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Title: William Sedley
        or, the evil day deferred

Author: Anonymous

Release date: October 7, 2024 [eBook #74536]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John Marshall

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Charlene Taylor, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILLIAM SEDLEY ***





                           _WILLIAM SEDLEY_;

                                OR, THE

                           EVIL DAY DEFERRED.




                             FRONTISPIECE.

[Illustration:

  _Dodd del._   _Ja^{s.} Roberts sculp._

  _Published Oct. 1^{st}. 1783, by John Marshall & Cº. Aldermary Church
    Yard, London._
]




                           _WILLIAM SEDLEY_;
                                OR, THE
                           EVIL DAY DEFERRED.


                               _LONDON_:

                   PRINTED AND SOLD BY JOHN MARSHALL
                         AND Cº Nº 4, ALDERMARY
                            CHURCH YARD, IN
                               BOW-LANE.




                             TO MASTER ——.


The pleasure which you take in reading, made me solicitous to write a
few pages for your amusement, when you wish to unbend your mind from
more serious studies. But the want of opportunity, and the frequent
interruptions which I met with during the course of them, have rendered
the whole less worthy your acceptance than I had hoped, when I first
formed the design. My affection for you, incites me to wish your
improvement in every branch of useful knowledge; and though this little
work may be regarded as _trifling_, yet, the _moral_ which it contains,
is worthy your most serious attention. Do not, therefore, be too proud
to receive instruction from its contents, because you have commenced
acquaintance with _Greek_ or _Latin_ authors. It is from a superficial
knowledge either of men or books, that we derive a supercilious contempt
of the one, or are critically nice in our judgment of the other. I would
wish you, my dear boy, to form your taste on the most perfect models;
but to profit by every thing which is praise-worthy in those authors who
are less distinguished. Above all, you should remember, that to improve
your _temper_, and to encrease in _virtue_ as well as _knowledge_, is
the great end of all your studies; nothing which can promote this
design, can be too low to merit your attention. That you may each day
continue to advance in your progress towards every thing which is great,
generous, and manly, till you become an ornament of society, a blessing
to your friends, and the delight of your indulgent parents, is the most
earnest wish of,

                                             _Your affectionate Friend_,
                                                         THE AUTHOR.




                           _WILLIAM SEDLEY_;
                                OR, THE
                           EVIL DAY DEFERRED.


“It is a delightful morning!” said a gentleman to a boy of about twelve
years old, as he walked up and down an avenue with high trees on each
side, which led to a handsome house. A coach drove, at that moment, out
of the court-yard. “What a fine day!” repeated the gentleman. “I think,
_William_, the roads will be extremely pleasant.” _William_ made no
answer. The tears trickled down his cheeks, which he wiped away with the
back of his hand.

A little chimney-sweeper had crept along till he came to the place; and
tossing down his bag of soot at the foot of a tree, stood gazing at the
cloaths of the young gentleman, and secretly wished he was but as happy.
He beckoned to his companion, who sat at a little distance gnawing a
stale crust, which he had received from the good-nature of a
neighbouring farmer; and as he came forward, “Look, _Jack_,” said he,
“what a fine coach that is, with those long tail nags: that boy is going
to ride, I warrant; and yet he looks as sad as if he was one of us. I
wonder what such fine folks can have to make them uneasy. If I was that
boy, and had my belly-full, as he has, and such good cloaths to my back,
and might ride in that same coach, I should be as happy as a king. _O
how I wish I was that boy!_”

_William_ turned round at this speech, and smiling at the
chimney-sweeper, asked him his name? The poor fellow, with a scrape of
his foot, which he meant as a bow of respect, told him, that his name
was _Tony Climbwell_; and that he lived at the next village. “Well then,
_Tony_,” replied _William_, “I would advise you not to envy every one
you see; for I would willingly change places with you to enjoy your
liberty. I am going back to school, _Tony_, after a month’s holidays;
and if you knew how unhappy I am when there, you would pity my
situation; and not envy the joys of it.”

The gentleman before-mentioned, had gone into the house to enquire for
his lady, who was to complete the party, and convey his son to school.
It was in this interval, that the following conversation passed between
the two boys and the young gentleman.

“Indeed, master,” replied _Tony_, “if we _could_ change places, you
would find you had made but a sorry choice. Our liberty, as you call it,
is not to do as we like. To be sure, I am a very poor boy, and have had
no learning; for I can neither read nor spell; but if I take it right,
_liberty_ means something such as to be your own master, don’t it? at
least, I know when _Simon Pennyless_ was sent to goal, people said,
“That the next week he would be set at liberty;” and that was, that he
was to be let out again. Now _we_ go about every morning sweeping
chimnies”——“And walk,” said _William_, interrupting him, “where you
please all the rest of the day. At our school we have scarce any time
for play, and are confined from six till eight, from nine till twelve,
and from two till five o’clock, without any amusement whatever. Don’t
tell me, therefore, _Tony_, that our life is not much more uncomfortable
than your’s. Besides which, we have long tasks to learn after
school-hours are over; and are thrashed, and scolded, if we cannot say
them perfect; and then to think it will be _six_ months before I see my
father and mother!”——_William_ wept again; the thought was too pathetic
for his feelings; and he drew his fore-finger across his left eye, and
then stroaked it the contrary way, to wipe off the drops which stood
trembling in his right.—“But I have no father or mother,” replied
_Tony_, “nor a single soul in the world to care what becomes of me,
except my mistress, who is the best woman that ever lived; and would
give me some victuals if she could; but she dares not for her own sake;
for her husband is so cruel, that he would beat her if she did. He makes
us work hard; and starves us into the bargain. This poor fellow,” added
he, pointing to his companion, “whom we call _Little Shock_, from his
curling locks, is but six years old; and has been bound apprentice this
twelvemonth; and I was no older myself when I first went to my master,
which is near seven years ago; and I love the boy dearly, that I do, as
much as if he was my own brother; and frequently do I get the broom
thrown at my head, because I do not beat him when he cries at going up a
narrow chimney, or does not sweep it as he should do.” “But is not your
master _obliged_ to give you food enough?” said _William_. “Why don’t
you complain to somebody? I would, if I was in your place.” “Ah! Sir,”
replied the sooty-faced boy, “you talk like a gentleman, and know
nothing of the matter. Whom would you have us complain to? And do not
you think our master would use us much worse if we did? You wished just
now to change places with us; but if you did, you would soon alter your
mind.”

As he pronounced these last words, the carriage which had been waiting,
drove to a little distance, to make way for another coach, which then
arrived. It contained a very venerable looking old gentleman, whom
_William_ called his grandfather, and immediately left the
chimney-sweepers to welcome; and with great expressions of joy,
accompanied him into the house. They were met in the hall by the
gentleman and lady before-mentioned, whom I shall call by the name of
_Sedley_. After the usual compliments were over, and they had informed
their father, Mr. _Graves_, of their intention to take _William_ to
school, he begged a reprieve for him for a few days, as he much wished
to enjoy the pleasure of his company. A compliance with this request
dissipated the sadness of _William_’s countenance; and he jumped about
with a degree of vivacity that seemed to afford pleasure to all his
friends.

Mr. _Graves_ was one of those old men, whose features are always
impressed with such marks of good-nature as are pleasing to the volatile
spirits of youth. Though he was turned of eighty, he would sometimes
partake in the diversions of his grandson; and while his instructions
commanded respect, his mildness and affability excited the warmest
affection. When he had taken his afternoon’s nap in an easy chair, which
was placed in one corner of the room for that purpose, he got up, and
after shaking his cloaths, stroaking down his ruffles, and adjusting his
wig, asked _William_ if he was disposed for a walk.

