swallowed a hasty breakfast, carried a glass of the river water into our
play-room. We soon saw that what Dr. Bartlett said was true. Certainly,
my dear mother, that glass of water was a sea full of all sorts of
creatures, of wonderful forms. I never thought that there were such
small living creatures. How admirable is the wisdom of God! for you
recollect that so small a body must have members and bowels, as perfect
for the purposes of life as the largest animal. We have discovered all
this through the assistance of the microscope; but my letter would be
too long, if I was to relate all that we have discovered. Bless your
son, my mother. Adieu.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XIX.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Sir Charles and Lady Grandison have been for some days from home; but
Dr. Bartlett is with us. The house-keeper, and all the servants, consult
Emilia, and she, in the most modest manner, tells them what she knows
her mother wishes them to do. She is not allowed to command any of them;
the house-keeper in particular, a respectable woman, Lady Grandison
said, ought not to receive orders from a child; but she behaves with
such propriety, they are all eager to oblige her; indeed she follows her
brother’s example. Edward, on the contrary, does nothing but romp and
wrestle, and afterwards quarrel with them. He hates all employment; I
should imagine, those who do not learn when they are young, must appear
very foolish when they are old. You shall hear what Charles said to him
yesterday. Charles, Emilia, and I sat on one side of the room, drawing;
while Edward tied a thread to a beetle—and often he would jump, as if by
accident, against our chairs, to disturb us and make us leave our
employment. Charles spoke to him.
CHARLES.
Ah, Edward, what pleasure can you find in torturing a poor insect? It
turns me sick to see you; pray let it go!
EDWARD.
And what do you do, when you and William set the butterflies on a needle
to look at them through your fine microscope? That pleases you, and this
pleases me.
CHARLES.
If William and I set the butterflies on a needle, only for our
amusement, it would be wrong; but we do it to instruct ourselves—yet,
though we seek instruction, I could not bear to torture them; the sight
of their agonies would engross my whole attention. Dr. Bartlett has
taught me to kill them expeditiously without injuring their appearance.
I then gratify my curiosity without hardening my heart, for that
tender-hearted man, our dear tutor, often says, that even the attainment
of knowledge cannot compensate for a quick emotion of benevolence,
banished by a habit of thoughtless cruelty. He wishes to make me wise;
but still more ardently to incite me to practise goodness, to shew
kindness to the insects who crawl under my feet; and to let my love
mount up from them to the beings, who, while they enjoy the blessings of
heaven, can recognize the hand which bestows them.
EDWARD.
Well, if you will come with me into the garden, I will let it go.
CHARLES.
That is to say, that if I refuse to go with you, you will continue to
torment the poor insect. It is not it’s fault if I do not go with
you—surely this is not right; but I will accompany you.
EMILIA.
It begins to rain.
CHARLES.
Shall I read to you? I have got a very entertaining book.
EDWARD.
You know I do not love reading.
CHARLES.
So you do not desire to converse with men.
EDWARD.
Well, yes.—What then?
CHARLES.
Books speak; and make us wiser, while we are amused.
EDWARD.
I do not desire to be learned; but to be an officer.
EMILIA.
A fine officer, who will not know how to read or write intelligibly!
EDWARD.
Now, Charles, preach, as you did the other day about cards.
CHARLES.
I reproved your too great fondness for cards. You are angry if you lose;
and those who cannot play with temper, in my opinion, ought never to
play at all. It is not amiss to know how to play, because that cards are
so much used in company, and it enables one to oblige those who are fond
of this amusement. I do not find any pleasure in it; and I hope never,
from a false pride, to be induced to play for more than I can afford to
lose.
EMILIA.
Poor Mr. Beverley, who died last week, and left his family in great
distress, my mama told me, first played to avoid being laughed at, and
called a mean-spirited man. He went on from one thing to another, till
he spent his whole fortune, and ruined his constitution. His wife
actually took in needlework to support him during his last illness,
though she had been educated to expect better things. He died in an
obscure lodging, a burden to the woman he ought to have been a comfort
to; and left his half-starved babes, to weep over the lifeless body of
their inconsiderate parent. I wept too—when I heard of it.
