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. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, N^O 72, ST. PAUL’S CHURCH-YARD.
M DCC XC.
ADVERTISEMENT.
This work is translated from a more voluminous one in Dutch, written by
Madame de Cambon, professedly for the instruction of young people.
The author has judiciously interspersed little introductory hints
relative to natural philosophy; which, while they tend to awaken
curiosity, lead to reflections calculated to expand the heart.
Indeed any instruction which has not evidently this tendency, will be
found not only useless but pernicious; if it be allowed that a
smattering of knowledge can never compensate for narrowing the heart by
introducing vanity. And as it is much easier to dissipate ignorance than
root out that degree of selfishness, which an endeavour to supplant
others generally inspires, emulation should very cautiously be excited.
On this account deviations, from the original were unavoidable; besides
the editor apprehended that affectation rather than virtue may be
produced by endeavouring, through a mistaken zeal, to bring the mind
forward prematurely, as in all probability it will seldom afterwards
reach that degree of strength which it might have acquired by gradual
improvement. In short, the whole has been abridged, and _material_
alterations made, to render it more extensively useful; some sentiments
and incidents are thrown out, and others added, which were naturally
suggested by the subjects: it would be needless to point out the
alterations that have been made; they were, in the editor’s opinion,
necessary. Productions intended for the instruction of youth, without
aiming at the graces of higher compositions, should be as free from
errors as possible; but above all, no narrow prejudices should be
retained to cramp the understanding, or make it submit to any other
authority than that of reason.
YOUNG GRANDISON.
LETTER I.
WILLIAM D—— _to his_ MOTHER:
You desired me to write to you, my dear mother. What a comfort it is to
be able to converse with you in this way, now I am at such a distance,
and cannot see you!
I did not find the journey fatiguing; I was not sea-sick—but I was
sorrowful—very sorrowful, I assure you. You will say that I am childish,
when I tell you, that, during the voyage, as often as I thought of the
last kiss you gave me, I could scarcely restrain my tears, or mention
your name without sobbing. I hid myself in a corner of the cabin, that I
might weep freely without being seen: I was not ashamed of it; yet as
the captain endeavoured to amuse me, I did not wish him to know that I
was so very unhappy. Besides, my dear mother, my tears will not flow
when any one looks at me;—but I will have done. I know you love me, and
I would not willingly grieve you. My heart is lighter.
What a great city this is! and how full the streets are of people! The
large towns in Holland are nothing to it. Every thing pleases me; but I
find not here my dear mother: I cannot run hastily home to tell her all
I have seen, and I do not half enjoy the fine sights.
You praised Lady Grandison; indeed she is so good-natured every one must
love her, as soon as they see her face. How she pressed me in her arms
when I arrived—just as you do, when you are pleased with me. And Sir
Charles Grandison, oh! I cannot tell you what a worthy man he seems to
be: he is so tender-hearted. My father was like him, I dare say; yes, he
certainly was, for you have often told me that he was a good man. Ah!
had I yet that father, how happy should I be: I would love and obey him,
as young Charles obeys his father; and I should not love you less. God,
you have frequently said, is now in a peculiar manner my father. I pray
every night to him, with more earnestness than ever, to bless my mother,
my only parent, and to enable me to be a comfort to her. Now farewel, my
dear mother, think often of me, and love your own
WILLIAM.
LETTER II.
_Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.
Your letter afforded me the most solid satisfaction, my dear son; while
I felt for you, the sorrow, you so well described, drew you still closer
to my heart. Your warm manner of expressing your filial affection
pleased me, as it convinced me, that you have a feeling heart. A son who
could leave an indulgent mother, without experiencing similar emotions,
will never love God, or do good to his fellow-creatures; he will live
for himself alone, and gradually lose the dignity of his nature. But dry
up your tears; immoderate sorrow is a sign of weakness, and will prevent
your improvement, the principal end of life. We must arm ourselves with
courage to ward off the casualties that in this uncertain state we are
exposed to; the happiest situations are not exempt from them; heaven
sends pain and sorrow to teach us virtue, and not merely to afflict us.
When you lament that we are separated, think with what pleasure we shall
meet again; and how eagerly my eyes will run over your whole person, and
my ears be on the catch to weigh your words: that I may trace your
improvement, and love you still more.—And this love would be a comfort
to my age, I should not consider myself a widow.—Yes, your father was
virtuous; resemble him; and console, in some degree, your mother, by
cultivating the virtues which just begin to dawn in your mind.
We shall write to each other often; to write is the same as to speak.
You are now rewarded for the diligent attention you paid to my commands,
though at first it was an irksome task to learn to write; but had you
neglected it, we could not have converted when a vast sea, or large
tracts of land were between us—then, indeed, I should have been absent
in the true sense of the word. Now I can participate in all your
pleasures: be very particular in your account of them; and remember to
write as you speak. A letter ought to be simple and natural; regulate
your thoughts, and let your expressions appear easy and not studied.
Above all, strictly adhere to truth; you violate it, when you use
unmeaning compliments, or permit affectionate words to drop from your
pen, which are fabricated by the head for selfish purposes, and do not
flow from a good heart. Take care always of your spelling: it is a
shameful thing for any one to be ignorant of his native language.
