I expected an answer like this; but the farm house you will

YOUNG GRANDISON.

A SERIES OF

LETTERS

FROM

YOUNG PERSONS

TO THEIR

FRIENDS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH OF

MADAME DE CAMBON.

WITH

ALTERATIONS AND IMPROVEMENTS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, Nº 72, ST. PAUL’S

CHURCH-YARD.

M DCC XC.

YOUNG GRANDISON.

LETTER I.

WILLIAM D—— _to young_ CHARLES GRANDISON.

I wish to inform you, my dear Grandison, what joy I felt when I returned

back again to a dearly loved mother.—But, no;—you who love your parents

so tenderly, can easily imagine what I cannot describe. How full of

transport was the moment, when, after a year’s absence, I again embraced

the dear guardian of my youth. It was very early in the morning when we

entered the city; my mother, as we had not had a fair wind, did not

expect me, and of course was in bed. My first eager desire made me

ascend the stairs; but as I was hastening to her bedchamber I

recollected myself, and returned softly back. It is still dark, thought

I, shall I disturb her repose, by my sudden appearance at her bedside?

Certainly not. That would be mistaken love, mere selfish affection. You

will, I think, approve of this prudence. Mean while I was full of

impatience: a thousand times I wished her to wake, counted the minutes,

and listened continually.—At length the moment arrived; my heart beat

quick; I almost flew up the stairs; but again I stopped myself, and

resting on the last stair, I called out, Here is your own William, dear

mother, may I come in? Was I not right, my friend? for the sudden

surprise of seeing me, would have been too much for her spirits. Before

I could well hear her answer my patience was exhausted, and I rushed in,

and was at her bedside out of breath; I could only say, My dear mother.

She pressed me to her bosom, crying, My William, my son!—and we both

wept together: but they were delightful tears: I never in my life

experienced so much heart-felt satisfaction.

My sister Annette hurried on her clothes as soon as she heard of my

arrival, and jumped about me half mad with joy. She then ran for the

doll, which your sister Emilia sent her, and made me observe how well

she had preserved it, and asked twenty questions in a breath about this

dear sister of your’s. In the midst of them, the maid came to tell her

that her writing master waited for her. I wish it was an hour earlier,

said she, with tears in her eyes; the moment I see you I am forced to

leave you; another day, I should not mind writing four copies; but

to-day I know not how to go. Well, said my mother, observing the tears

she tried to hide, we will desire the master, for this time, to excuse

you. Annette stood a moment irresolute, then ran to her mother, and

said, it is from pure goodness that you indulge me; but I know you would

rather I did not neglect my writing. Besides, good Mr. M—— might be

displeased with me; it would not be right to send such an old man away,

I will take my lesson. Would not Emilia do so? and she skipped out of

the room.

I believe all children might be induced to learn to read and write, if

it was made an amusement to them, without all that gloom which generally

accompanies lessons. Children are very fond of imitating men if they are

allowed to follow their own inclinations; yet are averse to constraint:

but you will think me too serious. And I hasten to tell you what I

suffered when I left your dear family. Your father’s kindness melted my

very soul, and even the expectation of seeing the best of parents did

not cheer me when I first got into the packet-boat. Farewell, sometime

think of your affectionate friend,

WILLIAM.

P. S. The anniversary of Emilia’s birth is now past without my being

able to celebrate it with you. With what delight should I have gathered

her a nosegay of my best flowers, those hyacinths and jonquils, which I

raised with so much care. But I was denied that pleasure; my heart longs

to tell her all the good wishes you must now present to her in my name.

May she be as happy as I wish her to be! I need say no more.

LETTER II.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

Believe me, my dear William, I very severely feel your absence: you will

be convinced of this when I tell you, that this house, in which my best

friends, my parents reside, for the first time in my life appeared

dreary to me. I ran from room to room, and could scarcely believe that I

am at home. I went into the chamber where we used to amuse ourselves;

but vainly did I endeavour to pursue the same employments; I

recollected, every instant, that I was alone, and should have wept, only

I was ashamed of being so weak. My greatest pleasure was in looking over

your drawings, and pointing out their beauties to Emilia.

I did not forget to present to her your fine flowers, and she instantly

put them in water, that she might for a long time enjoy their fragrance.

I agree with you, William, that it is very pleasant to be employed; but

I am afraid I should not always have thought so if Dr. Bartlett had not

taken so much pains to make my employments amusements. He has frequently

reminded me, that every duty soon becomes a pleasure. How then can men

neglect their duties merely to be idle; the most lazy burthens on

society, he added, would think it a severe punishment, if during their

whole life they were not allowed to do any thing. How miserable would

they be, though surrounded with all the conveniences, and even

superfluities of life. We should be happier rowing in the gallies, than

in this settled listless state, which puts a stop to all improvement,

for improvement is the main end of life, as it raises us above the

brutes, and enables us to please God. I am sure he was right, for when I

have reluctantly begun to work, I soon found it very pleasant, so that I

wished to go on, particularly when we have been digging in our garden,

or using our turning tools. Nay, it has been the same when I have been

reading or drawing.

I must now have done, for it is nine o’clock, the hour I attend Dr.

