_honesty_,” said he, “pleads much in your favor, and as you feel a
conviction of your fault, I hope I may rely upon you for the future. The
end of reprehension and punishment, is but to _amend_ the offender: and
if your heart is truly _generous_, an immediate _forgiveness_ of your
error, will bind you most strongly to future watchfulness. Let this
instance, however, teach you that _candor_ of disposition which you
ought to exercise for _others_; and remember that although, as you
justly observed, “every one may be good if they _please_,” yet that
circumstances do sometimes arise, where the best hearts may be _seduced_
or surprised into guilt: and therefore, though you should guard your own
conduct with peculiar care, yet you ought never to forget every
charitable allowance for the faults of _others_. It is rashness,
presumption, and folly, to condemn those actions of which we know not
the cause, the temptation, or the motive. But as to the character of
_Harry Fairform_, you may fairly conclude it to be improper for your
imitation. Vice cannot be divested of guilt; and he must be extremely
wicked who can laugh at a parent’s prohibition, and wilfully persuade
another to do wrong. His advice this morning was founded in _meanness_,
_selfishness_, and _deceit_; and thus, my dear boy, have you been led on
step by step from the commission of one bad action to another; till you
have lost the calm peace which _innocence_ only can bestow, and feel
your mind a prey to the uneasy sensations of _guilt_. Be assured, my
child, that if you pursue that course, it is still more thorny. Had you
added to your crimes a _lie_, I should have detected you immediately, as
the man to whom you gave the medal, presented it to _Fanny Mopwell_, and
I have it now in my hand. This _W. S._ I scratched on it myself in this
particular place, that I might know in case either of them were lost to
which it belonged; and the initials of your brother and sister you will
find in theirs. Consider then the improvement that you may reap from
this transaction.—However in secret any ill action may seem to be
committed; yet some unthought of and unexpected circumstance may
discover it. Little did you think this morning of seeing the child who
is below; and still less was you apprehensive when you invited her home,
that she would be the person to bring your medal to me. Let this
convince you, then, that if you do wrong, you are ever liable to
_detection_ by the most unlikely means, and in consequence are open to
_disgrace_. _Security_, my dear child, is the certain attendant on
_Virtue_: an _honest_ heart has no mean secret to _conceal_; and
therefore, is at all times free from those uneasy cares, with which you
have this morning been so much distressed: it needs no evasion, and is
above the use of any. Cherish, therefore, this openness of character
which is so truly amiable, by avoiding every thing which your
_conscience_ tells you is improper. That inward monitor is in such cases
your best director. If you feel _uneasy_, and are conscious you are
acting as your friends would condemn, be not afraid of _ridicule_. You
may suffer from its shafts for a few moments, and may find it
disagreeable to be laughed at by those who are more foolish and more
wicked than yourself; but in a little time this will be over, and
afterwards you will enjoy the approbation of your friends, and your own
heart: and this, my boy, is a noble recompence. As for doing wrong from
the principle of not fearing _punishment_, it is the weakest argument
that can be urged. A boy who is not afraid to _deserve_ chastisement,
must have lost every principle of honor: and though your friends have
always treated you with generosity, it is because you have hitherto been
_obedient_ and _good_ in return. Nor would it be to their credit to let
you escape with impunity, if you should pursue a different conduct.
Never, therefore, boast that you are not _afraid_ of the rod, but that
you are determined never to incur the smart: that you will never be
persuaded to a _mean action_, and _therefore_ it is an object which can
cause you no terror. I know your heart is generous, but you are easily
persuaded. You must fortify yourself in this particular, or you will be
in great danger of error in your future life. _Steadiness_ of
_principle_, my dear _child_, is absolutely necessary to form a great
and good man. You love your brother,—but to oblige a worthless boy, you
consented to _injure_, to _deceive_, and to _distress_ him. Did not his
unsuspecting innocence wound you, when he begged you would _look_ for
his medal, and thanked you for your trouble?—Thus it is, that wickedness
of any kind, hardens the heart. However, I flatter myself, you will take
warning from this instance of your misconduct, and be taught, that it is
impossible to fix bounds to a _bad action_, or to say, I will go on so
far in error, and then I will stop: when once you consent to the
smallest deviation from innocence, it is not possible to determine how
deeply you may be involved in guilt, or to what lengths of mischief or
wickedness your first fault may conduce.”
