of course attended him. The weather had been all day lowering; they
quickened their pace; but such a thick mist arose gradually, they could
scarcely see two yards before them. Charles, though he is very
courageous, shewed some signs of fear, and they then rode slowly,
observing every step, when they saw at some little distance, a man lying
in the middle of the road. What is that? said Charles, holding-in his
horse. A man who has drank more than he ought, I suppose, answered
Harry. Pray, Sir, ride a little quicker, it grows late. No, replied
Charles, for if the man is drunk, we must endeavour to help him out of
the highway, or he may be rode over in the dark. Saying so, he jumped
off his horse: but how terrifying was the sight!—He saw an old officer
lying weltering in his blood. He spoke to him; but received no answer.
The gentleman is dead, cried Harry. No, no, interrupted Charles, he has
only fainted through loss of blood. What shall we do? What can we do?
replied Harry. Let us gallop on to the first village to procure
assistance. What, and leave the man bleeding, said Charles, with warmth;
he would die before we could even reach the village.—Do you not see how
he bleeds? Tie our horses fast to that tree, and make haste to assist
me, I must not let a man die without doing my best to save him. He then
pulled off his clothes, and tore his shirt; and finding that the wound
was in the head, he wiped away the gore, and bound the linen round it;
he did it several times before he could stop the effusion. After the
operation, they lifted him cautiously, and laid him on the grass, near
the road side. Good heavens, said Harry, it begins to be quite dark, and
the mist is so thick, we shall never be able to find our way; and how
uneasy they will all be at home. O that is true, said Charles; come, let
us go.—And he advanced a step or two; but turning his eyes on the poor
officer, they filled with tears, and he stood thinking half a moment—and
then burst out.—No, I cannot, will not leave you in this condition; I do
not occasion the uneasiness my parents will feel to gratify myself; I
ought not to deliberate a moment: ride on directly to the next village,
or to the first cottage you spy, and prevail on some man to return with
you; and all together we may carry this poor man to a shelter, and
procure further help.
HARRY.
I dare not leave you here alone, your father would never forgive me.
CHARLES.
Heaven will preserve me; and as to the blame, I will take care it shall
not fall on you. I tell you, if you will not go, I will go myself.
Harry did not wait to expostulate any more, but did as he was ordered;
and fortunately soon reached a little farm-house, which they might have
seen from the road, had it been a clear night. He went in and told the
case to the man who lived there, and begged him and his son immediately
to go with him. The farmer at first seemed reluctant, he was tired, and
just preparing to go to bed, after a hard day’s work; but when Harry
told him he should be well recompensed, he fetched a sort of handbarrow,
and laid a mattrass on it, and followed to the place. Before they
reached it, Charles had the satisfaction to see the officer open his
eyes, and come gradually to himself; and looking wistfully at Charles,
he said, falteringly, Who are you, young man, who thus alone, this
dismal night, supports my wounded head? Did you bind this linen round my
temples? I have been so happy, replied Charles, as to arrive in time to
be of service to you; I had a servant with me, but I have sent him for
further assistance, that you may be removed to some house. What
reflection, what fortitude! faintly cried the weak man.—Do not exhaust
yourself, Sir, interrupted Charles; I have only done my duty—indeed my
heart bled for you, I could not have left you. Harry and the men that
moment joined them; they all assisted, and laid the officer on the
handbarrow; but the fatigue was too much for him, and he fainted again
through weakness. They walked very slow, and at length brought him into
the cottage; and Charles sent the farmer for a surgeon. And what is now
your intention? asked Harry. To stay here this night, replied Charles; I
cannot think of leaving this venerable old man with strangers, who do
not seem the most humane people in the world. Do you hasten home, and
tell them what has happened, and then I shall wait with comfort till
to-morrow, and see myself that the poor man is properly attended—I will
be his nurse. Harry was not willing to leave him; but he spoke in such a
positive tone of voice, Harry thought it vain to attempt to dissuade
him; so, much against his inclination, he rode away; and would certainly
have relieved us soon from all our anxiety, if the thick fog, and his
vexation together, had not made him lose, or mistake the short by-road,
which leads directly through the wood to the house; he wandered about
till the first peep of dawn, and then entered the parlour trembling. We
had all our eyes and mouths open, ready to catch the news—and we began
to ask so many questions in a breath, Sir Charles was obliged to command
silence, that we might hear the account. He praised the servant, gave
him a guinea, and desired him to go to bed for an hour or two, and then
come to him, before he returned to his son, to whom he would send a
message, and some money to enable him to pay the surgeon, and supply the
wants of the invalide.
