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YOUNG GRANDISON.
A SERIES OF
LETTERS
FROM
YOUNG PERSONS
TO THEIR
FRIENDS.

TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH OF

Madame DE CAMBON.

WITH

ALTERATIONS AND IMPROVEMENTS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, Nº 72, ST. PAUL’S

CHURCH-YARD.

M DCC XC.

YOUNG GRANDISON.

LETTER I.
William D—— to young Charles Grandison.

I wish to inform you, my dear Grandison, what joy I felt when I returned back again to a dearly loved mother.—But, no;—you who love your parents so tenderly, can easily imagine what I cannot describe. How full of transport was the moment, when, after a year’s absence, I again embraced the dear guardian of my youth. It was very early in the morning when we entered the city; my mother, as we had not had a fair wind, did not expect me, and of course was in bed. My first eager desire made me ascend the stairs; but as I was hastening to her bedchamber I recollected myself, and returned softly back. It is still dark, thought I, shall I disturb her repose, by my sudden appearance at her bedside? Certainly not. That would be mistaken love, mere selfish affection. You will, I think, approve of this prudence. Mean while I was full of impatience: a thousand times I wished her to wake, counted the minutes, and listened continually.—At length the moment arrived; my heart beat quick; I almost flew up the stairs; but again I stopped myself, and resting on the last stair, I called out, Here is your own William, dear mother, may I come in? Was I not right, my friend? for the sudden surprise of seeing me, would have been too much for her spirits. Before I could well hear her answer my patience was exhausted, and I rushed in, and was at her bedside out of breath; I could only say, My dear mother. She pressed me to her bosom, crying, My William, my son!—and we both wept together: but they were delightful tears: I never in my life experienced so much heart-felt satisfaction.

My sister Annette hurried on her clothes as soon as she heard of my arrival, and jumped about me half mad with joy. She then ran for the doll, which your sister Emilia sent her, and made me observe how well she had preserved it, and asked twenty questions in a breath about this dear sister of your’s. In the midst of them, the maid came to tell her that her writing master waited for her. I wish it was an hour earlier, said she, with tears in her eyes; the moment I see you I am forced to leave you; another day, I should not mind writing four copies; but to-day I know not how to go. Well, said my mother, observing the tears she tried to hide, we will desire the master, for this time, to excuse you. Annette stood a moment irresolute, then ran to her mother, and said, it is from pure goodness that you indulge me; but I know you would rather I did not neglect my writing. Besides, good Mr. M—— might be displeased with me; it would not be right to send such an old man away, I will take my lesson. Would not Emilia do so? and she skipped out of the room.

I believe all children might be induced to learn to read and write, if it was made an amusement to them, without all that gloom which generally accompanies lessons. Children are very fond of imitating men if they are allowed to follow their own inclinations; yet are averse to constraint: but you will think me too serious. And I hasten to tell you what I suffered when I left your dear family. Your father’s kindness melted my very soul, and even the expectation of seeing the best of parents did not cheer me when I first got into the packet-boat. Farewell, sometime think of your affectionate friend,

WILLIAM.

P. S. The anniversary of Emilia’s birth is now past without my being able to celebrate it with you. With what delight should I have gathered her a nosegay of my best flowers, those hyacinths and jonquils, which I raised with so much care. But I was denied that pleasure; my heart longs to tell her all the good wishes you must now present to her in my name. May she be as happy as I wish her to be! I need say no more.

LETTER II.
Charles to William.

Believe me, my dear William, I very severely feel your absence: you will be convinced of this when I tell you, that this house, in which my best friends, my parents reside, for the first time in my life appeared dreary to me. I ran from room to room, and could scarcely believe that I am at home. I went into the chamber where we used to amuse ourselves; but vainly did I endeavour to pursue the same employments; I recollected, every instant, that I was alone, and should have wept, only I was ashamed of being so weak. My greatest pleasure was in looking over your drawings, and pointing out their beauties to Emilia.

I did not forget to present to her your fine flowers, and she instantly put them in water, that she might for a long time enjoy their fragrance.

I agree with you, William, that it is very pleasant to be employed; but I am afraid I should not always have thought so if Dr. Bartlett had not taken so much pains to make my employments amusements. He has frequently reminded me, that every duty soon becomes a pleasure. How then can men neglect their duties merely to be idle; the most lazy burthens on society, he added, would think it a severe punishment, if during their whole life they were not allowed to do any thing. How miserable would they be, though surrounded with all the conveniences, and even superfluities of life. We should be happier rowing in the gallies, than in this settled listless state, which puts a stop to all improvement, for improvement is the main end of life, as it raises us above the brutes, and enables us to please God. I am sure he was right, for when I have reluctantly begun to work, I soon found it very pleasant, so that I wished to go on, particularly when we have been digging in our garden, or using our turning tools. Nay, it has been the same when I have been reading or drawing.

I must now have done, for it is nine o’clock, the hour I attend Dr. Bartlett, and he expects me to be very punctual, if I have not a good reason to give for my delay. Remember me to your mother and sister, and write often to yours,

CHARLES GRANDISON.

LETTER III.
William to Charles.

How agreeable, my dear Charles, has Dr. Bartlett made my life; by teaching me the habit of exercising my mind, he has inspired me with curiosity to improve myself in the sciences, and your whole family have led me to love the arts. I would draw, and learn music, to be the companion of Emilia and Charles. And pray thank your father for the books and mathematical instruments he gave me, and I hope, by my future diligence, to prove that I am grateful for the instructions I received at your house.

I daily find, that industry and perseverance overcome many difficulties. But I receive still more satisfaction from my employments, when I perceive the pleasure my improvement affords my mother.—I never saw her so happy since my father’s death as she is at present. Yesterday she came into my room, and found me with my compasses in my hand, and my books open before me. Her eyes swam in tears, and she kissed me affectionately, exclaiming, how thankful ought I to be to heaven, for having given me such a son to comfort my widowed heart. Oh, Charles, what a satisfaction I felt when I heard this said by a mother I tenderly loved, and every day more and more respect.—How valuable were those lessons, added she,—which you were favoured with; and what a blessing for you has been the example of your friend.—Very true, my dear mother, answered I, but at the same time I recollect, that you were my first teacher; that you laid the groundwork; had you not accustomed me to diligence, and prepared me by your instructions, what should I have learnt in one year even with the best masters? You taught me to read the Dutch, English, and French languages, and the knowledge of them prejudiced my friends in England in my favour.

My mother, after having sat a few moments, left me, but quickly returned, with a cup of chocolate. A little refreshment, William, said she, will enable you to work with more pleasure, and I know you are fond of chocolate. Yes, answered I, my dear Madam, but I receive more pleasure from this proof of your goodness, than any refreshment could ever afford me.

