haughty man, and no sooner was his back turned than he was ridiculed.
CHARLES.
And what avails their greatness and wealth to their fellow-creatures, if
they live only for themselves. We ought then only to be proud of virtue
and charity; nay, not even of them for they are duties, and the
performance of a duty ought not to excite pride. They only are truly
great who set a good example to others; a distinguished rank is indeed a
blessing when it enables us to do more good.
WILLIAM.
I think a proud man cannot love his fellow-creatures, or he would not
find so much pleasure in humbling them.
CHARLES.
There appears a sort of cruelty in pride. Might not a poor beggar for
instance thus address a haughty rich man: “How have I deserved you
should look down upon me with such contempt. You are rich, I am poor;
this is your good luck and my misfortune, but you should not make it
heavier by your scorn, as I certainly have not injured you. If I ask you
for any thing you may refuse me, and I must be content. I undergo many
difficulties; go on foot in the rain, without sufficient covering to
screen me from the keen wind; benumbed with cold, and almost sinking
under my misery: you, on the contrary, ride in a carriage, and feel none
of these inconveniences. I bow civilly to you, and you turn away your
head with disgust, while the wheels of your coach throw the dirt in my
face. Your cruel contempt adds to my sufferings, when a smile would have
lightened them. You despise my poverty, and force me to recollect that
one man is as good as another, in order to comfort myself and not repine
at my fate. If you keep your money, I shall not, I cannot, contest with
you. Riches fell to your lot, and I do not covet them; but at least pity
me; I eat a hard crust, but am still a man, and can feel your cruel
inhumanity.”
WILLIAM.
And he ought, besides, to think that the poor and miserable man whom he
despises may be exalted far above him in another world, but that period
appears very far off to those who live in splendour.
CHARLES.
Far off—a year, a day, an hour, a single moment may destroy all their
hopes, and from a palace they may be removed to the grave; where all
their grandeur shall vanish away from their sight as nothing. The rich
go to their stately tombs, the poor to their humble sod; but they are no
more sensible of a difference.——This conversation made me grave, Miss
Emilia; and should I add any more I might perhaps continue to moralize.
We are going this evening to the play, and your brother has invited
young Landbergen to be of the party; he has his reformation very much at
heart. Allow me to assure you that I am your sincere friend,
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXI.
WILLIAM _to_ EMILIA.
Young Landbergen, through the interest of his father and some other
friends, is again restored to his office. He seems to have a fixed
resolution to adhere to his promise, and his old father is revived now
he sees his son returned to virtue. What a satisfaction for my friend,
who has produced this reformation. Yesterday in my presence he returned
him a thousand thanks. You have taught me to know what is true
happiness, Mr. Grandison, exclaimed he; I at last see that a wicked life
is no life; how dear have I paid for my licentious pleasures, by my
uneasy remorse. Every day I fell into new errors. Every day they
produced new difficulties. What an advantage to the mind to be satisfied
with itself. How happy it is when in the evening we can reflect upon the
day without being ashamed of our conduct. Formerly I was afraid to pray
to God, because I had not sufficient resolution to alter my conduct; but
now I feel that a prayer affords me comfort. I dare hope that the
Supreme Being has again received me into favour. I lately dreaded the
sight of my father as if he was an enemy, now he is my bosom friend. My
former companions treat me with a kind of disdain, and that disdain is
my triumph. Yes, interrupted your brother, it is your triumph; you have
now the esteem of better men, you make your father’s life comfortable,
and you will not miss the truest satisfaction. I am sorry that we are so
soon to part, will you allow me to correspond with you? Will I? answered
Landbergen; it would make me very happy. You cannot think how much he is
improved in his appearance since his return to virtue, I can scarcely
believe that the handsome young man I now see, is the same being whose
looks almost terrified me.
Our departure for London is fixed for the 26th of next month. We often
count the hours for we all long to see you. Your brother has just been
making me laugh. He is the life and soul of the whole house; we shall
all soon laugh together, till then adieu.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXII.
WILLIAM _to_ EMILIA.
