LETTER XLV.
WILLIAM to his MOTHER.
I have another proof to give you, my honoured mother, of the goodness of heart Charles continually exhibits. A gentleman, who visits very frequently this family, made him a present of a beautiful spaniel; young Falkland, our neighbour, had often asked for it; but the gentleman refused to give him it, because he treats his own dogs cruelly. You must know, Falkland has already five dogs, besides cats, pigeons, and a parrot. These afford him his chief employment; not to make them happy, but to please himself. Though he has so many, he was very much vexed that he could not get this dog. And what do you think happened? The dog died suddenly, and we have by chance discovered that Falkland made one of his servants poison the poor animal.—What monsters there are in the world! Yes, he must be a monster, I think, who deprives another of a pleasure when he receives no benefit from it himself. But the following conversation, when we were walking in the garden, soon after the discovery, will let you see how Charles behaves, even when he is angry.
WILLIAM.
I cannot help grieving about the poor dog.
CHARLES.
I acknowledge I am very sorry; I did not think that the loss of a dog would have affected me in such a manner;—but it was a very faithful one—and then the horrid agonies it endured—I cannot forget its groans.
EDWARD.
It was a villainous action of Falkland to destroy that poor beast in such a manner.—If it had happened to me, I could never forgive him.
CHARLES.
I can.—If I could not forgive him, I should be as wicked as himself.
EDWARD.
You are too good. I, for my part, hate him.
CHARLES.
I do not hate him, but I despise his vices;—and I pity him, for it is much to be feared he will become a bad man; an envious cruel heart seldom reforms itself, Dr. Bartlett says.
Yesterday you called that treacherous fellow friend;—you see you are sometimes mistaken.
CHARLES.
I am apt to be mistaken in this particular; it is so pleasant to love and think well of people.
EDWARD.
But will you any longer keep up the acquaintance?
CHARLES.
No, certainly, without my father desires it; I should with difficulty conceal my dislike—it was such a mean action.
EDWARD.
Bravo! Now you speak to my mind; and, if you like it, I will give him a good drubbing.—Say yes, and I will make his bones ache.
That would not give me back my poor dog.
EDWARD.
I will tell you what—he has five dogs, let us poison some of them; that he deserves at least.
CHARLES.
But those poor dogs—what have they done?
EDWARD.
I am curious to know, what my uncle will say of this pretty trick; he has always spoken slightingly of young Falkland.
CHARLES.
That is a sign he could penetrate into his mind, and saw his bad temper. I will, in future, pay more attention to his advice, and observations on characters. But now I think of it, Edward, we will not tell my father that Falkland poisoned my dog. Let us try to make him feel ashamed, by shewing him we despise revenge—I should like to mortify him this way.
WILLIAM.
You are very generous.
CHARLES.
Let us talk of something else—my dog is dead, I will try to make myself easy—I wish I could forget the torments it endured.—It is a very fine evening.
EDWARD.
Look, look! What do I see yonder in that tree?
WILLIAM.
It is a parrot.
EDWARD.
How fortunate!—It is Falkland’s parrot; it has flown away from him, and perched itself there: it looks frightened. How vexed he will be—he should not have that creature again for ten guineas.
CHARLES.
How the poor creature trembles.—I can climb softly up the tree and catch it;—do not make a noise.
EDWARD.
And so you will send it to Falkland again, to please him.
CHARLES.
No, for something else.
EDWARD.
He has killed your dog, and you will allow his favourite parrot to live when it is in your power. I think it mean-spirited.—Can you have a better opportunity to revenge yourself on that rascal?
CHARLES.
Yes, I can take a more noble revenge; by returning good for evil, I shall let him see how much I am his superior: and that will highly gratify me.
Immediately Charles mounted the tree, and caught the bird, whose feet were entangled in the branches. He then sent it by a servant to Falkland—and returned to us with a smiling face; I hardly ever saw so much satisfaction in his countenance: and when Edward still continued to laugh at him, he replied, I felt pleasure in returning good for evil, my pride impelled me to act thus, as well as a sense of duty; I do not pretend to any great merit in conquering one feeling to gratify another, but I should have been inexcusable if I had tormented an innocent helpless bird, merely to vex a being I despise. Nay, my anger would have been mean and selfish; I should only resent the loss of my dog, and not feel indignation on account of the vices this loss has forced me to discover in a character I was partial to. I shall forget my dog, long before I shall be able to drive from my remembrance a cruel action done by a fellow-creature. Charles looked teased, and Edward ceased to blame him,—and I tried to amuse him.
WILLIAM.