My mother then asked if I had any thing particular to do in the evening, if not, she would give me a little commission. You may be sure that I eagerly told her I should be ready to do whatever she desired who had a right to command. Well, said she, we shall see, and left the room.

After she left me I began to consider, nay, to wonder, what it could be, for I perceived a smile on her countenance when she spoke of it. Suddenly it darted into my head that this was the first of April; you know it is the custom to play tricks that day, and I imagined I had discovered the secret, and determined to be careful. We went to dinner. I observed, that Annette knew something of what was going forwards, for I heard her say softly, No, mother, I shall say nothing of it. I went to my room, as usual, after dinner to draw. Annette came soon after to take a lesson, yet you will readily believe I did not ask her any questions, though I was really very curious. She was cautious, but could not help laughing several times. At last, an hour before tea time, a violin was brought into my chamber, and my mother soon afterwards entered, followed by a genteel looking man. I was astonished, and silently bowed. She took the violin out of the case and gave it me, saying, this gentleman is a music master, who has agreed to give you lessons, and I doubt not you will be assiduous to profit by his instructions. This is the commission I mentioned this morning. Never, no never, my dear Charles, was I more agreeably surprised; I first took my mother, and then my music master, by the hand, and scarcely knew what I said when I attempted to thank her.

And what say you, Charles, am I not very happy that my mother enables me to improve myself in my favourite amusement? If I ever visit dear England again, I shall find no difficulty in playing with you and Emilia. And what adds to this obligation is the kindness of my mother in procuring me an advantage the narrowness of her circumstances must render very inconvenient.

I hastily ran down stairs after my master left me, and could hardly refrain boasting of her goodness before a lady who came to drink tea with her. But I was glad when she went away; then I had an opportunity to give vent to my grateful heart.

How much have I injured you, my dear mother, said I, by supposing you were going to play me an April trick; will you forgive me? Yes, certainly, answered she, and I am glad you mentioned it, that I may inform you from what cause that foolish custom, of making fools of each other, took its rise. It was from the abuse and scoffing which our Saviour suffered when he was sent from Pilate to Herod, and back again to Pilate, by those who had put on him a scarlet robe by way of derision. Be careful, then, never to mock the wretched, for then you again insult Jesus Christ, and neglect to follow his example, who was the pattern of all virtue. Besides, many quarrels arise from foolish frolicks, and we should never enjoy a joke that gives a fellow-creature pain.

Two hours at least of the twenty-four I shall now devote to music, though my master is to come but twice a week; yet I must constantly practise to prepare myself for his lessons: I shall then rise an hour sooner, for I have often heard Dr. Bartlett say, that five or six hours sleep is sufficient for a person in health. Farewell, remember your friend

WILLIAM.

LETTER IV.
Charles to William.

Again do I see return that delightful season in which every thing appears to be revived, and we are once more at our beloved Grandison Hall. You remember well how pleasantly last summer past away; the shady woods, these charming walks, all brought you to my remembrance, and particularly our little garden.

Edward has left us for some time; his friends have procured a commission for him; but I have another companion, my cousin James, the eldest son of Lord G—. He is a handsome lively youth, and, my father says, has a good understanding, yet I observe he does not find that pleasure in the country that you and I do. He is of a humourous turn, and sometimes treats the most serious matters with too much levity. His disposition would better agree with Edward’s than mine, for he loves a frolic, and calls mischief fun; however he has a good heart, and possesses a winning chearfulness of temper.

We yesterday took a pleasant ride; Emilia accompanied us: we went out of the high road to a small village, and stopt at a little farm house to purchase some fruit. We had not been long in a little room near the garden when we heard a confused noise in the kitchen, and I ran out to enquire the cause, leaving my cousin with my sister. A young man, well dressed, ran hastily through the passage; he had been disputing with the farmer, who now allowed him to conceal himself in the garden.

He was scarcely out of sight, when a respectable looking woman ran in, exclaiming, My son is here; I must, I will see him! A mother who demanded her son, and a son who avoids his mother, thought I, this is something uncommon. I felt extreme compassion, which seemed to command me to assist her: who, indeed, could see a distressed mother without being moved? You weep, said I; I cannot see a parent’s tear without concern; has any misfortune befallen your son? Yes, she replied, I am almost without hope; perhaps it is even now too late to save him from ruin. I requested her to go into the parlour to my sister, whilst I spoke to the farmer, and sought for the son. Emilia was surprised to see me enter with a woman apparently distressed, but with compassionate politeness she took her hand, while I reached a chair. I stopt a moment, afraid to ask her any question, lest she should think me impertinent; yet I wished her to speak that I might know what to say to her son. She soon broke silence, and when her tears allowed her to speak articulately, said, “your kindness affects me, I am an unfortunate widow, who formerly knew better days, and never thought I should be obliged to work for the necessaries of life; but the sudden death of my husband, a clergyman, has thrown me destitute on the world. He left me a son, who might have made my life comfortable, if he had not been drawn aside from the path of virtue by bad company. Falling from one error to another, instead of helping to soften my griefs, he has made me feel that my afflictions indeed are very heavy. My intreaties, my threatenings, have all been fruitless; I could not separate him from his thoughtless companions, or induce him to follow any useful employment, and”——here her sobs prevented her from proceeding, when she added, “I have just heard, that he has entered himself as a sailor, and is soon to go on board a man of war which is now preparing for sea. If he would exert himself he might gain an honest livelihood, and be a comfort to his unfortunate mother: it would almost break my heart to part with him; but though I could part with him for his good, I cannot bear that he should go with the companions who seduced him from his duty, and first led him into vice; should he become thoroughly vicious, I should then lose him for ever, and he would bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”—I could not refrain my tears, Emilia, and even James wept.—No, Madam, said I, he shall not leave you, I know where he is, and I will hasten to him, to awaken him to repentance, and I hastily left the room.

I found the young man in a shed at the bottom of the garden, and the following conversation ensued.

CHARLES.

Shun me not, Sir, I am your friend, at least I desire to be so; I have heard that you wish to hide yourself, and that even from your parent; pardon the liberty I take, I cannot help endeavouring to divert you from your design: it grieves me to see that you avoid your mother.

BRADLEY.

I must not, I cannot see her again; do not betray me, I beseech you, but persuade the master of the house to let me escape without seeing her.

CHARLES.

Could I desire the man to do this! I who have seen your distrest mother weep, and have wept with her!

BRADLEY.

How! has she told you all?

CHARLES.

