meeting with any disagreeable occurrence, and my tutor received me with
his usual kindness, but I observed a gloom on his countenance which made
me very uneasy. Before he went to bed, he began to write a letter, and
was visibly agitated while he was writing. As I know the Doctor has such
firmness of mind that a trifle would not affect him, I was very desirous
to know what was the matter, and I think my curiosity arose from
affection, yet I am afraid it has led me to act wrong, for when he left
the room for a moment, I crept softly to his writing table to read the
unfinished letter. It was to a brother who had sustained some heavy loss
in trade, which involved him and a large family in the greatest
distress. I suddenly threw down the letter, before I had read half of
it, as if I had been committing a robbery, and severely reproached
myself for having pryed into his secret, though I think I was led to it
by the restless anxiety I felt when I saw him unhappy; but this does not
excuse me—I have been very much to blame—I blush for shame—I have
injured my friend, and I have injured myself; I shall be afraid to look
him in the face; what a coward does guilt make us! I can write no more,
I am out of humour with myself.
CHARLES.
LETTER XV.
CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.
Pity me, my friend; Dr. Bartlett has just received a letter from
Grandison Hall; he instantly informed me, with seeming emotion, that
there was not the least danger, but that my mother was ill, and that if
I pleased, we would set off in the morning. Do you say, my dear Sir, if
I please; my heart is there already; my mother in danger, and her son so
far off! I never was so low spirited in my life; I am sure the Doctor
softens the matter to me. I received a few lines from Emilia, delivered
privately to me by the servant, which made me very uneasy; I will
transcribe part of it.
“Dear, dear Charles,
“What a misfortune happened yesterday! our dear mother suddenly fainted,
and I was afraid she was dead; I was alone with her, sitting at my work,
and did not perceive her change countenance, so that she was on the
ground before I could afford her any assistance. My loud cries brought
the servants, but not before I had got my arm under her head: I kissed
her forehead, and called upon her a hundred times, as if I could recall
her to life. The surgeon soon arrived, and bled her, and in about half
an hour she came to herself again. But what did I suffer during that
dreadful interval! I wished a thousand times that you were here. Do not
delay a moment, dear brother, if you love me; I shall be much easier, I
know, when you are with me. We shall assist each other in nursing her,
for I will never leave her a moment care of strangers; I remember how
she Sat up with us when we had the smallpox and measles, and if she was
out of danger, I should feel a pleasure in convincing her, that I love
her as dearly as she loves me.”
This is a short transcript, William, of my dear girl’s letter; for with
a full heart she has written the same thing over and over again. We
shall leave this the first peep of day, and you may expect the earliest
account of my mother’s state of health.
CHARLES.
LETTER XVI.
CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.
My mother is out of danger; my sister’s letter made me very
apprehensive; the tenderness of her nature makes her tremble at the
least indisposition that attacks her parents, and she exaggerates the
danger, till she is unable to see things as they really are. But why do
I blame her? What have I not suffered myself through anxiety, in my way
hither? I sometimes feared my mother was already dead, and we appeared
to ride too fast forward: I was afraid to approach the hall one minute,
and the next was in a violent perspiration through my eagerness to reach
it. In short, William, I had a continual palpitation at my heart, and
now find myself by no means well. But I shall not complain; in the
morning probably I shall be better.
The time draws near, the time I so eagerly look for, when I was to have
visited Holland: all my hopes seem like a dream, and it appears to me
wrong even to think of it. I will go and take a little walk in the
garden, it may, perhaps, refresh me.
I do not seem much the better for my walk, but I am glad I went, and I
will tell you why. As I was going down the lane by the side of the
garden, which you know leads to the high road, such a weariness came
over me I was obliged to sit down. After resting some moments I rose up,
and without considering where I was going, turned down the public road.
May we not suppose, William, that heaven directs our steps to be
serviceable to our fellow-creatures? for I saw, as I advanced, not far
from me, a little child about three years old; it seemed tired, and
stood still when it perceived me. At first I supposed some person was
near; but not seeing any one, I began to be uneasy, and when it turned
from me offered it some flowers which I had gathered in my way; this I
did with a smiling aspect, and enquired what was its name, and where it
lived? It could only lisp out a few words, such as that its name was
Jemmy, and that it lived yonder, pointing with its hand, I could not
tell where, for you know there is no house near; I could only make out
that it had been a long time seeking its mammy.
