breakfast if we would take a short walk. Charles, who is much better,
desired to be excused going with us. My leg, said he, is not quite well;
if I walk much on it, my father and mother would perceive it, and I do
not wish to give them a moment’s uneasiness, I would rather lose the
pleasure of the walk. He then remained in his chamber, and Emilia,
Edward, and I, accompanied Dr. Bartlett, and we had the following
conversation.
EMILIA.
Why is it not always summer, Sir? The summer is far more delightful than
the winter.
DR. BARTLETT.
If it was always summer, we should not enjoy as much pleasure as we do
at present. The succession of the seasons rouses our attention, and
gives variety to the year; you would be tired of the most beautiful
prospect, if it never varied. You have experienced this very often, I
believe. Some months ago, I gave you an optic glass, and you were so
pleased with it that you would leave off eating to amuse yourself with
the wonders it discovered: now your curiosity sleeps, it is thrown
aside; some months hence it may come in play again. So it is with the
trees and flowers; the change of summer and winter is adapted to our
nature, while the earth is allowed a resting time; during which it
gathers fresh strength to bud forth in the beautiful livery of spring.
EMILIA.
I never viewed it in this light. Oh! there is a great frog.
DR. BARTLETT.
Why are you frightened, they will do you no harm.
EDWARD.
No, they do no harm.
EMILIA.
Dare you then touch one, Edward?
EDWARD.
Yes. Look at me, I will touch one.
DR. BARTLETT.
We may without danger touch a frog, if we only know how to distinguish
it from a toad.—But it is most prudent not to play with any animal you
are not acquainted with.
EMILIA.
Then it is right to be afraid of all sorts of creatures?
DR. BARTLETT.
By no means. You know, for example, that it gives you pain when you take
hold of a nettle: have you then reason to cry out when you see a nettle?
Those little creatures, even though provided with a weapon to defend
themselves, or revenge an injury, will not seek you: they are more
afraid of you than you of them.
WILLIAM.
See, the frog jumps away when we come near it.
EMILIA.
But what say you of rats and mice?
EDWARD.
They fear us yet more. You have often seen how they run away, if they
hear the least noise. I for my part am more afraid of fleas and gnats
than of rats and mice. What do all these creatures in the world? They
are of no use.
DR. BARTLETT.
How do you know that they are not serviceable? I think, nay, I am sure
they are. All that we discover the cause of in God’s works, is good: and
our ignorance ought not to make us doubt of his goodness. A spider, for
instance, you would say, is a disagreeable useless insect.
WILLIAM.
I am afraid of a spider, Sir.
DR. BARTLETT.
That is a weakness, my dear William, which you must try to conquer; you
shall draw some spiders for me. Now a spider, that insect so odious in
your eyes, is of great service to us by his diligence. At the time that
the grapes and other fruits begin to ripen, he spins a curious web to
cover them from the flies and other insects, without doing the fruit any
injury. And from this slight circumstance we may conclude with reason,
that most things in the earth are serviceable, though we know not their
particular use.
EMILIA.
Look, William, what a fine house, I wish I lived in such a noble one.
DR. BARTLETT.
And why, Emilia; think you that that house, because it appears so
stately, is more convenient than the one you inhabit?
EMILIA.
It is much larger, Sir.
DR. BARTLETT.
The family may be in proportion to its size, if not, great part of it is
useless, you have in your’s, all that you ought to desire.
EMILIA.
It looks well, I think, to live in such a fine house.
DR. BARTLETT.
My dear Emilia, that shewy appearance is chiefly for those that pass by,
as you do now; there are possibly more wants in that house than in
your’s. Let us always try to be satisfied with what we have, for
otherwise, if you had that house you would not be content, you would
still see a better; and so you would never have done wishing.
We were silent a few moments, when Dr. Bartlett called hastily to
Emilia, and desired her to cast her eyes on a decayed cottage, near the
road side.
EMILIA.
That looks miserable; there is but a small window in it: those who live
in it can have very little light.
DR. BARTLETT.
But, miserable as it appears, your fellow-creatures live in it.
EMILIA.
They have reason to complain.
DR. BARTLETT.
Think you so? No. They are happy to have such an house. How many are
there who have scarcely a covering to sleep under; and who, when it
begins to be dark, benumbed with rain and cold, know not where to sleep.
EMILIA.
I am distressed. Ah, if all men were as well provided for as I am, that
would quench the thirst of wishing.—But I see a poor boy, perhaps he is
looking for a shelter.
