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THE
EFFECTS OF EXCESSIVE
PARENTAL INDULGENCE,
EXHIBITED IN THE
HISTORY OF ROBERT JONES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
STORIES ABOUT GENERAL LAFAYETTE,
"Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is
old, he will not depart from it."
TO WHICH IS ADDED,
THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH,
AND HIS DUTIFUL GRANDSON.
FOUNDED ON FACT.
BY W. HOLLOWAY.
New York:
PUBLISHED BY N. B. HOLMES,
No. 262 Greenwich street.
1830.


THE NTV X
PUBLIC LIBRARY
B
338481B
ASTOR, LENOX AND
TILDEN FOUNDATIONS
1946
L
Southern District of New York, ss.
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on on the 7th
day of July, A. D. 1830, in the fifty-fifth year of the
Independence of the United States of America, N.
B. Holmes of the said District, hath deposited in this
office, the title of a Book, the right whereof he claims
as proprietor, in the words following, to wit:
The Effects of Excessive Parental Indulgence,
exhibited in the history of Robert Jones. By
the author of Stories about General Lafayette.
Train up a child in the way he should go; and
when he is old, he will not depart from it.'
In conformity to the Act of Congress of the
United States, entitled, "An Act for the encourage-
ment of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps,
Charts, and Books, to the authors and proprietors of
such copies, during the time therein mentioned."
And also to an Act, entitled " An Act, supplementary
to an Act, entitled 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 exten-
ding the benefits thereof to the arts of designing,
engraving, and etching historical and other prints."
FRED. J. BETTS,
Clerk of the Southern District of New York.


ADVERTISEMENT.
The author of the following tale, deems it
his duty to state, that the plan of it was sug-
gested by an article in an English magazine;
and that the language employed in that ar-
ticle has been used by him, so far as it could
be made subservient to his purpose.





ROBERT JONES.
THERE lived, some years since, in the town
of M, an old man, by the name of
William Jones. As he was an only son, he
inherited from his father, who died when he
was in his twentieth year, all his property;
which, however, was not large, consisting of
a comfortable house, situated some distance
from the village common, a productive gar-
den, and a small but well cultivated farm.
The education of William Jones, had been
respectable; and, considering the natural
kindness and social character of his disposi-
tion, it might have been expected that he
would have early sought to become connect-
ed, and settled in life. This was the rather
looked for by his friends, as his mother early
followed her husband to the grave. But for
reasons not now well understood, he conti-
nued single for many years.
1*


ROBERT JONES.
William Jones was an industrious man; and,
being, at the same time, frugal in his domes-
tic economy, he yearly added to his little pro-
perty, until, at length, he became moderately
rich. He was, also, in the strict sense, a
moral man.
He had a sober air, was strictly
honest and honourable in his dealings, and,
in comparison with a majority of mankind,
might be said to be exemplary.
He was seldom absent from public worship,
and was accounted, by the parish minister,
at least a well wisher to the cause of religion.
To the poor around him, he was ever kind;
and, in respect to the benevolent objects of
that day, manifested a becoming interest. In
short, Mr. Jones was a morai man-a useful
member of society, a lover of good order,
and sincerely attached to the wholesome laws
and customs of the land. But this was all.
He was not decidedly religious. His spe-
culative views of Christianity, were correct.
He believed the Scriptures to be the Word
of God, and binding upon mankind. He
was convinced that men generally err, in no
small degree, in respect to their duty to God :


ROBERT JONES.
but then he had nothing of that deep sense
of sin, which characterizes the true disciples
of Christ. He was disposed to think it
enough, for one to observe a good moral
life, and was sometimes heard to say, that he
believed that all would be saved, who should
try to do, upon the whole, as well as they
could.
Years passed by, and, at length, found
William Jones on the other side of forty
years of age.
The day had long gone by,
when his friends expected to see him settled
in life, with a help-meet, and they seldom sè-
riously, or even by way of raillery, named the
subject in his presence.
Strange things, however, sometimes occur
in the world; and strange, indeed, it was
thought, when a rumor began to go the vil-
lage rounds, that William Jones was partial
to the parson's daughter.
Matilda Evanson was, by several years,
younger than Mr. Jones; but, for true excel-
lence of character, she had few equals, if
any superiors, in the village in which she
lived. A pious father had early taught her


ROBERT JONES.
the great truths of the gospel; and, through
the gracious influences of the spirit of God,
she had become a pious and sincere follower
of Christ. In her life and conversation, she
was so humble and consistent; in her dispo-
sition, so mild and gentle, that none could
know her, and not highly esteem and love her.
Mr. Jones, though he greatly respected
Mr. Evanson, was not frequently a visiter at
his house. Indeed, he seldom went far from
home of an evening, nor often in the day-
time, except on business. It was impossible,
however, that Matilda Evanson should escape
the notice, or that her character should fail
to command the admiration and respect of a
man of the good sense of Mr. Jones. He
sometimes saw her, and always with a satis-
faction superior to what he felt, in the pre-
sence of other ladies.
We will not detain our readers, with a mi-
nute account of the various circumstances
which led to the marriage of William Jones
and Matilda Evanson. It is sufficient to say,
that they were married; and set out with a
fair prospect of at least as much prosperity,


ROBERT JONES.
as ordinarily falls to the lot of those who are
thus connected in life.
For some
They were not disappointed.
years, prosperity did attend them. Their
house wore an air of cheerfulness and con-
tentment; and it was in the mouth of every
one almost, "What a kind and clever hus-
band the old bachelor proves;" for so Wil-
liam Jones was long wont to be called, even
after he had ceased to be a bachelor in re-
ality.
During the fourth year of Mr. Jones' mar-
riage, William, the subject of this history,
was born.
I will not say that William's fa-
ther acted childishly on this event, for his
nature did not well admit of it: but it was
evident, that his cup of earthly felicity was
full. The mother's fondness, and she was a
fond mother, was nothing, compared with
that with which the father doated on his
babe. He would rock its cradle, or hush it
in his arms, or sing to it, by the hour. It
was a song poured forth, not indeed by rule
or art, nor so melodious, as is sometimes
sung; but it was the lullaby of affection, and
generally had its quieting effect.


10
ROBERT JONES.
寫
​It was pleasant, on entering William Jones'
house of a morning, to witness this exhibition
of parental love. The prattle of his boy did
not indeed tempt him to neglect his business;
but he was in consequence of listening to it,
sometimes a half hour later in his field to
work, than before he became a parent. And
it was pleasant, too, to notice how, sometimes
on his way home of an evening, he would
stop and exchange a few words with an ac-
quaintance, at his cottage door, attracted by
the sight of some chubby boy, with whose
short limbs and infant vigour, he would com-
pare, in his mind's eye, the healthful beauty
of his own little urchin.
This fondness of the father towards his boy,
naturally excited the most pleasing emotions
in the heart of the mother. What mother's
heart would not have been filled with delight?
But, then, even at this early day, the source
of her joy was, also, the source of no small
anxiety. Mr. Jones' attachment to this idol
of his heart, was early showing itself, in various
little indulgences, which might, bye and bye,
lead to its permanent injury. In her estima-


ROBERT JONES.
11
The
tion, and she was right, it was easier to pre-
vent the restless and feverish spirit, excited
in a child by indulgence, than to cure it,
when it had been excited. She would,
therefore, occasionally, in her mild and win-
ning manner, chide her husband for his in-
dulgence of Robert -so the boy was called;
she said she feared, that he might yet regret,
that he did not sometimes deny the gratifica-
tion of his childish wants. The kind remon-
strance of Mrs. Jones, was not without its
effect; but that effect was temporary.
truth is, that William Jones was a bachelor,
of over forty years, when he became a hus-
band, and still older when he became a fa-
ther. William Jones meant to be kind, and
he was so to a fault. To cross his boy's in-
clinations, was only a task, and such a task
as required a constant effort. But more than
this, it was what he seldom did-we might
with more truth say, never did, unless at the
moment of receiving an admonition to that
effect, from the anxious, but equally affection-
ate mother of the boy.


12
ROBERT JONES.
One evening-it was a cold and dark and
rainy night in the month of December, just
as farmer Jones was covering the fire on the
hearth, a faint rap was heard at the door.
"Some benighted traveller, may be," said
he, as he walked towards the door to open
it. He turned the key, for he had already
locked it; and opening the door, he observed
a woman standing before him, carrying,
beside a large pack, an infant of only a few
months old.
"The Lord bless you," exclaimed the
poor woman, who was a soldier's widow, re-
turning from the wars, and the grave of her
husband-"The Lord bless you," again she
exclaimed," may be, you'll give a lodging to
a poor widow and her fatherless babe."
“Come in, come in," said farmer Jones,
whose heart was touched by the sight of the
"fatherless babe;" (although, in general, he
indulged no great regard for the tribe of idle
beggars, who stroll through the country.)
"Come in, for it rains fast and is quite
cold."


ROBERT JONES.
13
The soldier's widow was, in reality, an
object of pity; she was a good woman, and
the daughter of sorrow and misfortune. She
had followed her husband to the war, where
he had fallen, as thousands fall, in the midst
of battle. She was now returning, as fast as
her feeble health would permit her, to her
native town. In the early part of the even-
ing, she had applied for lodging at several
places; but, until she reached farmer Jones',
no one seemed disposed to befriend her.
With some difficulty she entered the door,
for she was much exhausted, and made her
way to the half covered fire.
Her poor babe
was still more exhausted than the mother.
Mr. Jones soon kindled a good fire, while
Mrs. Jones assisted the widow, in removing
the wet garments of herself and child.
"It's all for the best," exclaimed the poor
woman, as she wrung the water from her
abundant hair, her tears at the same time ad-
ding to the currents which fell upon the
hearth. "It's all for the best. The Lord
reigneth, let the earth rejoice.”


14
ROBERT JONES.
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Mrs.
Jones, a tide of christian affection beginning
to go forth towards the friendless widow.
"I am glad to hear you say so All events
are wisely ordered, though clouds and dark-
ness sometimes cover the ways of Provi-
dence."
66
37
Indeed, his ways are not as our ways,"
rejoined the poor creature. “We read,
Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
but the Lord delivereth them out of all.' I.
have seen many a day of trial, and many
more such days, may be, are before me; but
it is a blessed word which we read- When
thou passest through the waters, I will be
with thee; and through the rivers, they shall
not overflow thee: when thou walkest
through the fire, thou shalt not be burned;
neither shall the flame kindle upon thee."
"""
During this conversation, which was con-
tinued for some time, the widow had dried
her clothes before the comfortable fire which
Mr. Jones had kindled. A bowl of warm
bread and milk had greatly revived her ex-
hausted nature, and she expressed her thank-
ཨ ཐ ཨི ཨ


ROBERT JONES.
15
fulness, that the Lord had opened their hearts
to save herself and child from perishing.
It was now growing late. A flock bed
was brought in, and laid upon the clean floor,
near the fire; and the poor woman and her
babe soon forgot their troubles, in a refresh-
ing sleep which stole upon them.
By the following morning the clouds had
dispersed, and a milder temperature prevailed
abroad. A warm breakfast, added to the
unbroken sleep of the night, still further con-
tributed to restore the strength of the sol-
dier's widow. Her babe, too, was equally
refreshed. Its playful smile seemed to be-
speak its gratitude to its benefactors, while
the mother herself was not forgetful in tes-
tifying her obligations to Mr. and Mrs. Jones,
and to the Author of all good, who had
moved their hearts in her favour.
Breakfast being ended, the widow made
preparation to proceed on her way to her na-
tive place, which lay some miles from M-,
"God speed you," said Mr. Jones, as she
rose to go, at the same time accompanying
his blessing with a small piece of money.


