though it was into the mud at the door of the hut, when Dr. Bartlett
gave them a guinea, and I promised to send them a side of bacon, and a
few bottles of strong beer, before Christmas.
I will write soon again. Farewel.
CHARLES.
LETTER XLVIII.
CHARLES _to_ WILLIAM.
I could not guess the reason why my uncle sent in such a hurry for me.
Now you shall hear, and certainly I am very fortunate. The day after I
arrived, he took hold of my hand, we were alone, and pressing it, he
said, I have observed with pleasure your improvement, Charles; you are
the worthy son of a good father, and I doubt not will render his latter
days happy—he deserves it, for he has made mine comfortable, I blush not
to tell you, by teaching me to conquer myself and practise virtue. You
have from your infancy been taught more by example than precept, and
have not any inveterate bad habits to combat with.—Happy youth! shew
your gratitude to heaven for this inestimable blessing; to you much has
been given, and much indeed is required. He then presented me with a
paper, and added, I now give you my estate in Hampshire, it is let out
in small farms, and produces about one thousand pounds clear yearly
rent; my life draws nigh to a close, and I wished to give you myself
this testimony of my esteem.
I do not know in what style I thanked my uncle, I was so surprised; but
I am sure I felt grateful, and he must have seen what I could not
express.
The whole family congratulated me, and indeed paid me many compliments,
which I think I do not merit. If I have spent my time in useful
exercises, did not my father render those exercises pleasant? And if I
have endeavoured to be good, I only followed an example I admired.
Believe me, William, all this deserves no reward, I think I merely do my
duty: and if I did not I should be unhappy. My pleasure in the pursuit
of science is necessary to keep me from the listlessness of an idle
life. Yes, should some one say, Charles Grandison does his duty, he is
studious, he honours his parents, he loves his fellow-creatures: I
should answer, I do not know how all this has happened, and why you
wonder at it; I must do so or lose the favour of God,—lose the esteem of
my parents, whom I love so dearly; and as to my fellow-creatures, I
cannot help loving them, and doing them good; it is not only the
employment, but the pleasure of my life.
Dr. Bartlett writes to my father; I doubt not but you will hear the
letter read. We are to return through London; I cannot lengthen out my
letter, though I have much to say, as I must attend my uncle, he has
just sent for me. I can only then assure you that I am yours
affectionately.
CHARLES.
LETTER XLIX.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
My friend Charles is returned, dear mother; with what joy was he
received. The servants were all in the lobby to wish him health and long
life to enjoy his estate; and the tenants gathered about the gate, and
uttered their good wishes in a most audible roar. The next day many of
the neighbouring families came to congratulate him. An old gardener, who
has lived thirty or forty years in the family, and is allowed to
cultivate a little farm in the pleasure grounds, came this morning, just
after some company had left us, leaning on his crutch. Charles received
him not only with civility, but kindness; and the venerable grey-headed
man’s blessing brought tears into his eyes. See if he is not going to
weep, said Edward, as soon as the gardener’s back was turned; would you
not think, William, that he received more pleasure from that old man’s
visit, than all the rest of the visitors afforded him. You have just
guessed it, replied Charles; his simple earnest prayers for my
preservation seemed to come from his heart, and they went much nearer
mine than all the fine compliments I before heard dropped with a cool
tone of voice.
But I must not forget to tell you, that Charles, soon after his arrival,
entreated his father to take the estate for some time into his own
hands. I should be very unhappy, my dear parent, to be independent of
you; receiving favours from you, is the greatest pleasure of my life—O
do not deprive me of it! Sir Charles appeared affected, and said, I will
manage it for you, my son, and we will together visit the different
farms; you shall enquire into all the family concerns of your tenants,
and become the protector and friend of those who, in some measure, are
dependant on you. You will then be able to judge of their wants, and
animate their industry.
We are soon to return to London: I shall not perhaps have an opportunity
of writing again before we set off, but certainly will the day we reach
town.
WILLIAM.
LETTER L.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Last night, dear mother, we again entered this great city; I should have
written as I promised, but I was too late for the post, and I have a
long story to tell you.