Yes, she has told me you would fly from her, you, her only son, and that it will cost her her life. What a proof of tenderness! Can you be unconcerned?

BRADLEY.

My mother is in necessitous circumstances; she cannot support me according to my birth.

CHARLES.

It is noble in you not to wish to be a burthen to your mother; a son of your age should not expect a support, except his parents are blest with affluence. But I have been informed you are very ingenious, and have received a good education; heaven has not given you these talents for no purpose.

BRADLEY.

I must endeavour to advance my fortune in a foreign country.

CHARLES.

You will find no mother in a foreign country; and can you leave a parent already overwhelmed by misfortune? would you snatch from her her last support? Surely you have no affection for her.

BRADLEY.

What, Sir, no affection for a mother who has done so much for me!

CHARLES.

A strange proof you would give of it, to leave her in solitary misery, when she declares your absence would be her death.

BRADLEY.

That is a weakness; how many mothers are there that must be separated from their children?

CHARLES.

I acknowledge it; but a weakness that arises from an affection for you should rather endear her to you. Excuse me, Sir, but I think that children who have such tender apprehensive parents, ought to sacrifice a wavering uncertain prospect of happiness rather than grieve them. Nay, it would be for their own advantage, if, as my tutor says, no happiness is to be obtained by the violation of duty. Should you return from sea successful, and find her dead, repentance would imbitter your whole future life, for she assures me you have naturally an affectionate good disposition. Continue with her; when a mother in poverty begins to labour under a weight of years, it would be cowardly in a son to desert her.

BRADLEY.

What shall I do, I have not learned any business, would you have me work in the fields?

CHARLES.

There is nothing shameful in pursuing any honest employment; but you are not reduced to that situation. Any one who has a tolerable understanding, and has had a good education, may make himself friends by his diligence: in short, there is no one who is virtuous and industrious but may gain a subsistence, and secure himself respect and esteem. Come, consent; let me conduct you to your mother; she has lived for you, you in your turn ought to live for her. Our parents are our best friends, whose loss nothing can recompense; let those go to sea who have no parents to weep for them, who have no abilities to push them forward in the employments which require mental exertions; it becomes not you who have such qualifications.

BRADLEY.

It is too late, I have already entered; I have no alternative; go I must.

CHARLES.

That difficulty may easily be removed. Come, throw yourself at your mother’s feet, and give her cause to weep for joy.—At last I persuaded him, and he silently followed me, very much distressed.

The mother no sooner saw us enter the room, than she fell on his neck. Oh! William, how tender is the affection of a mother for her children. Bradley seemed truly penitent and abashed; but I shall not attempt to describe all the affecting circumstances. Afterwards he took me aside, and said, I am really sorry to leave my mother, yet I must fulfil my engagement, for I have spent the bounty money; and the captain would not be willing to part with a stout hand supposing I could return it, which is impossible. I bid him be easy, and if he would promise to remain with his mother, I did not doubt but that I should prevail on my father to use his interest with the captain. I said the same to his mother, whose acknowledgment made me blush, and, to avoid them, I hastened our departure, and thought the road very tedious till I arrived at Grandison Hall, and had interested my father in this poor woman’s favour. I am to see Bradley next Friday: I desired him to call on me; before that time my father will take me to the neighbouring sea-port, where the vessel is fitting out for sea.—You shall hear all about it: till then adieu.

LETTER V.
Charles to William.

Well, my dear friend, my father has exerted his interest, and the captain has consented to release young Bradley from his engagement. I returned the bounty money; my father would have reimbursed me, but I wished to do something myself.

I then visited the unhappy mother, who joyfully received the news, and even the son thanked me with tears in his eyes, for he appears to have a good disposition, though he has not sufficient firmness to bear the laugh of his dissipated companions. The poor woman still seems alive to fear, but my father has promised to procure him some employment; mean while Dr. Bartlett will endeavour to prepare him for it, by teaching him habits of regularity and order. That good man thought of making him copy some of his sermons, and making extracts from books. This task young Bradley readily performs in the steward’s room, and he imagines that he is making himself useful, when in reality this is only a scheme of the benevolent Doctor’s to improve him, and detach him from his former idle companions. It already seems to have had a good effect on him, and my tutor says, he perceives a spark of emulation blowing up in his mind, that he hopes will strengthen his weak resolves, and make him, in time, a virtuous character.

Our little garden is now in fine order again, and I work at it with pleasure, because I have got a new companion. Can you guess who? no other than your old friend Emilia. She has got a dress proper to work in, and rises with the lark to assist me; indeed she often joins in the general concert, and sings as chearfully as the birds that hop around us. I asked her, yesterday, if she was not afraid to dirty her hands. You mean to laugh at me, said she, smiling, I hope I shall never be a fine lady, or forget that my hands were given me for some other purpose than to keep them soft and white. Believe me, brother, a daisy I have raised by my own labour, is a thousand times more acceptable to me than the finest nosegay presented by the gardener.

But I must here close my letter, my mother has sent for me to go an airing with her, and I must not make her wait.

Yours,

CHARLES.

LETTER VI.
Charles to William.

I am so happy, my dear William, I can scarcely tell you what has made me so. I am out of breath with joy; you are to come, with your dear mother, to live always in England. My kind parent communicated the joyful tidings to me, and added, that she had prevailed on Mrs. D— to approve of her plan. Never, never, was I more agreeably surprised; but I will tell you all in a circumstantial manner, when I have taken breath, for my heart beats violently.—Well, I am now more composed. After breakfast, this morning, my mother desired me to make an excuse to Dr. Bartlett, and follow her into the garden, when I joined her. I will give you our conversation in the usual way.

LADY GRANDISON.

We consented you know, Charles, to let you spend next winter, and part of the spring, with your friend William; but some particular reason obliges us to change our minds, and I doubt not you will chearfully acquiesce in our determination.

CHARLES.

Yes, for I know you must have a sufficient reason for altering your mind.

LADY GRANDISON.

But perhaps the disappointment will make you very unhappy?

CHARLES.

You have taught me to be sincere. I acknowledge I am disappointed, and cannot in a moment forget it; I have promised myself so much pleasure, and William and I had formed so many plans: I have so long thought of visiting Holland, that I really long to see it. But do not be angry, the pleasure of obeying you and my father will outweigh every other consideration. I shall not have to part with you all, and I have often thought with pain of the time when I should leave you—when the sea would divide us.

LADY GRANDISON.

The sea will not divide us; but you are to leave us for some time to visit our estate in C——, and to make some necessary alterations there in your father’s name.

CHARLES.

I shall endeavour to do the best, and hope you will have no reason to complain of your young steward.

LADY GRANDISON.

