CHAPTER V. _A further Account of what occurred at Lisbon after John De Lancaster’s Arrival at that Place._ Such was the melancholy end of Philip, son of old De Lancaster, and father of our hero. Heaven endowed him with moderate faculties, and indolence conspired to make that little less. The place, which he left vacant in the list of the De Lancasters from earliest time, was scarcely less a chasm whilst he lived, than now when he was dead. Yet weak and dormant as his spirit was, repeated aggravations from Ap Owen roused him at last, and in the moment of his unguarded courage he fell into an artful villain’s snare and was destroyed. The memoirs of poor Philip’s life would hardly fill a page; but the reflections, that might be deduced from his untimely death would be a lesson of useful warning to those listless idlers, those noneffectives in creation’s roll, who seem destined to live for no worthier purpose, except to turn that vital air to waste, which might have fed the lungs of nobler beings, who either patiently employ their hours over the midnight lamp in learned toil; or, by their country called to unwholesome climes, where the extremes of heat or cold are fatal, go forth and die by thousands. Still nature pleaded to the filial heart of John De Lancaster--That mangled corpse, on which you look, gave life to you, and was your father--Keenly he felt the appeal, and, whilst his eyes dwelt on the piteous object, the big tears rolled down his cheeks: nor could he quite abstain from exclamation, or keep his fiery spirit in command, whilst the last words his dying father uttered still sounded in his ears--Never, he cried, bear witness for me, Nature! will I revisit my beloved home, till I have obtained, or executed, justice on the villain, the out-lawed enemy of God and man, who did this murderous deed. This is the second corpse, that he has made, and sent the immortal spirit to arraign him at Heaven’s tribunal. Dreadful wretch, what must the torment of his conscience be. Whilst these or words like these, burst from his lips, as still he stood, alone, contemplating the dismal scene, Edward, the younger Wilson, came behind him, and embracing him, whilst he spake--Bear up, he cried: remember God allows these trials to improve and exercise our virtue: every sorrow, that may fall on us by his dispensation, may be converted to our use and profit. And now, if what I say required a proof how prompt his justice is, I have it for you--The criminal is seized and in your hands--Aye! that is right: address your praise to Heaven! there fix your thoughts, and cease to mourn for him, whose cause is heard, whose injuries are redressed--But you shall have the matter as it passed.