left my
own habitation for the comfortless walls of a prison. My poor Lucy,
distracted with her fears for us both, sunk on the floor and endeavoured
to detain me by her feeble efforts, but in vain; they forced open her
arms; she shrieked, and fell prostrate. But pardon me. The horrors of
that night unman me. I cannot proceed."

He rose from his seat, and walked several times across the room: at
length, attaining more composure, he cried--"What a mere infant I am!
Why, Sir, I never felt thus in the day of battle." "No," said Temple;
"but the truly brave soul is tremblingly alive to the feelings of
humanity."

"True," replied the old man, (something like satisfaction darting across
his features) "and painful as these feelings are, I would not exchange
them for that torpor which the stoic mistakes for philosophy. How many
exquisite delights should I have passed by unnoticed, but for these keen
sensations, this quick sense of happiness or misery? Then let us, my
friend, take the cup of life as it is presented to us, tempered by the
hand of a wise Providence; be thankful for the good, be patient under
the evil, and presume not to enquire why the latter predominates."

"This is true philosophy," said Temple.

"'Tis the only way to reconcile ourselves to the cross events of life,"
replied he. "But I forget myself. I will not longer intrude on your
patience, but proceed in my melancholy tale.

"The very evening that I was taken to prison, my son arrived from
Ireland, where he had been some time with his regiment. From the
distracted expressions of his mother and sister, he learnt by whom I
had been arrested; and, late as it was, flew on the wings of wounded
affection, to the house of his false friend, and earnestly enquired the
cause of this cruel conduct. With all the calmness of a cool deliberate
villain, he avowed his passion for Lucy; declared her situation in
life would not permit him to marry her; but offered to release me
immediately, and make any settlement on her, if George would persuade
her to live, as he impiously termed it, a life of honour.

"Fired at the insult offered to a man and a soldier, my boy struck the
villain, and a challenge ensued. He then went to a coffee-house in
the neighbourhood and wrote a long affectionate letter to me, blaming
himself severely for having introduced Lewis into the family, or
permitted him to confer an obligation, which had brought inevitable
ruin on us all. He begged me, w