"b./ifJC', 
 
 PRINCETON, N. J. ''^ 
 
 
 Presented by (^\ . (S~\ . 0<:7\V^r\c2-V^cOY-\ ~^y> .~D, 
 
 Division 
 Section ■■ 
 
 
 1 
 
GOD'S REVENGE 
 
 AGAINST 
 
 ADULTERY, 
 
 <WFULLY KXEMPLIFIBD IN THE FOLLOWING CASES 
 
 AMERICAN CRIM. CON. 
 
 I. THE ACCOMPLISHED DR. THEODORE WILSON, (DCLAWARB,) WHO 
 
 FOR SEDUCINi. MRS. KANCY WILEY, HAD HIS BRAINS 
 
 BLOWN OUT BY HER HUSBAND. 
 
 II. THE ELEGANT JAMES ONEALE, ESQ. (NORTH CAROLINA,) WHO 
 
 FOR SEDUCING THE BEAUTIFUL MISS MATILDA LBB- 
 
 TRANCE, WAS KILLED BY HER. BROTHBR 
 
 / 
 
 BY MASON L. WEEMS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF THE LIFE OF WASHINOTOX. 
 
 &«><^^@^^^ 
 
 BALTIMORE: 
 
 PBHTTED BY RALPH W. POMEROY & CO. 
 
 1815. 
 
DISTRICT OF MARYLAND, to IDtt: 
 
 BE IT REMEMBERED, That on this twenty-fourth 
 ?K50()tf*y day of December, in tlie thirty-nintih year of the Indepen- 
 yH ^ dence of the United States of America, Mason L. Weeras, 
 
 }ti SEAL ifn of the said District, hath deposited in this office, the title of 
 ^ . ^'^ a book; the right whereof he claims as author, in the words 
 3KjK^iki^ and figures following, to wit: 
 
 "God's Revenge against Adultery, Awfully Exemplified in the fol- 
 "lowing Cases of American Crim. Con. I. The accomplished Dr. 
 "Theodore Wilson, (Deleware. who, for seducing Mrs. Nancy Wiley, 
 ♦«had his brains blown out by her husband. II. The elegant James 
 "Onealc, Esq. (North Carolina) who, for seducing the beautiful Miss 
 "Matilda Lestrange, was killed by her brother. By M. L. Weems, 
 "author of the Life of Washington." 
 
 In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the Uhited States, en- 
 titled "An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the 
 copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of 
 such copies, during the times therein mentioned." And also to the 
 act entitled, "An Act supplementary to the act, entitled, 'An Act for 
 the encouragementof learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, 
 and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the 
 times therein mentioned,' and extending the benefits thereof to the 
 arts of desiening, engraving, and etching, historical and other prints." 
 
 PHILLIP MOORE, 
 Clerk of the District of Maryland. 
 
 The charming glow of virtuous love. 
 
 Luxuriantly indulge it; 
 But never tempt the lawless rove. 
 
 Though nothing should divulge it. 
 
 For mortal hate will sure ensue, 
 
 When brutal lust's abated; 
 And wounds and death are ever due, 
 
 To husband's rights invaded BURNS- 
 
God's Revenge against Adultery 
 
 When thy judgments are abroad in the earth the inhabitants of iht 
 world will learn witDoi«. — taaiak axvi. 9. 
 
 DOCTOR lltcodore AVilson, the chief actor in this 
 Iragecff, was a native of Lewistown in the state of Dela- 
 ware. His father was a Presbyterian preaehtr, p*eat!y 
 celehrated through all that eounlry for his piety and ac- 
 tive charity, in which latter gi-acc he found so much 
 pleasure that he studied physio, on purpose that like his 
 divine master he might heal the eoi-poreal as well as the 
 spiritual maladies of his people. 
 
 For his medicines and attendance on the poor he made 
 no chai^. But while thus attentive to the happiness of 
 others he did not neglect his ow n. From the numerous 
 flocks which he fed, he early selWWirfWlat the prophet 
 happily terms — a little ave-lamh, i. e. a sweet faced, 
 hhishing maiden whom he consecrated to himself in holy 
 wedlock. **S/ie did eat of his own bread and drank of 
 his own cup, and did lie in his hosonif and was unto him 
 better than a daughter.** 
 
 Struck with the angel-like beauty of his first born, the 
 delighted father called him Theodore, which in the 
 Greek language signifies "the fair gift of god." 
 For a considerable time it was believed by his friends 
 that his title had been well chosen^ for as he grew in 
 years he grew also in such charms both of mind and bo- 
 dy, that all were persuaded he would one day or other 
 make good his name, and prove himself indeed a "choice 
 gift of God" to the world. 
 
 As he advanced to manhood the blossoms of hope thick- 
 ened upon him, and by the time he had reached his one 
 and twentieth year his friends beheld him in circumstan- 
 ces uncommonly flattering; a finished scholar — a gradua- 
 ted physician — remarkable for the beauty of his person 
 and the splendour of his talents, which heightened by a 
 most graceful elocuUon and polished manners rcMidcrcd 
 
him the admiration uf all^ especially of the fair sex, frotn 
 among whom at this early period he selected an amiable 
 partner. His wife was an heiress, the only daughter of 
 my worthy old friend colonel Simon RoUock, of Indian 
 river. About the twenty-fifth year of his life he was cal- 
 led to the sad office of closing his father's eyes. As the 
 elder son he then took possession of the old mansion-house 
 in Lewistown the place of his nativity, and there sat down 
 in a situation of uncommon promise of useful and happy 
 life. Young, handsome, wealthy, accomplished — the hus- 
 band of an elegant woman — the father of two beautiful 
 babes — and extensively engaged in the beneficent and lu- 
 cralive duties of a physician. But alas! notwithstanding 
 all tl»is, we are constrained to say of doctor Wilson, what 
 the holy scriptures, after much praise of him, say of 
 Nuaman the Syrian, hut he was a leperl He was infected 
 with that most shameful and uneasy of all diseases, an 
 incurable lust 4ffWMii||after strange women. 
 
 The passion for the lovely sex is an instinct of our na- 
 ture so highly fascinating as to require all the aids of re- 
 ligion to preserve it within its proper limits, heaven 
 ORDERED MARRIAGE. And indeed with all these aids it 
 has too often been known to break forth into sad acts of 
 guilt and shame, as even the holy David and Solomon 
 have testified to their lasting sorrow. If then the saint, 
 with the bible daily in his hands, can scarcely stand, how 
 sure must be the fall of those who indulge themselves in 
 profane publications? 
 
 Of this much to be lamented class was the imprudent 
 doctor Wilson. According to his friend and kinsman go- 
 vernor Hall, this elegant young man owed his early down- 
 fal to reading 'paine's age of reason.' He was in the 
 full vigour of twenty-five when he heard of this libertine 
 publication. The noise which it made in the world in- 
 sured to it an eager reader in doctor Wilson; and by his 
 boundless ardour for animal pleasures he was already 
 prepared to give Mr. Paine rather more than fair play, 
 and even to swallow with delight his bold slanders of the 
 bible, and his still bolder conclusions that all revelation is 
 
but a trick of self-seekiog priests. Oa gaining this 
 point lie was to be happy. Uc iuig;ht then riot and iTvel 
 in the sties of brutal pleasure and never more diTatl the 
 gospel trumpet sounding the dismal doom of adulttrei's. 
 In short, hating religion because of the trouble it gave 
 him in his sins, he determined to be done with it, and 
 accordingly threw aside his father's good old family bi- 
 ble, and for a surer guide to pleasure took up the age 
 OF reason! As a man going on a forloni hope wishes all 
 the company he can get, so this infatuated gentleman, 
 not content with going to perdition himself, appears to 
 have been desirous to take along with him all the re- 
 cruits that he could muster. Among others whom he 
 wished to enlist was his excellency David Hall, at tliat 
 time governour of the state, and from whom I received 
 most of the outlines of this history. 
 
 The doctor often attacked governour Hall on the sub- 
 ject of his religion; and in the heat of declamation 
 against it would so far lose sight of politeness as often 
 to brand it with the epithets o{**priestcraft, supei'stition, 
 nonscnsu** 
 
 "Well but, doctor," answered the governour, as he 
 told me himself, *'I wonder how you came to be such an 
 enemy to this religion; your father was a great admirer 
 of it, and I am sure if we may judge by its effects on 
 him you have no cause to dislike it, for it made a most 
 excellent man of him. 
 
 "True, sir," replied the doctor, "my father was a 
 good man, but I don't thauk his religion for. it. I am 
 sure his religion, like his name, was a mere hereditary 
 thing. He never looked into the c-idcnces of it or the 
 reasons he had for it." 
 
 "Aye, doctor!" answered tJie governour, "if you eom« 
 to that I am sure you must soon get yourself into a hob- 
 ble; for asi to the evidences of the gospel you will <i<T- 
 tainly never undertake to deny that they uih; what rea- 
 son entirely approbates. For, sir, what docs the gospel 
 teach but that there is a God — that he desires above all 
 tkings the happiiirss of man — thai he delights in virtue. 
 
and has pi'«pared a glorious heaven wherein «11 the >m*- 
 tuous shall be happy for ever? Is not this ivason, sir, 
 and the most excellent reason too? And what does the 
 gospel command, hut that we should love God with aU 
 our heart, and our neighbour as onrself? And will you 
 say, sir that this is not reason^ Is it not reason to love 
 the GREATEST and best of all beings and he too our 
 Creator? And is it not reason to love our nei^^hhour 
 who is our own flesh and blood, especially too when that 
 love would not only root bitter hate and malice out of oor 
 hearts and put a total end to all bloody retaliation and 
 revenge, but would actually make us feel our neighboui'S 
 dear to us as brothers, and rejoiee in their happiness as 
 our own — thus multiplying our joys, and turning earth 
 into heaven?" 
 
 "All that's well enough, sir," answered the doctor, 
 *'all that's well enough. But what do you think of God's 
 being born in the flesh and dying for our sins! — dying 
 for such reptiles as we are!! Is'nt that enough to make 
 a man's hair stand upon his head?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, with wonder at the divine goodness.'* 
 **No, sir, with wonder rather of human madness." 
 **Human Wisdomt you should have said, doctor." 
 **Wisdom, indeed! heavens! is it possible, sir, you can 
 give to such absurdity the name of WisdomfJ^' 
 
 "Yes, I look on it as wisdom, as the sublime of wis- 
 dom, sir. I look on the redemption of miserable man as 
 that stupendous kind of goodness which is exactly in cha- 
 racter with God, and therefore just what we had a right 
 to expect from him. I am a sinner, doctor, a grievous 
 sinner, and I want comfort, I want a sure comfort, sir. 
 In a matter of such high concern as the pardon of my 
 sins and eternal life I don't want to he thrown like the 
 deists on the mere conjectures of nature, hoping to day 
 and despairing to morrow. No sir, I want all the cer- 
 tainties of a revelation. And blessed be God, who in his 
 infinite mercy has condescended to come in human shape 
 in^o the Avorld, to assure me that if I sincerely repent of 
 my sins and repose my faith on him, in a new life of 
 
v^uaiTT and iovg, my sins shall .ill be forpjiven mc, anil 
 1 sIiaII be reslAred to bis favour and pence here anil tu 
 eternal UapitinftMtJ^^^it^t^^^^i'*'* 
 
 To these viMiiidHings though so clearly derived from 
 tUo moral eiiaracter of God, and so pregnant nvilh eonso- 
 lation to pour ntortals eonscious of guiU and misery us 
 we are, the doctor eould return no ansivci* but ^coff and 
 ridicule. Hereupon Ihc governour eut the oonversatioA 
 short, as he (old iue« by ihc following;; reply, **well, doe- 
 tor Wilson, hear me once for all — I honour (he memory 
 of yout* excellent old father, and I have a {^i^at friend- 
 ship for you; it will thei-cforc never do for me to quarrel 
 with you; and especially about religion, of which I know 
 I have n€t half as much as I ought to have; but still, 
 the little that I possess affords me so much comfort that 
 I would not give it up for ten thousand woHds. So doe- 
 tor, if you value my friendship never attempt to shake 
 my faith again as long as you live." 
 
 But though doctor Wilson could not succeed in prosc> 
 lyting the governour to infidelity he too fatally succeeded 
 iu confirming himself in a contempt of all sacred obliga- 
 tions. The strong reins of religion being thus broken 
 from the neck of his passions, he was at full liberty to rush 
 on to the fair but fatal fields of sensuality with all Ihc 
 eagerness of a warm and vigorous youth of twenty-five. 
 
