boys were at play struggling together with a pistol, they did not know
it was loaded, the pistol went off, and one of them was killed, and the
other so shocked that he has walked about the fields melancholy ever
since.
SIR CHARLES.
That misfortune was entirely their own fault. It should always be a
fixed rule with boys never to play with firearms; for in every thing
that depends on ourselves we ought to be circumspect, and to be careful
of our own lives, and of the lives of others, as a loan, which we must
return at the time it pleases the Almighty to demand it—we must return
our talents improved, or fearfully wait for the punishment denounced
against the unfaithful servant.
WILLIAM.
Are not they equally wrong who venture their lives on the ice, before
the frost is quite set in, only for the pleasure of skaiting a few days
sooner?
SIR CHARLES.
The passion for pleasure so blinds them, that they think not of the
danger. It is then wrong to indulge ourselves in all that we desire, for
when this propensity to present pleasure is master of us, it
dispossesses our judgment of its rightful place in the mind, and the
quiet suggestions, reflection would obtrude, are not heard in the
tumult.
CHARLES.
But, Sir, what is Harry to do? He is not now capable of service.
EMILIA.
I know my parents are so good—so humane—
LADY GRANDISON.
Well, and what would Emilia say further?
EMILIA.
You know better than I what is proper to do for him.
SIR CHARLES.
Speak, tell us your opinion.
EMILIA.
You gave a yearly income to our old gardener because he had been a
faithful servant.
SIR CHARLES.
Very true; but the gardener was a decrepid old man, worn out in the
service of my family; he could not do any thing to earn a livelihood. I
respect old age, I would not grub up a tree which had long afforded me a
shade; and the horse I rode on, when I was young, has now a meadow to
range in, and a soft bed to stretch those limbs on, which were formerly
active in my service.
EMILIA.
I would readily save my pocket-money, and give up the new clothes I have
been promised, to contribute to support poor Harry.
SIR CHARLES.
You are a good girl; what you have said adorns your face, and makes you
appear much more lovely than the finest ornaments could. But, Charles,
let me hear what you would advise?
CHARLES.
I am afraid to give you advice, you know every thing so much better than
I do.
LADY GRANDISON.
That is very well observed; but your father asks, not to be informed
what is proper to be done, but to hear your sentiments.
CHARLES.
I respect Harry, nay love him; though not as I love my dear father, and
I would fain serve him.
SIR CHARLES.
Go on, Charles.
CHARLES.
His father was a good shoe-maker, and worked hard to bring up a large
family; he brought Harry up a shoe-maker; but Harry had a mind to see
the world, as he told me, when he was sick, and he left his father, he
was then very sorry for it. His father died since he has been in your
service, and he has constantly sent most part of his wages to his poor
mother.—Now if you would have the goodness to give him a little
furniture, and leather and tools, he and his mother might live together,
and they would both be provided for; and, in time, he might be able to
return you the money, for he has an honest heart.
SIR CHARLES.
What, without interest, Charles?
CHARLES.
Now, Sir, you joke with me—but I perceive why.
LADY GRANDISON.
Because you were so very careful, and would have the money returned.
Charles kissed his mother’s cheek, and said, forgive me, I see you will
do more for him, than I could presume to ask.
SIR CHARLES.
Yes, I am glad that your sentiments so well accord with mine. We do the
poor an essential service when we put them in a way to earn their own
subsistence; for then we support the body without injuring the mind.
Idleness in every station leads to vice. Do you go and speak to Harry,
and ask him how much will be requisite for this purpose, and then we
will give him it as a reward for his fidelity, and to comfort him under
his misfortune.
CHARLES.
Dear parents, I thank you; I will run immediately and tell him the good
news. It will rejoice his heart, for when he was sick and delirious, he
raved about his mother, and repented, sorely repented that he had not
followed her advice and worked at his own trade. He will be so glad to
maintain his mother, for the poor old woman, after bringing up a family,
finds it hard to stand at the wash-tub.—He was going—
EMILIA.
Stop a moment, I must go with you, for I love to see people happy.
O, my dear mother, how delightful it is to have it in our power to be
bountiful. The poor man cried for joy, when Charles informed him what
his parents designed to do for him. Thus God provides for those who
behave well to their parents. He saved to assist an old mother, and now
he is lame his master takes care of him. In this way, said Sir Charles,
we ought to lighten the afflictions we are liable to, and must humbly
endure.