The conversation was interrupted, but I must tell you Emilia had tears
in her eyes, when she told us about poor Mr. Beverley’s children. I
remember now I used to be vexed when young Dulis laughed at me, and
called me a coward, when I refused to do mischief; and mean, when I
saved my money, though I intended to give it to a poor blind man; but he
did not know that. I do not like to tell any one but yourself that I
give most part of my allowance to the poor; it would look as if I wanted
to be praised, and that the love of praise was my motive; but indeed it
is not, the pleasure I feel at the moment, is a sufficient reward.
Besides, I think I resemble my dear mother, and I am happy.—I am sure
you will love me, if I practise virtue.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XX.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
One of the servants has been very ill. You cannot think how
compassionately Emilia attended her. She rose very early this morning to
carry her some refreshment, and tried to amuse her. She requested Dr.
Bartlett to send for a physician; and she took as much care of her as if
the poor girl had been her own sister. Edward reproached her. It well
becomes you, said he, to be sure, to wait on the maid. And why not,
answered she; you play with the servant to amuse yourself (and such a
degree of familiarity is indeed improper) and I take care of the maid,
through pity. A servant is a human being; we are differently educated, I
cannot make them my companions, but I will ever try to treat them
humanely—and remember that they are my fellow-creatures, when they are
in distress. Edward was ashamed and ran out of the room. My mother, I
thought, always acted in the same manner. I remember well, when our
Hannah had the fever, that you took care of her yourself. But it brings
to my remembrance something, which makes me sorrowful. How unfortunate
you are! Here are so many servants, and you, my poor mother, have only a
little girl to assist; you yourself are obliged to do many things—a
colonel’s widow should have servants to wait on her; it is mean to work,
and do not people despise you for being reduced to such a condition?
When I am a man, and have increased my fortune, you shall have servants,
and live as a gentlewoman ought to live.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXI.
_Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.
I admire Emilia, she is a good, and a pleasing girl; there is not a more
amiable virtue than compassion. It is much to be wished that all young
ladies would take her for their pattern; and, instead of falling into
the two shameful extremes, familiarity and haughtiness, which are often
to be observed in the same character, they would treat their servants
with humanity and decent kindness. You know how frequently I have
praised you for your affability to your inferiors.—But, William, why are
you grieved that I have but one servant? A number of servants are not
necessary; they serve more for shew than use. Had I riches, I would try
not to waste the precious deposit; I would live according to my station.
And while my own real and artificial wants were supplied, I should think
with pleasure, that though so many servants were not necessary to wait
on me, I enabled some industrious fellow-creatures to earn an honest
livelihood; and by humane treatment made their labour pleasant. But
since it has not pleased heaven to give me riches, I am content, and
thankful that I can keep a girl to do the most laborious and menial part
of my household business, which I could not do without injuring my
health, and neglecting your sister’s education. I am not in absolute
need of any more assistance. And what now is that employment, which, you
say, is unbecoming the widow of a colonel? You wrote hastily, it is not
dishonourable to serve ourselves when we cannot afford to pay for the
services of others. It will be more satisfaction to you, to be able to
say, after my death, my mother provided her own dinner; her clothes were
the work of her hands; her economy made up for the deficiencies of
fortune; and her virtues made her respectable; than if you heard your
parent reproached, for living according to her rank, and birth. She had
a fine house, rich furniture, a number of servants; but she has left
nothing behind her; and what is still worse, has injured several
industrious people who trusted to her honour. What would then be the son
of a colonel? A despised youth, who, though innocent, must blush for his
mother’s want of thought and justice. The son of a reputable tradesman,
would scarcely acknowledge him as an equal; but I have laid enough, I
hope, to dissipate your false pride and concern for me: you find I am
satisfied with my station. Again let me tell you, your letters are a
comfort to me; was I much poorer than I am, I should still esteem myself
rich in the possession of such a son.
Farewel, my dear William, regulate and follow the good inclinations I
have endeavoured to cultivate, then you will not only be the comfort of
your mother, but the protector of your sister.
D.
LETTER XXII.
EMILIA GRANDISON _to Lady_ GRANDISON.