DR. BARTLETT.
Very possibly.
He shall sleep this night under a roof, said Emilia, as she ran to give
the boy something. I really pitied him, and gave him a trifle. The poor
fellow looked pleased. How happy are the rich that they can give to the
poor!
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXI.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Yesterday, when we returned home, we found Charles in the parlour
waiting for us, and ready to receive his father and mother, who soon
after arrived. He forgot the pain in his leg, and ran eagerly to meet
them; indeed he loves his parents. We were this night to sup with Sir
Charles and his Lady, a pleasure we do not often enjoy, as we go to bed
early: they retired to settle some business, and we were left alone
together while the cloth was laying. Emilia was just going to play us a
tune, when we heard some china fall.
EDWARD.
Ha! there it’s broke; what clumsy asses those are.
CHARLES.
But, Edward, do not find fault so hastily; you do not know yet what it
is, nor how it has happened. The name of ass suits not a man.
EDWARD.
I know it is in pieces; servants use things as if they cost nothing.
CHARLES.
I will go and see. I think the damage is not so great as you suppose.
EDWARD.
Now I will venture to lay you any wager, he will apologize for them.
EMILIA.
What then, he will do well; would not you be glad if you had done wrong
that he should apologize for you? He has often taken your part.
EDWARD.
You shall see, he will befriend them; and come in as if nothing had
happened.
EMILIA.
Charles never tells lies, though he is compassionate, and will not
aggravate a fault.
EDWARD.
Here he comes. One would think from his face, that he had done the
mischief. Well, Charles, what is it? Did I not guess right that it was
broke to pieces?
CHARLES.
It was, indeed, one of the best china plates; but why are you so angry?
the loss is not irreparable.
EDWARD.
If I was Lady Grandison, I would make them pay for it; it would teach
them to be more careful another time.
CHARLES.
That would be hard for a servant, who ought to gain by his service. But,
Edward, have you never had any accident—and are you sure you will always
be careful?
EMILIA.
Yes. If it was but pouring boiling water over a person; that is much
worse.
EDWARD.
Why do you trouble yourself about it? And, Charles, if you were a
master, would you let your servants break and destroy with impunity?
CHARLES.
I do not believe there are any servants who break things on purpose. It
is always by accident, and an accident should be excused.
EDWARD.
It is pure good-nature certainly. A careless servant will then with you
never do wrong. But my aunt, I think, ought to know what is broken.
CHARLES.
I intend to tell her; and to ask her to forgive the person who did it
through thoughtlessness.
EDWARD.
And the person was one of the servants, who was it?
CHARLES.
Suppose I should say you have done the mischief yourself?
EDWARD.
I—That is truly a fine story.
CHARLES.
Did you not take a plate off the sideboard to carry your dog some meat
on: and did you not leave it near the hall door on a chair?
EDWARD.
Yes. But what of that?
CHARLES.
The servant in the dark threw it down.
EDWARD.
And could I help that? How came he to go in the dark?
EMILIA.
That we all do very often. You are to blame, the plate was set in an
improper place; the servant could not imagine that it stood there.
EDWARD.
You are always prating, Miss.—But, Charles, my aunt need not hear of it,
she will not miss a plate.
CHARLES.
Edward!—ah Edward! you were in a hurry to inform her when you imagined
the blame would fall on another; but you are less eager now you must
bear the reproof yourself. Let this teach you not to be severe on
others, as this accident must convince you, that you are not faultless.
It is our own faults which make us so ready to mark the errors our
fellow-creatures run into.
The supper came in, and during the repast, Charles mentioned the
accident; and a slight caution from Lady Grandison concluded the
conversation.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Charles has played Emilia and me a fine trick this morning, dear mother.
Dr. Bartlett generally rises with the sun to take a walk before
breakfast; Charles, who was this morning just awake, heard him. He rose
softly out of bed, hurried on his clothes, and ran down to ask him, in
both our names, if we might go with him; to which he consented. It was
hardly light. Charles knocked at his sister’s chamber door, Emilia,
Emilia! are you still asleep, you little think it is almost ten o’clock.
Oh! cried Emilia, what shall I do? I am afraid my mama will be angry
with me. Come dress yourself quickly, said Charles, I will speak a good
word for you. Emilia was quickly dressed; she was ashamed of being so
lazy.
In the mean while he came to me, and told me the same story. Eleven
o’clock—is it possible? But why did you not call me when you got up? And
how comes it to be so dark? Does it rain? That signifies nothing, he
replied, it will soon clear up. Come, make haste, I want to go to Dr.
