mother, and I would avoid doing that, as there is not any real cause for
fear.
WILLIAM.
And dare you go alone?
CHARLES.
Why not, my friend, I am sure there are no thieves in the house.
EDWARD.
I have as much courage as he—yet, William, I would not go down. Hush!
pray listen—do you hear any thing? Here comes Charles—what have you
seen? Surely, you must have met something.
CHARLES.
Yes; I have seen the stairs, the dining-room, and this bottle and glass.
Come on, let us drink each a glass, and it will give us courage to wait
for the apparition.
EDWARD.
I beg you will not make game of it.
CHARLES.
And why not?—It is only at apparitions I laugh.
WILLIAM.
Why, do you believe that there are no apparitions?
CHARLES.
Indeed I do not give credit to the stories I have been told lately; my
father would never allow such subjects to be mentioned when I was a
child. But, Edward, tell me now what made you so suddenly get out of
bed?
EDWARD.
An apparition, I tell you, Charles.
CHARLES.
Perhaps you were dreaming?
EDWARD.
A likely story truly—I think I know when I am awake.
CHARLES.
And what did you see then?
EDWARD.
I had just put out my candle, and before I could fall asleep, I plainly
heard something run across the chamber. I then started up in bed and saw
in the farther corner two lights, they moved about, and sometimes
appeared very small and then glared like large balls.
CHARLES.
That was certainly no more than a glittering in your eyes.
EDWARD.
What?—What I saw so clearly?—I then kept myself quite still—the light
vanished, and I heard a great bounce against the door.
WILLIAM.
I should have been frightened, I am sure.
EDWARD.
I was so terrified I could not call for a light, I sunk into the bed and
covered my head; but I had not remained many moments, scarcely daring to
breathe, when I heard a light foot-step coming towards the side of my
bed next the wall;—I ventured to peep—and saw, indeed I did, a great
white apparition, which grew bigger and bigger as it approached:—I know
not what I did—I jumped out of the other side of the bed, knocked down
the table, and screamed out.—But hush, I hear a noise.
CHARLES.
I will lay a wager it is a rat that has hid itself.
EDWARD.
A rat is not white.
CHARLES.
Let us search, something it must be; a spirit cannot make a noise.
Charles then looked in every corner of the room, behind the
clothes-press, and the bureau. He then called out, there is the
apparition, Edward, I have found it at last. And what was it, do you
think? A great white cat which generally lives in the stable. We all
laughed, in particular Edward; but, said he, I cannot imagine how the
cat could make such a noise, and look so big.
CHARLES.
Your fear magnified it; when we are terrified, we seldom see things as
they really are. The lights, which were the cat’s eyes, so dazzled
yours, you imagined them to be balls of fire.
We then went to bed and slept very sound till the morning.
We related the whole affair when we were at breakfast, and after Sir
Charles had commended his son, he added, This may teach you all not to
be terrified, but to enquire into things; and believe me, many causes,
which at first appeared very alarming, will vanish, or only resemble the
white cat. While God, the great Spirit, takes care of us, can phantoms
harm us? He will support all those who trust in him—fear him—and you may
banish every other fear. You may be certain, all the stories you have
heard, took their rise from terror; a timid disturbed imagination
created the spectre, or swelled some slight reality into one: none had
the courage to search for the truth, or it eluded the search.
I shall never forget this incident, dear mother; I recollect what
Charles said, a spirit cannot make a noise. The stories I have been told
in Holland, I now think foolish; the tall woman, who walked in the grove
at night, and the white monster, almost as high as the steeple, and many
others of the same kind, I am sure would be found, on enquiry, to
resemble the tale of the white cat, which Edward would have told, if
Charles had not dragged the supposed spirit from its hiding place.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXVII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Yesterday, after we had finished our exercises, Charles asked me to take
a walk in the garden, and, seeing Dr. Bartlett, we hastened to join him;
for indeed we both like to hear him talk, and try to profit by his
instructions, which are delivered in such a familiar manner, I forget
that I am but a boy when he calls me his friend. We found him with a
book in his hand.
CHARLES.
You are reading, Sir, we will not disturb you.
DR. BARTLETT.
When I have finished the passage I am reading, I shall be glad of your
company.