Present my best respects to Lady Grandison.
LETTER III.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
A thousand thanks do I wish to send you, my dear mother, for your
letter; I feel myself of some consequence now you correspond with me.
Was I wrong, when I was proud of your praises? I wished Lady Grandison
to know that I had been an obedient son, and I gave her your letter to
read. What an excellent mother you have, William, said she! you must
obey all her commands, and console her by acquiring virtue. You must try
to amuse her by communicating your sentiments; and do not forget to tell
her of all your amusements, your business, and even the conversations
which you listen to in this family: and this attention will in some
degree make her happy. But, Madam, said I, my mother has often forbid me
to mention any conversations I heard, when I went with her to pay a
visit. William, she replied, you must learn to make distinctions;
conversations are not to be repeated; but you may confide every
observation you make in the bosom of a friend, except indeed the secrets
you have promised to keep, they are sacred. A young person ought never
to promise to keep any secrets from an indulgent parent, till their
reason enables them to govern themselves, and they are no longer
children.
Oh! how glad I was, for you know, dear mother, that I am now fond of
writing. How much I shall have to tell you of young Charles; yes, it is
of him, that I mean to speak the most. You cannot think how much sense
he has, and how good he is; indeed I do love him. We are almost always
together, for his cousin Edward, though he is two years older, has not
half his sense and goodness. But Lady Grandison told me yesterday, his
education had been neglected, so I pity him; yet cannot love him as I
love Charles and Emilia.
LETTER IV.
_Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.
I wish you happy, my son, and rejoice that you have chosen such a friend
as Charles. Yet, while you admire your friend, do not hate Edward;
remark his faults only to avoid them. He is really an object that should
excite your compassion, while you thank God for having placed you in a
different situation. You had the advantage of receiving early
instruction, and was not allowed to contract any bad habits. Sir Charles
paid the same diligent attention to cultivate your new friend’s mind,
and Dr. Bartlett assisted: but poor Edward was suffered to run almost
wild.
You have seen in the little garden I have, that weeds grow quickly; and
would soon choke the vegetables and flowers, if a careful hand did not
pluck them up by the roots.
Lady Grandison praises you; do your best to deserve her approbation, and
you shall ever be the beloved of my heart.
LETTER V.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I enjoy here much pleasure; we walk, we draw, we learn music; and we
sometimes go to the Play. But what pleases me most, is a microscope, my
friend has. We see in it the most wonderful things; every body ought to
have microscopes to know rightly what there is in the world. We view the
flies, the spiders, &c. I shall speak to you often of them, I shall
communicate our conversations word for word. Dr. Bartlett, who is with
us every day, teaches us many wonderful things. Yes, Mama, your son
shall be well furnished with knowledge; but I must leave off writing,
for I am called. Go then away, letter, and tell my dear mother how much
I love her; and assure her that I shall be always her dutiful son.
LETTER VI.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
To-morrow we go to the country-seat—what pleasure I shall have there!
Charles has packed up a great many books to take with him; for we are
both fond of reading. Our drawings and our pencils are not forgotten.
Charles has drawn some landscapes from nature; and I will try to do a
view of the house, and send it to you. I enclose you one of the town
habitation. You must observe two windows on the left side of the house,
I will mark them, your William sleeps in that room, pray look at it.
We are all glad to go to the country-seat, except Edward, he is
displeased. I have been present at a conversation, which interested me.
I will repeat it.
Do you know, said Emilia, that our dear Dr. Bartlett goes with us into
the country? Yes, answered Charles, and I am glad of it. So am not I,
grumbled Edward. And why? Because he is always reproving me. The
reproofs of so wise a man as Dr. Bartlett are very useful, and then he
speaks in such a mild voice, the very tone encourages me to hope that I
may correct the faults he reproves: I am sorry but not hurt, said
Charles. I thought at least I should be free for some time from learning
that miserable Latin, continued Edward; but, no, we must write a theme
every day, I suppose. I hope so, said Charles, and that will not be
tiresome. But, Edward, have you nothing to pack up? I shall let the
servants do that, answered he. The servants will have enough to do, said
Emilia. Then they may go an hour later to bed. Poor servants, replied
Emilia, they are tired and want sleep; besides, they must rise very
early in the morning; you could spare them some trouble, and that would
be a better employment than tormenting your dog. But he is my dog,
snarled Edward. Yes, said Emilia, but the servants are not your servants
nor mine. I need not your lessons, Madam.—Charles interrupted him, and
took them both by the hand, and, turning to Edward, said, we have been
taught from our infancy to think attendance a proof of weakness; and
that we ought not to give the meanest of our fellow-creatures trouble
when we can avoid it, if we desire to be truly great. Give me the
business of the servant and you will oblige me.
Farewel, my dear mother, I will write as soon as I arrive at the
country-seat.
LETTER VII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Here we are at the country-seat, dear mother. What a fine house! what a
pretty garden! There are a number of trees I never saw before.
Charles has a little garden, which he manages entirely himself. He
plants and sows seeds according to his own mind. As soon as we were
rested, he ran to his garden, and what do you think he did? he is
certainly a good boy, he gave half a guinea to the gardener, who had
taken care of it in his absence. The man receives constant wages from
his father; but he has six children, and Charles is compassionate.