But how will the tender heart of my friend suffer, when he hears what we
have endured. Lady Grandison went to bed very ill; but, I hope, she is
now better; I have not seen her this morning. I long to know if the poor
officer is alive or dead.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLIV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
We have Charles here again, dear mother. O how rejoiced was I to see
him! The old officer is better, and we are all happy.
We sat down cheerfully this morning to breakfast, and did not then
expect to see him. Emilia saw him first, she flew from her chair; there
is my dear brother Charles! cried she, and ran to meet him as quick as
possible. They came into the house hand in hand; but Charles let his
sister’s hand go, as he entered the room, and ran to his father.—I will
relate the conversation word for word.
CHARLES.
Can you forgive me, dear father, for having caused you so much
uneasiness?
SIR CHARLES.
Let me embrace you—you are dearer to me than ever; our uneasiness was
not your fault, you have done your duty to your fellow-creature without
forgetting your parents. How is the gentleman you have assisted?
CHARLES.
The officer is better, but still very weak.
LADY GRANDISON.
But, my dear, is he alone in that cottage? Will they take proper care of
him?
CHARLES.
I have not left him alone with them, his own son is now with him. As
soon as the old gentleman recovered his recollection, he mentioned his
place of abode, which was not very distant. I sent to inform his
children of the accident; and his eldest son set off immediately, and
soon arrived at the cottage. When I had committed him into the hands of
his son, I was eager to return home to my parents.
SIR CHARLES.
You were right, your presence was not then necessary; but has the poor
man means to provide himself with what is requisite in his weak state?
CHARLES.
Yes, I enquired, and find he is in very good circumstances. Did I do
right, Sir? I only rewarded the farmer, and gave Harry a trifle: and now
I will return the remainder of the money you sent me.
SIR CHARLES.
You may keep it, and distribute it as you please. I am now treating you
like a friend—a man; I allow you to exercise, according to the dictates
of your own heart, the noblest priviledge of our nature, that of doing
good: and do it often in secret, let the plaudit of your own heart, be
your only recompense.
LADY GRANDISON.
How did you pass the night? Did you sleep at all?
CHARLES.
Believe me, I thought little of myself, I had before me a dying old
man—I could think of nothing else. I desired some clean straw to be
laid, near the sick man’s bed, but I made no use of it. My uneasiness on
your account, and my painful anxiety for the officer, banished sleep
from my eyes.
EMILIA.
Poor Charles, to be obliged to sleep on straw.
CHARLES.
I should have slept on that as well as in my bed, if my heart had been
at ease.
SIR CHARLES.
Charles is right; it is peace of mind and health of body which procures
that refreshing sleep so necessary to recruit our exhausted powers. The
softest bed will not afford rest to a troubled mind, or a disordered
body.
EDWARD.
Who knows, when I am in the army, how many nights I may be obliged to
sleep on the ground, without even the straw Emilia despises.
SIR CHARLES.
That may happen; and before young people make choice of a profession,
they should arm themselves against the inconveniences, which
consequently attend it: always remembering, that every state of life has
its pains and pleasures. Every station is eligible, and will afford us
heart-felt joy, if we fill it conscientiously: it is about our conduct,
not our situation, that we should bestow most thought; and be more
anxious to avoid evil than pain.
EDWARD.
I dare say, the king himself has his cares and sorrows as well as the
meanest of his subjects.
SIR CHARLES.
Certainly. He is a man, none are exempt; God is no respecter of persons;
they please him, who do good, and attend to truth: it matters not
whether it be in a palace, or a mud hovel.
