it now. I would fain know what you mean. What do you pray for me for?

Sir R. I sincerely pray, that wherever you go, your wicked and blasphemous discourse, so long as God shall permit you to go on thus, may have the same effect upon others, as it has had upon me; till at last, meeting with somebody more wicked than yourself, if that be possible, their desperate talk may have the same effect upon yourself, and you may be awakened at the surprise, of finding somebody nearer hell-gate than you are.

Sist. What stuff is all this? I thought we had been talking of somewhat else? Pray what is all this to me and my husband?

Sir R. It is true, sister, it is not much to that case, but it is to me however, we will leave that, and talk about you and your husband, if you will give me room to say any thing that may be of use to you, and may tend to reconcile you to your duty, and bring you together again; but, if you are resolved to be obstinate, what can I do for you?

Sist. Your whole discourse runs as if you had no design of reconciling; for you lay all the blame on one side, and he is in no fault in your opinion: is that the way to bring us together?

Sir R. Why, if he is in no fault, how can I help that? If he is, let me hear it; I have heard the whole story from yourself, and I have not heard you charge him with any thing. I confess, when you told me yourself, that you broke from him for no other reason, but that you could not bear the burden of his formalities, as you called it, 1 did not believe you; but thought that some other thing had happened between you, and that you were willing to conceal the true occasion.

Sist. What should make you believe so?

Sir R. Because, as I said before, sister, I did not think it possible any woman in the world could be so mad to call that an offence, which all the world, even the wickedest part of it, value people for; much less, that you, who always

passed for a modest woman, and a woman of sense, could act such a wild distracted part, as to come away for such a thing as that, from the best husband in the world.

Sist. Indeed I have done it; I have had no other reason, and don't pretend to have any other.

Sir R. I am amazed then, sister, at what you mean, by saying I lay all the fault on one side.

Sist. Why, so you do.

Sir R. Well, sister, if I do, it is from your own mouth; but pray tell me any thing then that you have to charge upon your husband as a fault.

Sist. Why did he let me come away? Why did he not oblige me so much, as to stay with me that night when I desired him?

Sir R. Sister, if I may take this story from your own mouth, you acknowledged to me that he broke from you but for a quarter of an hour, to go down to pray with his family, the servants being called together, and staying for him now this is the main point again; he believes it is his duty, you would have him omit it; his conscience tells him he must not omit it, his wife says he must omit it to oblige her. In this case, I think I must quote some scripture too, "Whether it is meet for a man to obey God rather than his wife, judge you."

Sist. He might have obliged me for once, it had not been such a matter.

Sir R. Sister, you and I have made a small matter of conscience; but, with men of principles and religion, it is quite otherwise. I frankly acknowledge to you, they are in the right, and we are dreadfully mistaken. I see it plainly now, sister, very plainly; a man once touched with a sense of his duty to his Maker, will, like Daniel, die rather than omit it but you could not see into the reason of those things, and therefore took it unkindly; another wife would have embraced and loved him for it.

Sist. I see into the reason of it! No, not I, nor don't

desire to trouble myself about it: but this I can see, I can see when a husband carries it obligingly or brutishly.

Sir R. But, sister, do you really think that the little unkindness you complain of, had it been real and justifiable in him, justifies your parting and separating from your husband? Can you answer it to God or man?

Sist. It justifies it to me, and that is enough; I am accountable to nobody.

Sir R. 1 differ there from you too,-you will find you are accountable to somebody: but to let that pass, it cannot justify it to yourself, because it is a breach of your obligation, without an offence.

Sist. Is it no offence?

Sir R. It puts me in mind, sister, of what I have often observed in many families, though I never expected to see an example of it so near home; that indeed most of the family breaches in the world are begun in the veriest trifles, the most ridiculous, simple, insignificant differences imaginable: don't you remember our neighbour, Mr. Bar--t; his father, old justice Bar--t, parted from his wife, Mr. Bart's mother, about 20 years before he died, upon a quarrel between them, upon this foolish question; whether she would not lead him about if he should be blind, when he was an old man? She said she would not, and he said it was unkind: she said it was work for a servant, and he said she did not love him; for if she did, she would not trust him to a servant. And so one word brought in another, the devil blowing the coals, till the fire of contention flamed out. He struck her in a rage; she threw something at him in the same passion; and he growing furious, cursed her; and falling on his knees, wished something very terrible to himself, if he lived another day with her: she lifts up her hands and eyes, and says amen to it; and so they parted.

Sist. I think they were in the right of it.

Sir R. Do you so, sister; I don't think you speak as you

mean.

Do

you

upon the family?

remember what sad consequences it had

Sist. I have forgot a great deal of it; I know they were a very unhappy house.

Sir R. I will put you in mind of it then, sister; the poor old lady was a good quiet minded creature, and repented heartily of her passion, though she was not the cause of the quarrel however, she came to him and acknowledged her fault, and begged his pardon, and told him, she was ready to do it on her knees; that she would come and live with him whenever he desired it, but was afraid to press him to it, because of the imprecations he had made upon himself. At last she died, and made a very penitent Christian end; warning all that should hear of her, to beware of raising feuds in their families upon slight occasions. The old man had stood it out against God and man till then; but hearing of his wife's death, and the manner of it, went mad, and in one of his fits destroyed himself.

Sist. What is all this to me?

Sir R. I'll tell you what it is to you; 'tis a fair warning, and indeed an exhortation to you, not to lay a foundation of ruining your family, for such little quarrels, such unjustifiable things. I was but a little boy when old Justice Bar--t hanged himself, but I remember the people used to say, it was a just judgment of God upon him, for the treating his wife in such a barbarous manner, for such a foolish thing, that had nothing of provocation in it; and I think your's is really worse. Here you have parted with your husband, and have left your family (and in confusion enough to be sure), and all because he staid a quarter of an hour away from you, when you desired his company; and this without allowing for the necessity he was under, in point of conscience, without allowing for its being his duty to go; and, which is more, without considering that it was your duty to have gone with him.

Sist. All you say signifies nothing, he might have gone

away afterward; it is the unkindness of the matter which made the impression; I hate him heartily ever since.

Sir R. Any one would laugh at you to hear the first, and hate you heartily to hear the last.

Sist. I can be even with all the world, for I'll laugh at them that laugh at me, and hate them that hate me. I think you will make a quarrel of it, brother, what do you mean? If you are uneasy at my being here, I'll deliver you of the burden.

Sir R. You turn every thing to something disobliging, sister; I do not say I am uneasy at you, but I acknowledge I am uneasy for you; if you can't make the distinction, I can't help that, you know I am a plain dealer.

Sist. It is indifferent to me, brother; you know I need not be troublesome to any body.

Sir R. No, no, sister; no body shall be troublesome to me, I will be easy be it how it will. It is true, I was in hopes, by a plain discourse, to have persuaded you to act a wiser part than I see you are going on in; but seeing you are resolved to expose yourself, I have done, though I can't approve of what you do, I shall meddle less with it; and seeing you can't bear to hear plain truth, I shall let you tlone.

Sist. I desire every body to let me alone.

Sir R. I believe few will be so much your friend as I have been; others will reproach you for not doing your duty, not persuade you to do it.

Sist. Then I'll bear their reproaches as well as I can.

Sir R. Do, sister; but remember, you will not be so well able to bear your own reproaches, when your conscience (perhaps very late) shall come to tell you what you ought to have done; how you ruined yourself, your family, your two innocent children, and your husband, and for what a sordid notion your passions, assisted by the devil, carried you on to such a dreadful extremity. I entreat you, sister, consider it, and remember, that though I have