The evening was growing dusky, and still no person appeared; I quickly
imagined the poor mother’s feelings when she missed her child, and would
have given any thing to have been able to have restored him to her; but
as that was impossible, I was determined to take him with me, and leave
him at our gardener’s house, till he should find out to whom he
belonged. I was obliged to carry him, for he began to cry, when he saw
we turned out of the high road, and I found it rather troublesome on
account of my weakness, but my resolution gave me strength, and I gave
it in charge to the gardener’s wife, who promised to take care of it. In
the morning a servant is to go to the neighbouring villages to enquire
about the mother. Farewell.
CHARLES.
LETTER XVII.
EMILIA _to_ CHARLOTTE.
My mother is now out of danger, my dear Charlotte, but Charles went to
bed last night very ill, and is it to be wondered at, after the
perturbation of mind he has lately gone through? Heaven preserve me such
a brother! The time seemed so long while he was away, that I do not know
how I should live without him.
He found a lost child last night, and brought it in his arms to our
gardener, and desired him to take care of it until we could find out the
mother. She came this morning, and informed us, that she had been all
the night wandering about in search of it. I was very much affected by
the poor woman’s gratitude; but would you believe it, a certain young
gentleman presumed to say to Edward, this morning, that he thought
Charles had acted imprudently: what would he have done, added he, if the
child had never been claimed? Did you ever hear such cold-hearted
reasoning, Charlotte? Who would have thought of such a thing, when the
poor child was in such immediate distress; yet this same prudent
gentleman took home, some time ago, only actuated by pity, a great dog
that ran after him. Edward told him of this, and asked him how it was
possible that any one who could have so much pity for an animal able to
preserve itself from danger, and find something to eat, should have so
little compassion for a helpless child? He was at a loss what to say,
and soon after took his leave, as I must do for the present.
EMILIA.
LETTER XVIII.
EMILIA _to_ CHARLOTTE.
You desire that I will send you as early an account as possible of
Charles’s health; he is, I fear, very ill. In order to conceal it from
my mother, he tried to employ himself, but in vain. I am with him every
moment I can leave my mother; and this morning we had a conversation,
which I will relate. He asked me to put by his drawings, and he looked
so altered, that my eyes filled with tears, and I turned my head from
him to conceal them; but it did not escape his observation. He caught me
by the hand, and said, Why, dear Emilia, are you so sorrowful?
EMILIA.
It is nothing—I shall be chearful again presently.
CHARLES.
But you are weeping, dear sister?
EMILIA.
Well, I will dry my tears, and cry no more, for I see your tears begin
to start.
CHARLES.
Do not on that account restrain them, they will relieve you; but tell me
what makes you so sad?
EMILIA.
Why, brother, are you not sick?
CHARLES.
This proof of your sisterly affection raises you in my esteem, but your
tenderness ought not to blind your reason; I am not well, it is true,
yet there is not the least appearance of danger.
EMILIA.
You are so good, God must certainly love you; why then are you
afflicted?
CHARLES.
My tutor has often told me it is no sign that God does not love us,
because we are in affliction. Sickness and sorrow are as necessary for
us in this world as every other event; we are in the hands of a tender
father, who knoweth our frame, and will not afflict us more than is
necessary for our good.
EMILIA.
I hope God will forgive me, if I have spoken rashly. May you quickly be
restored, for the danger I see you in is almost too much for me.
CHARLES.
You imagine, then, that I am in greater danger now than when I am in
health.
EMILIA.
And so you are, I believe.
CHARLES.
No, my dear, we have no more reason to fear upon our sick bed, than when
we are in lively company, taking a walk, or on the stormy sea. We are
always under the protection of our Creator; he can preserve us, or call
us hence whenever he thinks fit.
EMILIA.
We appear, I think, nearer death when we are sick than when we are in a
good state of health.
CHARLES.
We _appear_, you say, but that appearance deceives us, and we are led to
think so because God commonly calls us out of the world by sickness;
this seems the usual way, and we suppose that death is at a distance
when we are in a confirmed state of health; yet we are, in the very
midst of our pleasures, near the grave. For instance, when you are
singing, or dancing, a dreadful fire may burst out, and none may have
power to escape; nay, without such an unforeseen accident, a single
glass of cold water, after such an amusement, has often occasioned
death. Who would then presume to say, that they have many years of
pleasure to come?
