Husb. I have more respect for him, I assure you, and should think it the worst action that ever I 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.

Aunt. Why, what do you take your daughter to be?

Husb. To be a contemner of God,-a despiser of reli. gion,-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 my experience; 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.

Aunt. 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.

Husb. Does he know that she is now in actual rebellion against God, in defiance 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.

Aunt. Yes, he knows all that.

Fath. And what says he to it?

"Aunt. He says he will come and ask you forgiveness for

her.

Fath. Repentance is never done by proxy, sister; a truc penitent is never backward to come himself.

Aunt. Why, it is true, as he says, that for her to come now and submit herself, is only sending her home to cry for a husband, or making her appear a penitent for a portion. He desires your consent, that he shall marry your daughter, and leaves all the rest to you.

Fath. I can have no concerns with her, nor assent or

1

dissent to or from any thing that concern 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.

Aunt. You will not however force her repentance, brother. I hope she is sensible she is wrong, and I can see it plain enough; but you know, brother, repentance is' the gift of God only. I dare say your daughter would be glad to ask your pardon; 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, nor I, nor any body alive, can answer for that. Would you be willing I should bring her to acknowledge her offence against you?

Fath. Sister, I would have no solicitor 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.

Aunt. Well, I am persuaded the sooner she marries my son-in-law, the sooner she will be brought to repentance. I am satisfied he will be no hindrance to her in the way of duty.

Fath. 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 she instruct her children, that would hear no instruction herself, and ridiculed it in her brothers and sisters, who were better inclined ? If he is told all this faithfully and sincerely, I know that 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.

Aunt. You are very hard to be wooed, methinks.

Fath. 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.

Aunt. If I had come on this message before my niece had disobliged you, I believe you had thought it a good settlement for your daughter.

Fath. Had it been before she had discovered herself to be, what I think will ruin and destroy him, I mean as to the happiness of a relation, I acknowledge 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.

Aunt. But if we will venture, you will not oppose it.

Fath. What mean you 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 myself, 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.

Aunt. Well, I have no more to say, but I believe we shall make a wedding of it amongst us; and perhaps she may be brought to her duty afterwards. 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.

Fath. I will have no blame, if she proves all that's wicked to him.

Aunt. I'll clear you of that effectually; I hope she may be yet a good woman, and make him a good wife.

Fath. He runs more risk than a grenadier storming a counterscarp.

Moth. The grace of God may reclaim her. I grant it, though we see but little hope of it. However, sister, I engage you upon your word, to give a faithful account both to your son and to his father, of all I have told you of her

conduct, how she has treated ner parents, and how it may be expected she will treat her husband; and if, after being thus fairly warned by us, you will venture, 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.

THE SECOND DIALOGUE.

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, after 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 dialogue, 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 itself.

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 the sister a visit, their first conversation produces the following dialogue.

The sister begins with a sigh.

Sist. Well, brother, what is become of us two? Methinks we are two odd people in the world.

Bro. Truly, so we are; we look like two exiles, or people rather gone into a voluntary banishment from their own country.

Sist. I'll tell you. I have thought rather we are like

two malcontent 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.

Bro. 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 afterwards.

Sist. Why, do you repent then?

Bro. 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 happened; there are many things which makes my present condition less pleasant to me than it was before.

Sist. 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.

Bro. Aye, 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.

Sist. Nor never will, I hope, there's no danger of that, brother.

Bro. I hope not; yet I must needs say, ever since I have fixed myself for my travels, my heart has been very heavy, and I dream every night the strangest things.

Sist. What need you be concerned? you have a good estate of your own; you are as well as if you were at home.

Bro. No, not so well neither; for, to go back to your court simily, the discontented courtier retires to his estate in the country, and there he can live 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 staid with my father, or gone abroad with his consent, I had been subsisted at his expense, or perhaps travelled at his charge; and then my own estate would have increased: besides, my father, sure, would not have disinherited me for no other crime, but merely having a lit