Two months more and I shall again be with you.
WILLIAM.
LETTER LIII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Edward is come again this afternoon, and looks very well. He informed us
of a disagreeable accident which happened lately, and shows very clearly
how imprudent it is to talk idly, and merely for the sake of having
something to say, to canvass the faults or even the vices of others. But
I will give you the particulars of a conversation we had in consequence
of this information.
EDWARD.
You knew Colonel Brown, Charles. Last week Captain Fiery shot him.
CHARLES.
And for what reason?
EDWARD.
Because his son, in a large company, spoke very disrespectfully of the
Captain, and said he was a man whose word could not be depended on.
CHARLES.
Suppose it was so, it was not proper to speak of it, especially in a
large company; these kind of conversations proceed oftener from folly
than from a detestation of vice, or a nice sense of honour, which makes
a person feel indignation, when any of his fellow-creatures act meanly.
WILLIAM.
How could the Colonel be answerable for what his son said?
EDWARD.
Fiery is a hot-headed foolish man, and because he could not have
satisfaction from a youth, demanded it of the father. He apologized for
his son’s imprudence; but Fiery would not listen to reason, he compelled
the other to meet him, his profession did not allow him to refuse a
challenge; he was killed on the spot, and Fiery sat off directly for
France.
CHARLES.
And what will he get by the name of courage, which his rash
insensibility may have procured him? He must never return to his native
country, his hands have been dyed in the blood of his fellow-creature,
he has robbed a family of its support, and in consequence of his
violating the laws of humanity, is compelled to wander in a strange
country, and only to receive that attention his money will procure.
WILLIAM.
But young Brown, how I pity him!
CHARLES.
Yes, he deserves pity; he is continually upbraiding himself with his
folly, and lamenting his rashness, his want of consideration, which has
deprived his mother of all her comfort, and himself of a tender friend
and affectionate father.
EDWARD.
Yet, many think him not to blame, he only spoke the truth. Captain
Fiery’s character is generally known, and he is as generally despised.
CHARLES.
Believe me, brother, we are not always to say what is true, when it
tends to the prejudice of another we must be silent; it is more to our
credit to soften the faults we must mention, and better still, perhaps,
not to mention them at all. Dr. Bartlett has often told me, that those
who accustom themselves to tell all they know of others, will
imperceptibly deviate from truth, and, forgetting compassion, will
become unjust.
WILLIAM.
I agree with you, and think it possible that those who build their
virtues on the vices of others, will soon have only comparative virtue.
CHARLES.
It is chiefly to tell some news, or to appear of consequence, that
people retail scandalous anecdotes; yet, those who listen to such
stories with malignant pleasure, despise and fear the slanderer; though
murder should not happen, many disagreeable consequences may follow, and
we should never mention the faults of others without a chance of
reclaiming them.
The conversation was interrupted, and so I must bid you adieu.
WILLIAM.
LETTER LIV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Last Friday we all of us went to pay a visit where there was a large
party of young people, and some of them of the first rank. After we came
home we conversed about them.
EDWARD.
What think you, Charles, of the various dresses you saw? Young Owen’s
shabby coat appeared very conspicuous near Sir William Turner’s elegant
fashionable suit.
CHARLES.
Young Owen is not rich, but I am sure that he in his plain dress
commands more respect than Sir William, if we go into company to be
amused and improved and not to see a block on which fine clothes are
hung.
WILLIAM.
You make me laugh, Charles; so, those who take so much pains to adorn
their persons are, in your opinion, mere blocks.
CHARLES.
I do not absolutely say so, but this I am certain of, that those who are
as accomplished and entertaining as young Owen, ought to take place of
him, whose rank, fortune, and appearance are his only claim to notice.
EMILIA.
Lady Jane L—— was of a different opinion; she said, she should certainly
have staid at home, had she guessed that Owen would have been there, for
she could not bear to sit in company with a youth whose grandfather was
a mean mechanic.
CHARLES.
Many persons of quality are of the same opinion, but I have been told
that we ought always to prefer merit to birth and riches; the former is
the fruit of our own labour, but the latter is merely accidental.
EDWARD.