They sallied out together, the invitation being willingly accepted. The
good man taking his stick in one hand, and resting the other on the
shoulder of his young companion, enquired whether he had had any
conversation with the black boys, with whom, at his arrival, he had
found him engaged. _William_ repeated the substance of what had passed;
and concluded with saying, “He believed he _was_ happier than honest
_Tony_, though it must almost counterbalance all his sufferings to be
exempted from the constant uneasiness of learning a task.” “I am sorry,”
replied Mr. _Graves_, “that you have formed such a wrong estimate of
your situation in life; and I should have expected, that the striking
incident of this morning, would have taught you to be contented and
thankful with the real happiness of your lot. Though I am a very old
man, _William_, I have not forgotten what were my own troubles at your
time of life. Study I often found to be irksome, and confinement the
heaviest of all evils; and therefore, I shall not preach to you, that
you will never in future be so happy as you now are; because, if you
feel yourself to be otherwise, you will pay little attention to such an
assurance: but thus much I will say, and hope you will credit my
experience, that all the uneasiness you complain of, may be _mitigated_,
if not entirely overcome, by your own diligence and resolution. It is by
idleness and neglect, that your difficulties are encreased. The more
disagreeable you find your studies, the more you are disposed to
postpone the necessary attention which they require. But this, my dear
boy, is a very wrong method. The _beginning_ of every attempt will
always be irksome; but those who are too indolent to bestow a continued
degree of care and assiduity, will never arrive at perfection. _My
William_ cannot be destitute of emulation; if he sees others excel, he
must wish to equal their attainments. It is the meanest of human minds,
that will _envy_ another’s merit; but the noblest disposition will
endeavour to improve by a good example. Every state has its troubles.
When you leave school, the _same_ cares will not perplex you, but
_others_ equally severe may arise, which now you are unacquainted with.
Have you not oftentimes been taught, that every period of life has its
particular duties; and the duty of your age and station is to attend to
the instructions of your masters, and to learn what they desire you,
when they require it with cheerfulness?” “Then surely, Sir,” replied
_William_, “_Tony_ is in a happier state than I am, since he has no
tasks to get by heart; and his _duty_ of sweeping a chimney is easily
performed. I should like to sweep a chimney of all things.” “Perhaps you
might,” returned his grandfather. “Any thing will give us pleasure when
we do it for amusement; but should you like to have the broom thrown at
your head when you had done? or should you enjoy going without your
meals, and strolling about in all weathers to beg from strangers the
miserable supply to your hunger? It is very wrong to wish for a change
of situation with any one, since none can be acquainted with the secret
uneasiness of his neighbour’s mind. _Tony_ had some reason indeed to
wish for your station in life; but even _he_ would have been deceived;
for had he made the exchange, and been possessed of your inclinations
with your fortune, he would still have found himself disappointed; since
you esteemed yourself at that moment as the most unhappy being, in the
necessity of returning to school, and was prevented by the error of your
desires from any enjoyment of your superior advantages. This is a useful
lesson, my child, to teach you contentment; for, believe me, though
trials and temptations of the poor, are in most cases stronger than you
can any ways imagine, if _you_ are inclined, by a love of play, to leave
your studies, and desert your duty, reflect how often _they_ may be
tempted to steal from others those necessary comforts of which they
stand in need; and how much they are exposed to the danger of becoming
wicked from the example of others and their own ignorance! I should like
to see your new chimney-sweeper acquaintance,” continued Mr. _Graves_,
“and though I do not approve of your mixing with such companions, I
think you should not have left him without relieving his wants: perhaps
he might have been very hungry, and has not had a good dinner since, as
you have, to satisfy his appetite.”

_William_ was backward and somewhat stupid at his learning, but he
wanted not sense; and his tenderness and good-nature were uncommon.

“Poor fellow,” said he, “your arrival, and the joy of seeing you, made
me forget him; but I will find out where he lives, and do all I can to
make amends for my forgetfulness.—Dear Sir, will you go with me? it is
not a long way; we are now in sight of the village.” “Though the
distance is not very great,” replied Mr. _Graves_, “yet the winding
path, which leads to it, is farther than I can reach without fatigue. I
will therefore rest myself upon the stump of this tree, and shall be
entertained in your absence with the prospect of the country: the view
of which, from this eminence, is delightful.”

_William_ set off, with a degree of swiftness that promised a speedy
return; but he had not proceeded far, when he was met by a _Jew_, who
sold trinkets of various sorts; as buttons, watch-chains, pencils, and
such like things. He offered his wares to _William_, who at first
refused to purchase them; but the man telling him he might as well look
at, if he did not buy them; he was tempted to ask the price of an ivory
bilberkit, for which he paid a shilling. A small looking-glass, was a
thing he had long wished for; and as that was the same expence, he
debated for a considerable time before he could determine which of the
two to make choice of. One moment he began, to play with the toy, and
the next surveyed himself in the glass. Alternatively taking them up and
laying them down, till the owner, who saw his eagerness for both,
persuaded him to have them.

He was walking slowly on, with his purchase in his hand, when a
butcher’s boy, and a lad who was driving some cows from the field to be
milked, overtook him with a nest of blackbirds, in which were four young
ones. _William_ asked what they would take for their prize? which they
at first refused to sell; but afterwards said, he should have it for a
shilling. He objected that it was too much; and taking out his money,
found that he had only half a guinea, which had been given him to take
to school, and which, therefore, he did not chuse to change, and
nine-pence half-penny, for which the boys agreed at last he should have
the blackbirds.

Once more then he proceeded in his journey to look for _Tony_. He soon
found the house, and his black acquaintance with a young child, whom he
was teaching to walk. They renewed their intimacy, and _William_ told
him the design of his _visit_; but coloured with confusion when he
recollected the situation of his money, which he had never thought of
when he was making his bargains. He did not at all like to own the true
state of the case, nor did he know what method to pursue. He wished to
keep his gold for many reasons, and he had beside, neither silver nor
copper. His _conscience_ urged him to give _Tony_ something; but he had
pleased himself greatly with the thought of having a half-guinea in his
pocket, which he could call his own. His sensibility represented the
wants of the orphan boy but the pride of having a piece of _gold_ in his
possession, overcame every consideration of pity. “If you will call
to-morrow at our house, _Tony_,” said he, “you shall have some bread and
meat.—Good bye, I cannot stay any longer!” And away he went, with the
uneasy consciousness of having behaved wrong.

He was on his return to his grandfather, when _Jeffery Squander_ and his
sister, who were taking a walk, met him as he was crossing by the end of
a lane. They had stopped to buy some plum-cakes of a man with one leg,
who made it his business to carry them about. _Jeffery_ and _William_
were neighbours and school-fellows, and immediately saluted each other;
the former inciting the other to follow his example. He refused at
first, because he had no money; but was very unwilling to make known his
real reason. Upon being pressed still farther, he said, “he had nothing
but gold about him, which he supposed _Jonathan_, the cake man, could
not give him change for, otherwise he should be glad to eat some.”
_Jonathan_ felt in a leathern bag, which was fastened before him, and
divided in the middle to hold silver and halfpence, and said, “he had
money enough for the purpose.” _William_ was sadly disappointed; but as
he could urge no farther objection, gave up his dear half-guinea with
regret, and eat three plum-cakes with a worse appetite than usual.

Mr. _Graves_, in the mean time, had walked onward in quest of his
grandson, whose stay began to give him some uneasiness. He came up with
him just as he was finishing his last mouthful, and gently blamed him
for the length of his absence, at the same time inviting his companions
to join him, and to return to Mr. _Sedley_’s. They politely declined his
offer, as they were engaged to spend the evening with an uncle.