_William_, with the greatest contrition, promised to be more cautious
for the future; and his grandfather after sealing his forgiveness with
repeated embraces, left him to recover his former composure.—His mind
now in some measure relieved from the heavy burthen with which he had
been oppressed, soon regained a sufficient degree of calmness to rejoin
his friends; though still the consciousness of the late transactions
abated his vivacity, and made him bashful and silent. His thoughts
during the morning had been wholly engaged with his own concerns; but
when dinner was over, he recollected that he had promised to return the
shilling to _Tony_, which he had so generously lent him in his distress.
Unwilling to renew the subject with any of his relations, he was again
distressed for money; but resolving to keep his promise, he applied to
his sister for two shillings, which she immediately gave him, and he set
off full speed on his way to the village, to find his sooty friend. For
some time before he arrived at the place, he heard the screams of an
object seemingly in violent pain. As he approached, they sounded fainter
and more exhausted; and when he reached the spot, they ceased
entirely.—But judge of his disappointment, terror, and compassion, when
he beheld the unfortunate _Tony Climbwell_, unbound from a tree by his
inhuman master, who had been beating him with a leather strap, and had
afterwards given him a blow on the head with his brush, which had
stunned and deprived him of sense, in consequence of which he fell to
the ground, and was left there with a kick from the same brutal wretch,
and threatened,—“that if he did not soon get up, he would come and rouze
him with a vengeance.”
_William_ went to him with an intention to raise him; but found he could
not stand, nor return him any answer to his enquiries. At a little
distance, however, he discovered the boy who had been _Tony_’s companion
at their first meeting; and after calling him some time in vain, went up
to him, and begged to know for what crime his fellow apprentice had been
so cruelly used. “I am afraid of going to help him,” said _Jack_,—“but
Master has beat him because he did not bring home the shilling which he
had yesterday for sweeping ’Squire _Nicely_’s chimney. He told master as
_how_ he could bring it him to-day; and master did wait till the
afternoon; but now he _was_ in such a passion, that he said, “he would
kill him;” and I was afraid as _how_ he would, and I believe he has, I
do not see him stir; and sure he would get up if he could, for fear of a
second drubbing.” “And has my crime been the occasion of _this_ evil
too?” said _William_: “Well might my grandfather say I did not know
where the mischief of an error may stop. My poor _Tony_! what shall I do
to recover thee? and how shall I recompence thy sufferings? sufferings
too which _I_ have occasioned!”—With this lamentation he returned to the
unfortunate object of his pity, who after a heavy groan opened his
eyes.—“_Tony!_” cried _Sedley_, endeavouring to raise him, “my dear boy,
how do you do?”—The voice of compassion sounded so strange to him, that
he looked amazed at his friend; who repeating his question, begged him
to get up, and if he could, to walk forward with him a little way.
A chimney-sweeper is accustomed to ill usage; and _Tony_ had not fallen
into the hands of a master who would spare him his full share of
suffering.—He arose, however, with _William_’s assistance, and crept on
till they came to a field-gate, over which he scrambled with difficulty,
and then sat down under a hedge, which concealed him from
observation.—_Sedley_ with tears entreated him to forgive him for not
having sooner discharged his debt, and for being the occasion of
bringing him into so much trouble; “but why,” said he, “did you not come
to me, and you might have been sure I would have paid you immediately.”
“Ah! master,” replied _Tony_, “I thought you would; and so this morning
I went to his honor’s at the great house, where I first saw you, and the
gay coach, and the long tail nags; and so I _axed_ for young master, for
I did not know your name; and the coachman I fancy it was, said, “I was
a pretty fellow to _axe_ for young master truly; but that, however young
master, was not at home.” I then said you owed me a shilling, and begged
him to pay it for you, and I dared to say you would return it. Upon this
he bid me go about my business for an impudent knave; and giving me two
or three hearty smacks with a long horse-whip he had in his hand, sent
me out of the court-yard.” “How very unfortunate!” cried _Sedley_; “this
must have happened while I was out with my grandfather; but I will now
pay you immediately,” added he, giving him the two shillings he had
brought. “I have no more at present; but the first money I get, you
shall share it I promise you.” “I lent you but _one_,” said _Tony_, “so
you have given me this too much.” “Keep it, keep it,” replied _William_,
“I only wish that I had more to give.”—
At this instant little _Jack_ (whose fear of his master had kept him
from visiting his companion, but who had watched him into the field)
came running to _Tony_ with information that he might go home, for that
his tormentor was gone to the ale-house.—The boy immediately got up, and
said, “he would make the best of his way, and take the opportunity of
going back; for that his mistress was the kindest creature in the world,
and would be glad to see him again.”—_William_ was determined to
accompany him; and they soon reached the cottage together.—The poor
woman was holding one hand over her eye, the other sustained a little
infant whom she was suckling, and who looked up at her every now and
then with a smile, while her tears dropped on its innocent face. A girl
about two years old was standing by her knee, and crying for some
victuals, and to be taken up, mammy. Another child at a broken table,
was trying to reach a bit of stale crust covered with soot, that his
father had tossed out of his pocket.—Such was the scene young _Sedley_
beheld at his entrance; and which presented a striking contrast to the
elegance he had been always accustomed to.—“What is the matter,
mistress?” cried _Tony_, in an accent of compassion and concern.—At the
sound of his voice, she looked up, and shewed her eye, which was swelled
in such a manner she could scarcely see.—“Oh! my poor boy, how are you?”