But it seems a rule in life to seek rather the company of superiors than
inferiors.
CHARLES.
To seek either to associate with superiors or inferiors constantly,
would, in my opinion, be equally mean, equally tend to debase the soul;
friendship requires equality.
WILLIAM.
Lady Jane, whom Emilia was speaking of, appears to me very ill-natured.
Did you not observe how she ridiculed that modest young gentleman who
was a little deformed?
EMILIA.
Yes; she called him a spider, a little ape, and spoke so loud, that he
heard her and appeared disconcerted, and yet she continued to laugh.
CHARLES.
Lady Jane did not recollect, that though her title announced her rank,
her behaviour proved she was not well-bred. She had not sense to
discover, that intolerable pride is a great fault, and deformity only a
misfortune. She did not recollect, that it is her Creator she was
blaming, and that a single fall, or some other casualty, might soon
render her an object of ridicule; and, at any rate, time quickly flies,
and will insensibly destroy those charms she is now so proud of; and the
ignorant may in their turn laugh at her, when she appears old and ugly,
without wisdom or virtue to render gray hairs respectable. How often
have I heard my tutor say, that wisdom and virtue never grow old, on the
contrary, while they are useful to mankind, they spread a real splendor
over the character of an individual.
Dear mother, how often have you warned me against such behaviour, and
how tenderly have I seen you treat those whom others despised? Farewel.
WILLIAM.
LETTER LV.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Forgive me, dear mother, for having been so long silent, but I have only
disagreeable tidings to communicate to you. We all wear a face of woe;
my worthy benefactor, our dear Sir Charles, is very ill, and has been so
for some time. The physicians think him in great danger, and we expect
nothing but death. Lady Grandison, as you may well imagine, is almost
inconsolable. Emilia is continually weeping, and Edward appears almost
distracted. I will give you an account of a conversation we had
yesterday, after we left the sick room. Edward clasped his hands
together as in despair, and threw himself into a chair in an adjoining
chamber. Ah! William, he cried, how it grieves me to think I have so
often offended my more than father; yes, my friend, every thing I have
done now haunts me, and pains my very soul.
WILLIAM.
My dear Edward be comforted, he is still alive, and God may perhaps
restore him to health.
EDWARD.
I know I do not deserve that favour, I have so often offended him, and
though he has forgiven me, I can never forgive myself; and, perhaps, God
will not forgive me. Happy Charles, who now, because he has always been
dutiful, can look for his father’s death with a sedate sorrow, while I
fly from his sick bed, continually tormented by fear and remorse.
WILLIAM.
Indeed he appears to have much fortitude.
EDWARD.
He has a Father in heaven that is good to him, who gives him power to
support his grief.
WILLIAM.
Pray you also to that Father, and you too will obtain his favour; the
unhappy who sincerely turn to him, will always find him compassionate
and ready to forgive those who really lament their faults, not merely
the consequences produced by them.
EDWARD.
Well then, I will do so; but oh! William, my heart is very heavy.
Dear mother, I pity poor Edward, but I admire Charles; and I do not know
which to praise most, his filial love, or his sedateness and patience;
in the bitterness of his grief he scarcely ever leaves his sick parent,
he gives him his medicines, stifles his sighs, and hides his tears, and
almost seems afraid to breathe when his father closes his eyes; but I
have seen him fold his hands together, and, lifting up his eyes to
heaven, pray with ardour. I will not send this letter off till
to-morrow, when I will write again.
WILLIAM, _in continuation_.
How much I was affected yesterday afternoon. I went, after I had done
writing, to Sir Charles’s chamber, I opened the door softly, but instead
of Charles, saw Lady Grandison and Emilia, both kneeling at the
bed-side; I stole away unperceived to seek for Charles, I could not find
him in any of the chambers, no one knew where he was. Oh! said I to
myself, where is my dear Charles? I ran into the garden, and there I
found him in the summer-house; he was kneeling down, his hands and eyes
were lifted up to heaven, and big tears rolled down his cheeks; I heard
him pray with earnestness, but could only distinguish a few words.
