one Morning yet.
And is all this true? Is this his Buſineſs here Night and Morning?
Wife, Indeed this is all Sir that we know of, I hope it does not diſpleaſe you.
As Judah ſaid of his Daughter Tamar, He is more Righteous than I! He has done his Duty, and I have neglected mine: I am ſorry I have done him ſo much Wrong in my Thoughts, I ſhall love the Boy for it as long as I live.
But Sir, ſince you have given me Leave to ſpeak ſo freely to your Worſhip, and have had this long Account from me, which I aſſure you is nothing but Truth; will you pleaſe to give me Leave to put in one Word of my own in Behalf of this good Young Man?
What is that? Speak freely.
Why Sir, That you will be pleaſed to admit him to your Family Exerciſes, tho' you do not the reſt of your Servants; I know you have a great Family, and you may not think it proper to call them all up, when as the Young Man ſays you do your Lady and Children; but this is ſo good, and ſo ſerious a Child, that you will be delighted in having him with you, and if you ſhould not, it will break his Heart; and then beſides, he will [266] have no Occaſion to come over to us, or to riſe at ſuch Hours as he is not uſed to, and perhaps get cold, and many Things may happen to him, I intreat for him, purely becauſe I ſee what a Child he is.
Alas! Neighbour it is all wrong; the Boy's miſtaken, and you are miſtaken; it is I alone am juſtly reproved in all this; for like a Heathen, and one that has entirely caſt off GOD and Re⯑ligion, I have never kept up any Family Worſhip at all! I confeſs it to you freely, and I think in all my Life I have never had ſuch a Stroke to my Con⯑viction as from this poor Boy: I have neither been Father nor Maſter to my Family, but have been driving after the World as if I had no other Por⯑tion, I have lived as if I were never to die, and I am afraid I ſhall die as if I had never lived, the whole Crime lies at my Door.
I am ſorry I have ſaid ſo much, I knew nothing how it was.
THE Diſcourſe of the good Man and his Wife had ſuch an Effect upon the Country Alderman, eſpecially with the Addition, from the Account he had received of the Conduct of his Apprentice, that it cauſed him ſeriouſly to reflect on his Family Conduct, and convinc'd him that he had been quite out of the Way of his Duty as a Maſter of his Family to his Servants, as well as in his Relation of a Father to his Children; and theſe Convictions put him upon Reſolutions of altering his Conduct in his Family.
But here, as in all ſuch Caſes, where a Religious Oeconomy is not eſtabliſhed in the Beginning, inſuperable Difficulties appeared to him; which ſeveral Times diſcouraged him, ſlackned his Re⯑ſolution, and cooled his Mind ſo, as to incline him rather to go on in the Neglect as he had be⯑gun, believing it too late to refrain; But two un⯑expected providential Accidents ſurprized him into his Duty, the happy Conſequences whereof will appear, for the Encouragement of other Maſters of Families in the like Attempt, of reforming their Practice, and applying themſelves to ſet up a Re⯑ligious [268] Government in their Houſholds, notwith⯑ſtanding all pretended Difficulties.
The Difficulties he had before him were Two; Firſt, he had married a Lady who differed from him in Opinion; he had been bred a Diſſenter from the Church, and his Wife had been bred in Conformity to the Church, and continued ſo: And as this Kind of marrying, however not at all un⯑lawful, is not always the greateſt Help to, or for⯑warder of a Religious Family, ſo he (tho' erro⯑neouſly) judged his Wife might not be willing to join with him in his Way of Family Worſhip, if he ſhould begin it: Again, as to his Servants, his Apprentices and Journy-men, ſeveral of which he had, were Men grown, ſuch as ſeemed to be paſt Government; and as they had none of them any appearing Inclination to what was Religious, he having always indulged them in a total Neglect of ſuch Things, he thought they would but make a Jeſt of him, and that he ſhould never be able to bring them to conform to any Thing of Family Orders. As to his Children, they were Young, and he did not ſo much conſider them in the Caſe; And thoſe that were any Thing grown up were abroad at the Boarding School: Now in both theſe Caſes he was happily diſappointed, Provi⯑dence removed both the Difficulties at once, ſo as to take from him any kind of Excuſe for the fur⯑ther Neglect of his Duty.
It ſoon became known in the Houſe, that Thomas and his Maſter had had ſome Words about his going out every Morning and Evening to the Clothiers; nor could it be hid upon what Occa⯑ſion he went thither; and his Maſter had ſpoken of it to another of his Servants, that the Young Man ſhould not be hindred, for that he was very well ſatisfied of the Buſineſs he went about. As it [269] was known among the Servants, it could not be concealed from the Miſtreſs, who being a very pi⯑ous Religious Lady her ſelf, ſeem'd not a little concerned at the Thing; and having obſerved her Husband to be more than uſually thoughtful and melancholly for ſome Time; She imagined ſome⯑thing about that Apprentice had diſturb'd him; both which Circumſtances put together, occaſio⯑ned the following Diſcourſe betwixt them.
My Dear, Pray let me ask one Thing of you, have you examined any further, ſince you and I diſcourſed laſt of it, about your Youngeſt Apprentice keeping bad Hours?
Yes, my Dear, I have; but I do not find there is any Thing in it worth Notice.
How do you mean, Nothing in it? It is certain he has a Haunt ſomewhere in the Town; that he ſteals out in a Morning before Day, and comes ſoftly in again, as if he were a Thief; and every Evening, as duly as it comes, he is abroad, no Body knows where.
My Dear, I have examined into it.
Nay, if you are ſatisfied, I do not uſe to meddle, eſpecially with your Servants; but me⯑thinks it is great Pity the Boy ſhould be ruined, he was a pretty ſober Lad when he came hither, and if he takes any bad Courſes now, even for his Father's Sake as well as his own, methinks ſomething ſhould be done to prevent it; I wiſh you would have told his Father of it, that he might have taken ſome Care of him.
My Dear, There is nothing at all of Harm in the Boy: Be ſatisfied.
Nay, I have thought ſo too; but what can he go out ſo for then, and at ſuch Hours too?
I have examined into it, I ſay, and am fully ſatisfied.
Nay, if I muſt not know the Caſe, I will ſay no more.
My Dear, I do not conceal the Caſe from the upon his Account at all.
Well then, I ſuppoſe he has promiſed you Amendment.
No indeed; ſo far from that, that I have approved of his doing it, and have allowed him to do it, and ordered none of my People to hin⯑der him, as ſome would ha' done, by taking the Keys of the Door in.
I do not uſe to meddle, I ſay, with your Buſineſs, but you may be ſure, the ſeeming Myſtery of it tempts my Curioſity to know what the Meaning of it can be; but if you do not think fit to tell me, I ſhall deſiſt my Enquiry.
I cannot tell thee the Caſe.
Cannot, that is ſtill more dark, it ſeems it is not becauſe you do not know it.
No indeed, my Dear.
If it is ſome Secret I ſhould not know, on the leaſt Notice, my Enquiry ſhall ceaſe.
I never concealed any Thing, from thee in my Life.
Nor did I ever diſcover any Thing yet committed to me: What have I done then that you begin now?
I wiſh I had not this Secret to conceal, it is a Burden too heavy for me.
Then let me bear ſome of it for thee, my Dear; cannot I lighten the Load, by taking ſome of it upon my ſelf? I would bear any Burden to remove it from you.
This is a Load no body can bear, a Wound no Surgeon can cure.
You ſurprize me with the Nicety of the Thing, and ſweil my Apprehenſions perhaps to [271] a greater Degree than it requires: It muſt be ſomething very myſterious, that from the Con⯑duct of a Boy can be ſo eſſential to you: I intreat thee, my Dear, tell me ſo much of it as is proper for me to know, if any Part of it be ſo, or tell me that none of it is proper for me to know, and I'll ceaſe my Importunity.
My Dear, it is all proper for you to know, and I ought to let you know it, and you both can, and perhaps would aſſiſt to eaſe it; and yet it is very difficult for me to let you know it.
You leave me in the greateſt Uncertainty now in the World, whether I ſhould importune you any further, or not.
I wiſh you would not, and yet I wiſh you would.
Whether would be moſt for your own Eaſe and Advantage, for as for a meer ſatisfying my Curioſity, I lay no Weight on that now.
It would be moſt for my Advantage to have you know it.
Then if you believe I have been faithful to you, and can ſtill be ſo, put it in my Power to relieve you; I have not been inſenſible that ſome thing has a good while oppreſs'd your Mind, ſure if I can relieve you, your Remedy is eaſy.
I do not ſay you can entirely relieve me, but you may in Part.
Let me do my Part then.
My Part will be ſtill hardeſt.
My Dear, amuſe me and your ſelf no more, what has this Boy done?
My Dear, he has done nothing, which he ought not to have done, and I nothing that I ought to have done; he has ſtrove to do his Du⯑ty, and deeply reproved me that I have not done mine.
He has ſhown more Honeſty than Man⯑ners then, ſure it was not his Place to reprove his Maſter.
No, my Dear; he has not reproved me in Words, he hath rather uſed more Modeſty in that than conſiſted with Truth; but his Actions have given me the ſevereſt and moſt juſt Reproof that ever I had in my Life.
Nay, if you acknowledge it juſt.—
Or elſe it would be an Inſult, not a Re⯑proof; no Doubt it is juſt, the Caſe is this, You know, I mentioned to you once before, my Diſſa⯑tisfaction at the Boy's Conduct, and you gave me ſome Hints your ſelf of his being melancholly and diſcontented; upon which, I acquainted his Father with it, but his Father threw it back upon me to examine it my ſelf, and a long Diſpute we had, about whoſe Duty it was to take Cognizance of the Morals and Behaviour of Prentices.
What could you diſpute of about that?
Why, I alledged he was his Son, that I could do no more than acquaint him with his Con⯑duct, and that he muſt take care of the reſt; that my Part was to teach him his Trade, and ſee that my Buſineſs was done, but as to the reſt it lay upon him, and that I had diſcharged my ſelf in giving him this Account of his Son. He affirmed the contrary, that I was in his Place eſſentially, that as I had a Right to his Time, ſo I was obliged to exact an Account of it from him, as much as I would of Money committed to him to pay, and the like; and ſo we fell into a long Diſpute about the Diſtinction of a Parent and a Father; he affirmed that I was a Parent to the Boy, tho' not a Father, and that the Duty of taking Care of him both Soul and Body was mine.
I am not capable to argue theſe Things; but I confeſs, I muſt be very much of his Opi⯑nion; for I think when a Father commits his Child to us, if he puts his Body under our Care, and not his Soul, pray what muſt become of the Youth? Muſt he be left without Government to be ruined?
Why, If that be my Duty, I have ſadly neglected it.
Indeed, my Dear, I have often thought ſo; eſpecially when I have heard you ſay to your Pren⯑tices, that you only required their conſtant At⯑tendance at ſuch and ſuch Hours, and that for the reſt of the time they might go where they pleas'd: I could not think Young Men ſhould be left ſo en⯑tirely to their own Diſpoſal, I am perſwaded no ſober Father would like it; I am ſure, if any of my Sons ſhould come to be put out, I ſhould be very ſorry to put them to a Maſter that ſhould do ſo.
I ſee I have been in an Error, but what ſhould I have done?
My Dear, Why do you ask me what you ſhould do? Am I fit to teach you?
Indeed any Body may teach me; I have been taught lately by a meaner Inſtructor than you.
It may be ſo, my Dear, but I am none of thoſe Wives that ſet up to teach their Husbands.
But you may give your Advice.
In ſuch Caſes, there is little Difference betwixt adviſing and teaching, except in the Ar⯑rogance of the Word; beſides, Advice is gene⯑rally asked before it is given; if it be given before it be asked, it is rather an Admonition or Reproof than an Advice.
But my Dear, you might abate Ceremo⯑nies with me, what would you have ſuppoſed to [274] have been my Duty as a Maſter? Have not I enough to do to teach them their Trade, and ſee them do my Buſineſs?
If you will have it be ſo that I muſt give my Opinion; I muſt be very plain, that I think you have a great deal more to do; that when they are committed to your Charge by their Parents, their whole Behaviour is under your Care; and that tho' ſerving God is their particular Duty, and lies upon them, yet it is your Duty to ſee, as far as in you lies, that they perform it; and at your Hands their Souls will be required, if you neglect your Duty, and indulge them in the Neglect of their own.
But my Dear, you muſt explain the words as far as in me lies, that is the Thing I ſpeak of; my Buſineſs is their Work, if they neglect that, I am to ſee it remedied; but as to their Morals and Religion, if I ſee Cauſe to diſlike, I acquaint their Parents; is not that doing the Thing as far as in me lies?
I cannot ſay that it is; you may do much more than that, or elſe what does that ſignifie? For when a Father knows of his Son's wicked Courſes, what can he do? He is under your Care for Correction, and under his Father's only for Admonition; for he is your Servant.
I warrant their Fathers would think it very hard that I ſhould correct one of them.
On the other Hand, I believe you would take it very ill to have one of their Fathers come to your Shop and cane or correct one of your Pren⯑tices, you would ſay he took the Work out of your Hands.
I cannot take that Pains with them, I'll rather have no Apprentices.
Indeed, my Dear, you had better take none; for 'tis but murthering Youth, and robbing their Fathers, to take Young Men, and then keep them under no Government.
But Youth are come to that paſs, that they will be under no Government now.
My Dear, there is hardly any Young Man ſo ill taught, but if he is begun with at firſt, will ſubmit to Government: I do not ſay they will all be the better for it; but there is a great Difference hetween a Young Man's not profiting by Inſtruction, and refuſing to ſubmit to it.
My Dear, What can I do?
My Dear, You are no ignorant Perſon, you do not want to have me ſay what you can do, you know what you ought to do, it is not my Part to teach you your Duty.
Abate that Nicety for once, my Dear, and make no Scruple to ſay what you think is my Duty to my Servants; tho' you do not think it your Part to teach me my Duty, you may be a Means to convince me, that ſomething was my Duty, which I did not think was my Duty before; and I may learn from you what you do not ſet up to teach; there need not be ſo much Shyneſs between a Wife and her Husband; that for Fear of taking too much upon you to teach me, you ſhould omit a kind Hint to me of what you think I ought to do.
I do not refrain for that ſo much, as that I think you know your Part ſo well, that it is perfectly unreaſonable and needleſs for me to offer any Thing; beſides, Family Government is ſo natural a Conſequence to the very Being and Conſtitution of Maſter and Servant, Father and Child, Husband and Wife, that no Husband of your Capacity can be ignorant; the Scripture is ſo [276] full on the Side of thoſe who are to be governed, that it cannot but lead directly to thoſe who are the Governours: Wives are bid to ſubmit them⯑ſelves to their Husbands; Children to obey their Parents; Servants to be Subject to their Maſters; all which naturally implies, that the Government of the whole Family devolves entirely upon the Head of the Maſter, who has the whole Charge of them, Soul and Body, and is accountable for their Miſcarriages, ſo far as thoſe Miſcarriages are owing to the Omiſſion of his Duty.
So that you put the Maſter entirely upon the Father's Place, and the Servants in the Po⯑ſture of Children.
Indeed I can think no otherwiſe; eſpe⯑cially Apprentices, who by their Indentures are entirely ſubjected to the Maſter's Government.
But My Dear, we differ then about the Word Government, and how far that extends be⯑yond my commanding them in the Offices of an Apprentice, and their doing my Buſineſs.
Indeed I think it extends to every thing elſe; we are obliged by the Fourth Commandment not to ſuffer our Servants to break the Sabbath, and ſo of every Duty in the other Commands; and no Queſtion but 'tis our Duty to reſtrain them from every evil Action, whereby they may offend GOD, or wrong their Neighbour: I mean as much as is in our Power; and on the other Hand, we are to encourage them in all that is good, viz. in their Duty to GOD and Man, and this by all poſſible Methods, ſuch as Exhortation, Command, Advice, viz. but eſpecially Example; praying to GOD for them and with them.
If all this be my Duty, I have ſadly neg⯑lected it, both to Servants and Children too.
Indeed, my Dear, I have often thought ſo, with a great deal of Grief.
But why then, my Dear, would you not tell me ſo before now; and not now without ſo much Difficulty, and a kind of Violence?
My Dear, I have been backward perhaps more than has been my Duty, leſt you ſhould think I did what it was not my Place to do; be⯑ſides, you know our Opinions differ in ſome Things, and I did not know whether you might liſten to me on that Account.
Why, my Dear, that very Thing has been my Hindrance, leſt my Dear being of a diffe⯑rent Opinion as to the Form of Prayer, ſhould not like it, or care to join with me in it.
You very much wronged me then, my Dear, I hope tho' we differ in Opinion about Re⯑ligion, we are not of two Religions; we may have differing Thoughts of the Manner and Forms of Worſhip, but not I hope of Worſhip it ſelf: I hope we pray to the ſame GOD, and in the Name of the ſame Interceſſor; nor is our Difference about Forms ſuch, that you ſhould refuſe my Prayers be⯑cauſe of the Form, or I yours for want of a Form; that GOD to whom we pray certainly reſpects the Heart, and not the Form; ſo that with the Form or without it, we ſhall be equally heard if we pray in Faith, and equally rejected if we do not.
And would you have joined with me, my Dear, in Family Prayer, if I had proferred it?
Moſt heartily, my Dear, and I wonder what Kind of Heathen you have taken me for that you ſhould doubt it; I am ſure it has often troub⯑led me to ſee the Family brought up with no man⯑ner of Regard to the Worſhip of God in it, I was never bred ſo, and I have had many a ſad Heart about it on the Account of my Children.
And never would eaſe your Mind by ſpeaking a Word about it to me before!
That may have been a Fault, but I did not ſo much think it my Duty, or rather indeed, did not ſee it likely to have Effect.
But would you rather have your Chil⯑dren bred up without being introduced into the Ways of God and Religion, than break in a little upon what you thought was not your Place?
I have endeavoured to do my Duty with my little Ones, as well as I could.
And I have the Reputation of that little too, as you ſhall hear preſently, which I am ſure, and God knows, I do not deſerve in the leaſt.
Alas! What can a Wife do in ſuch a Family as ours is? it is not worth naming: The Worſhip of God in a Family ought to be avowed and owned by the Maſter of the Family, and per⯑formed either by himſelf or Chaplains, with due Gravity and Solemnity, ſuitable to the Authority of the Maſter of the Houſe, and ſuitable to the Authority and Greatneſs of that God to whom it is directed; and there is not a Servant ſo wicked, ſo profligate, ſo prophane, but would reverence the Practice, if they did not profit by the Performance.
Truly, my Dear, one of the greateſt Dif⯑ficulties was on your Account, and I have often thought it the only Allay to our Happineſs, in coming together.
It is very hard you ſhould think ſo ill of me, and not try whether it was with Juſtice, or no; eſpecially when your Information was ſo eaſy.
I was loth —
Loth to come to the Duty, and he that tempted you to neglect that Part, threw this wicked Thought in your Way for an Obſtru⯑ction, not giving you Leave to clear up your own [279] Thoughts, and my Innocence, by asking me the Queſtion.
Indeed I have done thee Wrong, but I hope the Devil has had no Share in it.
My Dear, How was it poſſible ſuch a hard Thought could enter into thy Heart elſe of me? Had I not a Religious Education? And is not my Father and Mother ſtill living, who keep as regular a Family, and the Worſhip of God as conſtantly performed in it, as in any Houſe in the Nation? And have you ſeen any thing in me that looks like a Willingneſs, to have my Family with⯑out it? As to my ſcrupling to join with Diſſenters, tho' I think it my Duty not to break off from the Church, yet ſure I have not ſuch an Opinion of conſcientious Diſſenters as to refuſe to pray to God with them: How could you think I would have married a Diſſenter, if that had been my Judgment? And have you not ſeen me readily join in Family Worſhip at your Brother's, as you have done with us at my Father's? Surely, if we have both joined with other Families of either Sort, we could not have wanted Charity ſo much as to have refuſed to do it in our own Houſe.
Truly, my Dear, you argue ſo reaſonably in this, that I ſee plainly it has been all my own Crime, and I have done thee a great deal of Wrong, which I am very ſorry for.
If my Dear will reform the Thing it ſelf, the Wrong done to me ſhall never be men⯑tioned as long as I live; I have too much Grief at the Neglect, not to bury all my Complaints in the Satisfaction I ſhould have to ſee it rectified.
If you knew the ſtinging Reproof I have had another Way, you would ſay I wanted no other Animadverſion.
I have interrupted you too long in that pray let me hear it out; if I remember, you were upon the Diſcourſe with Thomas's Father, pray go on with that.
Why, my Dear, he threw all the Work back upon me, as I told you, but I believe the Iſſue was, that both he and I alſo, talked to Thomas about his Diſcontent, and his Melancholly, and about his going out of Doors.
Very well, and what Account did he give of himſelf?
Why, that of his Melancholly came in of Courſe, but as to his going abroad before Day, and the like, and eſpecially on the Sabbath-day in the Evening, he told me he went over the Way to Neighbour M—'s the Clothiers.
What could he be doing there? It muſt be with ſome of their Servants then, for they are very ſober good People, he could get no Ill among them; but they have a Boy, a young Fellow, their Prentice, that is the wickedeſt young Rogue that ever was heard of, it muſt be ſome ugly Haunt he has got with him I doubt, that carries him thi⯑ther; and if it is that, the Boy is undone.
That was the very Thing I was afraid of too, but we are both ſtrangely miſtaken; Thomas is quite another Lad than any of us took him for; and inſtead of learning Wickedneſs from that vi⯑cious Boy, he has been God's Inſtrument to make that Boy the greateſt Convert that ever you heard of.
I am ſurprized; it can never be! Are you ſure you are not impoſed upon?
No, no, I am not impoſed upon; he has more Grace and more Goodneſs in him than ever I heard of in a Child of his Age; for he is but a Child; he has been the greateſt Reproof to me [281] in the Neglect of my Family Government that ever I met with.
Tell me theſe Matters more plainly, for I am more curious to know them than any Thing I ever heard of.
I will, my Dear, I'll tell thee all the par⯑ticulars.
How pretty and modeſt was that Anſwer, That you was not pleaſed to admit him to your Family when you went to the Worſhip of God.
Ah, my Dear, But how bitter a Reproach was it, think you, to me, when my own Heart ſtruck me with ſuch Thoughts as theſe? Wretch that I am, how innocently this Child thinks, as indeed it is rational to imagine, that it ſhould be impoſſible, but that God muſt be worſhipped in every Chriſtian Family, only ſuggeſting, that I had ſhut him out, or did not think him worthy to join with us, whereas the plain but dreadful Truth is, I have lived like a Heathen all my Life, and never have worſhipped God in my Family at all.
He ſaw no great Appearance of it, I con⯑feſs, I wonder how he had ſuch a Thought.
Yes, my Dear, there was ſome Appear⯑ance of it, but not on my Side: As I ſaid before, that I had the Reputation of what you had per⯑formed; ſo, no doubt, he had ſeen, or ſome of the Children, or Servants had ſpoken of your calling the Children into your Cloſet with you, and he ſuppoſed we might be all together at Prayer; I wiſh it had been really ſo.
But my Dear, what Satisfaction have you of the Truth of all this?
I am not eaſily impoſed upon, my Dear; I took little Notice of the Thing from him; nor gave him any Reaſon to think I believed him, but told him, I ſhould talk further with him about it: Indeed, to tell you the Truth, I could not hold to talk any more to him at that Time.
And how will you be ſatisfied? Cannot you enquire of Mr. M— the Clothier, or of his Wife? They are both good conſcientious People, and what they ſay may be depended upon, I wiſh you had asked them.
Indeed, my Dear, I have been there this Afternoon; 'tis there I have received the full Con⯑viction of my own Neglect of Duty, of the wicked Lad's Converſion, and of our own Boy's Cha⯑racter: The Particulars will amaze you if you were to hear them.
My Dear, I beg you let me hear it all, for the Story too nearly concerns me, not to have me very much moved with it, and beſides, it is very affecting in it ſelf.
You ſhall, my Dear.
This is a ſurprizing Story! What can there be in the Boy to do all this! Have you talked with him your ſelf?
I have talked a little with him, indeed I was ſo touch'd with the Reproof which his Diſ⯑courſe (innocently in him, for he perceived nothing) was to me, when he ſaid, It grieved him that I did not think him worthy to be reckoned among my Fa⯑mily, or admitted to the Worſhip of God with me and [283] my Children; that as I told you before, I could not hear to ſtay and talk with him any longer, leſt he ſhould perceive it.
It was very cutting indeed, all the Parts of it conſidered.
The Tears ſtood in my Eyes in Spight of all my Endeavours to the contrary: Indeed, how could I forbear, when I knew how I had lived, and that I had never troubled my ſelf about any ſuch Thing as the Worſhip of God with my Fa⯑mily, tho' I know well enough how much it had been my Duty to ha' done it.
I cannot ſay but I am glad it has happen⯑ed ſo, tho' I think its coming from the Boy was ſo odd; Are you ſure the Boy did not do it by way of Jeer.
Not in the leaſt, the Modeſty and Inno⯑cence of the Boy, and his Backwardneſs to ſay any Thing at all, leave no Room for ſuch a Thought.
I wiſh you would talk with him again, perhaps you may hear more from him, that may explain it all to you.
I intend it, my Dear, I'll go down and talk with him juſt now.
Well, Young Man; What, you have been examined about your Morning Walks, I underſtand; I wonder your Maſter found you out no ſooner.
Perhaps if you had told him of it ſooner; he would have known it ſooner.
You are miſtaken in the Informer, tho' whoever it was, he was much your Friend.
Where did the Friendſhip of it lye?
Where? Why in preventing your ruining your ſelf; when young Boys, like you, get ſuch Haunts, and go out of their Maſters Houſes at ſuch Hours privately; it is very ſeldom for any Good, and quickly ruins them.
That Word very ſeldom implies that you believe it may be ſometimes on a good Account.
Ay, ay, ſometimes, but very ſeldom I ſay; what Good could you be doing at that time of Day, I wonder?
That is bringing me to a ſecond Examina⯑tion, I have given an Account of that to my Ma⯑ſter, and to my Father already, and they are ſa⯑tisfied; why ſhould you take me to Task?
Nay, that's true; I have nothing to do with it, I care not what Hours you keep, or what Company you keep, or how you ruin your ſelf; what is it to me?
Well, I am the leſs obliged to you for that.
Why, ſo you are; but when you ſay your Maſter is ſatisfied, I muſt beg your Pardon for that Tho. I do not believe a Word of that I aſſure you.
Nay, now you wrong him indeed, for I aſſure you, my Maſter told me that he was ſatisfied about it, and that I ſhould not hinder him, as I had reſolv'd to do, by taking out the Key of the Warehouſe door, and carrying it up to my Maſter every Night.
Nay, if my Maſter be ſatisfied, I ha'done; either there muſt be ſome Myſtery in it then, or he has told him ſome fine Story that has deceiv'd him; the young Rogue has a ſoft Tongue.