When we were alone, Charles said, I knew my father would not be
displeased with me; yet if it had been possible, I wished not only to
have spared him the anxiety my absence occasioned, but to have asked his
advice. I followed the impulse of my heart—yet I do it with more
pleasure, when his sanction assures me my feelings do not lead my reason
astray.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
I have another proof to give you, my honoured mother, of the goodness of
heart Charles continually exhibits. A gentleman, who visits very
frequently this family, made him a present of a beautiful spaniel; young
Falkland, our neighbour, had often asked for it; but the gentleman
refused to give him it, because he treats his own dogs cruelly. You must
know, Falkland has already five dogs, besides cats, pigeons, and a
parrot. These afford him his chief employment; not to make them happy,
but to please himself. Though he has so many, he was very much vexed
that he could not get this dog. And what do you think happened? The dog
died suddenly, and we have by chance discovered that Falkland made one
of his servants poison the poor animal.—What monsters there are in the
world! Yes, he must be a monster, I think, who deprives another of a
pleasure when he receives no benefit from it himself. But the following
conversation, when we were walking in the garden, soon after the
discovery, will let you see how Charles behaves, even when he is angry.
WILLIAM.
I cannot help grieving about the poor dog.
CHARLES.
I acknowledge I am very sorry; I did not think that the loss of a dog
would have affected me in such a manner;—but it was a very faithful
one—and then the horrid agonies it endured—I cannot forget its groans.
EDWARD.
It was a villainous action of Falkland to destroy that poor beast in
such a manner.—If it had happened to me, I could never forgive him.
CHARLES.
I can.—If I could not forgive him, I should be as wicked as himself.
EDWARD.
You are too good. I, for my part, hate him.
CHARLES.
I do not hate him, but I despise his vices;—and I pity him, for it is
much to be feared he will become a bad man; an envious cruel heart
seldom reforms itself, Dr. Bartlett says.
EDWARD.
Yesterday you called that treacherous fellow friend;—you see you are
sometimes mistaken.
CHARLES.
I am apt to be mistaken in this particular; it is so pleasant to love
and think well of people.
EDWARD.
But will you any longer keep up the acquaintance?
CHARLES.
No, certainly, without my father desires it; I should with difficulty
conceal my dislike—it was such a mean action.
EDWARD.
Bravo! Now you speak to my mind; and, if you like it, I will give him a
good drubbing.—Say yes, and I will make his bones ache.
CHARLES.
That would not give me back my poor dog.
EDWARD.
I will tell you what—he has five dogs, let us poison some of them; that
he deserves at least.
CHARLES.
But those poor dogs—what have they done?
EDWARD.
I am curious to know, what my uncle will say of this pretty trick; he
has always spoken slightingly of young Falkland.
CHARLES.
That is a sign he could penetrate into his mind, and saw his bad temper.
I will, in future, pay more attention to his advice, and observations on
characters. But now I think of it, Edward, we will not tell my father
that Falkland poisoned my dog. Let us try to make him feel ashamed, by
shewing him we despise revenge—I should like to mortify him this way.
WILLIAM.
You are very generous.
CHARLES.
Let us talk of something else—my dog is dead, I will try to make myself
easy—I wish I could forget the torments it endured.—It is a very fine
evening.
EDWARD.
Look, look! What do I see yonder in that tree?
WILLIAM.
It is a parrot.
EDWARD.
How fortunate!—It is Falkland’s parrot; it has flown away from him, and
perched itself there: it looks frightened. How vexed he will be—he
should not have that creature again for ten guineas.
CHARLES.
How the poor creature trembles.—I can climb softly up the tree and catch
it;—do not make a noise.
EDWARD.
And so you will send it to Falkland again, to please him.
CHARLES.
No, for something else.
EDWARD.
He has killed your dog, and you will allow his favourite parrot to live
when it is in your power. I think it mean-spirited.—Can you have a
better opportunity to revenge yourself on that rascal?
CHARLES.
Yes, I can take a more noble revenge; by returning good for evil, I
shall let him see how much I am his superior: and that will highly
gratify me.
Immediately Charles mounted the tree, and caught the bird, whose feet
were entangled in the branches. He then sent it by a servant to
Falkland—and returned to us with a smiling face; I hardly ever saw so
much satisfaction in his countenance: and when Edward still continued to
laugh at him, he replied, I felt pleasure in returning good for evil, my
pride impelled me to act thus, as well as a sense of duty; I do not
pretend to any great merit in conquering one feeling to gratify another,
but I should have been inexcusable if I had tormented an innocent
helpless bird, merely to vex a being I despise. Nay, my anger would have
been mean and selfish; I should only resent the loss of my dog, and not
feel indignation on account of the vices this loss has forced me to
discover in a character I was partial to. I shall forget my dog, long
before I shall be able to drive from my remembrance a cruel action done
by a fellow-creature. Charles looked teased, and Edward ceased to blame
him,—and I tried to amuse him.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLVI.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
We had yesterday a whole day of pleasure, gathering the winter fruits.