An officer was just now announced, and who do you think it was, dear
Miss Emilia, but our old friend Edward. What an agreeable surprise to us
all! Annette, who saw me shaking him cordially by the hand, ran to tell
my mother, but she expected him, for Lady Grandison, as we afterwards
heard, had acquainted her with his intention. I would instantly have
called your brother, but Edward held me back: let us play him a trick,
said he, he knows nothing of my coming. Perhaps the sudden surprise may
hurt him, said my mother. No, replied Edward, I am not afraid of that.
Charles continued writing longer than usual in his chamber; when supper
was ready he was called down; Edward before had placed himself by the
fire, with his back to the door. Charles entered, he knew him
immediately, and moved some steps backwards, but, before he could speak,
he observed Annette’s smiling countenance, and determined to humour the
joke. Edward, in the mean time, continued sitting, thinking he was still
considered by Charles as a stranger. This produced several laughable
incidents; which highly diverted Annette, and even made my mother smile.
Afterwards we spent a most agreeable evening, and Edward made me a
present of a very elegant sword. I hesitated, and was unwilling to
receive it; not for the world, said I; I have often heard that it
forebodes a breach of friendship. How, interrupted Charles, can you give
way to such prejudices? Leave them to weak minds that have never been
properly cultivated; that foolish idea is as absurd as the raw head and
bloody bones with which they frighten little children. Adieu, you kept
your secret very well.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXIII.
WILLIAM _to_ EMILIA.
We have been in a most dreadful consternation occasioned by a false
alarm, but it is now over, and has not been attended with any bad
consequences. Edward was very curious to see the environs of this city,
accordingly we went the day before yesterday to a village that is
reckoned one of the pleasantest in Holland; the weather was that day
very fine, considering the time of the year. Edward and I were
conversing with great earnestness; he was particularly pleased with the
high cultivation of the land, and the neat appearance of our farmhouses.
Charles was some paces behind us; he stopped to assist two little
children who were defending themselves against a dog, that had been, as
we afterwards heard, provoked and tormented by some idle wicked boys;
before your brother could raise his stick the enraged cur flew at him
and bit his leg. The children in the mean time ran away and the dog
after them, with his tail between his legs and his mouth wide open; he
rushed by Edward, who asked if I was not frightened, and we then turned
round to look for Charles. We walked slowly till he overtook us; he said
nothing of the accident, and we did not perceive a little spot of blood
that was on his stocking.
When we entered into the village we found it in an uproar. We heard
nothing on all sides but the dog is mad! the dog is mad! and, as is
usually the case, every one endeavoured to make the story appear more
dreadful; one said that he had bit a horse, another five cows, nay,
added the third, it was five men. Charles looked pale, but we did not
guess the cause, till he pointed to the spot of blood on his stocking,
and cried out see there,—I am one of them. We then went into a public
house, but Edward would not stay a moment, he enquired where the surgeon
of the village lived, and ran like lightning to ask his advice; but,
unfortunately, he was not at home. Edward would not return without him,
and ran to the different places, where it was supposed, he might be.
In the mean time I remained with your brother in a situation of mind
which I declare I never felt before, in a sort of stupefaction, which I
cannot describe. Before he sat down he put a large poker in the fire,
and once or twice I heard the name of his parents escape from his lips,
in a voice scarcely articulate. I went to him and caught him by the
hand, exclaiming, in an agony, did you visit me for this!
CHARLES.
Dear William, here, or in any other place, the same misfortune might
have befallen me.
WILLIAM.
But you, my friend, who are so virtuous, whose heart is so generous, who
never neglected your duty—surely, you did not deserve—
CHARLES, _interrupting me_.
Take care, William, do not let your friendship lead you to arraign the
goodness of God! If I indeed have endeavoured to follow the good example
of my father, and have been a comfort to my parents, I can with less
terror view death; if I am indeed near it. But that may not be the case,
I shall take the step that reason suggests, and leave the rest to God.
WILLIAM.
Noble soul! No, I repeat it, you merited a better fate.
CHARLES.
Shew more respect to the Sovereign Disposer of our destiny. Excuse my
being a little serious with you; he who gave me being, has a right to
take it away, when and how he pleases. I hope Dr. Bartlett’s lessons are
not thrown away upon me; with gratitude and joy have I prayed to my
heavenly Father, when I have been walking alone in the country—and even
now I can pray to him.
