account of their days amusement, and bestowed great praise on _Fanny_’s
good-nature, at the same time that they blamed the haughty manners of
Miss _Lofty_ and her companions. “Your observations, my dear children,”
replied their grandfather, “give me the highest pleasure, as there is
nothing more truly contemptable than that pride which arises from the
possession of wealth and finery. The poor are a more useful set of
people than the rich; since to their industry we must owe all those
distinctions that bestow the conveniences and luxuries of life. And
though the difference of station was appointed for the wisest ends; yet,
it is our duty to behave with kindness to our inferiors, and not subject
them to unnecessary mortifications. A prudent person will always
endeavour to keep such company as may suit his rank, because it is an
error to associate only with those beneath us, as we cannot learn from
them such qualifications which are essential to be known; but a _good_
mind will at all times pay a tender regard to the feelings of those in
poverty and distress, because it is an act of cruelty and oppression to
insult any who are in circumstances less happy than ourselves. Instead,
therefore, of being _proud_ on account of your family and fortune, you
should be thankful to Providence that you will have it in your power to
assist others; and remember, that the higher your rank, and the greater
share of wealth you may possess, so much the more it is necessary to set
a good example; as God will expect more from you in consequence of such
advantages, than from those who by having fewer opportunities of
instruction, are not so well acquainted with their duty. Every incident,
my dears, may afford you some useful lesson, if you accustom yourselves
to reflect seriously; and this afternoon has taught you by experience,
that the benefit of a good education, the finery of dress, and the
distinction of noble connections, are altogether insufficient to engage
your love or respect; while the superior charms of good-nature and good
sense have in the humble _Fanny_ found means to win your regard.
Remember then, for the future to cultivate in yourselves the internal
graces of a generous disposition; and let the pride and folly of Miss
_Lofty_ and Master _Tradewell_, be a warning to you to shun their
errors. Every degree of grandeur and ostentation can be but comparative.
If _you_ despise the poverty of _Fanny_, or the inferior fortune of your
acquaintance _Sam Ivy_; Sir _Thomas Young_, or your school-fellow Lord
_Newson_, may look down upon _you_ with equal contempt; because they
have already each a title to boast, and have larger estates to expect
than yourself: and as you would dislike to be treated with disdain by
_them_, remember others have equal sensibility: and always judge by your
own feelings, what is the course of action you should pursue; since, to
_do_ as we would be _done_ by, is a rule of the greatest importance in
life. Master _Tradewell_ could but ill bear the scorn with which Miss
_Lofty_ treated a mercantile employment, though he had joined in her
haughty behaviour to _Fanny Mopwell_. And those who are most ready to
give offence to others, can in general the least submit to such
insolence themselves; because, knowing their own want of more valuable
endowments, and thinking such a vain superiority of the highest
consequence, they are mortified in proportion to their pride, and suffer
the just punishment of their arrogance in the folly which causes their
distress.” _William_ thanked his grandfather for his good advice, to
which they had all listened with great attention; and then retired to
bed, with the satisfaction of having behaved well during the course of
the day. As soon as he conveniently could the next morning, he went into
his sister’s room, and taking _Fanny_’s book from his pocket, they both
sat down in one chair, with his arm round her neck; and began to read
the continuation of the story as follows:
“Mr. _Active_ and his family were now left exposed to the greatest
distress. One of his legs had been terribly burnt in getting his
daughters down stairs; and the loss of their house and furniture it was
out of their power ever to repair. Several of the neighbours were so
kind as to give them a few cloaths for the present; and the gentlemen of
the parish, out of regard to his merit, made a subscription for him, and
gave him some money for his immediate relief. With this assistance they
took as cheap a lodging as they could procure; but were obliged to live
very differently from their usual manner. The poor man, though he went
out to work, could earn but little, his leg growing worse for want of
proper assistance; and the fright of the fire had had such an effect on
his wife, that she never was well after. In this state of poverty the
money which had been given them was soon spent; and though many persons
had pitied them at the time, yet their sufferings were now forgot, and
nobody thought any more about them. _Nanny_ and _Susan_, though their
undutiful behaviour had been the cause of all the misfortunes which they
suffered, still continued to be ill-tempered and untractable. They were
discontented with their situation, and grumbled at the hardship to which
they were reduced; and though their mother had got some work to employ
them, yet they were so idle that they neglected to do it,
notwithstanding they were starving for want. Poor _Kate_, indeed, did
what she could; and though she was but young, proved of great assistance
to her mother. “I will do all I am able,” she would say, “and do not
grieve, for in time we shall have more money I hope.” And when she saw
there was but little for dinner, she would not eat what she wanted, in
order to leave it for her parents. Sometimes she would talk to her
sisters, and advise them to behave better. “I am sure,” she has said,
“we owe a great deal to our father and mother for their care; and as
they have worked hard for _us_, it is but reasonable that we in our turn
should try to support _them_.” The two elder sisters were at length
provided for, by getting into place, and going to service. _Nanny_ was
taken by a grocer’s wife to nurse a young child and go of her errands,
and whatever else she was capable of doing: and _Susan_ went to a
farmers in the neighbourhood as an assistant in the family. It fell to
her lot to carry milk every morning to a gentleman who lived near the
place where her sister was settled; and she used frequently to meet her
there, and stay and talk to her a little. They pursued this custom for
some time without any bad intention; but one day, as the place where
they stood happened to be close to a pastry-cook’s shop, they were
tempted by the sight of some hot buns to go in and buy one between them.