As soon as they had taken leave, Mr. _Graves_ enquired after the success
of _William_’s visit. “You made me quite uneasy,” said he, “I hope you
have done a _great deal_ of good. How much did you give honest _Tony_?
or had you as much money as you wanted? I forgot to make that enquiry,
you set off in such a hurry.”—_William_ blushed, hung down his head,
slackened his pace, and slunk behind his grandfather in silent
confusion.—Mr. _Graves_ turned round, and taking his hand, “What has
happened, my boy,” said he, “to cover that open countenance with the
suspicious appearance of guilt? Or do I injure you, my noble child, and
is it only the blush of your modesty at the enquiry of your generosity?”
“Indeed, Sir,” said _William_, “I feel the keenness of your reproof. But
if my honesty in confessing can excuse my fault, you shall be acquainted
with the whole truth. I went from you with a full design to relieve poor
_Tony_; but I soon overtook a _Jew_ pedlar, and I was so weak as to
spend my money in the purchase of this glass, and that bilberkit.
Nine-pence I had still left; and nine-pence would have been something
for the chimney-sweeper; but this bird’s nest which I have in my
handkerchief, I am ashamed of myself, Sir, but I gave that to the boys
for the birds.” “And was that all your money?” said Mr. _Graves_. “Did
you not pay for the cakes you were eating?” “Yes, Sir,” replied
_William_. “Then why had you nothing for the boy?” again enquired his
grandfather. “Because,” returned _William_, blushing still more, “I did
not like to change half a guinea: nor should I have done it, had not
_Squander_ seemed to think it mean of me, and I was afraid he would
laugh at my stinginess when we return to school: for he has always so
much money, that he does not care how much he spends.” “The frankness of
your acknowledgment,” replied Mr. _Graves_, “must entirely shield you
from reproof; and you seem to be so sensible of your error, that I need
not, perhaps, point it out with any further aggravations. I would not
tire you with my advice, and yet I feel such an interest in your
happiness, as makes me wish to observe the improvement which may arise
from any incident that occurs. Young people are apt to pass over every
action without reflection; and when a day is once concluded, they think
no more of their behaviour during the course of it. Our lives, my dear
_William_, are made up of _trifling_ accidents; but if we incur guilt by
behaving improperly, the future misery of an uneasy conscience will be
ill repaid by the enjoyment of any present pleasure. You should always,
therefore, be upon your guard; since you see an occasion to draw you
into error, may arise where you least expect it. To purchase the toys,
or to buy the birds as the naughty boys had taken the nest was not
wrong; though if you know where they got it, I should hope you would
replace it. But when you had only that two shillings and nine-pence, I
think, some part of it ought to have been saved for the purpose on which
you set out. But then, _William_, a worse part of your conduct is still
to come. You were convinced that it was _right_, that it was your
_duty_, to do something for _Tony_; yet you left him without relief:
while the fear of being _laughed_ at by so silly a fellow as _Jeffery
Squander_, had more effect upon you than your pity for your fellow
creature, a boy of your own age in want. This weakness, I am much
afraid, will often lead you into danger. Wicked people will laugh at you
for being better than themselves; but will by no means like to share in
the miseries which your follies may incur.”

As he concluded these words, they arrived within sight of Mr. _Sedley_’s
house, and were soon discovered by two children who were kneeling in the
parlour window; but immediately upon seeing Mr. _Graves_, they jumped
down, and came running to meet him. The eldest was a girl about a year
older than _William_; and the other, little _Bob_, had the day before
left off his petticoats, and honoured his birth-day with a suit of new
boy’s cloaths.

Miss _Sedley_ and her little brother had both been to dine with a
neighbouring gentleman, in consequence of their parents intention of
conveying their son to school; which the reader has already heard Mr.
_Graves_’s arrival had postponed. They both expressed their joy at the
sight of their grandfather, who took _Bob_ in his arms to kiss him;
while _Nancy_, with a smile of delight, pressed her brother’s hand, and
assured him of the pleasure she felt that she should have his company a
few days longer.

_Bob_ was so impatient, in the mean time, to shew his dress, that
setting both his feet against his grandfather’s stomach, he very nearly
pushed himself backwards. “Look, Sir,” said he, “Pray look at my
buttons! I shall _soon_ be a man now. I was four years old yesterday;
and see, I have got a pocket to my waistcoat; and this is my new
handkerchief.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “I will see them all
presently, but let me set you down first; you had very near tumbled us
both on the grass; and you are very heavy, I can tell you, in your new
cloaths.” “I dare say I am,” returned _Bob_. “To be sure, Sir, I am too
big to be lifted now I am in breeches; and besides, I have got money in
my pocket; so it is no wonder I am heavy, for Mr. _Goodwill_ the
clergyman gave me six-pence yesterday afternoon, because, he said, I was
such a good boy, that he was sure I should take care and spend it
properly.—And see what a nice one it is, Sir!” Mr. _Graves_ took it in
his hand, and admiring it greatly, gave it to little _Bob_, who turned
it about with much pride and pleasure as he walked along, till it
unfortunately dropped down upon the grass, and was lost from his sight.
“O stop! stop!” said he in a hurry, “my _six-pence_! my _own dear new
six-pence_! what shall I do?” and immediately fell upon his hands and
knees in search of his treasure. _William_ did the same, and _Nancy_
stooped forward to assist them; while their grandfather pushed about the
grass with his stick, in hopes by that mean to discover it. Their
endeavours, for a long time, were in vain, and _Bob_’s impatience became
so great, that he burst into tears.

“Do not cry, my love,” said his sister, “I have got a six-pence which my
papa gave me last _Thursday_ when I finished his shirts, and you shall
have that.” “But it is bent and ugly,” replied he: “It is not a _new_
one: I do not like it: It is an ugly one.—O my pretty six-pence! what
shall I do for it?” “Not be a naughty boy! I hope, _Robert_,” said Mr.
_Graves_: “you told me just now, you were almost a man; but this
behaviour, and these tears, look like a baby. I think _Nancy_ is very
kind to you; and I am ashamed to see you make such a return to her
good-nature. However there is your six-pence,” continued he, putting his
stick close to it. _Bob_ jumped at it, and picking it up, kissed it most
heartily, saying, “I am glad you are found: I will put you in my pocket,
and never take you out again when I am walking.” They soon reached the
house; and found Mr. and Mrs. _Sedley_ waiting tea for them: to whom Mr.
_Graves_ gave an account of their walk. During their conversation two
gentlemen who were riding by stopped their horses, and looked up at the
house. Mr. _Sedley_ got up, and walking to the window with his cup
lifted to his mouth, and the saucer in his left hand, “I wonder what
those gentlemen are looking for,” said he. “They seem to have mistook
their way.” “O no! Papa,” replied _Bob_, “I dare say they only stand
still to look at my new cloaths. They are surprised I suppose to see me
in breeches.” “Upon my word, child,” said his father, “you think
yourself now of prodigious consequence; but it is very silly and unlike
the man you wish us to think you, to talk so much of your dress.——Your
brother’s behaviour,” added he, turning to Miss _Sedley_, “puts me in
mind of the little girl we met one day at Mr. _Wilmot_’s. Do not you
remember her, _Nancy_? I think she was called Miss _Gaudery_: with her
red silk slip, and fine gold watch. She looked so stiff as if afraid to
stir. She would not walk in the garden for fear it should spoil her
shoes; nor sit close to her companions, that she might not tumble her
cuffs; nor would she eat any strawberries, because if one happened to
drop, it would stain her apron. In short, all her attention was so
evidently fixed upon her fine cloaths, that she incurred the contempt of
the company; who all agreed it was much to be lamented, that her mind
should be neglected for the sake of adorning her person. I know that
dress is a very favorite subject with girls. And what pretty thing have
you got? says one; and let me see your new cap, says another, when you
have play-fellows come to see you. Is not that true, _Nancy_? And then
you pull out your band-boxes; and this is my cloak; and this is my
furbelowed apron; and here is my flounced petticoat; and that is my
feathered bonnet; and in this drawer I put my shawl.—Tell me, _Nancy_,
is not that the way you entertain and are entertained by your visitors?”
“Those with whom I am intimate,” replied Miss _Sedley_ blushing, “I
sometimes shew my new cloaths to; but I do not wear half of those things
you have named: it would look strange indeed to see a little girl in a
furbelowed apron; at least, I am sure we should not call it by that
name. But pray, Sir, inform me whether you think there is any thing
wrong in this practice, and I will not do it for the future?” “I do not
mean, my dear,” returned her father, “to blame that good-nature which
would engage you to please your companions with the sight of a new
acquisition; but to warn you from the danger of a vain temper, which is
proud of fancied finery, and imagines its worth to consist in the
smartness of dress rather than in real goodness. And I address myself to
_you_ upon this subject; because I think, that in general, girls are apt
to shew a greater tendency to this failing than boys: but I hope my
_Nancy_ has too much good sense to be proud of any thing which reflects
no honor upon herself, but as she behaves properly, and makes a right
use of the advantage of fortune. The pleasure which _Bob_ has expressed
in his new coat, has not arisen from its being finer than his other
cloaths, but because he looks upon himself as so much more like a _man_
than he was before; but it is a certain proof from his speaking so much
about them, that it is a new thing to him; otherwise he would have
thought no more of the circumstance than does your brother _William_. So
when a girl is dressed out to make a visit, and takes particular notice
of her ruffles, or her frock, or any other part of her dress, you may
almost always be sure she is not accustomed to it. You do not look at
those shoes, nor think of that cap, because you usually wear them; and
you should endeavour to be as easy in your behaviour in your _best_ as
in your _common_ garb; otherwise you appear stiff and ungraceful, and
will lose every advantage which your dress is designed to produce. But
above all, my girl, remember, that good-nature, affability, and
sweetness of manners, is the charm to render you agreeable; and will
always have the power of pleasing, independent of outward decorations.”
“I hope,” said Mrs. _Sedley_, “that our _Nancy_’s good sense will secure
her from an error which is the strongest mark of an uninformed mind. She
has just favored me with the sight of a little poetic piece, which was
occasioned by the behaviour of the child you have mentioned; and as you
are so well acquainted with the author, I dare say she will oblige you
with the perusal. Mr. _Sedley_ expressed his wishes to that purpose, and
his daughter immediately fetched them down, and presented them to her
father, who read as follows:

             ’Twas when the harvest first began,
               The sky was clear, the air serene.
             The rustics to their toil repair’d,
               And _Julia_ join’d the rural scene.

