LETTER XXXII.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
Charles has played Emilia and me a fine trick this morning, dear mother. Dr. Bartlett generally rises with the sun to take a walk before breakfast; Charles, who was this morning just awake, heard him. He rose softly out of bed, hurried on his clothes, and ran down to ask him, in both our names, if we might go with him; to which he consented. It was hardly light. Charles knocked at his sister’s chamber door, Emilia, Emilia! are you still asleep, you little think it is almost ten o’clock. Oh! cried Emilia, what shall I do? I am afraid my mama will be angry with me. Come dress yourself quickly, said Charles, I will speak a good word for you. Emilia was quickly dressed; she was ashamed of being so lazy.
In the mean while he came to me, and told me the same story. Eleven o’clock—is it possible? But why did you not call me when you got up? And how comes it to be so dark? Does it rain? That signifies nothing, he replied, it will soon clear up. Come, make haste, I want to go to Dr. Bartlett. Well, you would have laughed to have seen our astonishment, when Emilia and I found it was but five o’clock. And we were very glad we had a pleasant walk, and the following conversation.
CHARLES.
See there, our John and his son, already busy at their work.
They rise with the sun, and begin their daily labour.
CHARLES.
Those people are certainly very laborious, and labour for little profit. I pity them, their situation is hard.
DR. BARTLETT.
Why, that little profit is sufficient to purchase content, if they are not vicious.
EMILIA.
But it is tiresome to be obliged to work from morning till night. All good men ought to be rich, I think.
DR. BARTLETT.
It would quite alter the nature of things. The strong and the weak must then dig their own ground; and the ingenious would want a spur to assist the stupid. We must all make our own clothes; manufactures and arts would be no more—industry would languish, and life not only lose its principal charms, but cease to be a probationary state, a field to exercise virtue in, and exert benevolence.
WILLIAM.
That is true, Sir.—But may I ask you something? Does it not look as if God, who has appointed men to work, had less love for them than the rich?
DR. BARTLETT.
Certainly not. God has an equal love for all, William, that are virtuous. A labourer in his low station, and in his poor cottage, is often happier than those who are exalted to high offices, and reside in noble palaces.
The rich have servants to wait on them, while the poor labourer must continually work for his bread.
DR. BARTLETT.
They who serve themselves, are best served, my love, and labour is healthful.
EMILIA.
What a slender table is provided for the poor man—and how hard is his bed!
DR. BARTLETT.
It is so—and notwithstanding this, the poor eat their slender meal with a better relish, than the great have for the rarest delicacies of their tables. And they sleep sounder on their flock-beds than the rich on beds of down. Happiness consists in being satisfied—that is the greatest riches on earth.
EMILIA.
You make me easy, Sir. I understand it—God loves those men, and cares for them as well as the rich.
DR. BARTLETT.
Yes. God is the Father of the poorest wretch, who earns his bread by the sweat of his brow; and he may call the greatest monarch brother: there is no difference, except what arises from degrees of goodness.
EMILIA.
What fine cows.—They are very good to suffer themselves to be milked.
DR. BARTLETT.
You are mistaken, it is not goodness in those creatures; it is to the wise order of God that all the praise belongs. The milk would be burdensome to them, if we let them hold it, and for this reason they generally come, at the usual hour, to the place where they are milked.
WILLIAM.
It is certainly very happy for men, that there are cows, for milk is a great dainty.
DR. BARTLETT.
It is not only a dainty, but a useful necessary provision; without milk we should have neither butter nor cheese.
EMILIA.
And the sheep—I love the sheep they are so gentle.
CHARLES.
And they are of great value. Their wool serves to clothe us—where should we find warm covering for our beds if there were no sheep?
What a good God we have!
EMILIA.
We ought to love him, because he has created all these creatures for us;—but I know not why we kill them, and then eat them up; it seems cruel.
DR. BARTLETT.
By no means. They were designed for us, for our food; if we were to let all the sheep live, they would soon grow so numerous they would die for want of pasturage.
EMILIA.
Then men do right, when they kill them?
DR. BARTLETT.
It is necessary; and they do not foresee, or taste the bitterness of death, if they are killed instantly.—Cruel, indeed, are those, who torment them—they sin against their own souls—and they will be judged without mercy who have not shewn any. He who is guilty of a cruel action has sapped the foundation of content; and the monster, no longer humane, enjoys not human comforts. Nor is he thoughtless, like the beasts of prey; conscience haunts him—he cannot hide himself, nor find darkness thick enough to conceal his crimes.
We now returned home, and found Sir Charles and his Lady already in the breakfast parlour. We mentioned the trick Charles had played us, they both laughed; but Sir Charles turned to him, I mean not gravely to reprove you, my son, only to point out to you, that truth is so sacred a thing it ought not to be jested with; lest a reverence for it should imperceptibly wear away, and leave the mind, stripped of its most beautiful ornament, to deck itself in gaudy rags.
Farewel, dear mother, I will try to remember all these useful lessons; and to strengthen my good resolutions by your advice, write often to your
WILLIAM.