I expected an answer like this; but the farm house you will inhabit, is situated almost in a desart; you will have few companions, and no amusements, except the pleasure of relieving the poor. We wish you to experience, that the consciousness of being useful is the truest pleasure; we can do without company when we have peace in our minds. I find pleasure every where, for every where I find something to do.

CHARLES.

Reading and music will be my chief amusements; yet I shall want you, I shall want my father and William; but I shall write to you often, and surely you will answer all my letters.—Yes, I shall be happy—send me away as soon as you please. Here I paused a little, and was thoughtful, but I do not know what I thought of, tears rushed involuntarily into my eyes—my mother observed it.

LADY GRANDISON.

Why, Charles, do you hide any thing from me? speak, you are sorrowful, open your heart to your mother.

CHARLES.

Forgive my weakness, dear Madam, I am ashamed of it. Let me soon set out for the farm, I will not shed a tear I promise you, and you shall see what chearful letters I will write.

LADY GRANDISON.

You are the child of my heart; your submission to your earthly parents proves to me, that you will in future resign yourself to the will of your heavenly father, who never afflicts his children but to improve them. But your trial at this time will not be so severe as you imagine; I will fully explain myself; I did not at first speak explicitly that I might receive this proof of your submission to our will. You are first to accompany Dr. Bartlett on a visit to his relations; and from thence go to the farm for a short time, where you will find ample employment, in visiting and assisting the poor. She paused a moment for my answer, and then went on; but what think you, Charles, if Mrs. D—, your friend William, and little Annette, were to come and reside in England? (I listened with all my ears, and she proceeded) see here is a letter from Mrs. D—, in which you will find, that the proposal gave her great pleasure. We are to prepare a house for her, and, as you say you long to see Holland, it is now our design to let you take a trip there, to conduct your friend and his mother to your native country, where it will be our study to make their situation comfortable. What say you, Charles?

I don’t know what I said, William, I was almost wild with joy. And now I have told you all, I will run again and thank those dear parents; indeed, I feel quite restless, I cannot sit still. In two months we shall meet. Farewell,

CHARLES.

LETTER VII.
William to Charles.

Could I believe that I should ever have been so happy as to have a prospect of spending all my life with you and your beloved family! No, I was even afraid to hope for such happiness, but now I number the days till I shall see you: I have already put my books in order; every thing is waiting for you. I gave my mother your letter to read; she bestowed the warmest praises on my dear friend. He seems to have a just sense of the duty due to parents, said she; a good son always supposes that tender parents have a sufficient reason for what they do when they deprive him of any little gratification; he then submits without reluctance, or even enquiry, certain that it is for his good. A child that thus submits will, when a man, be as resigned to the dispensations of heaven.

I could not forbear giving your letter to one of my young acquaintance to read when we were walking. I will relate our conversation.

WILLIAM.

What think you, Frederick, of this instance of willing submission?

FREDERICK.

It is praise worthy, but I acknowledge myself not so obedient.

WILLIAM.

Such a chearful submission might possibly require more resolution than either you or I have; however it is possible; and as we ought to shew ourselves grateful for the kindnesses we have received, the only way we have of doing so is constantly to obey the injunctions of our parents, and never to murmur if they even seem hard.

FREDERICK.

This may be true, yet these considerations would not change a desart, as Lady Grandison called her farm, into an agreeable abode.

WILLIAM.

No, but yet I might say to myself, in such a solitary place, I hope I am beloved by my Creator, because I have done my duty; then I should be much happier than in the most magnificent palace, upbraiding myself with having done wrong, and having made God angry by disobeying my parents.

FREDERICK.

I think, however, your friend would have past his time very heavily at the farm.

WILLIAM.

Those days would soon have been over, but the recollection of having done right, my mother says, is a lasting pleasure.

We then turned towards home; it was a very fine evening, and I wanted Frederick to observe the beautiful country, and wondered he could pass through such pleasing scenes with indifference. It is with you, I hope, to wander over these pleasant walks; in the mean time be happy, and think of your friend

WILLIAM.

LETTER VIII.
Charles to William.

This morning I set out, with Dr. Bartlett, for the country where my father’s estate is situated. I shall not have many opportunities of sending letters to you, yet I shall not neglect to write.

The account you gave me of Frederick does not prejudice me in his favour.

I was obliged to leave off suddenly when I had written thus, for my cousin G—, who accompanied us part of the way, came to tell me that Dr. Bartlett was waiting for me. We left him near home, and for some time we missed his sprightly sallies; but his taste for humour, to which I think he is too much addicted, often hurt me while we were on the road. The first instance, that I now recollect, had a reference to Dr. Bartlett.

As the good old man was stepping out of his carriage, his foot slipped, and he fell with great force on the ground. While I assisted him to rise, I turned my eyes on my cousin, whom I saw endeavouring in vain to smother a laugh; at last he was obliged to run into the house to give way to it, out of our hearing. I felt that I was red with anger; nothing displeases me more than to hear any one laugh at an accident. I have often heard people say they cannot help it, but in my opinion it is a great proof of insensibility. The most ludicrous accident never makes me smile when I see a fellow-creature, or even an animal, in pain. I could not forbear communicating my sentiments to my cousin as soon as we were alone.

CHARLES.

I have often heard you say you loved and esteemed Dr. Bartlett.

JAMES.

Yes; why do you doubt it?

CHARLES.

And yet when you saw him fall, not knowing whether he had hurt himself, you began to laugh, and flew into the house without making any inquiries.

JAMES.

It is not in my power to avoid laughing when I see any one fall in a ridiculous manner; when the Doctor’s wig fell off, he looked so droll—I cannot help laughing, even now, when I think of it.

CHARLES.

You can avoid laughing if you will; you have a good heart, I have seen you feel compassion.

JAMES.

No, it is not want of compassion; and yet it is true I cannot keep myself from laughing: I wish I knew the reason.

CHARLES.

Let us try to find it out. Suppose you saw a man without an arm or a leg, who did every thing in an awkward laughable manner, yet an inclination to laugh would be instantly restrained by fear of offending an unfortunate fellow-creature: but let the hat fly off on one side, and the wig on the other, and then you instantly laugh, without remembering a leg or an arm may soon be broken.

JAMES.

I believe you are right.

CHARLES.

It is best, then, to fix your attention on the severe pain a person may suffer, and then your involuntary laughter would subside into pity.

JAMES.

I fear this will not help me much.

CHARLES.

You fear, then, that your heart is not good.

JAMES.

No, not so neither, for I declare to you, I was very sorry when I saw Dr. Bartlett had hurt himself, and then I had no inclination to laugh.