             (_Julia_ was fair with ev’ry grace.
               Which art or nature can bestow;
             But still her most engaging charms
               From _modesty_ and _sweetness_ flow.

             Nor _dress_ nor beauty _claim’d_ her care,
               But objects of a _nobler_ kind;
             For well she knew _interior_ worth
               Is ever seated in the _mind_.

             Hence was she studious to acquire
               Distinction worthy of her claim;
             For learning, genius, virtue, sense,
               She strove to win the prize of fame.)

             With _her_ a youthful band appear’d;
               And blooming _Richard_ led the way,
             Who smiling as the nymphs advanc’d,
               He seated on the new-mown hay.

             One only lass among the rest
               His offer’d hand with scorn disdain’d;
             And fir’d with _vanity_ and _pride_
               Thus angry to her friends complain’d:

             “And do you think for this I came
               In all my _elegant_ array,
             Only to treat yon rustic set,
               And let _their_ eyes my _dress_ survey?

             D’ye think this slip was e’er design’d
               Upon the dirty _hay_ to rest?
             Or that for such a _vulgar_ scheme
               I paid the visit in my _best_?

             What! my _best_ shoes, my _feather’d_ cap,
               My _new_ calash, forget them all;
             And like the toiling wretches there
               Consent upon the _hay_ to sprawl?

             Rise! ladies, rise! and quit the field:
               I vow I blush to see you there:—
             For shame! such _mean_ companions leave,
               And to the _drawing room_ repair.

             O fie! Miss _Julia_, do you smile,
               And really like such _vulgar_ play?
             At least you’ll dirt or spoil your frock,
               If longer you presume to stay.”

             “Hey-day!” quoth _Richard_ in reply,
               “I really know not my offence—
             What! does the _dirt_ on this dry hay,
               The _dirt_, Miss _Flavia_, drive you hence?

             The _feathers_ in your _cap_, indeed,
               I had not notic’d much before;
             And the _red shoes_ so bright and gay,
               I now their pardon must implore.

             But if, dear Miss, they _soil_ so soon,
               I wish some others you had brought;
             As all our party to confine
               On their account you kindly thought.

             But now that we have seen your _best_,
               At the _next_ visit which you pay;
             I hope that you will suit your _dress_
               To a soft seat among the _hay_.”

             Displeas’d, and frowning, up she rose,
               And _sullenly_ the rest forsook;
             No answer she vouchsaf’d to give,
               But darted fury in her look.

             All her companions laugh’d aloud,
               With ridicule and just disdain,
             Except that _Julia_ kindly fear’d
               To give her haughty bosom pain.

             “My brother” mildly she rejoin’d,
               “Your warmth will much offend, I fear;
             We should for others faults allow,
               Nor be in judgment too severe.

             If _better_ taught, the _real_ worth
               Of _dress_ or _fortune_ we may know,
             Our pity should extend to those,
               Who on these _toys_ their care bestow.

             Consider that in such array
               Poor _Flavia_ does but seldom shine;
             Then let us not, my friends, insult,
               Tho’ _ignorance_ with _pride_ combine.

             _Our’s_ be the care with modest ease,
               The goods of _fortune_ to possess;
             Nor with mean arrogance of mind
               Exult o’er others who have less.

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mr. _Sedley_, when she had concluded. “These
lines, I see, are the production of _Dick Wilmot_, as he has signed
them. You must know Sir,” added he, addressing Mr. _Graves_, “that our
young friend discovers a propensity to the Muses, and often employs his
leisure in the composition of such little pieces. But he has made two
long a parenthesis at the beginning, which is only excusable from the
laudable motive of praising a sister, who is one of the most
accomplished and best tempered girls I am acquainted with. The design of
a parenthesis is only to include a short sentence in a long one, and
therefore should not be too long itself, as the sense of the author
ought to be complete without it. But when it is extended to too great a
length, we forget the foregoing passage, and the continuation of the
subject appears awkward and perplexing.” “But if the sense is as good
without, then what is its use?” said Miss _Sedley_. “It is sometimes by
way of explanation, my dear,” replied he, taking up a book from the
table: “as thus, _Alexander_ reaped great advantage from the fine taste
with which his master (than whom no man possessed greater talents for
the education of youth) had inspired him with from his infancy.” “Now
perhaps the reader might not be acquainted with the character of
_Alexander_’s master; and this commendation of him will inform him, that
he was a man of abilities, and therefore better qualified for his
employment; and yet the sense would have been perfect without this
addition. But it sometimes is likewise used as an exception. Suppose I
was to say, you shall all go to _Windsor_ to-morrow (except little
_Bob_) to see the castle and the royal family.”—“O! but pray do not
leave _me_ at home,” said _Robert_, starting up from the ground, where
he had been sitting spinning his six-pence on the carpet. “Pray, Sir,
take me with you, and _I_ will shew you some verses as well as my
sister.” “Will you?” replied Mr. _Sedley_; “and pray where did you get
them? but I am not going to _Windsor_: I was only teaching _Nancy_ the
use of a parenthesis.” “Was _that_ all?” cried _Bob_ in a tone of
disappointment. “But you shall see the poetry however. I have it in my
_pocket_,” with an emphasis he pronounced the word. “My brother gave it
to me yesterday. They were inscribed,”


             _To Master_ ROBERT SEDLEY, _on his_ BIRTH-DAY.

               Permit me now, my dearest boy,
               Again to wish you ev’ry joy
                   On this your natal day:
               Now cast your former cloaths aside,
               To dress with more becoming pride
                   In _masculine_ array.

               And, _Robert_, sure with _manly_ air,
               You’ll hence each _infant_ trick forbear,
                   And scorn the sense of pain:
               Ne’er whimper tho’ to earth you fall,
               Break a new _cart_ or lose your _ball_,
                   Nor like a _child_ complain.

               But learn to _speak_, and learn to _read_,
               And your own cause distinctly plead,
                   And be asham’d to _cry_;
               Or, trust me, else they will restore
               The _baby_’s _petticoats_ once more,
                   And on the _back-string_ tie.

The next morning was as fine as the preceding one; and _William_ and his
sister rose in high spirits with the idea of spending the day together.

When the family assembled to breakfast, Mr. _Graves_ proposed to take
them to dine with a friend of his at _Windsor_, but without excepting
little _Bob_, who begged to be of the party. After a very pleasant ride
they arrived at Mr. _Rich_’s, who received them with great affability
and politeness. They found there several play-fellows, as Mr. _Rich_ had
a son and daughter; and there were two young ladies and a young
gentleman, who had been likewise invited to dine with them. The name of
the eldest was Miss _Lofty_: the other Miss _Snap_; and the boy was
called Master _Tradewell_.

As it was early when they arrived, Mr. _Sedley_, Mrs. _Rich_, and the
young folk, took a walk to see the castle, with which they were all
highly entertained. On their return they met with a pretty girl, who was
running along with a basket of apples, and who stumbling over a loose
stone in her way, fell down with great violence on the pavement.
_William_ and his sister immediately hastened to her assistance, and
very tenderly enquired whether she was hurt; at the same time assisted
her to gather up the fruit, which she seemed much concerned about, as
the pippins had rolled to a great distance. “How far were you going,
_Fanny_,” said Mrs. _Rich_. “Don’t be frightened, my child; your apples
are not the worse, and your mother will not be angry.” “They were for
you, Ma’am,” replied she, curtesying and weeping, “and I was charged to
make haste; but I am sure I could not _help_ falling.” “To be sure you
could not,” returned the lady; “and as you are a good girl, you may stay
and dine at our house if you please.” _Fanny_ thanked her, and promised
to ask her mother’s leave so to do. Mrs. _Rich_ then informed her
company, that the child they had seen was daughter to a servant of
theirs, who had married a gardener, and whose good behaviour recommended
her so much, that she frequently came to play with her children.