Surely it was well done; yet Edward found fault. I will tell you all;
oh! I recollect something; Lady Grandison bid me write our conventions
in the manner of a dialogue, and not always to be using the phrase, _he
said_ and _she said_. Edward saw the gardener receive the half guinea,
and he ran to Charles.
EDWARD.
Are you foolish, Charles, that you give so much money to that man? My
uncle pays him very well for his work.
CHARLES.
That is true; but see how neat my garden is, it deserves a reward.
Besides, he is a poor man, who has many children; and I used to climb up
his knees when I was a child.
EDWARD.
Very well; but I say again, he has more than what belongs to him. Dare
you tell my uncle what you have done?
CHARLES.
Yes, certainly. I hope never to do any thing that I should be afraid to
mention to him. He sometimes gives the gardener money himself.
EDWARD.
My uncle gives his own money, and what you gave is not your own.
CHARLES.
I beg your pardon; what I have given to the gardener was my own; I
received it a few days before I left London as a reward; and could I
make a better use of it? I did double business that I might have some
money to give away.
EDWARD.
And could you not have bought something with it; such as fire-works?
They would have afforded rare sport in the country.
CHARLES.
Fire-works, and for what? Fire-works are but for a moment; while the
shoes the poor man will buy for his children, will keep them out of the
wet a month or two.
EDWARD, (_laughing_.)
And what good will it do you, if their feet are dry?
CHARLES.
If I do them good, it is enough; I feel pleasure in assisting the poor,
and particularly that good-natured man who was so kind to me when I was
a helpless babe.
Edward said no more; he ran away from us to torment a cat, which he had
seen lie sleeping on the grass.
What do you think of all this? I, for my part, was ashamed of Edward,
and love Charles more than ever. When I am rich, should I ever be so, I
will give to the poor; it is such a pleasure to make glad a person in
distress.
LETTER VIII.
_Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.
Your last letter gave me inexpressible pleasure, my son. I am pleased
with you for loving Charles, for loving his virtues; but you must do
more, let your affection have an influence on your conduct, and
endeavour to copy the good qualities you approve.
The pleasure that was painted on the gardener’s countenance found its
way quickly to the heart of Charles, and made it glad; and this pleasure
will be continually renewed, when he meets the smiling infants with the
shoes on he gave them. The momentary amusement that the fire-works would
have afforded, is not to be compared to this heart-felt satisfaction.
The only way to deserve affluence, and indeed the only true pleasure it
procures, is the enlarged power of doing good.
Lady Grandison has sent me another of your drawings. I am glad to see
you so much improved: go forward in this manner, dear William; should
you be deprived of your small fortune, painting would be a respectable
way of earning an independance. At any rate it will be an innocent
source of amusement which will keep you out of idleness and bad company.
Yes, idleness leads to every vice; the exercise of the fine arts is a
good preservative of youth. Take your pleasure, my son, fulfil your
duty, and write often to your affectionate mother.
LETTER IX.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Ah, Mama! a great misfortune has happened here. Edward has fallen into
the water, he is very ill. Lady Grandison is indisposed, and we are much
afflicted. If he had not got help quickly, he would certainly have been
drowned.
It was yesterday afternoon; he had not wrote his theme, and his uncle
ordered him to stay in his room to make it. He is always disobedient; he
was never taught to obey when he was not in the presence of those who
had a right to command him. He went down notwithstanding what his uncle
had said, and came to us; but I must tell you all.
We were going to a farm-house, not far off, to drink some warm milk.
Edward ran himself out of breath to overtake us. Seeing him running, we
waited for him, thinking that he had obtained leave to go with us. After
we had walked a little way together, we met a boy with a wheel-barrow,
on which there was a barrel of vinegar. He made us a bow. Soon after his
wheel-barrow was turned over, and the vinegar barrel fell out on the
ground. The poor boy was in great distress, for he was not able to lift
the barrel on the wheel-barrow again; and there was nobody near him who
could offer him their assistance. Charles ran to him, Come William, come
Edward, said he, let us help this little boy, we shall all four be able
to put the barrel in the wheel-barrow. Are you foolish, cried Edward? do
you think I would demean myself to such low work? There is no meanness,
replied Charles, in doing a good action. Let us see, said I, we three
are strong enough, it is not very heavy; in short, mama, we placed the
barrel on the barrow—while Edward did nothing but sing, and call us
fools. The little boy was very much obliged to us, and wheeled away.
Fine young gentlemen, said Edward, you will soon be able to wheel a
vinegar barrel. Very well, cousin, answered Charles, laughing, then if
my vinegar barrel was to fall, I should be very thankful to any person
who would help me up with it. Laugh as you will, continued Edward, but
what would your father say, if he was told what you have done? He would
commend Charles, said Emilia, my father is good, he would have done just
the same himself. And I, said Edward, am ashamed of this affair; what
had we to do with that poor boy? Oh! replied Charles, we must not only
be serviceable to others who have need of assistance because it is our
duty; but we must do it to gratify humane feelings, which, my father
says, are in every good heart. I should not have enjoyed the treat we
are going to have, if I had left the boy vainly attempting to replace
his barrel. Besides, that very boy might have it in his power, some time
or other, to assist us; but this is not a motive, a good action is its
own reward.