Bartlett, and he expects me to be very punctual, if I have not a good

reason to give for my delay. Remember me to your mother and sister, and

write often to yours,

CHARLES GRANDISON.

LETTER III.

WILLIAM _to_ CHARLES.

How agreeable, my dear Charles, has Dr. Bartlett made my life; by

teaching me the habit of exercising my mind, he has inspired me with

curiosity to improve myself in the sciences, and your whole family have

led me to love the arts. I would draw, and learn music, to be the

companion of Emilia and Charles. And pray thank your father for the

books and mathematical instruments he gave me, and I hope, by my future

diligence, to prove that I am grateful for the instructions I received

at your house.

I daily find, that industry and perseverance overcome many difficulties.

But I receive still more satisfaction from my employments, when I

perceive the pleasure my improvement affords my mother.—I never saw her

so happy since my father’s death as she is at present. Yesterday she

came into my room, and found me with my compasses in my hand, and my

books open before me. Her eyes swam in tears, and she kissed me

affectionately, exclaiming, how thankful ought I to be to heaven, for

having given me such a son to comfort my widowed heart. Oh, Charles,

what a satisfaction I felt when I heard this said by a mother I tenderly

loved, and every day more and more respect.—How valuable were those

lessons, added she,—which you were favoured with; and what a blessing

for you has been the example of your friend.—Very true, my dear mother,

answered I, but at the same time I recollect, that you were my first

teacher; that you laid the groundwork; had you not accustomed me to

diligence, and prepared me by your instructions, what should I have

learnt in one year even with the best masters? You taught me to read the

Dutch, English, and French languages, and the knowledge of them

prejudiced my friends in England in my favour.

My mother, after having sat a few moments, left me, but quickly

returned, with a cup of chocolate. A little refreshment, William, said

she, will enable you to work with more pleasure, and I know you are fond

of chocolate. Yes, answered I, my dear Madam, but I receive more

pleasure from this proof of your goodness, than any refreshment could

ever afford me.

My mother then asked if I had any thing particular to do in the evening,

if not, she would give me a little commission. You may be sure that I

eagerly told her I should be ready to do whatever she desired who had a

right to command. Well, said she, we shall see, and left the room.

After she left me I began to consider, nay, to wonder, what it could be,

for I perceived a smile on her countenance when she spoke of it.

Suddenly it darted into my head that this was the first of April; you

know it is the custom to play tricks that day, and I imagined I had

discovered the secret, and determined to be careful. We went to dinner.

I observed, that Annette knew something of what was going forwards, for

I heard her say softly, No, mother, I shall say nothing of it. I went to

my room, as usual, after dinner to draw. Annette came soon after to take

a lesson, yet you will readily believe I did not ask her any questions,

though I was really very curious. She was cautious, but could not help

laughing several times. At last, an hour before tea time, a violin was

brought into my chamber, and my mother soon afterwards entered, followed

by a genteel looking man. I was astonished, and silently bowed. She took

the violin out of the case and gave it me, saying, this gentleman is a

music master, who has agreed to give you lessons, and I doubt not you

will be assiduous to profit by his instructions. This is the commission

I mentioned this morning. Never, no never, my dear Charles, was I more

agreeably surprised; I first took my mother, and then my music master,

by the hand, and scarcely knew what I said when I attempted to thank

her.

And what say you, Charles, am I not very happy that my mother enables me

to improve myself in my favourite amusement? If I ever visit dear

England again, I shall find no difficulty in playing with you and

Emilia. And what adds to this obligation is the kindness of my mother in

procuring me an advantage the narrowness of her circumstances must

render very inconvenient.

I hastily ran down stairs after my master left me, and could hardly

refrain boasting of her goodness before a lady who came to drink tea

with her. But I was glad when she went away; then I had an opportunity

to give vent to my grateful heart.

How much have I injured you, my dear mother, said I, by supposing you

were going to play me an April trick; will you forgive me? Yes,

certainly, answered she, and I am glad you mentioned it, that I may

inform you from what cause that foolish custom, of making fools of each

other, took its rise. It was from the abuse and scoffing which our

Saviour suffered when he was sent from Pilate to Herod, and back again

to Pilate, by those who had put on him a scarlet robe by way of

derision. Be careful, then, never to mock the wretched, for then you

again insult Jesus Christ, and neglect to follow his example, who was

the pattern of all virtue. Besides, many quarrels arise from foolish

frolicks, and we should never enjoy a joke that gives a fellow-creature

pain.

Two hours at least of the twenty-four I shall now devote to music,

though my master is to come but twice a week; yet I must constantly

practise to prepare myself for his lessons: I shall then rise an hour

sooner, for I have often heard Dr. Bartlett say, that five or six hours

sleep is sufficient for a person in health. Farewell, remember your

friend

WILLIAM.

LETTER IV.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

Again do I see return that delightful season in which every thing

appears to be revived, and we are once more at our beloved Grandison

Hall. You remember well how pleasantly last summer past away; the shady

woods, these charming walks, all brought you to my remembrance, and

particularly our little garden.