He turned his eyes involuntarily up to heaven. I sobbed, threw myself
round his neck, and could not speak, it was as if my lips were sealed
together. He then enquired for Edward, and when he heard that he was
gone for a surgeon, he said, friendly creature! what I dread most in
this circumstance is suspense, but I must have patience. Should any
accident befall me, William, be a comfort to my parents. I believe that
the catastrophe of this disorder is described as much more dreadful than
it really is; few men go mad on account of the bite of a mad dog, and I
never heard of any who communicated the canine delirium to the friends
or relations who attended on them.
He then earnestly requested me to leave the room for a few minutes. I
was obliged reluctantly to comply; and when I returned, caught him
courageously searing the part with the red hot poker which he had put
into the fire for that purpose. He tried to conceal from me the violent
pain he endured; and did not utter a single groan, lest he should
increase my anguish. Edward that moment entered, in a transport, with
the identical little cur in his arms, crying, There is no danger, make
yourselves easy! Charles turned his eyes towards heaven, with a look of
gratitude; for my part I was almost out of my senses for joy. The man,
to whom the dog belonged, accompanied Edward, and informed us, that the
poor creature, having been provoked and chafed about, ran hastily home
and hid itself under a bed. The general cry at first, he owned, made him
afraid, (in spite of his reason) that a dog, who half an hour, before
was perfectly well, might now be mad; but that shortly after, when he
enticed it from its hiding place, it was very glad to eat and drink, and
he perceived that the poor creature had only been terrified by cries and
blows, and did not shew the least sign of madness[1]. Fortunately this
man lived at one of the houses Edward was directed to, when he was
seeking for the surgeon.
Footnote 1:
In Holland, no dogs are allowed to run in the streets during the
summer hot months, without being secured by a small cord.
Was it not a very happy circumstance, dear Miss Emilia, that the dog was
not killed in the scuffle, for we should still have remained in the most
painful state of suspense, if we had not seen the animal perfectly well.
You will see the dog, for Edward bought him, not for his beauty, but to
make Sir Charles and his Lady perfectly easy.
The surgeon soon followed, but did not find it necessary to bleed your
brother; he applied a plaister to his leg, which was very painful on
account of the searing. We hired a horse that he might not be obliged to
walk home on it, and ran in high spirits by his side, for I was afraid
that my mother might have heard of the accident before we arrived, and I
knew the effect it would have on her spirits. What uncommon resignation
and firmness of mind did your brother exhibit on this distressing
occasion! Surely true courage can only arise from virtue. I always
tenderly loved him, but never before felt such a degree of respect and
admiration; even when he was in the most violent pain he thought less of
himself than others. Dear Emilia, I know your heart will leap for joy,
as does at present that of your affectionate friend
WILLIAM.
P. S. I must add a few lines to tell my dear sister that I am perfectly
well. William has spoken too highly of my composure; if I had had more
presence of mind, I should not have paid any attention to what those
ignorant people said; I should have recollected how often I have heard
stories in England about mad dogs and cats, that some trifling accident
gave rise to. Tell my father and mother, and tell yourself, that I never
before felt that I loved you all so very very tenderly. God bless and
preserve us all, and may we be a comfort to each other.
CHARLES.
LETTER XXXIV.
WILLIAM _to_ EMILIA.
We live now in a kind of continual dissipation; our instruments, our
drawings, our books, all are packed up and ready to be sent on board. We
are perpetually in motion, we eat, drink, sleep and visit like those
people who have nothing to do, and try to kill time because they do not
know how to employ it; what a miserable life must such beings lead!
Shall I tell you, that the thoughts of taking leave of my native country
is very painful to me; I must confess my weakness, dear Emilia; though I
ardently long to be in London, I feel the most lively concern. Your
brother commends this weakness. It is natural, he says, and, in his
opinion, we should be very unfeeling, if we could leave the country,
where we have been born and educated, without being affected. Yesterday
we paid a visit to Mr. Landbergen; his son still behaves with the
greatest propriety; and, as the tender father considers your brother as
the instrument of his darling’s reformation, his countenance is always
lighted up with joy at our approach. When we entered he introduced a
French gentleman to us, who appeared by his dress and manners to be in
reduced circumstances. There was an appearance of mildness and
good-nature in his face that instantly interested us. I have frequently
felt myself thus attached in a moment to a person who had a mild and
benevolent countenance. Mr. Landbergen desired his son to shew us two
landscapes drawn by the gentleman, in whose favour we were so instantly
interested, which were really very beautiful. We could not forbear
bestowing the praises on them they so justly merited; and I felt a
little vexed with myself when I recollected how very inferior mine were.