 W ho, or how many, were the amorous dames in whose 
 embraces he sought that happiness which the great king 
 Solomon in vain sought in the arms of a thousand of 
 the brightest maids of the cast, we know not. But this 
 Ave know, that the connexion which wrought his ruin and 
 which furnishes the subject of this tragedy was with 
 Mrs. Nancy Wiley. This lady, the wife of Mr. James 
 Wiley tavern-keeper in Lewistown, was blest, or rather 
 as it turned out, was curst, witli an extraordinary portion 
 of beauty. Her person whether she walked or danced 
 was sufficient, I am told, to give the delighted beholders 
 a fine idea of the queen of love. And her face was not 
 inferior to her form; with features regular and finely 
 proportioned and a mouth whose dimpled smiles were 
 
8 
 
 perfect enchantment. She possesied a pair of large 
 sparkling eyes which shed such subtle streams of sweet- 
 ness into all hearts that none could behV)M'her without tu- 
 mults of deli-ht. This is but a feeble outline of that 
 loveliness which the hand that made her had poured over 
 her person. Oh had her mind been proportionably adorn- 
 ed with the charms of prudence and piety, those two 
 wretched gentlemen doctor Wilson and her husband had 
 never been brought down to their early graves in such 
 floods of sorrow and blood. But alas! it fared with Mrs. 
 Wiley, when young, as it does with many a sweet mai- 
 den that promises to be handsome — she was shamefully 
 neglected as to her mind. 
 
 *'What an angel that girl would &6," said a sensible 
 friend to her mother, **if she could but receive the polish 
 ef a good education."* 
 
 "Never mind; let Nancy alone;'* retorted the silly mo- 
 ther, "she will be angel enough I'll be bound, for her, 
 without education." And thus, even to this day, many 
 a christian mother, in bringing up her daughter, goes on 
 to accord with that silly old ballad which used to divert 
 us in the nursery — 
 
 *^*And what's young women made of, made of} 
 
 Pinks and roses, and such sweet posies, thaVs what 
 young women''s made of* 
 Thus actually degrading the immortal fair to the level 
 of garden flowers! the mere creatures of colours, and 
 perfumes! Alas! what pity it is that heaven-destined wo- 
 man shouM suffer herself to be cheated of far more than 
 half her beauties! and that because of her pretty lips 
 and cheeks, all faces are brightened with sweet surprise 
 when she enters the room, and all the young men are 
 jostling each other to reach a chair or pick up her glove, 
 she should so confide in these short-lived beauties of the 
 body as to neglect those immortal beauties of the mind 
 WISDOM and pikty, which furnish the best securities of 
 innocent and honourable life! 
 
 Such cruel neglect of parents to direct their daughters 
 to the pleasures of the mind has been the ruin of many a 
 fine girl. It proved, in the sequel, the ruin of (he bean- 
 
9 
 
 tiful Mrs. Wiley. Having never been taught to polish 
 that immortal jewel her soul, she had nothing left but to 
 polish the poor easket her body — to trick it up in gaudy 
 attire — to perfume it >vith sweet odours — to blaneh its 
 skin — to whiten its teeth — to curl its tresses, making it 
 in this way, the goddess of her devotions. Thus idolized 
 by herseir, she expected, of course, that her dear person 
 should be idolized by all others. And those were most 
 sure of her favour who most Haltered her vanity. 
 
 No man need be a eonjiirer to predict that the first 
 interview between doctor Wilson and Mrs. Wiley should 
 produce an unbounded idolatry on both sides, and also 
 that the result would be but little honourable to Mrs. 
 Wiley or her husband. How long this giddy fair one 
 listened to the fatal voice of the charmer before she was 
 prevailed on to violate her marriage vows is not certain, 
 but it is generally believed that it was a considerable 
 time before it was even suspected by her injured partner. 
 The truth is, Mr. Wiley was a gay, w arm hearted young 
 Irishman, a character but little prone to jealousy. And 
 besides, there were in his nature several other obstaelos 
 to jealously, all growing out of the same amiable warmth 
 of soul. Never was a man more wrapped up in another 
 than he was in doctor Wilson. About the time of his first 
 settling in Lewistown he had been brought to death's 
 door by a most violent attack of the billious fever. Af- 
 ter all other medical aid had failed, doctor Wilson was 
 sent for; and in a few days, contrary to all expectations, 
 restored him to his family and life again. His gratitude 
 became unbounded. He spoke of doctor Wilson as his 
 saviour and thought he could never do enough for him. 
 Nothing appeared to give him so much pleasure as doc- 
 tor Wilson's company, and he was always contriving some 
 fond expedient to obtain it. If he could get a finer fish 
 or a nicer haunch of venison than ordinary, doctor 
 Wilson must be sure to come and dine with him. And 
 if any travellers of more than common rank called for 
 the night at his tavern, he must send for the doctor to 
 sup and spend the evening with biui. 
 B 
 
10 
 
 One so beloved is not apt to be suspected. And in 
 favour of one thus beloved we are apt to make a thou- 
 sand apologies. Hence when a friend once observed to 
 him that he thought doctor Wilson was rather too fami- 
 liar with Mrs. Wiley, he replied, ''Pshaw! the doctor is 
 a finished gentleman^ sir, and I look on his attention to 
 my wife as a complimeHt to me/" Thq whispers of suspi- 
 cion were however so frequently sounded in his ears that 
 it began at last to make him uneasy^ and stepping acci- 
 dentally one day into his chamber when it was thought 
 by his wife that he was gone abroad, he caught the doc- 
 tor on the sofa with Mrs. Wiley in his lap, leaning her 
 cheek against his bosom, he fondly encircling her in his 
 arms and printing burning kisses on her lips. 
 
 Had hell itself been suddenly exposed to his view, it 
 could hardly have struck him with equal horrour. His 
 heart still clinging to its loves, would have given worlds 
 for a ray of hope, for a show of apology for them. But 
 alas! there was none. In their deep confusion and crim- 
 son blushes he too plainly read their guilt. Then for 
 the first time he felt the pangs of jealousy, that dread- 
 ful passion which like a two-edged sword of hell stabs to 
 
 death his repose, not only the present but the past 
 
 Things which in the confidence of love had passed quite 
 unnoticed, now rush on his mind as proofs of blackest 
 guilt, their long evening ivalks together! their frequent 
 ridings out in his gig! He raves to think he should have 
 been so blind. He curses his easy credulity which had 
 suffered such barefaced baseness to pass so long unmarked. 
 
 Had he wanted any further proof of their guilt he 
 jnight have found it abundantly in the altered conduct 
 of Ins wiiej for as no man can serve two masters, so no 
 woman can love two men. The husband and the gallant 
 cannot long hold an equal place in her affections, she 
 will cleave to the one and despise the other. The woman 
 whose price is ahove rubies has no eye, no ear, no heart 
 but for her husband. Wrapped up in him she remains 
 tiappily indifferent to others, "ffas not your husband a 
 very had hrcathT* said a Hemirep to a wife of thisexccU 
 
11 
 
 lent sort. ** Indeed j'^* replied the lady very innocently. 
 **I doii't know. I nevei' smelled any other gentleman's 
 breath but my dear hu8band*s.** 
 
 But Mrs, Wiley was not one of this high character. 
 She had an eye to wander and make comparisons. This 
 was a loosing game to her husband: for doctor Wilson, 
 as we before hinted, was an Apollo in his form, and a 
 Chesterfield in his manners, which added to the eclat of 
 bis talents, and his scrviceablencss as a physician, gave 
 him a wonderful popularity in Lewistown, and the neigh- 
 bouring country. No wonder that such a gallant should 
 too fatally have succeeded against poor Mr. Wiley in the 
 affections of his wife. This was but too visible in every 
 part of her behaviour towards him. She studiously avoid- 
 ed his company of which she used to be so fond — her 
 looks were no longer bright with smiles — her eyes no 
 tnore beamed with tenderness — and even in the bed sanc- 
 tified by hymen, she would turn from him as with dis- 
 gust, and toss and sigh like one whose heart was set up- 
 on some absent love. 
 
 If there be a trial in life, which more than any other 
 requires the mighty supports of philosophy and relip;ion, 
 it is this. And had Mr. Wiley been eithci* u SociaUs oi- 
 a Paul, he might have sustained the shock with forti- 
 tude. The baseness of his friend, and ihe falsehood of 
 his wife, would have (aught him more highly to prize 
 the immortal charms of virtue, and to rejoice in the re- 
 collection that he had placed his heart on a nobler love 
 than a faithless woman's smiles. But alas! poor W'iley 
 was no pliilosopher nor christian. No hopes had he be- 
 yond those of time and sense — no Joys in reversion to con- 
 sole him under sorrows in hand. His all Mas at stake 
 in the present life. To n)ake money; and to enjoy it with 
 his friend and wife, was all that he wished for; and his 
 wislies appeared to be in a fair way to be gratified. From 
 his tavern, which he had raised to great credit; he was 
 deriving a handsome revenue. In doctor Wjlsoji he had 
 a friend whom he so highly valued, that, as governour 
 Hall assured me, he would have gone through fire and. 
 
It 
 
 water to serve him. And on his beautiful wife he so doa- 
 ted that he could scarcely bear her out of his sight. 
 
 A heart long wedded to objects so dear, could hardly, 
 without breaking, be divorced from them at once; and 
 least of all in a way so bitter to reflection. Had they 
 been snatched from him in the ordinary ways of mortali- 
 ty, the loss, though grievous, might have been borne. 
 He might have refl^ected that it was the will of heaven, 
 and ought to be acquiesced in — he might have consoled 
 himself with the sweet remembrance of their virtues, 
 and the hopes of being reunited to them in some happier 
 world, where parting is no more. But to have been rob- 
 bed of all, by such accursed means — such brutal lust and 
 adultery! such hellish ingratitude and baseness! the 
 thought is intolerable. Like an envenomed dart it stings 
 )iim to the soul, and leaves a poison in tbe wound, which 
 nothing can ever heal. And while all within him is an- 
 guish, all without serves but to aggravate the misery 
 which he suffers from his wife's infidelity. The night, 
 which was so short when spent in her sweet embraces, 
 now seems like a dark eternity — the morning, that was 
 wont to catch a double brightness from her opening eyes, 
 now comes on joyless and hateful — his gardens and fields, 
 that shone so gay in the days of his love, are now cover- 
 ed with sadness — his labours tliat were so pleasant when 
 sweetened by affection, are now entirely neglected. A 
 dark angry sullenness generally lours on his brow, but 
 still his looks, like an Indian sky, exhibit the most sud- 
 den and violent changes. One while, perfectly calm, he 
 sits, and witli eyes rivetted on her beauteous face, he 
 gazes and gazes, till overcome with tender remembrance 
 of the past, his colour changes, his cheeks swell, his eyes 
 redden and fill, then striking his hand against his fore- 
 head with gushing tears and cries he sobs out, oh JSTan- 
 cyl JS^ancy! JVancy/ Then again as if struck with the hor- 
 rid thought that she is no longer his Nancy! that though 
 his wedded wife, she is no longer his! but that with all 
 her charms — her soul melting eyes — her fragrant bosom, 
 and sweet delicious person, all, all are the willing banquet 
 
13 
 
 for a hated rival to riot on! he kindles into rage indescri 
 I)able — then boundini^ over the floor, like an iinchaini-d 
 maniac, with darkened brows, and (i^nashing teeth he hurls 
 his arms, and dar(s at her such looks as if he Avould tear 
 her into a tlioiisand pieees. 
 
 This deadly heat of INIr. AViley aj^inst doctor Wilson 
 was well known to the friends of the latter, who dreadint^ 
 the consequences, earnestly advisetl him to discontinue 
 his visits to Mr. Wiley's tavern as a place by no means 
 safe for him. But whether he thought such a course 
 would be construed as an acknowledgment of guilt; or 
 whether he could not give up the pleasure of Mrs. Wi- 
 ley's compauy, is not known; but so it was, he still con- 
 tinued his visits as formerly. He did not however con- 
 tinue them long before he (!ame to that bloody end which 
 his friends had all along dreaded. 
 