16
ROBERT JONES.
"God speed you, and bring you safely to the
land of your fathers."
"And may the Lord bless you, and your
household," replied the widow. "Cast thy
bread upon the waters," added she." and
after many days, thou shalt find it. Who
knows but the Lord will enable me to re-
quite your kindness some day hence. May
be, may be," said she, with a more than ordi-
nary emphasis, and with a kind of prophetic
tone, as she walked down the steps, and took
her way through the neat and pleasant yard,
which surrounded the house.
"6
May be." The words fell upon the ear
of farmer Jones, and for a time, made a
strange impression upon his heart. The em-
phasis with which they were spoken, and still
more, the strange and undefinable expression
which sat upon the widow's countenance, as
she pronounced the words, were calculated
to make, at least, a temporary impression
upon his mind.
The impression was, indeed, temporary,
though deeper than usual. It was mostly
forgotten in the hurry of that day's business;


ROBERT JONES.
21
and happy is it for a family of children, when
both parents act in concert, in relation to
this important duty.
On the subject of the proper education of
Robert, she had often had long and interest-
ing conversations with Mr. Jones. In her
mild and courteous way, she had expressed
her views, and urged his co operation with her
in giving to Robert a decidedly religious edu-
cation. Her husband was a man of too
good sense and tender regard for his wife,
not to listen with patience, and even with
kindness to her suggestions; but, then, aside
from an increasing fondness for the child, to
which we have alluded, and which powerfully
tempted him to an unjustifiable indulgence of
the boy's wishes and whims, he would not, or
at least, did not see things in the same light
in which they were regarded by Mrs. Jones.
He was far from wishing his son to become
viciously disposed; he would have revolted
at the thought. But, less conscious of the na-
tural proneness of the heart to evil, he could
not premise the danger which she saw, and
to her womanish anxiety imputed anticipa-


22
ROBERT JONES,
tions, which his notions of morality, but more
his idolatrous attachment, rendered him in
capable of realizing.
The illness of Mrs. Jones naturally in-
creased her affection, and her anxiety for her
son. At an early period of her disease,
though not inclined to despondency, she had
expressed her conviction, that God was about
to remove her, and she hoped would take
her to himself. She watched the progress of
her failing strength, with resignation to the
divine will; but she could not but deeply feel
the unguarded state in which she should
leave her son. Many were the tears which
she shed. And what pious mother would
not have wept? many were the prayers she
offered "p; and what mother would not have
prayed that God would protect her boy?
One evening, it was when it was no longer
doubtful to sober judgment, that the removal
of Mrs. Jones to another world was not far
distant. She requested, that Mr. Jones and
herself might for a time be left alone. On
the withdrawal of her friends, she called her
husband, and requested him to take a seat
by the side of her bed.


ROBERT JONES.
23
"William," said she, putting her pale, and
now almost icy hand within his. "William,
I feel that my hour is nearly come. 1 had
hoped to live for years for your sake, and
that of our lovely boy but I cannot, must
not, longer indulge the hope. God is sum-
moning me away.. I feel," said she, “al-
ready, as if the shadows of death were set-
ting in upon me. At this hour I need not
assure you of my affection, nor of my hope
that"-until this moment she had been calm
and collected, and her utterance had been
clear; but she was now approaching a topic too
tender for her to touch upon with composure,
a gust of tears flowed from her eyes. In
agony, her husband had risen from his seat,
he still grasped her hand, he bent over her
emaciated frame, tears fell from his eyes, and
mingling with hers as they fell, were a fit
emblem of the current and harmony of their
affection. He well knew what she would
have said. "Yes, yes," said he, "may God
hear your prayer for me; may we indeed
meet again, in the paradise of God."


24
ROBERT JONES.
The kind emotions of her husband, the
strong and emphatic, and as she hoped, de-
vout prayer for their eternal union, which he
had uttered, was indeed a balm to her agita-
ted spirit. "Oh!" said she, "my William,
may heaven guide you into the way of truth,
and prepare you for eternal glory."
"But," continued she," there is still ano-
ther subject, in respect to which, I wish to
give you my dying counsel." Upon this,
Mr. Jones resumed his seat, and she pro-
ceeded. "I cannot express the pleasure
which I feel, at the affection which you ma-
nifest for our lovely Robert. Oh! he is,
indeed, a lovely boy! and would that it had
been consistent with the divine counsels, that
his mother might have been spared to assist
you in bringing him up: but, no, it cannot
be, that will soon devolve upon you. My
dear husband! amidst all my anxieties, there
is one which swallows up all the rest. I fear
that very affection in you, which is so de-
lightful to a mother's bosom. Yes, William,
I do fear that Robert is the
idol of your
heart; that he is in God's place in your


ROBERT JONES.
25
affections. And, do forgive me, my husband,
when I say, that I fear, too, that that undue
affection may prove his temporal and eternal
ruin. I have often told you of your exces-
sive indulgence. You seldom curb him-
seldom deny him-seldom admonish him.
God says, 'train up a child in the way he
should go, and"". In a whisper, only,
did she finish the sentence, if she finished it
at all. A faintness suddenly came over her.
Mr. Jones hastily summoned her friends.
They reached the bed-side, in season only to
witness the expression of holy resignation
and composure, which, even in death, dwelt
upon her countenance.
The death of such a wife, and under such
circumstances, made, as it might well make,
a deep impression on the mind of Mr. Jones.
It was his solemn purpose, and who would
not have formed such a resolution ?-to re-
member her dying counsel, and to carry into
effect, what he well knew were her wishes,
in respect to Robert. From the night of
her death, he took his little son to his own
hed, and watched over him with all the kind-
3


26
ROBERT JONES.
ness and solicitude of the most affectionate
of fathers.
We must pass over the circumstances of
the funeral of Mrs. Jones, which was con-
ducted with all that decent solemnity, appro-
priate to so solemn and affecting an occasion.
When the solemnity was finished, Mr.
Jones led Robert to their now lonely dwelling.
It was a vacant place. The hand of the
destroyer had been there, and it made his
heart desolate to think how lovely and im-
portant to his happiness she was, whose
mortal part had felt death.
The grief of Mr. Jones, however, could
not be said to be excessive. He had, indeed,
loved his wife, with a pure affection; but,
somehow, he felt that a rich consolation was
still left him, in his lovely Robert. Him he
now regarded with a still deeper affection,
and was uneasy if the boy were absent from
him, but for a few minutes.
Early the following morning, an elderly
widow, who had been used to cook his
victuals, and set the cottage in order, before
his marriage, came to superintend his domes


ROBERT JONES.
27.
tic affairs;-to take care of Robert and his
clothes, and to stand in place of a mother to
the motherless boy. She was, indeed, a good
and tender foster-mother, and a careful ma-
nager. But, at such an age, it was unfortu-
nate, that it fell to the boy's lot to come under
the care of one, who, by reason of her ad-
vanced years, and often infirmities, was less
fitted for the charge than a person of fewer
years.
Under a feeling of loneliness, which rather
increased as months elapsed, Mr. Jones be-
came more and more anxious to enjoy the
company of his son. He was naturally a
bright child, and his playful habits seemed to
divert the attention of the father, from an in-
ward sorrow, which often pressed heavily
upon his spirits. Robert, therefore, accom-
panied his father nearly every where, whither
he went to the field, to the barn, to the
village; in short, they were together by day
and by night, at home and abroad, awake and
asleep.
Within a year of Mrs. Jones' death, the
health of Robert became quite unsettled.


28
ROBERT JONES.
Instead of exhibiting a ruddy complexion,
and a happy face, the indications of vigorous
health, his countenance appeared languid,
and listlessness marked all his conduct. This
change soon attracted the notice of Mr.
Jones, and all his anxieties were alive.
Without that experience, which fitted him
to prescribe for Robert, he, most unfortunate-
ly, by the course he adopted, only increased
the maladies of the child, and laid the foun-
dation-if his indulgence of Robert had not
already laid it-of evil habits, which he had
occasion to lament to his dying hour.
A strict injunction was now given to old
Jenny, the house-keeper, to attend particu-
larly to Robert's ails. This, Jenny said she
should do with great pleasure; "for," said
she,
"since the death of his poor mother, I
have loved him as much, as if he were my
own child." Robert's health was now
watched, both by Jenny, and Mr. Jones,
with redoubled care. Every complaint,
every ill feeling, was diligently listened to,
and as diligently cherished. Every want,
too, was gratified, as far as it could be.


ROBERT JONES.
29
Elixers and cordials, of various kinds, were
procured, and administered, as often as the
worn-out Jenny wanted some herself, or, as
her fond affection for the boy seemed to dic-
tate. Instead of running about in the fields,
and breathing the wholesome and bracing
air of the morning, Robert was permitted
but seldom to go abroad, lest his feet should
be wet, or lest he should play too much, and
become too much fatigued.
Under such a regimen, it will not appear
surprising, that the health of the boy should
not improve. On the contrary, he became
feeble, and emaciated. He was languid by
day, and restless by night. At this point,
Mr. Jones adopted a practice-a common
practice, indeed, with many parents, but
nearly as fatal, as it is common, of adminis-
tering to Robert, every day, and, at length,
repeatedly every day, ardent spirits.
little, thought Mr. Jones, will do him good.
"It certainly will do him good," said old
Jenny, one day, when Mr. Jones suggested
it, as a remedy for the feebleness of Robert.
"It will certainly do him much good," said
Α
3*


30
ROBERT JONES.
Jenny, at the same time thinking how much
good a share of it would do herself. "It will
prove," added she, "a cordial to his sto-
mach. Bless me! I wonder it was not
thought of before."
A jug was soon despatched to the village
store, and came back well filled with that,
which old Jenny was quite sure, and which
Mr. Jones thought it probable, might effect
Robert's cure. The administering of it, was
chiefly left to Jenny. Hence, we need not
say, that it was often administered; nor need
we tell how much she prided herself in ma-
king his sling rich and good. The inquiries
of Mr. Jones, as to the faithfulness of Jenny,
were often repeated; but fearing lest she
should neglect her duty, he would, himself,
often call Robert to the pantry, and supply
the supposed deficiencies of Jenny.
It will not be necessary to dwell upon the
consequences of such a course. A habit
was soon formed, and continued to acquire
strength; a desire was created, which ren-
dered Robert restless, and, even at this early
age, became clamorous in its demands.
He


ROBERT JONES.
31
I
became feverish, irritable, and dissatisfied
with all around him.
The course pursued by Mr. Jones, in re-
spect to Robert, was not unknown to Mr.
Evanson, the grandfather of the child, and
his family. They saw the danger of the
course, and it filled them with alarm. They
kindly remonstrated with Mr. Jones, and
begged him, as he valued the life of his son,
and, especially, his spiritual and eternal inte-
rests, to adopt different measures. In a
friendly manner, they warned him of the sad
and certain consequences of this indulgence,
and of habits thus formed in the morning of
life.
Mr. Jones was far from being an obstinate
man; nor was he unwilling to listen to advice.
But he could not see things as did others, nor
could he realize the danger of which others,
so often warned him. It was sufficient, he
thought, that reason would act bye and bye.
He was often heard to say, that when Ro-
bert's mind became enlarged, and his princi-
ples established, he would doubtless pursue an
honourable, and an upright course. Little


32
ROBERT JONES.
did he seem to understand, and it is an error
which pertains to many parents, that it is ea-
sier to imbue the mind of a child with good
principles, than to correct evil principles,
when once formed and established. Little
did he seem to understand, that good princi-
ples must be planted, nourished, strengthen-
ed; evil principles, like tares, spring up
spontaneously. They require nothing fur-
ther, than to be left to themselves, to
strengthen and mature.
The natural consequence of the course
adopted by Mr. Jones, in respect to Robert,
in connexion with the boy's feeble state of
health, was the serious neglect of his early
education. There was, indeed, a school
kept on the village common, which, at inter-
vals, Robert attended; but without making
much improvement. Indeed, it was with
reluctance, Mr. Jones consented to his going
at all; and, for the past year or two, Robert
had not even attended a single month.
At length, Robert's health having become
much improved, in consequence of some im-
portant changes, as to his diet, effected