she replied, “I thought you had been killed, and by interceding in your
behalf, provoked your master so much, that he gave me a blow so severe I
really thought it would have ended all my troubles together.—But who is
that young gentleman?” added she.—_Tony_ briefly related the account of
their late meeting, as he had before informed her of the occasion of
their acquaintance, and that he had lent _William_ the shilling, which
had caused them so much trouble.
The children now became more clamorous for food; but she told them she
had nothing to give them.—_Tony_, however, shewed the money he had
received; and promised if they were good, they should have a quartern
loaf. He then dispatched _Jack_ to fetch one, whose speedy return
afforded all parties great satisfaction. The eagerness with which they
devoured the stale bread, occasioned _Sedley_ the highest astonishment.
They each thanked him for his kindness, when told they owed it to him;
and he experienced more pleasure in having contributed to their comfort,
than any amusement had hitherto afforded him: yet his delight was much
damped by the recollection of the pain he had occasioned; and the bruise
on poor Mrs. _Blackall_’s eye was an addition to all the other mischief
which had attended his fault. He thought it time, however, to take his
leave, and wishing them a good night and a speedy recovery, set out on
his return home.—_Fanny_ was gone when he arrived; and he was not a
little disappointed that he had lost the opportunity of enjoying her
company, and still more, that he had forgotten to ask for the rest of
the book, which contained the account of Mr. _Active_ and his family; or
to return the part which she had lent him. The next morning he sent the
servant to deliver it to her at her uncle’s, as he had promised to
return it before he went back to school.
Mr. _Graves_ having been rather indisposed the preceding evening, did
not breakfast with the family; and his grandson very soon retired to his
apartment in order to amuse him with his conversation.—“You are very
kind, my dear boy,” said he, “to favor me with your company; but as your
holidays are nearly over, I do not wish to confine you to an old man’s
room, as I am sensible that more lively entertainments are better
relished at your time of life.”—_William_ assured him that his
attendance was voluntary; and then informed him of his visit to the poor
chimney-sweeper, and all the circumstances which had attended
it.—“Unhappy _Tony_!” replied Mr. _Graves_, “his fate is a severe one!
and yet, my child, it is but a few days ago, since you wished to be in
his situation. Do you not now feel the folly of seeking to change your
state in life at a venture, only because you are dissatisfied with some
trifling circumstance which disturbs you at the present moment? I would
not wish you to be insensible to the grief of parting with your friends.
That heart which is destitute of affection and gratitude, is unworthy to
be ranked with human beings. But do you consider, that an opportunity of
pursuing your studies is a blessing which you ought to value as
inestimable; and instead of repining at your fate, you should be
thankful that your parents have it in their power to give you this high
advantage. Never, therefore, for the future, allow yourself to judge by
outward appearance; nor let any agreeable prospect either in the
affluent or the indigent, incite you to wish yourself in the condition
of another; since you may be assured, _that_ state in which you are
placed is the best suited to _you_. Higher wisdom than our’s directs
every event; and it is well we are not left to determine our own
situation.”—“I,” said Master _Sedley_, “as I am now convinced, have
indeed _reason_ to be satisfied; but sure _Tony_, exposed to the world
without a friend, left to the savage cruelty of an inhuman master,
obliged to _labour_ for his _bread_, and to _starve_ when he has earned
it,—surely, Sir, _he_ may wish to change, and not be blamable for being
discontented.” “No one, my dear,” returned Mr. _Graves_, “can stand
excused for murmuring against Providence when we know that the world is
not left to the confusion of chance. We have reason to be easy under the
most afflictive circumstances. _Tony_ wished to be in your place on
_Monday_; and had he been metamorphosed in person and situation, with
the remembrance of his former state in his mind, he would probably for
some time have been much happier. But supposing him to have had _your_
ideas, he would have been, as you then stiled yourself, _the most
miserable creature in the world_; and even wished for that very state
which now excites all your compassion. The miseries of poverty are
great: they call for your pity: they have a right to expect your relief.