_Preserve, oh! my God, my dear, my affectionate father—grant him longer
life, Thou knowest best, Thou art infinitely merciful, oh! pardon me, I
wish to die to save him, to save my mother from the anguish she must
endure if deprived of him._
He seemed in an agony, and at length arose with more apparent firmness;
I could no longer be silent, I caught his hand, God will preserve your
father, I exclaimed; I hope so, answered he, but let us walk round the
garden, that my mother may not see that I have been crying, it would add
to her sorrows. We walked backwards and forwards, when Charles resumed
the discourse; You heard me pray then?
WILLIAM.
No, I only heard a few incoherent words, and that you wished to die, to
save your father.
CHARLES.
Of how much more consequence is his life than mine? I scarcely know how
I should live without him. My wish was a selfish one, for perfect
happiness is not to be found on earth; I have heard him often say, the
happiest have their troubles, and the best their failings, which disturb
their earthly peace.
WILLIAM.
What a comfort would these sensible reflections afford, should you lose
your father?
CHARLES.
I hope they would; though it now appears to me, that nothing could
afford me comfort, should I be deprived of the best of fathers. Come,
let us go in; I would not lose the few moments that still afford me an
opportunity of shewing my affection and alleviating his sufferings.
We went immediately into the house. Sir Charles had slept near an hour,
and was something better; he called Charles with a faint, yet a distinct
voice, as soon as he heard him enter the room; he approached the bed and
threw himself upon his knees, he took hold of his father’s hand and
kissed it several times with a kind of eager respect; what sensibility,
what sincerity and grief, did I not see in his countenance! The tears
were rolling fast down his cheeks, it would be impossible to delineate
the scene.—What does my father want? asked he; what would he say to his
son? I wish, answered Sir Charles, to tell you, that your duty and
affection will soften the pangs of death, your mother will still have a
friend, your sister a protector, and your past behaviour makes me rely
on your future. You weep, grieve not my son, sometime or other we must
have been separated, but if you obey your heavenly father we shall meet
again, where death has no dominion.
CHARLES.
But, my dear father, if you recover now, I might die before you.
SIR CHARLES.
Would you then, Charles, rather have me suffer, than endure grief
yourself? Do you love me?
CHARLES.
Do I love you!—I love you more than I love myself.
SIR CHARLES.
No, my dear, you are mistaken; you love yourself better, or you would
not wish me to live in a world where there are so many cares and
sorrows.
CHARLES.
It is true, but I pray forgive me, I cannot help wishing to keep you
here. I cannot forbear thinking how unhappy I shall be, when I lose my
father; I have such need of your wise counsel, you are the guide of my
youth,—my first friend.
SIR CHARLES.
You will still have a good mother, and you have a Father in heaven, who
will never leave you nor forsake you; reconcile your mind to the event:
if I die, recollect that I am only gone a little while before you; be
virtuous, remember your Creator, fulfil all your duties to your
fellow-creatures, and you will without fear wait for the last solemn
hour, and the moment when we shall meet again.—But I have said
sufficient, submit yourself to the Ruler of the universe, who loves you
even better than I do.
My friend Charles rose up, and retired from the bed, without being able
to speak, his heart was full, he threw himself into a chair. My father,
said he, has commanded me to submit to the will of heaven; this
affecting command is, perhaps, the last I shall ever receive from his
dear mouth.—Well then, I must, I will be resigned. I will suppress my
grief as well as I can, and wait the event with fortitude; my father has
taught me how to live, and I shall now learn of him how to die; by
imitating his virtues, I may be thought worthy to dwell with him in
heaven, to meet him never to part again.
The physician came in with Dr. Bartlett, he found his patient much
better, and gave us some hopes; the good Doctor took Charles by the
hand, and advised him to take some rest, for he had not been in bed
these three nights: but Charles begged to be excused; I cannot sleep,
Sir, said he, while my father suffers so much. No, I slumber by his bed
when he rests, that is sufficient. Indeed, who can so well take care of
a father as his own son? Who can love him as well as I do? My eye must
see if he lies down soft and easy, I must cover him, I must warm his
dear hands in mine when I find them cold.—I must do more—I must receive
his last breath.—He could not go on, and when they still continued to
press him, he said, he esteemed too much the few precious hours he could
now spend with his father to lose one, while there was a shadow of
danger.
What a son, dear mother! but even the recital has affected me so much, I
can only assure you that I am your dutiful son,
WILLIAM.
LETTER LVI.
_Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.