ROBERT JONES.
33
through the influence of Mr. Evanson, the
eyes of Mr. Jones began to be opened, in a
measure, to the dangers of Robert's con-
dition.
"What am I doing to render my son useful
and respectable in the world?" was a ques-
tion which often occurred, and to which he
could give no satisfactory answer to himself.
He knew that his son was growing up in igno-
rance, and without proper restraint. He
could, himself, perceive, that instead of find-
ing it more easy to separate his son from
him, it was more and more difficult.
It was a point, however, which could be
neglected no longer. He determined, there-
fore, to resist his affection for his son, so far
as to send him to school, for a few years;
and, at length, selected for him a grammar
school, in the county town, about five miles
from his own habitation, where the sons of
respectable tradesmen and farmers were
boarded and taught, upon moderate terms.
Accordingly, he went one day to the town,
stated his wishes to the preceptor of the aca-
demy, and, having agreed upon the terms


34
ROBERT JONES.
returned, resolved, in his own mind, to send
Robert to school the ensuing week.
The greater number of the boys-those
whose parents were dwellers in the town of
B- were only day-boarders; but some,
whose families lived at a greater distance,
went home on Saturdays only, to spend the
Sabbath day. This latter was the arrange-
ment of Mr. Jones, in respect to Robert.
It was a comfort to him to reflect, that he
should see his son at least once a week.
Several days elapsed, after his return from
B, before he could gather firmness to
name his plan to Robert. Twice or thrice
he was upon the point of speaking of the ap-
proaching change, but something always oc-
curred to defer the execution of his purpose.
At last, seriously angry with himself, as he
departed one morning to his labours, he de-
puted to Jenny the task to which he felt him-
self unequal. Robert was left at home to
receive the communication; but after all, it
was the secret hope of Mr. Jones, that Ro-
bert's attachment to himself and home, would
be found so great, as to prove an excuse for


ROBERT JONES.
35
not carrying the contemplated plan into exe-
cution.
All that day William Jones wrestled with
his feelings most manfully. It was noticed
by the labourers, that he lashed his team with
more than usual severity, and laid his hand
upon the plough with more than ordinary
power; but they were ignorant of the cause.
The furrows that day traced, however, were
the most uneven he had ever drawn, since
the hour he had first guided his own plough
on his own acres. He kept firm to his post,
till the usual dinner hour, and even left the
field with his labourers, without deviating
from his accustomed firm deliberate step.
But when they had turned out of sight to
their own homes, Mr. Jones speeded on ra-
pidly towards his cottage, till just within sight
of it, he spied Robert running forward to meet
him. Then again, he slackened his pace, for
he was sure that Robert's feelings, in view of
separation, would be like his own.
He was destined, however, to a sad and
bitter disappointment. The merry urchin
came bounding towards him, with more than


36
ROBERT JONES.
his usual animation, and the first words he
distinguished were, "Father, father, I'm
going to school!-I'm going to school!-
I'm going to town, father!-I'm going to
school!—When shall I go?-shall I go to-
morrow ?-Shall I take my new clothes, fa-
ther? And my hoop, and my lamb, and old
Dobbin ?"
The words carried a bitter pang to the
heart of the father. He could scarcely give
credit to what he saw-to what he heard.
Was it possible, thought he, that this his only
child, the creature whom he had loved more
than any other, who had slept in his bosom and
prattled on his knee, and won from him such
fond indulgences, as he could scarce excuse
to his own conscience; was it possible, that
this darling of his age felt no pain, at the
prospect of separation-could feel so much
joy-could think at such a moment, only of
play things? The countenance of Mr. Jones
was unconsciously stern, and the poor child
stood trembling before him; and yet he
knew not why. At last, he softly whispered,
approaching still nearer, snd looking ear-


ROBERT JONES.
37
nestly and fearfully in his father's face-
"Shall I not go to school, then? Old Jenny
said I should."
The subdued tone, in which this last ques-
tion was put, restored Mr. Jones to his softer
feelings. "Yes," he replied, taking the boy's
band, and grasping it firmly within his own,
as he led him homeward," Yes, Robert,
you shall go to school-you have been kept
too long at home-to-morrow is the Sab-
bath-but, on Monday, you shall go. On
Monday, my child, you shall leave your
father."
The emphatic manner, and the solemn tone
in which this last sentence was uttered,
touched the feelings of Robert, who now
burst into tears, and clinging to his father's
arm, sobbed out—" But, you will go with me,
father; and you will come and see me every
day-will you not? And I shall soon come
home again."
These words were like balm to the dis-
tressed feelings of Mr. Jones. He caught
up Robert, and pressed him to his bosom ;
and, as they now proceeded towards home,
4


38
ROBERT JONES.
they reasoned together, and the father told
his boy, how he should fetch him home every
Saturday, with Dobbin; and how they should
still go hand-in-hand to church on the Sab-
bath; and how his lamb, and the grey colt,
should be taken care of in his absence; and
his hoop, and other toys, might be carried
with him to school.
The Sabbath day passed as usual. By
day-light, on Monday morning, Mr. Jones
awakened his boy hastily, and as cheerfully
as he was able. Old Jenny was hurried in
her preparations for breakfast, and, in com-
pleting the packing up of Robert's box, and
equipping him for his departure. Breakfast
was soon despatched, the wagon drawn out,
Dobbin harnessed, the box locked, and
brought out; in short, every thing was now
ready for a start.
"And are you really going to leave us?"
sobbed out old Jenny-at the same time
wiping away the tear now starting from her
eye, with the corner of her apron; "and
what, think you, will your poor dear father
do? and what will old Jenny do? Oh! it


ROBERT JONES.
39
will be so lonesome, these long evenings.
But, the will of the Lord be done."
66
Whist, whist," said Mr. Jones: "what!
would you break the boy's heart?" he need
not say that he meant his own heart, rather
than Robert's. Jenny, however, could not
resist administering her sage advice" how
that she hoped he would behave well, and
make progress in useful larning, and take
good care of his new clothes, and his new
Bible, and shun such boys as were wild, and
idle, and wicked. You must think of these
things," said Jenny, "and may the Lord
bless you!"
Mr. Jones now drove from the door, with
his precious charge, with feelings, which we
shall not attempt to describe. An hour and
a half, for Dobbin was now old and slow-pa-
ced, and, besides, Mr. Jones, had no disposi-
tion to get rid of his charge. I say, a full
hour and a half was consumed, in arriving at
the brow of the hill, which overlooked the
town of B.
As they began to descend the hill, Robert
was full of amazement. For the first time


40
ROBERT JONES.
in his life, he saw a well-built, and compact
village. The houses, the churches, markets,
manufactories-all filled him with delight.
He expressed his pleasure to his father, with
great emphasis. "Ay-it's all very fine, my
man," said the father, shaking his head—“ A
fine thing to look at, yon great city; and you
have seen nothing like it afore, poor innocent
lamb; but God keep you from the evil ways
that are in it, and from the tents of the un-
godly."
The attention of Mr. Jones was soon di-
verted to a far different object. About half
way down the hill, a green field presented
itself, upon which stood, and had for years
stood, a gallows; and the spot was known by
the name of "Gallows Hill." On that spot,
and around that fatal tree, the whole popula-
tion of B, to which may be added hun-
dreds, and perhaps thousands more, seemed
now assembled.
What could this mean?
thought Mr. Jones. The countless multitude
were still, and nearly as motionless, as if they
had been only statues.
Mr. Jones abruptly
halted; at the same time, Robert jumped up.


ROBERT JONES.
41
and caught hold of his father's arm, filled
with anxiety, at the serious expression of his
countenance. A moment's further thought,
brought an explanation.-"Ay, I see how
'tis," said Mr. Jones; "the courts are ended,
and there's an execution going forward."
This is the end of those who forget God!
Dobbin was now again put in motion, and
for once was urged on as fast as possible,
with the hope of getting clear of the crowd,
before the arrival of the sheriff, and the
troops, who, at a distance, were seen slowly
approaching towards the fatal spot, with the
condemned malefactor. The father had no
wish that his boy should, thus prematurely,
behold a sight so awful. Robert knew no-
thing of the cause of this; and his only feel-
ing was that of curiosity, mingled, perhaps,
with alarm, at being thrown into so vast a
crowd. But, now, their onward progress
became more difficult-almost impassable.
The fatal cart was close at hand, and the cu-
rious people thronged about it, to catch a
passing view of the condemned prisoner. It
was in vain that Dobbin was urged on, with


42
ROBERT JONES.
voice and lash. It was necessary to halt, and,
accordingly, the beast was turned a little out
of the road till the cart should have passed.
During this delay, Mr. Jones gathered
from some of the by-standers, that the crimi-
nal, who was that day to meet an ignominious
and untimely fate, was a mere youth-ha-
ving barely attained his twentieth year.-
He had been a boy of fair promise, until se-
duced by bad company, he had grown wild
and irregular; and, proceeding from bad to
worse, had, at last, committed that crime, for
which he was about to suffer, and which
would surely bring down to the grave, with
sorrow, the grey hairs of his unhappy parents,
whose only child he was.
"May be, they'll have to blame themselves
for the ill deeds of their offspring," said Mr.
Jones, unconscious of his sad indulgence of
his own boy. "May be, they have fallen
short of setting him a good example, and of
laying upon him a salutary restraint: parents
should look well to their children, and bring
them up in the fear of the Lord."


ROBERT JONES.
43
"You're quite right there, master," replied
a woman, who was standing near the wagon
of Mr. Jones-" you're quite right; I always
told 'em Joe wanted a tight hand over him;
but it's too late now.-God help 'em, poor
souls, I say."
This conversation was now interrupted,
by the arrival of the cart, bearing the wretch-
ed criminal. The culprit was, indeed, a mere
youth. He was tall and well made, and ap-
peared worthy of a better fate.
His com-
plexion was fair. He had a noble forehead-
a noble countenance, and had given promise,
before he went astray, of being eminently
useful in the world. But, like thousands of
others, equally gifted, he had mingled with
evil companions, who had conducted him to
ruin. For a few minutes after the arrival of
the unhappy young man, the multitude became
confused and agitated. A strong pressure
was made to catch a sight of the wretched
criminal. As that sight was obtained, they
fell back. A solemn stillness soon pervaded
the multitude. Anguish was depicted on
every countenance.. Convulsive sobs were


44
ROBERT JONES.
1
heard on every side. What a pity it is,
thought many a bosom, that one so young,
so fair, so promising, the only child of his
parents, a son of their old age, should come
to such ruin as this-to the gallows. But
guilt was there; the laws had been violated;
justice must be done; an example must be
made.
We shall not detain our readers with any
further account of this mournful scene.-
Right glad was farmer Jones, when the cart,
with its miserable burden, together with the
multitude, moved from the road sufficiently
to give him room to pass. He was not back-
ward in seizing the opportunity, and even
urged Dobbin forward so rapidly, as to put to,
hazard himself and son. Hitherto, not a
word had passed between the father and son ;
but, now, that the road was open before them,
and they were about to enter the village, Mr.
Jones summoned resolution to warn Robert
of the evils of vice, and the importance of
shunning bad company.
The occasion was a good one, and well
had it been, had it been still better improved.