Edward has left us for some time; his friends have procured a commission

for him; but I have another companion, my cousin James, the eldest son

of Lord G—. He is a handsome lively youth, and, my father says, has a

good understanding, yet I observe he does not find that pleasure in the

country that you and I do. He is of a humourous turn, and sometimes

treats the most serious matters with too much levity. His disposition

would better agree with Edward’s than mine, for he loves a frolic, and

calls mischief fun; however he has a good heart, and possesses a winning

chearfulness of temper.

We yesterday took a pleasant ride; Emilia accompanied us: we went out of

the high road to a small village, and stopt at a little farm house to

purchase some fruit. We had not been long in a little room near the

garden when we heard a confused noise in the kitchen, and I ran out to

enquire the cause, leaving my cousin with my sister. A young man, well

dressed, ran hastily through the passage; he had been disputing with the

farmer, who now allowed him to conceal himself in the garden.

He was scarcely out of sight, when a respectable looking woman ran in,

exclaiming, My son is here; I must, I will see him! A mother who

demanded her son, and a son who avoids his mother, thought I, this is

something uncommon. I felt extreme compassion, which seemed to command

me to assist her: who, indeed, could see a distressed mother without

being moved? You weep, said I; I cannot see a parent’s tear without

concern; has any misfortune befallen your son? Yes, she replied, I am

almost without hope; perhaps it is even now too late to save him from

ruin. I requested her to go into the parlour to my sister, whilst I

spoke to the farmer, and sought for the son. Emilia was surprised to see

me enter with a woman apparently distressed, but with compassionate

politeness she took her hand, while I reached a chair. I stopt a moment,

afraid to ask her any question, lest she should think me impertinent;

yet I wished her to speak that I might know what to say to her son. She

soon broke silence, and when her tears allowed her to speak

articulately, said, “your kindness affects me, I am an unfortunate

widow, who formerly knew better days, and never thought I should be

obliged to work for the necessaries of life; but the sudden death of my

husband, a clergyman, has thrown me destitute on the world. He left me a

son, who might have made my life comfortable, if he had not been drawn

aside from the path of virtue by bad company. Falling from one error to

another, instead of helping to soften my griefs, he has made me feel

that my afflictions indeed are very heavy. My intreaties, my

threatenings, have all been fruitless; I could not separate him from his

thoughtless companions, or induce him to follow any useful employment,

and”——here her sobs prevented her from proceeding, when she added, “I

have just heard, that he has entered himself as a sailor, and is soon to

go on board a man of war which is now preparing for sea. If he would

exert himself he might gain an honest livelihood, and be a comfort to

his unfortunate mother: it would almost break my heart to part with him;

but though I could part with him for his good, I cannot bear that he

should go with the companions who seduced him from his duty, and first

led him into vice; should he become thoroughly vicious, I should then

lose him for ever, and he would bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the

grave.”—I could not refrain my tears, Emilia, and even James wept.—No,

Madam, said I, he shall not leave you, I know where he is, and I will

hasten to him, to awaken him to repentance, and I hastily left the room.

I found the young man in a shed at the bottom of the garden, and the

following conversation ensued.

CHARLES.

Shun me not, Sir, I am your friend, at least I desire to be so; I have

heard that you wish to hide yourself, and that even from your parent;

pardon the liberty I take, I cannot help endeavouring to divert you from

your design: it grieves me to see that you avoid your mother.

BRADLEY.

I must not, I cannot see her again; do not betray me, I beseech you, but

persuade the master of the house to let me escape without seeing her.

CHARLES.

Could I desire the man to do this! I who have seen your distrest mother

weep, and have wept with her!

BRADLEY.

How! has she told you all?

CHARLES.

Yes, she has told me you would fly from her, you, her only son, and that

it will cost her her life. What a proof of tenderness! Can you be

unconcerned?

BRADLEY.

My mother is in necessitous circumstances; she cannot support me

according to my birth.

CHARLES.

It is noble in you not to wish to be a burthen to your mother; a son of

your age should not expect a support, except his parents are blest with

affluence. But I have been informed you are very ingenious, and have

received a good education; heaven has not given you these talents for no

purpose.

BRADLEY.

I must endeavour to advance my fortune in a foreign country.

CHARLES.

You will find no mother in a foreign country; and can you leave a parent

already overwhelmed by misfortune? would you snatch from her her last

support? Surely you have no affection for her.

BRADLEY.

What, Sir, no affection for a mother who has done so much for me!

CHARLES.

A strange proof you would give of it, to leave her in solitary misery,

when she declares your absence would be her death.

BRADLEY.

That is a weakness; how many mothers are there that must be separated

from their children?

CHARLES.

I acknowledge it; but a weakness that arises from an affection for you

should rather endear her to you. Excuse me, Sir, but I think that

children who have such tender apprehensive parents, ought to sacrifice a

wavering uncertain prospect of happiness rather than grieve them. Nay,

it would be for their own advantage, if, as my tutor says, no happiness

is to be obtained by the violation of duty. Should you return from sea

successful, and find her dead, repentance would imbitter your whole

future life, for she assures me you have naturally an affectionate good

disposition. Continue with her; when a mother in poverty begins to

labour under a weight of years, it would be cowardly in a son to desert

her.

BRADLEY.

What shall I do, I have not learned any business, would you have me work

in the fields?