We had not been many minutes in the farm-house before Edward proposed
sailing in a small boat on a little river near the house. Charles and
Emilia refused, saying, that he knew very well that their father and Dr.
Bartlett had forbid them. But they will not know any thing about it,
replied Edward. Yes, returned Charles, I might conceal it without
telling a positive lie; but I could not meet their eyes in the evening,
nor say my prayers if I had deceived them.
Well then, answered Edward, if you will not go on the water, I will
return home; for I do not find any amusement here.
We all thought he meant to do so; but would you believe it, he went into
the boat without our perceiving it.—In about half an hour we heard some
one crying out for help. We ran to the place, with the farmer and his
son.—But what a terrible sight! We quickly saw it was Edward who had
fallen into the river; and there was in the water with him a boy, who
was vainly endeavouring to draw him to the bank. The farmer hastened to
their assistance, and dragged them both out of the water; but Edward was
insensible. Emilia wept aloud, and I was so surprised and terrified I
could not speak: Charles only had presence of mind. He ordered that they
should carry his cousin to the mansion-house; and entreated his sister
to try to compose herself; your tears, said he, will frighten our
parents: we must hasten to inform them in the gentlest manner of this
misfortune. We soon reached the house. Lady Grandison turned pale, and
could scarcely follow Sir Charles, who ran to meet the motionless body
which the farmer and his son supported.
At last, dear mother, Edward came to himself; but he is still in bed,
for he caught a very violent cold. Perhaps this accident may do him
good, I wish it may! Farewel, dear mother, I shall write soon again.
WILLIAM.
LETTER X.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Lady Grandison is better, and Edward almost recovered: and he is grown
much wiser. I mentioned in my last letter, a young boy who had jumped
into the water to save Edward: now this was the same boy whom we
assisted, when Edward laughed at us. I thought of the fable of the Lion
and the Mouse for certainly he would have been drowned if this
courageous boy had not been there. But I must tell you part of a
conversation which we had concerning this matter, when we sat in the
sick chamber.
EDWARD.
You are very kind, Charles and William, to come to sit with me; this
fine evening you could have had more pleasure below than with me.
CHARLES.
It would be mean to seek pleasure only for ourselves. If I was sick, you
would, I am sure, come to visit me.
WILLIAM.
It is sufficient for us, to see you so well, it might have had a worse
issue.
EDWARD.
That is very true. If I had continued a moment longer in the water, I
had been gone; and without that boy who sells vinegar, I should not have
been able to have made you hear.
CHARLES.
See then, in this instance, the brotherly love which, I said, we ought
to cultivate: we should do good to every fellow-creature; love all as
men, but choose our friends.
EDWARD.
I have lamented, indeed I have, that I did not help the poor boy who
ventured his life to save mine.
CHARLES.
You are very right to acknowledge your fault; and after such an
acknowledgement, only the ill-natured will remember it to your
disadvantage. And for the service you may have an opportunity of
recompensing the boy, and do not forget to do it, you are indebted to
him for life. He has been the instrument, in the hands of providence, of
your preservation; and, perhaps, God allowed him to save you, to impress
on your mind a useful lesson, to root out your foolish pride. What would
a young gentleman have done on such an occasion? He would, most
probably, have called out for help; but this hardy boy, more accustomed
to difficulties, and having less fear, plunged in without thinking of
the danger he ran into. Let us, then, love all our fellow-creatures;
those in the lowest condition may be as useful, nay, more so, than those
who fill the highest station. One common nature equally ties us to both;
are we not all children of the same father?
I had tears in my eyes, dear mother, when I heard Charles deliver these
sentiments; his own shone; he is a good creature. I recollected I have
often seen labouring men very compassionate. God takes care of the
meanest insect, Dr. Bartlett says.
Farewell. I forgot to tell you that we are to go to-morrow to dine with
a sister of Sir Charles’s, whose house is some miles distant from hence;
and as we are to rise earlier than usual, I am going to bed, that I may
not keep them a moment in the morning waiting for me. Edward cannot go
with us, he is very sorry, and I pity him, he will be so dull alone; but
I will lend him a book full of stories. Once more farewell.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XI.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
We have been very happy at Lord L——’s; I wish you had seen how well my
friend Charles behaves himself in company. Not like young Dulis, I
assure you. He has so much affectation and formality: he does nothing
but bow, and make compliments, with a half-ashamed face, as if he had
done wrong, and was afraid to look the person he spoke to in the face.
Charles, on the contrary, is polite with a noble freedom; he walks with
ease and grace; he listens with attention, and speaks little; but when
the discourse is directed to him, he returns a modest answer.
I will give you an instance of his attention. We were in the garden with
the whole party: one of the young ladies had left her hat in the house
and complained of the heat of the sun; Charles heard her, and ran
immediately for it. Then, with his usual mirth, he asked permission to
put it on the lady’s head.
Oh, could I be like him how happy I should be! I will try to be as
attentive and complaisant. Most people only come into company to eat and
drink. I know, for you have told me, that children should not converse
much; but they must not appear tired and stupidly dumb. Is it not true,
dear mother?