 The manner of his death was as follows. The reader 
 will here please allow me to premise this sad narrative 
 with another equally aweful and true. It is considcrbly 
 out of the ordinary track of nature I confess: but if he 
 be a philosopher he will not deem it, on that account, 
 the less certain. According to the. most sobci* and au- 
 thentick writers, many persons have Ijecn favoiMisi ^vith 
 a presentiment of their approaching fate. It was so with 
 this unhappy gentleman. The ghost of his mother, who 
 had been dead many years, appearo<l to him in the deep 
 sleep of night. He knew her to be his molher. Clad in 
 the cold shroud of the grave she stood at the foot of his 
 bed. In the days of his innocence the sight of his mo- 
 ther had always filled him with joy. But alas! his guilty 
 life had killed that joy, and now all that he felt in her 
 presence was strong terror, which held him motionless 
 and mute. After looking at him steadily in mournful si- 
 lence, which she did for some time, she stretched her 
 pale hand, and in the low and hollow voice of tbe tomb, 
 thus addressed him — **Wn'tchcd i/ou?ig man, //ly^rarc /*• 
 opening to receive thee. Oh rejtenl! repent! repenl!^' This 
 said, with a deep sigh she vanished, giving him a look 
 af unutterable tenderness mingled with sorrow. He star- 
 
14 
 
 ted in his bed with violence, and uttered a piercing shriek. 
 Roused from her slumbers, and filled with equal terrors, 
 his wife embraced him. By a candle, that had been 
 lighted on account of a sick child, she saw his counte- 
 nance. It was pale as the visage of death, and his eyes 
 stareing forward with the glare of horror, "Oh my dear 
 husband what's the matter,** she cried "for God's sake 
 Whafs the matterT' 
 
 "Oh my mother! my mother!" was all that he could 
 reply. 
 
 "Wimt of your mother, my dearest husland, what of 
 your motherT' she asked. 
 
 He then told her what he had seen; and also what he 
 had heard. She endeavoured to persuade him that it was 
 only a dream. But in vain. He insisted it was a call 
 from the invisible world, and that he felt an inward con- 
 viction he should die soon. It was several hours to day, 
 but he could sleep no more. To please Mrs. Wilson, 
 whom with great emphasis he called the best wife in the 
 world, he sat down to breakfast but took nothing but a 
 cup of coffee. He then went to his book-case, and ta* 
 king down the age of reason threw it into the fire, say- 
 ing at the same time, **cursed hook/ it was yon that help- 
 ed to undo me.'" After tliis he called for his father's bi- 
 ble and embraced it with great tenderness; and as he 
 read in it shed many tears. To divert his mind Mrs. 
 Wilson proposed a walk in the open air, and taking him 
 on one side and lier little son on the other, arm and arm 
 they walked forth to his favourite garden. The day was 
 uncommonly fine. There was no cloud in the sky to ob- 
 scure the sun, which now halfway up heaven, shon« like 
 a shield of burnished gold dazzling the earth with his 
 glory. Rejoicing in his beams, the garden plants put 
 on their richest robes, delighting all eyes, and filling the 
 air with their cheering odours. "Who can look at all 
 this," said Mrs. Wilson with great sprightliness, "and 
 not be happy." 
 
 It only serves to make me sad; replied he with a deep 
 sigh. 
 
15 
 
 "0 my hushandf how can you talk so'} 
 
 «I can't talk otherwise," said be, "when I see so 
 much beauty and loveliness around me, how can I hut 
 be sad to think I am so soon to leave it all for ever! I 
 have often thought it a fearful thing to AiCy hut never 
 felt it so horrible as at this dreadful hour. Would to 
 God I had never been born!" 
 
 "How, my beloved husband, can you utter such a wish^ 
 and join the blessed name of God with it too?" 
 
 Doctor W. Because it is he that makes me do it. It 
 is my dread of him that makes existence a curse and fu- 
 turity so frightful. 
 
 Mrs. W. O why will you take up such unworthy 
 thoughts of God? 
 
 Boctor W. I can't think of him but as a hater of Uie 
 
 wfcked. 
 
 Mrs, W. As a hater of our sins, my dear, but not ol 
 ourselves. He hates our sins, but he loves us. O see 
 these bright and lovely scenes around us! this earth with 
 all its flowery beauties, yon heavens with all their daz- 
 zling glories! had they ten thousand thousand tongues, 
 could they speak louder than they now do, that God is 
 LOVE, and that he infinitely desires our happiness. And 
 least, through the force of black despair, we should 
 sometimes miss of this blest conclusion, he has given us 
 a still brighter evidence, he has given us the gospel, to 
 assure us that God so loved the icorld, that he gave his 
 only begotten son, that whosoever bclieveth in him 
 should not perish, but have everlasting life— and— " 
 
 Here he interrupted her by eai-gerly calling out, '^provr. 
 thist prove this! only prove that God did indeed send his 
 son into the world to save such a wretch as me, and 1 
 ask no more. I shall die of joy and gratitude on the 
 spot."' 
 
 "Well my dear," said she, "let me ask you in the first 
 place, is it not worthy of God to save the wretelicd? Is 
 it not what we had a riglit to expect of so all benevolent 
 a being as God?" 
 
16 
 
 At this he started, giving her a quick look, as if 
 struck.with a new and welcome idea, and eagerly replied, 
 **yes, it is worthy indeed of God to save the wretched. 
 If I knew any of the vilest reptiles, even toads or ser- 
 pents, to be but half as wretched as I anji I would do a 
 great deal to relieve them." 
 
 JMrs. W. Well then, my dear, dear husband, how much 
 greater joy must God take in relieving us, who are so 
 much better than all reptiles? For, as our blessed Sa- 
 viour says, "ijf you who are evil can do such good things, 
 hoiv much more must your heavenly father do themT' 
 
 At this he caught her in his arms, exclaiming **0 
 Polly.' Polly! -what an. angel you are to hring me such 
 comfort! and embraced her with tears. Presently, as 
 if relapsing into his old doubts, he said, hut are you sure 
 that this blessed news is trueT' 
 
 "Yes, my dear husband," replied she with a voice of 
 transport, "these things are true, gloriously true indeed. 
 Yonder sun does not shine brighter in the sweet heavens, 
 than these things do in the blessed gospel. And surely 
 they are both from the same hand. For as none but 
 God can be the source of such glorious light and heat 
 as are in the sun, so none but God can be the author of 
 such MIRACLES, and doctrines of love as are in the 
 gospel." 
 
 Here he again tenderly embraced her, saying "0 what 
 a dear preacher yoiL are to me! Would God I had always 
 followed such divine counsel from you and my dear old 
 father! But I hope it is not net too late!'^ He then re- 
 turned with Mrs. Wilson to the house, apparently much 
 comforted. Seeing that from loss of sleep and great agi- 
 tation of mind, he seemed much exhausted, she insisted 
 tliat he should go and take a little repose. He laid down 
 but could not sleep; neither at dinner could he be prevai- 
 led on to cat any thing. In the afternoon, to divert his 
 gloom, Mrs. Wilson invited several of her favourite fe- 
 male friends, chiefly of the younger sort, to come to tea 
 and pass the evening with her. Sometime, however, be- 
 fore they came, governour Hall hearing that he was un- 
 
17 
 
 well, came to see him, and insisted he should take a 
 walk. On their way back, it so happened that tliey came 
 near Mr. Wiley's tavern. At sight of this house, the 
 doctor, governour Hall states, seemed much disturbed, 
 Ijis colour changed, and with a deep sigh, he uttered 
 something in broken sounds, like "shame! shame! scene 
 of my folly!'' 
 
 Thinking that some stimulus would be seasonable, the 
 governour proposed to him to step in and take a little 
 wine. "I feel a strange depression of spirits," replied 
 he; so let lis go home; and besideSf I dont want to see 
 that vile ivoman any more.'' The governour was over- 
 joyed to hear this from him; and rejoined that Mrs. 
 Wiley was not at home, for that he saw her riding into 
 the country that morning — "so as you seem a good deal 
 exhausted," continued the governour, '^Het tis take somC'- 
 thing to revive us, and after that ive will go on to your 
 house." Accordingly they stepped in, and took their seats 
 in the large dining room, which happened to be entirely 
 free of company. Presently a decanter of wine was 
 brought ill, though not by Mr. Wiley, and placed with 
 a couple of glasses on the table. Finding that the doe- 
 tor was considerably revived by a glass or two of the 
 wine which he had prevailed on him to take, the gover- 
 nour very good naturedly endeavoured to keep up his 
 spirits, and to that end he introduced a topick of which 
 he knew the doctor had for some time been very fond, f. e. 
 an exchange of horses. The governour had, it seems, 
 an elegant horse which the doctor very much wanted as 
 a fine match for one that he owned. A liberal offer was 
 now made on the part of the governour, which instantly 
 produced the desired effect of rousing the doctors's at» 
 tention. In that critical moment, sitting in his arm chair 
 and resting his forehead on the top of his cane, as if ab- 
 sorbed in thought, Mr. Wiley entered the room. — Gover- 
 nour Hall saw him come in, and marked the frown on 
 his brow, and also knew that he had no good will for 
 doctor Wilson, but not suspecting his hellish inteniion^ 
 and seeing that he appeared to be moving towards his 
 bar, he turned again to the doctor. But, in place of going 
 D 
 
la 
 
 oil to his bill', Mr. Wiley paused soou as he saw the iloc 
 tor's unguarded posture, and stepping up to him, with all 
 hell in his face, clapped a pistol to his temple and shot 
 him through the head, crying out, as the pistol went off, 
 *'there, God damn yoUf take f/iaL'" 
 
 Seeing the horriu deed that was done, governour Hall 
 instantly leaped from his chair, and catching Mr. Wiley 
 by the eolar exclaimed, **|/ou damned villiah, have you 
 Mlled doctor Wilson'^** 
 
 *'FeSf replied he with the sullen firmness of a despe- 
 rado, "I have killed him and now you may kill me. 
 
 The report of the pistol soon brought in a crowd of 
 people who at the instance of governour Hall, searched 
 Mr. Wiley's povket and found another pistol that had 
 been put theve, it seems, to be used in case the first had 
 missed fire. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Wilson, ignorant of her husband's fate, was 
 sitting at her tea-table in fine spirits, dishing out tea for 
 a party of female friends who had come to spend the eve- 
 ning. She had also just sent for her husband and go- 
 vernour Hall to come up and join them. The messen- 
 ger, who was a little servant lad, having arrived at the 
 tavern just in time to see the murder of his master, in- 
 stantly posted back to his mistress on wings of lightning, 
 and utterly thoughtless of consequences flew into the 
 room crying out to his, mistress, **o/i madam, master is 
 killed.' Mr. Wiley killed him. I saiv him lying on the floor 
 with his brains running out!'^ As if herself shot through 
 the heart poor Mrs. Wilson, pale as a corpse, sunk with 
 a deep groan to the floor. The cries of her children, 
 and the shrieks of the ladies beggar ail description. 
 
 The doctor's younger brother Mr. James Wilson, now 
 an eminent preacher in Philadelphia, was in the compa- 
 ny. The sudden repprt of his brother's murder, and the 
 distressing, scene around him wrought his youthful brain 
 to frenzy. Snatching a loaded pistol that hung in an ad- 
 joining bedroom, he flew to the tavern. The sight of 
 his eldest brother, a brother who had always been to him 
 a father lying weltering in his blood, completed his de- 
 lirium of riigc aiul stiffened his arm for destruction. He 
 
19 
 
 rushed up to the murderer, and thrusting the pistol 
 against his Iieart drew the trigger. The pistol i-e fused 
 to go oir. lie furiously cocked and tried it a second fimc, 
 hut with no hettcr success; Mr. Wiley, all the time, 
 looking at him with the dark smile of one who courted 
 death. Discovering what young Mr. Wilson was about, 
 goveruour Hall seized his arm, and crying, *mj/ GodJ 
 what.' are ive all turning murdevers! took the pistol from 
 him, and for fear of farther mischief stepped to the win- 
 dow and tried it on the empty air. The pistol then went 
 off very clear! and yet some people will not believe in a 
 particular providence for all. Mr. Wiley, loaded with 
 irons, was presently lodged in prison, where he lay till 
 the next court. His trial soon terminated in his conilcm- 
 nation. On hearing his sentence of death he cried oul 
 with a bitter cry, "t/iere JVaucy/ you have done it at last.' 
 you have done it at last/ you have murdered me 7vho ahoays 
 loved you soJ^' and hurst into tears. But it was plain 
 that his tears were not from any grief for himself that 
 he was going to die; but from thinking that his death 
 should have been brought on him by one whom he had 
 always so dearly loved. 
 