We have been greatly alarmed, dear mother. Mr. Wilson’s house was last
night burned to the ground. Oh what frightful flames! The air was as red
as blood; my heart beat very strong, I trembled lest the family should
be destroyed in their beds.—It was dreadful to see such devastation by
fire; how careful we ought to be to avoid the sudden horror of so
terrible a calamity. If they had been careful, this misfortune would not
have happened; the two Miss Wilsons were the occasion of it. They had in
the evening, without its being observed, lighted a fire in their
play-room; and spread the coals on the hearth to bake privately some
cakes. The fire must certainly have caught the boards; but they did not
perceive it; as they were interrupted before the cakes were half baked,
and obliged to go to their mother, who called for them. They swallowed
hastily the unwholesome, and even unpalatable cakes, and shut the door
without thinking any more about it. The flames did not burst out till
the whole family had been some time fast asleep. There is not any thing
saved. All the furniture, clothes, and the stock of the farm were
reduced to ashes. The poor girls escaped with only a single petticoat
on; and Mrs. Wilson was with difficulty rescued from the devouring
flames, which consumed all her substance.
What will now become of that pride, which made the Miss Wilsons treat
with such disdain the neighbouring farmers daughters, because they were
their inferiors in birth and fortune—and now they are happy to find a
shelter in the houses they despised. Indeed, mama, I will obey you, and
ever behave with kindness to my inferiors. But I have something else to
tell you, and I am sure you will not be angry with me; I sent some of my
clothes to the Miss Wilson, who is about my size; I have more than I
want—and surely, mama, if that was not the case, I ought cheerfully to
bear a trifling inconvenience to do a fellow-creature an essential
service. Wearing for the first time new clothes, never gave me half the
pleasure—no, it cannot be compared with what I felt, when I gave away my
old ones. I did not send my best (though I would have parted with them
without feeling any reluctance) as I thought, common clothes would suit
her better. Farewel, dear mother.
EMILIA.
LETTER XXIII.
_Young_ GRANDISON _to his_ FATHER.
I am just returned, my dear father, from visiting poor Mr. Wilson.
Emilia has written my mother an account of the dreadful accident which
happened last night; and I wish, ardently wish, to alleviate the
distress I could scarcely behold without tears—indeed I believe I should
have wept, if I had not been full of a plan, which darted into my head,
when I heard the grey-headed old man lament the disaster, which, in the
course of one night, swept away the hard-earned fruits of many toiling
years. To be plunged into poverty, said he, when my strength faileth me,
and even the sweat of my brow will not procure the necessaries of
life—is sad. And so it is; now I will tell you what I have thought of.
You know my uncle left me five thousand pounds—I think it a great
fortune, and I can surely spare two hundred to help Mr. Wilson out of
his extreme distress; that sum would be sufficient to stock another
farm. I shall be rich enough, and the more so, as you are so good as to
let the interest accumulate. I beg, Sir, you will not refuse my humble
request—I shall have more satisfaction in relieving this unfortunate
man, than ever my two hundred pounds can give. To rescue from poverty an
industrious man and his family, what a blessing! In this respect, let me
be like my father, who is himself so benevolent,—who has taught me to be
compassionate. Were you but here, I would throw myself at your feet,
and—but it is enough, you will judge if my request merits your
attention; my duty is submission, and I know I need not try to persuade
you—you will at once do what appears to you right.
CHARLES GRANDISON.
LETTER XXIV.
_Sir_ CHARLES GRANDISON _to his_ SON.
You have learned of me, you say, to be compassionate. It has ever been
my wish and endeavour, to make your heart feel the miseries of your
fellow-creatures; and I have laboured to inculcate the virtue, which
next to the love, the goodness of God ought to inspire, is the noblest
ornament of our nature. The request you make is a proof of the warm
generosity of your heart: and so praise worthy a desire merits a reward.
The fresh discovery I have made of your benevolent disposition, is of
more value, in my estimation, than the two hundred pounds, which you
will find enclosed. Go, my Charles, make glad poor Wilson’s heart, and
taste the delight, which flows from benevolence. But let me tell you,
the legacy must not be touched before you are of age: it was entrusted
to my care as a guardian, and not as a father.
GRANDISON.
LETTER XXV.
_Lady_ GRANDISON _to_ EMILIA.