They found the taste so delicious, that they would gladly have eaten
more; but considering the cost would be what they could not well afford,
they parted for that time, with a mutual agreement to meet the next day
at the same house, and renew their treat.
“_Nanny_’s business would not permit her to be there so early as her
sister, who after having waited at the door for some time, entered the
shop by herself, and bought a penny custard, which she had just finished
eating, when _Susan_ arrived, and with much pleasure informed her, that
a gentleman had given her a shilling for her trouble in waiting upon him
during his stay at her Master’s; and she wanted to consult her in what
manner she should lay it out. “Suppose,” added she, “I should carry it
to my mother, it is the first money I have had, and she is in great
distress?” “Why, yes,” replied _Susan_, “they do want money at home; and
so after you have eaten one of these plum-cakes let us go: I would have
bought one before had I been able to pay for it.” “Well! but,” returned
_Nanny_, “then I must change the shilling, and that will be a pity: to
carry only eleven-pence will not look half so well, and we had better go
without our cakes: we have both had a good dinner, and perhaps they have
not fared so well: I think it would be kinder to let them have it.” So
saying, she was going to leave the shop, when the pastry-cook’s boy
passed by her with a tray full of hot cheesecakes. They smelt so
delicious, that _Nanny_ wished very much to taste them; and her sister
joining in the same inclination, added, “we shall often have a
_shilling_ given us now we are in service: it is but a trifle! what
would a shilling buy? My mother will not _expect_ it; and therefore will
not be hurt, or vexed about it: come, come, do not stand thinking any
longer.” “To be sure they are very nice,” said _Nanny_, and took up one
in her hand.—It broke!—What was to be done? It must be paid for; and
when the shilling was once changed, she argued that it would look
unhandsome to carry such a trifle to her parents.—Weak, silly girls!
They spent the whole of it before they left the shop.
“_Kate_, in the mean time, continued with her parents, whose misfortunes
encreased every day. Mr. _Active_ fell from a ladder and broke one of
his arms, and was by this accident reduced to a starving condition. His
wife was attacked by a violent fever, of which she would not inform her
daughters, for fear they should take the infection. These distresses in
a few weeks, as they were both unable to work, reduced them to the most
wretched state of poverty; and on the day that their two daughters were
feasting, as has been related, they were almost expiring with hunger.
Poor _Kate_, with weeping eyes, beheld them both. She had _nothing_ to
give them, and had exhausted her strength in nursing and attending them.
Her mother lay on her wretched bed, and her melancholy father with his
right arm in a sling sat beside her. “I will get them something!” said
_Kate_ to herself. Her father told her it was dinner time. “Bring what
there is, my good child, for your mother.” She went to their little
cupboard.—Alas, it was empty! Not a crumb remained! She had wiped it
clean in the morning, and those scraps had been her only breakfast. “Is
there _nothing_, my child?” added he, and he looked at his wife,
stroaked his left hand across his eyes, but not quick enough to prevent
the tears which dropped upon the sling that supported his right. “I will
fetch something,” said _Kate_; and was hastening to the door. “Alas!”
replied he, sobbing with distress, “my _last_ farthing was spent
yesterday.” She went out, however. “I will _beg_,” said she to herself,
but I will procure them something.” She stood in the street a few
moments, not knowing what to do. At last she ran as fast as her weakness
would permit (for she was beginning to be ill with the same fever which
had attacked her mother.) She ran till she reached the grocer’s. She
enquired for her sister, but she was not at home. She begged them to
give her a bit of bread; but the men in the shop who did not know her,
accused her with being a beggar and a thief; and would not believe that
_Nanny_ was her relation. They threatened to send her to the house of
correction, and turned her disgracefully out of doors.