 But though the horribleness of the crime hud very 
 justly sentenced this unhappy man to the gallows, yet it 
 would seem that he was not destined to die in that way. 
 His friends petioned for a pardon to the governour, who 
 happened at that time to be I. Basset Ksq'r. father-in-law 
 to the honourable I. A. Bayard Esq'r. late one of the Uni- 
 ted States envoys at Ghent. 
 
 Fortunately for Mr. Wiley, the governour had long 
 been a married man, and singularly blest in that state, 
 which for ils iniluenee on the population, morals, and 
 happiness of mankind, appeared to him so sacred that he 
 thought he could never sulficiently abhor the villian who 
 should dare to violate it sanctities. Soon therefore as 
 he heard of this horrid crime of doctor Wilson — what 
 rare advantages he had posessed of person, wit, wealth, 
 and high staiuling above thousands — and yet how impi- 
 ously he had marred and damned all by setting these 
 precious gift of heaven to do the work of hell — to work 
 
20 
 
 the disgrace And ruin of a poor honest man who all hut 
 adored him — to sow jealousy and mortal hate hetwixt 
 that man and his wife — to estrage all his sweet loves 
 and cares of his children— and by such bitter afflictions 
 drive him to that bloody deed from which he should ne- 
 ver, never more recover peace — soon, I say, as gover- 
 nour Basset heard of this irreparable injury which doc- 
 tor Wilson had done to Mr. Wiley, he so far took part 
 with the latter, though a murderer, as to grant him a 
 pardon. 
 
 This decision of his excellency w^as very different from 
 what many of his best friends expected. And when it 
 was one day mentioned to him, by some intimates, at his 
 table, he made as I have been told the following remark. 
 '^Matrimony^ gentlemen, matrimony is every thing. ' Tis 
 the sacred fountain of domestick sweets, ivhence all the 
 tenderest loves and charities of life go forth to hind and 
 hless mankind. 'Tivas the first sacrament in 'paradise 
 itself; and the command not to separate soul and body hy 
 murder is still not so ancient as that which forbids to 
 separate man and wife by adultery. And though no man 
 can abhor murder and murderers more heartily than I 
 do, yet so all important in my estimation, is the purity of 
 the marriage bed, that I shall, probably, never refuse a 
 pardon to the man who kills the villian that violates it.''* 
 Soon as the good governour Basset had signed his par- 
 don, Mr. Wiley's friends bastened to the dungeon and 
 brought him forth with demonstrations of great joy, as 
 exulting in their victory over the friends of doctor Wil- 
 son. But alas! all their generous efforis in his favour 
 availed him nothing. It all served but to prove, what 
 to a heedless world has been proved millions of times be- 
 fore, that — "the mind is thje man" — and that when the 
 soul is deeply clouded with unrepented guilt, no outward 
 circumstances however bright can gild the prospect. 
 This, I say, was sadly seen in Mr. Wiley's case now be- 
 fore us. Though the governour had taken the halter 
 from his neck, and bis friends had hurried him in tri- 
 umph from the dungeoi! — though the sweet air of hea- 
 ven |iad aga^in visited his lungs, and the day with all its 
 
21 
 
 splendours had bursicd on liis senses, yet it would not all 
 do. The mark of the accursed Cain still stuck to his lore- 
 head — the dark unyielding frown; the wild suspecting 
 eye, and settled gloom which nothing earthly could dis- 
 pel. The sun can dissolve the frosts of winter; and war- 
 med by his beams, the darkest caverns of earth can glit- 
 ter with living diamonds; but alas! no scenery of nature 
 can cheer the murderer's heart, or charm that worm 
 which knaws his troubled conscience. Hence amidst 
 those bright scenes where the soul of innocence Avould 
 have warbled gay as the lark of the morning, the wretch- 
 ed Mr. Wiley moved along sullen and silent as the owl 
 that curses the day. He made no stop in the streets; 
 but in place of pausing to look around and converse with 
 the persons and prospects he had so long been severed 
 from, he hurried on as if afraid every one he met would 
 *'slay him.** And even when arrived at his own house, he 
 still found that change of place was no change of misery, 
 except for the worse, for it was observed by his friends 
 that he shewed symptoms of strong agitation as he cast 
 his eyes on the objects around him. 
 
 "JFht/" said he, "did you take me out of my prison'? 
 I was happy there. In ray dark dungeon 1 saw n-Jtliinj: 
 to torment me. But here every thing calls to n>y mind 
 what I could wish to forget forever. I can't go into any 
 part of my house but it brings fresh to my thoughts the 
 things that have passed there. This is the room in which 
 tVancy and 1 have breakfasted together so often and so 
 happy! and that's the room where we used to sit in ivin- 
 ter. how many bright Jires have blazed on that hearth! 
 and how siveetly did they sparkle, as side by side or she 
 in my lap we used to sit and talk! I rvas happy then. But 
 now I shall never be happy any more. Jlnd there arc 
 the pictures which I bought with such pleasure for her! 
 and there the looking-glasses! I loved her so I wanted to 
 see her in every thing.** 
 
 And then as if her beauteous and beloved image with 
 all her tendernesses and loves for years had rushed at 
 once upon his soul, he would clasp and wring his hands 
 and cry out most bitterly — "O/i my happiness! my happi- 
 
22 
 
 ness! tis all gone forever!^' Then going on with his speech 
 he would point and say — "and there's the room where I 
 killed doctor Wilson.' where 1 killed the man I lotted most 
 of all.' and there's the mark of his blood! well cursed 
 mllian you deserved it.' and you, damned strumpet.' it was 
 you that brought me to all this; you and your sweet doc- 
 tor that made me a murderer.' that turned my light into 
 darkness, and my sweetest heaven into hell! may God's 
 eternal curse overtake you both for it! it has overtaken 
 one; and the other shan't run long." 
 
 'Twas in this way he used to talk to himself, with 
 such looks and tones of deep, heart-rooted anguish, as 
 filled the frightened hearers at once with pity and horror. 
 The agony of his mind, from dwelling thus constantly 
 on the baseness of his wife, and liis murder of doctor 
 Wilson, rose at length to such a pitch and rendered his 
 life so insupportable, that he came to the resolution to 
 lay it down. His plan for doing it was entirely in charac- 
 of a murderer turned maniac. He furnished himself 
 with a brace of loaded pistols, and travelled all the way 
 from Lewistown to Philadelphia in quest of his wife, re- 
 solved the moment he got into her company to blow out 
 her brains with one of the pistols, and then his own with 
 the other. But it was not permitted him to indulge so 
 diabolical a pleasure. For though he soon found out 
 where she was, living with a relation,- and came every 
 day to the house, trying a variety of bribes and strata- 
 gems to gain admittance, he never succeeded! whether 
 it was that she dreaded him as an injured husband, or 
 detested him as the murderer of !ier gallant, is uncertain. 
 But the fact is, and a very remarkable one too, he never 
 got sight of her. Finding that he could obtain no op- 
 portunity to muiiler his wife, he returned to Lewistown. 
 On entering his house, the worm that never dieth, which 
 he carrieii in his bosom, appeared to be stirred up to ten- 
 fold rage and gnawing — that scene, which love and friend- 
 ship had so long made his heaven, now by murder and 
 despair changed into hell, was become no longer suppor- 
 table. ^^Well,"' said he to a friend who came to see him, 
 "I'll now go and die where I got my death's wounds" 
 
23 
 
 He alluded to the prison in whose damp dungeon he 
 had contiiiclcd the consumption. He aeeordinj^ly went 
 to the jail, and in spite of all the remonstrances of the 
 jailor, insisted he would tro and lie down in the dunj^eon. 
 His friends hearing of (his strange resolution hastened 
 to his sad retreat, and plead hard with him to go and 
 live with them. But all in vain. He heggcd them to 
 leave him, declaring at the same time that his existence 
 was a eursCf and that all he wanted was to die. He did 
 not long wait for the accomplishment of his wishes, for 
 after lingering about three weeks, he miserably gave up 
 the ghost; leaving his body, by long fasting, reduced to 
 mere skin and bone, and his countenance stamped with 
 all the indescribable ghastliness of woe and horror. 
 
 O God! how terrible are thy judgments against adul- 
 tery! That cursed sin, which by shedding mill-dew and 
 blasting on the fairest blossoms of wedded love, can thus 
 arm man as a demon against man, and turn our houses 
 into hells upon the earth! AVbat two families were ever 
 placed by smiling heaven in circumstances more favour- 
 able to happiness than those of doctor Wilson and 3Ir. 
 Wiley? Both, abounding in all the sweets of life— dwell- 
 ing side by side in the same pleasant village— and daily 
 running into each other's houses with all i\\e familiari- 
 ty of fondest friends. But alas! soon as the guilty com- 
 merce commenced, shyness and cold dislike appeared — 
 and then dark suspicion, and fire eyed fury filled these 
 once happy families with tears and blood. 
 
 Where now is the gay Mr. Wiley that dressed so neat 
 and walked so light, with health and joy ever smiling 
 on his ruddy countenance? Lo! there lie lies, a haggard 
 corpse— wrapped in an old great coat— with matted hair 
 and long black beard deformed— his shrivelled lips but 
 half cover his teeth, still hard clenched in death— while 
 his ftice, though cold as the earth he lies on, yet retains 
 the dark and dismal frown of the wretched spirit which 
 has just forsaken it! 
 
 And where is the elegant doctor Wilson— he who 
 shone above all the youth of Lewistown, as the tall cedar 
 of Lebanon above the trees of the forest? Alas! he is 
 
24 
 
 seen no more. Adultery, like the flash of vengeful hea- 
 ven, has blasted his top, and dashed all his branching 
 honours to the dust. 
 
 Happy had the cloud bursted upon the adulterer and 
 murderer alone. But alaj! many guiltless friends are 
 made to suffer with them. Poor Mrs. Wilson received 
 a shock from which her gentle nature is never to reco- 
 ver more. Her stately dwelling, so long the abode of 
 gaiety and mirth, is now doomed to lasting solitude and 
 silence. There, shut up alone with her orphans, she 
 wastes her days and nights in bitter remembrance of the 
 past. No bright-faced husband, will ever more return to 
 gladden her heart — no father in his smiles of love and 
 presents in his hands to rouse his little nestlings, and fill 
 the house with noisy delight. Pale in the tomb of the 
 garden he lies; his fair flowing locks are burnt with the 
 cruel pistol, and the bullet of the assassin is still cold in 
 his brains. The tears of the mother never cease: and 
 her children at her knees with mingling tears, often ask 
 — "when will our father return!" 
 
 But the days of her suffering were not long! An ear- 
 ly grave received the broken hearted mourner; and her 
 children now eat bread at the table of their grand-fa- 
 ther. 
 
 I have been told that at the time doctor Wilson was 
 murdered, his younger brother James Wilson was living 
 with him, and preparing himself by a course of reading, 
 for the practice of the law. The horrid murder of his 
 brother, and its dismal consequences, inspired him with 
 such a detestation of sin, that he instantly abjured the 
 study of the law. To be wasting his life and exhaus- 
 ting his talents in righting or wronging poor mortals in 
 the matter of a little gold or silver, appeared to him but 
 as ^'strenuous idleness " in comparison of the glorious 
 work of dissipating the clouds of moral ignorance and 
 stopping the progress of sin and hell in the world. He 
 applied himself at once, to that most sublime and god- 
 like of all studies the study of divinity, and is now the 
 pastor of the first Presbyterian church in Philadelphia. 
 Sin is the burthen of his sermons. To convince the 
 
25 
 
 world of sin and its fatal consequences, is his great aim. 
 To aid his colourings, tis thought he soinetinics revol- 
 ves this mournful example among his own friends — a be- 
 loved brother in blood; his widow and oiyhans in leurs; 
 a poor neighbour in an nntimcly grave; and his icidow 
 a fugitive in the earth. Then, fiUed with deepest horror 
 of sin and pity for its miserahh'. victinis he pours forth 
 his feelings in strains of an impassioned eloquence that 
 penetrates all hearts and dissolves the crowded house in 
 tears. 
 
 CASE THE SECOND. 
 
 Mournful storxj of yonvg squire Oneal and the beautiful 
 miss Lestrange. 
 