ROBERT JONES.
45
But it was not in the heart of the father to
dwell upon a subject, which would give pain
to his darling boy. Like many other parents,
he indeed gave him a word or two of exhorta-
tion; but the thought of now being separated
from his son, came in to distress him, and
shut out a subject, which only added to his
pain.
A short time brought them to the building,
where the school was kept; and, in a few
minutes, Robert was introduced to the mas-
ter. Mr. Jones had previously settled the
terms, upon which his son should become a
member of the academy; he had little else,
therefore, to do, but to deposit his charge, and
be gone..
"God bless you, my son,'
" said
he, laying his hand upon the boy's head; and
the next moment, he was in his seat again,
and off, and round the corner of the street,
and bending his way back to his lonely cot-
tage, in the vicinity of M.
Although Mr. Jones had appeared in so
much haste, on leaving Robert, he was by no
means in haste to get home that day.
Ĥe
lingered in the village, hour after hour, to at


46
ROBERT JONES.
tend to some business, which was really of
little importance, and which, under other
circumstances, would have detained him but
a few minutes, if at all. The day had nearly
closed, before he remounted his vehicle, and
again put Dobbin in motion. It was quite
dark, before he reached the door of his own
cottage. It was a cold evening, too—a cold,
cheerless, bleak, March evening, and an east
wind, with rain and sleet, had been driving in
his face, all the way home. Yet, he was in
no haste to re-enter his comfortable home.
Some hearts may guess the reason, why he
thus lingered-such as have felt the pang of
returning to an abode, deprived of its richest
comforts.
At length, he entered the yard, and old
Jenny came hurrying out, at the sound of his
return, with her humble welcome, and won-
derment, at his long absence, and offers of
assistance in unharnessing Dobbin, that her
master might the sooner come in and warm
himself. Her well-meant kindness, however,
was declined; and when, at length, he came
in, and she ventured a cautious question, as


ROBERT JONES
47
how he left the dear child, he briefly told her
to mind her own business, and ask him no
questions.
That evening, farmer Jones ate no supper,
though Jenny had exerted herself to provide
him a warm comfortable meal. At an early
hour, Jenny was dismissed to her bed, while,
hour after hour, Mr. Jones sat wrapt in his
own contemplation. What were his thoughts
and feelings that night, may be guessed, by
some hearts; but, perhaps, not fully con-
ceived by any.
It would be hard to say, whether the ensu-
ing Saturday was more eagerly looked for-
ward to by father, or son. Certain it is, that
when the morning of that day arrived, Mr.
Jones was in no less haste to be
gone, than
when he had harnessed old Dobbin to the
wagon, so expeditiously, on the preceding
Monday. But, when he reached the town of
B- it was still too early to call for his
boy; so he trafficked away the intervening
time, at different places, and, at length, drew
up the wagon at the door of the academy, just
at the moment that the boys had finished their


48
ROBERT JONES.
Saturday's dinner. Robert heard the sound
of the wheels, and, the next moment, was in
his father's arms, and hugging him so tight
round the neck, that the farmer was fain to
cry out :
66
Well, well, my man! but you'll not choke
your old dad, will you? Have you been a
good boy, Robert ?"
Robert replied, that he had; and, in truth,
he might say so, and, to this, the master added
his assent. The boy was soon ready with his
little bundle of Sunday clothes, and soon
seated with his father, and, together, they
were soon fairly out of B- and on their
glad way to the cottage.
We shall not attempt to describe Robert's
delight at the first sight of its curling smoke-
nor how he miscalculated time and space-
nor how he fidgeted up and down on the seat-
nor how he took a rock in a distant field for
the
grey colt-nor a flannel gown, hung out
to dry, for old Jenny herself-nor other
blunders, quite as amusing; we shall leave
all these things to be conceived by those,
who have ever accompanied a lively urchin


ROBERT JONES.
49
to his own home, on his first return, after his
first week's schooling.
We shall leave it to such, also, to picture
to themselves the actual arrival-Robert at
home once more-scampering down the
garden to see if his beans had come up—un-
hitching his hoop from the nail, and as soon
flinging it aside to run and see whether the
grey colt was in the adjoining lot-scrambling
upon the back of his unbroken favourite, and
soon tumbling off-all these antics, and a
hundred more, we must leave our readers to
conceive and supply.
When evening came, Robert was once
more seated on his own little stool, beside
his father, while Jenny lit the candle, and
brought out the cups and saucers, and set on
the kettle and Robert's own basin, full of the
red cow's milk, set by for him at that
evening's milking.
The frugal meal being ended, Mr Jones
took his pipe, as usual, and, we dare say, en-
joyed it more than he had done during the
whole long week.
5


50
ROBERT JONES.
66
"Well, my lad," said he, turning to Robert,
as a large volume of smoke rose from his
mouth-"well, and where are the sixpences
I gave you on Monday?" This was a ques-
tion quite unexpected, and, for a moment,
Robert hung his head in confusion. Why,"
said he," why, father-why-you gave them
to me to spend, did'nt you?" 16 Well," asked
Mr. Jones, "and how have you spent them ?"
"Why, let me think, father"-and here he
began counting over and over again upon his
little fat fingers, sundry purchases of pies,
gingerbread, marbles, and penny-worth's of
brown sugar.
But, with all his calculations,
he could not account for the sum, which he
had expended.
He
This was unexpected to Mr. Jones.
could not approve of the manner, in which
the money had been expended, and regretted
still more that his son could give no better
account of it. But he could not mar the
little fellow's pleasure, just as he had returned
to his father's house. In a softened tone,
therefore, he only said, "Well, Robert, next
time, you must spend your money in a better


ROBERT JONES.
51
manner, and, I hope, you will be able to give
a more accurate account how you have spent
it."
Robert felt quite relieved, when the subject
was dropped; for, though only a boy, he was
conscious of having done wrong. Of this,
Mr Jones was equally satisfied, and well had
it been, had he summoned the resolution to
point out the fault, and warned him of the
danger, of thus early doing what could not
be approved. It was the foible—let us give
the more appropriate name-the fault of
Mr. Jones to doat upon his son too much to
impart to him that advice, or to impose upon
him that restraint, which was necessary to
virtuous conduct in life. Like many parents,
he wished well to his child-indeed, for his
happiness, he could have made any, and every
sacrifice of personal ease and comfort-but
then, he could not, or, at least, he felt that
he could not, distress the boy so much, as
even to chide him, nor even to warn him of
his danger. This was, indeed, a foolish
fondness a great parental failure; but how
many parents, besides Mr. Jones, are charga-


52
ROBERT JONES.
ble with a similar fondness-with a similar
failure!
The Sabbath was past much like all former
ones at the cottage; and, by the time it was
half over, Robert began to think of the mor-
row, and his return to school. On Saturday
evening, he wished, as he sat on his little
stool, that he need not go again to the acade-
my; but, now, he felt some less reluctance
than on the preceding evening. When
Monday came, indeed, home was home again;
and when the wagon was ready, Robert as-
cended it rather dejectedly, consoling him-
self, however, with the thought, that Saturday
would come round again in five days. Ro-
bert's calculations were correct for once-
Saturday came in five days, and he was fetch-
ed home again, and again returned to all its
delights.
On leaving him at the academy the second
time, Mr. Jones hesitated about giving him
money, and, when he mentioned his reluc-
tance, Robert assured him, that this time he
would keep it, or spend it only for things ne-
cessary. He might want some quills, or


ROBERT JONES.
53
some paper, or, perhaps, a little ink, and
something, too, to pay the penny-post, father,
if you write me a letter.
tion, the dictate of filial
This last sugges-
affection, as Mr.
Jones hoped, decided the point, and several
sixpences were soon safely stowed away in
Robert's pocket.
On the following Saturday, Robert again
came home, as already noticed, well pleased,
once more, to see old Jenny, and his grey
colt, and to eat milk from his own basin, and
to sit again on his own stool. At this time,
Robert gave, indeed, a somewhat better ac-
count of his money than before; but it was
all spent, save a single sixpence. "And how
have you spent the remainder," inquired Mr.
Jones. Why, he had purchased some quills-
"and-and-you know, father, you did write
me a letter, and I paid for that, and I was
glad, indeed, to receive it, and to hear that
you was well; and, besides, I gave some to
a poor woman. Well, my lad," said Mr.
Jones, "I am glad to hear so good an ac-
count-the filial affection, and the charitable
disposition of the boy, making amends for
99
5*


54
ROBERT JONES.
some little things, which might be wrong.
Thus ended this investigation, and well con-
tented was Robert, for he had concealed
from his indulgent father, the improper man-
ner in which he had spent a part of his money,
in a neighbouring grog-shop, whither he had
been conducted by some older associates, and,
at whose instigation, he had purchased them
a treat.
We must not dwell too minutely on this
part of our story. We will only say, there-
fore, that Robert's eagerness to return to his
home, and his former pleasures, gradually di-
minished, as he became more acquainted
with his school-fellows; and he was more
and more impatient to have the Saturday ho-
liday and the succeeding Sabbath gone, that
he might again mingle with his companions.
Unfortunately, as he grew older, and became
more conversant with the wiles of the unre-
strained and vicious, he became more expert
in inventing excuses to his blinded father,
and with more ease made unsuspicious de-
mands upon his father for money.


ROBERT JONES.
55
At school, he was soon praised by his play.
fellows, for his independence and spirit-was
courted and flattered; and, in short, was
soon "up to every thing"-the leader of all
conspiracies the foremost in all mischief-
the most enterprising in all dangers-and,
what was more remarkable, the most inge-
nious at equivocation and invention, and even
unblushing falsehood, in cases of suspicion
or detection. At the same time, he learnt
full well to conceal his improper behaviour,
from his credulous parent, and to make him
think, that he was, in reality, a sober and
steady youth. This latter, Mr. Jones was
willing to believe, and might have been of-
fended had any one told him the reverse.
Or, had he been convinced, that Robert's
conduct was, in any given instance, unbe-
coming, he would have neglected to punish
him; or, at least, have found so many miti-
gating circumstances, as to amount nearly to
an apology.
Thus matters proceeded for several years;
during which, Robert was continued at
school; for some time, at the academy at


56
ROBERT JONES.
B, and, afterward, at his suggestion, at
a still more distant school, which, he pretend-
ed to think, presented more advantages; but
which, in reality, would furnish a better op-
portunity for," capital acting," without co-
ming to the knowledge of his father.
At this latter academy, the vacations were
longer than at the academy at B—.
It so
chanced, on the occurrence of a vacation,
that, on the very day of breaking up, there
was a great military review in the place,
which was looked forward to with much de-
light, by the boys whose parents and friends
were resident there. These youngsters had
often spoken to Robert of the pleasure they
should have, and one friend, in particular,
had invited him, to go to his own house, and
stay during the review.
Unluckily, it so happened, that the vacation
occurred, and, of course, the review, at a
most important season to Mr. Jones-just
as his hay-harvest was getting in. He felt it
necessary, therefore, to send word to Robert
to inform the master, that it would not be
convenient to fetch him home on Thursday,


ROBERT JONES.
57
the day on which the vacation commenced,
but on Saturday.
This was precisely what Robert could have
wished. He now arranged his plan, which
was, not only to inform the master of his
father's necessary detention, but to add, that
the old gentleman had given him permission
to spend the interval with his school-fellow.
To this proposal, the master readily agreed,
and Robert took leave, with a promise to re-
port himself at his usual lodgings, early on
Friday evening. He had fixed his plan for
getting home, when the fun was over, and of
so managing, that either the truth should not
appear, or his father should see him appear
so sober and attentive, as easily to forgive the
fabrication. On departing, Robert took good
care to take with him his bundle of Sunday
clothes, and his whole hoard of pence and
sixpences.
Mr. Jones, meantime, got in his crops pros-
perously, and, early on Saturday morning, set
out with Greybeard, as being now the better
horse, to fetch Robert home.