Lady L—— has two daughters, they are both very pleasing; the eldest,
Charlotte, sings admirably: Emilia is very fond of her, and they have
promised to write to each other.
—But I must not forget to tell you what happened to us in our way home.
Sir Charles and Lady Grandison, Emilia and another Lady rode in one
carriage on before; we were with Dr. Bartlett in the chaise. We had not
travelled above three miles, when we saw a poor blind old man sitting
very sorrowful under a tree. Charles stopped the carriage. Pray, dear
sir, said he, look at that man, he appears blind and wretched; he has
nobody with him, pray let me speak to him. He quickly received
permission, and jumped out of the carriage. Who are you, my honest
friend? said he; who has left you alone in such a solitary place? Alas!
answered the blind man, I am very poor, I came out this morning to beg
in the neighbouring village, and my leader, a cruel boy, has left me to
myself, because I had not collected enough to pay him as usual. Ah!
replied Charles, the sun is already set, it will soon be dark; and what
will you then do? I must perish, if God, who is my only refuge, does not
send some one to help me. No, answered Charles, you shall not perish;
God has sent me to help you.—Dear Dr. Bartlett, let me be so happy as to
save an unfortunate blind man left alone, and who might have been lost,
if we had not met with him! The night comes on apace, where would this
distressed fellow-creature go without a guide? We cannot be far from his
house, do take him into the chaise, I will ride behind, that you may not
be incommoded. Dr. Bartlett would not allow him to do so, but made room
for the poor man. Any other but Charles would, probably, instead of
offering to ride behind, have been ashamed of being seen with a man in
such ragged clothes; but he, on the contrary, seemed to find pleasure in
his company. In short, we only went a mile out of our way; and when we
left him at his cottage door, I saw Charles slip some money into his
hand, while he modestly received the old man’s blessing.
Dr. Bartlett highly commended this act of humanity when we reached home.
But, said Emilia, the man in rags must have appeared an odd figure in
such a fine carriage. I never thought of that, sister, answered Charles,
I was so glad to seize an opportunity of doing good—and felt myself so
warmly interested about the old man’s preservation. Nobly done, my son,
said Sir Charles. Observe, Emilia, your brother has made a triumphal car
of his carriage, which, has done him more honour than those the
victorious Romans, whose history you are all reading, made for their
heroes; he has saved the life of his brother—a poor wanderer in the
dark; yet, forlorn as he appeared, that God who allows us to enjoy the
cheerful light of day, cares for him, and Jesus Christ would have felt
compassion for him; in his eyes the good only were great. Come to my
arms, my son, you rejoice your father’s heart. We were all silent for a
few moments, and tears stood in our eyes—and I prayed that I might glad
my mother’s heart. Farewel, my dearest mother, love your
WILLIAM.
LETTER XII.
_Miss_ EMILIA GRANDISON _to Miss_ CHARLOTTE L——.
I send you a small landscape which I have drawn myself, my dear cousin.
It is not very valuable I know; but I hope to improve as I grow older,
and then I will send you one done in a superior style; but pray hang
this in your chamber, and then you will often think of me.
I wish now to ask your advice; next Thursday is mama’s birth-day, can
you not transcribe for me some verses out of that pretty book you have,
which I would present to my mother to express my respect and good
wishes, and to shew her—No,—I believe it would not be right—No, do not
do it; I will try to express my wishes in my own words.—Why should mama
have stolen verses? I love her dearly, and I think I can easily say what
gratitude and love inspires; and should my foolish tongue falter, surely
she will be able to read in every turn of my face, the sincere affection
which warms my heart. I will then think of what this good mother has
done for me, what misfortunes she preserved me from; next to God, my
thanks are due to her. Indeed I do love her, and I will endeavour to
shew my gratitude by my attention to her most trivial commands or
wishes; and I hope, I shall never through thoughtlessness occasion her a
moment’s uneasiness: I I should hate myself if I did.
For the future, dear cousin, I will earnestly pray to God to spare my
father and mother, the dearest earthly blessings I enjoy. The thought of
losing them depresses my spirits:—O may God long preserve them! Yes,
yes, with these sentiments, I shall know very well how to wish mama many
returns of the day we are to celebrate. I have net her a purse, during
our play hours; I mean to surprise her—she will see that Emilia thinks
of her.
Adieu, dear Charlotte, love your affectionate cousin
EMILIA.
LETTER XIII.
_Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.
You learn natural philosophy, my son; consider it as the road to the
most sublime knowledge, that of tracing the Creator in his works. His
wisdom is conspicuous in the most minute of his productions; all are
done well. Observing this uncommon harmony, you will every day love
God—love goodness more and more. Sentiments of respect will be implanted
in your heart, an awful reverential affection for the great Ruler of the
universe; which affection, if it is active, virtue will flow from,
founded on just principles.
Continue to send me an account of your conversations and your
observations; they afford me pleasure, and impress the important
instructions you receive on your own mind. Be ever thankful to your
benefactors, my William; and remember, your diligent attention to your
exercises, will be the surest proof of your gratitude. Neglect not a
moment; it is the only way to answer the noble purposes you were created
to pursue. What agreeable conversations we shall have together when you
return; you have—and will in future gladden your mother’s heart. God
will bless you for it.