In the afternoon the young party retired to amuse themselves in the
garden; and Miss _Rich_ asked them if it would be agreeable for _Fanny
Mopwell_ to be with them? _William_ said, “by all means;” and _Nancy_
was quite pleased with the proposal: but Miss _Lofty_ bridled up her
head, and said, “she had never been _used_ to play with such
_creatures_:” and Master _Tradewell_ said, “he thought they were better
_without_ her; for a _merchant_’s son was rather above a girl of that
sort.”

_Tom Rich_, who had loved _Fanny_ from her infancy, and whose mother had
been his nurse, was not a little offended at the scorn which they
expressed for his favorite, and very angrily told Miss _Lofty_, “that if
she was _poor_, she was _good-natured_, and would not refuse to oblige
any body.” _William_ also joined heartily in her favour; for he was of
such a gentle disposition, that he always wished to promote the
happiness of every one he saw; and _Nancy_ seconded him with great
ardor. Upon this mighty question, a warm debate ensued. Miss _Snap_
said, “she did not care for the _girl_, but she had no patience to have
her _play_ so interrupted.” _Charlotte Rich_, who was a school-fellow of
Miss _Lofty_’s, began to be ashamed of having asked her to take notice
of such an humble companion; and though she was in her heart very fond
of little _Fanny_, yet she felt her pride hurt at having shewn her such
a degree of regard. So forcibly does a bad example often operate upon a
mind which would be otherwise not ungenerous.

During the dispute, the innocent cause of it happened to pass by; and
_Fanny_, with a modest curtesy, asked Miss _Rich_ how she did? To which
question the foolish girl, for the reason above-mentioned, would not
condescend to give her an answer. As she was a child of great
sensibility, she was a little distressed by the contempt which
_Charlotte_ affected. She knew too well the duties of her station to
offer to put herself upon an equality with the other young ladies; but
as she was always accustomed to be treated by Miss _Rich_ with the
freedom of an equal, she felt her contempt as a hardship to which she
had not been used. She hung down her head, and was walking silently
away, when _Tom_ took hold of her gown, and enquired whither she was
going? desiring her to stay with him and his friend _William_, adding,
“that Miss _Sedley_ and _Bob_ should be of their party; and they would
leave the proud boarding-school _ladies_, since that was their title, to
keep company with the _merchant_’s son.”

Miss _Lofty_, who was daughter of a nobleman, replied, “that a
_merchant_’s son was no better than a _tradesman_; and she was not over
fond of your _city_ gentry.” This speech equally offended Master
_Tradewell_ and Miss _Snap_; who, rouzed at the indignity offered to her
rank, declared, “she always heard, that a _gentleman_ of _fortune_ was
as good as a _Lord_; and her father, who was an _Alderman_, was known,
though a grocer, to be worth thousands and thousands of pounds, and
therefore she did not understand such treatment.” In short, the
disagreement ran so high, that Miss _Snap_ could not be persuaded to
play at all; and when the rest of the disputants had agreed to make up
matters, she would accept of no proposal, nor join in any diversion
which they offered to her choice. During the latter part of the
engagement, Master _Sedleys_, with their sister and _Tom_, had
accompanied _Fanny_ to an arbour at some distance, where they quietly
sat down to play. Her good-nature inclined her always to give way to her
companions; and she had been taught to do whatever her superiors desired
(if it was not wrong) so that they found her a most agreeable and
entertaining girl, and rejoiced that they had admitted her to be of
their party. Among the rest of their amusements, it was proposed that
they should each tell a story for the entertainment of the rest; and as
none of the others could immediately recollect one, _Fanny_ was desired
to begin, which she very readily did in the following manner, out of a
little book which she had in her pocket.

“_John Active_ was a very good sort of man, and was beloved by his
neighbours. He was kind to every body; and would always help those who
were in distress. As he had a good trade (though it was a laborious one)
he got a pretty fortune; and he did not mind the fatigue, for the sake
of providing for his family. His wife too was a worthy woman, and always
took care to have things ready against he came home, received him with
good-humour, and thanked him for the trouble he took in getting the
money to keep her and her children. They had three daughters; whose
names were _Nanny_, _Susan_, and _Kate_; and she taught them to read and
work; and when they were gone to-bed, would sit up to mend their
cloaths, and do what was necessary for them. While they were young, this
family all lived extremely comfortable. The parents were contented and
thankful for their condition; and the children were as happy as it was
in their power to make them. But when they grew older, and ought to have
known better, the two eldest became perverse and disobedient. They would
not mind what they were taught; and only grumbled and found fault if
they were set to work. In short, they became so obstinate, that they at
all times did the contrary to what their parents desired: _Susan_ one
day in jumping from the top of a gate, which she had often been forbid
to do, broke her leg, an accident that confined her a great while, and
cost her father a vast deal of money for surgeons; and her mother in
lifting her about, got a hurt in her back, which never could be cured,
and occasioned her to be lame all the rest of her life. Any body would
have thought that such an accident might have taught the naughty girl to
have been more obedient for the future; but she was unmoved by it; and
added to the trouble of nursing her, by being cross and dissatisfied;
and poor Mrs. _Active_ would often shed tears at the unkind speeches
which she returned for her care and indulgence. Nor did _Nancy_ afford
them any greater comfort. She would never assist in those things of
which she was capable: but was mighty eager to do what was out of her
power.

“One day when her sister was better, her mother desired them both to run
the seams of a bed curtain, which she was making; and begged them to
make haste, as she wanted to finish it before night.” They both looked
sullen at her request. _Nancy_ said, “it was not her _business_; and her
father might sleep without curtains:” and _Susan_ replied, “that though
her leg was mended she would not do all the _drudgery_ indeed.” While
little _Kate_, who was much younger, threaded a needle, and began to
take one of them into her lap, though it was so large she could hardly
manage it. Mrs. _Active_ told them to consider their father had a bad
cold; and as it was a very severe frost, and a windy night, it would
certainly make him worse. So after she had insisted upon it, they
snatched up the work, and pulled out their needles with such passion and
ill-humour as to break the thread at every stitch. _Susan_, who had got
a book to amuse her, and who sat with her back to her mother, put it
into her lap, and kept reading the whole time, without paying any regard
to what she said; and long before the usual hour of going to-bed, both
sisters pretended they were so sleepy they could not keep awake, left
their work unfinished, put on their night caps, and went away.

“As _Susan_’s book was very entertaining, they sat up in their own room
to finish reading it; but thinking they heard Mrs. _Active_ upon the
stairs, they hastily popped the candle into the closet, and with their
cloaths on jumped into bed. As they heedlessly put it upon an under
shelf, it burnt a hole through the one which was over it, where catching
to some linen, it soon set the closet in a blaze. This did not happen
for some hours after they had left it, they having laid still for fear
of being found but, and not thinking of the danger, fell asleep, while
the flames burnt through to Mr. _Active_’s room, which was adjoining to
theirs; and it was with the greatest difficulty that they were saved, he
having but just time to rush in at the hazard of his own life, and carry
them down stairs in his arms. But the house for want of water, as it was
in a country place, was entirely consumed; nor did they save any thing,
not even so much as cloaths to cover them.”

When _Fanny_ had read thus far, her audience were obliged to seperate
upon a summons to tea. They were all extremely sorry, as they wished to
hear a conclusion to her story; and _William_ begged her to lend him the
book that he might finish it at home. This proposal _Fanny_ did not much
approve, but at length, upon a promise of his returning it by Master
_Rich_ before he went to school, she entrusted it to his care, charging
him to keep it clean, and not take the paper off the cover.