Bartlett. Well, you would have laughed to have seen our astonishment,
when Emilia and I found it was but five o’clock. And we were very glad
we had a pleasant walk, and the following conversation.
CHARLES.
See there, our John and his son, already busy at their work.
DR. BARTLETT.
They rise with the sun, and begin their daily labour.
CHARLES.
Those people are certainly very laborious, and labour for little profit.
I pity them, their situation is hard.
DR. BARTLETT.
Why, that little profit is sufficient to purchase content, if they are
not vicious.
EMILIA.
But it is tiresome to be obliged to work from morning till night. All
good men ought to be rich, I think.
DR. BARTLETT.
It would quite alter the nature of things. The strong and the weak must
then dig their own ground; and the ingenious would want a spur to assist
the stupid. We must all make our own clothes; manufactures and arts
would be no more—industry would languish, and life not only lose its
principal charms, but cease to be a probationary state, a field to
exercise virtue in, and exert benevolence.
WILLIAM.
That is true, Sir.—But may I ask you something? Does it not look as if
God, who has appointed men to work, had less love for them than the
rich?
DR. BARTLETT.
Certainly not. God has an equal love for all, William, that are
virtuous. A labourer in his low station, and in his poor cottage, is
often happier than those who are exalted to high offices, and reside in
noble palaces.
EMILIA.
The rich have servants to wait on them, while the poor labourer must
continually work for his bread.
DR. BARTLETT.
They who serve themselves, are best served, my love, and labour is
healthful.
EMILIA.
What a slender table is provided for the poor man—and how hard is his
bed!
DR. BARTLETT.
It is so—and notwithstanding this, the poor eat their slender meal with
a better relish, than the great have for the rarest delicacies of their
tables. And they sleep sounder on their flock-beds than the rich on beds
of down. Happiness consists in being satisfied—that is the greatest
riches on earth.
EMILIA.
You make me easy, Sir. I understand it—God loves those men, and cares
for them as well as the rich.
DR. BARTLETT.
Yes. God is the Father of the poorest wretch, who earns his bread by the
sweat of his brow; and he may call the greatest monarch brother: there
is no difference, except what arises from degrees of goodness.
EMILIA.
What fine cows.—They are very good to suffer themselves to be milked.
DR. BARTLETT.
You are mistaken, it is not goodness in those creatures; it is to the
wise order of God that all the praise belongs. The milk would be
burdensome to them, if we let them hold it, and for this reason they
generally come, at the usual hour, to the place where they are milked.
WILLIAM.
It is certainly very happy for men, that there are cows, for milk is a
great dainty.
DR. BARTLETT.
It is not only a dainty, but a useful necessary provision; without milk
we should have neither butter nor cheese.
EMILIA.
And the sheep—I love the sheep they are so gentle.
CHARLES.
And they are of great value. Their wool serves to clothe us—where should
we find warm covering for our beds if there were no sheep?
WILLIAM.
What a good God we have!
EMILIA.
We ought to love him, because he has created all these creatures for
us;—but I know not why we kill them, and then eat them up; it seems
cruel.
DR. BARTLETT.
By no means. They were designed for us, for our food; if we were to let
all the sheep live, they would soon grow so numerous they would die for
want of pasturage.
EMILIA.
Then men do right, when they kill them?
DR. BARTLETT.
It is necessary; and they do not foresee, or taste the bitterness of
death, if they are killed instantly.—Cruel, indeed, are those, who
torment them—they sin against their own souls—and they will be judged
without mercy who have not shewn any. He who is guilty of a cruel action
has sapped the foundation of content; and the monster, no longer humane,
enjoys not human comforts. Nor is he thoughtless, like the beasts of
prey; conscience haunts him—he cannot hide himself, nor find darkness
thick enough to conceal his crimes.
We now returned home, and found Sir Charles and his Lady already in the
breakfast parlour. We mentioned the trick Charles had played us, they
both laughed; but Sir Charles turned to him, I mean not gravely to
reprove you, my son, only to point out to you, that truth is so sacred a
thing it ought not to be jested with; lest a reverence for it should
imperceptibly wear away, and leave the mind, stripped of its most
beautiful ornament, to deck itself in gaudy rags.