We waited silent a few moments, and then Dr. Bartlett put his book into
his pocket, and we entered into conversation.
CHARLES.
Look, Sir, what insects are those which fly in such multitudes about the
fish-pond?
DR. BARTLETT.
They are ants.
WILLIAM.
Have ants wings?
DR. BARTLETT.
Yes, they obtain wings for some time during this season of the year. And
what appears the most wonderful, is, that they are thus winged in a very
few moments.
CHARLES.
It is a pity that these insects are so destructive to the productions of
the earth, I like them so well for their diligence.
DR. BARTLETT.
When they are together, they are as one family. They build themselves a
city, which is divided into several streets. They have each of them
separate employments; one digs a hole in the earth, another sweeps the
earth away, and a third brings grass or stubble to make the hole warm
and dry, that they may preserve their eggs and their young from the cold
and damp. Their labour to provide themselves food is wonderful: they are
so industrious they will go to a great distance for it, and returning,
always keep in a direct road, seldom mistaking it, though far from their
own habitation. They take great care not to run in each others way; and
are so very sagacious, that when they are obliged to carry any thing
very heavy, from an eminence, they let it fall with deliberation, and
take it up again when they arrive at the bottom.
CHARLES.
But, Sir, I have often seen that they are continually moving their young
and their eggs.—Why do they disturb them so frequently?
DR. BARTLETT.
They do this, when they find it either damp or cold; for they take
uncommon care of their little ones. After rain they bring their eggs
into the open air to let them dry, lest the young, which are in them,
should perish; and if the rain is very heavy they remove the earth with
their feet, and cover them.
WILLIAM.
Poor creatures!—We give them, thoughtlessly, much unnecessary trouble.
CHARLES.
They are very injurious, and their use is not apparent;—why then did God
create them? I should think there must be some hidden reason, which we
cannot dive into, or even get a glance to direct our search.
DR. BARTLETT.
You do well to reason in this manner. Who can pretend to fathom the
secrets of the Most High, or circumscribe his ways? All that is
necessary to direct our search after virtue, is found by those, who seek
for it, as for hid treasure: questions, that mere wanton curiosity
dictates, are left doubtful, or discovered by chance. The knowledge of
them is not essential to our earthly comfort; though modest enquiries
into the operations of nature, will ennoble our minds, and raise us
above grovelling pursuits. We must first labour for the one thing
needful:—if we are good here, we shall be wiser hereafter.
CHARLES.
I will try to remember what you have said, Sir.
DR. BARTLETT.
But speaking of the ants brings to my remembrance some other creatures,
that are still more skilful, I mean the beavers. How would you both be
astonished, could I show you the habitations these wonderful creatures
make! No experienced builder could form them better. They first choose a
very healthful situation, and where there is plenty of provision, near a
fresh stream of water; and then raise an eminence with great labour and
dispatch. For this purpose they dig out the earth and clay with their
fore feet, and carry their burdens on their tails (which nature has made
a little hollow like a shovel) to the place they have chosen for their
abode. With their teeth they cut with great expedition through trees as
thick as my arm; and these piles they work into the ground to form a
firm foundation. Then they begin to build a house, which consists of
three stories, one above another; the walls are perpendicular, and more
than a foot thick. It is within very neat, of a round form, and has an
arched roof. The size in proportion to the number of the family that is
to reside in it: for example, they allow fourteen or fifteen feet for
twelve beavers. What think you of such creatures?
CHARLES.
I am astonished, Sir; I wish I could once see these architects. In what
country are they to be found?
DR. BARTLETT.
They are to be found in Germany, and in Poland, along the rivers; but
chiefly in Canada.
WILLIAM.
May I ask what sort of creatures these are?
DR. BARTLETT.
They are amphibious; so we name those creatures which can live either on
land or in the water. The head is larger than a rat’s; their fore feet
are short, and with these they hold fast their food; their hind feet are
long, and with a web betwixt the claws, like the ducks; and their tails
are flat and finny, and assist them to swim with more ease than they
could do, if they only used their feet for that purpose.
CHARLES.
But of what materials do they build the thick walls of their houses?
DR. BARTLETT.
They mix and knead together, with their fore feet, clay, earth and
water; and their tails serve first as a mortar-tray to carry it, and
then as a trowel to plaister it on in a proper manner.