CHARLES.

Then I am right; the laugh ceased as soon as you gave way to compassion, and of course this thoughtless unfeeling mirth may be restrained. Indeed if you had considered a moment, you would have felt the impropriety, and been ashamed of yourself; what, laugh when a respectable old man had hurt himself!—Dr. Bartlett now entered, and we changed the subject.

In the evening we went a walking together, and passed by a miserable hut, at the door of which a poor old blind man stood. His grey hair hung about his hollow cheeks, which poverty seemed to have deeply marked; it was wet with the labours of the day, for he had been turning a wheel, as I found afterwards; his trembling hands were supported by a crutch, on which his chin rested, and his clouded eyes were turned up to heaven without receiving a ray of light. You shall hear the conversation that this sight produced.

CHARLES.

What unhappy wretches there are in the world! look at that old man, cousin.

JAMES.

You are always looking at what gives you pain.

CHARLES.

He is blind and old, I cannot help pitying him.

JAMES.

But your pity will not restore his sight: let us go on, it is growing dark.

CHARLES.

No, I must first ask him if he has any children.

JAMES.

Nonsense! Why should you ask him such a question?

CHARLES.

Because it would relieve me to find that he had good children; I should not then think him so unhappy, they will certainly wait on him, serve, and comfort him. We next spoke to the old man, and I heard with pleasure that he had a worthy daughter, who works hard to maintain him, and he himself, sometimes, turns a wheel, and does other things, that blind men can do.

My cousin’s fondness for tricks now led him to commit an act of cruelty that made me very angry. I gave the blind man a trifle, and James, when he left the house, felt in his pocket a little while, and then flipped something into his hand, saying, there is a guinea for you. Joy was visible in every feature of the old man’s face. We stepped forward. How I love you! exclaimed I, you have done a noble action. And do you think I would give a guinea to a stranger, replied he. I interrupted him, with surprise,—You told him so; what did you give him? It was only a new shilling.

Vexation and anger tied my tongue: at last I could not help speaking with some resentment. Such a trick does you little honour; deceit is a detestable thing when done to procure any advantage; but what extreme cruelty to sport with the poverty of a blind old man. Did not his look of pleasure wound your conscience? You must have a heart of stone if it did not touch you! Fine preaching! exclaimed he; and he caught hold of my arm to make me quicken my pace, but I rushed from him, and obeyed the impulse of my heart. I returned to the old man, thrust a guinea into his hand, and soon overtook James, who then appeared ashamed, guessing what I had been doing, for I dropped the subject, and only mention it to you.

CHARLES.

LETTER IX.
Charles to William.

I am now arrived at the farm, dear William; the day is just beginning to dawn; the farmers are going whistling to work, whilst I am writing to my friend. You know I have been accustomed to rise early, and it would be now irksome to me to lie in bed the sweetest hours of the day. I am, at this moment, sitting near an open window, and the birds, just awake, are hopping from branch to branch; the flowers seem revived by the dew; in short, there is a delightful freshness in the morning which gives me a new flow of spirits. Is this, thought I, casting my eyes around, the desart my mother supposed would prove dreary to me? I am going to take a ride, in order to visit some of the tenants houses, and even the little huts, that I may be able to give my father a just account of the estate, and prevail on him to relieve those I find in distress.

I am now returned, and will give you an account how I have spent my time. I was particularly affected by the sight of an old infirm woman, who had taken the charge of two children, when their parents, her son and daughter, suddenly died. They were unexpectedly snatched away, and left their helpless orphans entirely destitute, with no relation to look up to for support during their infant years, except a grandmother, who was scarcely able to earn a subsistence for herself. The house, or rather the hut, in which I found them by accident, did but just screen them from the inclemency of the weather. My father would not let his dogs live in such a wretched hovel. As I was riding leisurely along, my attention was roused by the sobbing of a little girl of about six years old, who cried bitterly; a boy, still younger, stood by her, and desired her not to cry, for he would fish it out. They then ran to a well, and I dismounted to follow them, and enquire what they had lost, fearing they might fall in. And what do you think, William, it was he wanted to fish up? Alas! a little piece of bread that his sister had dropped into the water, which was very muddy. Let that dirty piece sink, said I, I will go into the house for another piece for you. No, no, said the poor girl, again weeping, she has none for herself, nor any money to buy a loaf to-day. I often put in my pocket a piece of bread to give my horse on the road, I had now half a roll, which I immediately gave her. Joy beamed in her countenance, she smiled amidst her tears, and breaking it into two, gave half to her brother; my heart was moved, I could not be satisfied with having given to two human beings only the morsel I designed for my horse. Their hut was at some distance from the village, to which I found the old woman could seldom crawl; I was determined to go and procure them a breakfast, and again mounted my horse, rode to the village, and entered a chandler’s shop, and bought some bread and cheese. The man behind the counter viewed me from head to foot; I felt at first a little ashamed, and then felt vexed with myself for being so. I quickly returned to the hut, and was, indeed, a most welcome visitant. The children kissed my hand, and the old woman, when I gave her half a guinea, almost wept for joy.

I intend particularly to recommend these poor objects to my father’s notice, and meanwhile have given orders that the hut should be repaired, and some fuel and provisions sent them from the farm.

I could not forbear, as I rode home, continually anticipating the pleasure I should experience, when I saw them again in a more comfortable abode, with a little garden and some other conveniences; since they suffer enough without having the wind rushing through every corner of the house, and the rain oozing through the thatch when they are in bed. When I am a man, I hope I shall never forget the resolutions I have now made, one of the principal is, to see myself that my poor tenants and labourers always have a comfortable warm habitation; I will try too to remember that health is more necessary to them than to the rich, and that it is my duty to render their situation easy. Adieu.

CHARLES.

LETTER X.
Charles to William.

I am now again with my good Dr. Bartlett at a small, but pleasant, country seat, belonging to a widow, his sister-in-law, who has but one daughter, an agreeable, and indeed a very handsome girl. As she has always lived in the country with her mother, she has had time to improve her understanding, by reading to her books calculated to improve a young mind. Dr. Bartlett has kept up a constant correspondence with her, in which they have discussed the different subjects of her reading; such as natural philosophy, geography, astronomy, and history. But these employments have not so engrossed her time, as to prevent her learning to sing, draw, and dance; nay, the Doctor tells me, that she has, for a year or two past and she is now but eighteen, had the management of the house; she rises so early that all family affairs are settled before breakfast, and do not interfere with her other employments. Henrietta sings, works, and reads, all the day, and I never saw any one have a finer bloom, or a more cheerful countenance. The Doctor calls me. Adieu.