Poor _Kate_ wept most bitterly at this treatment. She was very timid and
had not courage to reply, but wandered back again in deeper affliction
than before. As she drew near home, she felt rather sick; and as she had
scarcely eaten any thing for several days, she much wished for something
to appease her hunger. A baker’s shop was at hand, and she determined to
go in and beg them to give her a roll. But she saw nobody to apply to.
She called several times, but no one answered. Loaves of bread, of all
sizes, stood on the counter before her. “Shall I take one?” said she: “I
am quite unobserved.” “But is it _right_?” said she again to herself.
“Shall I do a _wrong_ thing only because I am not _seen_?”—She walked
away. “Shall I go back,” once more she added, “to my poor father and
mother, and have _nothing_ for them?”—She sat down upon the threshold
and wept. “It is better to _starve_,” at length she exclaimed, “it is
better to _starve_ than be _wicked_!” and she walked away. A gentleman
was riding by in a chaise, and the wind blew off his hat. She ran,
picked it up, and gave it to him; and he tossed her a half-penny for her
trouble. She took it up with gratitude; and as she ran back to the
bakers, she repeated aloud to herself, “It is better to be _honest than
to steal_.” The owner of the shop was now returned. She told her
distressful tale, and he gave her a stale penny loaf for her money. With
what joy did the poor girl return to her parents.—“Was she not happier
than if she had eaten an _hundred cheesecakes_?—In the afternoon _Nanny_
had leave to visit her mother. She blushed when she saw them, and
recollected how she had spent her shilling.”—
So far went the story, when _William_, to his great disappointment,
perceived he had left the rest behind him. The cover of the little book
was torn, and the leaves were fastened together with a pin, which had
dropped out; and _Fanny_ in giving it him when they were called to tea,
had, without knowing it, kept back the rest.
He communicated the accident to his grandfather; and gave him an account
of what he had been reading; and concluded with hoping, that _Nanny_ and
_Susan_ would in the end meet with the punishment which their neglect of
their parents deserved; that he should rejoice to hear they were
_starved_ for their barbarity. “You see, my dear,” returned Mr.
_Graves_, “that the appearance of ingratitude is so odious, that it
fills you with abhorrence only to read an imperfect account of it, and
yet I doubt whether you who are so warm in your detestation of the
crime, are not sometimes tempted to commit it.” “What _I_?” said
_William_ rather warmly, “I disobey my parents, and forget them in their
distress! If I had but a mouthful of bread they should have it between
them; and I am sure I always do as they desire me.” “You are a good
boy,” replied the old gentleman; “but you have never yet been put to
such a trial. Few persons _know themselves_, or are sensible _how_ they
should act in situations which they have not experienced. The only way
you can prove your affection to your friends, is by rendering yourself
worthy their regard. Only remember, that to do a _wrong thing_ will give
them more uneasiness than you can imagine; and that their concern for
your welfare is so great, it would be the heaviest affliction they could
experience to have you behave improperly; and, therefore, to merit their
confidence, you must act with the same attention to their commands when
they are absent as when they are present to observe you.”