 In the neighhourhood of Wilmington, North Carolina, 
 there lived a rich old gentleman whose niime Mas Lcs- 
 ti*ange. His riches were not of the hereditary and ef- 
 feminating sort; they were the hrave and healthy oft- 
 spring of his own virtues. The credit which his hones- 
 ty commanded, was doubled by his ixdustrv, and tree- 
 bled by his prcdexcf:; and a good wife, early married, 
 bestowed a fourfold benediction on the whole; for wed- 
 ded to her he liecame wedden to his home, wedded to his 
 business, and, of course, wedded to all 'those good habits 
 which, as doctor Franklin says, makes a ma7i'.s way to 
 wealthy just as easy as it is from his own door to thcmarket. 
 
 The result of all this was, Uuit by the time he reached 
 his fiftieth year, he found that the poor overseer's staff 
 with which lie began the world, had, like Aaron's rod, 
 swallowed up the lands and negroes and Hocks and herds 
 of many of his lazy, dram drinking, gambling neighbours. 
 And yet, as Pharaoh's lean kinc after swallowing all their 
 fat fellows, did not, we are told, appear to be in any bet- 
 ter plight than at the first; so neither, by (he confession 
 of Mr. Lestrange himself, did all this well won weallh 
 of his seem to make him any happier than before. 
 
 **J^o my friends^* he often said to his neighbours, "/ 
 am not happy yet. *Ti8 true 1 have a great deal of mo- 
 ney; ffty times as much as I ever expected; and I have 
 C 
 
26' 
 
 also ail excellent ivlfe, and a promising soiif and ttvojinc 
 girls to enjoy it tvith we, hut still it wont all do. In spite 
 of all mij money I find I am groiving old and cra^y — 
 life is losing its freshness — the world is changing around 
 me — my friends are dropping into the grave^ and Iknoiv 
 not how soon I must follow them! In such a state how 
 can I he /lappi/? Xo, IHlgo to the bible and see if lean 
 find happiness thcrej*^ 
 
 Accordingly in his fifty-third year he took to his bihle, 
 and read it over with great care. He there discovered 
 the reason why he had never been happy. Formed by 
 the all- benevolent Creator for a nobler world, his desires 
 and capacities are far too large for this. 
 
 In the best state of things here, then, they must still 
 heave the sigh of disappointment; and that sigh must be 
 eternal, until they fend the true good, which is no other 
 than God. He found in his bible that all the misery of 
 this world flows from our leaving this supreme good, 
 the only cure then is to come back. Hence, "my son 
 give me thy hearty'* is the whole of religion — and it is the 
 whole of religion, because it is the whole of happiness. 
 For religion, properly defined, is only the art or happi- 
 ness. With an honest heart he set himself to seek that 
 LOVE; and he soon found it. In short, he became a 
 truly devout man; lived as in the society of his God; 
 performed every duty with the view to please him; and 
 in return enjoyed the unspeakable pleasures which spring 
 from so exalted a friendship, and from always acting un- 
 der motives so generous and Godlike. Thus happy 
 himself, he esrnestly desired the happiness of others, and 
 particularly of his own family and neighbours. 
 
 Taught by his own experience that true happiness is 
 to be found in God alone, and also that he had found it 
 by reading the bible, he immediately began to read the 
 bible and to pray in his family. He also invited the 
 neighbouring preachers, who were principally methodists* 
 to come and preach at his house, and a general notifica- 
 tion was made to his neighbours. 
 
 A sermon at the house of the wealthy Mr. Lestrange, 
 was a matter of such curiosity that none could resist it. 
 
27 
 
 And not only the poor and the mean, but the jlush and 
 the fair hastened fo <he piraehing with as much eager, 
 ness as they had ever shewn in going to a ball. Not 
 satisfied with having sermons onee a fortnight at his 
 house, he would often have with him. for days and nights 
 together, large eo npanies chielly of yoiiiig |»ersons who 
 professed religion. For while he delighted (osee youth and 
 beauty employed in talking of heavenly things, and singing 
 the praises of God, he also rejoiced in sueh persons as 
 the best companions he could get for his dear children. 
 
 It would have seemed grievous if this good man after 
 having done so much to bring other families to God, had 
 leen none of his own coming also. But such sorrow was 
 mercifully- spared him. That God. who will not long be 
 any mane's debtor, soon repaid this liberal soul with 
 royal interest. His wife, like favoured Sarah, travailed 
 again in her old age, with the new birth of ilhine lor-e. 
 And in her heaven-beaming eyes, her happy husband read 
 the sweet assurance of that spirit which should one day 
 renew her youth, and adorn her withered cheeks with all 
 the bloom of immortality. And in his only son, George, 
 as also in his two daughters, Matilda and Naiiey. he dis- 
 covered, as he thought, the welcome dawniiigs of that 
 grace which would cause them to shine as **excdlcnt ones 
 of the earlh, and as the polished corners of the temple.^* 
 And to crown all his joys, many of his most intimate and 
 valued neighbours appeared to take great delight in re- 
 ligion. Among these, Avore the wealthy and elegant 
 Messrs. George llouer and James Oneale — and particu- 
 larly this latter gentleman, who is soon to make an aw- 
 ful figure in our story. Ueing a young man not only of 
 fortune, but also of polished manners and a sprightly turn, 
 he had always been a great favourite in Lestrange housej 
 and though lately married, he still associated with them 
 as one of the family. 
 
 Here now, O reader, we behold before us a rare spec- 
 tacle indeed — the spectacle of a wealthy old gentleman 
 applying a portion of his wealth lo ihc most noble of all 
 uses. We behold him throwing open his spacious saloons 
 and drawing rooms, to be consecrated by the preaching 
 
28 
 
 of the everlasting gospel, and to be perfumed with the 
 breath of heaven-seeking prajer and praise. We behold 
 him inviting the young to his house as to a nursery of 
 their infant devotions; himself animating them to perse- 
 vere in the glorious course; listening delighted to the 
 praises of God sounding from their tender lips; and 
 marking with a parent's joys, the sweetness of their 
 speech and looks to one another. 
 
 O who can think of this without secretly wishing his 
 lot 'had been cast in such pleasant places — in a situation 
 so favourable to the highest improvements of the heart? 
 
 Well, Mr. Oneale's lot was cast in such pleasant places, 
 and in a situation so favourable to highest virtue and 
 happiness. He was young, handsome, Mealiiky — married 
 to a beautiful and accomplished woman — and, which is 
 better still, he professed himself a convert! and in that 
 high character was confided in by good old Mr. Lestrange 
 as a spiritual son, and caressed by George and his sis- 
 ters, as a hrothcr. What shame! what pity! what ever- 
 lasting grief, that such goodly opportunities of happiness 
 should have been lost forever, through one brutalizing, 
 ^dap ning sin — adultery! 
 
 O Joseph! Joseph! thou virtuous son of Israel! who 
 can think of thy never dying fame without mourning the 
 neglect of pious educulion! thy shepJierd father taught 
 thee to *'remcmhcr thy creator in the days of thy youth:''* 
 thus early accustomed to the noblest pleasures, thoudid'st 
 ift^tiik the slippery paths of youth v. illi thoughts pure as the 
 opening flowers, and gay as the birds of the morning. But 
 alas! poor Mr. Oneale had no pious Jacob to teach his 
 *\*young ideas how to shoot." He never received the high 
 and godlike education of Joseph. His worldly-minded fa- 
 father never aimed at any thing higher or better for his 
 son, than Avhat he should e«f, and drink, and wear. Thus 
 brought up in ignoralice of thosefeasts of knowledge and 
 Jlows of holy loves, which are the true happiness of the 
 mind; the young man could no other than turn to the body; 
 and seek his happiness in tlie concupiscences of the flesh, 
 the chief among which* is the appetite for the sex. 
 
 This was sadly exemplyfied in the case of young Mr. 
 Oneale, He had married an elegant woman; but not 
 
29 
 
 bringing to her arms thut first ul' all earthly lelicities, a 
 pure heart, he couhl not follow that sweet counsel of So- 
 lomon, "my son, RKJOICK IN THE AVIFE OF THY YOUTH, 
 
 and let her be as the lorin;;: fair and pleasant roe — let 
 hei' breasts satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished 
 ahvays with her (ore." 
 
 This sweet counsel, which, if duly attended to, would 
 have perpetuated a paradise in. his family was utterly de- 
 feated by that detestihie jjpfif^for variety which had 
 sprung from the boundlessness of his indulg«;nces. 
 
 How soon he began to play truiint from his lady's em- 
 braces, we shall, perhaps, never know. But it was not more 
 than eighteen months from his wedding-day before he se- 
 duced and ruined the beautiful but frail Miss Lestrange. 
 
 This young lady was just in the full, ripe state of 
 youthful bloom and beauly; about eighteen years of age; 
 tall and florid; with a countenance open and inviting; 
 and manners uncommonly gay. The wanton eye of Mr. 
 Oneale had often wandered over her fine form with ideas 
 of the grossest sensuality; and he had often assailed her 
 virtue by every artifice that could be employed without 
 alarming her suspicion or exciting her disgust. Under 
 the cloak of friendship and colour of gallantry, he had ex- 
 erted the keen lust-kindling glance; the fcly double enten- 
 dre; the deep impassioned sigh; and a thousand other wiles 
 to explore her heart and find, or fan a spark that might be 
 inflamed to his laseivious wishes. But h^ sense of natu- 
 ral modesty, strengthened by education, enabled Miss Les- 
 trange either not to notice or to repel such approaches. 
 
 The prostration of her virtue, and her entire subjec- 
 tion to his brutal appetites was at last, however, accom- 
 plished, and by means which one would suppose that 
 hardly Saran himself could ever have counted on. 
 
 Among the many excellent methodist divines who from 
 time to time preached at her father's house, was a gen- 
 tleman by the name of Everitt. Under his preaching, 
 which was uncommonly luminous and penetrating, jMiss 
 Lestrange Mas struck witli a most alarming sense of the 
 depravity of her heart, her utter unacquaintedness with 
 God, and her unpreparedness to die! As life was uncer- 
 
80 
 
 taint and death very sure, should the summons overtake 
 her before she got prepared, what would become of her! 
 This dreadful idea haunted her day and night. She 
 could neither eat, drink, nor sleep for terror. *" Often 
 have I," as she repeatedly declared afterwards, **caught 
 myself falling into sleepf and started with the ghastly re- 
 collection that if I died in my sleep I might awake in hell,** 
 In this truly wretched condition she continued several 
 weeks. At length a pjj^cher by the name of Garretson 
 came to her father's. The eloquence of this gentlemen 
 was of a strain entirely different from that of Mr. Everitt. 
 The one was the thunder of law-vengeance against the 
 wicked; the other was the soft whisper of gospel mercy 
 to the penitent. "0 ye contrite ones,*^ he would say, 
 
 ; *'ye broken hearted mourners, how long will ye thrust away 
 comfort from your own souls, through your unworthy 
 
 ■ .,; thoughts of God"! O be persuaded that God is LOVE; 
 
 -rlNFIMTK, UNCHANGEABLE, and ETERNAL LOVE. Having 
 
 created you for his own glory — for his own glory in your 
 eternal happiness, he will never be robbed of that glory 
 but through your own obstinate and incorrigible impeni- 
 tence. Only repent and believe in the Medeemer/ and fol- 
 lo^M him in the new way of holiness and love and all 
 shall be well. The sting of death shall be drawn, and 
 hell itself defeated of her victory. For then though your 
 sins /mrc been as scai'let, they shall be white as snow; 
 though red as crimson, they shall be as wool.** 
 . Instantly as the man of God spoke these words, the 
 clouds of horrour were blown away from the mind of 
 Miss Lestrange, and floods of light and joy burst in upon 
 her delighted senses. She leaped, she danced, and clap- 
 ing her hands, she shouted again and again, ^'^ glory! glo- 
 ry! glory!** In this transport the shy shrinking spirit of 
 female delicacy seemed to have been utterly lost. She 
 appeared to have thought of nothing but to tell her 
 fi'iends of the great change that had passed in her heart, 
 and to make tliem partakers in her joy. 
 