CHARLES.
It is wonderful! But can these skilful creatures work without the least
reflection?
DR. BARTLETT.
They have not thinking powers, of course they cannot deliberate about
it. God has created them with a certain ability or instinct to direct
them infallibly. Man is a superior animal, he only in this world is
endued with the noble power of reflection.
CHARLES.
This preference demands our gratitude.
DR. BARTLETT.
Certainly, my dear, demands our utmost diligence to cultivate the
precious gift. We ought never to speak or act without reflection, and
our whole conduct should be conformable to the wise designs of the
Creator:—this is the only way to make ourselves worthy of our dignity.
The Doctor then left us.
I preserve in my mind all these good instructions, dear mother; never,
no never, shall I forget them. And as God has made us capable of
reasoning, if we abuse this goodness, and act without understanding, we
are not above the senseless brutes.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXVIII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Oh! my dear mother, poor Emilia had yesterday such a dreadful accident.
I do pity her, I never before saw her cry so bitterly. Charles and I
were amusing ourselves, working in our little garden; Emilia came
running to us sobbing; but you shall hear all.
EMILIA.
My dear brother—I am so sorry.
CHARLES.
Tell me on what account? You astonish me; has any thing befallen my
father or mother?
EMILIA.
No, no.— But I am afraid to tell you; it will vex you.
CHARLES.
Tell it me directly; if I may know it.
EMILIA.
The cat has eat my sweet canary-bird. I did love it—you gave it me, it
sung so charmingly, and was so tame.
CHARLES.
It is a pity, I acknowledge; but you are not to grieve for the loss of a
bird, as if you had lost a parent. You have lost a plaything, not a
friend; it gave you pleasure, excited your tenderness, but without
esteem affection soon dies: any new favourite will supply its place.
WILLIAM.
You took such care of it, how could it happen?
EMILIA.
I had, as I often did, let the bird out of the cage to eat out of my
hand. My mamma sent for me, I went to her for a moment, and in the mean
time, the maid had let the cat slip into the chamber, who instantly
seized and devoured my poor little creature. I shall never forgive
myself for not putting it into its cage. And as to the careless maid, I
hope my mother will soon part with her.
CHARLES.
She did not do it on purpose, I am sure; and, Emilia, your carelessness
was more inexcusable because you loved the bird.
EMILIA.
Let us then look for the cat and beat her.
CHARLES.
And why? The cat cannot help it, it is its nature to catch birds and
mice; you would correct her for following an instinct which renders her
a useful domestic. If you had beat her the very moment after the
accident, it might have restrained her in future; but by this time she
has forgot it, and consequently it would be cruel. You cannot get your
bird again by indulging a spirit of revenge; you must console yourself.
EMILIA.
I am almost inconsolable—I wish there were no cats in the world.
CHARLES.
That wish is wrong, sister. God knew best when he created them. We
should find the rats and mice very troublesome and mischievous; but for
the assistance of a cat, how should we preserve our grain?
EMILIA.
I shall never forget my sweet little bird.
CHARLES.
Not forget a creature without sense! after all, there are more
canary-birds.
EMILIA.
Not so tame.
CHARLES.
I will endeavour to get you another, which shall be just as tame.
EMILIA.
You are very good, brother; but that bird loved me, it would follow me
about the room.
CHARLES.
It had no love for you, believe me; it was only not afraid of you: it
followed you because you fed it.
EMILIA.
Had it died a natural death, I should soon have forgotten it; but such
an unfortunate end vexes me.
CHARLES.
Another death might have been harder; the cat caught it instantly, and
not through the wires of the cage.
EMILIA.
Think you so, then I am content, and forgive the cat.—She then left us.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXIX.
_Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.
You are a comfort to me, my son, and Annette deserves my tender
affection, she is so tractable and good. Your letters improve and please
her; she requests me to read them twenty times over, that she may
remember them. The tears were in her eyes when I read what you had
written concerning the canary-bird. Poor Emilia, said she, how I do pity
her. It gives me pleasure, replied I, that you participate in your
friend’s grief; it is a sign that you have a good heart, and deserve the
sympathy of others: mutual affection is necessary, it softens
affliction. Indeed I have experienced it, mamma, answered she, that is,
I have never been so much vexed at any thing, when I saw somebody pitied
me, as when they laughed at me.—And I love those people who have
compassion, they look so good-natured.