In their way home, the young folk entertained Mr. _Graves_ with an
account of their days amusement, and bestowed great praise on _Fanny_’s
good-nature, at the same time that they blamed the haughty manners of
Miss _Lofty_ and her companions. “Your observations, my dear children,”
replied their grandfather, “give me the highest pleasure, as there is
nothing more truly contemptable than that pride which arises from the
possession of wealth and finery. The poor are a more useful set of
people than the rich; since to their industry we must owe all those
distinctions that bestow the conveniences and luxuries of life. And
though the difference of station was appointed for the wisest ends; yet,
it is our duty to behave with kindness to our inferiors, and not subject
them to unnecessary mortifications. A prudent person will always
endeavour to keep such company as may suit his rank, because it is an
error to associate only with those beneath us, as we cannot learn from
them such qualifications which are essential to be known; but a _good_
mind will at all times pay a tender regard to the feelings of those in
poverty and distress, because it is an act of cruelty and oppression to
insult any who are in circumstances less happy than ourselves. Instead,
therefore, of being _proud_ on account of your family and fortune, you
should be thankful to Providence that you will have it in your power to
assist others; and remember, that the higher your rank, and the greater
share of wealth you may possess, so much the more it is necessary to set
a good example; as God will expect more from you in consequence of such
advantages, than from those who by having fewer opportunities of
instruction, are not so well acquainted with their duty. Every incident,
my dears, may afford you some useful lesson, if you accustom yourselves
to reflect seriously; and this afternoon has taught you by experience,
that the benefit of a good education, the finery of dress, and the
distinction of noble connections, are altogether insufficient to engage
your love or respect; while the superior charms of good-nature and good
sense have in the humble _Fanny_ found means to win your regard.
Remember then, for the future to cultivate in yourselves the internal
graces of a generous disposition; and let the pride and folly of Miss
_Lofty_ and Master _Tradewell_, be a warning to you to shun their
errors. Every degree of grandeur and ostentation can be but comparative.
If _you_ despise the poverty of _Fanny_, or the inferior fortune of your
acquaintance _Sam Ivy_; Sir _Thomas Young_, or your school-fellow Lord
_Newson_, may look down upon _you_ with equal contempt; because they
have already each a title to boast, and have larger estates to expect
than yourself: and as you would dislike to be treated with disdain by
_them_, remember others have equal sensibility: and always judge by your
own feelings, what is the course of action you should pursue; since, to
_do_ as we would be _done_ by, is a rule of the greatest importance in
life. Master _Tradewell_ could but ill bear the scorn with which Miss
_Lofty_ treated a mercantile employment, though he had joined in her
haughty behaviour to _Fanny Mopwell_. And those who are most ready to
give offence to others, can in general the least submit to such
insolence themselves; because, knowing their own want of more valuable
endowments, and thinking such a vain superiority of the highest
consequence, they are mortified in proportion to their pride, and suffer
the just punishment of their arrogance in the folly which causes their
distress.” _William_ thanked his grandfather for his good advice, to
which they had all listened with great attention; and then retired to
bed, with the satisfaction of having behaved well during the course of
the day. As soon as he conveniently could the next morning, he went into
his sister’s room, and taking _Fanny_’s book from his pocket, they both
sat down in one chair, with his arm round her neck; and began to read
the continuation of the story as follows:

“Mr. _Active_ and his family were now left exposed to the greatest
distress. One of his legs had been terribly burnt in getting his
daughters down stairs; and the loss of their house and furniture it was
out of their power ever to repair. Several of the neighbours were so
kind as to give them a few cloaths for the present; and the gentlemen of
the parish, out of regard to his merit, made a subscription for him, and
gave him some money for his immediate relief. With this assistance they
took as cheap a lodging as they could procure; but were obliged to live
very differently from their usual manner. The poor man, though he went
out to work, could earn but little, his leg growing worse for want of
proper assistance; and the fright of the fire had had such an effect on
his wife, that she never was well after. In this state of poverty the
money which had been given them was soon spent; and though many persons
had pitied them at the time, yet their sufferings were now forgot, and
nobody thought any more about them. _Nanny_ and _Susan_, though their
undutiful behaviour had been the cause of all the misfortunes which they
suffered, still continued to be ill-tempered and untractable. They were
discontented with their situation, and grumbled at the hardship to which
they were reduced; and though their mother had got some work to employ
them, yet they were so idle that they neglected to do it,
notwithstanding they were starving for want. Poor _Kate_, indeed, did
what she could; and though she was but young, proved of great assistance
to her mother. “I will do all I am able,” she would say, “and do not
grieve, for in time we shall have more money I hope.” And when she saw
there was but little for dinner, she would not eat what she wanted, in
order to leave it for her parents. Sometimes she would talk to her
sisters, and advise them to behave better. “I am sure,” she has said,
“we owe a great deal to our father and mother for their care; and as
they have worked hard for _us_, it is but reasonable that we in our turn
should try to support _them_.” The two elder sisters were at length
provided for, by getting into place, and going to service. _Nanny_ was
taken by a grocer’s wife to nurse a young child and go of her errands,
and whatever else she was capable of doing: and _Susan_ went to a
farmers in the neighbourhood as an assistant in the family. It fell to
her lot to carry milk every morning to a gentleman who lived near the
place where her sister was settled; and she used frequently to meet her
there, and stay and talk to her a little. They pursued this custom for
some time without any bad intention; but one day, as the place where
they stood happened to be close to a pastry-cook’s shop, they were
tempted by the sight of some hot buns to go in and buy one between them.
They found the taste so delicious, that they would gladly have eaten
more; but considering the cost would be what they could not well afford,
they parted for that time, with a mutual agreement to meet the next day
at the same house, and renew their treat.

“_Nanny_’s business would not permit her to be there so early as her
sister, who after having waited at the door for some time, entered the
shop by herself, and bought a penny custard, which she had just finished
eating, when _Susan_ arrived, and with much pleasure informed her, that
a gentleman had given her a shilling for her trouble in waiting upon him
during his stay at her Master’s; and she wanted to consult her in what
manner she should lay it out. “Suppose,” added she, “I should carry it
to my mother, it is the first money I have had, and she is in great
distress?” “Why, yes,” replied _Susan_, “they do want money at home; and
so after you have eaten one of these plum-cakes let us go: I would have
bought one before had I been able to pay for it.” “Well! but,” returned
_Nanny_, “then I must change the shilling, and that will be a pity: to
carry only eleven-pence will not look half so well, and we had better go
without our cakes: we have both had a good dinner, and perhaps they have
not fared so well: I think it would be kinder to let them have it.” So
saying, she was going to leave the shop, when the pastry-cook’s boy
passed by her with a tray full of hot cheesecakes. They smelt so
delicious, that _Nanny_ wished very much to taste them; and her sister
joining in the same inclination, added, “we shall often have a
_shilling_ given us now we are in service: it is but a trifle! what
would a shilling buy? My mother will not _expect_ it; and therefore will
not be hurt, or vexed about it: come, come, do not stand thinking any
longer.” “To be sure they are very nice,” said _Nanny_, and took up one
in her hand.—It broke!—What was to be done? It must be paid for; and
when the shilling was once changed, she argued that it would look
unhandsome to carry such a trifle to her parents.—Weak, silly girls!
They spent the whole of it before they left the shop.

“_Kate_, in the mean time, continued with her parents, whose misfortunes
encreased every day. Mr. _Active_ fell from a ladder and broke one of
his arms, and was by this accident reduced to a starving condition. His
wife was attacked by a violent fever, of which she would not inform her
daughters, for fear they should take the infection. These distresses in
a few weeks, as they were both unable to work, reduced them to the most
wretched state of poverty; and on the day that their two daughters were
feasting, as has been related, they were almost expiring with hunger.
Poor _Kate_, with weeping eyes, beheld them both. She had _nothing_ to
give them, and had exhausted her strength in nursing and attending them.
Her mother lay on her wretched bed, and her melancholy father with his
right arm in a sling sat beside her. “I will get them something!” said
_Kate_ to herself. Her father told her it was dinner time. “Bring what
there is, my good child, for your mother.” She went to their little
cupboard.—Alas, it was empty! Not a crumb remained! She had wiped it
clean in the morning, and those scraps had been her only breakfast. “Is
there _nothing_, my child?” added he, and he looked at his wife,
stroaked his left hand across his eyes, but not quick enough to prevent
the tears which dropped upon the sling that supported his right. “I will
fetch something,” said _Kate_; and was hastening to the door. “Alas!”
replied he, sobbing with distress, “my _last_ farthing was spent
yesterday.” She went out, however. “I will _beg_,” said she to herself,
but I will procure them something.” She stood in the street a few
moments, not knowing what to do. At last she ran as fast as her weakness
would permit (for she was beginning to be ill with the same fever which
had attacked her mother.) She ran till she reached the grocer’s. She
enquired for her sister, but she was not at home. She begged them to
give her a bit of bread; but the men in the shop who did not know her,
accused her with being a beggar and a thief; and would not believe that
_Nanny_ was her relation. They threatened to send her to the house of
correction, and turned her disgracefully out of doors.