EMILIA.
I believe you are right.
CHARLES.
How many people recover when they have been given over by physicians,
whilst those apparently in health die suddenly?
EMILIA.
You comfort me, dear brother, you set my heart at rest; and I hope you
will soon get the better of this complaint.
CHARLES.
I shall be thankful to God, if he allows me to remain sometime longer
with my parents and friends.
EMILIA.
It seems you are not afraid of death.
CHARLES.
I have already told you that I wish to live. Heaven grant me life, if I
always have the same desire to do good; but may it be taken away from me
this instant, if there is a possibility that I should ever forget my
duty.
EMILIA.
O let us talk no more of death, brother!
Here I must stop, my mother has sent for me; pray for my dear Charles,
and I shall love you still better.
EMILIA.
LETTER XIX.
EMILIA _to_ CHARLOTTE.
I have another proof to give you of Charles’s good disposition, but
first let me tell you he is much better. After I had finished my letter
to you yesterday evening, I went into Charles’s room again, and found
him and Edward looking over some drawings; amongst them was the mount of
a fan, which Charles had finished with more than usual care, intending
to surprise our dear parent with it. Though he is very modest when
speaking of his own performances, yet he spoke of this with some degree
of satisfaction, and mentioned the length of time he had been about it.
He desired me to cover it with silver paper, adding, that he would
rather lose all the rest of his drawings than this.
We were now called down to supper; about half an hour after we were
seated at table it began to rain very fast, and Charles recollecting
that he had left one of the windows of his room open, was going himself
to shut it, but my mother called him back, not thinking it safe that he
should expose himself to the night air, and desired one of the servants
to go.
Well, we went to bed at our usual hour, but I had scarcely reached my
room before I heard Edward cry out, What do I see! I ran to him, and
judge of my vexation, when I saw the fan mount in his hand almost
entirely consumed: Charles at that moment entered the chamber; he said
nothing, but looked a little angry, supposing we had played him a trick.
What think you, said Edward? the careless boy that did this deserves to
be turned out of doors. No, said Charles, I was afraid you had done it
to teaze me; if it was only an accident, though it is vexatious, I will
endeavour to remedy it by doing another much better: however, let us
enquire about it. They did so, and the servant who had shut the window,
owned that he had put a candle on the table which was loose in the
socket, and that it fell out, and set fire to the paper, and almost
burnt the whole mount, before he could put it out. The boy seemed very
sorry, and begged Charles not to tell his father, lest he should be
turned away for his carelessness, for he had often been desired never to
put a candle on a table covered with papers. Edward would not listen to
him, and said it was all a lie; but Charles said it was not impossible,
and that he would not mention it to his father or mother, as he should
be sorry to have a servant turned away who appeared to be sorry for what
he had done, only desired him never to touch any papers again in his
room.
EDWARD.
Well, you are very good-natured, Charles; if this had happened to me, I
should never have forgiven him.
CHARLES.
That would not have restored my drawing.
EDWARD.
No, but the careless fellow would have been punished; and that would
have been some comfort: such a loss would vex my very heart.
EMILIA.
It is, indeed, very unfortunate.
CHARLES.
No, I do not call it a misfortune, sister.
EMILIA.
How, do not you think that a misfortune?
CHARLES.
You make me smile—I shall soon forget my drawing, it was only a trial of
temper; my mother’s sickness was a misfortune, indeed, and the poor
woman who had lost her child had reason to weep; but what admits of a
remedy, should not be called a misfortune, it is only a momentary
vexation. And after all, I was the person to blame, it was I who was
careless; if I had locked up my drawing, or shut the window myself, this
accident would not have happened.
EMILIA.
But, Charles, will you begin another?
CHARLES.
Yes, certainly, and perhaps it may be much better, for another design
has just entered my head.
He then wished me a good night, and I must do the same.
I am glad I did not entirely fill up my paper, and yet I shall not say
much, I am so dull. Edward has just left us to join his regiment. My
tears fall while I write. I do not like these separations; I wish those
whom I love were always to remain with me!