_William_ was vexed at his grandfather’s observation, and told him, “it
seemed to imply a doubt of his conduct,” Mr. _Graves_ commended him
tenderly; but said, “he had observed, that he was often severe in his
judgment; and when he saw a fault in others, or read of any blameable
character, he was apt to condemn it without any regard to that mercy
which was a most amiable attribute, and peculiarly necessary in
creatures, who were every moment in danger of falling themselves. Young
persons,” continued he, “are apt to look upon every crime of which they
have not been guilty as _impossible_ for them to commit: but that
confidence in their own strength is sometimes a most dangerous snare to
them in future life. I will give you an instance of this sort which fell
under my own observation. When I first went ’prentice, there was a young
man about sixteen, with whom I had been always intimate, and who was
bound about the same time to an uncle who lived next door to my
master’s. This circumstance was a great addition to our happiness, and
the more I saw of him the more I had reason to esteem him. But there was
one thing I wished had been otherwise in his disposition. His principles
were so rigid, that I was sometimes afraid to tell him of any
inadvertence I had been guilty of, though he was about my own age; for
he declared such an abhorrence of every thing that was mean or
deceitful, as to confess, if one of _his_ friends should do a
dishonorable action, he would cast him off for ever.—But the best hearts
may be tempted to evil before they are aware, if they depend so much
upon themselves as to be off their guard. He had leave one evening to
visit an acquaintance, and upon his arrival found that the family were
engaged to go to the play. They gave him an invitation to accompany
them, which for some time he declined, thinking it not quite right to do
this without his uncle’s knowledge. At length, however, as it was an
entertainment which (as he had been but a short time in _London_) he had
never seen, he determined to accept their offer. He felt a secret
uneasiness upon his mind, as he thought his conduct not strictly right,
and had great reason to suppose the proposal would by no means have met
with his uncle’s approbation. His regret was however forgotten during
the representation; and he would have been quite happy had his consent
been obtained. The time however, went faster than he imagined, and when
he returned home it was eleven o’clock. He had unfortunately broken his
watch, and his companions assuring him it was early, he sat down with
them to supper. The clock at length struck twelve; and the hours had
passed so agreeably, that he thought it had been but eleven. He rose
immediately, and hastened home, afraid of his uncle’s displeasure, and
angry with himself for a conduct which his conscience disapproved.
“As he was running hastily along, full of uneasiness for the reception
he might meet with, his foot slipped, and down he fell against a post.
He was slightly bruised, and cut his face by the accident; but the
thought immediately occurred to him to make that an excuse for his stay;
and as he had mistaken a street which led him farther from home, for one
which he designed to have taken; without any further reflection, he
related a plausible tale to his uncle of his having lost his way; and as
he had never before told an untruth, the account was believed by the old
gentleman.—So far his falsity had escaped detection. He retired to-bed;
but not to sleep; that comfort he could not obtain: his _conscience_
represented the wickedness of which he had been guilty, and he could
think of nothing but the crime which for the first time he had
committed. In the morning he rose with a heavy heart; for cheerfulness
is only the companion of virtue. He had too much false pride to confess
his folly; and the questions which his uncle put to him, obliged him to
confirm one lie by the addition of many more.—So easily, my dear boy, do
we sink from one wickedness to the commission of another; and so
difficult is it to regain the right path, when once we have wandered
from it.—He passed a most wretched morning, occupied with reflections
upon his conduct, and entered the parlour upon a summons to dinner with
a mind penetrated with remorse. But guess at his confusion, when the
first object which he saw was the gentleman he had accompanied to the
play, and who had called to return him his stick, which in the haste of
his departure he had left behind. The explanation that followed, was
such as to mortify him to the last degree. It not only exposed his
deceit to his uncle, but to the rest of the company; and his character
was so much injured by the discovery, that it was many years before he
could entirely reinstate himself in their good opinion: and to this day
he is cautious of making a positive declaration, or profession of what
he will do, for fear he should be ensnared into evil.”—“It is in every
one’s power,” said _William_, “to be good if they please; therefore,
they are accountable certainly for their bad actions.” “Very true,”
replied his grandfather, “but take care that you are never drawn to the
commission of bad actions by the example or persuasions of others. And
you should remember, that the end of all your studies is to make you
better by the force of example. When you meet with vicious characters,
let the detestation which you feel for their crimes be a warning to you
to avoid a similar conduct; while on the other hand, every noble action
should inspire you with emulation to imitate what you applaud. My
hopes,” continued the good old gentleman, “are fixed upon you _all_; but
in a particular manner my cares have been engaged for _you_, as I have
had a nearer concern in your education; and I trust, my _William_, you
will recompence my solicitude, by becoming a worthy example to your
brother and sister; for really I think your misconduct would break my
heart.”
_William_ was generous, frank, and affectionate. He loved his
grandfather most tenderly; and pressing his hand, promised his future
conduct should be all he wished.—But alas! with all his good qualities,
he was in some respects of too easy a disposition. He had not resolution
to oppose what he knew to be wrong when his companions proposed it; and
was frequently drawn into such errors through his weak compliance, as he
had long occasion to lament. _Good-nature_ is a great virtue; but young
people should endeavour to distinguish between what is _kind_ and what
is _weak_. True goodness is always obliging to others, where it can be
so without acting wrongly. But no politeness can excuse an ill action;
and those who propose what is blameable, ought never to be complied
with. We should then, with gentleness endeavour to shew them the
impropriety of their behaviour; and if they are too obstinate to be
convinced, leave them to their folly without partaking it with them.