The young painter very modestly received our praises, and soon after
left the room. We then again viewed the landscapes, and Charles remarked
that he had very pleasing manners, and very much the air of a gentleman.
Yes, said Mr. Landbergen, he is a good young man and a gentleman, though
an unfortunate one. He received a very liberal education, but the loss
of his parents and some other misfortunes, obliged him to exert his
talents in order to earn a subsistence.
CHARLES.
I pity any one who loses their parents early in life; for they are our
dearest and most faithful friends.
LANDBERGEN.
He has been here some months, and has not met with all the encouragement
he deserves; his modesty prevents him from pushing himself forwards, or
taking those methods that many of inferior abilities practise to obtain
the name of able artists. He wishes to sell those two pictures, and, to
spare him the disagreeable task of offering them to sale himself, I
desired him to leave them here.
CHARLES.
What does he ask for them?
LANDBERGEN.
Thirty guilders.
CHARLES.
He undervalues them; that is too little.
LANDBERGEN.
Few think so nobly as you do, Sir; though they are certainly very well
done, and very cheap, I have not yet been able to find a purchaser.
CHARLES.
I like these pieces so well I shall be very happy to have them that I
may copy them; I should be very proud, indeed, if I could draw but half
as well. It is very inhuman not to pay an ingenious man the full price
for his labour, or to undervalue the productions of an unfortunate
gentleman.
The subject was now dropped, but when we took our leave, Charles gave
Mr. Landbergen fifty guilders for the pictures; and as we walked home
they were the subject of our conversation.
CHARLES.
I am glad that chance threw those pictures in my way, they are painted
in a masterly style.
EDWARD.
They are well executed, I believe, but confess now Charles that you
bought those pictures rather to be serviceable to the painter, than to
please yourself.
CHARLES.
Pray, Edward, who made you my father confessor?
EDWARD.
You need not try to hide it, I saw you was determined not to buy a
bargain.
CHARLES.
The pieces are worth the money, and it was incumbent on me to give fifty
guilders for them. Believe me, he who will not, or cannot, give the full
value for a thing should let it alone, and not attempt to defraud a
person in distress.
EDWARD.
Do not suppose that I mean to blame you; you are frugal and sparing in
every thing that respects your own private gratification, only to have
it more in your power to be generous to others; you even chearfully bear
inconveniences which you endeavour to guard your friends from; nay, you
are as indulgent to them as severe on yourself.
CHARLES.
You are very obliging, Edward, but let us be serious. Must it not be
very painful to an artist to hear his labour and trouble undervalued, by
those who are unable to produce any thing like it themselves; nay, is it
not unjust to endeavour to cheapen a thing, when you are conscious that
only a reasonable price was demanded for it? In the present case, the
French gentleman was impelled by his distress to offer them as a
bargain; and could I take advantage of the distress of a
fellow-creature?
WILLIAM.
My mother is entirely of your opinion. She has often told me that I
should regulate my actions by an invariable rule of right, and, above
all, never take advantage of the misfortunes of others to benefit
myself.
CHARLES.
I feel a particular respect for men of abilities, and should think
wealth indeed a blessing, if it enabled me to be of use to them.
We now reached home, as I have the bottom of my paper. Farewell,
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXV.
WILLIAM _to_ EMILIA.
Your brother went yesterday to visit the painter I mentioned to you, and
Edward to read the newspaper in a neighbouring coffee-house; I stayed at
home to transact some business for my mother. Charles returned first,
and was scarcely seated, when Edward ran in with great haste.—I am glad,
said he, to find you at home, I met at the coffee-house, by chance, a
poor Englishman. Will you assist me to relieve a countryman, for they
seem to have the first claim to our benevolence?
CHARLES.
I do not think so; I should not ask, when I saw a man in distress, what
countryman he was, whether he was a Dutchman, Englishman or Frenchman; I
should feel compassion. But where is your Englishman? let me see him.
