LETTER XIX.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
Sir Charles and Lady Grandison have been for some days from home; but Dr. Bartlett is with us. The house-keeper, and all the servants, consult Emilia, and she, in the most modest manner, tells them what she knows her mother wishes them to do. She is not allowed to command any of them; the house-keeper in particular, a respectable woman, Lady Grandison said, ought not to receive orders from a child; but she behaves with such propriety, they are all eager to oblige her; indeed she follows her brother’s example. Edward, on the contrary, does nothing but romp and wrestle, and afterwards quarrel with them. He hates all employment; I should imagine, those who do not learn when they are young, must appear very foolish when they are old. You shall hear what Charles said to him yesterday. Charles, Emilia, and I sat on one side of the room, drawing; while Edward tied a thread to a beetle—and often he would jump, as if by accident, against our chairs, to disturb us and make us leave our employment. Charles spoke to him.
CHARLES.
Ah, Edward, what pleasure can you find in torturing a poor insect? It turns me sick to see you; pray let it go!
EDWARD.
And what do you do, when you and William set the butterflies on a needle to look at them through your fine microscope? That pleases you, and this pleases me.
If William and I set the butterflies on a needle, only for our amusement, it would be wrong; but we do it to instruct ourselves—yet, though we seek instruction, I could not bear to torture them; the sight of their agonies would engross my whole attention. Dr. Bartlett has taught me to kill them expeditiously without injuring their appearance. I then gratify my curiosity without hardening my heart, for that tender-hearted man, our dear tutor, often says, that even the attainment of knowledge cannot compensate for a quick emotion of benevolence, banished by a habit of thoughtless cruelty. He wishes to make me wise; but still more ardently to incite me to practise goodness, to shew kindness to the insects who crawl under my feet; and to let my love mount up from them to the beings, who, while they enjoy the blessings of heaven, can recognize the hand which bestows them.
EDWARD.
Well, if you will come with me into the garden, I will let it go.
CHARLES.
That is to say, that if I refuse to go with you, you will continue to torment the poor insect. It is not it’s fault if I do not go with you—surely this is not right; but I will accompany you.
EMILIA.
It begins to rain.
CHARLES.
Shall I read to you? I have got a very entertaining book.
EDWARD.
You know I do not love reading.
CHARLES.
So you do not desire to converse with men.
Well, yes.—What then?
CHARLES.
Books speak; and make us wiser, while we are amused.
EDWARD.
I do not desire to be learned; but to be an officer.
EMILIA.
A fine officer, who will not know how to read or write intelligibly!
EDWARD.
Now, Charles, preach, as you did the other day about cards.
CHARLES.
I reproved your too great fondness for cards. You are angry if you lose; and those who cannot play with temper, in my opinion, ought never to play at all. It is not amiss to know how to play, because that cards are so much used in company, and it enables one to oblige those who are fond of this amusement. I do not find any pleasure in it; and I hope never, from a false pride, to be induced to play for more than I can afford to lose.
EMILIA.
Poor Mr. Beverley, who died last week, and left his family in great distress, my mama told me, first played to avoid being laughed at, and called a mean-spirited man. He went on from one thing to another, till he spent his whole fortune, and ruined his constitution. His wife actually took in needlework to support him during his last illness, though she had been educated to expect better things. He died in an obscure lodging, a burden to the woman he ought to have been a comfort to; and left his half-starved babes, to weep over the lifeless body of their inconsiderate parent. I wept too—when I heard of it.
The conversation was interrupted, but I must tell you Emilia had tears in her eyes, when she told us about poor Mr. Beverley’s children. I remember now I used to be vexed when young Dulis laughed at me, and called me a coward, when I refused to do mischief; and mean, when I saved my money, though I intended to give it to a poor blind man; but he did not know that. I do not like to tell any one but yourself that I give most part of my allowance to the poor; it would look as if I wanted to be praised, and that the love of praise was my motive; but indeed it is not, the pleasure I feel at the moment, is a sufficient reward. Besides, I think I resemble my dear mother, and I am happy.—I am sure you will love me, if I practise virtue.
WILLIAM.