Farewel, dear mother, I will try to remember all these useful lessons;
and to strengthen my good resolutions by your advice, write often to
your
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXIII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I must tell you of another walk which we had yesterday noon. The summer
will soon be over, we take our pleasure while the weather is fine; and
Dr. Bartlett says, we never can choose a more innocent diversion than a
walk. It was very warm, and to avoid the heat of the sun darting
directly over our heads, our friend conducted us to a wood, which is not
far from the house. Emilia remained at home with her mother, who was a
little indisposed; Emilia always cheerfully attends to her duty. But I
will communicate the subjects we talked about.
CHARLES.
How agreeable is the shade of the trees!
DR. BARTLETT.
True, Charles. The woods appear designed for our delight; we find here a
refreshing breeze in the heat of the day; and can think and talk, not
exhausted by the relaxing noon-tide beams. A stream, whose very sound is
cooling, renders the scene more tranquil; and the numerous songs, which
are poured forth from every spray, does not interrupt it; all is
peaceful. Do not overlook the variety of plants, which present
themselves to our view.
CHARLES.
And are all these plants of use, Sir?
DR. BARTLETT.
We cannot always trace the wisdom or the goodness of God; but, though
invisible, still it exists every where, and is ever active—gives harmony
to the birds, and healing powers to the plants which decorate the earth.
CHARLES.
So then, we cannot go one step but we find the goodness of God. Do the
woods and forests rise of themselves?
DR. BARTLETT.
No. Nothing arises of itself, but from seed. How the first seed was
sown, we know not; now it happens by chance, accidents which escape our
notice, or birds carry them from one place to another.——God worketh here
as in secret, and beauties are unexpectedly spread around, and surprise
the contemplative walker.
CHARLES.
Men, then, have all the pleasure which the woods afford, without much
trouble.
DR. BARTLETT.
But the advantage is even greater than the pleasure. Where should we go
if there was no wood? We could not cross the sea to visit distant
lands—we must remain on the spot where first we drew breath, without a
house or any useful furniture: and, in many countries, without fuel to
soften the rigors of the wintry season.
CHARLES.
But as we are every year, nay every day, destroying the wood, what will
be left for our posterity?
DR. BARTLETT.
You need not be afraid of that, my dear Charles, the world has now
continued for near six thousand years.—What wood we annually consume, is
again annually supplied by shoots; and thus the face of nature is
renewed—God takes care!
Charles thanked Dr. Bartlett for his instructions, and we returned—and
how happy am I, dear mother, that I can partake in these instructions.
Charles has just been with me to shew me a canary-bird which he has
bought, he intends to tame it.—But I must not forget to tell you,
to-morrow is Charles’s birth-day. Edward thinks we shall have some
dainties; but Emilia says, she is sure her brother will not spend his
father’s present in such a way;—and I agree with her, and imagine he
will lay out his money in books, rather than dainties, which he seldom
seeks for.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXIV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
You will wonder, my dear mother, at Charles; he did not buy books with
the money—but you shall hear all about it. His father came into his room
before he had finished his prayers, I was in the next room; I had said
mine, and waited for him to go with him to Dr. Bartlett. He rose hastily
when his father entered, who laid a paper on the table, and desired him
to conclude the sacred duty he was employed in, before he paid any
respect to his earthly father;—and saying so, he left the chamber.
When Charles joined me he opened the paper, and found four guineas—he
paused a moment.—William, said he, I wish to have your opinion, we have
in our neighbourhood but few young people, we must have a dance, we all
love dancing, and we may be merry, without spending money in sweetmeats
and unnecessary dainties. Well then, said Charles, I will gratify my own
inclination: and immediately we joined the breakfast table. When we were
alone with Sir Charles, my friend addressed him, May I, Sir, do what I
please with the money you have given me?
SIR CHARLES.
Yes, certainly, I gave it you.
CHARLES.
Then I know who shall celebrate my birth-day, if you approve of it—and I
shall be quite happy if you consent.
SIR CHARLES.
Well, who?
CHARLES.
I have more money than I want, I will invite a few acquaintance not to
disappoint my sister and Edward, and indeed I do not wish to make a show
of self-denial, or to let all my acquaintance know that I give my money
to the poor. One guinea will be sufficient for the treat, and the other
three I will give to two poor families, to buy cloathing for their
children. How happy will these poor people be! all those I shall invite
have abundance, I do not desire they should admire my treat and call me
generous, when I should only be vain.
SIR CHARLES.
Can you suppose, my dear Charles, that I should disapprove of your
intention? You begin the year very well, and may expect the happiness
which flows from benevolence: it is an omen and a foretaste.