 With her fine auburn tresses floating down her snowy 
 bosom and shoulders, and darting her eyes eagerly around 
 she exclaimed "0 where*.s my mother! my dear, dear mo- 
 
31 
 
 ther/** The moment of discovering ber she flew into hci* 
 lap; she' threw iier arms around her neck: and pressing 
 her in a strong embrace, cried out — "0 my mother, 
 praise God.' jtrUise God for me! I am convertedl^^ giving 
 her mother, as she said this, such looks as if her whoie 
 soul was llowing out in streams of tederness and love; 
 crying and laughing, by fits all tbe time. And then, as 
 if not yet satisfied with telling Iht happiness to her mo- 
 ther alone, she sprang from her arms and ran about in 
 search of some other dear relative, her father, her bro- 
 ther George, her sister Nancy, and with them acted 
 over again the same sconce of convulsive joy; her breasts 
 heaving and panting — her colour alternately coming and 
 going, now crimsoned with joy and delight, and now pale 
 and exhausted as if near overcome with (etigue. 
 
 If in this holy exstacy she had never gone begond the 
 circle of her relatives, and especially those of her own 
 sex, we should never perhaps have heard the name of 
 Miss Lestrange coupled with that of infamy. But un- 
 fortunately for this young creature, some demon, the 
 enemy of female innocence, reminded her of Mr. Onealo. 
 The reader has been told tb'»t some time before tins, 
 Mr. Oneale had become, or had affected to become n ebris- 
 tiau. In this high character he was regarded as a son 
 by good old Mr. Lestrange, and as a brother by George 
 and his sisters. Soon therefore as the image of Mr, 
 Oneale was presented to her thoughts, sbe eagerly ex- 
 claimed ^Uchere is brother Oneale! where is brother 
 Oneale! and when sbe had found bim sbe ran and threw ber 
 arms around bis neck, crying out "0 Itrother Oneale, thank 
 God with me! I am happy! I am happy! 01 am so happy!** 
 
 Many of her best friends, of botli sexes, were exceed- 
 ingly shocked at this behaviour of Miss Lestrange. But 
 she, poor girl! did it, as would appear, in her simplicity, 
 as thinking him a dear brotlier indeed who would con- 
 gratulate her on her felicity. But alas! Mr. Oneale was 
 not that spiritual brother which this fair saint supposed; 
 and her virgin caresses instead of exciting tbe pure trans- 
 ports of angelick sympathy, only served to kindle higber 
 the fever of brutal passion. To see this beautiful girl, 
 
32 
 
 in whose blooming charms he had so often sought in vain 
 to revel, now no longer occupying the high ground of fe- 
 male pride and reserve, but relaxed into all the invi- 
 ting familiarities of tumultuous joy — passing through 
 all the changes of impassioned delight, and in every 
 change resistlessly enchantingj now the lilly, now the 
 rose prevailing in her joy flushed cheek — her eyes meet- 
 ing his in streams of unimaginable tenderness; while, 
 with her lovely head reclined on his bosom and fondly 
 pressing him to her swelling breasts, in sweetest accents 
 she called him '^brother/ dear brother Onealef 
 
 In such a situation, what wonder that his unhallowed 
 desires should have been kindled into a fever mortal to 
 human virtue! what wonder that in this delirium of ra- 
 ging blood and spirits he should have forgotten what he 
 owed to his aged friend; and the sacred honour of his 
 darling daughter — and requiting the warm and tender 
 virgin with all the fatal artillery of sighs and looks, and 
 fond embraces he should in some weak, unguarded mo- 
 ment have obtained of her the full fruition of all his de- 
 sires! in fact he did obtain — and with sorrow unutterable 
 we are constrained to say that Miss Lestrange, the amia- 
 ble, the beautiful, the all accomplished Miss Lestrange 
 was ruined! she was ruined by a villian under the sacred 
 garb of religion. Oh! who without a bleeding heart, can 
 think of this poor girl and her situation when, soon as 
 the fatal deed was done, and Mr. Oneale retired, she was 
 left to reflect on her folly and its dismal consequences! 
 See, where she sits, like one near reft of sense by some 
 sudden shock of trouble too great tp bear. Her thoughts 
 are flying over the past, the present, and the future, and 
 in all their wretched range they meet nothing but shame, 
 BEMOBSE, and distraction. Oh God! that she — in 
 the fair morning of life; in the very bloom and freshness 
 of her charms; with every joy before her that youth and 
 BEAUTY could ask — tides of wealth; crowds of lovers; 
 smiling friends; doating parents; and, beyond all this, the 
 dawning hope of still nobler friends and joys in heaven 
 — that in a state so enviable, so happy above millions, 
 she should not have maintained her innocence and bliss, 
 
38 
 
 but have lost all! by one act, one most detestable and de- 
 tested act, sbould bave lost all! — and plunged bersell" in- 
 to such an abyss of inlauiy and woe. Ob miserable! 
 wbitber sball sbe turn her soul from sucb piercing, such 
 agonising rellections! is there no ubancc for escape? no 
 ray of hope (bat (lungs may be better yet? no, none, none, 
 none; no change but for infinitely worse. Ucv fncnd/ 
 her spiritual friend, her brothek — cursed be his name! 
 her lips abhor to sound itl has rendered her not only an 
 object of eternal loathing to herself; but will soon hold 
 her up an object of loathing and contempt to the whole 
 world! yet a little wbile and the natural consequences 
 of her folly must appear! and then, great God! what as- 
 tonishment, what horror must seize on all who knew her! 
 
 What will her lovers, they who used so to crowd 
 around her chariot, and so press on her whenever she 
 appeared in publick, striving with one another for her 
 attention, what will they say, when they hear tliat she 
 whom they adored as an angel is become an harlot! And 
 oh! how must her name, once so honoured so beloved, be 
 now pronounced with pity or bandied about with scoffs 
 and curses of the whole country! and how shall she ever 
 answer to her owif sex, for the cruel suspicions which 
 her example will throw upon them all? what youth will 
 now ever think of marrifing^ "what hope is there," he 
 will say, **of marrying a virgin since Miss Lestrange 
 has turned out a prostitute?" 
 
 And what shall she answer to herself for this cruel 
 extinction of all her own happiness and glory? Formerly 
 wben she entered the church or the ball-room she en- 
 tered in all the happy sprightliness of innocence, llcr 
 cheeks were all freshness; her eyes all animation' and 
 the air of pleasure brightening on every face proclaimed 
 her more than welcome. But now alas! she must visit 
 these places no more! Like the owl to the birds of the 
 morning, her appearance would give a shook to every 
 company; and the reddening cheeks, the silent tears, or 
 the rude titters, of the whispering gazers would give the 
 mortifying signal to retire. 
 F 
 
34 
 
 And, oh hoi'i'ible! what shall she auswer to her owh 
 FAMILY, to each member of that dear circle which, close 
 and warua as the fibres of her own heart,, made up all 
 her life and joy! What shall she say to her brother — 
 her only brother — he who always doated on her with 
 more than a lover's fondness. Alas! how can he sustain 
 the dismal news! She sees the deadly paleness of his 
 cheeks — she hears, from his retired chamber, his bitter 
 cries bewailing his poor ruined Matilda. 
 
 And what shall she answer to her sister Nancy — her 
 only sister — she whose very life was ever bound up in 
 her's — who was wont to watch by her bed side all night 
 in tears if she had but a head-ache! And shall this ten- 
 der sister be doomed, for her detested crime, to waste 
 her days in solitude and tears; or yield her gentle life 
 the early prey of heart-consuming sorrow? 
 
 And her parents! O God, what has she done! her 
 aged, venerable parents, what will become of tliem, — 
 Bowed down, as they are, with years and infirmities — 
 tottering on the brink of eternity — held back to life, only 
 by the ties of love to their children, and most of all for 
 her, their first, their favourite daughter; how suddenly 
 must they now sink under the deadly blow inflicted by 
 her dishonour! Often, with tears had she looked forward 
 to the sad hour of separation; but still found comfort in 
 the sweet idea that their departure would be in peace, 
 and that the last beam from their closing eyes, fixed on 
 her's would be bright with love and hope, triumphant 
 over death. But alas! tlHj,t dear idea so fondly feasted 
 on is, now, no more! 
 
 Their departure is not to he in peace — nor will the last 
 beam from their eyes, shine on her's ivith love and joy tri- 
 umphant. Oh horrible reverse! — their dying pillows 
 must be torn with thorns of keenest anguish; and their 
 closing eyes be drenched with bitterest sorrows! Oh that 
 she could die: and not live to behold the great evil that 
 is ctnuing upon them! — Well the Avay to death is easy — 
 a viiii of laudanum — a penknife — or even her girdle will 
 do ibe deed. But oh! that dismal gulph beyond the 
 grave! that "death that never dies! h^r soul recoils 
 
35 
 
 with terror at the thought; and she consents rather to 
 bear "t/ie ills she siijfers Ihanjlij lo others which uhc 
 knows not ofj" Oh woful statQ that she is in! "The 
 wa^s of sin is rfcat/r," and yet she cannot die! She has 
 sinned; yes, the most accursed of all sins, and yet th« 
 sad rcfu{j;e of the grave is denied her! 
 
 Live then she must. Live to see her father's house, 
 so long the crowded scat of elegant company and joys, 
 desolate and forsaken — live to see her lirother and sister, 
 once so guy and caressed, shunning society and hiding 
 their blushing faces at home.' live to see her aged parents 
 wringing tlieir withered hands in hopeless despair — live 
 to hear their feeble cries, imploring mercy on their poor 
 ruined child — live to behold the keen anguish consuming 
 their scanty spirits, and weighing down their grey locks 
 "with sorrow to the grave" and all these evils brought 
 upon them by her — by her, their favourite child! whom 
 they had so fondly *^cloathed in scarlet, ivith ornaments 
 of gold upon her apparel" and had feasted on dainties, 
 and educated in all the accomplishments of a princess!! 
 
 Such were the thoughts which in quick succession 
 darted through the soul of Miss Lestrange, inflicting 
 «ueh anguish that nothing but the dread of awful ruTU-r 
 RiTY restrained her from self murder.' 
 
 In the midst of these dismal reflections, the voice of 
 her brother, at the yard gate, calling the ostler, suddenly 
 saluted her ear. George and his sister Nancy had, the 
 afternoon before, road over to Mrs. I loners to tea. Soon 
 after tlieir arrival, a servant from Mr. Sanson's arrived 
 with tickets of invitation to the Miss Houers to the wed- 
 ding of his daughter, a beautiful girl who was to be 
 married to a captain Gale the next week. 
 
 lie also had tickets for the Miss Lestranges and 
 George, who were cousins to Miss Sanson. 
 
 When tea was over, (Jeorge and Nancy wished te re- 
 turn; but a heavy shower coming on, Mrs. Iloucr insis- 
 ted they should stay all night; which was very much 
 against their inclinations, for they were not only hap- 
 pier at home than any where else, but they were very 
 impatient to bear the news of the w edding to Matilda. 
 
36 
 
 In the morniog, howevei*, by way of surprising the fa- 
 mily, they started by times to return to breakfast. 
 
 On galloping up to the gate with his sister, George 
 called for the ostler. The voice of her brother, hitherto 
 'so musical, now served but to renew her anguish. In an 
 instant George and Nanoy were up the steps, and on en- 
 tering the saloon, both their voices were heard at once 
 eagerly asking the servants, *'how is pa? how is ma? 
 where is sister Matilda'^** The wretched Matilda heard 
 this, as also the sound of their steps running up to her 
 chamber, and shuddered.' 
 
 Oh! thou execrable gttilt! which can thus diffuse 
 the taint of hell through the heart and all its feelings. 
 Soon as our first mother, all accomplished Eve, became 
 guilty, the object of all joy was turned, as we read, into 
 the object of unuterable dread. — *'And when she hetird 
 the Toice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool 
 of the e^iening. she fed and hid. hersdf!" And behold 
 here her daughter, after a thousand generations, soon as 
 she becomes guilty dreads the voice of her own brother 
 and sista*, whom, till this fatal deed, it was her lieaven 
 to behold, especially returning from a short absence, and 
 with agreeable news. 
 
 *'Shanie! shame! sister Matty, Mhat not out of your 
 chamber yet; and her have we come five miles ali-ead^ !" 
 Thus cried George and Nancy at once, as they entered 
 her chamber, all impatient to see her, and to tell of the 
 wedding they were all invited to next week. 
 
