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 It was on a market day that Farmer Welford waited on the good old man. He found him in a small room, pursuing his pious meditation. The sight of any of his parishioners was a cordial to the drooping spirits of Mr Benley. His griefs, though not forgotten, were suppressed while con versing with his friends; but at the moment of separation, they returned with increased pugency, and it required the utmost effort of mind to support the painful ‘Adieu!’

‘Eternal God!’ exclaimed the weeping father, ‘must I no more enjoy the sweets of liberty! How changed the scene! Here, when night her sable mantle o’er the face of heaven begins to spread, nothing is heard hut the dismal rattling of chains; doors of massy iron, grating on their hinges, appal the timid soul; while horrid oaths and dreadful imprecations wound the listening ear. O Welford! my soul sickens at the scene; and philosophy scarce can shield my mind from the horrors of despair!

At this moment the gaoler entered the room with a letter to Mr Benley— ‘The hand is unknown to me,’ said he. ‘It has a goodly outside,’ said the gaoler; ‘pray Heaven it proves not like the world, fair without and foul within.’

‘Why, truly friend,’ returned Mr Benley, ‘your satire upon the manners of mankind is not unreasonable. It is I fear, the maxim of many of