58
ROBERT JONES.
Arriving at D, where the academy,
which Robert now attended, was situated, he'
knocked at the door of the master, and a
servant girl, who opened it, inquired for his
son. He was told, that Robert was not
there; but he insisted she was mistaken ;
nor would he be convinced, until the master
himself appeared, and related the circum-
stances of Robert's going with his friend, at
the parent's house of whom he now probably
was, although he had promised to be back
the evening preceding.
Mr. Jones now proceeded to the place
specified, not doubting but that he should
find his son; but for once truly mortified,
that Robert had thought it necessary to de-
ceive. But, thought he, as Greybeard hur-
ried forward, "after all, there may be some
mistake in this matter. Perhaps the master
did not quite understand Robert-no doubt,
he can satisfactorily explain." With this
thought comforting himself, he arrived, at
length, at the residence of Robert's school-
fellow.


ROBERT JONES.
59
But the intelligence obtained there, was of
a nature to create the most serious alarm.
The parents of Robert's friend, informed
Mr. Jones, that his boy had accompanied
their son home, when the school broke up on
Thursday morning-that, after dinner, the
two boys had sallied out together to see the
review, from which their son returned about
dark, without his companion. They had in-
quired the reason of this, and learned, that the
two boys had been separated the latter part
of the day; but that, just as their son began
to tire of looking for his school-fellow, Ro-
bert touched him hastily on the shoulder,
saying, a neighbour of his father's, who
guessed he was playing truant, insisted on
taking him home in his own wagon, and
that he must go that moment. This was all
the boy had to tell-and that Robert vanish-
ed in the crowd so suddenly, he could not see
who was with him.
Inquiries were now made in all directions,
but in vain. The distracted father could only
learn further, that his child had been seen by
many persons at many tents and stalls; and,


60
ROBERT JONES.
The
at last, quite alone, in a show-booth, belong-
ing to a set of tight rope dancers and circus
riders, who had come to the place to exhibit,
during the review. With some of these, he
seemed to have made acquaintance, and,"
among them, he was last observed.
performers had quitted the place the same
night, and were probably, at a considerable
distance. In what direction they had gone,
it was difficult to ascertain. They had passed
through the turnpike gate, about ten o'clock
at night; but, beyond this point, no one could
give any account of them.
The distress of Mr. Jones, may more easi-
ly be imagined, than described. It amounted
to agony.
Could he have purchased his
son's immediate and safe return, with the loss
of all his earthly substance, it would have
been a glad exchange. There was, indeed,
no positive proof, that the boy had left the
place, with the itinerant troop. A rapid river
ran by the town-there was a deep canal,
also and then-the wharf-crowded with
barges between which-But, Mr. Jones
endeavoured not to brood upon such fearful


ROBERT JONES.
61
imaginations. The next morning, by early
dawn, he mounted the faithful Greybeard;
and, taking the most probable direction,
pushed forward as fast as he was able.
He was aware, that the troop were, proba-
bly, far in advance. He was much unused
to travelling, especially on horseback; no
wonder, therefore, that he was sorely jaded,
both in body and mind, when he put up for
the night, at a small town, about thirty miles
from D- Here he ascertained, that the
troop had passed through the place, early in
the morning of the preceding day-that
while stopping to bait, they had talked of
H-
as their next place of exhibition;
and had, in fact, struck into the great north
road, when they proceeded on their way.-
He could obtain no intelligence, however,
whether a boy, such as he described, accom
panied the party.
9
To have ascertained the direction of the
troop, was a source of no small satisfaction,
though the uncertainty whether his son was
with them, still caused him a heavy heart,
6


62
ROBERT JONES.
About noon the following day, in mercy to
his beast, as well as to recruit his own
strength, he halted at a small inn, 'when, ha-
ving unsaddled Greybeard, and seen that he
was taken care of, he entered the house, and
called for refreshment. There were many
persons drinking and talking in the place, and
Mr. Jones failed not to make his customary
inquiries, which awakened an immediate cla-
mor of tongues-every one being ready with
some information relating to the troop, Mr.
Jones was in pursuit of. Such was the con-
fusion of voices, however, that he could ga-
ther nothing certain. At this moment, a
chamber door opened, through which a wo-
man entered the room, and, coming hastily
forward, and laying her hand on Mr. Jones'
arm, and looking earnestly in his face, ex-
claimed "After what are you asking, mas-
ter? Is it for a stray lamb you're seeking-
and hav'nt I seen your face before ?"
Jones shook like a leaf-like an aspen leaf,
while the woman looked and spake thus
thus earnestly-"Have you have you found
him?-have you found my boy?"-This was
Mr.


ROBERT JONES.
63
You are a
all he could stammer out.
stranger to me; but God bless you, if you
can give me back my boy."—"I am not a
stranger to you, William Jones; and I can
give you back your boy; and the Lord bless
him, for your sake, for you saved me and
mine, and took us in, and gave us meat and
drink, when we were ready to perish. Come
your ways with me, William Jones; but soft
and quiet, for the child's in a precious sleep.
He has come to hurt, but the Merciful watch-
ed over him."
So she led him softly and silently up a
steep, dark stair, into a small upper chamber,
before the window of which a checked apron
was pinned up to exclude the full glow of
light from the bed. Softly and silently, with
finger on her lip, she drew him on to the side
of that humble bed, and there, indeed, fast
locked in sleep, in sweet, untroubled sleep,
lay the thoughtless boy, whose disappearance
had inflicted such cruel anxiety and distress.
The boy was sleeping sweetly; but his
cheeks and lips were almost colourless. A
thick, linen bandage was bound round his


64
ROBERT JONES.
head, and, over one temple, a soft, fair curl,
which stole out from the bandage, was dyed
and stuck together with clotted blood. Mr.
Jones shuddered at the sight; but the woman
repeated her whispered assurance, that there
was no serious injury. Then the father
knelt softly down beside his recovered dar-
ling; large tears rolled down his quivering
cheeks, and, for the first time in his life, he
poured out his whole heart in gratitude to his
Creator, in the presence of a fellow-creature.
When he rose from his knees, turning to the
woman, he softly, but solemnly said, "Now,
I see of a truth, that a man may cast his bread
upon the waters, and find it again after many
days. I gave thee and thine orphan babe a
little food, and a night's shelter, and thou re-
storest to me my child. While William
Jones has a morsel of bread, thou shalt share
it with him And he was as good as his
word; from that hour, he was never known
to turn away his face from any poor man.
""
By degrees, all the particulars relating to
Robert's disappearance, and his Providential
recovery, were circumstantially unravelled.


ROBERT JONES.
65
He had been accidentally separated from his
school-fellow; and, while searching about for
him, had wandered towards the place where
feats of rope-dancing and horsemanship were
exhibited. While here looking about, his
appearance, which was sprightly, attracted
the attention of some of the company, and he
was invited to go in and see the wonders of
the place. It was immediately whispered
among them, that he would make a fine per-
former, and, accordingly, he was treated with
much attention. One gave him a penny pie,
and, another, a drop of something strong and
good. He drank it with high relish, for, by
this time, the love of strong drink had be-
come deeply rooted; and then, the manager
himself an artful, pleasant man, told him, if
he liked, he should wear a blue and silver
jacket, and ride a beautiful horse. That
clinched the bargain, and, in perfect bewil-
derment, occasioned by gin, and flattery,
poor Robert suffered himself to be enrolled
as one of the company.
He was forthwith equipped in a fine blue
dress, from the company's wardrobe, and in-
6*


66
ROBERT JONES.
dulged with privilege, by way of experiment,
of sitting on the back of a beautiful piebald.
He was complimented for his good horse→
manship, and seemed at once to get into the
good graces of his new acquaintance. Some-
time before night, however, under the influ-
ence of too much strong drink, Robert was
fast locked in so profound a slumber, that he
stirred not hand or foot, till late the next
morning; when he found himself lying on
some straw, in a covered wagon, which was
proceeding at a rapid rate, he knew not whi-
ther. Several others were in the same vehi-
cle; but still unconscious of what was going
on about them.
About ten o'clock in the morning, orders
were given for a general halt. This took
place in a verdant spot, by the road side, and
was, in consequence of no inn being at hand,
where the party could breakfast. It was con
cluded, therefore, to stop, and refresh them-
selves with such provisions, as they had rather
accidentally brought with them.
The success of their late exhibition, at the
military review, had, by no means, been such,


ROBERT JONES.
67
A good deal
as to sweeten their tempers.
of ill feeling seemed to pervade the company,
as they assembled on the green plat, and
loud, and surly, and taunting accusations and
recriminations, were bandied about; the
most severe of which Robert soon gathered,
related to himself. It was obvious, that some
of the party began to feel themselves in dan-
ger, for having enticed him away.
Others
thought quite differently, and made light of
the apprehensions of those, who feared any
danger. From words, they proceeded to
rough arguments; and, at length, something
like a general battle ensued among them. In
the mean time, Robert, terrified, in view of
the issue of this contest, while unobserved,
seized an opportunity to secrete himself in
one of the wagons. Unfortunately, in his
trepidation, he missed his footing, and fell
headlong among the horses attached to the
vehicle. The high-spirited animals, now
terrified, began rearing and kicking, at a
most furious rate. A blow from one of the
horses' feet, struck the unfortunate Robert,
and, in a moment, left him a ghastly and


68
ROBERT JONES.
bloody spectacle. This stilled the uproar of
the contending parties. Whatever had been
their views of their past conduct, in relation
to him, the panic now became general.
The child had, apparently, ceased to breathe ;
not the faintest pulsation was perceptible.
The decision was instantly made to consult
their own safety, by moving on as fast as pos-
sible, leaving the unhappy boy, who was pro-
nounced quite dead, on the grassplat by the
road-side.
In two minutes, the troop were in motion-
in ten more, quite out of sight-and there
lay poor Robert, to all appearance, a corpse,
and soon to have become one in reality, but
for the Providential intervention of that poor
woman, by whom Mr. Jones was conducted
to the bed-side of his recovered child. That
woman, as she now explained to Mr. Jones,
was, indeed, the soldier's widow, who, with
her orphan babe, had owed to his compassion
in her utmost need, the seasonable mercy of
a night's lodging, and a wholesome meal;
and she had never forgotten the name of her
benefactor, nor thought of him without a


ROBERT JONES.
69
grateful prayer. "It was my prayer, then,"
said she, "when I left your door, that I
might be able to requite your kindness; may
be, said I, God will give me the opportunity;
he has now done it, and thanks to his name,
that I was near to rescue your darling boy
from a premature death."
The
"And how came you to be so near, and by
what means did you know my boy?"
widow explained, that she lived some miles
distant; but that day, having occasion to
come some miles from home, she discovered
the poor boy by the way-side, in the condition
before described. She approached him, and
tenderly lifted his head to her bosom, and
parted off the thickly clotted hair, and bound
her own handkerchief about his bleeding
temples. There was water within reach,
with which she laved his face and hands, and
had soon the joy of perceiving a tremulous
motion of the lips and eyelids--and, at last,
the boy breathed audibly, and his fair blue
eyes unclosed, and he uttered a few words
of wonder and distress; among which-
"Oh, father father!" were the most intel-


70
ROBERT JONES.
ligible, and to the woman's gentle inquiry of-
"who was his father? and did he live far off?"
he answered faintly, that he was the son of
William Jones, who lived at the village of
M-
A second fit of insensibility, succeeded
those few words, but they were sufficient for
the widow. Providence had sent her to save
(she trusted) the child of her benefactor, and
all her homely, but well-directed energies
were called into action. Partly carrying him.
in her own arms, and partly by casual assist-
ance, she succeeded in conveying him to the
nearest dwelling, that small way-side inn.-
There he was put comfortably to bed, and
medical aid obtained promptly-the longer
delay of which must have proved fatal. And,
then, a message was sent off to farmer.
Jones, (a man and horse, for that poor wo
man was a creature of noble spirit, and im-
patient to relieve the father's misery,) and,
then, the widow quietly took her station by
the pillow of the little sufferer. His head
had undergone a second dressing, and the
surgeon had pronounced, that all would go