I could ſay more of it, if I thought Tho⯑mas would not think I ſpoke to expoſe him.
Your with-holding it in ſuch a Manner, is more my Diſadvantage another Way; for now it looks as if it were ſome very bad Thing; tho' I have not been forward to tell it, yet I am not ſo ſhy of it, as to be willing to have it thought a Crime.
I am very glad if it be no Crime, Thomas, I never wiſh'd you any ill.
Truly, it is ſo far from a Crime, that if I had known before how it was, I would ha' gone with him, if they would have let me; for to be free with you, upon full Examination, it appears that he went over to Mr. —'s the Clothier Night and Morning to Prayers, and my Maſter has examined it to the utmoſt, and is ſatisfied that it has been nothing elſe.
To Prayers! nay if that is all, that's very well indeed, and of that preſently; but you make me ſmile to hear you ſay you would ha' gone along with him.
Ay, that would make any Body laugh; I dare ſay, he never ſaid his Prayers in his Life.
It's no Matter for that Jonathan, nor is that any Thing to you; if I han't, there's the more Need to begin now; I doubt you have no Need to reprove me.
Why ſo?
Why, ha'n't I heard you ridicule all ſuch Things, and banter the honeſt Man over the Way for going to Prayers in the cold Mornings before it was Day? And didn't you uſe to jeer poor Thomas here when he came firſt, becauſe when he went to Bed at Night, he would kneel down by his Bed Side to ſay his Prayers.
Why now you do, as you did before, charge me with your own Crime; did not you do ſo as well as I, and Mr. M— (that's the Journey-man) too.
I committed a greater Crime than any of you, in that Part, I wiſh I had not.
What's that, Thomas?
In letting your wicked ſcoffing at me prevail with me more wickedly to neglect my Duty; if I had continued to pray to God, as I ought to have done, he would ſoon have made you aſhamed of mocking me, or ha' made me not regard it.
Indeed, Thomas, I was aſhamed of it when I did it; and I am more ſorry for it now, ſince you tell me it maſter'd your Reſolution, and made you leave it off; I have thought on it a hun⯑dred Times ſince that with Regret; that tho' I did not pray to God my ſelf, I ſhould diſcourage another: For whether I performed it or no my ſelf, I never thought the worſe of another that did, for I knew it was what every one ought to do.
That makes your Fault the worſe to neg⯑lect it, when you knew you ought to have done it, and this is juſt my Fault, I am in the ſame Caſe.
No, Thomas, There's this Difference between you and I, you have repented and amended it, and I have not.
I think it almoſt broke my Heart, and yet I know not whether to call it Repentance or no, for what's all my Trouble at it, in Proportion to the Crime? There may be much Sorrow where there's little Repentance.
Why, Thomas, has that been the Cauſe you have been ſo melancholly of late?
Is not that Cauſe enough? However, I do not ſay that has been all the Cauſe.
Well, he has been ill uſed by us all, I muſt own that; and he does not deſerve ſuch Uſage from us, I think we have acted by him like perfect in⯑fidels, never was Poor Young Man ſo treated for ſerving God ſure: What Kind of Creatures have we been?
I confeſs I am amazed at it, I did not uſe to do ſo; I know not what poſſeſs'd me at that Time.
And was this the Reaſon of your going over to Mr. —'s. Thomas?
No, no, it was becauſe they kept a re⯑gular Family there, and go conſtantly to Prayers Night and Morning: Mr. — is a very good Man, every Body knows that; and I obſerve every Body, nay, the wickedeſt People in the Pariſh, love that Man: I never heard any Body ſpeak a diſreſpectful Word of him, but our Jonathan there, that laughed at him for riſing before Day, in the cold Weather, to go to Prayers.
Yes, you have heard his own Prentice Will do the ſame Thing.
That's a wicked young Rogue indeed, you have named a pretty Youth for our Example.
You ſee all his Prayers, and his being ſo good a Man, does him no good; he can't make him a good Boy.
You know nothing of that Boy, and very little of what you talk of; I wiſh I was as good a Boy as that Will is now.
It's very true, that Boy is the Wonder of this Town, he is the greateſt Penitent, and is turned the ſobereſt, moſt Religious Young Man that ever was heard of.
I am amazed at it; why then you ſee, Jo⯑nathan, what the having a good Maſter has done.
Nay, that has not been it neither, and to do Juſtice, though Thomas ſays modeſtly, that he wiſhes himſelf as good as William, I have a very good Account that Thomas was the firſt means of reclaiming him.
God's Grace has been the Means, and a religious good Inſtructor at home: I am uncapable to do any Thing of that Kind; his Maſter and Miſtreſs have been the Inſtruments, he is very happy in coming into ſuch a Family.
But was this really the Reaſon of Thomas'; going over thither ſo, every Night and Morning?
Yes, it was, my Maſter ſays he has ex⯑amined it; why are you ſo unbelieving?
Nay, for no ill; I could not have expected it; but I ſhall love him the better for it as long as I know him; I wonder what my Maſter thinks of it, or ſays to it.
Says! I told you, didn't I? He is very well ſatisfied in it, and ordered me that I ſhould not hinder him.
God forbid any ſhould hinder him; for my Part, if I was Ten Times wickeder than I am, would never wiſh to make another be ſo.
You are all growing mighty good of a ſudden; this Fit of Reli⯑gion will be over with you by and by, when you come to An Alehouſe in the Town, which it ſeems they Haunted too much. Kate's down the Street.
Your Eyes ſhall never ſee that of me again, nor ſee me at that wicked Houſe again.
Do not undertake for that in your own Strength, leſt you are left to know your ſelf by your Fall.
I hope God will give me Grace to keep that Reſolution.
You muſt ſeek it then, ask and thou ſhalt [...]eceive.
I wiſh I had been in ſuch a Houſe as that Clothiers; I was never brought up to live as we do here.
Why, can't our Maſter go to Prayers with us, as well as that poor Man does?
What, for you to laugh at him, as you did at the poor Clothier, and at Thomas too.
You have all done it as much as I.
I don't doubt, we all fare the worſe for [...]t, as well thoſe who are not guilty, as thoſe who [...]re.
How do you mean?
Mean, Why it is plain enough; my Ma⯑ [...]ter and Miſtreſs go to Prayers every Night and Morning with themſelves and the little Children; [...]nd if he did not take us for a ſcoffing, irreligious, [...]eprobate Pack, that would be never the better [...]or it, and would but make a Jeſt of it, and of [...]im too; to be ſure, he would call us all up, but [...]e ſees how we live, and does not count us wor⯑ [...]hy to be admitted.
Are you ſure of that, Thomas?
Sure of it! Why, is there any ſober Man [...]n the World that calls himſelf a Chriſtian, and [...]oes not do it?
Poor Thomas, thou knoweſt but little of [...]he World; is there one Family in Ten that [...]oes? Nay, is there one Family in this Town [...]hat does, except the good Man over the Way [...]ere, the Clothier?
Yes, my Father does, I never knew him [...]mit it in my Life, if he was well; and our Mi⯑ [...]ſter does; and ſome that I know in the Town; [...]ay, I know none that do not.
I am ſure, I know Twenty Families in the Town that do not, and yet call themſelves good Chriſtians too; and I never believed our Ma⯑ſter did.
I'll never believe ſuch a Thing of my Maſter; beſides, ha'n't I heard the little Chil⯑dren ſay to one another, they muſt go up to Prayers?
Nay, then to be ſure, he does; I am very glad of it, I wiſh he would call us all up.
No Queſtion, if my Maſter knew you wiſh'd ſo, he would; but we don't live as if we deſired it; I believe that is the Reaſon we are left to live like Heathens, as we are.
I am ſorry we have given him ſo much Cauſe to think ſo; and indeed, Thomas, it is but too true.
Well, for all that, he might have gone to Prayers.
So he does, I tell you; but does not think us fit People to join with him.
Why, the worſe we are, have we not the more Need of being pray'd for?
But I cannot but ſay, he might have good Reaſon to ſhut us out, that our bad Example might not be ſhewn to his Children.
Why, thou makeſt us worſe than Hea⯑thens, Boy; What do'ſt mean? Do you believe, that if my Maſter ſhould come now, and ſay to us all, that tho' he finds we do not regard ſuch Things, yet that he reſolves to go to Prayers every Night and Morning, and we may come if we will, that we would not all ſay, we would come with all our Hearts; I'm ſure I would for one.
I am ſure, I'd down on my Knees, and thank him for it; for I am more concerned at ſeeing how we live now, than ever I was.
I am ſure I'd thank him, and thank God for it too, and think it the beſt Day that I ever ſaw in my Life.
I have heard all your Diſcourſe, and have ſaid but little, but I'll tell you, I'll never jeſt with any Body for praying to God again while I live; I wiſh my Maſter would begin with us and try.
Any one may judge, how the Maſter, who heard all this Diſcourſe, was moved with it; being before affected with the Senſe of having lived in a Total Neglect of his Duty to God and his Fa⯑mily, and having thus providentially the great Obſtruction to his Duty removed, by hearing all his Men Servants, who he thought refractory, and ungovernable, declare themſelves toucht with a Senſe of their Loſs, in being ſhut out from the Worſhip of God; profeſſing their Willing⯑neſs to join in a Religious Regulation, and their Deſire of having their Maſter begin it.
Wherefore, coming haſtily out of his Cloſet into the Place, and the Young Men riſing up to be gone, he bids them all ſtay and ſit ſtill: ‘'I have heard all your Diſcourſe, ſays the Maſter, and I bleſs God that I have heard it; I am very well pleaſed with every Part of it: I do own to you all, that it has been a Hindrance to my De⯑ſire of ſetting up the Worſhip of God in my Family, that I thought my young Men having had their full Liberty in the World, made no Account of ſuch Things, and might perhaps mock at me for it, as I have heard you have done at the poor Clothier over the Way; and tho' it was my Duty to have done it, however you had behaved, yet I confeſs it has been ſuch a S [...]e to me, as [...] kept me back from what I know to be my Duty: But ſince I have providentially heard your Diſcourſe upon [292] this Subject, and that you ſeem to be ſenſible of your Duty, and of your Loſs in the Omiſſion of mine, and appear willing to join in a ſolemn Manner in Family Prayer, I will not be wanting to you, nor wanting to my ſelf in performing my Duty any longer, but according to my Duty, and your Deſire, call you all up together, with the reſt of my Family to worſhip God, and pray to him for his Bleſſing, I hope you will convince me you are in earneſt, by your Attendance at that Time.’
The Journey-man told him, yes, for his Part, he would with all his Heart.
The Firſt Prentice told him, that ſince he had heard him make a Pro⯑miſe to thank him upon his Knees, he would perform it; and kneeling down, he thanked God that had put it in his Heart, and thank'd his Ma⯑ſter as he had promiſed, and aſſured him the very Thoughts of it rejoiced his Heart.
Poor Thomas the Youngeſt Prentice, his Heart was ſo full he cried for Joy, and could not ſpeak a Word.
The other Prentice told his Maſter, he was very ſorry he had been one of them that had hindred him before, but aſſured him it ſhould be ſo no more.
The Good Man went up with Joy to his Wife, and giving her an Account how his [293] Second Difficulty was thus providentially remo⯑ved, told her the whole Paſſage: The Pious Lady reioicing at the Thing, and willing to prompt him on to put his Reſolution in Practice, before it might cool and fall off again, per⯑ſwaded him the ſame Evening to call his Family together, and beginning with reading the Scri⯑ptures to go to Prayer with them, which he did; and from that Time forward, he had always Sober, Religious Servants, and kept a moſt Re⯑gular Family, exactly and conſtantly perform⯑ing Family Worſhip, inſtructing and catechi⯑ſing both his Children and Servants, to the great Encouragement and Increaſe of true God⯑lineſs and Holy Living in that Town, by his extraordinary Example.
AT the End of the firſt Part of this Work, the Father of the Family ha⯑ving effectually ſet about reforming his Houſe, and brought all his Chil⯑dren except his Two Eldeſt to conform to his new Regulation, this Part gives ſomething of an Hiſtorical Account of the Two Refractory Rebellious Branches of that Family, (viz.) The Eldeſt Son and the Eldeſt Daughter, the Son pur⯑ſuing the Dictates, not of his Reaſon, but of his Paſſion, and having ſome Eſtate independent of his Father, gratifies his Diſguſt at his Father's impoſing upon him, as he calls it, and goes a⯑broad to Travel: His Conduct as a Pattern or Warning to Diſobedience is followed by continual Judgments, Diſaſters, and Diſtempers, till his Eſtate waſted and gone, he is brought to humble himſelf to his Father, and ſubmit to him, how⯑ever unwillingly and unreformed, not as a true Penitent, but for meer Subſiſtance, and for want of Bread.
[295] This is improved to be inſtructive of many Things, both to Children and Parents.
The Daughter who of the two appeared the moſt Obſtrnate, and could not bear the Reſtraint which her Father's new Diſcipline obliged her to, got leave of her Father and Mother, to go and live with her Aunt, her Father's Siſter, who lived at ſome Diſtance from them in London, where tho' the Family was ſtrictly Religious, as is before no⯑ted, yet being there but as a Gueſt, ſhe could bet⯑ter [296] comply with it than at Home, where ſhe had been uſed to Liberties, and left to her ſelf, and where the Change being by Conſtraint, was the harder for her to ſtoop to.
Her Aunt, a ſober Religious Gentlewoman, and her Uncle a grave pious good Chriſtian, treated her with great Kindneſs and Courteſy, and as ſhe had been very well bred, good Manners obliged her to return it: Here an unforeſeen Providence gave a Turn to the whole Courſe of her Life, the Young Lady being of a good natural Temper, a modeſt handſome Carriage, and an agreeable Per⯑ſon, her Uncle's Eldeſt Son by a former Wife fell in Love with her, and by Conſent of his Father a Propoſal of Marriage was made between them, and this Part is made publick in this manner, be⯑cauſe the Circumſtances of this Marriage have ſome Thing in them very inſtructing to young married People; to let them ſee how much it is their un⯑queſtioned and indiſpenſable Duty, to make the good of one anothers Souls, be their Principal Care after Marriage; how far it may be the Duty of a Husband to inſtruct his Wife, and in what Man⯑ner and likewiſe a Wife her Husband; how far ſuch a Deſign may be conſiſtent with the tendereſt Af⯑fection, and how to be manag'd with Decency, Reſpect, and the due Endearments of a loving and tender Relation; and in ſhort, gives a brief Scheme of the Relative Duties of a married State.
This compleats the Oeconomy of this Work, the Firſt Part relating to a Paternal Duty, ſuch as Authority and Diſcipline in a Father, among his Children. The Second to the Duty of Heads of Families, (viz.) Maſters of Servants, and how Servants ought to ſubmit to Inſtruction and Fa⯑mily Regulation; and this Third Part principally regarding the Duty of Husbands and Wives to [297] exhort and perſwade, intreat, inſtruct, and by all gentle means if poſſible, prevail upon and engage one another to a Religious Holy Life, and to ſet up a Foundation of Religious Worſhip in their Fa⯑milies.
The Introduction or Hiſtory of this Marriage is not material to our preſent Diſcourſe, only ſome Thing of the Characters of the Perſons and Fami⯑lies, more than what has been ſaid already, may be proper to prevent Digreſſions in the particular Ca⯑ſes that come after, and theſe Characters or De⯑ſcriptions will be found in the firſt Dialogue, and upon the following Occaſion.
The Young Gentleman was the Eldeſt Son of the Family, and Heir to his Father who had a good Eſtate, he had been bred a Gentleman, had a li⯑beral Education, was a handſome agreeable Per⯑ſon, and which was beyond all, was like his Father, a ſober, virtuous, ſtudious and religious Gentle⯑man: This Perſon having been converſant with this young Lady, by the Accident of their being in the Houſe; and as will appear, ſhe being very agree⯑able to him, however engaged by the Defect of E⯑ducation in Gayety and Mirth, and hard to be weaned, eſpecially by Violence as had been her Caſe, her Diſpoſition I ſay being ſoft and of an extraor⯑dinary Sweetneſs in her Temper as will be ſeen in the Proceſs of theſe Sheets, there appear'd a par⯑ticular Suitableneſs in them one to another.
The Young Gentleman had entertained an O⯑pinion of her being capable to make him a very good Wife; tho' he was not ignorant of her be⯑ing wild, and gay in her Humour, yet he had great Proofs by daily Converſation with her, of her being virtuous and modeſt, even to the utmoſt Nicety; the Goodneſs of her Temper, and agree⯑ableneſs of her Perſon, had engaged his Affections [298] to her, and he had no Reaſon to believe that ſhe had any Averſion to him; whereupon he broke his Deſign to his Father, who knowing his Son's Sobriety, and ſerious Inclination, was the leſs in⯑clin'd to thwart his Affections; and the leſs afraid to venture him in the Matter of the young La⯑dy's Humour, tho' it was thought to be a little extravagant and gay as above; ſo the Father after ſome Conſideration calling him aſide one Morning, ſpoke to him to this Purpoſe.
SON, I have conſidered what you ſaid to me about your Deſire to court your Couſin, I am very willing to gra⯑tifie your Inclinations, in any Thing that may have a Proſpect of making you eaſy and happy, and ſhall be as kind to you with Reſpect to Eſtate, as you can expect; but you know ſhe is gay, and wild, loves Company and Mirth; and that it was her Impatience of Reſtraint in theſe Things, that made the Breach between her and her Father, and if ſhe ſhould conti⯑nue that Humour, after you have married her, I doubt you will have but an uncomfortable Life with her: However, I do not think her of an ill Diſpo⯑ſition as to her natural Temper; and perhaps ſhe may be prevailed with by good Ʋſage and kind Treatment, which I hope is all the Method you propoſe to take with her, to alter her Notions of Things; I think ſhe ſeems to be a little come off from ſome Part of it, ſince ſhe came into our Family, I would have you ſe⯑riouſly conſider what Hazard you run in it, and e⯑ſpecially that the Venture is for your Life; and as I have no other Objection againſt it, I ſhall agree or not agree to it, as your Inclination ſhall lead you, only not forgetting to hint to you, what I hope you do not forget, (viz.) That you ask Council and Di⯑rection [299] of him who has ſaid, Commit thy Way unto the LORD, and he ſhall direct thy Steps.
This Diſcourſe was too affectionate and obli⯑ging, not to move a Son of ſo much Senſe and Goodneſs as he was, which he expreſt as became him in a dutiful and obliging Manner; and having after further Conſideration continued his Inclina⯑tions, and not ſo only, but made ſome Advances of that Kind to the young Lady her ſelf; it became neceſſary in the next Place to have it moved to her Father and Mother, and as they were the Re⯑lations of the old Lady, Mother-in-Law to the young Gentlewoman; this occaſioned her at her Hus⯑bands Deſire to go to her Siſter the young Lady Mother, and break the Matter to her; where af⯑ter a little other Diſcourſe needleſs to our Purpoſe the Mother began with her, and ſo introduce the following Dialogue between the two Siſters, Mother and Aunt to the young Gentlewoman.
Dear Siſter, I believe you do not doubt your being always welcome to me, and yet I can not ſay that I am ſo glad to ſee you come hither, as I uſed to be.
Why what's the Matter Siſter; if my co⯑ming gives you any Uneaſineſs, I'll be gone again.
My Heart miſgives me, and I always ex⯑pect ſomething of Evil when you come.
Evil! about what, I beſeech you?
Why, about this Ʋnhappy Girl at your Houſe; I ever think you have ſome dreadful Story or other to tell me of her.
What can your worſt Thoughts lead you to fear of her?
Dear Siſter; what can I not fear for her? When I ſee her treat her Father in ſuch a manner, who has loved her ſo affectionately, and uſed her [300] ſo gently in all this Matter; and now ſhe has in a Manner gone away from him, purely on an Ac⯑count which all the reſt of the Family are thank⯑ful for, and what any Child of Senſe or Virtue would have loved and valued him for. As for her Ʋſage of me, I take no Notice of it at all, I for⯑give her all that.
Well, but you muſt wait a little, her Temper may be wrought upon by Degrees to be ſenſible of her Miſtake, I hope Siſter you don't look on her as loſt, they go far indeed that never return.
But have you no bad News now about her? Did not you come now on purpoſe to make ſome Complaint of her to me? Pray put me out of my Pain.
I wiſh you would tell me what you; are afraid of about her.
Nay, there's nothing ſo bad, that I am not afraid of; what can I expect when GOD has ſo far forſaken her, as to ſuffer her to fly in her Father's Face, and that purely becauſe he would have her live a ſober religious Life; Pray how does ſhe behave her ſelf?
Siſter I will be very plain with you, I am very far you may be ſure, from approving her Behaviour to her Father, or to you, but really ſhe diſcovers nothing in her Behaviour among us, that gives the leaſt Ground to be afraid of her on any other Account.
Has ſhe no Company that comes to her, or that ſhe goes abroad to?
None at all; ſhe has not gone out of our Doors ſince ſhe came thither, nor has any Body come to her, that I know of, but your own Family; ſuch as your own Servants or Chil⯑dren.
Well thon; Good Manners obliges her to do more with you, than Duty would do here; for when I told her that ſhe ſhould go no more to the plays, nor viſit, or go to the Park a Sabbath Days, ſhe told me to my Face, ſhe would not be confined.
I ſee nothing, but ſhe is very conformable with us.
I pray God ſhe may come to a Sight of her own Folly; when ever ſhe humbles her ſelf to GOD, I am very ſure he will bring her to humble her ſelf to her Father; for ſhe treated him very rudely and unbecoming; what to do with her I know not, ſhe can never expect to come into her Father's Doors again, but as a Penitent, and that with very good Satisfaction of her being ſincerely ſo.
I know the Subſtance of the Breach, but I never knew the laſt Part; I was going once or twice to talk of it to her, but I found it diſorder⯑ed her, and ſet her into a Fit of crying; and I am unwilling to diſcompoſe her.
Why Siſter; you know the Story it ſelf, and upon what the Difference began, (viz.) about reſtraining her, and her Brother from going to the Park a Sabbath Days, going to the Play, and reading Plays and the like; and you have heard how the firſt Sabbath Day after this Thing was de⯑bated among us, when her Father began that happy Reformation in his Family, which bleſſed be GOD is ſtrictly kept up to this Day, ſhe and her Brother contrived to go out of the Way; we thought in⯑deed they had gone to the Park in Defiance of their Father, and my Heart aked I confeſs for them, for their Father was ſo provoked at the thought of it, that he had reſolved they ſhould neither of them have ever come into his Houſe again, till they had humbled themſelves, and acknowledged [302] both their Sins againſt GOD, and their Contempt of their Father; and he had ordered all the Ser⯑vants to keep them out if they came to the Gate, till they called him to them; but happily for us all, they were it ſeems only walking in the Lime-tree Walk behind our Garden; and juſt as we were en⯑quiring about it, they appeared walking together thro' the Garden entirely ignorant of what had paſſed: However their Father not fully ſatisfied, before they came in, went to them himſelf into the Garden, and ſtrictly examined them about it: As they had the good Hap to ſatisfie their Father, that they had been no further than the Lime-trees, ſo they ſatisfied themſelves, by ſeeing their Father in the greateſt Rage they had ever known him in; I ſay they ſatisfied themſelves of what they had to expect, if it had been otherwiſe; and this put them upon reflecting what Courſe they had to take; where Dear Siſter, who can but obſerve, That in all their Conſultations, GOD did not give them the Grace once to think of ſubmitting themſelves to their Father, and conforming them⯑ſelves to the moſt reaſonable Deſire that ever Fa⯑ther made to his Children, (viz.) only to reſtrain wicked Liberties and Company, and attend the Wor⯑ſhip of GOD in the Family; but on the contrary, for Five Weeks, that they ſtay'd at Home, after that, they never appeared at Prayer Time, but kept up Stairs, pretending either not to be well or not dreſſed, or not up, and ſuch like Excuſes, till they were a Shame to the whole Family: And beſides this, their Father obſerved, That notwith⯑ſtanding his expreſs Command, they went both of them twice to the Play Houſe the very ſame Week, as if on Purpoſe to inſult him, and let him ſee, they valued not what he either ſaid, or would ſay to them.
That was very provoking indeed, pray what ſaid my Brother to it.
If it had not been for me Siſter, he had turned them both out of Door that very Week.
Indeed I could not ha' blamed him if he had, I think he had done them but Juſtice.
I am ſure he had done himſelf Juſtice, Si⯑ſter; but I conſidered their Good more than they did themſelves, and that to have caſt them entire⯑ [...]y off, had been to precipitate their Ruin, and throw them into the very Mouth of all Manner of Temptation; and repreſenting this to their Fa⯑ther, it convinced him ſo far, as not to proceed to that Extremity with them; but he had told them in ſo many Words by me, That ſince they had de⯑clined his Authority, he would decline their Con⯑verſation; that thoſe that would not join with him in his Duty to GOD, ſhould not enjoy with him the Bounty of GOD, and they that would not kneel with him to pray, ſhould not ſit with him to eat; and ſo he flatly forbad them his Sight.
I think he was very juſt in it, I wonder how it was poſſible they could behave ſo.
You may be ſure it could not hold long thus, and at beſt it made a very melancholy Fa⯑mily among us; at laſt my Son truly came to his Father, and in few Words told him he was ſorry he had diſobliged him ſo much, but as he ſaw no Remedy, he told his Father, he came to ask his Conſent to a Reſolution he had taken to Travel: His Father ſaid readily, there was no need for his Conſent, if it was a Reſolution, he ſuppoſed he Father came to take his Leave of him; the fooliſh Boy, for tho' he is a Man in Growth, he ſhewed the Boy and the Fool in his Behaviour, told his Father he was reſolved to go, but had rather have his Conſent than not.
He acted weakly in that, and rudely too; pray how did my Brother take it.
Truly with more Compoſure than I could have expected; he told him that as his Father he could not but be ſorry to ſee him puſh on his own Ruin; but as it was his Duty to exerciſe the Au⯑thority of a Father, he not only refuſed to con⯑ſent, but forbid him to go: And withal bid him remember what he had ſaid to him before, (viz.) That if he ſet his Foot out of his Houſe upon this Account, he ſhould never ſet his Foot in it again, but as a Penitent.
What could he ſay to that?
Truly he ſaid little, but told his Father he was reſolved to go, and ſo withdrew. And the ſame Evening without acquainting me with it, or taking any further Leave, he went his Way.
Went his Way Siſter, why whither did he go? I am ſure he is not gone abroad now, for he has been ſeveral times at our Houſe to ſee his Siſter within this Week.
No, he is not gone yet; we know that he has Lodgings at Weſtminſter, and Yeſterday he wrote his Father a Letter, pretending to beg his Pardon for going abroad without his Conſent, you know Siſter he has about 200 l. a Year, which his Uncle — left him, ſo he thinks himſelf his own Maſter.