 This sprightly salutation gave lier a momentary ani- 
 mation, Avhich together with the complete occupation of 
 their thoughts to tell her of the wedding caused them at 
 first to overlook her altered appearance and manners. 
 But soon as Nancy cried out **what do you think, sister, 
 what do you think. Cousin Kiiiy Sanson is to be mar- 
 ried next Thursday! and here are our liekcls to the wed- 
 dingP' I say soon as these words reached the ear of Ma- 
 tilda, something was heard to whisper, *'i/es the innocent 
 can marry, but you have lost your innocence. And now 
 with all your riches, your accomplishments and beauty, 
 you must live and die neglected" Instantly in dazzling 
 
37 
 
 coLoiurSf uH the glory ^vhicb she liatl lost by her i'oUy, 
 ilushed upon her soul with u deadly, heart-sickeiiiiig ef- 
 fect, that turned her cheeks pale and haggard, as though 
 the dagger of death had been plunged into her bosom. 
 
 **High! ivhaVa the mailer sister,*' said the gentle-spir- 
 ite<l Nancy, "(/* I had llion^hl this unvs uwnld have made 
 yoJ* uneamj^ indeed, indeed 1 would nol hare mentioned i/." 
 Here George, wishing to rally her spirits, cried out, 
 <<vrliy, bless us all, Matilda! what can be the matter? one 
 would suppose from your looks, that you were dying iu 
 lore of captain Gale yourself; you seem so troubled at 
 hearing that he is to be married to cousin Kitty. And 
 I am suit*, my dear sister, your advantages give you a 
 title to a lover far above captain Gale, though he is aa 
 elegant fellow too. 
 
 The wretched Matilda could not answer but with her 
 tears. The sight of Matilda as she sat crying; soon over- 
 came the soft hearted Nancy, and melted her into tears 
 also. 
 
 "Ofc mif God,*' exclaimed George, almost crying him- 
 self, *^what a scene of vanily this life is! Here have ♦V«n- 
 cy and myself rode Jive miles, post haste, this morniv;^, to 
 brin^ you an ini'itatiofi to a great wedding, u-hich we 
 thought liould have jmt you into Jine spirits; and behold 
 it has set you a crying.' — But there's our father's bell to 
 prayers," continued George, "so come my dear sisters7vipr 
 your ajes, and hi us go doivn to our devotions; 1 hoju 
 they will raise our spirits." 
 
 Nancy, drying her tears, gotup; but Matilda still weep- 
 ing, desired tieorge to give her respects to her father, 
 and inform him that she was too unwell to come down. 
 Soon as prayers were over, her father and mother, who 
 idolized Matilda, hobbled up the stairs together to see 
 her. If she was terrified at their reproach, they were 
 not less shocked at her appearance. The truth is, a w hole 
 night's loss of sweet sleep, and of innocence still sweeter 
 than sleep, had produced a dreadful effect on her appear- 
 ance, llcr eyes red with weeping bad lost their fine 
 lustre, castiug a faint, and pity-imploring expression, 
 
while her cheeks, sensibly emaciated, wore a dull and 
 melancholy sallow. 
 
 The strong sympathy of these tender parents, with 
 their disconsolate daughter, so affected her enfeebled 
 nerves, that she turned her face aside and bursted into a 
 fit of crying. A favourite child and that chWd a daugh> 
 ter, in such distress, was an affecting sight. With cheeks 
 swollen with grief they hastened to her bed side. Her 
 father in particular, placing himself by her on the bed 
 where she sat took her in his arms, and pressing her to 
 his bosom, tenderly asked the cause of her sorrows. Her 
 tears flowed afresh, but she returned him no answer. If 
 he was surprised at this part of her behaviour, he was 
 still more hurt that she kept her eyes turned from hira, 
 aud shewed a strange avevsl m from his embraces! 
 
 Such unnatural disrespect pained him the more griev- 
 ously, because so very different from all the past. In 
 every former case of her sit'kness or sadness, his lap had 
 ever appeared to be the refuge and cure of both. There, 
 with her arms around his neck, and her cheeks pressed 
 to his, she would sit and sigh, and shed her tears and 
 sorrows into his beloved bosom. But now, she acts as 
 though she would avoid him — her eyes do not seek his 
 — she declines his endearments, and <o his tenderest en- 
 qi'.iries ivto the cause of her unltappiness she is either 
 sullenly silent, or coldly answers that "s/je is not well.'" 
 After suffering much mortification, which was the more 
 insupportable* because so unusual, and (he servants re- 
 peatedly bringing word that breakfast was waiting, the 
 good old gentleman, deeply sighing turned away, and with 
 a sorrow fill heart hobbled down stairs. George, equally 
 afflicted, accompanied his father; but her mother and 
 sister Nancy, too wretched to think of eating, stayed 
 with Matilda. 
 
 Thus, through this one accursed sin, death came upon 
 this tender parent and his family, I mean the death of 
 their happiness; for never from that fatal morning, did 
 they recover that, comparatively^ blissful state, wherein 
 they had lived so^ many years. So completely were they 
 all wrapped up in Matilda, that they could never think 
 
f« 39 
 
 •f being happy while she was wretched. And every day 
 seemed to bring with it fresli food for her aflliction to 
 feed on. 
 
 The deep gloom of the fumily broke up ail preaching 
 at that honsc — it broke u\i the happy little religious 
 meetings of the young people — it chased away most of 
 the gay visitants that used to enliven the family — and 
 among those who visited them no more was Mr. Oneale. 
 Having ruined poor Matilda, his love as he called it, 
 was turned into hatred and contempt — and besides, he 
 could not bear to look in the face a family, whose gene- 
 rosity he had so basely requited, and whose vengeance 
 he so justly dreaded. 
 
 But if this poor guilty creature had been made so 
 wretched, only at the idea of what might be the conse- 
 quences of her criminal commerce with Mr. Oneale, 
 what were her sufferings when she discovered that her 
 terrors had been too well founded! — when she felt that 
 she was with child hy him.' 
 
 In a creature so feeble and delicate both in mind and 
 body, as is a young female, the symptoms of conception 
 often excite terrors which even innocence itself can 
 hardly sustain. Even the happy FAIR ONE who in the 
 presence of approving parents and friends, gives herself, 
 at the'iHOLY ALTAR, to the youth of her affections: even 
 ghe when suddenly seized with (he heart sickening qualms 
 and tremors, which wedded love is heir to, is often sadly- 
 alarmed; yes, though she sees on all sides, a host of 
 richest consolations — though she reads in her father's 
 eyes, the tenderest affection mingled with deepest res- 
 pect — though she can see in her bustling mother, the 
 half smothered smile at thought of the pratling grand- 
 child that she is soon to dandle on her withered knees — 
 though she finds herself in the dear arms of a husband, 
 a* once the loving and beloved cause of all her alarms — 
 and though in the eye of thought, she sees alrea<ly at her 
 breast the cheruh-boy, sweet image of his father, with 
 rosy lingers pressing the polished orb, as with laughing 
 eye fixed on hcr's, he swills the milky stream — yet. uot- 
 w tthstanding ail these precious aids of innocence and love. 
 
40 
 
 slie still has her terrors, and sometimes even to tears and 
 fainting; then, oh God, what must the wretched Miss 
 Lestrange have suffered, when she felt in her womh the 
 first leapings of that dreaded infant — that living legacy 
 of an accursed villain — that child of shame and sorrow 
 that is coming to expose her secret sins — to blast the 
 glory of her name — and to break her parents' hearts! 
 
 Like one on whoso frightened senses a thousand spec- 
 tres had bursted at once, in all the terrors of the nether 
 wwrld, thus looked this most wretched of women. Her 
 hair rose in stiffening ranks above her death-pale face; 
 while her eyes rolled in horrour. 
 
 Nancy who was sitting with her at the time, marked 
 her dismal looks, and near frightened out of her wits ran 
 down stairs screaming to her parents to come tip; for 
 Qod's sake to come nji, for that Matilda was dijing. 
 
 *'llie Lord have mercy!" cried both of them at once, 
 and as fast as their aged limbs and broken hearts would 
 permit, hastened up stairs. On the floor lay their daugh- 
 ter, in a strong convulsive fit — with her head drawn back 
 — teeth hard clenched — foam at her mouth — and a fran- 
 tick stare on her lived eye balls! 
 
 Great God! what must her doating parents have felt 
 at that sight, which not even the rankest libertine, (who 
 had but seen her a few weeks before, arrayed in heav- 
 enly innocence and beauty,) could have beheld without 
 tears! x'Vssisted by the weeping servants, they placed her 
 on the bed. As soon as she had recovered her senses, her 
 father stooped down, and with a voice interrupted by 
 sobs, asked her if they should pray xvith her. She shook 
 her head, and with a wildness in her looks as if she was 
 going again into fits, said, "no, no, don^t pray for me.' 
 God ivillnot hear your prayers for such a ivretch as me/'* 
 
 Her father wept aloud. After wiping, for some time, 
 Ihe tears that drenched his furrowed cheeks, he stooped 
 down again, and with great tenderness, said, ^'why my 
 dear child, why rvill you not let your poor father know 
 tvhat it is that makes you so unhappy!'* 
 
 *'Know!'' replied she with a deep groan, "oh that you 
 could never, never know! butyou willknow it soon enough! 
 
41 
 
 yes miserable me! you ufilL know it.' you icHl kuoiv it! 
 you will knorv j7/" 
 
 In utteriii}; this lader part her voice rose to a shriek, 
 which endetl in ilreadful convulsions, from which it was 
 with j^reat difliculty that she was recovered. 
 
 This last Ht of the wretched Matilda's, with the woful 
 shriek and speech preceding;, awakened in tlu.' heart of 
 Mr. LesJranj^e a pang, in comparison oT which all that 
 he had yet suirerod was a mere nothing. It is true, he had 
 wept much on account of his daughter; hut they were in 
 some sort, sweet and precious di-ops, because shed over a 
 dear child, whom though afflicted, ho looked on as lovely 
 in innocence and the cai'e of heaven. But now, (jh hor- 
 rible, distracting thought! he began to suspect that his 
 iirst, his fairest, his de^irest child, was that vile polluted 
 creature whom both God and man detest. What must 
 have been his feelings, as trembling and blank with ter- 
 ror, he took her own mother aside to ask what could jMa- 
 tilda have meant when uttering that piercing shriek she 
 said wc should know if; we should kno7C it soou enough.' 
 
 It was made known to them soon enough indeed; for 
 reposing himself one day in an outer apartment, unknoxcu 
 to Matilda, who lay in an adjoining room, he heard a 
 succession of sighs and groans (oo deep and dismal to 
 come from a holy source. Presently, opening the parti- 
 tion door, she came along through the apartment where 
 he lay. 
 
 At sudden sight of her father, lill of late the delight 
 of her eyes, the blood forsook her check, leaving thenj 
 bleached with that ghastly terror which firm-nerved in- 
 nocence never knew. 
 
 None but a father can fancy what this father feit at 
 sight of such guilty confusion on a dear-loved daughter's 
 face. But the stroke of death i(sclf could not equal (hut 
 still keener pang which he felt, when, glancing his eye 
 on her waUtt, he beheld the coniirmation of all that he 
 most dreaded and most abhorred. 
 
 It was well that he was lying down, for utterly para- 
 lyzed by that gorgon sight, his nerves would certainly 
 have sunk under him. IJke a pale murderess. Matilda 
 G 
 
^flitted throngb the apartment, leaving her father to th^t 
 nioumful silence so well befitting the horrors of his mind. 
 After recovering himself a little from the tremor of such 
 a sfaoukf he sent for his wife, to whom| he imparted his 
 fears^ begging she would see their ruined daughter and 
 question her. 
 
 The poor broken hearted girl could not deceive. Pale 
 as a corpse and falling on her knees before her mother, 
 she confessed all. She confessed that she was with chili! 
 Slupified with grief Mrs. Lestrange returned to her hus- 
 band. Her looks, for she could not speak^ her looks con- 
 firmed all that he had too justly feared. 
 
 The wretched mother had not been able to ask her 
 daughter for the father of the child, neither had she as 
 yet told her. However, when asked she readily told 
 them that it was Mr. Oneale. His guilt in this barbarous 
 act was so aggravated by ingratitude, as to excite the 
 indignation of the family to an unusual degree. Good 
 old Mr. Lestrange intreated hi* family to suppress their 
 resentments; telling them that God was the only right- 
 ful avenger of his own laws, and that he thought it his 
 duty to leave Mr. Oneale to him, as to the righteous 
 Judge who best knew what to do with his ofifending crea- 
 tures. 
 