CHARLES.

There is nothing shameful in pursuing any honest employment; but you are

not reduced to that situation. Any one who has a tolerable

understanding, and has had a good education, may make himself friends by

his diligence: in short, there is no one who is virtuous and industrious

but may gain a subsistence, and secure himself respect and esteem. Come,

consent; let me conduct you to your mother; she has lived for you, you

in your turn ought to live for her. Our parents are our best friends,

whose loss nothing can recompense; let those go to sea who have no

parents to weep for them, who have no abilities to push them forward in

the employments which require mental exertions; it becomes not you who

have such qualifications.

BRADLEY.

It is too late, I have already entered; I have no alternative; go I

must.

CHARLES.

That difficulty may easily be removed. Come, throw yourself at your

mother’s feet, and give her cause to weep for joy.—At last I persuaded

him, and he silently followed me, very much distressed.

The mother no sooner saw us enter the room, than she fell on his neck.

Oh! William, how tender is the affection of a mother for her children.

Bradley seemed truly penitent and abashed; but I shall not attempt to

describe all the affecting circumstances. Afterwards he took me aside,

and said, I am really sorry to leave my mother, yet I must fulfil my

engagement, for I have spent the bounty money; and the captain would not

be willing to part with a stout hand supposing I could return it, which

is impossible. I bid him be easy, and if he would promise to remain with

his mother, I did not doubt but that I should prevail on my father to

use his interest with the captain. I said the same to his mother, whose

acknowledgment made me blush, and, to avoid them, I hastened our

departure, and thought the road very tedious till I arrived at Grandison

Hall, and had interested my father in this poor woman’s favour. I am to

see Bradley next Friday: I desired him to call on me; before that time

my father will take me to the neighbouring sea-port, where the vessel is

fitting out for sea.—You shall hear all about it: till then adieu.

LETTER V.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

Well, my dear friend, my father has exerted his interest, and the

captain has consented to release young Bradley from his engagement. I

returned the bounty money; my father would have reimbursed me, but I

wished to do something myself.

I then visited the unhappy mother, who joyfully received the news, and

even the son thanked me with tears in his eyes, for he appears to have a

good disposition, though he has not sufficient firmness to bear the

laugh of his dissipated companions. The poor woman still seems alive to

fear, but my father has promised to procure him some employment; mean

while Dr. Bartlett will endeavour to prepare him for it, by teaching him

habits of regularity and order. That good man thought of making him copy

some of his sermons, and making extracts from books. This task young

Bradley readily performs in the steward’s room, and he imagines that he

is making himself useful, when in reality this is only a scheme of the

benevolent Doctor’s to improve him, and detach him from his former idle

companions. It already seems to have had a good effect on him, and my

tutor says, he perceives a spark of emulation blowing up in his mind,

that he hopes will strengthen his weak resolves, and make him, in time,

a virtuous character.

Our little garden is now in fine order again, and I work at it with

pleasure, because I have got a new companion. Can you guess who? no

other than your old friend Emilia. She has got a dress proper to work

in, and rises with the lark to assist me; indeed she often joins in the

general concert, and sings as chearfully as the birds that hop around

us. I asked her, yesterday, if she was not afraid to dirty her hands.

You mean to laugh at me, said she, smiling, I hope I shall never be a

fine lady, or forget that my hands were given me for some other purpose

than to keep them soft and white. Believe me, brother, a daisy I have

raised by my own labour, is a thousand times more acceptable to me than

the finest nosegay presented by the gardener.

But I must here close my letter, my mother has sent for me to go an

airing with her, and I must not make her wait.

Yours,

CHARLES.

LETTER VI.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

I am so happy, my dear William, I can scarcely tell you what has made me

so. I am out of breath with joy; you are to come, with your dear mother,

to live always in England. My kind parent communicated the joyful

tidings to me, and added, that she had prevailed on Mrs. D— to approve

of her plan. Never, never, was I more agreeably surprised; but I will

tell you all in a circumstantial manner, when I have taken breath, for

my heart beats violently.—Well, I am now more composed. After breakfast,

this morning, my mother desired me to make an excuse to Dr. Bartlett,

and follow her into the garden, when I joined her. I will give you our

conversation in the usual way.

LADY GRANDISON.

We consented you know, Charles, to let you spend next winter, and part

of the spring, with your friend William; but some particular reason

obliges us to change our minds, and I doubt not you will chearfully

acquiesce in our determination.

CHARLES.

Yes, for I know you must have a sufficient reason for altering your

mind.

LADY GRANDISON.

But perhaps the disappointment will make you very unhappy?

CHARLES.

You have taught me to be sincere. I acknowledge I am disappointed, and

cannot in a moment forget it; I have promised myself so much pleasure,

and William and I had formed so many plans: I have so long thought of

visiting Holland, that I really long to see it. But do not be angry, the

pleasure of obeying you and my father will outweigh every other

consideration. I shall not have to part with you all, and I have often

thought with pain of the time when I should leave you—when the sea would

divide us.

LADY GRANDISON.

The sea will not divide us; but you are to leave us for some time to

visit our estate in C——, and to make some necessary alterations there in

your father’s name.

CHARLES.