But, William, I must give you a caution. The beginning of your letter
was too alarming, it startled me; I thought at least that Emilia had
been dreadfully hurt; if she had lost an eye or a limb it could not have
shocked me more. You might have expressed your pity, as she was grieved,
but not in such terms; what other words could you have used, had she
lost her mother? Learn in future, when a thing of the same kind occurs,
to be more cautious how you write, and do not confound proper feelings;
nor even the expressions, which should convey to others a notion of what
passes in your mind.
I send you by this opportunity, some pocket-money, I wish I could afford
to send you more, as you deserve it; for Lady Grandison informs me, that
you are very careful, and try to make your clothes last long. In you
this attention is a virtue, as you do it not only to spare your mother,
whose circumstances are confined, but to have money to give to the poor.
The œconomy and self-denial, which flows from such motives, is so
laudable, that I hope the foolish sneers of thoughtless young people,
will never make you think yourself mean-spirited, as they will call you:
those only can be called mean, in the true sense of the word, who save
to gratify their appetites. Write often, your conversations please me,
and I mentioned before, that they improved Annette.
D.
LETTER XL.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I must give you another proof of the virtue and wisdom of my friend
Charles. Yesterday, when we had done our lessons, for we never neglect
them, we went to the wood, to take our pleasure, and found it very
pleasant; but the thickness of the trees prevented our seeing a heavy
storm that was approaching, till a violent peal of thunder made us jump.
Emilia is very much afraid of thunder.
EMILIA.
Brother, it thunders—what shall I do?
CHARLES.
Do not terrify yourself, there is no cause for fear; it is only the
natural consequence of great heat, and the weather lately has been very
warm. We will return home, it is right to leave the trees, they attract
the lightning.
EMILIA.
I dare not stir—O if I was but in the house, in the cellar!
CHARLES.
And what would you do in the cellar, is it not God who directs the
storm?
EMILIA.
Yes.
CHARLES.
Then he can preserve you every where; here, in the house, or the cellar,
it is all the same; but still we are to exercise our reason while we
trust in God: let us then leave the trees, they are dangerous.
EMILIA.
But who can tell that God will preserve me?
CHARLES.
Does he not give you daily proofs of his favour? You would be miserable
if he did not guard you. Where would you be safe? There is no need of a
storm to destroy us, we are every moment in danger, if we lose his
protection. A chimney, or only a tile may fall on us from a house:—there
are a thousand things which we have reason to be afraid of, if we fear
any. Dr. Bartlett says, he only fears offending God.
EDWARD.
You are a foolish girl, to be afraid of thunder. Come let us play and
sing, then the noise will not reach us.
CHARLES.
No, we can play and sing, when the storm is over. It is not now the time
when God lets us see such an astonishing token of his almighty Power—let
us view the tempest with reverence.
EMILIA.
Oh, what a loud clap of thunder! May not that be a sign that God is
angry with us?
CHARLES.
No surely. This stormy weather is a blessing; it is of use to purify the
air: the heat of the summer would, without these concussions, occasion a
great many contagious disorders. Emilia, be easy, God loves us, we every
day receive proofs of it; let us trust in him, as we trust our
parents;—we cannot doubt their love, and have we less reliance on our
heavenly Father?
EMILIA.
Come, let us hasten into the house; my father said once, it was
dangerous to look at the lightning.
CHARLES.
Except an extraordinary flash, it has much the same effect as when you
look at the sun, the sight is immediately dimmed.
EDWARD.
Do not go home, how can you be so foolish?
CHARLES.
Though I do not fear the storm myself, I would not be so ill-natured as
to oblige Emilia to stand trembling here. I would avoid, without
despising her weakness. It is weak to be afraid, but impious to mock the
storm.
We then hastened home; and soon after the sky cleared up, and I quickly
saw that the thunder had been of use; the air was cool, and every herb
and flower revived, the garden was more fragrant than usual.