 This was the last day that old Mr. Lestrange ever saw 
 his daughter. He sent for his sister, the wealthy Mrs. 
 Thomson, to come over and take Matilda home to live 
 with her till his death; for that he bad made up his mind 
 never to see her again. Mrs. Thomson thought art first 
 that her brother had done this from liatred of Matilda. 
 But he said no — God was witness, that it was not from 
 hate, but, contrariwise, from love, for "0 my Gi)d.," con- 
 tinued he, bitterly weeping, '"^when I think how bright and 
 heavenhj she once was, how can I ever think oj' seeing her 
 a^ain, ilisgraced and miserable as she now is/" 
 
 It docs not aj)peiLr that Mr. Oneale was ever touched 
 Avith any thing like remorse, for all the infamy and ruin 
 he had brought on poor Matilda. For, on hearing that 
 she was gone to live with her aunt I'homson, he swore 
 he would renew his visits to her.- To protect them from 
 
48 
 
 insult, Mr. Lcslriingt' advised liis son to go over e\cn 
 CTcning and sit witii his aunt and sister till bed lime. 
 
 George followed his father's instnietions; and for se- 
 veral evenings took his gun, but finding it troublesome 
 he exchanged it for a pistol. The distanee from his 
 aunt's to his father's not exceeding a short mile, George 
 generally made his visits on foot. As his last visit on 
 this unpleasant errand, eventuated in the sudden and 
 bloody death of Mr. Oneale, it may gratify the i-eader 
 to have it stated to him exactly as it happened, which 
 was as follows: 
 
 He had spent several weeks in these daily visits to his 
 aunt; at length growing indignant at the idea of thus 
 wasting his precious time on account of an unprincipled 
 villain, he started up, and bidding adieu to his aunt, set 
 off for home. The foot path which he followed soon led 
 him into a deep forest, where every thing conspired to 
 nurse the gloom of his mind. 
 
 The season was a silent afternoon in October. No 
 breath of air whispered through the grove, nor leaf shook 
 upon the trees. An awful stillness reigned around, save 
 where the distant crow uttered at times a boding note, 
 whose dying echoes served but to deepen the horrour ol 
 the scene. TJiis was a situation exactly suited to (he me- 
 lancholy mood of George's mind; and sensibly reminded 
 him of the still deeper gloom iiieumbent on his own dear 
 family — that heavy gloom brought on by one who ought 
 to have been the last to do them harm — by one who had 
 always been treated as a brother and a .voji— and who, 
 under the mask of religion and friendship, had complete- 
 ly winded himself into the confidence of an uususpecting 
 girl, and by villainous arts had awakened in her bosoni, 
 ere she was aware, those treacherous passions which it 
 was too laic afterwards to controul — and thus, like the 
 accursed Lucifer, had siratched from its orbit one of the 
 brightest stars of female excellence, and with her had 
 quenched in endless shame (he peace and comfort of a 
 once honourable and happy family. 
 
 In the midst of such thoughts chaHiug bis yontliful 
 soul to vengeance, he approached the main county road 
 
u 
 
 that intersected his path. And behold! mysterious hea- 
 ven! at the same moment, the ill fated Mr. Oneale and 
 his two young friends, the Messrs. Halls, galloping along 
 the road, arrived at the same spot. 
 
 **Jlye George, is that you!'^ cried the younger»>Ir. Hall 
 to George, who wrapped in his cloak with eyes on the 
 ground, had not yet noticed them. Roused by the above 
 salutation, from his furious reverie, George looked up, 
 and lo! whom should his wrathful eyes first ligtit upon 
 but the murderer of his family, the detested Oneale, 
 mounted on his elegant horse, called Mayluck! 
 
 In a moment, as by instinct, he snatched the pistol 
 from his side, and calling out as he presented it, "you 
 D_N-.D villain!" drew the trigger. Nine buck shot 
 struck the body of the miserable rider and three the 
 horse. Owing, it is supposed, to liis guilty fright, Mr. 
 Oneale was not conscious of a wound,* but his more inno- 
 cent horse, having nothing to divert his attention, felt the 
 sting of the shot so severely that he ran off in full speed. 
 Mr. Oneale, being an excellent horseman, kept his sad- 
 dle, and ultimately succeeded in taking him up, after he 
 had run about half a mile. He then felt an unusual 
 weakness, which, at first, he ascribed to his violent efforts 
 jn stopping his horse. But feeling at the same time a 
 strange warmth about his feet and legs, he looke<l down, 
 and behold! the blood was running over the tops of his 
 half boots. The Messrs. Halls coming up found him by 
 the road side lying down on the grass. 
 
 Seeing him pale and bloody they hastened to him, and 
 tenderly asked if he was hurt. "Ics," replied he, shak- 
 ing his head, *Ht is all over rvilh me! George Lestrange 
 has done my business for me — and I don^t hlame him for 
 it.'* They then got him up on his horse again, and rid- 
 ing one on each side, supported him towards his house, 
 which fortunately for hint, was not more than half a 
 mile off. 
 
 On the road he often called out, with sad groans, on his 
 ^'childrenj his poor fatherless children! — the Lord have 
 mercy upofi him; what would become of his poor children,'' 
 
45 
 
 lie liad been to court that day; and as k was the hour 
 at which he usually returned, his wife, one of the most 
 
 loving women in the world, had been looking for him 
 
 Soon then as the yard gate was heard to chij), she has- 
 tened out to meet him, with her two children, one in each 
 hand, attending her. *'() yoiuler comes ourfaDuv!'"' they 
 exclaimed both at once, at the same time jumping and 
 pulling their mother to go faster to meet him. But alas! 
 soon as they saw that instead of galloping up briskly, 
 as to a wedding, as he was wont to do, he moved along 
 slowly, as to a funeral, with a gentleman on each side 
 supporting him; their innocent Joys were all suddenly 
 damped with fears and mournful expectation. But when, 
 on his near approach, they Ix'held his dismal state — his 
 rosy cheeks turned to ghastly pale — deadly faint his late 
 brilliant eyes — with his manly head, now nerveless, loose- 
 swiuging on his shoulders, or drooping on his breast — 
 and both himself and horse, bathed with blood still gush- 
 ing in torrents from his mortal wounds — what wonder 
 that at such a sight, this tender wife sunk instantly to the 
 earth a pale victim of despair, while her infants poured 
 their artless cries and tears over her lifeless face. 
 
 Having no time to lose, the Messrs. Halls hurried llisir 
 dying friend up to the door, and with the help of the ser- 
 vants got him down and placed on a bed. He then recov- 
 ered liis senses, and begged that the physician should be 
 sent for. Soon as he had examined his wounds the phy- 
 sician shook his head, and with a sigh bid him prepare 
 for eternity, for that he could not live over six hours. 
 
 He died in horrors unutterable. In his last moments 
 he spoke very bitter things against his father and mother. 
 **Here am J," said he with a deep sigh, "/yin^ on my 
 dying bed.' in the mornina; of my doj/s, suddenly cut off! 
 and no wonder; for this is rchat naturally comes from 
 giving young fellows fine coats^ and gay horses, and mo- 
 ney, to gallop ahout the country into all sorts of company! 
 Oh had I but been early brought vp to religion and some 
 good trade, I hud never come to this miserable end!"^ 
 
 It appeared as though good old Mr. Lestrange was 
 never to have an end to his troubles; at least not until 
 
he reached that peaceful land, *'where tlie wicked cease 
 ^rom troubling^* For scarcely were those terrors sub- 
 sided which had been raised in his gentle bosom on hear- 
 ing from George that he had Jired at Mr. Oneale in the 
 roads, before a negro came and reported that Mr. Oneale 
 wa« dtfing! No wink of sweet sleep was enjoyed by any 
 of the family that night. 
 
 The next morning early, doctor Sirakins, who was a 
 sensible and pious man, a methodist, and a hearty friend 
 of the family, came over to Lestrange-iiouse. He 
 found them just as they were rising fr*om their knees at 
 morning devotions. Seizing old Mr. Lestrange by the 
 hand, he exclaimed, *'God hless t/ow, mij dear old friendt 
 J'o*' a jn'actice in ijour family that tends ^o admirahly hath 
 to sweeten and sublime their hearts.'* 
 
 The countenance of good old Mr. Lestrange was al- 
 ready bright from holy communion with his God, but 
 catching a still brighter glow from this approbation of 
 one whom he so highly valued, he replied, "well doctor, 
 if ijou are so thankful because I maintain the worship of 
 God in my family, what ought I to be — for indeed if it 
 had not been for tliat, we should have been run mad, by 
 the afflictions that have lately come upon us." 
 
 Jlere the doctor heaved a sigh, and looked tenderly at 
 George; whossc melamdioly air, and eyes that appeai*ed 
 i*ed with weeping, rendered him very interesting. 
 
 *'Comc, doctor,'^ said Mr. Lestrange, who had marked 
 the doctor's sigh and looks at George, *'comc fell us if 
 God has any other trials in store for us.'* 
 
 ^'That wretched gentleman is dead sir," replied the doc- 
 tor — "/te died last nightf a hard and horrible death.' and 
 now I advise you, my dear boy," looking at George, *Ho^ 
 go and give yourself up to the officers of justice imme- 
 diately; and I'll go with you." 
 
 Poor Nancy, whose frightened imagination at once be- 
 held the officers of justice seizing her brother to hang 
 him, flew to George, and, with her arms around his neck, 
 shrieked out most piteously, *^oh brother George, brother 
 George!" 
 
47 
 
 Leaving tlic house filled with as loud and bitter lamen- 
 tations as if he had indeed been (^oin<2; to be bunt;, (jiroi'p- 
 set off for Wilmington, aceonipanied by the geni^rous 
 doctor Simkins. 
 
 Many of the rclativesof Mr. Oneule, with all the liber- 
 tines of the country, made great efforts to get young 
 George Lestrange condemned: but, to their immortal 
 honour, the ladies of Wilmington and its vicinity, made 
 still greater efforts for his safety and comfort. They 
 spoke of him as the champion and avenger of their sex. 
 
 His prison chamber was scoured and furnished as for 
 the reception of the great Washington. It was perfumed 
 with odours and garnished with fiurest flowers; and eve- 
 ry day his board was spread with dainties, and every night 
 his bed with down. 
 
 In a little time the strength of the two parties was 
 fairly tried in court; and the trembling youth at the bar, 
 with all his fair friends in the crowded galleries, heard 
 the sentence of manslaughteu! 
 
 Instantly the ladies dispatched a courier with a petition 
 to governour Martin for a purdon, which his excellency 
 signed with great pleasure. The ladies then repaired to 
 the prison and brought him forth in great triumph, and 
 the next day escorted him to his father's house. But 
 though the good old father received the returning son 
 with tears of joy; and though the fulled calf was killed 
 to welcome both George and bis fair deliverers; yet alas! 
 the bright peace of fornier days never returned to his 
 bosom. His darling daughter defiled with whore- 
 dom! AND HIS SON STAINED WITH BLOOD, HIS ONLY 
 
 SON GEORGE WHOM HE SO DEARLY LOVEdI ll W aS a 
 
 grief too heavy for age to bear, and he was kindly re- 
 moved to that state were good men weep no more. His 
 broken hearted widow was soon laid to rest by his side. 
 
 Their son did not survive them long. Though the 
 EXECUTIVE had forgiven him for the death of Oneale, h«' 
 never forgave himself. To have assailed his poor brother 
 man, so^«rjoi/s/j/ — and so unfeelingly to have cut him oiV 
 I'rom life and wife, from children and friends, and hurried 
 him, H bloody corpse to the grave, and his soul, in all its 
 
J ^ -. 48 
 
 ^ 
 
 fiiH blown sius, to the dread tribunal! "this cruei. act,'^ 
 as be frequently and pathetieally called it, like the worm 
 that never dietb, tortured bim^layand night. In a few^ 
 weeks he was laid, a mere skeleton, by the side of his sis- 
 ter Nancy; as she was, just nine days before, by her 
 mother. 
 
 Thus did this single act of a wanton daughter involve in 
 hellish gloom one of the happiest families that ever lived, 
 and in less tban a twelvemonth consign them all to the 
 grave — except the fair adultress herself. She, wretched 
 woman! still lives to mourn her own sad fall and its dis- 
 mal consequences. 
 
 Daughters of beauty! when you read the impure glance, 
 in the eye of one who calls himself your frfcnd, think, oh 
 think of Matilda Lestrange — and be wise. 
 
 How blest the maid who firmly treads* 
 
 In honor's blissful ways; 
 Nor ever from the sacred paths 
 
 Of virtue's dictates strays. 
 
 FINIS