Your little sister begins to write very tolerably. Mama, said she to me,
the other day, I see it is good to learn to write, for else my brother
and you could not tell any thing to each other; it is the same as if he
was with you. I hope to be able to write to him myself soon; and then he
will answer my letter, and I shall have a letter. I love you very much,
mama, for teaching me; I will be always good, because you are so good.
What must I do, to shew you how thankful I am? Learn well, Annette,
replied I. How, answered she, that is for my own good! I should be
unhappy, I could never write to my brother, if I did not. She joins with
me in love. Adieu.
D.
LETTER XIV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I thank you, dear mother, for your kind letter; it is so long since you
wrote to me, I was almost afraid you were displeased with me. Hear what
I do, I always carry your last letter in my bosom, then I can read it
often, and remember the lessons you give me. I love dearly my little
sister Annette, she is so good, and so dutiful to you. Miss Emilia sends
her a fine doll, I am sure it will please her.
Yesterday was the birth-day of Lady Grandison. Charles was up an hour
earlier than usual, and when I awoke I found him, for we sleep together,
busy, praying to God for his dear mother; we read some chapters in the
New Testament, and then Charles dressed himself in his new clothes. You
perhaps may wonder at this; but I will tell you how it was. About a
month ago Charles and Edward had each a new summer suit, and were
allowed to choose the colour themselves. Edward wore his as soon as it
came home; but Charles said that he would keep his till some holiday,
and this was the holiday he fixed on. He was soon dressed, and we joined
Emilia, who stood ready at our chamber door waiting for us.
We hastened to the breakfast parlour. Charles was the first to
congratulate his mother on this occasion; Emilia followed him, and gave
her a purse, she had privately net: Charles, I forgot to mention, had
plucked a nosegay of his finest flowers. I in like manner discharged my
duty as well as I could, at least with a sincere heart, for I love my
benefactors. Edward came into the room soon after; but he approached
Lady Grandison in a careless manner, and seemed to be thinking of
something else.
We all received some presents—mine was a microscope, the thing of all
others I wished for; how kind it was of Lady Grandison to think of my
wishes. You will be pleased with it, and I will instruct Annette, she
shall see the wonders I have admired.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I have here new pleasures every day, dear mother; your William is now
become a gardener. Will you help me, said Charles, the day before
yesterday? and if you like it, I will lay out my garden in another
manner. It is now full of flowers; but it affords me not sufficient
employment: I would wish to change a part of it at least into a
kitchen-garden. My answer was ready. We accordingly went each with a
small spade to work, and quickly dug up the whole garden. The next day
we made a small bed for the flowers, and ranged them in due order. We
rose very early to work, before the sun was intolerably warm; the
gardener gave us some seeds which are proper to sow this month. Now we
only desire to see them come up, and intend carefully to weed them. How
pleasant it will be, to see the plants shoot out of the ground!
I have seen many wonderful things every day of my life without observing
them; but Dr. Bartlett and Charles have taught me to see God in a tree,
a flower, a worm; we converse about them. I will relate a conversation
we had yesterday. Charles has an aviary, he is very fond of his birds;
we had done our work in the garden, and took a walk with Emilia.
CHARLES.
Excuse me, I must leave you a moment; I recollect that I have not taken
care of my birds. We both desired to accompany him.
WILLIAM.
Pretty creatures, they seem as if they belonged to you.
CHARLES.
That they do certainly, because they are accustomed to eat out of my
hand.
WILLIAM.
They appear to know you, but how do they distinguish betwixt you and me?
CHARLES.
It is certain that they have the power to discern, for I have often
seen, when I come with my hat on they fly away; and I conclude from that
circumstance, this faculty of discernment, which I am sure they possess,
is very weak, or they would always know me.
EMILIA.
You are very good to your birds, brother; but Edward let his linnet die
with hunger. If I was to do so, I should never forgive myself.
CHARLES.
It would be cruel, indeed, to confine the poor creatures, where they
cannot get any thing to eat; and then to neglect them.
EMILIA.
But may I ask you something, Charles? Would it not be more noble if you
was to give them their liberty? They sit there like prisoners; we only
confine bad people, and these poor birds have not done wrong.
CHARLES.
No, they are not unhappy in their confinement; God has created them for
our pleasure, though we displease him when we treat them with cruelty.
EMILIA.
They must yet, I think, be uneasy, when they see others flying in the
open air, and themselves shut up.—We should not be satisfied.
CHARLES.
They cannot reason as we can. If we were shut up, we should say to
ourselves, how disagreeable it is to be confined; and how precious is
liberty. But birds have not any idea of this difference. If we give them
plenty to eat and drink they are content, without wishing for what they
have not. That linnet of Edward’s, you just now mentioned, as long as he
had something, he eat it up, without any anxiety for the future. A sign,
that he had not the power of reflecting. A man, on the contrary, would
be afraid of want, if his provisions began to fail; and then he would
eat sparingly; but a bird has not any conception of wanting food—much
less his liberty.
I will only add, that I am your affectionate son,
WILLIAM.
LETTER XVI.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Sir Charles and his Lady went yesterday to pay a visit, and took Emilia
and Edward with them. Charles and I remained at home with Dr. Bartlett.