I shall endeavour to do the best, and hope you will have no reason to

complain of your young steward.

LADY GRANDISON.

I expected an answer like this; but the farm house you will inhabit, is

situated almost in a desart; you will have few companions, and no

amusements, except the pleasure of relieving the poor. We wish you to

experience, that the consciousness of being useful is the truest

pleasure; we can do without company when we have peace in our minds. I

find pleasure every where, for every where I find something to do.

CHARLES.

Reading and music will be my chief amusements; yet I shall want you, I

shall want my father and William; but I shall write to you often, and

surely you will answer all my letters.—Yes, I shall be happy—send me

away as soon as you please. Here I paused a little, and was thoughtful,

but I do not know what I thought of, tears rushed involuntarily into my

eyes—my mother observed it.

LADY GRANDISON.

Why, Charles, do you hide any thing from me? speak, you are sorrowful,

open your heart to your mother.

CHARLES.

Forgive my weakness, dear Madam, I am ashamed of it. Let me soon set out

for the farm, I will not shed a tear I promise you, and you shall see

what chearful letters I will write.

LADY GRANDISON.

You are the child of my heart; your submission to your earthly parents

proves to me, that you will in future resign yourself to the will of

your heavenly father, who never afflicts his children but to improve

them. But your trial at this time will not be so severe as you imagine;

I will fully explain myself; I did not at first speak explicitly that I

might receive this proof of your submission to our will. You are first

to accompany Dr. Bartlett on a visit to his relations; and from thence

go to the farm for a short time, where you will find ample employment,

in visiting and assisting the poor. She paused a moment for my answer,

and then went on; but what think you, Charles, if Mrs. D—, your friend

William, and little Annette, were to come and reside in England? (I

listened with all my ears, and she proceeded) see here is a letter from

Mrs. D—, in which you will find, that the proposal gave her great

pleasure. We are to prepare a house for her, and, as you say you long to

see Holland, it is now our design to let you take a trip there, to

conduct your friend and his mother to your native country, where it will

be our study to make their situation comfortable. What say you, Charles?

I don’t know what I said, William, I was almost wild with joy. And now I

have told you all, I will run again and thank those dear parents;

indeed, I feel quite restless, I cannot sit still. In two months we

shall meet. Farewell,

CHARLES.

LETTER VII.

WILLIAM _to_ CHARLES.

Could I believe that I should ever have been so happy as to have a

prospect of spending all my life with you and your beloved family! No, I

was even afraid to hope for such happiness, but now I number the days

till I shall see you: I have already put my books in order; every thing

is waiting for you. I gave my mother your letter to read; she bestowed

the warmest praises on my dear friend. He seems to have a just sense of

the duty due to parents, said she; a good son always supposes that

tender parents have a sufficient reason for what they do when they

deprive him of any little gratification; he then submits without

reluctance, or even enquiry, certain that it is for his good. A child

that thus submits will, when a man, be as resigned to the dispensations

of heaven.

I could not forbear giving your letter to one of my young acquaintance

to read when we were walking. I will relate our conversation.

WILLIAM.

What think you, Frederick, of this instance of willing submission?

FREDERICK.

It is praise worthy, but I acknowledge myself not so obedient.

WILLIAM.

Such a chearful submission might possibly require more resolution than

either you or I have; however it is possible; and as we ought to shew

ourselves grateful for the kindnesses we have received, the only way we

have of doing so is constantly to obey the injunctions of our parents,

and never to murmur if they even seem hard.

FREDERICK.

This may be true, yet these considerations would not change a desart, as

Lady Grandison called her farm, into an agreeable abode.

WILLIAM.

No, but yet I might say to myself, in such a solitary place, I hope I am

beloved by my Creator, because I have done my duty; then I should be

much happier than in the most magnificent palace, upbraiding myself with

having done wrong, and having made God angry by disobeying my parents.

FREDERICK.

I think, however, your friend would have past his time very heavily at

the farm.

WILLIAM.

Those days would soon have been over, but the recollection of having

done right, my mother says, is a lasting pleasure.

We then turned towards home; it was a very fine evening, and I wanted

Frederick to observe the beautiful country, and wondered he could pass

through such pleasing scenes with indifference. It is with you, I hope,

to wander over these pleasant walks; in the mean time be happy, and

think of your friend

WILLIAM.

LETTER VIII.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

This morning I set out, with Dr. Bartlett, for the country where my

father’s estate is situated. I shall not have many opportunities of

sending letters to you, yet I shall not neglect to write.

The account you gave me of Frederick does not prejudice me in his

favour.

I was obliged to leave off suddenly when I had written thus, for my

cousin G—, who accompanied us part of the way, came to tell me that Dr.

Bartlett was waiting for me. We left him near home, and for some time we

missed his sprightly sallies; but his taste for humour, to which I think

he is too much addicted, often hurt me while we were on the road. The

first instance, that I now recollect, had a reference to Dr. Bartlett.