Charles has just mentioned to my father, a circumstance that he appeared
to be much ashamed of. I have not time to write the particulars; I can
only now tell you, that he read a part of one of Dr. Bartlett’s letters,
without his leave; he saw the Doctor in great distress, and was so
anxious to know what occasioned it, that he acted contrary to his own
notions of honour. This letter contained an account of some misfortunes
that had befallen the Doctor’s family, which he, from a motive of
delicacy, concealed from my father, thinking he had already done too
much for them.
My father went instantly to his friend, with whom he had a long
conversation, and after he returned to his study, he sent for Charles,
and mildly addressed him.
SIR CHARLES.
I have at last prevailed on my friend to state the whole affair to me,
and it will soon be settled to his satisfaction. And now let me caution
you, my son, never to let even your affection induce you to pry into the
secrets of others: a good end does not justify the improper means
employed to reach it. Honour is a sacred thing, and no motive should
influence us to trifle with fixed principles-our views are bounded, and
we ought to adhere to strict rules, not knowing how to modify them. Your
youthful warmth now pleads in your favour; I am acquainted with the
goodness of your heart; but goodness should ever be restrained by duty,
or it will not uniformly actuate our conduct.
My father then smiled on Charles, adding, this is a caution, and not a
reproof.
I have almost written another letter. Believe me ever your’s.
EMILIA.
LETTER XX.
WILLIAM _to_ CHARLES.
Dear Grandison,
I have been very uneasy on your account, and need not tell you what a
relief it was to my heart to hear of your recovery. I neglected my
music; all my employments were a task to me, whilst I imagined you were
sick; the sorrow is now over, and I only dream of seeing you; surely it
will not be long first.
I will now relate a circumstance that does not do me much honour; but it
will relieve me to confess my fault.
A few weeks ago, when my mother received her annuity, she made me a
present of twelve ducats, that I might buy myself a new coat before you
came; but as the clothes I brought with me from England are yet very
good, I determined not to purchase it till just before I set off for
England, that I might have something new to appear in before Lady
Grandison and Emilia. Last week, however, when my mother and sister were
visiting a friend for a few days, a young gentleman of my acquaintance
came to drink tea with me, and mentioned by chance that a bargain had
fallen in his way that very afternoon. A handsome new coat, that had
never been worn, had been offered him very cheap, by a person in
distress, and that he should certainly have bought it, had it not been
rather too little for him. Being less than him I thought that it might
fit me, and enquired, with some earnestness, if he would buy it for me.
Very readily, he replied; I will get it this evening. He asked ten
ducats for it, but I dare say you may have it for six. Accordingly he
sent it me in the evening; and I found it, as he said, very good. I must
confess it pleased me. Ten ducats were demanded for it; I offered eight,
and at last gave nine, convinced that it was very cheap.
I then thought how agreeably I should surprise my mother. When she
returned home, I eagerly brought the coat, and asked her what she
thought of it, and if it pleased her? She replied, exceedingly, but this
undoubtedly cost you more than twelve ducats? Much less, interrupted I;
I gave no more than nine for it. I looked at her, expecting to see her
smile, but, to my great surprise, saw her assume a very serious
countenance, saying, that coat is worth fourteen or fifteen ducats, and
did you buy it for nine? I had a better opinion of your principles: the
person who sold it was probably impelled by poverty, and could you find
in your heart to give but half the value for it?—could you defraud the
poor? Would you not, every time you put it on, think with concern of him
whose misfortunes you took advantage of. Ah! my dear mother, I have done
wrong: you really think it worth fourteen ducats, I will instantly go
and seek for the owner: my cousin made me a present yesterday, to buy
something new with before I went to London; let me do justice, and give
my six ducats to the necessitous owner of my coat whom I inconsiderately
injured. Indeed I would not add to the misery of the unfortunate. Go,
William, replied she, and let it make you more prudent for the future; a
man of honour must never buy any thing for less than the value, because
it is always sold by a person in distress, or by Some one who has
obtained it in a dishonest manner, and with such, an honest man must
have no dealings. To overreach a person in any respect is worse than a
robbery, because here you do not expose yourself to any danger. A mean
action is generally done to save money for some selfish pleasure;
justice is the foundation of every virtue, and he who does not respect
himself, will never be a virtuous character.