ROBERT JONES.
71
well with him, if he were kept for a time in
perfect quiet.
It need not be told, how rigidly that in-
junction was attended to, nor how carefully,
when he was in a state to be removed, the
father conveyed back his truant child to the
shelter of his own peaceful cottage-nor
how anxiously he was nursed up there to de-
cided convalescence- -nor how tenderly,
when the boy was so far recovered, his father
set before him the magnitude of his offence,
and the fatal consequences, which had so
nearly resulted from it.
Robert wept sore,
and looked down with becoming humility,
and promised, over and over again, and really
with a sincere intention, never, never again
to give his father cause for uneasiness, or dis-
pleasure.
The appearance of penitence and humility
which Robert wore for a time, deeply affected
the indulgent father, and even excited his
pity. He was almost sorry-and, perhaps,
quite sorry, that he had censured his son,
and, by his softened tone, and gentle carriage,
seemed to speak the language of penitence


72
ROBERT JONES.
himself. It is the weakness, and folly, and
sin, of many parents to undo the good effect
of admonition, by following it with a double
degree of lenity (than before.) Instead of
impressing children with the conviction, that
their censure is just, and that they merit
censure in a still greater degree, by a sort of
flattery and unmerited praise for some trifling
thing, they make children feel that they are
the injured party. This was precisely the
conduct of Mr. Jones; it need not be added,
that his son was sufficiently sagacious to ob-
serve it, and now sufficiently artful to take
advantage of it.
Some time after Robert's complete reco-
very, he was again sent to the academy,
where, for a season, he applied himself with
some diligence to his books, and behaved
with greater propriety. Yet, this period was
not long. Idle and vicious companions beset
him, and, to the temptations artfully spread
before him, again he yielded. At home,
however, he was cautious and correct-so
cautious and correct, as not only greatly to
please his father, but to lull him into a sad


ROBERT JONES.
73
security. Reports, indeed, not unfrequently,
reached the village of M-, and were even
communicated to Mr. Jones, of the wild and
dissipated habits of his son; yet, he believed
them not. Or, if his fears were sometimes
alarmed, the humble and modest deportment
of his son, on his return from school, allayed
those fears, and prevented that inquiry into
his conduct abroad, which a less credulous
and more watchful parent would have made.
The truth was, that the fondness of the father
for his son,-a fondness which commenced
at the hour of his birth, and which had been
increased by years of loneliness, had blinded
his eyes to the faults of his child, and ren-
dered him, in a great degree, incapable of
censuring and punishing, as both reason and
duty required.
Meanwhile, time travelled on; and, at
length, the period arrived, when Robert was
to be taken from school, and put to business.
He was, accordingly, placed in the counting-
room of a respectable firm in the busy vil-
lage of C. This was far from being
Robert's choice. He disliked the confine-
7


74
ROBERT JONES.
ment of a dark, gloomy counting-house; yet,
he consoled himself with the reflection, that
many young men, so situated, were, neverthe-
less, very fine fellows, and contrived, at odd
hours, evenings, and holidays, to indemnify
themselves very tolerably, for their hours of
confinement. He had great confidence,
moreover, that good fortune would introduce
him to some of those choice spirits, whose
experience would initiate him into many
useful secrets,
Robert's expectations were but too well
founded. Temptation lies in wait for youth
at every turning and by-path; but, when
youth starts with the design of voluntarily
entering her fatal snare, the toils are wound
about the prey with treble strength, and rare-
ly, if ever, is it disentangled. Robert was
soon the associate and hero of all the idle
and dissolute youth in C; the hero of
every low, cruel, and debasing sport, that
prepares the way, by sure and rapid advances,
towards the jail and scaffold.
Nevertheless, for a considerable time, he
contrived to keep up a fair character, with his
employers. He was clear and prompt in the


ROBERT JONES.
75
despatch of business; and, with a few excep-
tions, punctual to his office hours. Beyond
those seasons, their watchfulness extended
not, and no glaring misdemeanor, on the part
of their young clerk, had yet awakened any
suspicions.
At length, however, those suspicions were
excited, and Robert was watched. His eve-
ning haunts were discovered, and money, it
was sometimes suspected, was purloined from
the draw, to enable him to pursue his hitherto
concealed course of low and debasing extra-
vagance. It would be tedious, minutely to
trace the progressive steps of his advance-
ment in bold and wicked conduct. Let it
suffice to say, that, at length, he found it ne-
cessary not only to quit his employers, but to
make his escape from C. On the eve
of his departure, a plan was concerted by
himself and other kindred spirits, which, ha-
ving effected, they were hastily to take their
flight to a far distant part of the country.
At the breaking up of the meeting, at which
this plan was concerted, Robert found a few
hours would intervene before the appointed
time of carrying it into effect.
As he passed


76
ROBERT JONES.
from the secret haunt, the recollection of his
father of his home-of the joys of his boy-
hood, experienced in that retired and rural
spot, rushed upon his mind, and caused a
transient horror at the appalling contrast.
He paused a moment, and, the next mo-
ment, his resolution was formed. "I will
have one more look," said he "at the old
place, before I go. At least, I will have a
last look at the outside of the walls--though
I can't go in-I can't face the old man, be-
fore I leave him-he would not pass over
what can't be undone and there's no going
back now-but I will see the old place again."
It was a Sabbath evening, when this sud-
den resolution was formed, and so quickly
was it carried into effect, that it wanted near
an hour to midnight, when he reached the
garden, which adjoined his father's cottage.
It was a calm, delicious night, of ripening
spring (so hushed and still, that you might
almost have heard the falling showers of over-
blown apple blossoms.) Robert lingered
for a moment, with his hand on the garden
gate; and while he thus tarried, was startled
by a sudden, yet familiar sound, from the ad-


ROBERT JONES.
jacent field. It was the (neighing) salutation
of his old friend Greybeard; who, having per-
ceived the approach of his young master and
old playmate, came forward, and poking his
white nose through the fence, greeted him as
we have stated.
"Ah, old boy! is it thou?" said the youth,
in a low, hurried voice, as he stopt a moment
to stroke the face of his faithful favorite.-
"Dost thou bid me welcome home, old fel-
low? Well, that's something!" and a short,
unnatural laugh, finished the sentence, as he
turned from the loving creature, and, with
quick, but noiseless steps, passed up the
garden walk to the front of the quiet cot-
tage.
The prodigal gazed for a moment on the
cottage, standing quiet as the grave-then
stepped within the porch, and softly and fear-
fully, as it were, raised his hand to the latch-
which, however, he lifted not-only softly
laid his hand upon it, and so, with eyes rooted
to the ground, stood motionless, for a few
minutes, till the upraised arm dropt heavily,
and, with something very like a sigh, he turned
my x


78
ROBERT JONES.
from the door of his father's dwelling, to re-
trace his steps towards C-.
Yet once again, in his way down the garden
path, he turned to look on the home, he was
forsaking. For, at that moment, the evil
spirit was subdued within him, and by the
sparks of his better nature, which yet survived
in his heart. The sight of that familiar scene-
the fond greeting of his faithful Greybeard-
the thought for what purpose he was there-
and of the old man, who slept within those
silent walls-all crowded together, with sof-
tening influence, into the heart of that unhap-
py boy, as he turned a farewell look upon
quiet cottage-just then, a sound struck his
ear, he imagined, and he paused. "Was it his
imagination?" He listened.
"It was a rea-
the
lity." It was a faint, low sound, but it be-
came more audible, and proceeded surely
from his father's lodging-room. Robert
started "Was the old man ill?" he ques-
tioned with himself "Ill and alone!" He
turned, and with quick step, proceeded to the
window, and through the lattice, which co-
vered it, cautiously looked into the room.
He involuntary started back, and, for a mo-


ROBERT JONES.
79
ment, a faintness came over him. His father
was there-but his pillow had not been press-
ed that night-his father was there-Oh!
what an attitude! on his bended knees-in
prayer-in prayer for his rebellious son.
He had heard that day of his evil conduct,
and he could no longer doubt it.
His eyes
were opened by the spirit of God to his own
foolish fondness, to his unjustifiable indul-
gence of his boy. He had, that evening,
looked back to the hour, when he was so
faithfully and affectionately warned by his de-
parting wife-and now he was employed, in
the fervor of supplication, for his ruined child.
It was a sight to strike daggers to the
heart of the ungrateful boy; and he was, for
a moment, self-convicted and self-condemned.
But the tempter was at hand. Just at that
awful moment-that crisis of his fate, when
the sense of guilt suddenly smote his heart,
and the Spirit seemed to whisper, "Turn-
yet turn and live"-at that decisive moment,
a low whistle, and a suppressed laugh, broke
on his ear. He started; he sprung back;
and, almost at a bound. he cleared the garden
path, and was at a distance from the cottage.


80
ROBERT JONES.
Those awaited him at a little distance,
whose ridicule he could not bear-with
whom he had mocked at and abjured all
good and holy things, and with whose despe-
rate fortunes he had embarked his own. By
some means, his visit to his paternal cottage,
had become known to them, and they had
followed, to prevent any interview, which
might take place between the father and son.
He soon joined them, roused his mind to cast
off the impressions, which had been made
upon him, and too well did he succeed.
worse,
That night, a deed was done of the darkest
die. A robbery was committed, and a large
sum of money obtained, and what was still
a foul murder was perpetrated;
though this last was not originally contem-
plated; nor was it the hand of Robert which
gave the fatal blow. Before morning, the
confederates had separated, each one seeking
safety in a rapid flight.
We left the father of Robert pouring forth
his supplications, in his own little cottage,
and in his own little sleeping room. Those
prayers were not intermitted that night. He
felt and confessed his frailties; and now


ROBERT JONES.
81
pleaded, if it were not too late, that his son,
his only son, might be saved from a ruin, to
which his long continued indulgence had
greatly contributed. He had determined to
repair, on the following morning, to C,
and to inquire more particularly into Ro-
bert's conduct-to pay whatever debts he
had contracted, and, having done so, to say,
"My son, give me thine heart."
With this determination, he left his room,
and, having hastily despatched the morning's
meal, he was preparing to depart, on his in-
tended purpose; when the sound of approach-
ing footsteps, and the swinging to of the
garden gate, made him pause for a moment,
with his hand on the latch. Almost before
he could lift it, the door was hastily thrown
open,
and three men stood before him. One
of them stationed himself just without the
threshold, while the two others stepping for-
ward, threw down a warrant on the table,
declaring that by its authority, they were em-
powered to make search for, and arrest the
body of Robert Jones.
The declaration fell like a thunder-clap on
the ear of the unfortunate old man; and yet,


82
ROBERT JONES.
for a moment, he comprehended not its full
and fatal sense. He stood as if spell-bound-
as if rivetted to the floor. The officer pro-
ceeded to explain. He said, that in the exe-
cution of his duty, he must be permitted to
make strict search over the cottage, and its
adjacent premises, in search of his son-that
in the course of the past night, the counting-
house of Messrs. had been entered by
means of false keys, and that considerable
property in notes, gold, and plate, had been
taken, and that the young man, who slept in
an adjoining apartment, was found dead.--
As yet, no traces of the route taken by the
perpetrators of this horrid deed, had been
discovered. Yet it was certain, that Robert
Jones was one of them, and circumstances
rendered it probable, that he was one of the
foremost.
The miserable parent listened in silence to
the officer's brief, and not exaggerated com-
munication. He heard all in silence, with
a steady brow; but with looks fixed upon
the man with penetrating, though almost un-
conscious intensity, and, when all was told,
bowing down his head, he waved his hand,


ROBERT JONES.
83
saying, "It is enough, do your duty." He
now seated himself in an old elbow chair,
from whence he stirred not, and neither by
word, look, or gesture, gave further token of
concern, in what was going forward. When
the ineffectual search was over, and the offi-
cers left him alone with his misery, he was
heard to arise, and close the cottage door,
making it fast with bar and bolt; and, from
that hour, no one from abroad beheld William
Jones, till on the third day from that, on
which his great sorrow had fallen upon him,
he was seen slowly walking up the street of
C- He appeared calm and composed;
and yet he bent, as if the correcting hand of
God was upon him. His calamity was now
generally known; and, although it was well
known that he had neglected his duty, in re-
fraining to impose a salutary restraint upon
his son, yet he was pitied, and many a hat
was touched with silent respect, as he passed
along.
•
was no-
The object of his visit to C-
ble. He was, by nature, as well as by habit,
frugal, and, some might say, even parsimoni-
ous. But adversity had had a softening in-


84
ROBERT JONES.
fluence. It was his first object now to satisfy
the demands of trades-people, and other in-
habitants of C, who had claims on his
unhappy son, and, when that was done, he
repaired to the banking-house of Messrs. -.
Here, he ascertained the actual loss those
gentlemen had sustained; and, although
others had assisted in the perpetration, and
partaken of the booty, with his unhappy boy,
he insisted upon paying the whole loss him-
self, although he was obliged, for that pur-
pose, to make sale of a few acres of his pa-
ternal farm. It lightened his beart some-
what, when this was accomplished, and again
he returned to his own little cottage, there
to mourn in secret over the wickedness of
his son, and the imprudent fondness which
had, he was now but too sensible, contributed
mainly to the ruin which had come upon him.
Weeks slipped away-weeks-months-
a year-four years. Four years had come
and gone, since that day, left William Jones
a worse than childless father-the forlorn te-
nant of his paternal cottage, which, with its
barn, outbuildings, and a few fields, was all
that then remained of his former prosperity.