As the good old man was stepping out of his carriage, his foot slipped,

and he fell with great force on the ground. While I assisted him to

rise, I turned my eyes on my cousin, whom I saw endeavouring in vain to

smother a laugh; at last he was obliged to run into the house to give

way to it, out of our hearing. I felt that I was red with anger; nothing

displeases me more than to hear any one laugh at an accident. I have

often heard people say they cannot help it, but in my opinion it is a

great proof of insensibility. The most ludicrous accident never makes me

smile when I see a fellow-creature, or even an animal, in pain. I could

not forbear communicating my sentiments to my cousin as soon as we were

alone.

CHARLES.

I have often heard you say you loved and esteemed Dr. Bartlett.

JAMES.

Yes; why do you doubt it?

CHARLES.

And yet when you saw him fall, not knowing whether he had hurt himself,

you began to laugh, and flew into the house without making any

inquiries.

JAMES.

It is not in my power to avoid laughing when I see any one fall in a

ridiculous manner; when the Doctor’s wig fell off, he looked so droll—I

cannot help laughing, even now, when I think of it.

CHARLES.

You can avoid laughing if you will; you have a good heart, I have seen

you feel compassion.

JAMES.

No, it is not want of compassion; and yet it is true I cannot keep

myself from laughing: I wish I knew the reason.

CHARLES.

Let us try to find it out. Suppose you saw a man without an arm or a

leg, who did every thing in an awkward laughable manner, yet an

inclination to laugh would be instantly restrained by fear of offending

an unfortunate fellow-creature: but let the hat fly off on one side, and

the wig on the other, and then you instantly laugh, without remembering

a leg or an arm may soon be broken.

JAMES.

I believe you are right.

CHARLES.

It is best, then, to fix your attention on the severe pain a person may

suffer, and then your involuntary laughter would subside into pity.

JAMES.

I fear this will not help me much.

CHARLES.

You fear, then, that your heart is not good.

JAMES.

No, not so neither, for I declare to you, I was very sorry when I saw

Dr. Bartlett had hurt himself, and then I had no inclination to laugh.

CHARLES.

Then I am right; the laugh ceased as soon as you gave way to compassion,

and of course this thoughtless unfeeling mirth may be restrained. Indeed

if you had considered a moment, you would have felt the impropriety, and

been ashamed of yourself; what, laugh when a respectable old man had

hurt himself!—Dr. Bartlett now entered, and we changed the subject.

In the evening we went a walking together, and passed by a miserable

hut, at the door of which a poor old blind man stood. His grey hair hung

about his hollow cheeks, which poverty seemed to have deeply marked; it

was wet with the labours of the day, for he had been turning a wheel, as

I found afterwards; his trembling hands were supported by a crutch, on

which his chin rested, and his clouded eyes were turned up to heaven

without receiving a ray of light. You shall hear the conversation that

this sight produced.

CHARLES.

What unhappy wretches there are in the world! look at that old man,

cousin.

JAMES.

You are always looking at what gives you pain.

CHARLES.

He is blind and old, I cannot help pitying him.

JAMES.

But your pity will not restore his sight: let us go on, it is growing

dark.

CHARLES.

No, I must first ask him if he has any children.

JAMES.

Nonsense! Why should you ask him such a question?

CHARLES.

Because it would relieve me to find that he had good children; I should

not then think him so unhappy, they will certainly wait on him, serve,

and comfort him. We next spoke to the old man, and I heard with pleasure

that he had a worthy daughter, who works hard to maintain him, and he

himself, sometimes, turns a wheel, and does other things, that blind men

can do.

My cousin’s fondness for tricks now led him to commit an act of cruelty

that made me very angry. I gave the blind man a trifle, and James, when

he left the house, felt in his pocket a little while, and then flipped

something into his hand, saying, there is a guinea for you. Joy was

visible in every feature of the old man’s face. We stepped forward. How

I love you! exclaimed I, you have done a noble action. And do you think

I would give a guinea to a stranger, replied he. I interrupted him, with

surprise,—You told him so; what did you give him? It was only a new

shilling.

Vexation and anger tied my tongue: at last I could not help speaking

with some resentment. Such a trick does you little honour; deceit is a

detestable thing when done to procure any advantage; but what extreme

cruelty to sport with the poverty of a blind old man. Did not his look

of pleasure wound your conscience? You must have a heart of stone if it

did not touch you! Fine preaching! exclaimed he; and he caught hold of

my arm to make me quicken my pace, but I rushed from him, and obeyed the

impulse of my heart. I returned to the old man, thrust a guinea into his

hand, and soon overtook James, who then appeared ashamed, guessing what

I had been doing, for I dropped the subject, and only mention it to you.

CHARLES.

LETTER IX.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

I am now arrived at the farm, dear William; the day is just beginning to

dawn; the farmers are going whistling to work, whilst I am writing to my

friend. You know I have been accustomed to rise early, and it would be

now irksome to me to lie in bed the sweetest hours of the day. I am, at

this moment, sitting near an open window, and the birds, just awake, are

hopping from branch to branch; the flowers seem revived by the dew; in

short, there is a delightful freshness in the morning which gives me a

new flow of spirits. Is this, thought I, casting my eyes around, the

desart my mother supposed would prove dreary to me? I am going to take a

ride, in order to visit some of the tenants houses, and even the little

huts, that I may be able to give my father a just account of the estate,

and prevail on him to relieve those I find in distress.