I was ashamed of my fault, as you may suppose, and could not be easy
until I went to pay the money, and make an apology for my conduct. I
found that the coat was bought of a young man whose mother was in great
distress; my heart smote me when I heard of it. How glad I am my mother
showed me this action in its true light; for having heard many people
speak with pleasure of a bargain, I thought I had done something very
clever.
I have learned from this accident to distrust my own judgment, and shall
constantly apply to my mother for advice, till I have more experience to
judge for myself. How painful it is not to have the means of doing good,
for I now think I ought to have sent back the coat, and to have made
that dutiful son a present of the money; but then my mother could not
afford to buy me another coat when I want it, and I must submit to my
circumstances. Farewell, my dear Charles; remember me to all my kind
friends at Grandison Hall, not forgetting Emilia.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXI.
EMILIA _to_ CHARLOTTE.
What a fright have I had, and what anxiety and distress have I gone
through! I must tell you all, and I know you will pity me. We were
allowed yesterday to pay a visit to a gentleman, whose seat is about two
hours ride from our house. Harry, our faithful Harry, (who came to live
with us again after the death of his mother) went with us.
We spent a very pleasant day, and set out again for Grandison Hall about
half past five o’clock. Harry seemed rather to lag behind, and we every
now and then waited for him. We were conversing some time without
thinking of him, when Charles looked round, and immediately perceived
that Harry was not with us. I was alarmed, and I saw that Charles was
distressed. I think I see him yonder, said he; we will return, perhaps
there is something the matter with his horse. We returned accordingly,
but Charles went a little before me, because he was afraid of
discovering something dreadful. And so indeed it proved. Never shall I
forget the horror I felt when I saw Harry stretched motionless on the
ground, the horse standing by as if he wished to take care of his rider.
I called out for help, not recollecting there was nobody within hearing;
Charles quickly dismounted, and bid me make myself easy: easy, cried
I—alone in this solitary road in the evening with a dying man. Charles
had advanced to Harry in the mean time, and assured me he was not dead.
I would then have got off my horse, but my brother desired me to sit
still; notwithstanding this, I jumped off without thinking, and
immediately the horse ran away. My brother had pulled off his coat to
lay under Harry’s head. Harry still remained insensible. Imagine,
Charlotte, my distress; I saw my brother was very much perplexed; but I
will give you our conversation.
EMILIA.
My dear Charles, what will you do, it is dark already?
CHARLES.
I hope some traveller will soon go by who may afford us assistance. But
where is your horse, my dear?
EMILIA.
My horse!—it was here just now. I was so anxious about Harry, that I did
not perceive when he left me.
CHARLES.
He will find his way home; it cannot now be helped; but you should have
secured him, sister, when you dismounted.
EMILIA.
It was very foolish, but I was so desirous to assist you I forgot every
thing else.
CHARLES.
I know your good heart, Emilia.
EMILIA.
Dear brother, I am very anxious, who knows what may happen to us in this
lonely road; we have nobody with us.
CHARLES.
Do not let us be too solicitous about our own safety; do you not see a
fellow-creature dying near you: and can you think of the trifling
inconveniences we may be exposed to?—God is with us.
He uttered this in a solemn tone of voice, and then looking at me with
tenderness, entreated me to be calm. Picture to yourself now your friend
Charles, without his coat, upon one knee, holding his right arm under
Harry’s head, and with his left softly rubbing his temples: and every
now and then he turned his eyes to heaven, and I saw the tears streaming
down his cheeks.
EMILIA.
You sigh and weep in such a manner, Charles—is Harry dead?
CHARLES.
No, Emilia, he is yet living—perhaps he might yet be restored, could I
obtain any help. God be merciful, said he, I cannot afford him any
assistance—what shall I do?
EMILIA.
Since you are not able to afford him any assistance, had we not better——
CHARLES.
No, we must not go and leave a man to his fate who is insensible: he
would not have served us so: misfortunes level all imaginary
distinctions in life: he would have ventured his life for us; we must do
as we would be done by. How attentive was he to me in my last illness!
Here the tears came again into his eyes.
EMILIA.
And must we remain here all night?
CHARLES.
It may not be necessary; we must first think of doing right, and then
leave the issue to God. Can we expect that he will have compassion on us
if we show none? I should never be happy if I left this dying man.
EMILIA.
And so you forget what our father and mother are suffering at this
instant, on account of our staying out so late.
CHARLES.