Alas, how long will that laſt, for a fool⯑iſh gay Fellow, that expects to make a Figure and look like a Gentleman abroad?
Not long to be ſure; I expect he will ſee his way through it very quickly.
Why? I hear he has bought a Commiſ⯑ſion, I ſuppoſe he has diſpoſed of ſome of it already that Way.
It's very likely; but he acquaints me with nothing; I expect we ſhall hear of him again when it is all ſpent.
It may be ſo indeed.
Well; If he may but come Home like the Prodigal, I ſhall not think that Eſtate ill loſt; I ſhall be glad of his Poverty, for the Sake of his Penitence.
Well, and what ſaid my Niece to all this?
Truly ſhe kept her Chamber, as I told you above a Month, and hardly ever was ſeen in the Family; I cannot imagine what Folly poſſeſt them both, ſhe cried inceſſantly, converſt with no Bo⯑dy, would ſcarce ſpeak if I came to her; at laſt ſhe fell very Sick, as well ſhe might: Sure as I told her one Day, no Girl was ever ſuch a Mourner, for the Loſs of her wicked Pleaſures.
Childhood and Youth are Vanity.
I took what Care I could of her, and eſpe⯑cially to remove the Diſcontents of her Mind, for we all believed ſhe would die; I asked her if ſhe would ſee her Father, nay her Father who I think verily wept for her more than I did, would I be⯑lieve ha' been tempted to have broke his Reſolu⯑tions, and ha' been reconciled to her, and would fain ha' been ſo far reconciled as to ſee her; but when I did but Name him, ſhe burſt out into a fit of crying, and would not ſo much as hear of it; but her Brother! her Brother! if her Brother might come again, ſhe would ſee him: Well ſuch was the Tenderneſs of her Father to her, who moſt paſ⯑ſionately loved her, That he would ha' given Way to have her Brother come again; but when he came to be told of it, he inſolently anſwered, he would not come unleſs his Father would ſend for him: This you may be ſure was provoking; nay Siſter it moved me ſo, at them both; that tho' he is my [306] own Son, and my eldeſt, I care not if I never ſee him more, except in the Terms as above; and as for her, I committed her to GOD'S Mercy, and concerned my ſelf no more about her, other than to take Care ſhe wanted nothing.
I never heard the like in my Life; pray what ſaid my Brother?
Truly, he was not ſo provoked at it, as I thought he would ha' been; I mean, it did not throw him into a Paſſion; he retired into his Clo⯑ſet, and in an Hour or two came down again com⯑poſed in his Temper, but I could ſee like that of Job, his Grief was great; and indeed from that Time, I thought it my Duty rather to comfort my Husband, than my Daughter: While ſhe con⯑tinued ill, he was very uneaſy, and impatient; but when ſhe recovered again, he was better ſatis⯑fied, and thought leſs of her: Our next Conſide⯑ration was, what was to be done with her; for our Family look'd very odly; we had Authority quite turned up Side down among us; inſtead of her Father refuſing to be reconciled to her, who had been the guilty Perſon, and had provoked him to the utmoſt, truly ſhe pretends Reſentment, and refuſes to be reconciled to her Father.
It was ſtrange Uſage I confeſs; I did not think ſhe had been of ſuch a Spirit.
When ſhe was recovered, and was well e⯑nough to go abroad; inſtead of going to Church to give GOD Thanks for reſtoring her Health, ſhe wanted to go to a young wild Companion of hers, my Lady Lighthead, that they might go to the Play together: I could not bear the Thoughts of this with any Patience; but being not willing to diſturb her Father with it, becauſe I knew it would exaſperate him; I took upon me to tell her of my own Authority, that ſhe ſhould not go; at which ſhe [307] ſaid very ſmartly to me, ſhe had but one Requeſt more to make me as long as ſhe lived, and what's that? ſaid I; That you'll let me go to Service, ſays ſhe, very ſcornfully: Dear Siſter, you may judge how cutting this Uſage has been to us, who ſo dearly loved this Child, as that we diſtinguiſhed her in our Affe⯑ctions from the reſt of our Children, and that even to a Fault.
That Kind of Love is generally ſo retur⯑ned Siſter; and Providence ſuffers it to be ſo as a juſt Puniſhment, for an ill grounded and unequal dividing our Affections among our Children, in which Caſe we may read our Sin in our Puniſhment; but I pray what ſaid you to her? I know not I con⯑feſs what I ſhould ha' done or ſaid to it, I believe I ſhould ha' been apt to ha' told her, That her Peti⯑tion was granted.
If I had conſulted my own Paſſions rather than her Welfare, I ſhould ha' done ſo too; for I was not without Reſentment enough; but I ſaw Siſter, ſhe was raſh and fooliſh, and I was not ſo willing to let her ruin her ſelf, as ſhe was to do it.
But Pray, what did you ſay to her?
I told her, It was Pity a Petition that had ſo much Ingratitude in it, ſhould not find Reſent⯑ment enough in me to grant it; that however I would give her a Week to cool her Thoughts in; and in that Time I would have her conſider ſe⯑riouſly of what ſhe had deſired, and if ſhe would ſay then calmly and deliberately, That ſhe deſired it ſtill, I would acquaint her Father with it, and it ſhould be granted; only I bad her remember the Condition which her Father had made with her Brother, (viz.) That if ever he ſet his Foot out of the Houſe in this Quarrel, he ſhould never have Leave to ſet his Foot in it again, but as a Penitent; and ſhe might depend upon it, That both her Fa⯑ther [308] and I too, would make the ſame Condition with her at Parting: And ſo I left her to conſide [...] of it.
I ſuppoſe ſhe was wiſer when ſhe had thought of it.
Yes; about 3 or 4 Days after, ſhe asked me, if I would give her Leave to go to her Aunt [...] meaning your Houſe; I told her yes, I would con⯑ſent to that, if her Father would agree to it; ſo a [...] her Requeſt I asked her Father to let her come to your Houſe, and he was willing enough; in hope your Family would enure and acquaint her wit [...] good Things; but he would not conſent till ſh [...] had promiſed ſolemnly; that ſhe would keep [...] Company, nor go to any Plays, or bring printe [...] Plays home to your Houſe, and ſhe promiſed ſh [...] would not: So we ſent her to you, but I dare ſa [...] ſhe will not keep her Word.
Well, ſhe is very welcome to my Houſe and I aſſure you, as I ſaid before, ſhe carries he [...] ſelf very modeſtly, and handſomely among us.
Nay, ſhe is of a very good Temper, and a [...] obliging Carriage enough, ſhe wants neither Wi [...] or Manners; She wants nothing Siſter but GOD [...] Grace.
All our Children love her Company e [...] ⯑treamly; and ſome of them, more than I have tol [...] you of yet.
And do you think ſhe has kept her Promi [...] with us, about Plays and my Lady?
I dare ſay ſhe has, as I ſaid before; f [...] we ſee no Body come near her, but her Broth [...] ſometimes; and ſhe tells us in Compliment, Sh [...] is exceedingly diverted with the Company of [...] Daughters: So that ſhe has quite left off a [...] Converſation.
And does She conform to your Family Orders, Siſter; and appear at Family Worſhip, conſtantly.
Indeed Siſter ſhe muſt do it in our Houſe, or we would not keep her there; nay, none of our Children would keep her Company, or endure her, if ſhe did not; for I thank GOD, we have no Contemners of Religion among us: But I muſt do my Niece that Juſtice, that I never perceived the leaſt Reluctancy in her, to any thing that was good in my Life, I mean at our Houſe; nay Siſter, we have a mighty Opinion of her being very ſober, and you will ſay ſo too, when I tell you really what I came hither about at this Time.
What is that Siſter?
Why I am come to ask her of you, and my Brother, for my Son.
Dear Siſter, We are but in a ſorry Cir⯑cumſtance as to her, to be jeſted with; your Son is a pretty Youth, and GOD may give her more Grace by that Time He is fit for a Wife: If ſhe is fit to deſerve him, you might be ſure we ſhould not be againſt it, but their Age would be unequal, and they are very near a Kin Siſter; beſides thoſe Things are remote; I have no Heart to talk of marrying her; I dare not wiſh any Family that I have a value for, to venture upon her.
You quite miſtake me Siſter, it is not my own Son, that I mean, but my Son-in-Law, my Husband's Son; I aſſure you, I am not in Jeſt.
I am ſurprized to hear you Talk ſo, Siſter!
Well do not be ſurprized, I muſt Talk with you about it, in earneſt.
Dear Siſter, Do not entertain ſuch a Thought; I am ſure I can never agree to it, for [310] your Sake; you will but injure your own Peace, and my Brother your Husband will think, you and we are Confederate to draw him in; beſides you know he has a good Eſtate ſettled upon him, and as for this Girl, ſhe has ſo diſobliged her Father, I cannot in Conſcience deſire him to do any thing for her; eſpecially while ſhe is in this State of Ob⯑ſtinacy and Rebellion: How can it be expected? Therefore if you love your own Family Peace, I would adviſe you ſeriouſly, do not think of ſuch a Thing; beſides Siſter, your Son-in-Law is a ſober, virtuous, religious Gentleman; you ſee what a mad deſperate furious Spirit this Girl is of, a profeſt Enemy to all that is Good, one that is broke from her Father, meerly becauſe he would reform her; you cannot in Conſcience propoſe ſuch a Match to a Gentleman that deſerves ſo well; I would not have a Hand in making him ſo miſerable for the World.
Siſter, Siſter, You ſpeak very honeſtly, and like your ſelf; but you quite miſtake the Caſe; you take this for a Project of my own, to advance your Daughter and oblige you, and my own Fa⯑mily; but you are quite wrong; the young Gentle⯑man has made the Motion to his Father, and his Father to me, ſo that I only come of the Errand; 'tis all Matter of their own Choice; the Young Man firſt, and the Father Conſenting at his Re⯑queſt.
I am amazed at it; do they know the Breach that has been among us?
Yes, every Word of it.
Dear Siſter, do not deceive me; I will ne⯑ver give my Conſent ſo much as to ſpeak a Word farther about it, unleſs they are told the worſt of it all; for I will be no Cheat, they ſhall never ſay [311] [...]hey were deceived by me, tho' it be for my own Daughter.
Indeed Siſter, I have not deceived them, [...]or I talk'd with my Son-in-Law two Hours, and [...]old him every Word I knew of it all; neither [...]ould it be hid; for every one in our Family [...]nows it. She does not deny it her ſelf.
As I told you, She always breaks out into [...]ears, and we don't care to grieve her; ſo we [...]orbear it as much as poſſible, but ſhe knows that we all know of it; beſides you will be ſatisfied by [...] Reaſon you ſhall hear preſently, That ſhe has [...]ome Senſe of her Circumſtances; for that when we have talk'd to her of Marrying, and named [...]uch a one, or ſuch another, ſhe would ſay to us, why do we talk to her of marrying, That has no For⯑ [...]une, and that her Father will give her nothing; that [...]e never expects he will be reconciled to her again, [...]r do any Thing for her, and the like; and then [...]t always ends in Tears, and that makes us break [...]ff the Story.
Upon what Foundation then Siſter, can [...]his Propoſal be made to her Father; it is certain, That tho' no Family could be more agreeable to [...]s, than yours, yet it cannot be expected he ſhould [...]ear any Thing of it, until ſhe comes and humbles [...]er ſelf, and acknowledges her Fault; indeed no Body can propoſe it to him before upon any reaſon⯑ [...]able Foundation: She cannot expect her Father [...]hould ſeek her again, who did it ſo unexpectedly [...]efore, and was rejected with ſuch abominable [...]nſolence, when ſhe did not know too, but the was [...]pon the Brink of the Grave.
I canfeſs, That was a hard Caſe, and I know not what to ſay to it.
Beſides Siſter, I cannot think the Young Gentleman would be ſo mad to think any more of [312] her, if he knew what I have told you about her to Day, and I am reſolved if he will have her, no⯑thing ſhall be hid from him, that Juſtice requires ſhould be told.
Indeed Siſter, I have been as faithful to him as you can be, except only what you told me juſt now; he does not at all juſtify her Conduct, but ſays, he believes ſhe has other Principles now; and if my Brother will give his Conſent to let him have her, he ſays, he will come and ask Pardon for her.
My Husband is above in his Cloſet, if you pleaſe I'll call him, and hear what he ſays.
With all my Heart.
My Dear, here's an odd Piece of News to be told you.
No good I doubted, aſſoon as I ſaw who was the Meſſenger; well Siſter let us know it how⯑ever, let it be as bad as it will, Pray what mad thing has my Daughter done at your Houſe.
When we fear Evil we always believe it, your fears puſh you too faſt my Dear.
In the ordinary Courſe of GOD's Pro⯑vidence; I can expect no good to befal her; ſhe is manifeſtly under the judicial Hand of GOD, hardned to incur his Curſe, and to be a Curſe to her Parents.
GOD's Ways are unſearchable, ſome⯑times our Falls are made the firſt Steps to our Re⯑covery, and the very particular Sins that we com⯑mit, are the Introduction to our Deliverance from the Dominion of Sin in general; therefore we can not conclude our ſelves Reprobate or any Body elſe, till we ſee them paſt the Reach of So⯑vereign Grace.
I wiſh as heartily for her, as any one can do, that ſhe may repent; but I cannot ſay that I expect it; ſhe has gone a dreadful Length for one of her Age.
She may yet be a happy Convert for all that; we have Inſtances of worſe than her, that have died Martyrs for him, whoſe Name they had blaſphemed.
If ever ſhe return, her Repentance muſt be very bitter.
He that gives Repentance, always Pro⯑portions the Degrees of it.
But what is this Account you have to give me, I doubt there is nothing of Repentance in it; I expect rather to hear ſhe is ruined.
No, no my Dear, thank GOD there is no bad News of her; I had the ſame Fears for her, not doubting but her Brother and ſhe had pur⯑ſued their uſual Trade of Company, and the Play⯑houſe; but my Siſter aſſures me of the contrary.
Indeed Brother, I would ha' been very faithful to you if it had been ſo, I would not have hid it from you; beſides I ſhould not have let her ſtay'd in my Houſe; but my News is quite of another Kind, Siſter pray tell it to my Brother.
You are all mad.
What do you mean by mad? You muſt [...]xplain your ſelf, or we ſhall think you are ſo.
I cannot but think you all mad, to go to Ruin a Gentleman at once; I'll have no Hand in ſo [...]icked a Thing.
I have no more to do, than to carry your [...]nſwer.
I have more Reſpect for him I aſſure you, [...]nd ſhould think it the worſt Action that ever I [314] did in my Life, if I ſhould be Inſtrumental to bring ſuch a young Man as he is into ſuch a Snare; I cannot do a Thing ſo diſhonourable.
Why, What do you take your Daughter to be?
To be! A Contemner of GOD! a Deſpiſer of Religion! A Rebel to her Father! given over to Vanity, and obſtinate in all! Theſe I have by ſad Experience found in her, what other Evils theſe may produce, GOD only knows, I ſhould be ſorry my Couſin — ſhould know by Experi⯑ence; nor can I be ſo unjuſt as to conſent to his joining himſelf to one of my Children eſpecially to one, who having no Senſe of Filial Relation, can have little or none of a Social Relation; one that can be ungrateful to her Father, and inſolent to a tender Mother, can never ſuitably return the Kindneſs of an obliging Husband.
He knows the whole Caſe, and all that you would have him know, I ſhall honeſtly tell him, for I will no more deceive him, than you would.
Does he know that ſhe is now in actual Re⯑bellion againſt GOD, in Defyance of her Father and Mother, and that ſhe has laid me under an abſolute Neceſſity of having nothing at all to do with her, or with him when he ſhall have taken her?
Yes, He knows all that.
And what ſays he to it?
He ſays, He will come and ask you For⯑giveneſs for her.
Repentance is never done by Proxy Siſter; a true Penitent is never backward to come himſelf.
Why, it is true as he ſays, That for her to come now and ſubmit her ſelf, is only ſending her home to cry for a Husband, or making her appear a Penitent for a Portion. He deſires your Conſent [315] that he ſhall marry your Daughter, and leaves all the reſt to you.
I can have no Concern with her, nor Aſſent or Diſſent, to, or from any Thing that concerns her, any more than if ſhe was no Relation to me, till ſhe returns to her Duty, and appears truly and ſincerely Penitent for her Crime: She knows I am obliged to act thus, and I think I owe ſo much to GOD, to Religion, and to the Duty of a Parent.
You will not however force her Repen⯑tance Brother: I believe ſhe is ſenſible ſhe is wrong, and I can ſee it plain enough; but you know Bro⯑ther, Repentance is the Gift of GOD, only, I dare ſay your Daughter would be glad to ask you Par⯑don, and the Affectionate Concern ſhe ſpeaks of it with, makes me think ſo; but to ſay ſhe ſhall be a true Penitent towards GOD for her Offence againſt him, neither you or I, or any Body alive can anſwer for that: Would you be willing I ſhould bring her to acknowledge her Offence a⯑gainſt you.
Siſter; I would have no Sollicitor in ſuch a Caſe; when her Repentance is ſincere, GOD will bring her upon her Knees to him, and then ſhe will ſoon come to me alſo, and that is the Way I deſire to have her brought.
Well, I am perſwaded the ſooner ſhe mar⯑ries my Son in-Law, the ſooner ſhe will be brought to Repentance; I am ſatisfied, he will be no hin⯑drance to her in the way of her Duty.
Nor ſhe any forwarding to him in the Way of his Duty; Alas! what a Family will there be among them! How will ſhe the Miſtreſs of a Family comply to ſet up the Worſhip of GOD in her Houſe, that left her Father's Houſe becauſe ſhe would not ſubmit to ſerve GOD there! How ſhall [316] ſhe inſtruct her Children, that would bear no In⯑ſtruction her ſelf, and ridicul'd it in her Brothers and Siſters, who were better inclin'd? If he is told all this faithfully and ſincerely, I know he is a Religious Sober Gentleman, and he can never ſo far forget himſelf, as to think any more of ſuch a Woman's being his Wife.
You are very hard to be woo'd me⯑thinks.
My Difficulties are juſt and honourable: It ſhall never be ſaid, that I firſt turned my Daughter out of Doors, and then let him marry her: It is in Juſtice to him, that I ſay all this; had ſhe been deſerving and dutiful, and were I not ſatisfied in my Conſcience, that ſhe will be his Ruin, I ſhould not have ſaid ſo much, nor made the leaſt Objection to the Propoſal.
If I had come of this Meſſage before my Niece had diſobliged you, I believe you had thought it a good Settlement for your Daughter.
Had it been before ſhe had diſcovered her ſelf to be, what I think will ruin and deſtroy him, I mean as to the Happineſs of a Relation, I ac⯑knowledge, I ſhould have thought very well of it, and now I refuſe it only, as I think ſhe is not fit to make him a Wife.
But if we will venture, you will not op⯑poſe it.
What mean ye by we? If both the Young Man and his Father are plainly and honeſtly told what I ſay, and that I ſay it; or will give me leave to tell it them my ſelf, and will venture after that, I have no more to ſay; but as I ſaid firſt, I will have no Hand in it: I can have nothing to ſay to her or about her, till ſhe alters her Behaviour: She is you know out of my Hands.
Well, I have no more to ſay, but I be⯑lieve we ſhall make a Wedding of it among us 5 and perhaps ſhe may be brought to her Duty after⯑wards: Your Negative is not againſt her being married to him, but againſt his being married to her, which if they will venture, we reckon we have your Conſent as far as you can give it.
I will have no Blame if ſhe proves all that's wicked to him.
I'll clear you of that effectually; I hope She may be yet a good Woman, and make him a good Wife.
He runs more Riſque than a Granadier in ſtorming a Counterſcarp.
The Grace of GOD may reclaim her; I grant it, tho' we ſee but ſmall Hopes of it; How⯑ever Siſter, I engage you upon your Word, to give a faithful Account hoth to your Son and to his Father, of all I have told you, of her Conduct; how ſhe has treated her Parents, and how it may be expected ſhe will treat her Husband; and if after being thus fairly warned by us, you will all ven⯑ture, we are honourably diſcharged; you ſee we have no Objection on your Son's Account, do as you pleaſe, only let it be acknowledged, that we have hid nothing from you.
AS in the former Dialogue, when the Aunt came to treat of a Marriage for the Daughter, we had of Courſe the Mother telling us the Hiſtory of the Conduct of her Son and Daughter, af⯑ter their coming home from the Garden from their Walk under the Lime-Trees, to the Time that both of them ſo rudely left their Father: So in this Di⯑alogue which is between the Brother and Siſter, we ſhall from their own Mouths, have an Account of the Meaſures they both took afterwards; firſt as to her Part, till juſt before ſhe went to be married, and ſecondly as to his Part till juſt before he went into the Army, and to his Travels as he called them. What became of both afterwards, we ſhall ſee in a Part by it ſelf.
The Brother being now preparing for his Journey or Voyage, and the Siſter for her Wedding, they mutually deſired to converſe together about thoſe Things before they went on; and the Brother making his Siſter a Viſit, their firſt Converſation produces the following Dialogue.
Well Brother, What is to become of us two? methinks we are two odd People in the World.
Truly ſo we are; we look like Two Ex⯑iles, or People rather gone into voluntary Baniſh⯑ment from their own Country.
I'll tell you: I have thought rather we are like Two Malecontent Courtiers, who being diſguſted at the Treatment they have received, have left the Court, and deſire to retire as they call it into the Country.
I think ſo too; and I believe it is with them as it is with us, or with me at leaſt, that they generally wiſh they had not done it after⯑wards.
Why; do you repent then?
I don't ſay I repent; I think I have been ill uſed, and that I gave no Reaſon for ſuch violent Treatment; but I cannot ſay I am glad it has hap⯑pened; there are many Things which make my preſent Condition leſs pleaſant to me, than it was before.
Well, if you repent, why don't you go Home as the Prodigal did? No doubt the old Man would kill the Fatted Calf to have you again.
Ay, but I an't come to Feeding of Hogs yet, and eating of Husks; I don't know what I might do if it were come to that.
Nor never will I hope, there's no danger of that Brother.
I hope not, yet I muſt needs ſay, ever ſince I have fixed my ſelf for my Travels, my Heart has been very heavy, and I dream every Night the ſtrangeſt Things!
What need you be ſo concerned? You have a good Eſtate of your own, you are as well as if you were at Home.
No not ſo well neither; for to go back to your Court ſimily, the diſcontened Courtier retires to his Eſtate in the Country, and there he can live [320] very well; but ſtill Five or Six Thouſand Pounds a Year at Court, made a very good Addition, and made him a great deal better; ſo that he is always a Loſer by quitting his Poſt, and ſo it is with me Siſter: If I had ſtayed with my Father, or gone abroad with his Conſent, I had been ſubſiſted at his Expences, or perhaps travelled at his Charge; and then my own Eſtate would have encreaſed; beſides my Father ſure would not ha' Diſinherited me for no other Crime, but meerly having a little Eſtate of my own: But now I ſuppoſe he has done with me entirely; and what's my Eſtate compa⯑red to living like a Gentleman.
I did not think you had been troubled with the Hyppo Brother of all Things; why, you are quite caſt down: I never ſaw the like of you; What muſt I ſay then, if you talk thus; I that have nothing at all, but am kept here of Charity?
No, I han't the Hyppo, I am not caſt down, but I tell you what Thoughts I have ſometimes.
Yes, and dreams too you ſay, what do they come from but from the Hyppo? I believe you have got the Vapours, pray what did you Dream?
I Dream a Thouſand Things not worth Naming, but however one Dream was ſo parti⯑cular, I cannot but tell it you, tho' perhaps you'll banter me for it too; but I'll tell it you, becauſe you were a little concerned in it, and acted a Part in it.
Pray what was it?
Why you know I ſuppoſe, That I have bought me a Commiſſion.
I know You ſaid that you intended it, but I did not know you had done it; I would not ha' had you done that; methinks I would not ha' had you been a Soldier, on many Accounts; what [321] need have you to go into the Army to be knock'd in the Head?
Well, that is not the Caſe now; we'll talk of that another Time; I have done it.
But what's that to your Dream?
Why, the ſame Night that I had bought my Commiſſion, I had this ugly Dream, It ſeemed to me, that I had been ſome Time in the Army, and had met with many Wounds and Misfortunes; But at laſt I had one of my Arms ſhot off, and had been a long while under Cure and Sick, ſo that I was reduced to a meer Skelleton.
All Hyppo! All Hyppo! It is nothing in the World elſe.
Well, but this was not all; for I was re⯑duced to ſuch mean Circumſtances, and ſo Poor, that I had not Neceſſaries; and was in the miſe⯑rableſt Condition that ever you heard of; and af⯑ter Suffering a great many Hardſhips, I wrote to my Father to relieve me, and he.—
Refuſed! I warrant that! I know it's like him.
NO, NO, he did not do ſo neither; you run too faſt; he ſent me Money enough to bring me over to England, and I was brought in a Coach to his Door; but he would not let me be brought in, but ordered me to be carried to a Neighbours Houſe; where after an ordinary manner, I was taken Care of, and ſupplyed with Neceſſaries, tho' meanly enough; and this Part put me into the great⯑eſt Paſſion, that I thought if any thing had been in my Way, I would have murdered my ſelf.
It was very barbarous Uſage indeed! the more like the reſt of his doings with us but where's the Part I was to act in this melaucholly Scene,
Why, Good and Generous like your ſelf, you no ſooner heard of my Condition, but you came to Viſit me.
And what could I do, what Condition was I in to help you? Was I reconciled to my Father? If you thought ſo, I believe your Dream will never come to paſs.
Yes, yes, you were married, kept your Coach, and lived gallantly; you came to me very chearful and gay, but very grave in your Carriage; you told me you were very ſorry for my Condi⯑tion, but you were ſenſible we had both been in the Wrong, and had pulled down the heavy Judg⯑ment of GOD upon me, by our Diſobedient Car⯑riage to our Father.
Could I be ſuch a Brute!
Nay you ſpoke kindly enough to me other⯑wiſe, and gave me a handful of Gold for my Sup⯑ply; but talked mighty Religiouſly to me, about our Uſage of my Father.
It's a Sign it was a Dream; Religion and a great deal of Gold! Alas Brother it's all a Dream, to be ſure; I ſhall never have much of either of them: But go on:
I ask'd you, why my Father carried it ſo ſevere to me now, when he ſaw me in that Con⯑dition; you ſaid I might remember my Father had ſolemnly engag'd himſelf; that if I went away I ſhould never ſet my Foot within his doors again, but as a Penitent; and unleſs he was ſatisfied that I acknowledged my Error, I could not expect he would break thoſe Engagements; nor would he ſee me, till he had an Anſwer to it in poſitive Terms; I asked you how then he came to be re⯑conciled to you, for his Reſentment was equal at us both, and we were both in the ſame Fact.
Ay, and what ſaid I to this?