You were right, my dear Emilia, when you imagined I could not be angry
with you for following the humane dictates of your heart. As a proof of
my approbation of your conduct, and to reward you for it, I will give
you another opportunity of experiencing the pleasure which arises from
benevolence. You will find in my drawers a piece of calico; send for the
mantua-maker, and desire her to make Mrs. and Miss Wilson a dress
immediately. I know this commission will afford you more pleasure, than
if I gave it you for yourself. But, my Emilia, why did you mention their
faults, when you related the circumstances which made them truly objects
to excite my commiseration. You might silently have determined to behave
properly to your inferiors, without exhibiting the disagreeable picture
of their haughtiness, when it was receiving a severe chastisement.
Never, my child, add to the miseries of others, even though the
sufferers should be unworthy.—Be tender-hearted in every sense of the
word. I do not mean to chide you, when I point out an error; you are a
good girl.—You were judicious in not sending your best clothes; you
considered the wants of the person you wished to assist, and your
generosity had not that tincture of vanity which very frequently
degrades it. Always, my child, define rather to do good, than to display
your goodness: remember that the best of Beings notes your secret
thoughts; and that it is truly noble to have sometimes his approbation
singly in view.
Farewel, forget not the useful lesson you have given yourself, never to
be proud of clothes or furniture; an unforeseen casualty might deprive
you of them, and even the riches which procured them. “Lay up then a
treasure in heaven; where neither rust, nor moth can corrupt; nor
thieves break through and steal.”
HARRIOT GRANDISON.
LETTER XXVI.
CHARLES _to his_ FATHER.
What a pleasure you have allowed me to enjoy, my dear father! indeed I
know not how to thank you for it; but I will tell you how happy you have
made Mr. Wilson, and that will reward you. The tears rolled down his
cheeks as he pressed the hand I held out;—but I must relate the
particulars. Mr. Wilson has a great spirit; I was afraid it would hurt
him to receive a present from a boy; I wished to have put it in his
snuff-box, to have avoided hurting his delicacy; but I could not
contrive to do it unobserved. I then offered to lend him the sum he
wanted, and refused a note he would have given me, and ran out of the
house—I did not want thanks—I rather wished to thank God for permitting
me to relieve a fellow-creature.
I am, dear Sir, your affectionate and dutiful son,
CHARLES GRANDISON.
LETTER XXVII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
We went yesterday with Dr. Bartlett to visit a farm-house, where there
are some bee-hives. I had often heard of bees, but I never saw them work
before. What wonderful little creatures! but I will give you our
conversation.
EMILIA.
Will not these bees hurt us, Sir?
DR. BARTLETT.
No. But we must not make any violent noise; we must approach them
softly. Look, you may imagine you view a whole city, well peopled; where
every one does his best to earn a subsistence in an honest way; none
here stand idle. What a lesson for the sluggard who wastes his time in
idleness, and is a burden to himself and others.
EMILIA.
Have they made those little holes entirely themselves?
DR. BARTLETT.
Yes. They are always employed; they take care in the summer to provide
food for the winter; and build themselves little rooms in which they are
preserved from the cold. They pay also a necessary attention to
cleanliness; they carefully throw out any accidental dirt, and the dead
bees.
WILLIAM.
But, Sir, if it should happen that a snail, or any other insect enters
the hive, would they immediately drive it away?
DR. BARTLETT.
When they find such an insect, after they have killed it, they enclose
it in wax, so that no damage can arise from it.—Observe what harmony
reigns in the hive; every one has his particular post. One flies out to
gather honey; another takes care of the wax; and a third has his
business in the hive. They who remain at home, come to the entrance of
the hive, to take the load from those who fly abroad: and this way they
relieve and help each other. We may then justly compare them to a
virtuous family; where every one is diligently employed to make his
companions happy.
CHARLES.
But I think I see one much larger than the rest.
DR. BARTLETT.
You are quick-sighted, it is the queen you see, and they pay her all
possible respect: there is never more than one queen in a swarm.
CHARLES.
Bees are of great use to us.
DR. BARTLETT.
Certainly. We should without them, have neither honey nor wax; which are
both very useful for various purposes.
WILLIAM.
But, Sir, is it not hard that we should rob the bees of their honey,
which they have so industriously gathered for themselves?
DR. BARTLETT.