After our lessons were finished, we requested him to walk with us; the
evening was very fine, the sun was setting. Dr. Bartlett proposed
ascending a neighbouring hill, that we might see the sun set—for, said
he, it is a fine sight.
CHARLES.
You have often told me, Sir, that the sun did not move, but the earth on
which we live goes round the sun. If so, why do you say, the sun sets?
DR. BARTLETT.
That is a manner of speaking which has been taken from the earliest
times, and the term is generally used, though the same sense is not
annexed to it. They thought formerly that the sun moved round the earth,
which it seems to do; but we now know better, after further enquiries,
and various observations.
CHARLES.
Should we then say that the sun moves?
DR. BARTLETT.
If you were in a boat, you would say with as much propriety, that the
land and the trees moved, by which you failed; and yet they do not move.
CHARLES.
That is true, I have often observed it; but how comes it, that we do not
feel the motion of the earth?
DR. BARTLETT.
Because you are accustomed to it from your birth, and the motion of so
vast a body cannot be felt by so small a creature as man is, in
proportion. The sun is much larger than the earth; thus it is most
reasonable to conceive, arguing from what we know of the wisdom of the
great Mover, that the earth goes round the sun, than that the sun moves
round the earth.
WILLIAM.
And is the sun, Sir, so very large?
DR. BARTLETT.
It is well known to astronomers, that the sun is above a million of
times bigger than the earth: judge then how large it must be.
WILLIAM.
But how do you know all this?
DR. BARTLETT.
By careful investigation; and as you are fond of reading, you may
yourself be convinced of it; Charles will lend you the Spectacle de la
Nature[1]. In that excellent book you will find instruction delivered in
an easy manner.
Footnote 1:
On this subject a more useful book has been lately published,
entitled, An Introduction to Astronomy.
CHARLES.
But I must yet ask you, Sir, how can the sun, which you say is about
ninety-five millions of miles from us, give us so much warmth and light?
DR. BARTLETT.
That is truly a great miracle of almighty Power.
WILLIAM.
I am glad I know that the sun is so large. Many think it is not larger
than it appears to us.
DR. BARTLETT.
The further any thing is from us, the smaller it appears; as that kite
for instance, it will appear much less in the air, than it does on the
ground.
CHARLES.
Certainly; and this is also a proof, that the sun must be amazingly
great, because that it is at such an immense distance from us. The moon,
by the same rule, must be very large.
DR. BARTLETT.
The moon is large; but much less than the earth. There are stars which
are of a much superior magnitude.
WILLIAM.
We should not think so.
DR. BARTLETT.
That arises from the stars being still further from us than the moon.
WILLIAM.
And is the moon also a globe of fire?
DR. BARTLETT.
No. The moon is a dark body, it receives its light from the sun.
CHARLES.
All the stars which we see, have their names I suppose?
DR. BARTLETT.
Not all; we have given names to some of them, that we may better
distinguish them.
CHARLES.
I feel a great desire to be an astronomer; it must be a very pleasing
study.
DR. BARTLETT.
That desire should be encouraged; you will by this science learn rightly
to know the great power of your Creator. View the setting sun—what a
glorious scene! We should without it be very miserable. All would lie in
dreadful darkness. It affords us light, and it brings an agreeable
warmth to the earth; it makes the fruit and grass grow: the earth could
not bring forth without the sun’s influence.
CHARLES.
There, the sun is set.—How comes it that it is not now immediately dark?
DR. BARTLETT.
That arises from the flexibility of its beams, which we will enquire
into another time; your laudable curiosity pleases me. Let us now
reflect what great benefit we receive from God’s allowing the darkness
to come on so gradually. Would it not be dreadful if we came in a moment
from clear light into thick darkness?
CHARLES.
Very true, Sir; it would damp our spirits, and the night would then
always surprise us before we were aware of it.
DR. BARTLETT.
It is indeed happy for us that the night comes and goes away
imperceptibly. If we passed out of darkness into light in a moment, our
eyes would be blinded by the sudden glare; and the surprise would
discompose our minds. The wisdom of the Almighty Creator appears thus in
every thing.
CHARLES.
I never yet thought of that benefit, when I have seen the sun set. I am
glad, Sir, that you have pointed it out to me, for it will make me more
thankful for the divine goodness.
DR. BARTLETT.
I will send for my telescope, and then you will have a nearer view of
the moon. And to-morrow morning I will call you very early, and we will
see the sun rise—you will find it equally beautiful.
Dear mother, how happy I am to learn all this. I already feel more love
and reverence for God, the cause of all these wonders, than I had
before. If I grew ever so tall, I should not think myself a man, till I
knew something of the works of God.—Can a man be wise who sees him not
in every surrounding object? Charles and I intend to make all the
enquiries we possibly can—we will try to be good and wise.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XVII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
We were this morning, mama, at half past two, in the fields, to see the
beautiful scene of the sun rising. Edward would not go with us, he
rather chose to sleep. He is very lazy, and ignorant of course, Dr.