* * * * *

I am now returned, and will give you an account how I have spent my

time. I was particularly affected by the sight of an old infirm woman,

who had taken the charge of two children, when their parents, her son

and daughter, suddenly died. They were unexpectedly snatched away, and

left their helpless orphans entirely destitute, with no relation to look

up to for support during their infant years, except a grandmother, who

was scarcely able to earn a subsistence for herself. The house, or

rather the hut, in which I found them by accident, did but just screen

them from the inclemency of the weather. My father would not let his

dogs live in such a wretched hovel. As I was riding leisurely along, my

attention was roused by the sobbing of a little girl of about six years

old, who cried bitterly; a boy, still younger, stood by her, and desired

her not to cry, for he would fish it out. They then ran to a well, and I

dismounted to follow them, and enquire what they had lost, fearing they

might fall in. And what do you think, William, it was he wanted to fish

up? Alas! a little piece of bread that his sister had dropped into the

water, which was very muddy. Let that dirty piece sink, said I, I will

go into the house for another piece for you. No, no, said the poor girl,

again weeping, she has none for herself, nor any money to buy a loaf

to-day. I often put in my pocket a piece of bread to give my horse on

the road, I had now half a roll, which I immediately gave her. Joy

beamed in her countenance, she smiled amidst her tears, and breaking it

into two, gave half to her brother; my heart was moved, I could not be

satisfied with having given to two human beings only the morsel I

designed for my horse. Their hut was at some distance from the village,

to which I found the old woman could seldom crawl; I was determined to

go and procure them a breakfast, and again mounted my horse, rode to the

village, and entered a chandler’s shop, and bought some bread and

cheese. The man behind the counter viewed me from head to foot; I felt

at first a little ashamed, and then felt vexed with myself for being so.

I quickly returned to the hut, and was, indeed, a most welcome visitant.

The children kissed my hand, and the old woman, when I gave her half a

guinea, almost wept for joy.

I intend particularly to recommend these poor objects to my father’s

notice, and meanwhile have given orders that the hut should be repaired,

and some fuel and provisions sent them from the farm.

I could not forbear, as I rode home, continually anticipating the

pleasure I should experience, when I saw them again in a more

comfortable abode, with a little garden and some other conveniences;

since they suffer enough without having the wind rushing through every

corner of the house, and the rain oozing through the thatch when they

are in bed. When I am a man, I hope I shall never forget the resolutions

I have now made, one of the principal is, to see myself that my poor

tenants and labourers always have a comfortable warm habitation; I will

try too to remember that health is more necessary to them than to the

rich, and that it is my duty to render their situation easy. Adieu.

CHARLES.

LETTER X.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

I am now again with my good Dr. Bartlett at a small, but pleasant,

country seat, belonging to a widow, his sister-in-law, who has but one

daughter, an agreeable, and indeed a very handsome girl. As she has

always lived in the country with her mother, she has had time to improve

her understanding, by reading to her books calculated to improve a young

mind. Dr. Bartlett has kept up a constant correspondence with her, in

which they have discussed the different subjects of her reading; such as

natural philosophy, geography, astronomy, and history. But these

employments have not so engrossed her time, as to prevent her learning

to sing, draw, and dance; nay, the Doctor tells me, that she has, for a

year or two past and she is now but eighteen, had the management of the

house; she rises so early that all family affairs are settled before

breakfast, and do not interfere with her other employments. Henrietta

sings, works, and reads, all the day, and I never saw any one have a

finer bloom, or a more cheerful countenance. The Doctor calls me. Adieu.

CHARLES.

LETTER XI.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

Dr. Bartlett went this morning to visit an old friend, and left me to

comfort the females, as he, smiling, said, who would have been quite

disconsolate, if they had lost both their beaux at once. I enjoy here

all the pleasures of the country; ride, walk, and go on the water, with

the sons of a neighbouring clergyman, whom he has educated himself. They

are modest, sensible young men, and so far advanced in their studies,

that I felt yesterday evening, after our conversation, a little vexed

with myself for not having made a better use of my time; I shall rub the

dust off my Greek and Latin books when I return to Grandison Hall. Yet

in spite of their knowledge, they have not neglected accomplishments; I

assure you, we had, yesterday evening, a very good concert, in which

they bore a part—but I am interrupted.

I have been very much shocked—a messenger brought me a letter from my

poor cousin Edward, scarcely legible, for it must have been written by a

trembling hand—in short, William, he has been wounded in a duel, and

intreats me to come to him. Heaven knows what danger he may be in; and

as to his antagonist, the letter is quite silent in this respect; I

fear, lest he should have the blood of a fellow-creature on his head.

What can I do, his letter is very pressing, and the danger immediate and

great; I do not like to go without consulting my tutor; and yet, if I

wait for it, Edward may expire before I see him; besides, I do not wish

to interrupt the pleasure he has promised himself in the society of an

old college friend, whom he has not seen these ten years: Harry, too, is

gone with him.—I must consider a moment—Well, my friend, I am going;

they are now saddling my horse, and the kind mistress of the house has

recommended an honest young man, who is acquainted with the road, to

accompany me. As the Doctor is not expected home these two or three

days, I hope, before his return, to send him a more satisfactory account

of an affair, which I know will make him very uneasy, for he has always

considered his pupils in the light of children. Should he return before

my letter can reach this house, his sister will account for my conduct,

which meets with her approbation. Farewell, I have at least forty miles

to ride before night.