Poor Harry broke his leg while we were on the road; a hack-horse threw
him, as he was turning suddenly to open a gate. Charles ran to him, and
supported him in the carriage till we arrived at a large town; soon
after we reached it, Sir Charles, who was in another carriage with Lady
Grandison, Emilia, and Edward, overtook us, and were instantly informed
of the accident. A surgeon was immediately sent for, and the bone set;
but his leg was shattered in such a dreadful manner, the surgeon
apprehends he will always be a cripple. Sir Charles staid in the room
while the operation was performed, to support Harry’s spirits.
I forgot to mention, that Dr. Bartlett was not with us, he did not
return to Grandison-Hall with Charles, he had some business of his own
to settle in town. Charles and I had a hired chaise to ourselves, and
we, with Harry to attend us, always rode first to provide a good fire
for Lady Grandison, who has been for some time a little indisposed.
Sir Charles never travels with much state, Harry was the only servant we
had with us. On his own account he did not care, he expected to sleep in
his own house that night; but he did not like to leave a faithful
servant, in his present weak state, entirely to the care of strangers. I
will give you his own words, for they made an impression on me.
SIR CHARLES.
Providence has placed men in different situations, to facilitate the
main end of life, improvement in virtue; yet distress brings us all on a
level again, we are then no longer master and servant, but men; worldly
distinctions are forgot, and nature asserts her primitive equality. I
would not neglect paying to the meanest of my fellow-creatures, the
attention I might need from them, if I did, I should forfeit my own
esteem. Was Lady Grandison well, I would stay this night to nurse Harry,
and to-morrow send him one of his fellow-servants.—Charles eagerly
caught his father’s hand.
CHARLES.
O, my dear father, do you go with my mother, and let me remain to
represent you, let me nurse Harry. I should be happy to convince him,
that I did not sit up with the old officer, because he was a gentleman,
but because he was a man.
SIR CHARLES.
This offer I expected from you, my son, and do not want to be importuned
to grant your request. William shall remain with you, and before
to-morrow night, I will send Robert to take your place. With what
delight do I perceive that your heart opens itself to those true
pleasures which dignify and cultivate the mind. Your kindness to Harry
will soften his bodily pain, and you will feel yourself in what
exercises your chief happiness must consist.
Sir Charles soon after left us, and we went to sit in Harry’s room; as
he was fallen asleep, we each took a book, we would not converse lest we
should disturb him. Charles had enquired of his mother, what kind of
nourishment was the most proper for the invalid, and took care to order
it to be ready, that he might have some refreshment when he awoke. We
had some weak wine and water, and a crust of bread; and in the night the
landlord brought us some coffee.
Harry would fain have persuaded us to go to bed; but Charles resolutely
refused, and it was very happy we did not, for the poor man was
delirious, and tried to get out of bed. And I believe he would have torn
the bandage off his leg, if Charles, who was the only person he
recollected, had not entreated him to let it alone. He obeyed him—did I
not say truly, it was happy we were there? I could not help observing,
that while Charles was busy about him, he did not seem to be afraid of
any accident which might have happened to himself. When Harry became
composed, I mentioned to him the remark I had made, and owned I should
have been afraid to have held Harry, when he looked so frantic. Hear his
answer. When I am doing what I think right, I never feel any thing like
fear—should I be killed assisting a fellow-creature, would it not be a
glorious death? But I will tell you when I have felt fear. Once or twice
I have been in danger in a crowd, into which I entered to procure
amusement or gratify idle curiosity; then, indeed, I was afraid, and I
thought, if I now lose my life, how can I answer to my Creator for
risking it. This single thought deprived me of the courage you admire:
nothing terrifies me, when I can pray to God, and am conscious I am
obeying his holy will.
I shall not soon forget this night, dear mother; the stillness of it,
and the sight of Harry, who was perhaps on his deathbed, made me think
very seriously, and I could not help praying to God, to enable me so to
live, that I might not fear death. I used often to wish to be rich, but
in this sick chamber, these wishes appeared foolish, I only desired to
be good. I felt the truth of Sir Charles’s observation, that this was
the solid distinction between man and man; I wondered I had not thought
so before, the virtuous only appeared great in my eyes, because they can
conquer death, and do not dread the end of life. And Charles agreed with
me, that those who overcome the sorest earthly evil, must certainly be
the truly great. We talked of all the heroes we had read an account of
in history, and observed that few died happily whose chief aim had not
been to benefit mankind, rather than obtain a great name for themselves.