I was very much concerned when I heard of your benefactor’s alarming
illness; but I would fain hope, with you, my dear William, that heaven
will restore so good a man, whose example the world has so much need of.
Yet, my son, what an opportunity presents itself for you to view death
without terror. You see with what peace and tranquility a Christian can
wait for his dying hour; one who has observed the duties of
christianity, and not assumed the mere name. You behold the good Sir
Charles resigned to the will of heaven, calmly waiting for his
dissolution; yes, every one who has lived well, may be termed the friend
of God, and secure of his protection at the last trying hour, may view
it without dismay. He knows, that released from all the cares and
sufferings of this life, he is going to enjoy the presence and favour of
the supreme fountain of good, whose favorite he is, because he has
endeavoured to copy the perfections, as far as he could discover them,
of that Being he adored. Death has nothing terrible in it for him; no,
death, at that moment, appears his best friend, as it conducts him to an
eternity of happiness, which, even in this world, he has had a foretaste
of; and besides, what delight may not a further improvement in knowledge
afford to one who has already advanced a few steps in the attainment of
it. Life is like a dream, which quickly passes away, and virtue only
forces it to leave lasting traces behind. Let us, my son, endeavour to
be good, and then we may all expect to meet where our great improvement
in virtue may ensure our happiness. Neglect not to inform me, by the
first packet, of the present state of health of our much-esteemed
friend.
D.
LETTER LVII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.
Rejoice with us, my dear mother, Sir Charles is now entirely out of
danger; I omitted writing for some days, that I might be quite certain
that our hopes were well-founded. Our mourning is now turned into joy: I
think we were never so happy before. But what should I have done had he
died? the time of my departure for Holland approaches, how could I have
left my friend in the midst of his grief? It is in the hour of sorrow
that we most need a friend, and I think I love him better than ever,
since I saw him so unhappy;—but it is all over now, and I shall return
with satisfaction to my dear mother and sister. How quickly has this
year flown away; and Dr. Bartlett has frequently told me, that few
complain of the irksomeness of time, who are properly employed.
Certainly none are more to be pitied than those who are habitually idle;
how far otherwise is it with those happy families where useful
employments, and innocent amusements, fill the whole day. I have learned
of Charles to divide my hours well, and I shall do so, with your
permission, when I return home. I shall not then, I hope, be any more
dull, as I used formerly to be, when we were without company; nor shall
I wish continually for the company of young Du Lis, because he was
always merry. I will read to you, when we are alone; and improve myself
in drawing, and in the many other things I have been taught since I came
to England, that my friend Charles may not blush for me, when we meet
again. I shall never forget what I heard Sir Charles say a few days ago
to Edward; you wish much for company, dear Edward, said he, but, believe
me, it is wishing for slavery. He who is always running into company,
cannot bear himself in solitude; constant company leads to habitual
idleness. Society is agreeable; but it must be relieved by retired hours
to remain long so. And it is very improper, for young people especially,
every day to think of visiting; the days of youth are invaluable, it is
the seedtime of life, and a harvest cannot be expected when it has been
neglected. You ought then to suppress that desire of continual
dissipation, which insensibly draws off the attention from more rational
pursuits, and even prevents young people from obtaining a respectable
situation in the society they frequent. If you would learn to be
qualified for general conversation, learn to think when you read, and
through the assistance of rational books, many hours of retirement may
pass pleasantly away, without your wishing for the noise of
society—Books are never failing friends.
I am, dear mother,
WILLIAM.
LETTER LVIII.
WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER,
Next Thursday is fixed for my departure, so that this is my last letter.
I did wish to have remained here till after Emilia’s birth-day, but one
of Sir Charles’s friends intends setting off next week for Holland, and
he wishes me to go with him, as another opportunity may not soon occur.
How happens it, dear mother, that I am so low-spirited when I am
returning to you whom I have so continually longed to see? I love Sir
Charles and his Lady, and I love my friend as myself, yet, I love you
better than all the world. I know not well what I feel, I would
willingly return, and still wish to remain where I am. Sir Charles has
given me reason to hope that I shall see my friend in Holland much
sooner than I expected, and that we shall correspond constantly during
our separation; he then gave me some books and mathematical instruments.
How much I shall have to read to you, and how many things to tell you,
when I am once more returned home!