CHARLES.

LETTER XI.
Charles to William.

Dr. Bartlett went this morning to visit an old friend, and left me to comfort the females, as he, smiling, said, who would have been quite disconsolate, if they had lost both their beaux at once. I enjoy here all the pleasures of the country; ride, walk, and go on the water, with the sons of a neighbouring clergyman, whom he has educated himself. They are modest, sensible young men, and so far advanced in their studies, that I felt yesterday evening, after our conversation, a little vexed with myself for not having made a better use of my time; I shall rub the dust off my Greek and Latin books when I return to Grandison Hall. Yet in spite of their knowledge, they have not neglected accomplishments; I assure you, we had, yesterday evening, a very good concert, in which they bore a part—but I am interrupted.

I have been very much shocked—a messenger brought me a letter from my poor cousin Edward, scarcely legible, for it must have been written by a trembling hand—in short, William, he has been wounded in a duel, and intreats me to come to him. Heaven knows what danger he may be in; and as to his antagonist, the letter is quite silent in this respect; I fear, lest he should have the blood of a fellow-creature on his head. What can I do, his letter is very pressing, and the danger immediate and great; I do not like to go without consulting my tutor; and yet, if I wait for it, Edward may expire before I see him; besides, I do not wish to interrupt the pleasure he has promised himself in the society of an old college friend, whom he has not seen these ten years: Harry, too, is gone with him.—I must consider a moment—Well, my friend, I am going; they are now saddling my horse, and the kind mistress of the house has recommended an honest young man, who is acquainted with the road, to accompany me. As the Doctor is not expected home these two or three days, I hope, before his return, to send him a more satisfactory account of an affair, which I know will make him very uneasy, for he has always considered his pupils in the light of children. Should he return before my letter can reach this house, his sister will account for my conduct, which meets with her approbation. Farewell, I have at least forty miles to ride before night.

CHARLES.

LETTER XII.
Charles to William.

I am writing now by Edward’s bedside; he has received a very dangerous, but I hope not a mortal wound, though his fever is very high. Young Atkins, who was his antagonist, set off for France an hour after the duel. From every account I can gather, he was the aggressor; a trifling joke at the mess, after dinner, so exasperated this furious man, that he loaded Edward with the most opprobrious epithets. Edward was obliged to take notice of them, or quit the army with dishonour. Such are the false notions that prevail, that a man of real courage must risk his life when a drunkard or a fool insults him; that life which is only due to his country, is sported away in consequence of a drunken frolic. I am glad, my friend, I am not in the army, I should not like to appear a coward, or enter into a broil to obtain the name that every boaster, who neither fears God, nor loves his friends, purchases with the blood of a fellow-creature. I hope, however, I shall never be in such a situation.

Edward is now asleep; it would be cruel to remind him that he was ever too fond of a jest; how often have I seen him give extreme pain by laughing at some peculiarity, or catching up some strange expression to play on, and hurt the feelings of the person who uttered it, whose visible distress never silenced his laugh.

I will give you some account of my journey, when he is again disposed to sleep; now I must go and take some refreshment, as I feel myself very much exhausted.

I will now give you the promised account. I sat off the moment after I had finished my letter; the day was uncommonly hot, and the heavy sandy road very unpleasant, as we could not ride so quick as we wished to do. My heart, which seemed ready to fly to Edward, was very anxious and impatient; but what could impatience avail, it only served to make the time appear longer. This anxiety, and the hot beams of the sun, gave me a severe head-ach, and I was glad, after riding three or four hours, to meet with a comfortable inn. I was obliged to rest a short time my head was so very bad, but my earnest desire to go forward soon roused me, and prevented me thinking of being overtaken by the night, for the sun was setting apace. We were assured the roads were very safe, and a genteel looking man informed me, that he had frequently travelled the same way himself when there was no moon, without any apprehension of danger; he then added, that as we seemed to be in a hurry, he would advise us to take a short cut through a wood, by which means we should gain two miles.

We followed the advice of the stranger, but when we were in the by-road, it appeared so gloomy, that I was sorry we entered it; not a single man did we meet during the space of half an hour; at last we heard, at a distance behind us, some persons on horseback in a full gallop. I stopped, not thinking of any danger; on the contrary, having been a little afraid of the dreary solitude which then surrounded us, I was glad to hear human voices; it was to me, at that moment, almost as if I had seen a friend; but how egregiously was I deceived. We were quickly overtaken by four stout men, who fiercely demanded my money. It was to no purpose to parley with them, and I was obliged to give up my watch, purse, and even my great coat. Happy may I think myself that I escaped with my life, for I was so imprudent as to speak to one of them, whom, to my great astonishment, I discovered to be the very well-dressed man who directed us to take this road; I did feel very angry, and would have given the world to have punished him for his perfidy.

Behold me, then, without a coat; my honest fellow-traveller offered to lend me his, which they did not think worth taking from him, but he seemed less able to bear the cold of the night than myself, so I would not accept of his offer. We then spurred our horses and rode on, and tried to laugh at our adventure, in which, indeed, we did not make a very noble figure; though it would have been fool hardy to have attempted to resist four strong men, something like fighting a windmill, or storming the moon. Why then do I feel a little hurt at having been robbed? To say the truth, that fellow’s treachery vexed me more than the loss of my money: but I have gained something by my experience; I will never talk of my own affairs when I am travelling, or too soon make an acquaintance on the road. Farewell.

CHARLES.

LETTER XIII.
Charles to William.

Edward is much better, which gives me great pleasure on every account; his hot-headed antagonist may now safely return to his regiment. Edward was very anxious about him: if I should die, said he, when the surgeon thought him in danger, pray intreat Sir Charles to endeavour to obtain a pardon for young Atkins, who has only his commission to depend on; he is passionate, I knew it, and yet provoked him by my unfeeling jest; if I recover, I will be more prudent for the future. It gave me great pleasure to hear him talk so; and I hope this illness will make a good impression on his mind.

Three o’clock in the afternoon.—What an agreeable surprise—my father is just arrived, and does not disapprove of my conduct! He turned pale when he heard of the robbery, and thanked heaven that had preserved him a son, whose loss he should have deplored with his latest breath. I tell you this in the pride of my heart; how sweet is the praise of a parent! Edward was glad to see him, and acknowledged his fault. I must not be long absent from this dear parent. Adieu.

CHARLES.

LETTER XIV.
Charles to William.

Edward is so far recovered as to be able to travel; he is to set off to-morrow for Grandison Hall, and I am to return to my tutor. When I reach home I will finish this letter.