_William_ was engaged to dine that day at the house of Captain
_Fairform_, where another boy of his own age had been invited to meet
him. This gentleman’s eldest son was handsome, sensible, and clever: his
manner and address were uncommonly graceful and pleasing; and he behaved
so well in company as to be generally admired. What a pity was it that
such an insinuating appearance should not have been equalled by a better
heart! He was so deceitful as to appear virtuous in the society of his
parents and friends; and misled them to believe, that he was as good as
he pretended. I shall pass over all the occurrences of the meeting, and
what passed between this young gentleman and his visitors, till after
they had dined; when _Harry Fairform_ proposed to them to take a walk.
His father desired them not to go towards the village of _Boxley_, as
there was a fair kept that day, and he did not chuse they should mix
with the company who frequented it. _Harry_ promised obedience, and
bowing, set forward with his companions the opposite way.
As soon as they were out of sight of the house, young _Fairform_ turned
about, and taking _William_ by the arm, “Come,” said he, “_Tom Wilding_,
and you and I, will go across that field, and see what is going forward
yonder,” pointing as he spoke to the place they had been forbidden to
visit. “Why you do not mean surely to go to the _fair_?” replied
_Sedley_ with astonishment. “Have you not promised that you would not?”
“Pooh! you filly fellow,” returned _Harry_, “Promises and pye-crust—did
you never hear the old proverb?—they are both made to be broken. What
will my father be the worse for it, whether I walk one way or the other?
and I know which will afford me the most amusement. He is a cross old
fellow to wish to confine me in such a manner without reason: I dare not
tell him so, but I promise you, I take care to do as I please.”
The honest heart of _William_ was shocked at the idea of such ungenerous
deceit. He blamed him for his principles, and refused to go.—“Nay,
then,” said his companion, “if you will stay, you must do as you please;
but it was _my_ promise, not your’s; and if I am willing to take the
_mighty_ guilt upon my own shoulders, and what is worse, run the risk of
the punishment, what is that to _you_?” “_I_ did not _promise_ to be
sure,” cried _William_, pausing; “but I know my friends would be angry,
was I to go without leave, and especially when the Captain has desired
us so positively _not_ to do it.”—“The Captain’s _son_ must answer for
that,” interrupted young _Wilding_; “that is none of our business; but
if _you_ are afraid of a _drubbing_, why that is another thing.” “I have
no _such fear_,” returned _William_ with indignation; “but I am too
generous to abuse the confidence of my friends. They believe in my
honor, and it would be base to make a wrong use of the trust they repose
in me.”
The two boys, with uplifted eyes, sneered at this speech. They ridiculed
his notions, and derided his attention to his parents when they were
absent; and _Jack Careless_ and _Will Sportive_ coming up while they
were in debate, they applied to them on the occasion. All now was uproar
and confusion; each one trying which should laugh the most at our poor
distressed _Sedley_. His conscience told him it was wrong to comply; but
the example, the persuasions, and the ridicule of his companions
prevailed, and he reluctantly set forward with them to the village. They
soon arrived at the fair; and walking up to the booths, surveyed with
delight the various toys with which they were furnished. Called upon on
all sides to purchase something, they each began to ask the price of
what most attracted their attention; and _William_ agreed to buy a
trumpet for his brother: and afterwards taking up a little red morocco
pocket-book, was told it would cost six shillings. He laid it back on
the stall, saying, “it was too dear;” but in turning round, the flap of
his coat brushed it down on the ground, and _Will Sportive_, unseen by
any body, picked it up, and put it into his bosom. The owner soon missed
his property, and charged _William_ with the theft. This accusation he
warmly resented; but the man persevered in laying the blame on him, till
a mob was soon gathered round, and it was determined he should be
searched.
_Will Sportive_, who had only taken the book for a frolick, for the same
reason now contrived amidst the bustle to convey it into his companion’s
pocket; and _Sedley_, conscious of his own innocence, grew more angry at
the treatment he met with; and absolutely refused the satisfaction that
was demanded. This added to the suspicions against him, and he was soon
overpowered by numbers. He held his hands over his pockets, sunk down on
the ground, and did all that was in his power to prevent those about him
from the execution of their design:—but judge of his astonishment, when
after being overcome by force, the book was found upon him.—In vain he
protested his innocence. No one gave him credit, and the general cry of
“_here_ is a young thief!” resounded from every tongue. Some threatened
him with a ducking in a horse-pond, others with a whipping at the cart’s
tail, and others prophecied that he would end his days at the gallows,
and come at last to be hanged.