I thank you, dear mother, for the money you have sent me. You say it is
little, but I think it much. My thanks are due to you, for I am certain
you scarcely allow yourself necessaries, to enable me to appear properly
in this family; I feel your goodness, and will do my utmost to improve
by the opportunity, and always remember the sacrifice my mother has
made, and the affection she has ever shewn me. Dr. Bartlett frequently
mentions this circumstance, when we are alone; but my memory does not
need refreshing—I love my mother, and long to tell her that I am her
grateful and dutiful son.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLI.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Judge of the good heart of Emilia; an accident yesterday made it appear
to advantage. She was in the parlour with Edward, playing on the
harpsicord; after she had finished the tune, she went to look for a
china flower-pot in a china-closet near the parlour. She found what she
wanted; but still loitered, looking at the china; and one jar she would
reach from a high shelf, though Edward cautioned her: the consequence
was, it fell out of her hand, and was dashed to pieces. She trembled,
well knowing it was a jar of great value.
EDWARD.
Mighty well, you would look at the china.
EMILIA.
Do not scold me, I am so sorry; rather give me your advice.
EDWARD.
I can give you no advice; if you sought every where you could not find
such another jar to match the one which is left. Why did you touch it?
you must always be meddling, you are so curious.
EMILIA.
I will never be curious again, I assure you. I know I have done wrong.
EDWARD.
Now hear me, do not cry; I will tell you what you may do. Nobody has
heard it, we will take the pieces and put them together behind a dish;
and to-morrow, all of a sudden, you may say you have heard something
fall in the closet; then go and look, and Lady Grandison will think the
cat threw it down, or some other accident made it fall.
EMILIA.
No, Edward,—that I will never do; it would be much worse than breaking
it through idle curiosity.
EDWARD.
What will you do then? your mother will be displeased.
EMILIA.
I would sooner bear her displeasure a week, than tell such a falsehood.
Hear me, I will go to her, confess my fault; and indeed I shall be more
careful for the future.
She then ran trembling to her mother; but how was she astonished, when
the good Lady spoke kindly to her. If you had broken all my china by
accident, my child, I should not have chid you; your foolish curiosity
was blameable; but your attention to truth has more than atoned for it:
I find I can rely on your veracity. She kissed her mother’s hand, and
returned to tell us what had happened. Edward looked ashamed, and said,
he would never advise such an artifice again, he should not like to
deceive such a kind Lady, or lose her good opinion. Charles could not
help saying, when we tell a lie we offer an affront to God. Dr. Bartlett
often observes, he is ever present, and abhors a liar.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Oh! my dear mother, we are all here full of anxiety; Charles, who went
very early this morning on horseback, with one of the servants, to pay
Mr. Friendly a visit, and promised to return early, is not yet come
home; and it is past nine o’clock. He was always punctual—some
misfortune must have befallen him.—I do not know what to think, or fear.
The night is very dark, and the weather stormy. Sir Charles has just
sent off a servant to obtain some information:—how we all long for his
return!
Eleven o’clock. The servant is come back; but no intelligence of
Charles. He left Mr. Friendly’s soon after dinner, about four o’clock.
Dear mother, where can he be? Drowned, I fear:—perhaps—perhaps what? I
am afraid even to write the strange thoughts and conjectures which come
into my head—I never seemed so much alive before, my soul feels as if it
would fly out of my body to search for Charles—dear Charles! Lady
Grandison sits silent; Emilia does nothing but cry; and Edward runs
through the house quite frantic: Sir Charles endeavours to comfort his
Lady, and has need of comfort himself. He has sent several servants
different ways, and waits impatiently for day-break, when he intends
going himself.—O that he would take me with him!
One o’clock, and no news of Charles. We are none of us in bed—and indeed
who could sleep! My eyes feel as if they would never close again—I
cannot cry.
Half after four. Thank Heaven—Charles is safe. The servant, who attended
him, is just arrived. It was not his fault, that we had so much
uneasiness; no pleasure—no company detained him.—But Sir Charles insists
on it, that we go to bed for a few hours. I cannot sleep, though I must
go to bed.—I do not want sleep, Charles is safe. Why does my joy make me
cry? I did not weep when I thought I should never, O never see him
more.—Well, I must go to this same bed.—Good morning to you, Madam. I
declare the birds are beginning to sing—how can I sleep?
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLIII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Now you shall hear the servant’s account—I long to tell you all about an
affair, which is to clear my friend;—for a moment you must not think ill
of him.