Well, here I am once more with my good friends. I reached home without meeting with any disagreeable occurrence, and my tutor received me with his usual kindness, but I observed a gloom on his countenance which made me very uneasy. Before he went to bed, he began to write a letter, and was visibly agitated while he was writing. As I know the Doctor has such firmness of mind that a trifle would not affect him, I was very desirous to know what was the matter, and I think my curiosity arose from affection, yet I am afraid it has led me to act wrong, for when he left the room for a moment, I crept softly to his writing table to read the unfinished letter. It was to a brother who had sustained some heavy loss in trade, which involved him and a large family in the greatest distress. I suddenly threw down the letter, before I had read half of it, as if I had been committing a robbery, and severely reproached myself for having pryed into his secret, though I think I was led to it by the restless anxiety I felt when I saw him unhappy; but this does not excuse me—I have been very much to blame—I blush for shame—I have injured my friend, and I have injured myself; I shall be afraid to look him in the face; what a coward does guilt make us! I can write no more, I am out of humour with myself.

CHARLES.

LETTER XV.
Charles to William.

Pity me, my friend; Dr. Bartlett has just received a letter from Grandison Hall; he instantly informed me, with seeming emotion, that there was not the least danger, but that my mother was ill, and that if I pleased, we would set off in the morning. Do you say, my dear Sir, if I please; my heart is there already; my mother in danger, and her son so far off! I never was so low spirited in my life; I am sure the Doctor softens the matter to me. I received a few lines from Emilia, delivered privately to me by the servant, which made me very uneasy; I will transcribe part of it.

“Dear, dear Charles,

“What a misfortune happened yesterday! our dear mother suddenly fainted, and I was afraid she was dead; I was alone with her, sitting at my work, and did not perceive her change countenance, so that she was on the ground before I could afford her any assistance. My loud cries brought the servants, but not before I had got my arm under her head: I kissed her forehead, and called upon her a hundred times, as if I could recall her to life. The surgeon soon arrived, and bled her, and in about half an hour she came to herself again. But what did I suffer during that dreadful interval! I wished a thousand times that you were here. Do not delay a moment, dear brother, if you love me; I shall be much easier, I know, when you are with me. We shall assist each other in nursing her, for I will never leave her a moment care of strangers; I remember how she Sat up with us when we had the smallpox and measles, and if she was out of danger, I should feel a pleasure in convincing her, that I love her as dearly as she loves me.”

This is a short transcript, William, of my dear girl’s letter; for with a full heart she has written the same thing over and over again. We shall leave this the first peep of day, and you may expect the earliest account of my mother’s state of health.

CHARLES.

LETTER XVI.
Charles to William.

My mother is out of danger; my sister’s letter made me very apprehensive; the tenderness of her nature makes her tremble at the least indisposition that attacks her parents, and she exaggerates the danger, till she is unable to see things as they really are. But why do I blame her? What have I not suffered myself through anxiety, in my way hither? I sometimes feared my mother was already dead, and we appeared to ride too fast forward: I was afraid to approach the hall one minute, and the next was in a violent perspiration through my eagerness to reach it. In short, William, I had a continual palpitation at my heart, and now find myself by no means well. But I shall not complain; in the morning probably I shall be better.

The time draws near, the time I so eagerly look for, when I was to have visited Holland: all my hopes seem like a dream, and it appears to me wrong even to think of it. I will go and take a little walk in the garden, it may, perhaps, refresh me.

I do not seem much the better for my walk, but I am glad I went, and I will tell you why. As I was going down the lane by the side of the garden, which you know leads to the high road, such a weariness came over me I was obliged to sit down. After resting some moments I rose up, and without considering where I was going, turned down the public road. May we not suppose, William, that heaven directs our steps to be serviceable to our fellow-creatures? for I saw, as I advanced, not far from me, a little child about three years old; it seemed tired, and stood still when it perceived me. At first I supposed some person was near; but not seeing any one, I began to be uneasy, and when it turned from me offered it some flowers which I had gathered in my way; this I did with a smiling aspect, and enquired what was its name, and where it lived? It could only lisp out a few words, such as that its name was Jemmy, and that it lived yonder, pointing with its hand, I could not tell where, for you know there is no house near; I could only make out that it had been a long time seeking its mammy.

The evening was growing dusky, and still no person appeared; I quickly imagined the poor mother’s feelings when she missed her child, and would have given any thing to have been able to have restored him to her; but as that was impossible, I was determined to take him with me, and leave him at our gardener’s house, till he should find out to whom he belonged. I was obliged to carry him, for he began to cry, when he saw we turned out of the high road, and I found it rather troublesome on account of my weakness, but my resolution gave me strength, and I gave it in charge to the gardener’s wife, who promised to take care of it. In the morning a servant is to go to the neighbouring villages to enquire about the mother. Farewell.

CHARLES.

LETTER XVII.
Emilia to Charlotte.

My mother is now out of danger, my dear Charlotte, but Charles went to bed last night very ill, and is it to be wondered at, after the perturbation of mind he has lately gone through? Heaven preserve me such a brother! The time seemed so long while he was away, that I do not know how I should live without him.

He found a lost child last night, and brought it in his arms to our gardener, and desired him to take care of it until we could find out the mother. She came this morning, and informed us, that she had been all the night wandering about in search of it. I was very much affected by the poor woman’s gratitude; but would you believe it, a certain young gentleman presumed to say to Edward, this morning, that he thought Charles had acted imprudently: what would he have done, added he, if the child had never been claimed? Did you ever hear such cold-hearted reasoning, Charlotte? Who would have thought of such a thing, when the poor child was in such immediate distress; yet this same prudent gentleman took home, some time ago, only actuated by pity, a great dog that ran after him. Edward told him of this, and asked him how it was possible that any one who could have so much pity for an animal able to preserve itself from danger, and find something to eat, should have so little compassion for a helpless child? He was at a loss what to say, and soon after took his leave, as I must do for the present.

EMILIA.

LETTER XVIII.
Emilia to Charlotte.

You desire that I will send you as early an account as possible of Charles’s health; he is, I fear, very ill. In order to conceal it from my mother, he tried to employ himself, but in vain. I am with him every moment I can leave my mother; and this morning we had a conversation, which I will relate. He asked me to put by his drawings, and he looked so altered, that my eyes filled with tears, and I turned my head from him to conceal them; but it did not escape his observation. He caught me by the hand, and said, Why, dear Emilia, are you so sorrowful?

EMILIA.

It is nothing—I shall be chearful again presently.

CHARLES.

But you are weeping, dear sister?

EMILIA.

Well, I will dry my tears, and cry no more, for I see your tears begin to start.

CHARLES.