But this world is not the _only_ hope of the _good_. Riches are not to
be considered as your _own_ property. They are _lent_ you to be well
bestowed. Every one is accountable for his portion, be it great or
small. You have now only a few shillings, or it may be a guinea at your
disposal. As you use the little you have at present, in all probability
in the same manner you will bestow the possessions you will have in
future. Accustom yourself, therefore, to consider you should lay by a
part of your small stock to relieve the poor _now_, and you will find
increasing pleasure in the power of being more liberal hereafter. Our
_vices, William_, in every state will be productive of misery. No
situation is necessarily unhappy. If the _rich_ are _wicked_, they can
have no enjoyment; and the same cause will add double distress to
_poverty_. _Tony_’s master is drunken, passionate, and prodigal. He
wastes his small gains at the ale-house, beats his apprentice without
reason, abuses his wife, and injures his children. This causes misery to
himself and to his whole family. But these evils are not to be reckoned
as attendant upon poverty: they would equally destroy the felicity of
the man of fortune. A bad temper spoils the relish of every enjoyment: a
good one sweetens the toils of labour; nay, can mitigate sorrow,
sickness, and want.—I called the day before yesterday on a poor family
who live in a cottage adjoining to _Tony_’s master. Mr. _Scrapewell_,
just risen from a neat but shabby bed; was placed in an old wicker chair
on one side the door, to feel the refreshment of the air; while his
eldest daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, appeared busy in
putting the room in order; and when I entered was sweeping the sand on
the floor with a little heath broom. Another girl was picking some
parsley, which she put into a bason of water, or pipkin I believe they
call it, for it had yellow stripes and black spots upon it, and I should
not have noticed it, if I had not afterwards thrown it down by accident
and broke it. Three or four other children were playing about; and the
youngest, near six months old, was asleep in a cradle, which he rocked
every now and then with his foot. They placed a seat for me, and I
enquired how large a family he had?” “O! Sir,” replied he, “we have
nine; and that is my eldest. We struggle hard; for it is a great many to
maintain. My first four put us almost out of heart, as my wife had them
very fast, and used to grieve, and fret, and vex herself to think where
we should get bread; but I told her God would fit the back to the
burden, or the burden to the back; and I tried to comfort her all I
could, and used to say, Why _lookee_ now, _Beckey_! when we were _alone_
we did but live, and when we had _one_ child we could do no more; so I
trust if we have a dozen we shall do as much. But yet, Sir, I own my own
heart failed me, when I thought how _fast_ money _went out_, and how
_slow_ it _came in_, though I worked, and worked my fingers to the bone.
Yet I prayed God to bless us, and hitherto, though we have been driven
to many a hard pinch, thanks to his mercy, we have kept out of the
workhouse; and often when I have been at my last farthing, and we have
lived within an inch of starving, he has raised us up some unexpected
friend, and we have jogged on again much as usual. So this has taught me
_never_ to despair; and I am determined to put the best foot forward,
and hope we shall do again yet, though I have been laid up with an ague
and fever these six weeks.”—As he finished this account, his wife
returned from the field with her gown on her arm, her green stays left
open on account of the heat, and her cap tied up over her head. She
looked hot indeed; and dropping me a curtsy as she entered,
affectionately enquired after her husband: then taking up the infant,
kissed it, suckled it, and gave it to one of the girls to nurse, while
she went back again to her labour, after eating a few mouthfuls of bread
and cheese. Love, harmony, neatness, good-humour, civility, and
kindness, dwell in their little cot, and yet, _William_, their riches
are not greater than the chimney-sweeper’s. Virtue and œconomy only make
the difference. While the one squanders his small gain at the ale-house,
the other is laying up every farthing as a provision for his children;
and his good conduct ensures him assistance and protection from all who
know him. Add to this one consideration, which is more than all the
rest, that the blessing of Heaven will attend the good, and keep that
mind in peace which is staid on its support.