But I should tire you if I was to relate the whole of our conversation,
on subjects we seldom talked of before.
Towards morning Harry fell asleep, and woke quite sensible; I was glad
of it, for it is a shocking thing to see a man deprived of reason. How
dependent he is! I now recollect Dr. Bartlett’s words, That it is the
right use of reason, which makes us independent of every human being.
We sat with Harry all day and endeavoured to divert him; and he was
diverted. Robert came in the evening, and brought a note from Sir
Charles, in which he desired us to sleep at the inn that night, and set
off for London early in the morning.
Come, said Charles, the sun is not yet set, let us take a walk and look
about the town, while supper is preparing. It is cold, replied I. Yes,
answered Charles, but let us not mind that. There is nothing better at
this season than to be accustomed to rough weather, and to harden
ourselves against the winter. You will see this winter, continued he,
how little I care for wind, frost, rain, or snow. I never stay in the
house, I run through all weathers.
At this moment we came to a small cottage, where an old woman sat at a
spinning-wheel, she seemed to be very poor. Let us go in and see her
spin, said Charles; and we entered, begging the woman not to take it
amiss, as we did not wish to interrupt her, but to see her spin. She
began to talk to us, still turning her wheel. You are very diligent,
said Charles. I must be so, replied the old woman, for it is my only
support, except a trifle the gentry give me, in the winter, to buy
coals, for they are very dear, and my hands are sometimes so cold, I
cannot turn my wheel. Charles then asked, if her daily labour was
sufficient to procure her bread. She answered yes, but it sometimes
happens in the winter, when I have fewel to buy, that I have not money
to purchase flax, and then I must sit in the cold idle and hungry. And
is there nobody that will lend you a trifle, cried Charles, when you are
in such extreme distress? Good lack, said the old woman, I dare say
there are many good hearts in the world; but the rich, who are
tender-hearted, sit in their warm parlours, and do not see the hardships
we poor folk undergo. Charles then gave her a guinea and we hurried out
of the cottage, to avoid her thanks; but her blessings followed us.
While we were at supper, he enquired of the landlord, if she was an
industrious woman; he assured us she was, and patiently endured many
hardships rather than become burdensome to the parish. Charles then
desired him to supply her with coals the ensuing winter; let her turn
her wheel glibly, and I will pay you, good Sir, when I see you in the
spring.
We visited Harry, and Charles desired to be called, if he was very ill
during the night. Harry looked pleased; Ah! Sir, said he, I find you
care for a poor sick servant, as well as for a gentleman.
Before we went to bed we could not help talking of the old woman.
CHARLES.
How happy it is for her that she can work, and keep out of the
work-house; even in her old age her industry enables her to be useful to
society, and to command a little abode of her own.
WILLIAM.
Yet we slight such coarse hands; where should we get linen, if there
were not industrious spinners?
CHARLES.
That we do not think of, we are apt to despise, as you observe, the
useful work of such coarse hands, which we could not do without; and
admire the embroidery the ladies work merely for ornament. And why?
Because the soft fingers of the ladies do their work in elegant rooms,
and the poor labour in huts.
WILLIAM.
And yet, according to our reasoning last night, the poor woman who works
to earn her bread, or clothe her children, is a much more respectable
member of society, than the lady who employs herself about work which
can only procure her praise.
CHARLES.
Barren praise, my dear William, for Dr. Bartlett has said, that it is
very dangerous to allow ourselves to be pleased with any commendation,
which is not bestowed on our virtue. But I have seen some ladies, who
neglected their children to prepare ornaments for their persons. And
when they had them on they looked like dolls; I could not respect them
as I respect the old woman.
WILLIAM.
I will never complain of the cold again, but rather encounter it, that I
may be put in mind of the distresses the poor have to struggle with. Had
you turned back when I complained, this poor old soul would have lost
the comfortable fire you have procured her this winter.