Poor _Kate_ wept most bitterly at this treatment. She was very timid and
had not courage to reply, but wandered back again in deeper affliction
than before. As she drew near home, she felt rather sick; and as she had
scarcely eaten any thing for several days, she much wished for something
to appease her hunger. A baker’s shop was at hand, and she determined to
go in and beg them to give her a roll. But she saw nobody to apply to.
She called several times, but no one answered. Loaves of bread, of all
sizes, stood on the counter before her. “Shall I take one?” said she: “I
am quite unobserved.” “But is it _right_?” said she again to herself.
“Shall I do a _wrong_ thing only because I am not _seen_?”—She walked
away. “Shall I go back,” once more she added, “to my poor father and
mother, and have _nothing_ for them?”—She sat down upon the threshold
and wept. “It is better to _starve_,” at length she exclaimed, “it is
better to _starve_ than be _wicked_!” and she walked away. A gentleman
was riding by in a chaise, and the wind blew off his hat. She ran,
picked it up, and gave it to him; and he tossed her a half-penny for her
trouble. She took it up with gratitude; and as she ran back to the
bakers, she repeated aloud to herself, “It is better to be _honest than
to steal_.” The owner of the shop was now returned. She told her
distressful tale, and he gave her a stale penny loaf for her money. With
what joy did the poor girl return to her parents.—“Was she not happier
than if she had eaten an _hundred cheesecakes_?—In the afternoon _Nanny_
had leave to visit her mother. She blushed when she saw them, and
recollected how she had spent her shilling.”—

So far went the story, when _William_, to his great disappointment,
perceived he had left the rest behind him. The cover of the little book
was torn, and the leaves were fastened together with a pin, which had
dropped out; and _Fanny_ in giving it him when they were called to tea,
had, without knowing it, kept back the rest.

He communicated the accident to his grandfather; and gave him an account
of what he had been reading; and concluded with hoping, that _Nanny_ and
_Susan_ would in the end meet with the punishment which their neglect of
their parents deserved; that he should rejoice to hear they were
_starved_ for their barbarity. “You see, my dear,” returned Mr.
_Graves_, “that the appearance of ingratitude is so odious, that it
fills you with abhorrence only to read an imperfect account of it, and
yet I doubt whether you who are so warm in your detestation of the
crime, are not sometimes tempted to commit it.” “What _I_?” said
_William_ rather warmly, “I disobey my parents, and forget them in their
distress! If I had but a mouthful of bread they should have it between
them; and I am sure I always do as they desire me.” “You are a good
boy,” replied the old gentleman; “but you have never yet been put to
such a trial. Few persons _know themselves_, or are sensible _how_ they
should act in situations which they have not experienced. The only way
you can prove your affection to your friends, is by rendering yourself
worthy their regard. Only remember, that to do a _wrong thing_ will give
them more uneasiness than you can imagine; and that their concern for
your welfare is so great, it would be the heaviest affliction they could
experience to have you behave improperly; and, therefore, to merit their
confidence, you must act with the same attention to their commands when
they are absent as when they are present to observe you.”

_William_ was vexed at his grandfather’s observation, and told him, “it
seemed to imply a doubt of his conduct,” Mr. _Graves_ commended him
tenderly; but said, “he had observed, that he was often severe in his
judgment; and when he saw a fault in others, or read of any blameable
character, he was apt to condemn it without any regard to that mercy
which was a most amiable attribute, and peculiarly necessary in
creatures, who were every moment in danger of falling themselves. Young
persons,” continued he, “are apt to look upon every crime of which they
have not been guilty as _impossible_ for them to commit: but that
confidence in their own strength is sometimes a most dangerous snare to
them in future life. I will give you an instance of this sort which fell
under my own observation. When I first went ’prentice, there was a young
man about sixteen, with whom I had been always intimate, and who was
bound about the same time to an uncle who lived next door to my
master’s. This circumstance was a great addition to our happiness, and
the more I saw of him the more I had reason to esteem him. But there was
one thing I wished had been otherwise in his disposition. His principles
were so rigid, that I was sometimes afraid to tell him of any
inadvertence I had been guilty of, though he was about my own age; for
he declared such an abhorrence of every thing that was mean or
deceitful, as to confess, if one of _his_ friends should do a
dishonorable action, he would cast him off for ever.—But the best hearts
may be tempted to evil before they are aware, if they depend so much
upon themselves as to be off their guard. He had leave one evening to
visit an acquaintance, and upon his arrival found that the family were
engaged to go to the play. They gave him an invitation to accompany
them, which for some time he declined, thinking it not quite right to do
this without his uncle’s knowledge. At length, however, as it was an
entertainment which (as he had been but a short time in _London_) he had
never seen, he determined to accept their offer. He felt a secret
uneasiness upon his mind, as he thought his conduct not strictly right,
and had great reason to suppose the proposal would by no means have met
with his uncle’s approbation. His regret was however forgotten during
the representation; and he would have been quite happy had his consent
been obtained. The time however, went faster than he imagined, and when
he returned home it was eleven o’clock. He had unfortunately broken his
watch, and his companions assuring him it was early, he sat down with
them to supper. The clock at length struck twelve; and the hours had
passed so agreeably, that he thought it had been but eleven. He rose
immediately, and hastened home, afraid of his uncle’s displeasure, and
angry with himself for a conduct which his conscience disapproved.

“As he was running hastily along, full of uneasiness for the reception
he might meet with, his foot slipped, and down he fell against a post.
He was slightly bruised, and cut his face by the accident; but the
thought immediately occurred to him to make that an excuse for his stay;
and as he had mistaken a street which led him farther from home, for one
which he designed to have taken; without any further reflection, he
related a plausible tale to his uncle of his having lost his way; and as
he had never before told an untruth, the account was believed by the old
gentleman.—So far his falsity had escaped detection. He retired to-bed;
but not to sleep; that comfort he could not obtain: his _conscience_
represented the wickedness of which he had been guilty, and he could
think of nothing but the crime which for the first time he had
committed. In the morning he rose with a heavy heart; for cheerfulness
is only the companion of virtue. He had too much false pride to confess
his folly; and the questions which his uncle put to him, obliged him to
confirm one lie by the addition of many more.—So easily, my dear boy, do
we sink from one wickedness to the commission of another; and so
difficult is it to regain the right path, when once we have wandered
from it.—He passed a most wretched morning, occupied with reflections
upon his conduct, and entered the parlour upon a summons to dinner with
a mind penetrated with remorse. But guess at his confusion, when the
first object which he saw was the gentleman he had accompanied to the
play, and who had called to return him his stick, which in the haste of
his departure he had left behind. The explanation that followed, was
such as to mortify him to the last degree. It not only exposed his
deceit to his uncle, but to the rest of the company; and his character
was so much injured by the discovery, that it was many years before he
could entirely reinstate himself in their good opinion: and to this day
he is cautious of making a positive declaration, or profession of what
he will do, for fear he should be ensnared into evil.”—“It is in every
one’s power,” said _William_, “to be good if they please; therefore,
they are accountable certainly for their bad actions.” “Very true,”
replied his grandfather, “but take care that you are never drawn to the
commission of bad actions by the example or persuasions of others. And
you should remember, that the end of all your studies is to make you
better by the force of example. When you meet with vicious characters,
let the detestation which you feel for their crimes be a warning to you
to avoid a similar conduct; while on the other hand, every noble action
should inspire you with emulation to imitate what you applaud. My
hopes,” continued the good old gentleman, “are fixed upon you _all_; but
in a particular manner my cares have been engaged for _you_, as I have
had a nearer concern in your education; and I trust, my _William_, you
will recompence my solicitude, by becoming a worthy example to your
brother and sister; for really I think your misconduct would break my
heart.”

_William_ was generous, frank, and affectionate. He loved his
grandfather most tenderly; and pressing his hand, promised his future
conduct should be all he wished.—But alas! with all his good qualities,
he was in some respects of too easy a disposition. He had not resolution
to oppose what he knew to be wrong when his companions proposed it; and
was frequently drawn into such errors through his weak compliance, as he
had long occasion to lament. _Good-nature_ is a great virtue; but young
people should endeavour to distinguish between what is _kind_ and what
is _weak_. True goodness is always obliging to others, where it can be
so without acting wrongly. But no politeness can excuse an ill action;
and those who propose what is blameable, ought never to be complied
with. We should then, with gentleness endeavour to shew them the
impropriety of their behaviour; and if they are too obstinate to be
convinced, leave them to their folly without partaking it with them.

