LETTER XV.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
I have here new pleasures every day, dear mother; your William is now become a gardener. Will you help me, said Charles, the day before yesterday? and if you like it, I will lay out my garden in another manner. It is now full of flowers; but it affords me not sufficient employment: I would wish to change a part of it at least into a kitchen-garden. My answer was ready. We accordingly went each with a small spade to work, and quickly dug up the whole garden. The next day we made a small bed for the flowers, and ranged them in due order. We rose very early to work, before the sun was intolerably warm; the gardener gave us some seeds which are proper to sow this month. Now we only desire to see them come up, and intend carefully to weed them. How pleasant it will be, to see the plants shoot out of the ground!
I have seen many wonderful things every day of my life without observing them; but Dr. Bartlett and Charles have taught me to see God in a tree, a flower, a worm; we converse about them. I will relate a conversation we had yesterday. Charles has an aviary, he is very fond of his birds; we had done our work in the garden, and took a walk with Emilia.
CHARLES.
Excuse me, I must leave you a moment; I recollect that I have not taken care of my birds. We both desired to accompany him.
Pretty creatures, they seem as if they belonged to you.
CHARLES.
That they do certainly, because they are accustomed to eat out of my hand.
WILLIAM.
They appear to know you, but how do they distinguish betwixt you and me?
CHARLES.
It is certain that they have the power to discern, for I have often seen, when I come with my hat on they fly away; and I conclude from that circumstance, this faculty of discernment, which I am sure they possess, is very weak, or they would always know me.
EMILIA.
You are very good to your birds, brother; but Edward let his linnet die with hunger. If I was to do so, I should never forgive myself.
CHARLES.
It would be cruel, indeed, to confine the poor creatures, where they cannot get any thing to eat; and then to neglect them.
EMILIA.
But may I ask you something, Charles? Would it not be more noble if you was to give them their liberty? They sit there like prisoners; we only confine bad people, and these poor birds have not done wrong.
CHARLES.
No, they are not unhappy in their confinement; God has created them for our pleasure, though we displease him when we treat them with cruelty.
They must yet, I think, be uneasy, when they see others flying in the open air, and themselves shut up.—We should not be satisfied.
CHARLES.
They cannot reason as we can. If we were shut up, we should say to ourselves, how disagreeable it is to be confined; and how precious is liberty. But birds have not any idea of this difference. If we give them plenty to eat and drink they are content, without wishing for what they have not. That linnet of Edward’s, you just now mentioned, as long as he had something, he eat it up, without any anxiety for the future. A sign, that he had not the power of reflecting. A man, on the contrary, would be afraid of want, if his provisions began to fail; and then he would eat sparingly; but a bird has not any conception of wanting food—much less his liberty.
I will only add, that I am your affectionate son,
WILLIAM.