ROBERT JONES.
5
$95
During this period, he had mourned in secret,
and yet his cup of calamity was not yet full.
The severest portion of his fiery trial, was
still to be felt; the gold was yet to be more
thoroughly refined, yea, proved to the utter-
most. So necessary is it, in the view of Pro-
vidence, to chasten those, whom he would
make his children, and, by means of chas-
tisement, effectually to subdue them, that
they may be partakers of his joy.
He
Four years had now elapsed, yet William
Jones had heard no tidings of his unhappy
boy. At length, a rumor reached him, that
he had been seen in the neighbourhood, and,
though greatly altered, and much disguised,
some were quite sure, that it was he.
had been observed in company with suspect-
ed characters. About the same time, also,
several robberies were committed, and two
houses broken open, under circumstances,
which showed the burglars to be experienced
thieves.
The above rumors filled the unhappy father
with a just alarm; and yet he was now, in a
measure, prepared for the worst that might
8


36
ROBERT JONES.
betide. Still, it was difficult to endure the
awful suspense. For many days and nights,
he scarcely knew an hour of peaceful
thought, or one of quiet slumber. However
employed-in his cottage, or in his garden—
if a passing cloud but cast its momentary
shadow, he started from his task, and looked
fearfully abroad for the feet of those, who
might be swift to bring evil tidings. And,
in the silence of the night, too, even the
stirring of a leaf, or the creaking of some
tree waved by the wind against the cottage,
would start him from his uneasy pillow.
And yet the morning would come-the cot-
tage door would be thrown open, and no
traces, no prints of his son's footsteps, could
be seen.
In this state of restlessness and anxiety,
Mr. Jones ventured not beyond his own little
territory. He was fearful what rumors he
should hear Towards the end of the se-
cond week, finding himself unmolested by
fresh rumors, he began to take hope, that
the suspicions which were abroad of his son's
re-appearance, were ill-founded. He sum-
moned resolution, therefore, to go to C—.


ROBERT JONES.
87
As he turned the corner of Market-street,
into that where stood the court house, he
observed an unusual crowd thronging the
doors of the building, with an appearance of
uncommon excitement. He involuntarily
started from his seat, and a shudder run
through his frame. "What could this
mean?" he inquired of himself.
"Might
Was he yet
it not be? Oh! should it be !
to drink a cup of such bitter affliction as
this ?" As he came opposite the building,
he unconsciously drew up his horses, and
gazed about him with troubled and bewil-
dered looks.
The old man was soon recognised by the
crowd, and all eyes were even intently fas-
tened upon him—a whisper went round, and
a strange hush succeeded, and the people
pressed back, as if to leave a free passage for
his humble vehicle. A confused sound pro-
ceeded from the court house doors; and, at
that moment, one or two persons from with-
in spoke with the eager listeners on the steps
and the words" Prisoner," and "com-
mitted," smote upon his ear, and the whole
flashed upon him. He started up, and leaped


88
ROBERT JONES.
from his wagon, as he was able, and would
have entered the hall of justice, but for a
firm and friendly grasp, which forcibly with-
held him.
At this moment, a number of constables,
and others, pushing aside the pressing crowd,
descended the court house steps, and were
seen conducting three prisoners. Cold drops
gathered upon the old man's forehead--he
breathed short and thick, and his sight be-
came misty and imperfect, as he strained his
eyes towards the open door. The felons,
hand-cuffed and guarded, followed; and, at
length, came within his view. One was, in-
deed, his son! He clasped his upraised
hands forcibly together, and, under the tor-
tures of a mental agony, cried out, “ My
God! it is he." It was a piercing cry.
That prisoner started at the well-known
voice, and, for a moment, seemed rivetted to
the spot.
But he was urged forward, and
the prison doors soon closed upon him and
his companions.
We shall not relate the particulars of Ro-
bert's wanderings, during his four year's ab-
sence; nor the circumstances which had


ROBERT JONES.
89
brought him back to the land of his fathers.
Neither will we attempt to speak of those
miserable weeks that intervened, between
his commitment and his trial, for the crime
of robbery and murder. Still less may we
venture to paint minutely the first meeting of
parent and child, in such a place, and under
such circumstances.
At length, the day of arraignment came.
To the charge of robbery, Robert pleaded
guilty; but, to the charge of murder, he
pleaded not guilty, and this he maintained
with inflexible firmness. On this charge,
therefore, he was put upon trial. Every
circumstance appeared against him; and,
though positive evidence was wanting, the
minds of the jury were satisfied, and they
rendered a verdict of" Guilty."
With un-
shaken fortitude, did the father attend upon
the son, during his trial; and it was only
when the judge arose to pronounce sentence,
that he suffered himself to be led out of the
room.
Days now rolled on; and, at length, that
day approached, which was appointed for his
8*


90
ROBERT JONES.
execution, and the execution of his compa-
nions, upon whom a similar sentence had
been passed. The night preceding the fatal
day, father and son spent together, in the
same room of the prison. What there
passed, may be conceived, but cannot be de-
scribed. We shall not say, that the hardened
heart of the child was broken; but it was,
in a measure, softened.
He listened to the
prayers of his broken hearted father, and
even wept when he heard the old man im-
ploring forgiveness for his unfaithfulness to-
wards his child. "Oh!" said he, as he em-
braced his son, "had I sufficiently regarded
the dying admonition of your fond and faith-
ful mother-but it is now too late; may the
Lord even now remember her prayers, offer-
ed for her darling boy, and the flinty rock
shall melt."
The morning, at length, came; and, as the
keeper entered the chamber, all was so still
within, he thought both slept, the parent and
the child. Both had lain down together on
a narrow pallet, and the youth's eyes were
heavy; but, in age, the whole weight falls
within, and presses not upon the aching eye-


ROBERT JONES.
91
lids; so the old man slept not.
The son's
cheek was pillowed on the father's breast.
One long, pale hand, was clasped within his
father's-in that hard, withered hand, which
had toiled for him so long.
The hour arrived for the procession to
move, and, as the father could not accompany
his son, he grasped his hand, and, while tears
fell fast and thick, they bid each other adieu.
In a short time, Robert Jones stood on
that same spot, where, years before, he had
seen a fellow-creature ready to be launched
into eternity. Little did he then think, as he
clung to his father's side, that a similar crowd
would be gathered about him, and the same
awful doom await him. The companions of
his guilt met their fate first and now, he
was brought to the platform, and the rope
was already adjusting, when the sheriff was
seen waiving his hand, and inviting the at-
tention of the awe-struck multitude. He
took a paper from his pocket, and requested
silence. It was a pardon. Executive cle-
mency had interposed. Since the trial of
Robert, it had been satisfactorily ascertained,
by the confessions of his confederates, that it


92
ROBERT JONES.
was not he that had committed the murder.
In the robbery, he had participated, and the
guilt of that was upon him. That guilt he
had confessed, without trial. He was, there-
fore, pardoned; but, upon condition, that he
should leave the country, never more to re-
turn.
An expression of joy pervaded the multi-
tude ; while Robert, in the sudden transition
of his feelings, from fear to hope-from the
terrors of death, which were now upon him,
to the blessings of a still longer existence,
swooned and fell upon the platform. The
requisite relief was soon administered, and
he was again conveyed to the prison, there
to await the sailing of a vessel, which should
bear him, finally, and for ever, from his
country.
Early in the afternoon, a horseman was
seen pressing with great speed, along the
road which led to the cottage of William
Jones. Some benevolent citizens had des-
patched an express to convey the grateful
intelligence to the old man, that his son was
yet in the land of the living. For a mo-
ment, after the tidings were communicated,


ROBERT JONES.
93
it seemed as if the immortal spirit had taken
its final flight-he wept not, spoke not,
moved not. The blood, however, which
had stopped in its channels, again flowed,
and consciousness, which seemed to have
ceased, again returned. My son," at
length he said, "is yet alive, I will go and
see him before I die."
66
And he did see him,
and in the same prison chamber they again.
met, and there the old man again wept over
his prodigal child-there again sought before
an altar of mercy, pardon for himself and his
erring boy.
Within a month, a vessel was ploughing
the waters of the wide Atlantic.
On board
The vessel
that vessel was Robert Jones.
arrived at her place of destination in safety,
and landed the pardoned prodigal, in a foreign
land. Beyond this, we have nothing certain
to record of him. It was, indeed, once ru-
moured, in after years, that a mother's pray-
ers were answered-that some passages in
the Bible, which she had marked with her
own hand, before she went to the grove,
were the means of his conversion unto God;
and it was told, too, that it was that Bible,


94
ROBERT JONES.
which she gave to him, and which she covered
with green baize for her boy, and which the
father put, with his own hands, into his chest,
as the last and best gift he had to bestow,
on the eve of his final departure.
But we
cannot vouch for the truth of these things.
The rumour was never confirmed; nor yet
was it contradicted But the father lived
not to hear even of the rumour of these glad
tidings; but went to the eternal world, there
only to learn, what became of his son.
Yet the life of William Jones was conti-
nued for sometime after the banishment of
his son, and for a useful purpose. Adversity,
indeed, for a time, sat heavy upon him; but
it was not unattended by the Spirit of God.
It softened his feelings; and, it was quite ap-
parent, that under it, he was ripening for the
kingdom of God.
He knew that only a few more days, or
months, remained to him on earth. These
he employed in going about the village, and,
drawn by his faithful Greybeard, would some-
times venture as far as the village of C-
admonishing parents to bring up their child-
ren "in the admonition of the Lord," and


ROBERT JONES.
95
how tender, and kind, and faithful, and affect-
ing these admonitions were, they could tell
who heard them; and it was often on his
lips, that neither the husband, nor the wife,
should hinder each other's prayers, nor
thwart each other's counsels.
"Strive toge-
ther," he would say, "for the grace of God,
and if you are tempted to neglect your
children, or to love them too much, or to
indulge them too much, remember William
Jones, and his (sad example) calamity."
One Sabbath morning, William Jones was
missed at church, from his accustomed seat;
and no soul that looked towards the vacant
place, but knew immediately, that the old
man was either sick unto death, or that he
had already fallen asleep in Jesus.
When divine service was over, many persons
bent their steps towards the lonely cottage,
for it was known that (his faithful) Jenny
was absent on a visit to a neighbouring vil-
lage and soon the general expectation was
fully verified. The door of the cottage was
closed and locked, and not a lattice was open.
But prompt admission was effected, and there
the venerable old man was found sitting in


96
ROBERT JONES.
his old high back chair.
He was sitting by
his little table, and, on that table, was an unlit
pipe, and an open Bible, and one arm was
resting on the table, and in his fingers he still
held a pen, and, on a paper before him, he
had been writing, and the Scripture which he
had written, was :-" Train up a child in the
way he should go, and when he is old, he will
not depart from it." He had finished the
inspired sentence, and this was the last of the
mortal works of William Jones. Some of
the people thought that he was still writing—
But it was not so. That sentence was enough.
His head was partly reclining on his breast;
his eyes were closed; and, we trust, that,
pardoned through CHRIST, his chastened
spirit had gained admittance into the rest of
the blessed.