You told me with Tears, That you were not aſhamed to ſay, you had heartily repented of it, and had asked Forgiveneſs of God, and your Fa⯑ther [323] a Thouſand Times: That you were ſenſible we had both offended God, and abuſed the Ten⯑derneſs of the beſt of Fathers, and you never had done an Action which gave you ſo much Peace in your Life, as when you came upon your Knees to my Father, and begged his Pardon in the Face of all the Family, and if I had any Senſe of Re⯑ligion, or of Natural Duty, you hoped I would do ſo too, and that you came on Purpoſe to perſwade me to it.
This is not a Dream only, But a Dream that I am ſure will never come to paſs; at leaſt my Part of it, and I hope yours will not either; is there any more of it?
You ſaid a great deal more to the ſame Purpoſe, that I cannot repeat.
I hope you minded none of it.
I cannot ſay that it has made no Impreſſions upon me, in Spight of all my Oppoſition to it, for I hate to give Way to ſuch Things.
How did it end, did you ſubmit?
I do not remember either that I ſubmitted, or that my Father did any Thing for me: I re⯑member this tho', that your Arguments did not move me much, and your Example leſs; I could not ſee much Reaſon for Penitence, and I could not be Hypocrite enough to Counterfeit it; and I bad you tell my Father, If I had offended him I was very ſorry, and asked his Pardon. But you told me, you feared that would not be ſufficient; ſo you went away, and I remained as miſerable as I was before; till I awaked, and was very glad it was but a Dream.
Dear Brother, I don't value Dreams, and of all Dreams, ſuch a wild one as this, which I am ſatisfied can never come to paſs; but I'll tell you [324] what Uſe I'll make of it, and that is to deſire you to make it impoſſible to come to paſs.
How's that?
By reſolving not to go into the Army.
That cannot be; it is too late now.
That's as much as to ſay, there is a Fate upon you, and you muſt go: By the ſame Rule of fatal Neceſſity, which ſome People harp much upon, all your Dream may be under a Neceſſity of com⯑ing to paſs.
It may be ſo, for ought I know.
You give me the Vapours, with but thinking of it.
What can I do? How can I help it now?
Why, I tell you how you may help it, do not go.
But I tell you, I have bought a Troop of Dragoons.
What then, you may ſell it again.
That is not Honourable, I ſhould be laugh'd at.
You have no Occaſion in the World to act thus: You have an Eſtate, and may live hap⯑pily, and ſettle your Mind; what may come this Way, no body can tell; the other Way you were out of Danger; this Way your Dream may come good for ought I know.
Now you have got the Hyppo Siſter.
Why, ſuch a Dream, and ſuch a Circum⯑ſtance, is enough to give any body the Vapours: I cannot think of your going to be murdered in the Army, if it had been my Lot, and I had been a Man, there had been ſome Senſe in it.
Why you any more than me?
Why, becauſe you have an Eſtate, as I told you before, I have nothing at all, but am turned [325] out of my Father's Houſe, and am kept here in Charity, as it were.
Charity! Why I hear you are going to be married.
Married! Who do you think will have me without any Portion.
Why I hear Young Mr. — my Aunt's Son-in-Law Courts you.
There has been ſomething talk'd of about it indeed, but that was as I ſuppoſe, if this Breach had not happened: As it has, he knows better than to take me; and if it had not, I ſhould ha' known better than to have had him.
Why, as to the laſt, I think you are wrong; he is a very pretty Gentleman, has a very good Eſtate; and you have been acquainted with his Humour, you know he is a ſober, ſenſible, good temper'd Man.
Ay Brother, but you know Sir Anthony!
But you know Siſter on the other Hand, Sir Anthony's Character is ſo bad, and his Eſtate but indifferent, and entangled too: So that you had no Room to think, That my Father, tho' you and he had not differed, would ever have been brought to like it: Nor would he ha' been in the Right if he had; for Sir Anthony could have made you no Settlement, and beſides he is a Rake, I won⯑der you could fancy him.
Well all that's over now, I am a fitter Match for my Uncle's Coachman, than for my Uncle's Eldeſt Son.
That's all Hyppo too Siſter, prithee be as free with me, as I am with you; tell me that Caſe; I know ſomething of it, I know you may have him if you will, notwithſtanding all your Circumſtances; as for the Family Quarrel he knows of it; and yet he is ſo in Love with you, [326] he'll take you whether you have any Portion or no, and venture reconciling your Father afterwards; I think he offers fair.
Indeed he ſaid ſo to me, which was very obliging, I confeſs.
What could you ſay to him in Return.
I told him I would not do him ſo much Harm, I was too much his Friend.
That was a mock Friendſhip, and what he did not thank you for, I ſuppoſe; what elſe could you ſay?
I told him very plainly, I would not be ſo much in Debt to any Husband, as to have him take me without a Portion? I would not put it in⯑to a Husband's Power to reproach me with having had nothing with me.
Come tell me the whole Diſcourſe now, I know you was able to keep him at Arms End, a great while, with your Tongue.
You are miſtaken in me, and more in him, I aſſure you.
Go on, and tell me the utmoſt Oppoſition you could make of that Kind.
No, as you ſerved me about your Dreams, ſo I'll do now with you, I won't trouble you with thoſe ſingle Banters, which were of no Uſe; but I'll tell you the main Debate, becauſe you are a little concerned in it too, as I was in your Dream.
With all my Heart.
Why after he had Two or Three Times propoſed Marriage to me, and my Aunt had preſ⯑ſed me to a ſerious Conſideration of it: I took the Liberty to ſpeak my Mind very freely to him one Night, and to her too: In ſhort, I made my Aunt downright angry with me; but I could get nothing from him, but what I confeſs was kinder, than as I told him, I ever intended to deſerve; and what [327] was ſo very obliging, that I confeſs I think my ſelf very rude to him, I wonder he could bear it.
I know he is a moſt obliging good hu⯑moured Gentleman, and you ought not to have uſed him ill.
Well, I uſed him ill enough for all that; I asked him firſt, if he knew the Occaſion of my being at their Houſe? He ſaid yes he did: I told him, I did not believe it.
That was rude indeed; it was unmannerly Siſter.
No, I was not rude that Way neither; I did not give him the Lye, but I went on imme⯑diately, I told him, That he might perhaps know that it was a Breach between my Father and me, but did not ſuppoſe as I did, That it was a Breach that was impoſſible ever to be made up; he look'd a little ſurpriz'd at that, and ſaid nothing; but my Aunt took me up ſhort, and ſaid, don't ſay ſo Niece, I hope it ſhall eaſily be made up: No Madam ſaid I, it can never be made up; I thought you all went upon a wrong Notion, and therefore it was that I ſaid, I did not believe it, when Mr. — ſaid he knew the Affair of the Breach.
But why would you lay it down ſo poſitive⯑ly, That it could never be made up.
Why, I told them plainly, my Father thought me guilty of an unpardonable Fault, and I thought my ſelf guilty of no Fault art all. My Father thought me diſobedient, and I thought him unnatural: My Father had vowed never to receive me without Repentance, and I had reſolved ne⯑ver to repent; and ſo it was impoſſible we could be reconciled.
That was laying it down very plainly in⯑deed, what could they ſay?
My Aunt was very warm with me; in⯑deed I thought ſhe would ha' been downright an⯑gry, at my ſaying, I would never repent. She al⯑ledged I ought not to ſay ſo in any Caſe whatſo⯑ever; I was as warm as ſhe, and told her, if I was convinc'd I was in the wrong, I ſhould repent of Courſe, of that or any Thing elſe: If I was not, I could never repent by Violence; that Fathers might ſin againſt Children, as well as Children againſt Parents: I would ha' ſaid more, but I broke out into Tears, and could not talk.
You were too warm; you would ha' argued it better if you had been calmer.
She moved me, by ſeeming to condemn me as I thought without arguing; but when ſhe ſaw me concerned, ſhe ſaid ſhe was ſorry to ſee Things come to ſuch Height, and that if it was ſo, ſhe was almoſt of my Mind, that it would never be made up; after which ſhe added what vexed me worſe than all the reſt, theſe Words; (viz.) what then do you intend to do Child? This nettled me worſe, as I ſaid than all: For it look'd as if ſhe had ſaid, I was not to expect to live always there, at which I returned a little too ſhort I confeſs, Go a⯑way Madam when ever you are a weary of me.
Fye Siſter, you ſhould not ha' done ſo, for I know ſhe is very kind to you, and loves you very well.
That's true; but I was vex'd, However, I asked her Pardon afterwards as you ſhall hear.
How did ſhe take it then?
Calmly and obligingly enough; I ſee, Couſin ſaid ſhe, you are moved; I will take no⯑thing ill from you, and therefore we will ſay no more of it now; I hope Ways may be found to Accommodate Things between you and your Fa⯑ther ſtill; and I will be very glad to be Inſtru⯑mental [329] to bring it to paſs for you, for your own Sake.
That was kind, and very much like her, for ſhe is a very good Woman.
It was ſo, and moved me ſo much the other Way, That I went to her immediately, and kiſt her, and asked her Pardon, for being ſo rude to her, and would have kneeled, but ſhe would not let me.
And was the young Gentleman there to ſee all this?
Yes he was; and then it was, That as I ſaid, he behaved ſo very obligingly to me; he told his Mother, for he ſeemed to ſpeak to her rather than to me, That he had found out a Way effectually to reconcile my Father and me, if I would approve of it: I told him I could not but approve of any reaſonable Way to be reconciled to my Father; for no body could ſuppoſe it was plea⯑ſant to me to be turned out of my Father's Houſe; be look'd upon like a Vagabond, and having no Fortune or Subſiſtance, be left to go to Service, or be kept as it were upon Charity. He turned ſhort to me upon this, and ſaid, you know Ma⯑dam, the Offers of Marriage I have made to you; your Aunt my Kind Mother here, knows I am ſin⯑cere in the Propoſal; if you accept me, let all the Breach lye on me: if when your Father and I de⯑bate it, he inſiſts that you are in the wrong, I'll ask him Forgiveneſs in your ſtead, and I doubt not to prevail upon him to accept of it; if you do not appear in the wrong, and yet he ſhould be ob⯑ſtinate, I'll endeavour to make up the Loſs of a Fa⯑ther to you, by doing every Thing I can to make you forget the Affliction that is paſt, and I aſſure you I ſhall never enquire whether he will give you any Portion or no.
Was it poſſible for you to Anſwer any Thing to ſo kind a propoſal, when made in ſuch ſerious Terms? certainly you could not Banter him than Siſter as you did before.
No I did not Banter him, I anſwered him thus; I told him that his Offer was too much for him to make, and too much for me to refuſe with⯑out an Apology for not making him a ſuitable re⯑turn; but that he and I yet differed about the main Queſtion, (viz.) What it was my Father and I parted about, and perhaps he and I ſhould part about the ſame: For if before hand I knew that he was againſt my Part, then he was not able to be an Advocate; but only took upon him to bear the Ignominy of a Submiſſion for me; which was a Work I was not willing to put upon him, and a Debt I was not willing to owe him: That I had too much Reſpect for him to ſuffer him to do the firſt, and too little to Load my ſelf with the Obli⯑gation of the laſt. That on the other Hand, if he juſtified me, and believed my Father in the Wrong, all the Thoughts of reconciling of my Father were at an End. That as to taking me without it, I told him as I told you juſt now, That I ſeemed a fitter Match for one of his Father's Foot-men, than for his Father's eldeſt Son; and had too much Reſpect for the Family, to fill up ſuch a Place, upon ſuch mean Conditions.
But he might have anſwered all that, by telling you, he took all that Part upon himſelf.
He did ſo, and told me he would make the ſame Settlement upon me, as if I had my Fa⯑ther's Bleſſing and a Portion: and he would apply himſelf for both afterwards.
What could you ſay to that?
I turned then to my Aunt, for this was a publick Communing, it was no Courtſhip at all. [331] I asked her thus, Madam there is another impoſ⯑ſibility in the Way, that you know of, which really ought to prohibit my ſpeaking it, and that is this: Tho' this Breach happened between my Father and me, and I ſeem now, as it were, to be out of his Government; yet I do not think my ſelf at Liberty by it, to diſpoſe of my ſelf without his Leave or Conſent, or at leaſt without asking it: If upon any ſuch Motion he Anſwers, Let her do what ſhe pleaſes, as ſhe has put her ſelf out of my Care, ſo ſhe ſhall be out of my Concern; if he ſays ſo indeed, I ſhall know then what I have to do; but till ſuch or ſome other Anſwer is obtained from my Fa⯑ther, I don't think the Queſtion ought ſo much as to be asked of me, at leaſt if it be, I ought to give no other Anſwer to it.
That was very Reſpectfully anſwer'd as to my Father. What followed?
My Aunt anſwered me, Leave that to me Child; I'll anſwer for that: I anſwered, I ſhall leave it to you with all my Heart Madam; but I can make no Anſwer then, till you ſhall be pleaſed to let me know when I am at Liberty to Anſwer, and when not: Well Niece ſaid my Aunt, to put you out of pain about that; I have talk'd with your Father and Mother already about it; I find them indeed very Angry, and diſſatisfied with their Daughter, but upon no other Account backward, or unwilling to the propoſal; well Madam ſaid I, a little ſurpriz'd, then you have gone further in this matter than I imagined: and what's next ſaid I? next Child, ſays ſhe, why if you would go along with me, and ſpeak but one Word to your Father, nay half ſo much as you did to me juſt now, for no Cauſe at all; it would be all over; and if the Family was uneaſy to you upon any other Ac⯑count, we ſhould fetch you out of it again in as [332] ſhort a Time as you could deſire: Do Child ſays the good old Lady, I'll introduce you, I'll make half your Submiſſion for you.
Indeed I'd ha' gone with her; I wonder at you; if any one would do half ſo much for me, I'd go to morrow Morning, as far as things are gone with me.
Well, I was once of the mind to have gone too, but I did not.
What could you ſay to her?
I ſaid theſe very Words, Madam, I find a greater Obſtacle here than before, and I don't know, but if it had not been on this Account, I ſhould ha' been glad of your Offer; but do you think my Father ſhall ſay, That whereas I would not ſubmit to him upon the juſt Foundation, on which he differed with me, yet that I could come home to cry for a Husband! No Madam, no one on Earth ſhall ſay that of me, I am not in ſuch Diſtreſs yet.
I ſhould never ha' made that Scruple; in⯑deed Siſter, you are wondrous nice!
Why Brother, What would you think of any young Lady that ſhould make Way for your Addreſſes upon ſuch low Terms? would you not think them very Fond?
No indeed; and he would not either, I dare ſay.
I reſolved I would not put my ſelf ſo much at his Mercy.
What ſaid he to it?
He ſaid what was like himſelf, very o⯑bliging; he told me, That now I laid a double Af⯑fliction upon him, for I made him that was willing to do any thing in the World, to bring about my Return to my Father, be the only Obſtacle in the way of it; I told him he knew how to remove that Obſtacle very eaſily, which was by thinking no more of [333] me; and perhaps in Time I might ſee my Miſtake, and by my Aunt's Mediation make my Peace with my Father; or my Father might abate his rigo⯑rous Humour, and it might go off again without it; or if neither happened, as I was not a Wife fit for a Gentleman, and was too proud to take up with a Footman, I was in no haſte, I could remain as I was.
You were extravagantly ſtiff.
Why, really Brother I think my Cir⯑cumſtance requires it more, than if I had been in my Father's Houſe; for to have conſented one Mo⯑ment ſooner for my Condition, had been the ſame thing as to be taken in Charity; beſides, I foreſaw the diſpute we ſhould have about what our Fami⯑ly Breach began upon, and to which this was but the Introduction; and therefore I was reſolved to be open and free with them before Hand, whether we came to agree at laſt or no: and as I have told you all this, only to bring in the other, ſo I'll omit all the reſt of our Diſcourſe, and come to that Point.
Do ſo, for I think you ſaid I was a little concerned in it.
So you are, but not much. Well Mr. — and my Aunt too, ſaid a great many very kind things to me after that; but at laſt I turned to my Aunt, Madam ſays I, I cannot but think all our Diſcourſe remote and foreign; and ſince you will have me ſpeak of a Thing which I never had any Thoughts of, I ought to be very plain and free, eſpecially ſince you are pleaſed to give me Leave: Do ſo my dear ſaid my Aunt. Why then Madam ſaid I, we are talking of reconciling me to my Father, and as I told you, I ſhall be very glad of it; but as to making that Reconciliation a Means to what Mr. — propoſes, I do not ſee it will be any thing [334] to the Purpoſe, why ſo Niece? ſays my Aunt: Why Madam, ſaid I, this was the Reaſon why I have two or three times asked Mr. — if he rightly underſtood the Reaſons and Circumſtances of the Breach between me and my Father: He was pleaſed to ſay he did; tho' I can hardly think it. Now Madam, ſays I, it is my Opinion that Mr. — and I, ſhall differ as much about the ſame Things as my Father and I did; tho' perhaps not with ſo much unkindneſs, eſpecially if we differ a⯑bout it before hand; and therefore it is beſt Fight⯑ing that Battle before than after, for you ſee I can deliver my ſelf from the Fury of a Father, but I know not my Caſe, if it had been a Husband: Be⯑ſides Madam I think it is honeſter and kinder to Mr. — to have all this Matter ſettled and diſ⯑puted now, than to leave things to hereafter; when I ſhall have neither Liberty to go away, nor freedom of Speech at Home, which would be to make my bad Caſe ten times worſe than it is.
What ſaid your Aunt to this?
She was ſtunned at it at Firſt, and ſeemed willing to have put it off to another Time; which ſhe afterwards told me, was, becauſe ſhe was afraid my Caſe ſhould be repreſented too much to my Diſadvantage: Mr. — ſeeing his Mother too backward to talk of it, thought there might be ſomething ſhe would not have him hear, and withdrew; which I was not pleas'd with, for ſince I ſaw they would make a Match of it, and I ſaw no great Reaſon to be averſe, or at leaſt obſtinate⯑ly ſo; I was willing to come to a certainty, and know what kind of Life I was to live; for I was reſolved, I would no more be a married Nun, than I would be a Cloiſtered Daughter; however he be⯑ing withdrawn, my Aunt and I began the follow⯑ing [335] Diſcourſe, which I'll give you as ſhort as I can. My Aunt ſpoke firſt thus.
Come Child now my Son is gone, let me be plain with you; and pray take all the Freedom and Liberty with me that you would now, if your Brother was here; and let us talk of this Matter, for I would not have you ſtand in your own Light again; You ſee how things ſtand with you and your Father; and as you ſaid before, I doubt it will be hard to bring you to an Accommodation, but this Match will make you entirely eaſy.
Madam, ſaid I, as you give me a Liberty to ſpeak freely, I hope you will not take it ill that I am very plain: I have no particular Objection againſt the Match with your Son as to himſelf; indeed I did not look upon it at firſt to be a ſerious Propoſal; but ſince you aſſure me it is, and as you are now inſtead both of a Father and a Mother to me; I ſhall give my ſelf up to be entirely diſpos'd by you only: My preſent Difficulties relate to my own Circumſtances; and the Ground and Reaſon of the Breach with my Father, ſeems to me to be a plain Foundation of the like with my Husband. If I ſhould ever marry Mr. — which would make me more miſerable than I am now.
You muſt explain your ſelf Child: I know the Breach between you and your Father was begun about Religion, and the Reformation of his Family which he has happily Effected; and which you and your Brother oppoſed; I am loath to bring thoſe things to your Mind: I ob⯑ſerve they always bring Tears into your Eyes, Things were carried too high; we all have thought you were in the Wrong; but that is not the Caſe now.
Pardon me Madam, ſaid I, that is juſt the Caſe now, and as you have heard Parties againſt me, ſo I doubt not you will hear me too; for while you believe me in the Wrong, Mr. — and I can never be Right; ſuppoſe I ſhould do juſt by him as I did by my Father, what then?
I hope you will not my Dear.
No Madam indeed I will not, I will not go away from him: but to prevent that, I will never have him, till he and I adjuſt the matter as to what Liberty I may expect, and what not: for I will never marry as I ſaid to be my Hus⯑band's Cloiſtered Wife, any more than I would ſtay at Home to be my Father's Nun.
Why Child, your Difference with your Father as I underſtand it, was that when he ſet up the Worſhip of GOD in his Family, you would not join with him: but made a Scoff at his Reſolution of reforming his Family, and ſeveral ſuch Things.
Did I not ſay Madam, That I believe Mr. — and you alſo, had not had a fair Account of the Thing: I cannot wonder Ma⯑dam, that you thought me in the wrong, I won⯑der Mr. — could think of me for a Wife, if I had been ſuch a Daughter.
Come Child undeceive me then, and let me hear it all.
No Madam let me only let you hear it Right: My Father and Mother had bred up me and my Brother as you know, till we were come to be what we call Men and Women: We had been uſed to Company, to good Manners, to Converſe in the World with People of Qua⯑lity and good Breeding; and were come to an Age, in which we might be thought fit to be [337] truſted with ſo much of the Government of our ſelves, as to be paſt Schooling and Tutelage: We made no other uſe of thoſe Liberties than became a modeſt Behaviour; they can charge us with nothing Criminal or Scandalous: No Vice, nothing injurious to our Reputation; when all of a ſudden without any Notice, we were fallen up⯑on, abridged of all lawful Liberties, were to have new Lectures of Family Diſcipline read to us, which we were abſolutely to ſubmit to, and to commence Children again; This you may be ſure we thought hard, and my Share was immediately to fall under Correction; for my Mother, with⯑out any Provocation, as I thought, flew to my Clo⯑ſet, took away all my Books, and flung them in the Fire, and laid her Hands upon me into the Bargain; this I thought at my Age was unreaſona⯑ble Uſage.
Well Child, but you ſay you made no ill uſe of your Liberties; whereas you went every LORD's Day abroad to the Park, and a viſiting; you went, every Day (almoſt) to the Play, ſpent your time at home in playing at Cards, reading Plays, and the like.
It is true Madam we did ſo; but we did not reckon theſe unlawful Liberties Madam, nor do I yet think ſo.
I am ſorry for that my dear, I am quite of another mind.
But Madam if they were ſo, who gave us the Example? Who bred us up in that Liber⯑ty? Did not my Father and Mother always go out with us to the Park a Sundays? and go with us to the Play? Nay, did they not lead us into it by their Example! and did not my Mo⯑ther give me moſt of thoſe very Books ſhe threw in the Fire, out of her own Cloſet! if this was a [338] wicked Courſe, why had they not brought us up otherways? and not introduced us to it them⯑ſelves?
My Child; they own they were in the wrong, and that is their Grief; I have heard them expreſs themſelves with Tears and a juſt Sor⯑row on that Account: And they are forward enough to charge themſelves with it, as the Cauſe of all the Obſtinacy of you and your Brother in reſiſting their meaſures of Reformation; and you ſhould not Reproach them my dear with what they repent of.
I do not Reproach them, perhaps they have Cauſe for their Repentance; but ſtill it may be allowed for a Reaſon againſt their ſo violently driving us into their new Meaſures; and breaking us off from all our Friends and Society at once: without any other Reaſon, but that they thought fit to have it ſo; if we had been little Children, it had been another Caſe.
I cannot but be againſt you Couſin in it, tho' that part may ſeem hard to you; for if the Thing was neceſſary and juſt, you could not juſtify ſo great a Breach with your Father and Mother for the manner of it.
This is what I look'd for Madam, and is the Reaſon why I mention'd it; for if Mr. — thinks to go on with what my Father has begun, I am no Wife for him to be ſure; if I were, why ſhould I come away from my Father?
Why if you were married to my Son — would you refuſe to have him pray to GOD in his Family, or to join with him if he did? indeed Couſin I love you very well, but I have ſo much Reſpect for him alſo, and above all ſo much Zeal for the keeping up the Face of Religi⯑on in Families, that I could not in Conſcience b [...] for the match.
If Madam, that had been the Quarrel between my Father and me, why did I come to your Houſe? do I ſcruple going to Prayers with you all here? Did I omit going to Church with my Father? or do I omit it here? you are ſatisfied I knew the Orders of your Family before I came hither. This makes it plain it was not that made the Diſpute, but the manner of his Acting, and abridging us of all thoſe Liberties he had bred us up in, and then beginning a new Diſcipline, when he ought to have allowed us to be paſt Diſcipline: why had he not without all that Ceremony, and thoſe Severities upon us, called his Family to Prayers and called us in, do you think Madam we would have run away, or have left our Father becauſe of his going to Prayers?
Well Niece, tho' he might ha' done ſo, yet I cannot think you were in the Right of it, nor your Brother neither; who I hear inſults his Fa⯑ther very rudely ſince, becauſe he has an Eſtate without him: but I fear that young Gentleman will come to want Bread yet, unleſs his Father help him; I am perſwaded I ſhall live to ſee him brought to his Father's door in as bad a Condition, as the Prodigal, tho' without the Prodigal's Repentance. I wiſh I am not too true a Propheteſs.
This very thing is the Reaſon Madam, why I am ſo willing to ſpeak of this Caſe, before I can talk any thing to the Purpoſe about Mr. —
Why Child, what does this relate to him? be knows it all, and we know it all and yet we are willing he ſhould make you his Wife; if theſe things do not hinder on his Side, ſure they can never hinder on your Side.
I think juſt the contrary Madam; and I beg you will bear with me in ſpeaking it plainly; it's true he knows all this as well as you do; but [340] if he believes me in the wrong too, as you do, I would be glad to know how I that think my ſelf in the Right, am to live with him, in the Caſe of ſuch Liberties which I juſtify, and he condemns; to be ſure, if I thought them not juſtifiable, I would go Home to my Father this Minute and ask his Pardon upon my Knees; and if I continue to think them juſtifiable, I ſhall think it more hard to be abridged by my Husband than I did by my Fa⯑ther. And this is the Difficulty I mentioned be⯑fore.
Why Child what Liberties do you mean? or what would you ſpeak of in ſuch a Caſe? I hope you would deſire no unlawful unbecoming Liberties, eſpecially when you were a Wife, and a Miſtreſs of a Family?
I hope not Madam; nor any unbecoming Reſtraints neither; and that is the Reaſon of my Diſcourſe; he may think himſelf willing to run the Riſque of the firſt, but I am not willing to run the Riſque of the laſt; for our power of acting under them will be by no Means equal
Here's my Son let him Anſwer for him⯑ſelf. State your Objection.
No Madam, you can do it much better.
I wonder Madam you ſhould think I ſhould practiſe Reſtraints with you; I ſee nothing in your Converſation that prepares me to expect you can want a Reſtraint or that bids me fear it.
I may be a worſe Wife than I am a Cou⯑ſin, as I have been a worſe Daughter to my Father, than I have been a Niece to my Aunt.
I am not ſo willing to ſuppoſe that, as I am well ſatisfied of the contrary.
But I would know what Reſtraints I am to expect.
You can hardly mention upon what Occa⯑ſion.