It would be cruel, indeed, if we did not leave them a sufficient
quantity. Providence, in the whole of creation, considered the wants of
man; yet did not neglect to supply those of the meanest of his
creatures. We are allowed to govern them, and partake of the dainties
they procure; but the master must not degenerate into a tyrant—a cruel
spoiler.
EMILIA.
I never could endure bees, because they sting; but for the future I will
love them.
DR. BARTLETT.
Do so, and remember that there are many other things which you despise,
only because you cannot discern their use, or have not thought about it.
EMILIA.
What kind of an understanding have the bees?
DR. BARTLETT.
We distinguish it by the name of instinct. It is instilled at once; and
does not grow gradually, and improve as our faculties, if properly
employed, always will.
WILLIAM.
Are there no means to enable men to procure honey? for they see the bees
collect it from the flowers and herbs.
DR. BARTLETT.
No certainly. We will look at a bee through the microscope, and then you
will discover the instrument, with which they collect their treasure; an
instrument which all the art of man cannot prepare.
Dr. Bartlett said very true; we took a bee home, and looked at it
through our glass—I wish I could give you a description of it; but you
shall see it in my microscope, when we meet in your little room, which I
think of with more pleasure than the sight of the finest English house
ever inspired.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXVIII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Oh! my dear mother, my friend Charles has scalded his leg, and cannot
walk. Edward, who always does things rashly, was the occasion of it, by
throwing down a kettle of boiling water. But I never saw such patience,
such goodness as Charles possesses. Instead of being angry, he, on the
contrary, concealed the pain he felt. It is nothing, said he, it has not
hurt me much, do not make yourself uneasy Edward. But we soon perceived
how it was, for his leg swelled so suddenly, they were obliged to cut
his stocking, before they could get it off. Emilia began to cry, and
upbraid Edward for his carelessness; and thoughtlessly wished he had
scalded himself. Charles interrupted her; I do not wish any one to
suffer, said he; be composed, dear sister, my leg will not, I hope, be
much the worse. Edward did not do it on purpose, it was an accident;
reproaches cannot mend the matter; and if it was worse we ought rather
to encourage each other. He then sent for the house-keeper, and
requested her to dress it—and hearing Dr. Bartlett’s foot-step,
entreated his sister not to mention Edward as the cause of the accident;
your anger, he added, gives me more pain than the scald.
How happy it is when we can command such presence of mind—such composure
in a moment. Tell me, does it not arise from thinking more of what
others suffer, than the actual pain we ourselves endure? Had he been
fretful, it would not have done him any good; I should have pitied,
without admiring him, as I now do.—But the pleasure I find in writing to
my dear mother, makes me forget that he desired me to keep him company.
I give you then a night kiss in the thoughts of my heart. Adieu.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXIX.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Charles begins to walk a little. I love him, and if I was not excited by
affection, my sense of duty would prompt me to attend him now he is
sick. Besides, I have much pleasure when we are alone together. We were
yesterday busy with our glasses the whole afternoon. Dear mother, what
amazing things there are which we cannot see with our naked eye. Should
you think there are living creatures in a small grain of sand, and that
those grains of sand contain small holes, in which they hide themselves.
The mould that is in old cheese, appears like a wood of trees, with
branches and leaves. In the hair of the head, we discovered a tube,
through which a juice ran. Who would believe that small insects,
scarcely visible, have blood vessels and bowels, constructed with as
much care as those of the largest animals.
And the flowers, they are indeed beautiful. Come, said Charles, let us
see the difference between the works of God and man. We employed our
attention on the natural rose first; all was splendid and perfect: we
then viewed an artificial rose; but what a difference! All was rough and
disagreeable, and the beauty vanished. We looked at some highly polished
steel; but it appeared like unwrought rusty iron. What then is the art
of man, compared with the almighty power of the Creator? Nothing,
indeed!—Oh that every body knew this! They would have more reverence for
the Supreme Being. But what do we? We pluck a flower—we keep it some
hours; and then throw it away without thinking that the greatest effort
of human art could not produce such another. We slowly labour—but God
spoke—and it was done.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXX.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Sir Charles and Lady Grandison are expected this afternoon. We are all
glad, the servants join in the general joy. Is it not a good sign, when
the servants are attached to their masters? I will endeavour to be good
and humane, when I am a man, it is so delightful to be loved.