make wretched: there are hearts as weak, as tender and as fond as mine--Think of our dear Cecilia, of your aunt! what will you say to her? what to Amelia? What I have said to you--To every one, that feels for my departure, my honour and my duty form the plea, that I must urge for giving pain to them, who are so dear to me: And surely, sir, there’s nothing so alluring in the task, that I should covet it for other reasons, than I’ve assigned to you. There must be something stronger than self-indulgence, more imperious than the repugnance, which I feel at heart, when I must force a sigh from you and them; and you of all men living best can tell what that compulsion is--We must not be dishonoured. You have said it, De Lancaster replied; and now, my dear John, before we proceed any further I hold it right and proper to send for our friend Edward Wilson, and let him read your father’s letter without saying any thing on the subject to bias his opinion. We shall then have his sentiments upon the matter, and either be confirmed in our own judgment, or perhaps hear from him what may induce us to reconsider it. To this John of course most readily assented, and the message instantly produced the man. De Lancaster put the letter into his hand, simply desiring him to read it. Edward’s expressive countenance, whilst perusing the contents, bespoke his sovereign contempt of the writer, and was such a comment on the text as no one could mistake--Wretched, wretched man! he cried. This is a degradation and disgrace not to him only, but to human nature. We may pity weakness; we may find some plea in the construction of a man for want of spirit and of manly feelings; but this is such an act as even folly would not own, insanity would blush for. Ah venerable sir, is this your son? ah my beloved John, is this your father? sorry I am to speak with such contempt of one so near to those, whom I respect and love. Forgive me, my good sir, it is my zeal for you my patron, and for this my pupil, that has betrayed me into this intemperance--But I’ll offend no further. This only you will suffer me to say--He is De Lancaster, and must be saved. By whom, you’ll ask: by whom but by his son? nature demands it; duty calls him forth; honour imperiously compels him to it. But whilst the sacred trust that I still hold, the solemn obligation, that still binds me to this beloved youth, whose life is dearer to me than my own, gives me authority to speak thus freely, I must insist upon my right to say, that wheresoever duty carries him, it carries me. I know his virtues, sir; I know his ardour: those I have nourished; that I have repressed, and studied to confine within due bounds. If John embarks upon this filial errand, I throw these clerical equipments off, and embark with him as my father’s son, the son of Colonel Wilson; and if you consent to part from him, no power on earth, your own excepted, shall withhold me from him.