Upon the very probable Occaſion of my being a bad Wife.
That's a general Head; and yet you ſhall have a particular Anſwer to it Madam: I know no practical Reſtraints that a Husband can honeſt⯑ly make uſe of but thoſe of Entreaties, Perſwa⯑ſions, and kind Reaſonings; and thoſe I know you would allow.
You are capable of learning, tho' you may know no other yet.
Pray Madam be ſo particular then as to Name ſome of the Caſes in which you apprehend I ſhall reſtrain you.
Perhaps I will go to the Play, what will you do? you won't go with me.
To the Door Madam to ſee you ſafe, I ſhould.
Perhaps when you will go to Prayers, I go a viſiting.
If you won't let me pray with you Madam, I hope you'll let me pray for you.
Suppoſe I have a Mind to go to the Park a Sundays.
I'll ſhew you the Reaſons why I dare not go with you; and uſe all the Entreaties and Per⯑ſwaſions I can with you not to act ſo much againſt your own Conſcience; and I hope to prevail with you too: But to wave ſuch Suggeſtions; upon the whole Madam, it is my principle, and I be⯑lieve it will be my practice, That between Man and Wife no Violence can be juſtified, but that of [342] affectionate tender perſwaſion, and a reaſoning Importunity. My Diſpoſition does not lead me to Rudeneſs; all the Government and all the Obedience of the married State, that I have any Notion of, conſiſts in the Dominion of Love, and the Subjection of Love; what Monſter I may be transformed into, I cannot ſay, but this is my judgment, and I perſwade my ſelf you are not ap⯑prehenſive of the reſt, any more than I am appre⯑henſive of your acting as you ſay you will.
This Brother was the Subſtance of our Diſcourſe, and an odd ſort of Courting you'll ſay it was, and thus the Caſe ſtands now; what I ſhall reſolve to do in it, I know not; what would you adviſe me to?
I'll be very plain with you Siſter, If you were in as good Terms with your Father as ever you were, yet if this had offered then, I would have adviſed you to have had him if ever you expected to be happy: He is a ſober, virtuous, generous ſpi⯑rited Gentleman, and ſuch a one can never uſe you ill: I know you love Sir Anthony — but you are undone if ever you have him; for he is a Brute, and a Beggar; he only wants your Money; and if he marries you, he has neither Eſtate to maintain you, Sence to entertain you, or Manners to uſe you well.
I believe I ſhall take your Advice truly, but I ſhall not be too haſty.
I am glad to ſee you in ſo fair a Way to come off of this ugly Family Broil.
I do not ſee that this will bring me off of it at all: My Father will be the ſame Man.
Yes, yes, it will bring you off; he'll bring you to be reconciled, and my Aunt will work a⯑nother Way; and if it ſhould be impoſſible; ſtill you are provided for.
I can't ſay but I ſhall be provided for; yet I own I ſhall never enjoy my ſelf; for whether I am Right or Wrong, I cannot ſay I am eaſy to be at ſuch a Variance, as not to be in ſpeaking Terms with my own Father and Mother.
That's juſt my Caſe: I know not what I ſhall do to go Abroad, and perhaps may never ſee them again; and not ſo much as ſee them, or have their Bleſſing, or take my Leave of them: I know not what to do in it.
Dear Brother, then why will you go. I think you take the wrongeſt Step in the World.
In what Child?
To go into the Army: What Occaſion have you for it? you told me you ſhould only go to Travel.
Well be eaſy, I am going to Travel firſt, for a Year; I deſign to go into Italy.
But you muſt go to the Army at laſt.
Ay, but not a great while yet; tho' per⯑haps time enough to make my Dream good.
My Aunt's Words came into my head, when you told me that ugly Dream: I wiſh there be not ſomething in it at laſt; if you did not go into the Army, I ſhould not be afraid of it.
I do not love to heed Dreams.
I have heard our Miniſter ſay, there is a juſt Medium to be obſerved in the giving heed to Dreams, (viz.) That we ſhould not lay too much Streſs upon them, and yet not wholly ſlight them.
I obſerve the Dreams that ſignify bad things are true ofteneſt, I dreamed exactly about a Week before it happened, of our Breach with my Father.
Here comes my Aunt, we muſt talk no more of that now.
THE two laſt Dialogues are to be un⯑derſtood to be a Recapitulation of what had been acted ſome time paſt, in order to introduce this part, and pre⯑ſerve the Connection of the Hiſtory. The Daughter is now to be talked of, as having been married ſome Time. The Son was gone to Travel, and having been returned into Flanders, was gone to his Poſt in the Army, where being in the Confederate Service, and commanded out upon Action, he fell in with a Party of the French, and being very much wounded in the Fight, was taken Priſoner and carried to Cambray; from whence he wrote his Siſter a Letter, of which in its Courſe.
The new married Couple had for above two Years lived together, as they were at firſt with his Father, and her Aunt; during which Time ſhe had had two Children, and the Treatment ſhe had met with there, had been ſo kind, ſo diverting and ſo obliging, That ſhe could have no Reaſon to ſay that they had not perform'd fully the Engagement her Husband had made with her, to endeavour to make her forget the Affliction of the Breach with her Father.
[345] Her Husband carried it with ſo much Tenderneſs and Affection to her, as was capable to engage and win a Temper far more Refractory than hers; and by his obliging Carriage he prevented many little Excurſions which her Inclination would otherways have led her too; yet two things remained, (1ſt.) She could not perſwade herſelf to like a regular kind of Family Government; She loved Company, which ſhe had been accuſtomed to, and a little to Play; and when ſhe made her Viſits, would ſometimes ſtay at Cards or other Diverſions very late. (2d.) She could not bear to think of ſtooping to own her Mis⯑behaviour to her Father, or to make any Submiſ⯑ſion to him; nor could her Husband, tho' he failed in no Endeavour, bring that Breach to an End without it.
As her Family encreaſed, and on the other Hand her Ways were not very agreeable to the Family ſhe was in, it ſeemed neceſſary, to think of ſettling themſelves apart; and her Husband having a very good Houſe of his own near the City, it was re⯑ſolved they ſhould do ſo; and accordingly as we ſay, they began Houſekeeping.
And now began the Tryal of her Husband's Temper, and Patience to the utmoſt: The Caſe was thus, Being now to be a Maſter of a Family, he was obliged to take upon him the Charge of Family Government; he had not only been religi⯑ouſly educated, but as has been before obſerved, was a very ſerious religious Gentleman himſelf, it was his Affliction, that he found very little Compla⯑ſance in his Wife to any thing that was religious; and therefore he entred into no Conference with her about eſtabliſhing the Orders of his Family; but as ſoon as his Houſe was furniſhed, and his Family removed, he reſolved like a true Chriſtian to begin with the Worſhip of God, in his Houſe, and that he [346] might leave no room to her to diſpute it, he did this without ſo much as mentioning it to his Wife; as if it was a thing which it ought to be taken for granted, was as naturally and neceſſarily to be done in a Family, as providing Food and Conveniences for their Subſiſtance; however as if to make this more Eligible, and to introduce it without any ſeeming Impoſition upon his Wife, he invited his Father and Mother, and a Miniſter who was their Acquaintance to ſup with them the firſt Night of their Houſekeep⯑ing and before Supper, his Wife being in the Room, he askt the Miniſter aloud, if he would pleaſe to be their Chaplain for that Night? The Wife could not offer to oppoſe it, tho' he could eaſily perceive ſhe look'd a little ſtrange at it; ſo the Mi⯑niſter as had been concerted gladly accepting the Offer, Books were brought in, the Servants called together, and Family Prayers performed the firſt Night: after this was done and Supper over, he in⯑vited the Miniſter, who it ſeems lived in the Country, to ſtay two or three Days with him, which he alſo accepted; ſo of Courſe Prayers were had every Night and Morning while the Miniſter ſtay'd; and thus the Worſhip of God was quietly introduced into the Family, and after the Miniſter was gone, the Servants to whom it was no Novelty, having been all in the Family before, came of Courſe toge⯑ther at the uſual Hour, and he performed it him⯑ſelf.
His Wife who was more diſguſted at his taking no notice of it to her, than at the thing it ſelf; as if it was a beginning of ſome new Method which he intended to take with her, took a great many Ways to let him ſee ſhe was not very well pleas'd; ſome⯑times at the uſual Time when he would ſay, Come call in the Servants. She would give a Smile as a Signal of Contempt; often ſhe would be buſy above Stairs, [347] and not come down at all; very often, tho' ſhe would come, ſhe would make him wait a good while; and when ſhe came into the Room, would ſay with ſome Diſdain, what need you ha' ſtaid for me.
However he took no Notice of all this, and tho' ſhe ſtrove by all the Ways ſhe could to have made him ſpeak of it firſt, yet he ſhunned it; reſolving not to have any Diſpute with her, if it were poſſible to avoid it; but ſhe ſoon took Care to make it unavoid⯑able.
Being become now a Miſtreſs of a Family, he hoped ſhe would have had ſome Conſideration for the Station ſhe was in, and have appeared with a little of that Gravity and Authority that became her; but on the contrary ſhe intirely omitted all Appearance of any ſuch thing; ſhe viſited oftner than ever; ſhe play'd at Cards abroad two or three Times a Week, and at home, as often as ſhe could get Company; ſhe went almoſt nightly to the Play, in ſhort ſhe began to lead a Life ſo different from the reſt of the Family, and ſo uneaſie to him, and all his and her Friends, That it was greatly afflicting and perplexing to him.
During all this Time he treated her with the ut⯑moſt Tenderneſs and the moſt obliging Carriage that was poſſible; only it could not be conceal'd neither from her, nor from all the Houſe, that his Wife's Conduct was an extreme Affliction to him; and the more, becauſe he ſaw no poſſible method to go about to Reclaim her.
His Wife finding her ſelf unreſtrained, grew ſtill worſe, and at length contented not her ſelf to give her vanity its full ſwing, but appeared diſcontented that he would not do the like: If ſhe went to the Play, he would ſometimes go with her to the Door, as he had ſaid he would when he courted her; but would not go in, which ſhe pretended ſhe took [348] very ill of him; when he viſited any where with her, where he ſaw her reſolved to ſtay late at Cards, he would excuſe himſelf, and leave her; and it was much if ſhe did not Flout him before the Compa⯑ny in ſome ſuch manner as this, what you want to go home and ſa your Prayers! which he would turn off with a Smile, or a Jeſt, and withdraw; but ſtill theſe things were very grievous to him.
During all this and much more, nothing anger'd her ſo much, as that he would not take the Caſe in⯑to Debate with her, but he reſolved to go on in the Duties of a Maſter in his Family, and to give her no Occaſion to ſay he uſed her amiſs; ſo that all this while he ſaid nothing to her, till at laſt ſhe be⯑gan with him upon the following Occaſion.
His eldeſt Child, a fine little Boy, was now almoſt three Years old: He had been but too well aſſured, That his Wife took little Care to Teach the Child any Thing that might lay an early foundation of a religious Knowledge in its Mind; wherefore upon all Opportunities he would be talking to the little Creature in ſuch Language as was fitteſt for him to underſtand. (viz) Of who made him? and who Re⯑deemed him? what God was; and that he muſt ſerve God, and he like; as is uſual to ſay to little Chil⯑dren: and his Wife takes that Opportunity to break in upon him one Day in purſuance of her former Reſolution, and began with him while he was talk⯑ing to his little Son in the following Manner.
So Mr. — You are worthily imployed.
My Dear, I hope it's no ill Imployment.
No, no, only ſuitable to that abſolute Go⯑vernmen of your Family, which you entred upon at your beginning to keep Houſe.
My dear, I hope I have not encroached upon your Province?
No, no, my Province! to be ſure I am not fit to inſtruct a Child of three Years old.
My ſpeaking to the Child to let him know who made him, and who Redeemed him, and who he was Born to ſerve; was a Thing ſo innocent, and I thought ſo natural, That I wonder it ſhould offend you my dear.
No, no, Offend me! Why ſhould it offend me? you know I cannot do it my ſelf, having ne⯑ver been taught any thing, till I was almoſt 20 Years old.
Tho' you have had Knowledge enough my dear, yet I have heard you ſay it had been better if your Father had begun earlyer with his Family; and that it had prevented the Breach that has happened ſince.
Yes, yes, and made you have a better Wife.
My dear, you never heard me Complain.
No, your Reproofs are Silent, but very legible, and eaſie to be underſtood.
Wherein my dear, do I reprove you?
Only by taking all your Family Meaſures without conſulting your Wife; as one not worth having her Conſent asked in the Matter, or rather not capable of giving it.
What Family Meaſures do you mean, my dear? we have not been ſix Months in a Family yet, and I know not one ſingle thing in the Houſe that I have ordered without you.
Not one Thing! why, did not you bring home your Chaplain without me? and ſet up your Family Orders without me? why was not I worthy being ſpoken to about it? I ſuppoſe you fancied I would oppoſe it, as you had once a Notion I did at my Fathers; and ſo you treated me as if I were firſt an Atheiſt, that would oppoſe any thing that was good or religious; and 2dly, An upper Ser⯑vant, [350] whoſe Buſineſs was not to join in making Orders, but to ſubmit to them when made: But I don't trouble you much at your Devotions.
It is my great Misſortune that you have kept this in your Mind ſo long, and not let me know that you took Offence at it before: Nothing was ever done with more Innocence of Intention, or conſtrued in a more contrary Manner to my Meaning; I could have no thought that you would oppoſe the natural Duty of all Creatures to wor⯑ſhip and ſerve, the Being that created them: how could I have ſuch a thought of you my dear, when I know you always willingly joined with us at my Fathers, and when I heard you declare to your Aunt that the coming to Prayers was no part of the thing which made the Breach at your Fathers? do not take it ill my dear, indeed I had not the leaſt Thoughts of what you ſuggeſt, and if I omit⯑ted any thing, which I ought to ha' done in Re⯑ſpect to you My dear, I ask you Pardon.
What ſignifies that, when you have uſed me ſo? you know I muſt ſubmit to your Orders, now they are made.
My dear, Is there any thing in my Family Orders which offends you, or that you would not have done? if there is, let me know, and it ſhall be altered.
No, no; it's paſt the Time to ask that Que⯑ſtion now; you know it is my Part to ſubmit.
My dear, I cannot but think it hard, you ſhould talk of ſubmitting, where there is nothing impoſed; I impoſe nothing, and Offer to Alter any Thing you ſhall direct to be altered.
Is it not impoſing, when you did it all without ſo much as ſpeaking a Word to me about it? tho' the Matter of it was never ſo good; [351] yet the Manner of doing it was by impoſing a Compliance in me, ſince I was not thought worthy to be ſpoken to about: But you ſee I do not Trouble you much with my Company.
That's my Grief my dear, and principally be⯑cauſe I fear, that at laſt it will not be your Comfort.
What need that trouble you?
My dear, if you ſuppoſe I love you, you cannot think I can be leſs concerned for your fu⯑ture Happineſs, then for your preſent.
I ſuppoſe none of the three.
If you do me Juſtice you will be ſatisfied of them all; but you are Angry now, I'll wave that Diſcourſe, till you are better ſatisfied.
Your Grief you ſpeak of, is not at all at the Occaſions given me.
My Grief is, That the Occaſion you take of being diſpleaſed, is from what is my indiſpenſi⯑ble Duty, and yours alſo.
The doing your Duty is none of my Grief.
My dear it is a double Grief to me, to hear you ſay the Reaſon of your Diſlike is from my Error in the Manner of introducing it; had I for ſeen it, I would ha' made no Scruple to ha' laid down all my Authority as you call it as a Maſter, and ha' begged of you to let it be done.
Don't banter me; you would have asked my Leave to have ſet up Family Worſhip! would you! what if I had refuſed, would you ha' let it alone for that?
That is not a Queſtion to be asked, I am ſure you would not have refuſed; you could not have refuſed ſuch a natural known Duty, and the certainty of your free Conſent was a very good Reaſon, why I ſhould omit the Ceremony; nay, if I had thought of it, I queſtion whether I ſhould have asked you; I rather ſhould ha' thought I had obliged you [352] in it, and ſhould have offended in making it a Queſtion whether you conſented to it or no.
But the more Ingenuous Truth of the two bad been to ha' ſaid, That if you had asked me, and I had refuſed to conſent, yet that you would ha' done it againſt my Will; and therefore to avoid the Strife, you choſe not to propoſe it, is not that the Caſe now?
My dear, I own it is a Duty that I dare not omit; and tho' if I had thought that you had expected it, I would have asked your Conſent; yet I ſhould have asked it upon a Preſumption of your being ready to agree to it; and it wou'd ha' been the greateſt Affront to you in the World, to have ſuppoſed otherwiſe of you: We ought no more to ask one anothers Leave to pray to GOD, than we ought to ask one anothers Conſent to Eat or Drink, riſe up or ſit down.
Well, you ſee as I told you, I don't diſturb you at it.
But if you know how much that does di⯑ſturb me, I believe you would conſider of it.
I don't trouble my ſelf about that, I aſſure you.
Well my dear, I remember what I ſaid to you before we were married at your Aunt's Houſe upon this very Subject, when I little thought you were in earneſt, but I'll perform it faithfully.
I remember nothing of it.
I told you, if you would not let me pray with you, I would pray for you; and ſo I do heartily, and I hope GOD will hear me at laſt, he has Ways to move your Heart, tho' I cannot prevail
O, your Memory is very good, and that makes me remember ſomething too that was ſaid at the ſame Time which I ſuppoſe you have forgot.
What's that my Dear.
Why, That I would have my Liberty; and would not be tyed to your Formalities; but that I would go a viſiting when I pleaſed, tho' it were when you were at your long Prayers; and that I would go to the Play, and to the Park a Sundays too, If I pleaſed.
My dear, have I not given you as much li⯑berty as you have deſired? have I offered the leaſt Reſtraint to you? I have not ſo much as uſed the Entreaties and Perſwaſions that I capitulated with you to have Liberty for.
But I can ſee well enough how you like; and how ill you are pleaſed.
Nay my dear; I never promiſed you that I would like ſuch Things and be pleas'd with them; that's what you cannot ſay we agreed upon; nor I believe have you ſo little Senſe to expect that I can like it; but hitherto you have not had the leaſt Trouble of a Complaint from me: I believe and heartily pray that GOD will in his own Time open your Eyes to ſee that you are in the Wrong, and to reſtore you to me and to your Friends; that we may yet have the Comfort of one another, and till that Time, I bear all you think fit to do, with as much Patience as I can.
But ſtill you are going on with your Fami⯑ly Government, and now you are for Catechiſing your Children, as if I was not able to tell them who made them as well as you.
I never queſtioned your Ability, my dear.
No, nor my willingneſs neither, for you never asked me whether I had done it, or would do it, or not; what was this but expoſing me to all the Houſe, as if I was not fit to be truſted with teach⯑ing a little Child? but that you were fain to do it yourſelf.
Inſtructing our Children is the natural Work both of Father and Mother? and my talk⯑ing to the Child in that Manner, no way implies that you do not, or cannot, or that I think ſo; in that your Inference is not juſt my dear.
I think it below you.
My dear, how can you think that? when you ſaid to me of your own Father, That if he had done it ſooner by you, the fatal Breach among you had never happened?
That Caſe and this, is not alike; I never refuſed or omitted it, what need you meddle with it?
Well my dear, ſo the Children be but early and rightly inſtructed, you and I will never differ about who ſhall do it; do but grant me this, That it ought to be done.
Yes, yes, It ought to be done, to be ſure.
Then my dear, If you will allow me ſo much plainneſs, I'll prove to you, that I have not done amiſs, becauſe it had not been done to this Child, and therefore it was my Duty to do it, you having thought fit to omit it.
How do you make that out, that I have omitted it?
You ſhall have unanſwerable Evidence im⯑mediately for your Conviction. Come hither Har⯑ry, Come hither my dear.
He calls the little Boy and Examins him.
Who made you my dear?
God.
Who told you ſo?
You did, Pappa.
When my dear?
Juſt now Pappa.
Did no Body ever tell you ſo before?
No Pappa.
Sirrah did not I tell you ſo?
No Mamma.
Nor Nurſe neither?
No Mamma.
You tell a Lye Sirrah.
No indeed Mamma.
Nay my dear, Children and Fools you know &c.
I am ſure he tells an untruth now.
Why my dear, do not be angry with the Child; for I asked him over and over, who made him? and he ſaid, he could not tell; then I asked him if no Body ever told him? and he ſaid no; and if he had not anſwered me ſo, which a little ſur⯑priz'd me, and troubled me too, I ſhould not have committed this Invaſion upon your Office.
Well, well, It's time enough to teach him all that, he is not three Years old.
My dear, I thank God it is yet early enough; but never let thee and I diſpute about whoſe Work it is to inſtruct our Children; if we do our Duty and inſtruct them well, it will find us both Work enough, as they grow up; we ſhall be glad to help one another, and not think it an Encroachment upon our Office.
But it is nonſence to meddle with Children at three Years old, they will Anſwer like Parrots, and ſay what they are bid; but they underſtand no⯑thing of what they ſay.
With Submiſſion my dear, that is a miſtake; an awe and ſence of the Greatneſs and Majeſty of GOD, and the fear we ought to have of offending him, is capable of being received by a Child as ſoon as it can ſpeak.
I do not ſee it's to any Manner of Pur⯑poſe.
My dear does he know you?
Yes to be ſure.
Does he know you have a Rod, and that he muſt not be a naughty Boy, and that if he does, he will make you Angry, and you may correct him?
What's all that to the Purpoſe?
By the ſame Rule he is Capable of recei⯑ving due Impreſſions of his Maker.
Not at all.
No doubt as ſoon as GOD has impower⯑ed his Soul to receive any Knowledge at all, it is our Duty to help him to receive ſome Knowledge of GOD: beſides my dear, you are not ignorant how ſoon a little Infant will be Taught to Sin, and I think we ought to ſtudy to be before Hand with the Devil; and lay a Foundation of good in our Children, before he can get in, to lay a Foundation of Evil.
You are wiſer than I to be ſure, and therefore you thought fit to begin as you ſuppoſe, before me; but to be ſure, before you enquired of me, or conſulted with me any thing about it.
You are diſpos'd to be angry my dear; my Comfort is, you have no Reaſon, and that I have done nothing but what I think my Duty, and not even that, with a Deſign to Diſpleaſe you.
You Fancy your ſelf very obliging.
I would be always ſo to you my dear.
Mighty obliging indeed! in letting me go alone always; I ſuppoſe you are aſhamed of your Wife; if you had, you ſhould not have taken me, I did not Court you.
My dear, I never let you go alone, but to places which I cannot agree to go to, ſuch as the Playhouſe and to my Lady —, where you know the Company and the Gaming are things I have not been bred to, and cannot comply with.
What; your Conſcience will not let you play a Game at Cards!
My Dear, Suppoſe it would as to the ſimple Action, yet I own it will not as to the Cir⯑cumſtances.
What Circumſtances, I beſeech you?
Why firſt, I can imploy my Time better, and they that know the Value of Time, and the Haſte we are all making to Eternity, will think themſelves obliged to waſte as little of their Time as they can, and think it their Duty always to em⯑ploy it in the beſt Manner they can poſſibly.
I think Time ſpent in good Company, is not miſpent.
My Dear, When you come nearer the End of your Time, you will think otherwiſe.
That's more than you are ſure of.
For your Sake my Dear, I hope it will; it will be a ſad Day for you if you ſhould not, and for me too, if I ſhould live to ſee it.
Well, That is but one of your Niceties, pray what are the reſt?
Why my Dear, it is true, I have other Scraples; and my Second is this, I am now a Fa⯑ther, and a Maſter of a Family; and have Servants, and Children growing up: I have Duties upon me now, which were not my Duties before, and par⯑ticularly Family Worſhip. 3dly, I am obliged in Duty to ſet no evil Example either to Children or Servants; and on the contrary, to let my Con⯑verſation be in all Things Exemplar, that I may not have either my Servants or Children juſtifie themſelve in any Exceſſes by my Example.
What's all this to lawful Things, ſuch as viſiting a Friend, ſeeing a Play, or playing a Game at Cards? Thoſe Things that you ſpeak of, re⯑late to unlawful Exceſſes only; as Drunkenneſs, Lewdneſs, and ſuch Things as thoſe.
Ay, and other Things too, and thoſe Cir⯑cumſtances make ſome Things unlawful to me, which are not ſo in themſelves; particularly my Dear, you ſtay there at Cards till one or two in the Morning; if I did ſo, I muſt neglect my Duty in my Family, and cauſe a Game at Cards to ſu⯑perſede the Worſhip of GOD, would not that Game at Cards be a Sin?
Yes, Yes, I told you at Sir Anthony's you muſt go Home and ſay your Prayers.
That was not the kindeſt Thing that ever you ſaid to me in your Life, my Dear.
I ſhall always uſe you ſo, when you are ſo rude to me, to leave the Company.
Then I hope you will excuſe me from go⯑ing again, my Dear.
You may ſtay away if you pleaſe.
Indeed my Dear I muſt ſtay away, or of⯑fend you by coming away before you; for I can⯑not diſpenſe with my Duty to GOD upon any Ac⯑count whatſoever; I am very ſorry you will not take that for a ſufficient Excuſe.
What need you make Excuſes to me, any thing will ſerve to a Wife you know.
I am very loath to diſoblige you my dear, and therefore I am giving you juſt Reaſons for my Behaviour in every Part, that your own Judg⯑ment may oblige you to ſay you have no Cauſe to take it ill.
Other Husbands do not live ſo: Do you think any Body but me, have their Husbands go to the Piay-houſe Doors with them, and then run a⯑way, and leave them?
Indeed my Dear, I cannot comply with you in that Part; and told you ſo before I mar⯑ried you: If you will excuſe me going to the Door with you, I ſhall take it very kindly; but as for [359] going to the Plays, as I ſaid of Playing at Cards, I can much better imploy my Time.
Yes, yes, you can go Home to your Pray⯑ers, I wonder you don't make your Prayer an Excuſe for going to Dinner.
my Dear, I am ſorry to hear you make a Jeſt and Scoff at praying to GOD. You never heard me make an Excuſe for doing any Thing that becomes me to do, in my Life; I am none of thoſe that make a ſhew or a boaſt of my Duty; I intreat you upon what do you ground this Banter? Did I ever tell you when I carried you to the Play⯑houſe, that I muſt go Home to my Prayers? I tell you plainly, and did ſo before we were married, I go to no Plays; but I never ſaid I did not becauſe I muſt go to my Prayers?
No, no, but your ſpending your Time better implies it; for can you ſpend it better than in your Prayers? And you ſay you are always to ſpend your Time as well as you can.
You talk to me of my Praying my Dear, as if I were a meer Phariſee, and ſaid my Prayers at the Corner of every Street.
You make more ado about them a great deal, I think than you need.
I make no boaſt of them, nor do you know any more of them than needful Family Wor⯑ſhip requires; if I offered any ſuch thing as Pri⯑vate Prayer with you, I fear you would but make a mock of it.