Bartlett says. Yet, though he plays much more than we do, he is not so
happy; he often seems not to know what to do with himself, idleness
making the hours so heavy. He wishes for his meals long before the time,
and torments insects and animals wantonly to shorten the tedious
interval. I heard Sir Charles say, the other day, he feared he would
never be a man in understanding. That instead of rising gradually to a
man, he was sinking into a brute. But I must relate our conversation.
The stars were yet visible when we went out.
CHARLES.
My father has promised me some excellent books, Sir.
DR. BARTLETT.
The books of wise writers, are useful to make us more easily understand
what we see and experience; but our own eyes may teach us a great deal.
The Book of Nature, the heavens, with all the stars and planets; this
earth on which we are, with all its productions and creatures, is the
best book; but others will serve as guides.
CHARLES.
See, Sir, I think it is lighter.
DR. BARTLETT.
Observe now, how the stars begin to grow dim, before the approaching
light of the sun.
WILLIAM.
I thought always that the stars went away, when it was day light.
DR. BARTLETT.
There are some which have their appointed revolutions; and others which
are stationary; these we call the fixed stars.
CHARLES.
Are there stars then by day as well as by night?
DR. BARTLETT.
Certainly. But the stronger light of the sun, makes the fainter light of
the stars invisible.
CHARLES.
How beautiful the trees and fields begin to appear.
DR. BARTLETT.
Yes. What just now appeared a scene of confusion, is changed into a
charming country. The fields, which were before not to be distinguished,
now seem green, and decked with a thousand flowers. The light gives all
again their colours.
CHARLES.
What you say is remarkable. I begin to imagine that the light gives the
colours.
DR. BARTLETT.
Without light, would not all be black? But this is a subject you cannot
understand, till you have read and considered things more maturely. See
there, the sun begins to appear. What think you of that sight?
CHARLES.
Can it be, that most men spend this hour in sleep?
DR. BARTLETT.
Such men make themselves unworthy the favours of their Maker. The
glorious sun, which is sent to make us joyful, to warm us, and to
nourish us, well deserves that we should sometimes rise to bid it
welcome.
CHARLES.
Pray let us often behold the rising of the sun. We sometimes spend money
to see a fine scene; and this scene, which we can have for nothing,
beyond measure surpasses what can be done by the art of man.
Dr. Bartlett then was moving homewards; but we requested him to prolong
his walk, as the morning was fine, and we knew they would not wait
breakfast for us. But this letter is already too long, and I must attend
my drawing-master; you shall hear the rest soon.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XVIII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I have not forgotten what I promised you, dear mother. No, you have told
me we should always remember what we promise.
CHARLES.
How beautifully green the fields are.
DR. BARTLETT.
Yes, that green enlivens the prospect, and does not require much
cultivation: a common blessing we often overlook, though our gratitude
on that very account should be excited.
CHARLES.
The garden gives us more flowers, and a greater variety.
DR. BARTLETT.
You are mistaken; the field flowers are innumerable. Look round about
you, and you will see that I have reason to say so.
WILLIAM.
But then the fruits which the garden produces.
DR. BARTLETT.
These fruits are the gift of our Creator, for which you ought to be
thankful; but believe me, these blades on which we tread are of yet
greater value. They support the cattle who yield us such delicate food,
milk, butter, and cheese. The useful horse here renews his strength; and
the sheep, whose wool answers so many purposes, which keeps us warm both
day and night, nip the short grass every where spread. And all this
happens without our labour, or any great care; while the fruits and the
flowers in the garden, require perpetual attention. Certainly we find
here a much greater proof of God’s goodness than in our flower garden.
This grass is necessary, my friends, but the flowers and the fruits we
could live without.
CHARLES.
These wild flowers are very pretty; why do we set so little value on
them?
DR. BARTLETT.
Because we accustom ourselves to consider things in a wrong point of
view; and to imagine those of little value which we obtain without art
or labour. Come, my young friends, let us correct this mistake; let us
not undervalue even the grass; let us always acknowledge it to be the
liberal gift of heaven, intended to support both man and beast.
WILLIAM.
Look what a quantity of fish, that rivulet contains.
CHARLES.
They are beautiful creatures; how can they live in the water? Most other
animals would die.
DR. BARTLETT.
God has given the fish another kind of body; because they were designed
for the water, to inhabit the great deep. They have fins to move
themselves from place to place; and besides that, the tail is of great
use to them in swimming; and the fins, which they have on their backs
and bellies, enable them to keep themselves upright.
CHARLES.
But how can they breathe; have they any air in the water?
DR. BARTLETT.
You must have observed, that they first draw the water in, and then
immediately spurt it out again: they obtain by this continual motion,
the air which is necessary.
CHARLES.
You have well said, my dear Sir, that in every thing the great wisdom of
God is displayed: for this is truly wonderful.
DR. BARTLETT.
There are yet greater wonders to be seen in the world of waters.—Would
you think, that in a single drop of water, there are thousands of living
creatures, which you cannot see with your naked eye?
WILLIAM.
In a single drop of water?
DR. BARTLETT.
Yes. And to convince yourself of this, you have only to use your
microscope, and you will plainly see an innumerable quantity of
creatures sporting in the comparatively small space.
CHARLES.
You fill me with astonishment. Pray let us go home directly, I long to
view this new world of creatures.