Come with us, William. We all three went to the door, and found a young
man who seemed about four and twenty, who had an appearance of extreme
poverty. Your brother Charles expressed some astonishment; I suppose he
had prepared himself to meet an old man, for I have often heard him say
that healthy young ones, except in particular circumstances, need never
want, and that their distress is generally a proof of their idleness.
CHARLES.
You have applied to my brother for assistance, my friend; we will do
something for you. Who are you?
ENGLISHMAN.
My father was a reputable shoemaker; but he died suddenly, and left my
mother in great distress with two sons; my brother went to service, and
I endeavoured to get some employment in London; but after having been
often disappointed, I determined to try my fortune in foreign parts.
CHARLES.
Whom did your brother live with?
ENGLISHMAN.
With a Sir Charles Grandison.
CHARLES.
Was his name Harry?
ENGLISHMAN.
Yes, Sir; did you know him?
CHARLES.
I certainly knew him, and am very sorry to find you are his unworthy
brother. So it was you who lived on your poor mother, when she was a
widow and in great distress; it was you who used to borrow money of your
brother to buy liquor with; and when you left your drunken companions,
you went home and abused your aged unfortunate parent.
ENGLISHMAN.
Oh, Sir! pray hear me out; I have done all I could to get work here; and
have severely smarted for my folly.
CHARLES.
And dare you hope for compassion; you who had no compassion on your own
mother, for whom you ought to have worked as your brother did. He is, in
my esteem, no better than a monster in nature, who forgets to honour and
love his parents. Of what do you complain? Do you not know that the
Supreme Being sends down his judgments upon such children as you are?
Did your mother nourish you in your youth, and preserve you from all
harm, to be abused by you when she was grown old, and to see you give
yourself up entirely to idleness, and from idleness to vice? You are
fallen into beggary, take care or something worse may follow.
EDWARD.
Go your way, all faults may be forgiven but those of an ungrateful son.
He who could treat his parents with cruelty, must have a very depraved
heart, and deserves nothing but cruelty from others.
ENGLISHMAN.
If you knew what I have suffered from sickness and want, and how
sincerely I repent, I think that you would still pity me.
CHARLES.
What do you now resolve to do?
ENGLISHMAN.
If I could get a little money to buy myself a coat, I would endeavour to
work my passage to London and seek for my brother.
CHARLES.
You would go and live an idle life at his expence, but you will never
more be a burthen to him; your worthy brother lived with my father, and
died a few months ago in my arms.
ENGLISHMAN.
Then, indeed, I have lost my only friend.—(And he bursted into tears.)
CHARLES.
No, as I respect your worthy brother’s memory, I will give you an old
coat of mine and some necessaries, and procure you a passage on board
the packet we are to sail in to-morrow or next day, but only on
condition that you will promise to go to sea when I procure you a birth;
I will not bring a beggar back to my native country.
Your brother then gave him some money to provide himself with a dinner,
for he looked half famished.
This is the last letter I shall have the pleasure to write to you from
Holland; I wish we had already set sail, I feel quite low spirited at
being obliged to take leave of so many friends and acquaintance.
Mr. Landbergen has just left us with tears in his eyes, and we have
renewed our promise of corresponding with his son; nay, your brother
said it was possible he might again see him, for that he was so pleased
with his journey to Holland, it was probable, if his father made no
objection, that he and I should, some future time, pay them a longer
visit. He said so, I believe, to comfort me as well as Mr. Landbergen.
In a few days I hope in person to assure you that I am your sincere
friend, till then do not forget
WILLIAM.
P. S. I must tell you that Charles received a letter from Lady Grandison
this morning, with a bill enclosed in it. His eyes sparkled with
pleasure, and soon after he went out without asking me to accompany him;
but returned with such a cheerful aspect, that I am sure he went on some
benevolent errand; I suspect to the young French painter; though I did
not make any, even indirect enquiries, for I think a friend should not
act like a spy, nor be impertinently curious to try to discover what
another chuses to conceal.—If your brother wishes to do good in secret,
may he enjoy the silent plaudits of his own heart. I know already enough
to make me love him, and long to follow his example.