THE
HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH,
AND HIS
DUTIFUL GRANDSON.
Founded on Fact.
A lonely hermit in the vale of years.—Campbell.
It was on one of the bitterest evenings in
the month of December, when the snow lay
knee-deep upon the ground, and blotted out
the wild features of a highly-diversified coun-
try, that the solemn toll of a small bell was
heard from a neighbouring turret; when, out
of the gate of a lonely cottage, which appear-
ed like a snow-drift, on the side of the heath,
issued a funeral train, consisting of a few vil-
lagers closely muffled up to protect them from
the inclemency of the weather. The chief
mourner, on this occasion, was an interesting
boy, with flaxen hair, and fine blue eyes, ren-
dered more lovely by being filled with tears.
9


98
THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
He appeared to be inconsolable. Silent and
slow they moved along, carefully picking their
untracked way towards the old church yard,
at the gate of which the venerable clergyman
met them, and preceded the corpse into the
little, low, cold church, whose windows were
shaded with ivy, and its walls green with the
damp of ages; and, at the conclusion of the
appointed service, which was peculiarly so-
lemn and impressive, the coffin was carried
forth, and deposited beneath a large yew tree,
which, being covered with snow, stood like
a "sheeted ghost" beside the path-way. It
had stood there time immemorial, and all
around it
"The rude forefathers of the hamlet slept."
As the heavy mould rumbled upon the coffin
lid, and the solemn words, "ashes to ashes,
and dust to dust," were pronounced, the sob-
bings of that lovely boy became distressingly
audible he could no longer restrain his emo-
tions-he had lost his last relative-his ten-
derest earthly friend-to whom he was en-
deared by a thousand infantine recollec-
tions-it was his grandfather! He had lived


THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
99
to a great age-his history was a history of
disappointment and sorrow, but his last
end was peace."
At the conclusion of the solemnity, the
pious clergyman, who had always loved and
admired the little mourner for his affection
to his grandfather, endeavoured to soothe
his sorrow with words of tenderness, and
kindly supported him to the parsonage house,
and committed him to the care of his amiable
wife; while the few attendants on the funeral
separated, and hastily returned to their re-
spective homes.
But who was the deceased, whose remains
our imagination has accompanied to "the
house appointed for all living?" It was
poor old SYLVESTER HAZLEHURST, better
known by the name of the HERMIT OF
COOMBSDITCH. He had formerly been what
is commonly called, in the country, a sub-
stantial man He had only one daughter,
who married advantageously, at an early age;
about which time, having become surety
for a false friend, he fell into decay: but,
being a man of the strictest integrity, he ma-
naged to satisfy the demands of all his credi-
338484B


100
THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
tors, and, collecting the wreck of his fortune,
embarked for America with his beloved wife,
where he purchased land to great advantage,
and, in the course of years, repaired his
shattered fortune, with which he resolved to
return to his native country, and spend the
remainder of his days in that "peace and quiet
which he loved." With these pleasing anti-
cipations, he took his passage in haste, in a
vessel bound for England, and he hurried on
board to make arrangements for the reception
of his wife, who was hastily preparing to follow
him. The vessel speedily and unexpectedly
got under way, and stood out to sea; but the
anxiously desired passenger had not arrived.
Neither supplications nor promises could in-
duce the captain to send a boat on shore for
her, for fear of losing a favourable wind. In
this dilemma, it was suggested, that another
vessel of the same name, was about to sail
from the same port, and it was highly proba-
ble, that the good woman, in her haste to fol-
low her husband, had inadvertently embarked
in the wrong ship. In a short time, the ves-
sel in question was recognised standing out
of the port, as if anxious to join company


THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
101
with them.
As he stood gazing in agonizing
suspence, the vessel gained so fast upon them,
that he could plainly perceive a female upon
the deck, apparently in an imploring attitude,
waving a handkerchief as a signal of her de-
sire to be taken on board. He was convinced
of the fatal error by which they had been se-
parated. He answered her signal, and began
to console himself with the hope, that when
the wind should fall, an opportunity might be
taken to send off a boat to get her on board.
But the wind kept increasing from a gale to
a hurricane, and the vessels were frequently
hidden from the sight of each other in the
'trough of the sea.
sky became terrific.
lights were hung out,
the stoutest hearts were impressed with the
apprehensions of impending danger. But
who can tell what were the feelings of the
divided pair at this time? The night was
tremendously dark; the rain fell in torrents;
the thunder roared; the vessels were in mu-
tual danger of falling on board each other,
and were only distinguishable by the flashes
The appearance of the
When night closed in,
signal guns fired, and
9*


102
THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
•
of their guns from time to time, or the sheets
of vivid lightning which illuminated their
decks, and seemed ready to kindle their sails
and rigging. At intervals, the rush of break-
ers warned them of being out of their course,
and in the neighbourhood of some dangerous
reef, or lee-shore.
All night, the warning elements maintained
The shock of conflict, and confusion reign'd;
A thousand terrors brooded on the waves,
To point the wand'rers to untimely graves.
At the slow and heavy break of dawn, the
tempest subsided; but not a sound was heard,
not another sail was to be seen within the
compass of the horizon. General apprehen-
sions were entertained for the safety of the
ship's consort; but, when the sun began to
shoot its first long gleam across the waters,
the only object they could distinguish, was the
wreck of that unfortunate vessel floating by
upon the waves. All fell upon their knees,
and returned thanks to Heaven for their pre-
servation, save poor Sylvester.
He wept
not! He prayed not!
Distraction laid his memory waste,
Mingling the present with the past;
Till dark oblivion came behind,
To blot each record from his mind.


THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
103
Though clear the skies, the horizon blue,
Nothing he heard-nor saw-nor knew t
Fate-struck he stood, and speechless, there,-
A moveless statue of despair?
After the first emotions of agony had sub-
sided, and all his hope had vanished, the un-
happy man sunk into a state of insensibility,
from which nothing could arouse him during
the remainder of the voyage, and he became
an object of general sympathy to the passen-
gers and crew, who, in vain contributed all
in their power to divert his mind, and miti
gate his affliction.
On reaching his native shore, his mind
somewhat recovered its elasticity: he began
to inquire for his relatives and friends, but
most of them were no more. His daughter
and her husband were both dead; and they
had left behind an only child, named after
the grandfather, SYLVESTER, of whom some
kind neighbour had taken charge.
To describe the meeting of the grandfather
and grandson, would be a fruitless attempt:
we would rather imitate the painter who drew
a veil over the countenance whose expression
he could not delineate. From this interview,
the child could not be induced to part with


104
THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
him. He became his only companion and
chief solace; and, with the true spirit of a
martyr, sacrificed the sweet days of child-
hood to his company and comfort.
The hig.
gler, the butcher, the baker, the pedlar, and
the few market folks that passed, named the
house "The Hermitage;" for the owner
was never seen beyond his garden stile; nor
had his door hardly ever admitted a visiter,
save the pious clergyman and his lady. His
well preserved garments bore the stamp and
fashion of earlier times, and he suffered his
white beard to grow, till it,-
"Low descending, swept his aged breast."
It was said, he was never known to laugh:
hence the few who ever caught sight of him,
viewed him with a kind of mysterious reve-
rence: but that little grandson never left his
side, in sickness or in health, except when
obliged to go on some necessary errand.-
He considered himself only a stranger, a
sojourner upon earth, to which he had now
but this one tie left to bind him, and hold
him from heaven, where all his hopes center-
ed. His sorrows had now softened into re-


THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
105
signation, and he found, in the stillness of
retirement, consolations which the world
knew nothing of
To the lovers of activity and pleasure,
their's would have appeared to be a monoto
nous life; but they had enjoyments and re-
creations with which "a stranger could not
intermeddle" morning and evening, from
that lowly cottage, ascended the voice of
prayer and praise: every season brought
with it its employment; they never ate the
bread of idleness. In the summer months,
young Sylvester was occupied in superintend-
ing the orchard, or cultivating the garden;
while his aged grandfather sat under the
shade of the large pippin tree, and directed
his labours. Here they watched the bees
when they gave indication of swarming, and
watered and cultivated the flowers from
whence they derived their honey. Their
hours of relaxation were mostly spent in
reading, of which the youth was passionately
fond. The great hall window-bench was
their library and book case, and the works it
contained, were, a large quarto Bible, adorn-
ed with copper-plates, the Pilgrim's Pro-


106 THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
gress, the whole Duty of Man, Hervey's
Meditations, Beveridge's Private Thoughts,
Robinson Crusoe, the Young Man's Compa-
nion, the remains of Paradise Lost, and the
wreck of Magazines, Dictionaries, and
School Books.
To such trivial sources, our young student
owed the chief of his learning, and his know-
ledge; but he made the best use of what he
knew, and devoted every thing to the gratifica-
tion and consolation of him whose comforts
were dearer to him than his own.
As the good old man increased in years
and infirmities, "he grew in grace." Some-
times, he would say to himself, "I shall see
her no more till the sea shall give up its dead,"
but he would soon check the repinings of
nature, and resume that hallowed compla-
cency of manners for which he had long been
eminent.
In his last moments, his orphan grandchild
knelt at his bed-side to receive his blessing.
Then he poured out his heart in fervent
prayer for his welfare, in the language of the
patriarch of old :-"I die, but God will be
with you," and will abundantly reward you


THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
107
for
your
tender and dutiful attachment to me.
If you forsake not Him, He will never forsake
I confess with shame and sorrow, I
you.
have found it hard to trust Him, but that time.
is past-my only reliance now, is in the merits
of the Redeemer. Mine has been a stormy
and tempestuous life, but I have weathered
the storm, and am now in view of that haven
'where the weary are at rest!' and, when
the sea shall give up its dead,' I shall meet
her again!"-He made an effort to proceed,
but nature refused her office,-he sunk back,
and expired, without a groan, or a struggle.
'Tis well, amidst the storms of life,
The care, the tumult, and the strife;
When fails each human hope, and trust-
There is a refuge for the just.
Here concludes the "eventful history of
the Hermit of Coombsditch;" "but what,"
our youthful readers, will naturally ask, “be-
came of his pious grandchild?" Why, the
pious clergyman, who consigned the grand-
father to the tomb, having no children of his
own, adopted him as his son.
For many
years, young SYLVESTER enjoyed the melan-
choly privilege of planting flowers and shed-


108 THE HERMIT OF COOMBSDITCH.
ding tears on his grandfather's grave; and,
in process of time, his learning and piety ad-
vanced him to the pulpit of his excellent pa-
tron and foster-father, to whom he proved a
worthy successor.
Thus the blessing of the dying grandfather
descended upon the head of the dutiful grand-
son; and he received the temporal reward
of his affectionate attachment and early sa-
crifices, in the satisfaction of his own con-
science, and the love of all his parishioners.
FINIS.
VANDERPOOL & COLE,
Printers.