The gardener and his son climbed into the high trees, and plucked the
apples and pears from the heavy laden branches; and we held the baskets
to save them from being bruised, for those that fall to the ground will
not keep. Some country girls had been observing our employment; and one
of them spoke to Harry, eagerly looking at the apples.
CHARLES.
What does that girl want?
HARRY.
She desires me to ask you for some apples for a sick mother; and I know
the poor woman has been a long time ill.
CHARLES.
For a sick mother?—she is a good child, go give her as many as she can
carry; let her have some for herself as well as her mother.
HARRY.
Shall I give her some of these small ones, which are not of a very good
kind?
CHARLES.
How—would you give the sick what is not good? No, she shall have some of
them I gathered just now; they grew on my own tree, and the branches
were bent down with the weight of the fruit. My tree never bore so much
before; let me give part of my abundance to those who have none.
EDWARD.
I do not blame you, Charles; but those common people are always asking
for something.
CHARLES.
If they did not ask they would seldom get any thing. Dear Edward, we ask
daily of God; permit then at least that those industrious people ask of
us, who are made of the same materials, and in whose veins the same
blood flows. It is as much our duty to spare part of our superfluities
to relieve their accidental distress; as it is theirs to work to supply
their daily wants.
EMILIA.
And we should not, in any degree, merit the abundance we enjoy, if we
refused to give a part of it to the poor. I will tell my mother, and I
am sure she will send more than a basket of apples to the sick woman,
and the good daughter who takes care of her.
When we returned, Sir Charles, after looking at the fruit, said, How
wise and good is God, who thus provides for our comfort and pleasure.
The fruits of the earth, which ought only to be ate in warm weather,
perish as the winter comes on; but these wholesome dainties may be
preserved to cheer us when the earth ceases to bring forth, and the
leaves die on the boughs. How many persons are daily eating the
provisions, the different seasons afford, and forget to thank the Giver,
forget to imitate him, by imparting part of the blessings which are so
liberally bestowed.—You read the parable of the man, who, instead of
opening his heart, when his stores increased, was for pulling down his
barns and building more capacious ones; but that very night his soul was
required to quit the body he had pampered. He who dwelleth in heaven
laugheth to scorn the designs of the proud; and frustrates the plans of
the foolish man, who tries to provide for years to come, when he is not
certain, that he shall many hours be permitted to breathe the breath of
life. They only enjoy life, who fear not death.
Just now Sir Charles has received a letter from Lady M——, requesting him
to permit Charles to visit his uncle, Lord M——, who has been some time
in a declining state of health. To-morrow my friend departs with Dr.
Bartlett; I shall long for his return, every place will appear so dull
when he is gone; but he has promised to write to me, and I will send you
his letters, and take care of them, that I may read them again when I
come home—for they then will be all I shall have of Charles—I hate these
partings. Farewell.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XLVII.
CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.
We have had a tedious journey, dear William. Foolish ignorant people
would say it foreboded no good; but we have been better instructed, and
have not been allowed to catch those weak prejudices, which, my tutor
says, produce more than half the ills of life; and are a greater weight
on the spirits, than the real unavoidable evils.
Well, now for a full and true account of all our disasters. When we came
to the second stage, we could not get fresh horses; and those we had
were scarcely able to drag the chaise. One lagged, and the other very
unwillingly tried to get into its old pace; yet, though any human
creature, I should have thought, would have pitied them, the postilion
gave them lash after lash, till my patience was quite exhausted, and I
remonstrated with him: indeed the strokes went to my heart; and I felt
as if I had rather have called the horse my brother, than the wretch who
treated him with such barbarity, who, whistling, turned his unmoved face
to me, while he smacked his whip. I soon perceived that the harness had
galled one of the horses; well might it winch, poor wretch!—at last it
tottered, and fell. The postilion again began to use his whip; but we
interposed; I could not help asking him if he had any bowels? He stared
at me, and said, fine talking, it is only rust, it must be beat out of
him. Ah! my dear friend, of what use is a good education? this man
seemed so thoughtless, as not even to know he was cruel: my anger was
turned into compassion.