No no, not I; you may Pray all Night and all Day too if you pleaſe; for you know you are to ſpend all your Time as well as you can.
My Dear, there are Duties in a Chriſtian Life, for every Part of Time; without letting them interfere one with another; and yet my dear when you are at the Play, I don't know whether [360] it might not be as proper a Time for me to Pray, as at any Time, eſpecially upon your Account.
Why then, I beſeech you, more than at another Time?
For the ſame Reaſon that Job was offe⯑ring Sacrifice for his Sons and Daughters, when they were making merry, (viz.) That they might not be led into Temptation.
I deſire none of your Prayers.
For that Reaſon you have the more Oc⯑caſion for them my Dear, and I the more Reaſon to pray for you.
I had rather you would go to the Play with me.
I am ſorry for the wretched choice you make; and very ſorry you make it impoſſible for me to oblige you: I had much rather you would put your ſelf in a Condition that I might according to my own Inclination deny you nothing.
You will have your own Way; you will be a worſe Husband, before you are a better.
I believe you will be a better Wife, be⯑fore you are a worſe.
You have too much Religion to be a kind Husband.
LORD! Give you more Religion my Dear, then you will be a kinder Wife.
Don't trouble your Head to pray for me, I tell you, till I put up a Bill to you as they do at Church.
I ſhall always pray for you my Dear.
You'll ha' no Thanks for it, your Labour is all loſt.
I hope not my Dear, but I entreat you let us have no more of this kind of Diſcourſe, you mix it with ſo much Prophaneneſs, as well as Ʋn⯑kindneſs, that it is very grievous, and very afflict⯑ing [361] to me; I was in hopes never to have ſeen you come this length.
What length am I come?
I deſire not to enter into particulars, I fear you are laying in a great Stock for Repentance, and our Diſcourſe does but encreaſe it, therefore I forbear ſaying any more, for in multiplying Words there wanteth not Sin.
I deſire to be uſed better, or I ſhall be a worſe Wife.
You are diſpoſed to be out of Temper at this Time my Dear; I hope you will be of another Mind when you have conſidered of it, I'll leave you a while.
For as long as you pleaſe.
When her Husband was gone, and ſhe had ſat a while, and muſed upon what ſhe had done; her Paſſion began to abate, and Reaſon to take Place again in her Soul; and firſt her Unkindneſs to her Husband began to ſhew it ſelf to her; I be⯑lieve ſays ſhe to her ſelf, I have anger'd him hear⯑tily; well it can [...]t be help'd now, let him ev'n take it if he will.
But a little further thinking brought her more to her ſelf, and then her Affection to him ſtirred in her, and ſhe breaks out again. But why ſhould I treat him thus? He never was unkind to me in his Life, he has been the tendereſt Husband that ever Woman had, and has taken me with Circumſtances ill enough, I'll go and heal it all again, take him in my Arms, and ſpeak kindly to him.
Away ſhe goes to ſpeak to him, but cannot find him; ſhe enquires for him, the Servants ſay he is in his Cloſet; up ſhe flies thither, but he was come down again, and was gone out; then look⯑ [...]ng out at the Window, ſhe ſaw him at a Diſtance [362] walking very melancholly in ſome Fields near the Houſe all alone by him ſelf: By this Time ſhe was entirely come to her ſelf, and ſeeing him walk ſo ſolitarily, made her very uneaſie; ſhe ſends a Ser⯑vant to him, to tell him ſhe deſired to ſpeak with him, and in hopes of his coming, ſhe run out into the Garden to meet him, but the Boy brought her Word again he was gone, and he could not find him.
Now ſhe began violently to reproach her ſelf with her ill Uſage of her Husband, and ſhutting her ſelf into her Chamber, ſhe reflected bitterly on her ſelf.
What a Brute have I been ſaid ſhe, to the beſt Husband that ever Woman had: That took me with⯑out a Farthing Portion, when I was turned out of Doors by my Father and Mother; that never ſaid an unkind Thing to me in his Life, that when I have loſt 50 l. at a Time at Play, never ſaid ſo much as why did you do ſo, or grudg'd parting with his Mo⯑ney? What barbarous Language have I given him! And how calmly and tenderly has he returned all along, without one unkind Word; ſure I am the ve⯑rieſt Brute of a Wife that ever any Man had! And don't deſerve that ever he ſhould have the leaſt Value for me again. She ſtopt a while and wept vehe⯑mently, and then went on with her Exclamations upon her ſelf thus.
Then, what have I quarrelled with him for! but for what all the Women in the Nation but I, would value a Man for; (viz.) For his being ſober, and virtuous, and religious; and did ever a Fool talk to a Husband as I did, about his Family Orders! his Praying to GOD! and the like; why, my own Conſcience tells me that he is in the Right, and I am in the wrong, and tho' I mind nothing my ſelf, I can⯑not but own he does well; ſure I am the worſt Crea⯑ture [363] alive! There are many Women and Men too, that have Religion little enough; but ſure never any Woman abuſed a Husband for being better than them⯑ſelves before!
Here ſhe burſt out into Tears again, and ſtill impatient; upon every little Noiſe ſhe heard in the Houſe, to know if her Husband was come Home.
Her Husband had born all her Taunts with the utmoſt Patience as above, and had not withdrawn at laſt, but that he found himſelf moved by her talking irreligiouſly and prophanely; when fear⯑ing he ſhould fly out in a Paſſion too, and ſo give her any indecent Language as ſhe did him, and which he thought himſelf obliged to avoid; he withdrew.
He was however not only ſurprized, but ex⯑tremely afflicted at this Treatment; and not only at this as an Accident, but at the ſad Proſpect of what he was to expect from the Continuance of it; and that both as it reſpected the Conduct of her ſelf abroad, which began to be publick; and alſo the Treatment he was to have from her at Home.
However, as the beſt Remedy for the Diſ⯑order of his Paſſions, he went immediately in⯑to his Cloſet, and prayed earneſtly to GOD for a patient ſubmiſſive Frame in himſelf to all his Providences; that he might not lay any Streſs upon the Inſtrument, but view the Meaning and Deſign of Soveraign Goodneſs in all thoſe Things; not forgetting at the ſame time to Pray very ſin⯑cerely for his Wife, That GOD would open her Eyes, convince her of her Sin, and bring her Home to himſelf, by a true Repentance and Re⯑formation.
[364] This brought him to a perfect Compoſure of Mind; and after ſome time ſpent thus, he went out, and took a Walk in ſome Fields behind his Houſe, where his Wife afterwards, as is noted a⯑bove, diſcover'd him from her Chamber Window; but before the Meſſenger ſhe ſent came thither, he was gone, having walked into the City; and as he went, he accidentally met with his Wife's Father, and going to take a Glaſs of Wine toge⯑ther, the following Diſcourſe happened between them.
Well Son; I hear you are gone to Houſe keeping, I give you Joy of your Settlement, how does all your Family?
We ſhould do all much better, if we had your Bleſſing Sir, and might have ſome of your Company.
Indeed Son you have my Bleſſing, and good Wiſhes very heartily, I have no other Reaſon.
I thank you for it ſo far Sir, but we are without it in a Family Way; which is what I long to have over, is there no Way Sir to obtain your Pardon.
GOD has not obliged us to Pardon Of⯑fences, that are never acknowledged, Son.
Sir, your Daughter and I are one now, be pleaſed to accept my Acknowledgment for her; I do moſt freely own ſhe has been in the Wrong in every Part, and I'll beg your Pardon for her on my Knees.
If you will ſay ſhe deſires you to do ſo, I'll grant it at firſt Word, and abate you the Cere⯑mony of Kneeling.
I wiſh I could ſay ſo Sir honeſtly, but I dare not ſay ſo, unleſs it were true.
I know that very well, and therefore I put it upon your bare ſaying it.
It is my great Grief, That it is not ſo much ſo, as I would have it; but can you abate no⯑thing Sir?
Nay Son, I'll leave it to you; is it meet I ſhould come and ſay, Daughter I am in the Wrong, I ought not to have reformed my Family; or if I had, I ought not to have expected you or your Brother ſhould have complied with it: And therefore you have been in the Right, and I am very ſorry it has gone ſo far, pray come and ſee me.
No Sir, I never ſo much as thought you were in the Wrong; nor do I ſay but my Wife ought to come and acknowledge her Fault and ask you Pardon; but ſhe has had ill Adviſers; if I had influence enough on her, to prevail, ſhe ſhould neither eat or ſleep, till, ſhe asked you Pardon in the humbleſt manner poſſible.
For your Sake Son, and to let you ſee how willing I am to heal a Family Breach; if ſhe will ſend me Word by you, That ſhe acknowledges ſhe has failed in her Duty, and deſires me to be re⯑conciled to her, I'll come to your Houſe and ſee her to morrow.
It is my Grief Sir, That I cannot promiſe for her, that ſhe ſhould comply with what is ſo reaſonable, and ſo kind; I acknowledge Sir you cannot ask leſs.
Nay I do not expect it; I know ſhe won't do it; did ſhe not refuſe ſo much as to ſee me when ſhe had no Reaſon, but to think ſhe was up⯑on her Death-bed.
I am ſorry to own to you Sir, That I have not Intereſt enough in her to prevail for what is ſo juſt, and ſo much her Duty; it is my Affliction, I did not think ſhe would have ſtood out ſo long.
I do not expect it of you Son; I know her; I wiſh you could prevail with her upon ſome, [366] other Accounts; ſhe manages her ſelf very ſtrange⯑ly, as I hear.
I hope Time may ſhew her the Miſtakes ſhe commits; they are not of any great Conſe⯑quence, ſhe will be wiſer Sir, with a little more Experience.
But in the mean time ſhe ruins her Reputa⯑tion, and may ruin your Eſtate; for ſhe goes ſo much abroad, ſhe is very ſeldom at Home; and more than that, I hear She Plays.
I have no doubt at all of her Virtue; tho' ſhe may err in her Prudence Sir, and that makes me ſay I hope a little Time will rectify it all; as to Play, ſhe does not Play high.
Why Son, I hear ſhe loſt 50 l. at Sir An⯑thony's a few Nights ago, I wonder you will let her go there; I forbad her that Houſe, when ſhe was a Maid; nay her Brother, give him his Due, blamed her for going there; he is the Rakiſheſt Fellow in the Town, and his Siſters, who ſhe uſed to viſit are no better than they ſhould be; I would have you for her Sake as well as your own, per⯑ſwade her againſt it.
Alas Sir, ſhe is not to be perſwaded by me to Things of leſs Conſequence than that!
Then you muſt reſtrain her.
That is a Task I am no Way qualified for, any farther, than the Violence of Entreaties and Perſwaſions will have any Effect.
Why then a Wife may ruin her ſelf and you too; I thought you had been fitter to make a Husband than that comes too; why it is not ill uſing a Wife, it is Love to her, to reſtrain her from ruining her own Reputation and your Eſtate; do you think I would perſwade you to uſe her ill? tho' ſhe has not behaved well to me, ſhe is my Daughter, and was once my beſt beloved Daughter; [367] nay I love her very well ſtill, and I would not have my Scores paid that way.
Truly Sir, if that be required of a Husband, I am not fit for a Husband; and as to ruining me, indeed, if my Wife will ruin me, I may be ruined; for I can never frame my Temper to uſe any Vio⯑lence or Reſtraint with her; beſides, her Temper is ſuch, She would ſet all the Houſe in a Flame, and expoſe her ſelf to all the World.
Pray, what ſaid ſhe to you for loſing 50 l. at Play; I hear you paid it for her.
No Sir, I would not diſhonour her ſo much; I gave it her immediately to pay for her ſelf; ſhe ſaid of her own Accord, ſhe was in the wrong, and ſhe would Play no more: I wiſh ſhe would loſe 500 l. tho' I paid it this very Night, ſo ſhe might but be prevailed with to leave it off.
I hear ſhe behaves very ill to you at Home too.
No no, Sir, I do not complain of her, ſhe would be a very good Wife to me, Sir, if I could perſwade her to leave off keeping Company with two or three Families; and I hope in Time ſhe will be tired of them.
I cannot but be glad that I fairly told you all I feared of her, before you had her; you have nothing to blame me for.
Sir, I blame no Body, ſhe is a very good Wife.
Well, you are kind to her; but I blame her extremely, and it is a Grief to me, that any thing out of my Family ſhould behave ſo: I am ſenſible how obliging you have carried it to her, and do ſtill, and how tenderly you uſe her; and I wanted an Occaſion to tell you, that tho' ſhe has not Grace to make you a ſuitable Return for it, I ſhall never forget it, nor I hope forget to reward it.
Sir, you lay too much Streſs upon what is nothing but my Duty, and what ſhe very well deſerves; for give her her Due, when ſhe is not prejudic'd by her Paſſions, which are haſty, and which hurry her too violently after the Gayeties of the Town, and the Company which ſhe is fond of; ſhe is of the moſt engaging Temper in the World, and no Man that has any Senſe or Affe⯑ction can be unkind to her: I may have Faults of my Side, and I ſhould think it hard ſhe would not bear with them, and I ſee nothing in her but I can bear with, and wait patiently for the Return of her Temper; nothing afflicts me ſo much in her, as to ſee her ſo entirely empty of any Thing that is Religious, that ſhe will hardly bear with our Fa⯑mily Orders, and the common Worſhip of GOD; but as that muſt be wrought by the immediate Hand of GOD, I hope ſtill it will come in his due Time; ſhe wants no Senſe of Things, nor Knowledge of what is our natural Duty, either to GOD, or one another.
Well Son, you have more Hopes of her than I have, I aſſure you; I cannot but ſay, if any thing on Earth can bring her to a Senſe of her Duty, ei⯑ther to GOD or Man, it muſt be ſuch a winning obliging Carriage as ſhe receives from you; if that will not work on her, ſhe muſt be the un⯑gratefulleſt Creature on Earth; conſidering in what Circumſtances you took her, and that you have had her three Year without having had a Penny with her.
Sir as I told her before I married her, I would never ask any Thing of you on that Ac⯑count, till I had if poſſible brought her and you to be reconciled; ſo I have been as good as my Word, I am ſure ſhe has ſuffered no Inconveniency on that Account.
But I ſhall not be ſo unjuſt to you as to let you ſuffer on that Account; and therefore tho' I cannot receive her as a Daughter, yet I ſhall always value you, and treat you as a Son, nay as my own Son; and tho' for her I would not disburſe a Shil⯑ling, yet I have reſolved, and have wanted an Op⯑portunity to tell you, That I will give you for your own Sake, not for hers, as much as I would have given her, if ſhe had never diſobliged me; and if you are willing to have it ſettled on either or both your Children; I will do it when you pleaſe.
It is more Sir than I can ask, and therefore it ſhall be ſettled as you ſhall think fit; I hope my Wife will think her ſelf obliged to thank you Sir, as well as I.
I do not expect or regard her Thanks, while ſhe ſtands out againſt her Duty: The Sub⯑miſſion I have inſiſted upon, is no Ceremony I demand it not in Reſpect to my ſelf, but as a Debt due to the World, in Acknowledgment of her Duty to GOD and her Parents; and as I had never with-held her Portion, but in Expectation; That ſome Time or other, ſhe would have complied, and ha' come to her ſelf; ſo I will make no Advantage of the Delay, but you ſhall have the Intereſt of it from the Day of her Marriage; and as I ſay this is done to oblige you, and as an Acknowledgment of your extraordinary Behaviour to my Daughter, ſo you ſhall not take it ill that I deſire her to take Notice, I will not now accept of her Submiſſion, or be any ways concerned with her, or for her, upon any Account whatſoever.
Sir, as the Goodneſs you are pleaſed to expreſs to me, is more than I have Merit to bal⯑lance, or Reaſon to expect, ſo I beg you would not let your Kindneſs to me be clogg'd with any farther Severity to my Wife; for ſince our Good [370] or Evil, being in this World, is inſeparable, this would be laying a heavy Load on me, at the ſame Time that you are obliging me in the higheſt Manner poſſible; nay this would be an unſpeakable Grief to me, ſince all the Proſpect of Happineſs I have in this World, conſiſts in the Hopes I have, of one Day making up this wretched Breach to the Comfort and Satisfaction of us all.
Well, however you may deliver this as a Meſſage to your Wife from me; only, noting for your own private Satisfaction, That I do not make this with the ſame unalterable Reſolution, as I have the other.
Then Sir, I entreat you let not me be the Meſſenger of any Thing to my Wife, that I know will grieve her.
If the Abſence from her Father had been any Grief to her, ſhe would ill ha' born it out ſo long; I cannot ſuppoſe it any Grief to her.
But Sir, I have many Reaſons to believe it is a Grief to her; and many more to hope, that it will be much more a Grief to her than it is, when GOD ſhall be pleaſed to ſhow her, both the Sin of what is paſt, and what is her Duty for Time to come; which Time I earneſtly Pray for, and not without Hope; and Sir, as I ſhall always make it my Endeavour to convince her, how much 'tis her Duty to acknowledge her Offence both to GOD and her Father, and humbly to ask Par⯑don of both; I beg you would not put a ſilencing Argument in her Mouth to anſwer my Entreaties and Perſwaſions with, by ſaying to me, don't you know 'tis too late, and has not my Father ſaid if I do ſubmit my ſelf to him now, he will not accept me. If GOD ſhould ſay ſo at the ſame Time, Sir, ſhe would be undone; and the having you ſay ſo on the one Hand, may tempt her to deſpair of God's [371] Mercy on the other, and to make that Conviction which I hope ſhall be her Mercy, when ever it comes, be her Ruin.
Dear Son, you are fitter to be a Father than I am; I am fully anſwered by your Argu⯑ments; nothing can be more engaging than the Affection you diſcover for a Wife, That I doubt never deſerved it from you, and I believe never will; I will forbear the Meſſage, ſay to her then what ever you will, and what ever GOD ſhall direct you, in order to bring her to her Duty; you give me ſome Hopes that GOD will yet be merciful to her, in that he has fixed ſuch a Con⯑cern for her Good, in one, ſo capable of being a prevailing Inſtrument with her; I pray GOD bleſs your Counſel, to her Good.
His Wife had impatiently waited for his Re⯑turn; her Paſſion was entirely over, and her Af⯑fection to her Husband acting now as violently the other Way: She had afflicted her ſelf exceeding⯑ly at his not coming Home: In ſo much, That her Grief put her very much out of Order, and ſhe had thrown her ſelf down upon a Couch in her Chamber; but had ordered her Servants not to fail to call her as ſoon as their Maſter came in.
As ſoon as he came in, which was later than his uſual Time, and upon enquiring for his Wife, was told by the Servants, that ſhe was very ill, he ran directly up Stairs into her Chamber before any Body could give her Notice of his being come; but the who liſtened too attentively to want a Meſ⯑ſenger, heard him coming up Stairs, and raſing haſtily off the Couch, ſhe ran to the top of the [372] Stairs to him, and taking him violently in her Arms, My Dear! Says She, Forgive me, That I have ungratefully inſulted, and baſely provoked the tendereſt Husband, and the beſt Temper in the World. Tears choked her Words, and ſhe could ſay no more, and having riſen up and run croſs the Room too haſtily, the Violence of that Motion, and of her own Paſſions overcame her, and ſhe fainted.
He called out for Help, and the Servants imme⯑diately running in, ſhe was carried back to her Chamber, and in ſome ſhort time ſhe came to her ſelf again; but finding her Husband ſitting by her, and very anxious for her, it renewed her Grief, and made her for ſome Time unable to ex⯑preſs her ſelf freely.
When ſhe was entirely recovered, and fit to converſe, ſhe ordered the Servants to withdraw; and then with Abundance of Tears ſhe acknow⯑ledged to him how ſenſible ſhe was, That ſhe had uſed him ill; and that ſhe had not behaved her ſelf as became her, in any of her Carriage to him; how afflicted ſhe had been at his Abſence ſo long, believing that ſhe had exaſperated him, and grieved him, and in ſhort aſſured him, ſhe would endeavour to make him amends by a quite different Behaviour to him, all her Life after.
The Grief he had conceived at her ſwooning away, and the Surprize of it, together with the Extreme of Joy he felt within himſelf at her declaring her Reſolutions of altering her Conduct, cauſed him to ſpeak little to her, except what he thought proper to Comfort her, till ſhe preſſed him by often repeating ſuch Queſtions, as theſe, My Dear do you forgive me? Are you not Angry? Were you not very Angry? and the [373] like; which made him after ſome Pauſe, anſwer thus.
My Dear, I am not angry, nay I was not angry; I never knew what it was to be angry with you; but I cannot ſay I was not grieved, and heartily afflicted, but you have abundantly made me amends, and much more, than I ever deſired of you, for I can allow of no Submiſſions and Sub⯑jections between you and I, but thoſe of Love; but you will add to my Satisfaction more than you are aware of, or than I can expreſs; if you will give me Leave to ask you one Queſtion.
What is that my Dear? I'll anſwer you any Queſtion you can ask, as well as I can.
How long my Dear after I left you, was it before your Affections prevailed over your Paſ⯑ſion; to work this Bleſſed Change upon your Mind.
My Dear, You were not gone a quarter of an Hour, before my Heart ſtruck me, That I had been unkind to you; and I acknowledge that you had not deſerved it at my Hands.
My Dear, I am ſatisfied, fully ſatisfied! The Work is of GOD, to him ſhall be the Glory, and I will take it for a Bleſſed Token, that it ſhall not end here, for his Works are all perfect.
The Wife had no Gueſs at what he meant by this, and therefore made no Reply; but his Joy at her Anſwer proceeded from this, That he knew the Change was wrought in her that very Time; nay as near as he could gueſs the very Moments that he, as is noted before, was earneſtly Praying to GOD, not only to give him Patience to bear the Affliction, but in his own Time to open her Eyes to her Duty, convince her of her Sin, and bring her to a ſincere Repentance; vide Page 382, and this was an unſpeakable Comfort to him.
[374] This affected him ſo much, That as ſoon as he could poſſibly leave his Wife, he retired to his Cloſet, and with great Thankfulneſs and Joy, gave Praiſes to the Divine Goodneſs for this Be⯑ginning of Mercy, not forgetting earneſtly to Pray, That GOD would be pleaſed to carry on this Work, to a thorow awakening the Conſci⯑ence of his Wife, and bringing her to a Senſe of her Duty to GOD, and to ſincere Repentance for her former Errors; in which how he was heard, and how effectually he was anſwered, will appear in the following Part of this Work.
The Father of this Young Lady having as is ſaid above, been diſcourſing with her Husband ſome time; when they parted he went Home, where he found a Letter directed to his Daughter, and which had come incloſed in one to him from his Son, who had gone abroad into the Army as is noted already. This Letter he immediately ſent away by a Servant to his Daughter, and it was brought to her juſt at that Time when her Husband was withdrawn as above, ſo that when he came back, he found his Wife all in Tears again; he hegan to comfort her, thinking it was the Effect of the ſame Thing which had affected her before; but ſhe undeceived him by ſhewing him the Letter from her Brother; which was to this Purpoſe.
While I had a Hand to write to you, I too ſeldom paid you-the Reſpect, which my Affection and Duty to you required; and now I have neither a Hand to write; or a Heart to dictate; my laſt gave you an Account of my being wounded at the Siege of Doway, of which after ſome Time I was cured; tho' I lay all the Winter Sick at Liſle; now I am the miſerableſt [375] Object in the World: I was taken Priſoner of War laſt Week, and am brought to this Place, having my Right Arm broken by a Muſquet Ball, and to mor⯑row it muſt be cut off: GOD is juſt Siſter, I cut off my Father's Right Arm, as to his Family, when I broke from him by Violence, and went abroad againſt his Conſent; now I loſe my Right Arm as a juſt Retaliation: I inſulted my Father upon my having an Eſtate without him, now I muſt come a begging to my Father for Bread, or periſh in Miſery; for my Eſtate is gone, and I am out of Commiſſion: GOD is juſt Siſter! He is very juſt! I hope you have begged my Father's Pardon, and obtained his Bleſſing; tho' I may never live to do it. I have wrote to my Father for ſome Aſſiſtance, but have little Reaſon to expect it. Adieu.
The Grief of this ſurpriſing Letter, and the Concern ſhe had been in before, upon her Breach with her Husband, put her into ſuch an Agony, That ſhe ſpoke not a Word, but inceſſantly grie⯑ved and wept; nor could the tendereſt moſt Af⯑fectionate Expreſſions of her Husband, who never ſtirred from her, procure a Word from her, all that Evening; ſhe went to Bed indeed, but got no Sleep that Night, and by the next Morning it had thrown her into a high Fever, which brought her to Death's Door, as we call it; and as it pleaſed GOD, That during the Violence of her Diſtem⯑per, ſhe retained the perfect Uſe of her Senſes; ſo the Senſe of her Danger awakened her to a Senſe of her Duty, as will appear in the next Dialogue.
THE Laſt Dialogue gave an Account of the Accident which had thrown the Young Married Lady into a dangerous Fever, and left her in a very weak Condition; her Husband as he was a tender affectionate Relation, and was in the ut⯑moſt Concern and Affliction for her, ſeeing a great deal of Danger of her Life; ſo as he was alſo a ſe⯑rious Chriſtian, he could not be without inexpreſ⯑ſible Anxieties for her future State: He had been backward to ſpeak to her of Death, or of any of the Perplexities which were upon him, for her Condition; leaſt the Impreſſion ſhould be aſſiſtant to the Diſeaſe; yet he thought it was his indiſ⯑penſible Duty, not to be wanting to make her ſen⯑ſible of her Danger as to her Soul's Condition; and eſpecially as to the Breach with her Father, which he always acknowledged was unjuſtifiable, and a great Sin in her both againſt God and her Father.
While he was ſitting mournfully by her, and his Heart oppreſt with the Struggle he had be⯑tween his Duty to tell her his Thoughts, and his Fear of injuring her Health by it; ſhe put an End to his Trouble of that kind, by beginning with him thus.
My Dear, you ſee I am dying, but I cannot go out of the World without repeating my Acknowledgment to you, that I have not car⯑ried it to you as became me, or done either the Duty of a Wife, or a Chriſtian, as to you in par⯑ticular; eſpecially your Kindneſs to me conſidered; and therefore I repeat my asking you Pardon, Forgive me my Dear, and let me be aſſured you do it freely, for this is not a Time to compliment me.
My Dear, I have been backward to ſpeak, becauſe I would not oppreſs, and diſcourage thee; but I cannot deny, that I fear thy Danger is great; as for what troubles thy Mind about any Carriage to me, be as eaſy, as if we were not yet come to⯑gether; I have not the leaſt Regret or Reſent⯑ment in my Heart about it; it is all to me as if it had never been done.
Then ſay you forgive me, you muſt ſay ſo; ſay you forgive me, my Dear.