Charles then modestly thanked his father, and I went with him to
distribute the money; afterwards we danced with a light heart, indeed we
had a pleasant evening.——While we were dancing, as Sir Charles passed by
his son, he whispered him, Pleasure is sweet when we do not sacrifice
our duty to purchase it. And as he repeated his blessing, when Charles
wished him a good night, he added, You have been happy, my son, because
you first thought of making others rejoice.—I shall not forget this
lesson, for I felt its force. I am sleepy, and yet I must tell you, that
while the company were refreshing themselves, Charles and I slipped
away, and hastened to the barn, and found the invited poor regaling
merrily; I cannot describe the pleasure that was pictured on every
countenance, but it has left a pleasing impression on my mind. The
people were so delighted with their good cheer, they did not
sufficiently attend to a poor blind man. Charles observed this neglect;
Father, said he, let me assist you, and he cut his meat for him.
I find the treat was more acceptable to the poor than the rich—I will
ever try to recollect, that it is more delightful to give pleasure, than
excite admiration.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
We rode out yesterday, and had not the pleasure we expected. When we
left home the weather was fine; but the sky soon began to lower, and the
rain fell in large drops; we were obliged to gallop to a little
farm-house, and wait there till the storm was over. Edward was grumbling
all the way, and Emilia was low-spirited, and I own I was disappointed;
Charles looked so for a moment, but soon recollected himself.
EDWARD.
This is dreadful.—What a pity it is—the rain will prevent our enjoying
any pleasure.
CHARLES.
No; we can drink tea here, and return home when it clears up.
EMILIA.
That is not so pleasant. I wish it was fair now—I want to have a ride.
CHARLES.
You wish it was dry weather to pursue your ride to please yourself: and
our neighbour, the farmer, wished this morning for rain, because the
plants and grass are almost withered by the drought. Whose wish is most
rational?
WILLIAM.
The farmer’s, I think.
CHARLES.
Every day there are some parties of pleasure, and could the selfish wish
for fair weather prevail, our fields would soon lose their verdure, and
the corn cease to swell, till it becomes a laughing image of plenty. The
fruits would drop dry on the ground, and the flowers no longer perfume
the air. You will see how green every thing will look, and how sweet
they will smell as we return home.
EMILIA.
I will never impatiently complain of the rain again.
EDWARD.
And I still continue to wish it had not rained till night.
CHARLES.
They who have to travel to-night, would wish to put it off till
to-morrow. Whose wish is to be gratified?
EMILIA.
Charles is right. We are in God’s sight, no more than other men.
WILLIAM.
It is impossible to know what to wish for at all times.
CHARLES.
Believe me, Dr. Bartlett has convinced me, we should be miserable, if
God always gave us what we desire. And, dear sister, is our pleasure for
a day to be compared with the good that so many will experience from the
rain?
EMILIA.
But the poor birds, I pity them.
CHARLES.
They will take shelter if it is troublesome to them. Besides, their
feathers have a kind of oil in them, which hinders them from being wet.
As it did not seem likely to clear up, we seized the first moment,
between the showers, and hastened home. Charles gave his sister his
canary-bird, and she went to provide a cage for it. We diverted
ourselves; but Edward was out of humour; complained of the weather, and
tormented his poor dog.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXVI.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I cannot forbear relating to you, my dear mother, what happened here
last night. We had scarcely been in bed half an hour, before we heard a
dreadful noise. What is that, said Charles? I do not know, answered I,
but I am afraid somebody is breaking into the house. We listened, and
the moment after heard Edward cry out. Charles jumped immediately out of
bed, and I followed him; he caught up the poker and the candle, and
lighted it at the lamp on the staircase. We almost flew to Edward’s
room, where the noise came from. Charles shewed not the least sign of
fear; but I could not help trembling exceedingly. Coming into Edward’s
chamber we found him lying on the ground, and the table fallen topsy
turvy, and all the books and things on the floor. What has happened?
asked Charles. Heaven knows; but I am terribly frightened, replied
Edward. We both eagerly enquired how he came on the ground, and why he
had cried out so dreadfully?
EDWARD.
You would probably have cried out too—I do not know how I got out of
bed—this room is haunted.
CHARLES.
You frightened me at first; but now I must laugh. Poor William was
almost frightened to death; I will go and look for a bottle of wine, it
is proper you should both take a glass.
EDWARD.
Do not go alone!—call one of the servants.
CHARLES.