CHARLES.

LETTER XII.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

I am writing now by Edward’s bedside; he has received a very dangerous,

but I hope not a mortal wound, though his fever is very high. Young

Atkins, who was his antagonist, set off for France an hour after the

duel. From every account I can gather, he was the aggressor; a trifling

joke at the mess, after dinner, so exasperated this furious man, that he

loaded Edward with the most opprobrious epithets. Edward was obliged to

take notice of them, or quit the army with dishonour. Such are the false

notions that prevail, that a man of real courage must risk his life when

a drunkard or a fool insults him; that life which is only due to his

country, is sported away in consequence of a drunken frolic. I am glad,

my friend, I am not in the army, I should not like to appear a coward,

or enter into a broil to obtain the name that every boaster, who neither

fears God, nor loves his friends, purchases with the blood of a

fellow-creature. I hope, however, I shall never be in such a situation.

Edward is now asleep; it would be cruel to remind him that he was ever

too fond of a jest; how often have I seen him give extreme pain by

laughing at some peculiarity, or catching up some strange expression to

play on, and hurt the feelings of the person who uttered it, whose

visible distress never silenced his laugh.

I will give you some account of my journey, when he is again disposed to

sleep; now I must go and take some refreshment, as I feel myself very

much exhausted.

I will now give you the promised account. I sat off the moment after I

had finished my letter; the day was uncommonly hot, and the heavy sandy

road very unpleasant, as we could not ride so quick as we wished to do.

My heart, which seemed ready to fly to Edward, was very anxious and

impatient; but what could impatience avail, it only served to make the

time appear longer. This anxiety, and the hot beams of the sun, gave me

a severe head-ach, and I was glad, after riding three or four hours, to

meet with a comfortable inn. I was obliged to rest a short time my head

was so very bad, but my earnest desire to go forward soon roused me, and

prevented me thinking of being overtaken by the night, for the sun was

setting apace. We were assured the roads were very safe, and a genteel

looking man informed me, that he had frequently travelled the same way

himself when there was no moon, without any apprehension of danger; he

then added, that as we seemed to be in a hurry, he would advise us to

take a short cut through a wood, by which means we should gain two

miles.

We followed the advice of the stranger, but when we were in the by-road,

it appeared so gloomy, that I was sorry we entered it; not a single man

did we meet during the space of half an hour; at last we heard, at a

distance behind us, some persons on horseback in a full gallop. I

stopped, not thinking of any danger; on the contrary, having been a

little afraid of the dreary solitude which then surrounded us, I was

glad to hear human voices; it was to me, at that moment, almost as if I

had seen a friend; but how egregiously was I deceived. We were quickly

overtaken by four stout men, who fiercely demanded my money. It was to

no purpose to parley with them, and I was obliged to give up my watch,

purse, and even my great coat. Happy may I think myself that I escaped

with my life, for I was so imprudent as to speak to one of them, whom,

to my great astonishment, I discovered to be the very well-dressed man

who directed us to take this road; I did feel very angry, and would have

given the world to have punished him for his perfidy.

Behold me, then, without a coat; my honest fellow-traveller offered to

lend me his, which they did not think worth taking from him, but he

seemed less able to bear the cold of the night than myself, so I would

not accept of his offer. We then spurred our horses and rode on, and

tried to laugh at our adventure, in which, indeed, we did not make a

very noble figure; though it would have been fool hardy to have

attempted to resist four strong men, something like fighting a windmill,

or storming the moon. Why then do I feel a little hurt at having been

robbed? To say the truth, that fellow’s treachery vexed me more than the

loss of my money: but I have gained something by my experience; I will

never talk of my own affairs when I am travelling, or too soon make an

acquaintance on the road. Farewell.

CHARLES.

LETTER XIII.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

Edward is much better, which gives me great pleasure on every account;

his hot-headed antagonist may now safely return to his regiment. Edward

was very anxious about him: if I should die, said he, when the surgeon

thought him in danger, pray intreat Sir Charles to endeavour to obtain a

pardon for young Atkins, who has only his commission to depend on; he is

passionate, I knew it, and yet provoked him by my unfeeling jest; if I

recover, I will be more prudent for the future. It gave me great

pleasure to hear him talk so; and I hope this illness will make a good

impression on his mind.

Three o’clock in the afternoon.—What an agreeable surprise—my father is

just arrived, and does not disapprove of my conduct! He turned pale when

he heard of the robbery, and thanked heaven that had preserved him a

son, whose loss he should have deplored with his latest breath. I tell

you this in the pride of my heart; how sweet is the praise of a parent!

Edward was glad to see him, and acknowledged his fault. I must not be

long absent from this dear parent. Adieu.

CHARLES.

LETTER XIV.

CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.

Edward is so far recovered as to be able to travel; he is to set off

to-morrow for Grandison Hall, and I am to return to my tutor. When I

reach home I will finish this letter.

* * * * *