If I did not ſay ſo plainly before, it was becauſe I would not call it an Offence; but ſince you will have me to call it ſo, I do forgive all that can be thought an Offence againſt me, with all the Freedom and Joy I am capable of: The LORD forgive all our Offences againſt him.
Then my Dear I am ſatisfied, and thank⯑ful; and if God ſpare me farther Life, I'll make thee full amends if it be in my Power; if not, my Requeſt is, Let it anſwer all the Reproaches that ſhall be caſt upon me after I am gone, by telling the whole World, that I acknowledged it, and ask'd you Pardon.
My Dear, Let it take up none of your Thoughts, Matters of greater Moment are before thee; if thy Life is in Danger, as I fear, I beg of thee my Dear, look up to him that gives Life, and to whom are the Iſſues of Life, and of Death.
I have a ſad Proſpect within! a guilty Soul, and a hardned Heart.
But there is Forgiveneſs with him; that he may be feared; and he will take away the Heart of Stone, and give a Heart of Fleſh.
But it is very late to ask it now! very late! A Sick Bed is an ill Time to repent in! when the Body is burdened with the Force of a Diſeaſe, the Soul oppreſt with a fearful View of Eternity! and the Senſes ſeldom free to act their Part.
My Dear, but tho' it be very late, it is never too late; powerful Grace is not reſtrained to Time, or limited by Circumſtances; one re⯑lenting Thought, ſincerely caſt up to Heaven; one hearty Wiſh, one returning Sigh, can reach Heaven, be not afraid to caſt thy Soul at his Feet; whoſe Nature and Property is, ever to have Mercy, and to forgive.
I cannot ſay, That it is not too late.
Remember then the Words of our bleſ⯑ſed Saviour himſelf, be not afraid, only believe: My Dear, ſhall I deſire the Miniſter to make thee a Viſit, and to pray with thee, it may be GOD may direct him to ſpeak ſomething to thy Comfort.
No, my Dear, Thoſe Prayers of thine which I have wickedly and unkindly made my Jeſt, ſhall be now my only Comfort! And as GOD is juſt, in bringing me to want thy Prayers, which I too much ſlighted, ſo He is good, and may be pleaſed to do me good by the Means that I ſo wickedly contemned; that others may know the Duty of ſo dear a Relation as Husband and Wife; and I may if I ſhould live, know how to value them for the future! Will you pray with me my Dear?
As well as Grief will permit me my Dear, I will with all my Heart.
Upon her earneſt Requeſt her Husband prayed with her, and She ſeemed ſo affected with the Confeſſion of Sin, which he made to be as it were the Introductory Part of his Prayer, that from that Time forward, he entertained great Hopes of her being a true Penitent.
He avoided being long, in Reſpect of her Weak⯑neſs; but as he was never from her, either Night or Day, ſhe cauſed him to Pray with her almoſt every two Hours, and ſometimes would break out in ſhort Ejaculatory Prayers for her ſelf; in which he could perceive, mingled with deep Humilia⯑tion and Confeſſion; plain Appearances of her having more Hope of her future State, than before.
Her Husband encouraged by this, in one of his Prayers making Confeſſion of Sin, mentioned ſomething of the Errors and Miſtakes of Youth, which we are hurried into by the Violence of our Paſſions, and the violent Affection with which we entertain our Pleaſures, and Vanities; and then went on to a Confeſſion of the Sin of rejecting the Council of our Inſtructors, and refuſing to ſtoop to the juſt Reproofs of thoſe, who we are committed to by the Conſequence of our Rela⯑tion, or by our Dependance upon them; and who it is our Duty to ſubmit to; thus proceeding to point out, tho' gently, the Sin ſhe had been guil⯑ty of, in reſiſting the Admonitions of her Parents; imploring GOD's Pardon for it, and that her Eyes might be opened, to ſee and acknowledge it.
As ſoon as this Prayer was over, ſhe turned her ſelf towards him, and reaching out her Hands to him, ſhe embrac'd him with great Paſſion and Earneſtneſs, as her Strength would permit; my Dear, ſaid ſhe, I bleſs GOD, for what he has [380] put into thy Heart to ſay upon that Subject; I am convinc'd I have ſinned greatly in that matter of my Father; I am convinc'd, I am convinc'd, repeating the Words ſeveral Times with very great Earneſtneſs, and Abundance of Tears.
Her Husband told her, he was very glad to hear her ſay ſo much, That it had layn much upon his Mind, to mention it to her, but that he was loath to grieve her, but he hoped that as GOD had been pleaſed to make her ſenſible of the Evil of it, ſo he would, as of old in the Caſe of the great Penitent David, no ſooner give her a Reſolution to confeſs the Sin, but add the Comfort of his Pardon. I ſaid, I will confeſs my Tranſgreſſion unto the LORD, and thou forgaveſt the Iniquity of my Sin.
She look'd up with a kind of a Smile at theſe Words, and ſaid GOD will for give me my dear, tho' my Father won't; at which her Husband ſaid, my Dear, if GOD forgive us, it is not ſo much to us, if others do not; but I dare ſay if thy Father heard thee, he would not wait for any farther Acknowledgment; ſhall I let him know it ſaid her Husband, I know his Heart mourns for thee: My Dear, ſaid ſhe, I am in an ill Condition to ask him Forgiveneſs now, but if he was here, I would do it as well as I could with all my Heart; and here her Tears again interrupting her, ſhe ſaid no more.
Her Husband found it was not proper to ſay much more to her at that Time, her Diſtemper being violent, ſo he withdrew; ſecretly pleaſed to hear her ſpeak with ſo much Earneſtneſs and Concern about her Father; and immediately ſent a Servant to her Father, with a Letter to tell him, he deſired to ſee him in the Morning; and withal wrote ſome Account of the Occaſion; the [381] Father tho' he took the News of her Illneſs very heavily, for he ſtill loved her very tenderly; yet received this Part of the Account with great Sa⯑tisfaction, and came early in the Morning to the Houſe, where his Son-in-Law gave him an Account of all the Particulars of his Wiſe's Diſcourſe.
But it was too late; for her Fever had en⯑creaſed upon her with ſo much Violence in the Night; That when her Father came into the Room, She was Speechleſs; and to all outward Appearance, at the very Point of Death.
Her Husband, tho' paſſionately afflicted at ſo ſad a Sight; yet willing to give her all the Conſola⯑tion he could, ſpoke cloſe to her Ear, That her Father was come, but ſhe did not ſeem to take any Notice of it; her repeated it, adding he was come to give her his Bleſſing, and aſſure her that he had forgiven all the Breach between them; at which Words ſhe opened her Eyes, and look'd at her Father, but cloſed them immediately, and remained ſpeechleſs; my Dear! ſaid her Husband; give us a Sign if you underſtand us, would you have your Father forgive you? At which ſhe lifted up her Hand; and pray for thee, ſaid her Husband! At which ſhe lifted up her Hand again, and juſt open⯑ed her Eyes, but could not ſpeak.
This was a melancholly Sight, for two ſuch near Relations to bear; nor did it afford any thing more, that ſerves to our preſent Purpoſe. The Father prayed by her Bed ſide, and gave GOD Thanks for any Appearances of Mercy to her Soul; and committing her into the Hands of her Redeemer they retired, expecting her departing every Moment.
But Providence had otherwiſe determined it, for tho' ſhe lay in that Condition two or three Days, yet it pleaſed GOD, after that, the Fe⯑ver [382] ſeemed to abate, and ſhe came to her Speech again, and in a few Days more grew better, tho' ſo very weak, as made her Recovery be very ſlow.
Now a new Care and Anxiety ſeized upon her Husband; who tho' truly joyful at the Hopes he had of his Wife's Recovery, which a few Days before there was no Room to expect; Yet he could not but be fearful, leaſt her Convictions ſhould wear off with a Senſe of her Danger, as is uſual in the Caſe of Death-bed Repentance; and that the near Proſpect of Death now diſappearing, her Love of Vanity and Pleaſure ſhould return with her Health; and therefore like one that truly loved her Soul's Advantage, as well as her Perſonal Wel⯑fare; he began early to put her in mind of the Debt ſhe owed to the Goodneſs of GOD; which ſeemed to be giving her a new Life: and to whom the Hours he ſhould now beſtow ought to be de⯑dicated, as given for that Purpoſe; his often re⯑peating theſe Things, gave Occaſion to the follow⯑ing Diſcourſe, which tho' it ſuffered ſeveral Inter⯑miſſions from her Weakneſs, yet it being all to the ſame Purpoſe, will be very well read as one continued Dialogue: She began with her Husband upon the Occaſion as I have noted, of his often repeating his Cautions againſt forgetting after her recovering, the Senſe of her State, which ſhe had upon her Mind when ſhe was in Expectation of Death.
My Dear, ſays ſhe, I ſee what you are afraid of; you fear I ſhall forget GOD's Good⯑neſs to me, as ſoon as I am recovered.
I hope my Dear, you cannot forget nei⯑ther what you are, or what you were.
But I ſee plainly you are anxious a⯑bout it.
My Dear, do not take it ill; we are not Ignorant of Satan's Devices: Our Adverſary the Devil, like a roaring Lyon goes about ſeeking whom he may devour. We are all too Subject to forget the Vows of our afflicted Condition; I am no otherwiſe afraid for thee, than as we are all apt to do ſo.
But has he not ſnatched me as a Brand out of the Fire! Zech. 3. 2.
It is very true, my Dear.
Has he not ranſomed me from the Power of the Grave! Hoſ. 13. 14.
He has I hope ranſomed thy Soul too.
Has not my Soul been precious in his Sight! Sam. 26. 24.
May God keep the Remembrance of it always upon thy Mind my Dear.
I am aſſured he will do ſo.
She breaks out in an Extaſy of Thankfulneſs, and repeats the 2d, 3d, 4th, Verſes of the 103. Pſalm. Bleſs the Lord, O my Soul, and forget not all his Benefits, Who forgiveth all thine Iniquities. Who healeth all thy Diſeaſes. Who redeemeth thy Life from Deſtruction. Who crowneth thee with lo⯑ving Kindneſſes and tender Mercies.
Let me join my Dear ſaid her Husband, Pſalm 86. 2, 3, 4, 5. O thou my God, ſave thy Ser⯑vant that truſteth in thee, be merciful unto me O Lord, for I cry unto thee daily; for thou O Lord art good and ready to forgive, and plenteous in Mercy to them that call upon thee.
Pſalm 88. 9, 10. LORD, I have called daily upon thee, I have ſtretched out my Hands unto thee; Wilt thou ſhew Wonders to the Dead! Shall the Dead ariſe and praiſe thee!
My Dear, I will be an Eccho to all thy Breathings of this Kind, Pſalm 92. 12. It is a [384] good Thing to give Thanks unto the Lord; and to ſing Praiſes to thy Name, O moſt High! to ſhew forth thy Loving Kindneſs in the Morning, and thy Faithfulneſs every Night!
Pſalm 102. 11, 24. I ſaid, O my GOD, take me not away in the midſt of my Days. My Days are like a Shadow that declineth, and I am wi⯑thered like Graſs. Pſalm 116. 1, 2, 3. I love the LORD, becauſe he hath heard my Voice, and my Supplication; becauſe he hath inclined his Ear unto me; Therefore will I call upon him as long as I live.
The Lord upholdeth all that fall, and rai⯑ſeth up all thoſe that are bowed down, he will fulfill the Deſire of them that fear him: He alſo will hear their Cry, and will ſave them. The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him. To all them that call upon him in Truth.
They continued thus in this bleſſed Extaſy of praiſing and giving Thanks to God for ſome time every Day; and when ever he came into the Chamber to ſee her, he came always with ſome comforting Text of Scripture in his Mouth, which he had found out while he had been abſent; and this Way of Converſation between them, laſted till ſhe was thorowly well; when being come down Stairs, and beginning to take upon her again the Affairs of her Family, after having been at Church to render more ſolemnly her Thanks to God in Publick, for her Recovery; She called her Husband to her, and began this ſhort Diſcourſe with him.
My Dear, Now God has been pleaſed to give me a new Life; and reſtore me to thee, and to my Family: It is my Part to teſtify my Thank⯑fulneſs to his Goodneſs, by a new Way of Living; and therefore I wiſh you would begin with a ſo⯑lemn giving Thanks in the Family, at your uſual Time of Family Worſhip.
With all my Heart my Dear.
You ſhall ſee my Dear, I ſhall no more diſcountenance the Service and Worſhip of GOD in my Family; as I formerly did, to my Shame be it ſpoken.
Do not mention that any more, my Dear, I hope 'tis forgotten above! He remembreth our Sins no more, and it is meet it ſhould be forgotten with me.
But I ſhall never forget to mention it with Shame and Reproaches upon my ſelf, as long as I live! and therefore it is, that I deſire to be now the firſt to promote and forward that bleſ⯑ſed Work, which I was ſo much the Hindrance of before.
I rejoice my Dear, at the Encouragement you will give to our doing the Duty of our Sta⯑tion; but the bare Performance of a Courſe of Worſhip, is the meaneſt Part of what is required; Our whole Lives muſt be ſquared according to thoſe Rules, which GOD has ſet us to walk by, that we may adorn the Profeſſion we make of Re⯑ligion, and walk in the Commandments and Ordi⯑nances of God blameleſs, Luke 1. 6.
My Dear, I am not ſuppoſing that the Form of our Duty is the Subſtance of it; but as it is true, that there may be the outward Perfor⯑mance without the Heart; it is as true, that where the Heart is engaged, there will be no Omiſſion of the outward Performance; and therefore I firſt thought my ſelf obliged to give you this Aſſurance of my Willingneſs to comply with the outward Performance, and the rather becauſe of what is paſt.
My Dear, Let us have no more Refle⯑ctions on what is paſt between us, the Remem⯑brance of it, is with great Satisfaction buried with me.
But my Dear, you muſt allow me to look back with Regret, and keep it always in my View; I ſhall endeavour to remember you of it no otherwiſe, than by ſhewing you the Reverſe of it in my future Behaviour.
That ſhall be a Remembrance, That will iſſue only in Praiſes, and Thankfulneſs to GOD's infinite Goodneſs, and in an Increaſe if that be poſ⯑ſible, of my Affection to, and delight in thee while I live.
Firſt then my Dear, be ſatisfied and aſſu⯑red, I have intirely done with the Follies of my former Life; and that I ſhall throw away no more Time at the Play-houſe, or in Gaming; thoſe Thieves of the Affections, and prodigal Waſter of Time; which Time I have learn'd to know the Value of, at the Appearance of Eternity, and hope I have now been furniſh'd with Knowledge from Experience, how to employ it to better Advantage.
God of his infinite Mercy ſupport thoſe Reſolutions.
My Dear, why do you ſhew a Concer [...] at it? Why thoſe Tears!
They are Tears of Joy my Dear, Tear [...] proceeding from a Satisfaction otherwiſe inex⯑preſſible.
Are they not mingled with ſome doub [...] and proceeding from ſome Fear, that I ſhall brea [...] in again upon theſe Reſolutions, as I have often times done before, and as many People do afte [...] their Death-bed Aſtoniſhments are over?
No my Dear: I hope GOD in who [...] Strength you have made theſe Vows, will giv [...] you Grace and Strength to keep them.
My Dear, theſe Thoughts of mine are not digeſted into formal Vows and Proteſtations; Things which often being made in our own Strength, we are juſtly forſaken by the Divine Aſſiſtance in, and are left to break and fall from; relapſing with greater Violence into the very Sins, we in that manner abjure. But I find my Heart ſo fully con⯑vinc'd of the Folly and Vanity of thoſe Diverſions, the unſatisfying uninſtructing Pleaſure of them; the Expence of thoſe unvaluable Moments in them, which at Death we would give Millions to retrieve, and the many other attending Snares, they are inſeparable from; that I look on them with the utmoſt Deteſtation, and reproach my ſelf with the greateſt Admiration at the Influence which thoſe Things had upon me.
My Dear, this is a greater Aſſurance to me of the Stability of thy Reſolutions than a thouſand formal Oaths and Vows againſt them; which as you well obſerve, being often made in our own Strength, God is pleaſed for our Mortification, to leave us to break; and which alſo the Devil never gives over ſolliciting us to forget and un⯑dervalue.
Well my Dear, I hope I ſhall never alter my Sentiments of theſe Things; and you may I hope depend upon it, That neither the Practice it ſelf, or the Company that uſed to make thoſe Things delightful to me, will ever be tolerable to me again.
My Dear, you muſt be civil to your Ac⯑quaintance.
Truly it will be with Difficulty, that I ſhall be ſo to ſome of them; and I ſhall miſs no Oc⯑caſion of wearing out the Acquaintance with them, eſpecially that of Sir Anthony and my Lady Light; head.
I believe my Dear, their Company can be little Diverſion to you, I cannot think they ever really were; they have ſo little in them, I think it was impoſſible.
They have been Engines in the Hand of the Devil to do me Miſchief, and to make me run a dreadful Length in my own Ruin, both Soul and Body.
It muſt be by meer Drollery and Mimick then; for they have neither of them any ſuch thing as ſolid Wit, or agreeable Behaviour.
It has been by that bewitching Thing called Gallantry and Honour, by which my Lady eſpecially as it were, bantered me out of a Senſe of all kind of Duty, either to God or Man; made me think it below me to regard Relative Obliga⯑tions, and ungenteel to be bound by the Duties either of a Child to my Father, or of a Wife to my Husband.
She has done thee no Harm in the main I hope.
She has employed me my Dear, theſe five Year in diligently laying up a vaſt Stock for Repentance, and making Work for Tears and Re⯑proaches as long as I live.
Thoſe Things often end worſe my Dear I fear they will end worſe with them.
If the End is any Thing with me but Rui [...] of Soul and Body, it muſt be the Effect of infinit [...] Mercy, and the free Grace of God.
And is not that a bleſſed Fruit.
But in the mean Time it is a Fountain o [...] ſecret Regret; Self Abhorrence, conſtant Re⯑proaches, and Sighs that break the very Sou [...] This is the Fruit I have of thoſe Things whereof [...] am now aſhamed.
A Bleſſed Fruit it is however, in the End, (viz.) The peaceable Fruit of Righteouſneſs, to the ſaving of the Soul.
But what Mortification! What Regret! What Havock has it made in my Soul! Here I have been an undutiful Child! A Terror to my Relations! A Grief to my Father and Mother! The Ruin of my Brother!
Do not mention that now my Dear.
Not mention it! Yes I muſt mention it! He is undone! And I was Partner with him in his Sin? Nay I was worſe than he! Why has GOD ruined him, and ſpared me: I was a Re⯑bel to my Father, I have been a Traytor to thee, my Dear, and above all, a Forſaker of God, and a Deſpiſer of Religion! and all that was good! and why am not I deſtroyed, rather than my Dear Brother!
But God that gives Repentance, gives alſo Pardon! And bleſſed be God thou art now rejoicing in Hope!
Ay my Dear, But what Work is here for Repentance, not towards God only, but to every one elſe! I have ask'd Forgiveneſs of thee my dear, and I ought to do it to my Brother, and of my Father, and they ought all to refuſe me.
But I am ſure we are all too glad of the Occaſion to entertain ſuch a Thought; where God is pleaſed to pardon, Who is Man, That he ſhould reſent? I dare ſay thy Father forgives thee freely.
Well, whether he will or no, it is my Duty to acknowledge my Fault to him.
My Dear, thou haſt done it already, and he is ſatisfied, he will be here to viſit us to Night.
But that is not ſufficient to me.
Here thy Father comes already.
which put the Family into a great Diſorder, fearing the Return of her Diſtem⯑per: After ſhe had lain ſome Time, and was a little refreſhed, ſhe deſired her Father and Hus⯑band to come up into her Chamber: While ſhe lay indiſpoſed on her Bed, her Husband had rela⯑ted to her Father all the Diſcourſe that had paſ⯑ſed between them, which ſo affected her Father, that he could not bear giving her the Uneaſineſs of farther Confeſſions; and therefore when ſhe ſent for them up, the Father ſpoke to her Husband thus:
"Firſt, tell her, you have related to me the Diſcourſe that was between her and you, and that I am fully ſatisfied with, and rejoice in the Acknowledgment ſhe has made of her former Carriage to me, and of her Deſign to acknow⯑ledge it farther: That I already think it more than enough; that as neither her Weakneſs on the one Hand, can bear it; ſo neither can my Affection to her on the other Hand bear any [391] more Submiſſions: And therefore I will not come up to her, unleſs ſhe will promiſe you not to ſpeak one Word to me of it more; but only hear what I ſhall ſay to her, and ſo put an intire End to it.
Her Husband did ſo, and with much Difficulty prevailed with her to promiſe; upon which her Father being brought in, went to her, and kiſt her as ſhe lay, and praying earneſtly in few words to God to bleſs her, and continue his Goodneſs to her; he comforted her in the following manner.
‘"My dear Child, ſaid he, I have Acknowledg⯑ments enough, and am fully ſatisfied; my Joy and Comfort is, That God has given you a due and deep Senſe of your Offences, againſt him, and I hope has pardoned you alſo: your Of⯑fence againſt me is nothing, but as it was a Sin againſt him, nor had I ever any other Reſent⯑ment of it, but what my common Affection could have prevailed over; I rejoice that God has given you Repentance, and I think it as much my Duty to forgive you now, as I thought before I was obliged not to do it, till you had acknowledged it; therefore I freely and hear⯑tily forgive you, as if you had never offended me; and I make but this one Condition of my Forgiveneſs, which I oblige you to comply with, (viz.) That you ſay not one Word more by Way of asking Pardon; for as you cannot bear to do it, ſo neither can I to hear it.’
She kept her Word as to ſpeaking, but Abun⯑dance of Tears teſtified how ſenſible ſhe was of what her Father had ſaid to her; and thus an in⯑tire Reconciliation was made of all that was paſt; And ſhe proved ever after, a ſober, religious and ſhining Chriſtian, a dutiful affectionate Daughter [392] to her Parents. A tender and obliging Wife to her Husband, and a careful inſtructing Mother to her Children.
The Tragical Part of this Story remains, and will make the Concluſion of this Work. The Subject is, the miſerable wretched Caſe of the Young Gentleman, the Brother to this Lady; and who had gone abroad as has been ſaid, but was partly by his Wounds, Sickneſs, and Misfortune, but principally by his Vices and Extravagance, reduced to the laſt Extremity of Miſery; had waſted his Eſtate, ſold his Commiſſion, loſt one of his Arms, and was brought to the Neceſſity of writing to his Father for Subſiſtance, and for Mo⯑ney to bring him over to England; of which the Particulars will appear in the next Dialogue.
IN the Laſt Dialogue you have ſome Account of the Condition the Young Gentleman for⯑merly mentioned was reduced to, in a Let⯑ter to his Siſter, dated from Cambray: where he was under Cure of his Wounds.
It ſeems his Extravagance had reduced him to the laſt Extremity, and having had his Arm cut off, and falling into a long Fit of Sickneſs after it; tho' he was exchanged by Virtue of the Cartel for Exchange of Priſoners, and ſo had his Freedom; yet he could not be removed, and was at laſt obli⯑ged to ſell his Commiſſion; after which, ſeeing himſelf reduced to great Extremities, and the ut⯑moſt Miſery, even of wanting Bread being in his View; he wrote a ſecond Letter to his Father, which being brought by a Perſon, who gave a particular Account of his Condition; moved his Father to take Compaſſion of him, and relieve him.
His Letter to his Father was thus,
As I have little Reaſon to expect any Relief from you, ſo Duty ought to have moved me not to have [392] [...] [393] [...] [394] given you the Affliction of knowing my Condition; perhaps however while you may be moved with my Diſaſters, it may be ſome Satisfaction to you to ſee, That he who went away without your Bleſſing, is brought to the neceſſity of ſeeking to you for his Bread; if it be your Pleaſure, That I ſhall periſh here, in Miſery and Friendleſs, I am ready to ſubmit to the Sentence from your Mouth, as a juſt Puniſhment; but if you have ſo much Concern for my Life, as to cauſe me to be brought over, that I may die in my Native Country; the Bearer will acquaint you, how ſuch un⯑deſerved Bounty will be received by
&c.
The tender compaſſionate Father, tho' he re⯑ſented his Son's Treatment of him deeply enough, and ſteadily adhered to the Reſolution of never receiving him into his Family, unleſs he acknow⯑ledged his firſt Crime, (viz.) of withſtanding the Reformation of his Father's Houſe; yet being by no means obliged by that Reſolution, not to re⯑lieve him in Diſtreſs, or to let him ſtarve in a ſtrange Country, having enquired into the Parti⯑culars of his Circumſtances, from the Gentleman who brought the Letter, and underſtanding by him that his Son was reduced to the utmoſt Di⯑ſtreſs; he immediately remitted Money over to a Dutch Merchant at Liſle, with Orders to give him preſent Subſiſtance, and to bring him from Cambray thither, in Order to his being ſent over to England; all which the ſaid Merchant effectu⯑ally performed, and the poor reduced Gentleman arrived at London ſoon after.
It was the very ſame Day of his Arrival, when he cauſed his Father to have Notice that he was coming to lay himſelf at his Door; but the Father tho' he had relieved him, and deſigned to take [395] Care that he ſhould not want, yet judging it need⯑ful to let him know that his Reſentments had been very juſt; and that he was to be ſatisfied further, with Relation to Things paſt, before he could be reſtored to the State of an Eldeſt Son, if ever that was to be done at all; gave him the Mortification of fignifying to him by a Meſſenger, That he was not to be admitted to ſee his Father, or to come into his Houſe yet; but that he was to go to ſuch a Place, not far off, where a Lodging was provi⯑ded for him.
This afflicted him extremely; at firſt it threw him into a violent Paſſion, expoſtulating with the Meſſenger in ſuch Words as theſe, What! Has my Father brought me thus far, but to trample on my Miſery, and to make his Reſentment ſink the deeper; or has he brought me like a Criminal to the Place of Execution; thus, as he may think it to do Juſtice upon me! Why had he not ſuffered me to periſh where I was, rather than come hi⯑ther to die with the more Affliction and Reproach? The Meſſenger told him his Buſineſs was not to diſpute with him, but to deliver his Meſſage; That he had no further Inſtructions, And ſo gi⯑ving the Coach Man Directions where to go, he told the poor Gentleman, he would go before to receive him, and took his Leave.
The unhappy Gentleman bid the Coach Man go on, and in a little Time he found himſelf paſ⯑ſing by his Father's Door; this ſtruck him with an inexpreſſible Grief, even into an Agony of Shame, Anger, and Deſpair; when in that very Moment his Dream came to his Mind, which he had related to his Siſter; and which we have ſet down in the firſt Dialogue of this Part. (viz.) How that having his Arm ſhot off, and being relieved by his Father abroad, and brought over; tho' he came [396] to his Father's Door, yet he would not take him in, but had ordered him to a Neighbour's Houſe, &c.
