child, whose crime was--interceding for his brother? Dismiss this man, whose presence eclipses our hearts, and let us confer together for a moment as father and son, and if I do not humiliate myself before you, spurn me for ever. My father, for God’s sake examine the difference between this man and me, as we stand before you. We are together at the bar of your heart, judge between us. A dry and featureless image of selfish power, consecrated by the name of the church, occupies his whole soul,--I plead to you by the interests of nature, that must be sincere, because they are contrary to my own. He only wishes to wither your soul,--I seek to touch it. Is his heart in what he says? does he shed a tear? does he employ one impassioned expression? he calls on God,--while I call only on you. The very violence which you justly condemn, is not only my vindication but my eulogy. They who prefer their cause to themselves, need no proof of their advocacy being sincere.” “You aggravate your crime, by laying it on another; you have always been violent, obstinate, and rebellious.” “But who has made me so? Ask himself,--ask this shameful scene, in which his duplicity has driven me to act such a part.” “If you wish to show submission, give me the first proof of it, by promising never to torture me by renewing the mention of this subject. Your brother’s fate is decided,--promise not to utter his name again, and----” “Never,--never,” I exclaimed, “never will I violate my conscience by such a vow; and his who could propose it must be seared beyond the power of Heaven to touch it.” Yet, in uttering these words, I knelt to my father, but he turned from me. I turned in despair to the Director. I said, “If you are the minister of Heaven, prove the truth of your commission,--make peace in a distracted family, reconcile my father to both his children. You can effect this by a word, you know you can, yet you will not utter it. My unfortunate brother was not so inflexible to your appeals, and yet were they inspired by a feeling as justifiable as mine.” I had offended the Director beyond all forgiveness. I knew this, and spoke indeed rather to expose than to persuade him. I did not expect an answer from him, and I was not disappointed,--he did not utter a word. I knelt in the middle of the floor between them. I cried, “Deserted by my father and by you, I yet appeal to Heaven. I call on it to witness my vow never to abandon my persecuted brother, whom I have been made a tool to betray. I know you have power,--I defy it. I know every art of circumvention, of imposture, of malignant industry,--every resource of earth and hell, will be set at work against me. I take Heaven to witness against you, and demand only its aid to insure my victory.” My father had lost all patience; he desired the attendants to raise and remove me by force. This mention of force, so repugnant to my habits of imperious indulgence, operated fatally on intellects scarcely