We went to bed, slept soundly, and set off in good spirits, after
hearing from Harry that he had passed a better night. I will now
conclude this long letter; but first let me tell you, we are to visit
some manufactories soon, to learn to value the labours of the poor, and
the useful employments of life.
WILLIAM.
LETTER LI.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
I mentioned to you that I expected to see some manufactories; yesterday
Dr. Bartlett conducted us all, except Edward, who is gone for a short
time to visit a relation, to several; and our curiosity was fully
satisfied. I had seen some formerly, but without taking much notice of
them: I viewed them all as something very common and rather mean; the
case is altered now, I am taught to reason about them, and to admire the
goodness of God displayed in the ingenuity of man. O, my dear mother,
how wonderful are the ways of Providence! I must repeat an observation
of Dr. Bartlett’s before I relate a conversation which passed between
Emilia, Charles, and I, after we returned home.
The poor, said he, whilst they are earning their own bread, provide
necessaries and superfluities for the rich; who, in return, often to
aggrandize themselves, fight their battles, plan their laws, and enable
the mechanics to send their work to foreign markets. The labourer also,
who tills the ground, and anxiously turns the produce to a good account,
that he may be able to pay his rent, is protected by the rich, and may
reasonably expect to solace himself after his toil, under the shade of
the trees his fathers have planted, or those he himself has reared. Thus
does heaven bind us all together, and make our mutual wants the strong
cement of society; and even the follies of individuals are so overruled
as to produce good to the whole. Well, now for our conversation.
CHARLES.
You do not complain, I hope, that you have taken the trouble to
accompany us?
WILLIAM.
Complain, no, I should have been very sorry to have missed so pleasing
and instructive a sight.
CHARLES.
I for my part, am very well pleased. What skilful, laborious men there
are in the world; and how much of the comfort of our lives, depends on
the exertions of our fellow-creatures; and must arise from the labours
of those poor uneducated people, the rich are too apt to despise.
WILLIAM.
Yes, I have often seen that persons of high rank treat them as if they
were not made of the same flesh and blood.—I have seen that they
scarcely moved their hats to a mechanic, though he bows himself almost
to the ground.
EMILIA.
That appears to me to be very wrong.
CHARLES.
It is indeed a very perverse pride, for with all their riches, they
could not do without those useful men. O, thought I, when I saw the
weaver, who sat sweating before his loom, this man exhausts his vigour
to procure me a great comfort, linen. Without him, the flax, that
valuable plant, which the earth produces for this purpose, would be
useless. Every one will allow, that shoe-makers and taylors are
necessary; in short, since I find that laborious people are so essential
to the well-being of the world, I cannot imagine how men can treat them
with so much contempt. As to myself I shall guard against such
behaviour; in the use of those things, I shall endeavour always to
remember the men who are the instruments to convey the blessings of
heaven to me: and these considerations will make me esteem my
fellow-members of society; and try to fulfil my part of the sociable
compact.
WILLIAM.
I agree with my friend, and am ashamed that I should ever have looked on
this class of my brethren with indifference.
EMILIA.
But I found nothing that excited my wonder more than the art of
printing. How could it be possible to write so many books as there are
in the world?
CHARLES.
That would not be possible. We should then have very few books; and all
those great geniuses, from whose writings we reap so much instruction,
would be to us as dead men,—now they live and are our friends. Your
country, William, had the honour of giving birth to the inventor of this
invaluable art.
WILLIAM.
Yes, and he has a statue erected to his memory before the house where he
lived. His name was Laurence Koster.
CHARLES.
You wonder much at the letter press; but how many of the arts which we
have not seen, would afford you equal matter for astonishment?
WILLIAM.
It is almost incomprehensible, how a common potter, out of a rough lump
of clay, should be able to make such a variety of useful and ornamental
things.
EMILIA.
Have not these poor people reason to complain that they work so hard for
a piece of bread?
CHARLES.
By no means. They have even comparative happiness. How disagreeable must
be the miners’ employment to us, who have been brought up in a different
style of life, and have opened our eyes to the beauties of nature? It is
laborious, and they lose their health while they are secluded from the
cheerful sight of the sun, which enlivens every other labour.
EMILIA.