Do not on that account restrain them, they will relieve you; but tell me what makes you so sad?

EMILIA.

Why, brother, are you not sick?

CHARLES.

This proof of your sisterly affection raises you in my esteem, but your tenderness ought not to blind your reason; I am not well, it is true, yet there is not the least appearance of danger.

EMILIA.

You are so good, God must certainly love you; why then are you afflicted?

CHARLES.

My tutor has often told me it is no sign that God does not love us, because we are in affliction. Sickness and sorrow are as necessary for us in this world as every other event; we are in the hands of a tender father, who knoweth our frame, and will not afflict us more than is necessary for our good.

EMILIA.

I hope God will forgive me, if I have spoken rashly. May you quickly be restored, for the danger I see you in is almost too much for me.

CHARLES.

You imagine, then, that I am in greater danger now than when I am in health.

EMILIA.

And so you are, I believe.

CHARLES.

No, my dear, we have no more reason to fear upon our sick bed, than when we are in lively company, taking a walk, or on the stormy sea. We are always under the protection of our Creator; he can preserve us, or call us hence whenever he thinks fit.

EMILIA.

We appear, I think, nearer death when we are sick than when we are in a good state of health.

CHARLES.

We appear, you say, but that appearance deceives us, and we are led to think so because God commonly calls us out of the world by sickness; this seems the usual way, and we suppose that death is at a distance when we are in a confirmed state of health; yet we are, in the very midst of our pleasures, near the grave. For instance, when you are singing, or dancing, a dreadful fire may burst out, and none may have power to escape; nay, without such an unforeseen accident, a single glass of cold water, after such an amusement, has often occasioned death. Who would then presume to say, that they have many years of pleasure to come?

EMILIA.

I believe you are right.

CHARLES.

How many people recover when they have been given over by physicians, whilst those apparently in health die suddenly?

EMILIA.

You comfort me, dear brother, you set my heart at rest; and I hope you will soon get the better of this complaint.

CHARLES.

I shall be thankful to God, if he allows me to remain sometime longer with my parents and friends.

EMILIA.

It seems you are not afraid of death.

CHARLES.

I have already told you that I wish to live. Heaven grant me life, if I always have the same desire to do good; but may it be taken away from me this instant, if there is a possibility that I should ever forget my duty.

EMILIA.

O let us talk no more of death, brother!

Here I must stop, my mother has sent for me; pray for my dear Charles, and I shall love you still better.

EMILIA.

LETTER XIX.
Emilia to Charlotte.

I have another proof to give you of Charles’s good disposition, but first let me tell you he is much better. After I had finished my letter to you yesterday evening, I went into Charles’s room again, and found him and Edward looking over some drawings; amongst them was the mount of a fan, which Charles had finished with more than usual care, intending to surprise our dear parent with it. Though he is very modest when speaking of his own performances, yet he spoke of this with some degree of satisfaction, and mentioned the length of time he had been about it. He desired me to cover it with silver paper, adding, that he would rather lose all the rest of his drawings than this.

We were now called down to supper; about half an hour after we were seated at table it began to rain very fast, and Charles recollecting that he had left one of the windows of his room open, was going himself to shut it, but my mother called him back, not thinking it safe that he should expose himself to the night air, and desired one of the servants to go.

Well, we went to bed at our usual hour, but I had scarcely reached my room before I heard Edward cry out, What do I see! I ran to him, and judge of my vexation, when I saw the fan mount in his hand almost entirely consumed: Charles at that moment entered the chamber; he said nothing, but looked a little angry, supposing we had played him a trick. What think you, said Edward? the careless boy that did this deserves to be turned out of doors. No, said Charles, I was afraid you had done it to teaze me; if it was only an accident, though it is vexatious, I will endeavour to remedy it by doing another much better: however, let us enquire about it. They did so, and the servant who had shut the window, owned that he had put a candle on the table which was loose in the socket, and that it fell out, and set fire to the paper, and almost burnt the whole mount, before he could put it out. The boy seemed very sorry, and begged Charles not to tell his father, lest he should be turned away for his carelessness, for he had often been desired never to put a candle on a table covered with papers. Edward would not listen to him, and said it was all a lie; but Charles said it was not impossible, and that he would not mention it to his father or mother, as he should be sorry to have a servant turned away who appeared to be sorry for what he had done, only desired him never to touch any papers again in his room.

EDWARD.

Well, you are very good-natured, Charles; if this had happened to me, I should never have forgiven him.

CHARLES.

That would not have restored my drawing.

EDWARD.

No, but the careless fellow would have been punished; and that would have been some comfort: such a loss would vex my very heart.

EMILIA.

It is, indeed, very unfortunate.

CHARLES.

No, I do not call it a misfortune, sister.

EMILIA.

How, do not you think that a misfortune?

CHARLES.

You make me smile—I shall soon forget my drawing, it was only a trial of temper; my mother’s sickness was a misfortune, indeed, and the poor woman who had lost her child had reason to weep; but what admits of a remedy, should not be called a misfortune, it is only a momentary vexation. And after all, I was the person to blame, it was I who was careless; if I had locked up my drawing, or shut the window myself, this accident would not have happened.

EMILIA.

But, Charles, will you begin another?

CHARLES.

Yes, certainly, and perhaps it may be much better, for another design has just entered my head.

He then wished me a good night, and I must do the same.

I am glad I did not entirely fill up my paper, and yet I shall not say much, I am so dull. Edward has just left us to join his regiment. My tears fall while I write. I do not like these separations; I wish those whom I love were always to remain with me!

Charles has just mentioned to my father, a circumstance that he appeared to be much ashamed of. I have not time to write the particulars; I can only now tell you, that he read a part of one of Dr. Bartlett’s letters, without his leave; he saw the Doctor in great distress, and was so anxious to know what occasioned it, that he acted contrary to his own notions of honour. This letter contained an account of some misfortunes that had befallen the Doctor’s family, which he, from a motive of delicacy, concealed from my father, thinking he had already done too much for them.

My father went instantly to his friend, with whom he had a long conversation, and after he returned to his study, he sent for Charles, and mildly addressed him.

SIR CHARLES.

I have at last prevailed on my friend to state the whole affair to me, and it will soon be settled to his satisfaction. And now let me caution you, my son, never to let even your affection induce you to pry into the secrets of others: a good end does not justify the improper means employed to reach it. Honour is a sacred thing, and no motive should influence us to trifle with fixed principles-our views are bounded, and we ought to adhere to strict rules, not knowing how to modify them. Your youthful warmth now pleads in your favour; I am acquainted with the goodness of your heart; but goodness should ever be restrained by duty, or it will not uniformly actuate our conduct.