We waited a short time, but we soon found the horses could not draw us
to the next stage. There was no remedy or alternative, we must walk till
we could meet with a house, or remain in the chaise till Harry could
bring another. Dr. Bartlett determined to walk, though it was a very wet
evening, and to leave Harry not only to take care of the luggage, but to
prevent the postilion from exercising wanton cruelty on the fallen
beast. We walked in the rain, along a very bad road; but I should not
have minded these trifling inconveniences, if Dr. Bartlett had not been
exposed to them—it was far better than hearing the lashes resound on the
horse’s side; and seeing the look of patient anguish, which the poor
animal cast on the driver—indeed I cannot forget it.
We hastened forward; but the rain was so heavy, we were wet through
before we reached a little farm on a common. This little abode, stolen
from the waste, said my tutor, will afford us a shelter. A cheerful
light, which darted through a window, no shutter guarded, seemed to
invite us to house ourselves, and we knocked with our sticks against the
door; it was quickly opened, and a venerable old man, bending beneath a
weight of years, desired us to enter, and in the chimney corner we saw
an old woman, sitting near the blazing hearth, whose light had attracted
us; and a girl was preparing some cabbages for their supper. We
mentioned our accident to account for our intrusion, and while we were
speaking the old woman stirred the fire and desired us to approach and
dry ourselves. We did so.—What a refreshment! Never, no never did I find
the fire so comfortable as at that moment. What a blessing it is,
thought I, that there is so much fewel—and what must those suffer, who,
wet and numbed, cannot procure a fire to dry their rags, or warm their
shivering limbs; I now feel for them more than ever. I looked at the
inside of the cottage with some attention; what a difference there is
between it and our elegant house, thought I, and yet the old couple seem
to be bent by years not care. The rich have luxury and listlessness, the
poor labour and repose, whispered the Doctor, when I mentioned to him
the doubts which were struggling in my mind; God is still the Father of
us all, and provides for all his numerous family.
Gentlemen, said the old man, though I cannot give you much good cheer,
you are welcome to what I have. My daughter will fry some bacon and
eggs, to help out the cabbage, and I believe I can find a bottle of
strong beer.—What say you, Dame, is there not one saved for Christmas?
We must bring it out of its hiding place for the gentlemen; for after
being wet they will want something to comfort their hearts. And our bed
too is at your service. Dr. Bartlett refused the bed, because he would
not put them to any inconvenience; but they insisted on it, and said,
they could sleep in the loft, in their daughter’s bed, who would not
matter lying on the floor one night; and for matter of that, said the
old man, I should not mind doing so one night myself.
Whilst the cloth was laying, and the girl was a long time placing two
knives and forks and a broken saltcellar, we got into conversation, and
the Doctor observing she did not put any more on the table, told his
host, we must all sup together, and drink sociably the Christmas ale. If
you desire it, master, replied he, it shall be done, for though you be
pretty spoken gentlemen, I thought, mayhap, you might be too proud to
eat with poor folks; no offence, I hope, if I speaks my mind:—Old John
is fond of plain-dealing, when there is neither sin nor shame in it.—The
old woman gave his sleeve a pull; she thought she understood
good-breeding, for she had been several times in ’Squire Anderson’s
kitchen, and madam’s own woman had spoken to her. The supper stopped our
mouths, and a friendly one it was, I never eat any thing with such an
appetite—I believe the bacon and eggs were remarkably good. I did not
want a variety of dishes to coax my palate, I assure you.
The ale made John talk, and tell us many droll stories, nor could dame
stop him, though she trod on his toes, and winked significantly. The
strong beer gave him courage to laugh at the good-breeding she had
acquired in the ’Squire’s kitchen, and even to mimick the fine words
Mrs. Betty, madam’s own maid, used to bring out, when she condescended
to speak to the vermin; for she despised low life, and never demeaned
herself. The old woman was half angry; but, yet, she was glad to let us
hear how she had been honoured. And, conscious she knew better than her
husband, hoped as how we would not be affronted, as John had a honest
heart, and meant not to disparage any body, for all he was so fond of
joking.
We then heard the chaise moving slowly; we spoke to Harry, and desired
him to bring us another next morning, and went to bed. The bed was hard,
yet I slept so soundly Dr. Bartlett had some difficulty to wake me, when
Harry arrived.