They might let it alone, and do something else to earn a livelihood.
CHARLES.
And what then would become of us all? They dig the gold out of the
bowels of the earth, of which we are so proud; it is true we could do
without it, as any thing that would lie in a small compass, might pass
in exchange as money: but iron we could not spare; we should do every
thing in a very clumsy manner without iron tools.—Only think of the
various comforts which accrue to society from this one metal: and men
must procure it.
EMILIA.
That is true.—And if we rightly consider it, we may say with truth, that
iron is more valuable than gold.
CHARLES.
It is not only more valuable, but our abode on the earth would be
uncomfortable without it:—it is apparently a necessary; and the great
instrument of civilization.
WILLIAM.
We see greater respect paid to a goldsmith than a common mechanic,
though the first we could do without.
EMILIA.
Perhaps it is because that a goldsmith gains greater profit, and goes
better clothed.
CHARLES.
You have well observed, Emilia. We are very unreasonable when we are
proud of dress. Where should we get the finery, if the hard hands of the
diligent labourer did not provide the materials? A diamond is dug out of
the earth without our assistance. Silk stuff, prepared by the industry
of a worm, and in which we pride ourselves, is worked for us without our
knowing how.—Yet, we are delighted with the praise we receive, as much
as we could be had we invented the arts, or manufactured the product of
the earth. We only wear what the skill and industry of others have
procured for us.—What are we, when we recollect such foolish pride?—We
who presume to arrogate merit to ourselves, which belongs to others; to
the weavers and taylors—and even to the worms that contribute to adorn
us. But you may say, such habits are a proof that we are rich, or born
in a distinguished rank.—It is nothing!—We are, as I have just proved,
indebted for the gold and silver to the poor miners, who, at the expence
of health, dig it out of the mine—and we possess it by mere chance.—And
our birth, of which we are apt to boast so much, is equally accidental.
EMILIA.
But we pay more respect to painters, and all those who exercise the fine
arts, than we do to mechanics, though theirs are not useful employments.
CHARLES.
That is, because we involuntarily pay respect to an improved mind. Dr.
Bartlett has taught me to make distinctions. Those employments, in which
the mind is exercised more than the body, tend to cultivate the
understanding, the noblest kind of superiority. Those artists afford
food for the mind; pleasures that the man has not any conception of who
is occupied in manual labour. We may choose our companions and friends;
but all the labourers in the great field of life, are our brothers; and
equally deserve the rights of humanity. And they are superior to their
fellow men who are most extensively useful, not those who, in false
state, exhibit diamonds and gold on their body, whilst their minds are,
perhaps, inferior to those of the poor creatures, who, by a weak taper’s
light, dug them out of their hidden place, to decorate folly, not
ornament virtue; for virtue has inherent splendor.
Dear mother, I will never exalt myself on account of my birth again; but
I will try to gain the noblest distinction, that of virtue. For with
respect to understanding, I have often seen the witty applauded, when
those you termed wise, were scarcely observed.—What, is not this
admiring the dazzling and neglecting the useful? But, you say the
generality are superficial, and only attend to the outside of things. I
will try to remember, that the praise of one sensible person, is of more
worth than the encomium of a crowd; because they consider before they
speak.
WILLIAM.
LETTER LII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Honest Harry is returned quite recovered, that is, as well as he will
ever be; for the surgeon was right, he will be a cripple all his life.
Sir Charles and his Lady are much concerned, for he was a faithful
servant, and has been in the family some years. This morning we had the
following conversation.
CHARLES.
Harry’s accident makes me very uneasy.—Poor fellow! he was so
well-made—so active.
SIR CHARLES.
We ought to draw useful lessons from the misfortunes we deplore. You
find we are not a moment sure of ourselves. He rose in the morning
alert, full of health—before night, he was stretched on a bed—helpless
as a babe. A single unforeseen accident, which we cannot guard against,
may in a moment deprive us of our limbs, our sight, nay, even of life
itself. To him who lives conformable to the laws of God, no death is
sudden or dreadful.
CHARLES.
Accidents, you say, we cannot guard against; but are there not many
misfortunes which we bring on ourselves through imprudence?
WILLIAM.