‘"As ſoon as this revolved upon his Thoughts, it immediately quieted him, and he broke out into this Expreſſion. Well! Now I ſee that no⯑thing befalls us without the determinate Will of that Soveraign Power that guides and go⯑verns the whole World: This was ſo long ago repreſented to me in a Dream; how exactly is every Step of it come to paſs upon me! God is juſt! and it is my Part to ſubmit.’
This quieted his Mind for ſome Time, and he went on to the Houſe which his Father had ap⯑pointed him; where he found the Servant who as he had ſaid went before; who helped him in, for he was ſo weak, he could hardly go, and coming into a Chamber provided for him, fetching a deep Sigh, he threw himſelf on the Bed, without ſpeak⯑ing a Word; and in this Condition he remained all that Night, and Part of the next Day; no body coming to him, but the People of the Houſe, who were however directed to attend him and ſupply him with Neceſſaries.
In the Evening he heard a Coach ſtop at the Door; and ſoon after a Lady coming up Stairs who was brought into his Chamber, and who he preſently knew to be his Siſter; ſhe found him very weak, ſitting in a Chair by the Fire, leaning his Head upon his Hand, and his Elbow on a Table that ſtood by him; his Eyes fixed on the Ground; his Countenance to the laſt Degree dejected, pale, and thin; and in ſhort as like a Spectre as any Thing that was real Fleſh and Blood could be ſup⯑poſed to be: As ſhe came forward into the Room, he lifted up his Eyes, and ſaid only this Word, Siſter! and would have riſen up, but had not Strength; She deſigned to have embraced him, but [397] when ſhe ſaw him, ſhe was frighted and amazed, and ſat down over againſt him at ſome Diſtance, being ready to ſwoon away: At firſt ſhe could hardly be convinc'd it was really her Brother; and when ſhe was ſatisfied of that, the very ſeeing him in that Condition, ſtruck her with ſuch Grief, That ſhe could not ſpeak a Word to him for a great while. Being recovered a little, My Dear Bro⯑ther! Said ſhe, and would have gone on, but ſhe burſt out into Tears; however theſe Tranſports which the Surpirze of ſeeing him in ſuch a Condi⯑tion, might very well be ſuppoſed to work in ſo near a Relation, being a little over, they began to diſcourſe a little together, and after the uſual Queſtions concerning his Health, and the proper Remedies to be uſed to recover his Strength and the like; the following Dialogue contains the Sub⯑ſtance of their Diſcourſe.
Dear Brother, But what makes you ſo dejected! And why have you loſt your Courage ſo much at your Diſaſters? I hope with taking Care of your ſelf, and proper Remedies being uſed, you may recover. But if your Spirits are ſunk; you will fall under the Weight of your own Me⯑lancholly, and be loſt without Remedy.
Dear Siſter, Not all my Diſaſters, not the Loſs of my Arm, or the cruel Operations of the Surgeons, not the having waſted my Eſtate, not my being reduced to want Bread; not all that has befallen me, or that could befal me in the World; has ever been able to ſink my Spirits, and caſt me ſo low, as this Part of my Tragedy.
What Part Brother!
Why that my Father who kindly relieved me when I wrote to him of my Diſtreſs; who or⯑dered me to be brought Home as I thought, that according to my Requeſt I might die in my Na⯑tive [398] Country; ſhould inſtead of that common Com⯑paſſion, which Nature dictates for Men in Miſery; bring me hither but juſt as they do Malefactors, to die with the more Shame; and not ſuffering me to come within his Doors, ſhould ſend me hither, as it were to an Hoſpital, to be kept upon his Cha⯑rity; like one who altho' he would not have ſtar⯑ved, he had relieved, not in Favour, but that he might die with the moſt exquiſite Tortures of the Mind; This he could not but know ſuch a Thing would produce, and muſt produce in a Soul that had any Senſe of Miſery left.
You lay it too much to Heart, Brother; That is not my Father's Deſign.
Yes! yes! That is the Deſign! Why elſe had he not ordered me to ſome Hoſpital, or Place of Retreat? Some Place where I need not ha' been a Spectacle to, and the Reproach of his Servants, and the Contempt of all my Acquaintance? But he ſhall have his full Satisfaction over me; and I will as I dream'd I had done, cauſe my ſelf to be carried to his Gate, That he may ſay he had the Pleaſure to ſee his Eldeſt Son die at his Door.
Your Grief permits you not to make a right Judgment of Things, I beg you will weigh the Circumſtances of every Part, and you will find my Father has quite other Deſigns towards you.
It cannot be Siſter! For why this Triumph then, over my Diſaſters? It is impoſſible!
You cannot think ſo hardly of my Father: You ſhould rather conclude, that his bringing you ſo near him, is in order to reſtoring you entirely, and a little Patience would give you Light in that Matter.
Has he ſo much as given me the leaſt In⯑timation of it? On the contrary, has he not brought me to paſs by his very Door, and ſent [399] his Meſſengers to command me to come no nea⯑rer to him, nor himſelf ſo much as vouchſafe to ſee me!
You ſhould conſider Brother, the Terms on which you ſtand with my Father; with Re⯑ſpect to your going away, and the Obligation he is under of expecting ſome Terms, before you are reſtored.
I know what you mean Siſter; I could have made any Submiſſions, had he not brought me thus, as it were upon a Stage, to be a Spectacle to all People: And make a private Breach become publick, by a ſcandalous Pennance: Now I can never do it, tho' I were much more convinced of the Crime than I am: It is impoſſible! No I can⯑not do it! If I ſtarve here!
Dear Brother, do not talk of that, you ſhall not ſtarve: I have had too much Hand in your Miſeries to ſuffer you to ſtarve, tho' my Fa⯑ther would; but you will not find my Faiher in⯑clines to any thing unkind: But Dear Brother you are I hope too ſenſible of the Miſtake we both committed, to be unwilling to give my Father that ſmall Satisfaction he requires; which is but a bare Acknowledgment of having done amiſs. I have done it with the greateſt Sincerity, and with the greateſt Peace and Satisfaction to my ſelf in the World; to tell you true, I had really no true Peace or Satisfaction till I did do it.
Well Siſter, before I ſpeak of that, let me obſerve to you, That your Words put me in mind of my old Dream again; which you cannot but remember, I told you of at my Aunts; and it is fulfilled in every Part: For I am brought to my Father's very Door, and being refuſed Leave to come in, am ſent hither to be kept as in an Hoſ⯑pital under Cure; and you only, juſt as I dream't [400] are come to viſit me, acknowledging you having ſubmitted to my Father, and perſwading me to do the ſame; God is juſt Siſter! God is juſt! And I have brought all this upon my ſelf! But my Fa⯑ther is cruel, and tyranizes over my Diſtreſs, and that I cannot bear.
Dear Brother, it is very wonderful, and I have often thought on that Dream, and of my Aunt's Prediction alſo, about the ſame time, (viz.) That you would be brought to want Bread, and to beg my Father to relieve you; tho' I was in hopes it would never ha' come to that Paſs.
It is a Teſtimony that nothing befalls us without an Inviſible Hand; I acknowledge his Ju⯑ſtice; but I cannot but think, that my Father is very ſevere, and indeed very cruel.
That is, becauſe you take the firſt Part of this Affair, without the ſubſequent, which is in his Deſign; and which I hope will make all end well ſtill, if you can be perſwaded to act with Temper and Patience.
That is upon Suppoſition I perceive, That my Condition will oblige me to make the utmoſt Submiſſions, meerly for want of Subſiſtance, whe⯑ther I am ſenſible of the Crime or no.
Dear Brother! I hope you are ſenſible of it: If ſuch Judgments as you have met with, can⯑not make you ſenſible, nothing will! However as all your Dream is not come to paſs, I ſhall fulfill the reſt, by which beſides my Reſpect to you, that Excuſe ſhall be taken away, (viz) That you are neceſſitated to make Submiſſions for Bread; I hope you will do it from a mere Senſe of the Sin, and of God's Anger and Juſtice, as well as of your Father's Diſpleaſure: And that you may not be in a Neceſſity of doing it otherwiſe; take that Part [401] of your Dream too, for your preſent Comfort, for you dream't I brought you ſome Money.
Dear Siſter, you are too kind; but I am paſt this kind of Conſolation.
As you are reduced to want Neceſſaries, you cannot be paſt receiving ſome Satisfaction from a Supply.
If with my Eſtate, I had loſt all Senſe of Honour, were grown as low ſpirited, as I am low circumſtanced, I might cringe and ſtoop as a Beg⯑gar at a Door; but if my Father ſeeks to ſuppreſs the Soul, by the Afflictions of the Body, as it is more than cruel, in him; ſo it is inſupportable to me, and I muſt deliver my ſelf Siſter.
If you had not at firſt diſobliged him to the higheſt Degree, you would ha' had Reaſon in what you ſay; but if what my Father expects now be no more than he expected, when you were in your beſt Circumſtances, no more than you made the Condition of your Return, by receiving the Aſſurance of its being the Conſequence of your going away, and that even before you went; and above all, if it be no more than as a Parent and a Maſter of a Family he was obliged to do, to pre⯑ſerve that Authority which you and I unhappily oppoſed, then you cannot call his carrying it thus to you now, an impoſing upon you, or inſulting your Miſery; I know it is not in his Nature to do ſo; if it had Brother, why did he anſwer your Letters, ſend you Relief, be at the Expence of bringing you over, and providing for you here, has not this Pity ſaved your Life!
But is not this Way of giving Life worſe than Death? I know how to deliver my ſelf, he [402] that dares die, knows how to revenge himſelf of all the World.
That is talking more like a Soldier Bro⯑ther, than a Chriſtian: Nay according to the No⯑tions of Philoſophy, which you and I uſed to talk of, it is talking like a Coward, not like a Man of Courage; ſince what they call true Courage, conſiſts in ſuſtaining the Mind, under the moſt preſſing Afflictions; and paſſive Valour is the greateſt ex⯑treme of true Magnanimity; whereas he that de⯑ſtroys himſelf is a Coward, and dies for fear of the Bitterneſs of Life.
There are ſome Circumſtances, which may overcome even human Nature it ſelf, and a⯑mong theſe, to be inſulted In Diſtreſs, is the moſt inſupportable: I could die by Torture with much more Eaſe.
But Dear Brother, you put the falſeſt Conſtruction imaginable upon your preſent Cir⯑cumſtances: My Father has put no Inſult upon you, and means you none: You know the juſt Engage⯑ments he is under, binds him to what he does.
Is it no Inſult Siſter! To bring me to his own Door, and then ſend a Servant to tell me, I muſt not be taken in, but go to ſuch a Place!
Had there been nothing between you be⯑fore, that makes that Proceeding reaſonable, it might ha' been thought hard; but you cannot but own my Father has been provoked.
You were of another Mind once▪ Siſter.
Dear Brother, I acknowledge with the greateſt Affliction imaginable, That I was doubly unhappy in being ſo; that I was too much the wicked Inſtrument to encourage you in that courſe, which has reduced you to this Miſery; and it has coſt me more Tears than you can imagine, to [403] think that I that loved you ſo dearly, ſhould have ſo much Hand in your Ruin.
It has coſt me more Blood, than it has coſt you Tears.
That may be true too, but my Repen⯑tance has been ſevere enough.
And pray how has it iſſued? I wiſh you would give me the ſhort Hiſtory, that I may judge how to regulate my Conduct by yours.
I was your unhappy Pattern before, I pray GOD extend the ſame Grace to you now, that as we ſinned together, we may be Witneſſes to⯑gether of our Repentance. My Caſe is thus,
Your Story is very remarkable! Indeed your Husband's Conduct muſt be admired: But dear Siſter, my Father did not deal with you, as he does with me; if he had, it would have fired your Spirits, and filled you with Indignation, ra⯑ther than have engaged you to an Acknowledg⯑ment.
You miſconſtrue my Father's Intentions extremely.
What Miſconſtruction can it be? Am I not here? Was I not brought to his Door? Was I not ſhut out, and turned here after Five Years Abſence? Has my Father or Mother, or any of the Family come, or ſo much as ſent a Servant to ſee me?
Dear Brother, do not let your Paſſions be your Temptation: I am come to ſee you.
You are like your ſelf, kind, and good: but what's this to them?
Are you ſuppoſing then Brother, That I came without my Father's Knowledge? no Bro⯑ther, I came to Diſcourſe with you, That you may be eaſie, and that my Father may have Room to Act what his own Compaſſionate Inclinations move him to: and to receive you with the ſame freedom and affection that he did me.
Then I am not to Treat with you now, as my Siſter, but as an Ambaſſador, or a Mediator.
I entreat you dear Brother, let us be ſeri⯑ous: It is for your Life.
My Life! alas! that is not worth a Treaty! I wiſh, as it is in my Power to give it, it were in his to take it, you ſhould ſee, I would die like his Son, but ſcorn to be fed by his Charity.
But Brother, I am not treating with you on the Subject of Charity: I will protect you my ſelf from the need of any one's Charity; but as the Foundation of this Breach was wrong, and as I hope you are now convinced of it, as well as I am; I would fain perſwade you to a dutiful Accommo⯑dation with my Father, who is ready to abate you the Ceremony, if he can but have the reality of ſuch a Repentance, as God and your Duty calls for: And that you may do this freely, and under no Pretence of being reduced to it, by your Cir⯑cumſtances, I brought you the Relief you have, nor ſhall you be ſuffered to want, let it go how it will.
What would you have me do?
Your own Sence will Dictate that to you.
I acknowledge I am very ſorry I have gi⯑ven him Offence, and eſpecially that I went away without his Leave, methinks what I ſuffered for that Crime ſhould be enough.
You may be ſure I ſhall relate this with all [405] the Advantage I can to my Father, but the Matter it ſelf is ſo plain, the Meſſage you might ſend, would as plainly put an End to it.
What plainer can I ſay?
Nay Brother you do not want me to Dictate.
You would have me ſay, I acknowledge I gave him juſt Cauſe for all he did, that I acted ve⯑ry wickedly in oppoſing him in his Family Orders, and that I beg Pardon of him, and ſo fall down on my Knees, &c. dear Siſter, if I ſhould, I am ſuch a Criple, I cannot get up again.
Dear Brother, I am ſorry to ſee how it is with you; I ſee plainly it is not in your Heart; and all that is in Appearance, will be but from the Lip outward, what can I do!
I could have made any Submiſſions, if he had not brought me hither to do it in this Man⯑ner; but Death I think would be a much eaſier Portion to me now.
It is in vain for you and I to diſpute it Brother; tell me then what ſhall I ſay for you, or what ſhall I do for you?
Say as above, which is the Truth, That I regret ſo much the uſage of me at laſt; that I have nothing left to do, but to ſatisfy my Father that I will be as ſhort a Burden to him as poſſible.
Dear Brother, I cannot carry ſuch a Meſſage; conſider of ſomething fit for me to ſay; and do not provoke him at laſt, when you are juſt caſting your ſelf upon him.
Tell him then, what your kindeſt thoughts to me can ſuggeſt; only not omitting to let him know, That the repulſe I have met with here, is greater to me than all that has befallen me: That I was prepared to have asked him Pardon, and in general I will do ſo ſtill; but that this has put me [406] paſt all Temper; tell him juſt ſo, and let it iſſue as it will.
It is an uncomfortable Meſſage for me to carry; but I muſt do as you bid me.
I cannot ſay leſs, without feigning a Tem⯑per; which if I ſhould ſee my Father, I cannot make good, or act over again; for I cannot coun⯑terfeit; and if I ſay more, you will not be willing to carry the Meſſage; therefore let it go ſo, come of it what will.
If I decline carrying any Meſſage, it is for your ſake; that I may not injure your Intereſt with my Father, and for no other Reaſon.
I know it Siſter, and underſtand it alſo: I hope you do not take amiſs what I ſaid.
Not at all, I am only grieved, that I do not ſee a Proſpect of doing you all the good I would do.
I am ſuch an Object now, that I do not ſee what Condition to deſire. Siſter, had my Fa⯑ther received me kindly, I ſhould not have beha⯑ved unworthy of him, tho' in ſo ill a Condition; but this Indignity has placed me ſo far below any Thing of a Son, that I ſhall be the Contempt of his Servants, if I ſhould come in.
What then ſhall I ask of him?
Nothing Siſter, nothing at all: Let him do juſt as he pleaſes.
Dear Brother, you act juſt the deſperate Part now, where will it end!
In the Grave Siſter, there I would have it end.
I am ſorry to ſee you ſo obſtinate in your own Ruin, however I'll do as well as I can for you.
She leaves him in this Humour, not being able to obtain any Thing of him; and goes directly to [407] her Father, who was waiting impatiently to hear what his Son had ſaid to her, being himſelf diſpo⯑ſed to have treated him with the utmoſt Kindneſs, and Tenderneſs. As ſoon as he ſaw her, he began thus.
Well Child, have you ſeen your Brother?
Yes Sir, I have ſeen a miſerable Object, I am glad you did not ſee him at firſt!
Why ſo?
I believe it would break your Heart to ſee him; he is Lame with a Wound in his Knee, one Arm cut off, thin and lean as one dying of a Con⯑ſumption: He looks pale and melancholly, and indeed is to the laſt Degree, dejected and diſcon⯑ſolate. And withal, he is mean and ſhabby in Cloaths; I never ſaw ſuch an Object!
But what Temper is he in?
An Accident has diſordered him, other⯑wiſe he is as he uſed to be.
What Accident?
Why, the Servant you ſent, ſurprized him, with telling him too haſtily, that you had ordered him to a Lodging, and not to bring him Home: And then to encreaſe it, the Coach very unhappily drove by the Door here; and it grieved him ſo much, to ſee himſelf brought to his Father's Door, and could not have Leave to come in; that he fell into a violent Paſſion, the People ſay, he raged ſo much all Night, tho' they knew not at what, That they were afraid he would deſtroy himſelf; and he lays it ſo to Heart ſtill, that it grieves me, I know not what to do for him.
I heard indeed that he flew out into a Paſ⯑ſion. The Fellow was a Fool to deliver his Meſ⯑ſage inſolently, and alſo to bring him by the Door; [408] there was no need of it; but as for not coming in, he knew my Terms of his Return; and I know that he expected no other before he came over; but he might eaſily think my bringing him hither, was in Order to receive him kindly, and make his Submiſſions as cheap to him, as I could.
He would ha' ſcrupled no Submiſſions I believe, if this had not happened.
But he does now it ſeems.
No really, he bid me ſay to you, That he is very ſorry he has given you Offence, and eſpe⯑cially that he went away without your Leave, and that he will ask you Pardon with all his Heart.
But Child, does he come to the main Point; will he acknowledge his Sin againſt GOD and his Father, in reſiſting the juſt Meaſures taken for the Reformation of our Family, and his lea⯑ving the Houſe upon that Account. For which I ſolemnly declared to him, That if he went away upon that Score, he ſhould never return, but as a Penitent.
I hope Sir, you will conſtrue his asking you Pardon in general, to contain all that.
Why ſhould I conſtrue it Child, a Way that he does not declare it to be underſtood? For I have had ſome Information already, that he re⯑ſolves the contrary.
I am in hopes Sir, he will not declare that, and I hope you will let his Condition plead a little for him; Miſery diſorders our Tempers, as well as our Body.
But if his Miſery will not allow him to make ſo juſt an Acknowledgment, nor he will not free me from the Engagements which he knows I am under; it is he refuſes to come in, it is not I that ſhut him out; it is a ſad Sign, if ſo much Suffe⯑ring, [409] has not reach'd his Heart, to convince him of his Sin!
Perhaps he may be better Sir, when his Concern at this Accident is a little over; I am loath to afflict him, for he is ſo weak, I fear di⯑ſturbing him, may kill him.
I could find in my Heart, to go to him my ſelf.
I cannot ſay Sir, whether it may be better or worſe; if he be in Temper, it muſt needs be to his Advantage, to have you ſee him; but if his Di⯑ſturbance at this Affair, is not over, tho' he be ſo low reduced, I fear his obſtinate Temper.
What, does he think, That I take Occaſion from his Miſery, to force him to a Submiſſion?
I cannot ſay but ſomething of that is upon his Mind.
Come then, I have a Thought of an Expe⯑dient to remove his Reſentment; for I will not leave him the leaſt Room to complain of me, nor indeed do I deſire, or value a forced Submiſſion; if GOD has not wrought a Change upon him by his Afflictions, it is not my forcing him that will do any good: If he makes any Acknowledgments from the Power of his preſent Neceſſities, they will be but Hypocritical and inſincere, and ſuch a Kind of Penitence as will not be acceptable to GOD, I am ſure will be very unſatisfying to me.
That's very true Sir.
I'll tell you what you ſhall do; go back to him, and tell him, I had no Deſign to put any Af⯑front upon him; or to ſuppreſs him in his Affli⯑ction at all; and if my Servant behaved ill to him, it was without my Order.
That will be a great Comfort to him, I dare ſay.
Then tell him, he knows the Reaſon, why I cannot agree to take him Home; which Reaſon it is in his Power to remove when he pleaſes; tell him that when he thinks fit to remove it effectu⯑ally, he ſhall be received with as much Affection and Kindneſs as he can expect; but that it is be⯑low me to take Advantage of his Miſery to oblige him to that Submiſſion, tho' I have good Reaſon to do ſo: And that therefore I allow him to re⯑move, whether he pleaſes to go for his Accomo⯑dation: And I will allow him 50 l. a Year for his Subſiſtance; and there's 10 l. for him, for his preſent Supply: Thus he is left entirely free, either to comply with his Father, or not to com⯑ply with him, as GOD ſhall pleaſe to influence his Mind; he can complain of no Force or ill U⯑ſage on my Side.
Indeed Sir I muſt acknowledge for him it is more than he can expect! I'll carry him the News, and remove him this very Night, for he will break his Heart, if he ſtays there; he reckons that he is only ſent into an Hoſpital, but whether ſhall I remove him?
Where ever he will go.
Are you pleaſed Sir, That I ſhall carry him Home to my Houſe?
I will direct nothing in that.
Brother! What are you not well?
Never worſe, Body and Mind.
Come will you get up?
I cannot without Help, I am an Emblem of Mankind, they can fall when they will; but cannot riſe without Help.
Come I'll help you up: Alas! You are no heavier than a little Child.
Well have you ſeen my Father?
Dear Brother, We have ſuch a Father, as no Children in the World but us, could ever offend.
Why, what does he ſay?
He is very angry with his Servant for treating you ſo rudely, and bringing you up to the Door, and has turned him out of Doors for it: He ſays he ordered no ſuch Thing, and that you may not lay any Thing of that to Heart, he has given me Leave to carry you away from hence, where I will; or, in ſhort, given you Leave to re⯑move to any Part of the Town, where you pleaſe.
Siſter, I am willing enough to conſtrue every Thing my Father does in the beſt Senſe; but you miſtake me, the Servant did not behave rudely, nor was it his Fault that I was brought up to the Door, the Servant only did his Meſſage; it was the Nature of the Meſſage, not the Man⯑ner of it, that was my Surprize; and for the reſt, it was only caſual or providential, the Way I know lay by my Father's Door; and the Coach-Man who knew nothing of it, drove that Way of Courſe. But it is the Matter of the Meſſage, and ſending me hither as to an Hoſpital, to be kept in Sight of his Houſe, and not admitted till I had performed ſo and ſo.
Well Brother, however, my Father ſays you quite miſtake him, he ſays he ſhould have been very glad your own Inclinations had led you to give him the Satisfaction which he thinks is your Debt; and which you know he cannot go from; that he hoped you had been convinc'd by the hand [412] of GOD upon you, both of your paſt Sin, and your preſent Duty; but that he ſcorns to put any Force upon you, or to preſs you by the Violence of your Neceſſities to comply with him, it muſt be GOD's Work, or it can be no Satisfaction to him, and therefore he leaves you to your Liberty.
What does my Father call Liberty Siſter? he leaves me to my Liberty, that is, either to ſubmit, or ſtarve; come on my Knees to him, or beg; is this leaving me to my Liberty?
Dear Brother, ſee now how your Paſ⯑ſions and Impatience miſguide you; my Father is none of thoſe Tyrants; he ſays he hopes God may ſtill open your Eyes; that Repentance is God's Gift, it is not in his Power to force it; that how⯑ever you refuſe or decline your Duty to him, he will do his Duty to you, and leave the Iſſue to Time: To this Purpoſe he will allow you 50 l. a Year, for your handſome Subſiſtance, and has ſent you 10 l. more for your preſent Supply, and as you know the Conditions of Reconcilia⯑tion to your Father, he ſays you have the Keys of his Door, and the Key of his Affections too, in your own Pocket; you may come in, when you pleaſe.
Did my Father ſay all this?
Yes indeed; and if I had not prevented him, I believe he would ha' come and told you ſo himſelf.
Why did you hinder him?
Why Brother, I was afraid of your Paſ⯑ſions, leaſt by too warm Expreſſions, you ſhould do your ſelf a Prejudice, and leſſen that affectionate Concern he has for you; I know the different In⯑fluence of Words, as they are well or ill placed.
I am eaſily over come by Kindneſs, never by Violence.
Will you not allow your Father the ſame Effect of Fleſh and Blood.
Had my Father come hither in that Tem⯑per, and ſaid thoſe Words you ſay from him; I ſhould ha' thrown my ſelf at his Foot, with more Submiſſion than he can expect.
Then I am ſorry I hindered him, I'll go and fetch him ſtill.
No, do not do that, I cannot promiſe for my ſelf at Second Hand.
O Brother! You have not a Senſe of the Crime, tho' you have ſome Senſe of the Kind⯑neſs; I hope ſtill Time may open your Eyes; for the preſent I would be glad to recover your Spirits, and cheer your Thoughts a lit⯑tle, that you may conſider Things with more Compoſure; will you tell me what Courſe you will take.
Any Courſe you ſhall direct, only to re⯑move me from this Place.
I doubt not it grieves you to look out of the back Window, and ſee your Father's Gar⯑den Gate.
Many other Things make this Place hate⯑ful to me.
Come, you ſhall go Home with me to my Houſe, I am ſure, my Dear will make you very welcome.
She takes him Home in her Coach, where ſhe uſed him with all the Kindneſs and Tender⯑neſs in the World, but could never bring him to any Senſe of his Duty to God, or his Father; after ſome Time, having ſtill his Allowance from his Father, he grew melancholly, and diſturbed, and offered two or three Times to deſtroy himſelf; but being recovered from that, he re⯑moved [414] from his Siſter's, and God having not pleaſed to grant him either the Grace of Re⯑pentance for his former Sins, or to prevent fu⯑ture; he fell into an extravagant Life, ill Com⯑pany, and drinking, and died in a miſerable Condition, Atheiſtical and Impenitent; having never ſeen his Father, nor ſo much as deſiring it, till on his Death-bed, being delirious, he cried out for his Father! his Father: That he had abuſed his Father! and begged to ſee his Father! That he might ask him Forgiveneſs! But he died before his Father, who happened to be in the Country, could be ſent for.