_William_ was engaged to dine that day at the house of Captain
_Fairform_, where another boy of his own age had been invited to meet
him. This gentleman’s eldest son was handsome, sensible, and clever: his
manner and address were uncommonly graceful and pleasing; and he behaved
so well in company as to be generally admired. What a pity was it that
such an insinuating appearance should not have been equalled by a better
heart! He was so deceitful as to appear virtuous in the society of his
parents and friends; and misled them to believe, that he was as good as
he pretended. I shall pass over all the occurrences of the meeting, and
what passed between this young gentleman and his visitors, till after
they had dined; when _Harry Fairform_ proposed to them to take a walk.
His father desired them not to go towards the village of _Boxley_, as
there was a fair kept that day, and he did not chuse they should mix
with the company who frequented it. _Harry_ promised obedience, and
bowing, set forward with his companions the opposite way.

As soon as they were out of sight of the house, young _Fairform_ turned
about, and taking _William_ by the arm, “Come,” said he, “_Tom Wilding_,
and you and I, will go across that field, and see what is going forward
yonder,” pointing as he spoke to the place they had been forbidden to
visit. “Why you do not mean surely to go to the _fair_?” replied
_Sedley_ with astonishment. “Have you not promised that you would not?”
“Pooh! you filly fellow,” returned _Harry_, “Promises and pye-crust—did
you never hear the old proverb?—they are both made to be broken. What
will my father be the worse for it, whether I walk one way or the other?
and I know which will afford me the most amusement. He is a cross old
fellow to wish to confine me in such a manner without reason: I dare not
tell him so, but I promise you, I take care to do as I please.”

The honest heart of _William_ was shocked at the idea of such ungenerous
deceit. He blamed him for his principles, and refused to go.—“Nay,
then,” said his companion, “if you will stay, you must do as you please;
but it was _my_ promise, not your’s; and if I am willing to take the
_mighty_ guilt upon my own shoulders, and what is worse, run the risk of
the punishment, what is that to _you_?” “_I_ did not _promise_ to be
sure,” cried _William_, pausing; “but I know my friends would be angry,
was I to go without leave, and especially when the Captain has desired
us so positively _not_ to do it.”—“The Captain’s _son_ must answer for
that,” interrupted young _Wilding_; “that is none of our business; but
if _you_ are afraid of a _drubbing_, why that is another thing.” “I have
no _such fear_,” returned _William_ with indignation; “but I am too
generous to abuse the confidence of my friends. They believe in my
honor, and it would be base to make a wrong use of the trust they repose
in me.”

The two boys, with uplifted eyes, sneered at this speech. They ridiculed
his notions, and derided his attention to his parents when they were
absent; and _Jack Careless_ and _Will Sportive_ coming up while they
were in debate, they applied to them on the occasion. All now was uproar
and confusion; each one trying which should laugh the most at our poor
distressed _Sedley_. His conscience told him it was wrong to comply; but
the example, the persuasions, and the ridicule of his companions
prevailed, and he reluctantly set forward with them to the village. They
soon arrived at the fair; and walking up to the booths, surveyed with
delight the various toys with which they were furnished. Called upon on
all sides to purchase something, they each began to ask the price of
what most attracted their attention; and _William_ agreed to buy a
trumpet for his brother: and afterwards taking up a little red morocco
pocket-book, was told it would cost six shillings. He laid it back on
the stall, saying, “it was too dear;” but in turning round, the flap of
his coat brushed it down on the ground, and _Will Sportive_, unseen by
any body, picked it up, and put it into his bosom. The owner soon missed
his property, and charged _William_ with the theft. This accusation he
warmly resented; but the man persevered in laying the blame on him, till
a mob was soon gathered round, and it was determined he should be
searched.

_Will Sportive_, who had only taken the book for a frolick, for the same
reason now contrived amidst the bustle to convey it into his companion’s
pocket; and _Sedley_, conscious of his own innocence, grew more angry at
the treatment he met with; and absolutely refused the satisfaction that
was demanded. This added to the suspicions against him, and he was soon
overpowered by numbers. He held his hands over his pockets, sunk down on
the ground, and did all that was in his power to prevent those about him
from the execution of their design:—but judge of his astonishment, when
after being overcome by force, the book was found upon him.—In vain he
protested his innocence. No one gave him credit, and the general cry of
“_here_ is a young thief!” resounded from every tongue. Some threatened
him with a ducking in a horse-pond, others with a whipping at the cart’s
tail, and others prophecied that he would end his days at the gallows,
and come at last to be hanged.

_Will Sportive_, whose joke was attended with such serious consequences,
began to repent his frolick; but had not the courage to own it, as he
was afraid of drawing a share of the condemnation on himself. He
therefore left poor _William_ to bear the blame as well as he could, and
only stood by a silent spectator of those inconveniences which he had
himself been the cause of. The man still continued in a great passion,
and declared he would take young _Sedley_ before a justice of peace.
Terrified at this threat, and shocked at the thought of going to a
prison for a supposed offence, he begged on his knees for mercy, and
offered all he had about him as a compensation for a crime of which he
knew he had not been guilty. For a guinea the owner of the book agreed
to let him go; but nothing less should be the price of his liberty. Such
a sum the unfortunate youth had not to give. He had spent six-pence for
his trumpet, and three-pence for plum-cakes the day before; so that nine
shillings and nine-pence were all he had remaining; but this would not
satisfy the person he had offended. His companions offered to lend him
all they were worth, but even that was insufficient for the demand.
_Fairform_ had half-a-crown: _Tom Wilding_ could find but three-pence
three farthings, though he felt in all his pockets, and kept the
expecting _William_ in an agony of suspence. _Jack Careless_ threw down
two-pence, but said his father would be angry if he parted with his
silver. _Sedley_ looked at him with displeasure. “Your _father_ angry,”
said he: “if these scruples had been urged _sooner_, it would have
become you better.” “You shall not _have_ the two-pence,” returned
_Careless_, taking it up again and putting it in his pocket: “if you do
not chuse it, I will not oblige you against your inclination.” _Will
Sportive_, desirous to repair the damage he had done, offered him all he
was possessed of, which amounted but to thirteenpence-halfpenny.

The distressed _Sedley_ had nothing left, except a silver medal which
his grandfather had given him that morning, and told him to keep it for
his sake. He took it from his pocket, looked at it, and bursting into
tears, exclaimed, “No! not even to save me from _prison_ would I part
from this.”—A poor chimney-sweeper, who had come to see the merriment of
the fair, and who watched the event of the uproar which this affray had
occasioned, recollecting the features of _William_ as he turned his head
with the eagerness of despair, knocked his brush and shovel together,
and feeling in the tatters of his waistcoat, produced a shilling. “Will
this help you, master,” said he: “I took it to-day for sweeping Squire
_Nicely_’s chimney; but you shall have it, be the consequence what it
will.”——_William_’s conscience smote him.——“I would not change my
half-guinea for thee, _Tony_”—and the tears trickled down his blushing
and repentant cheek.—The man insisted on having the medal; but _William_
would not consent. For a long time he refused, till at length it growing
late, he was terrified with apprehension, and his companions declared
they would stay no longer. So overcome by their importunity, he yielded
it up, thanked _Tony_ for his kindness, which he promised to repay the
next day, and with a melancholy countenance accepted his discharge, and
went back to Captain _Fairform_’s.

As they did not chuse to return directly from the village, they were
obliged to go a farther away about; so that it was near the dusk of the
evening when they reached home. _Harry_ told a plausible tale to excuse
their stay, and said, “they had met with their two play-fellows, and
been walking with them.” Young _Sedley_ sat in silent vexation without
uttering a syllable, and soon after took his leave, and returned to his
father’s.

As he drew nigh the gate, he began weeping afresh; and instead of the
pleasure and alacrity with which he usually entered; and the joy which
he always felt at meeting with his friends, he crept softly along,
oppressed with the consciousness of having acted _wrong_; and finding
the coach gates open, sneaked unobserved into the house. He stood for
some time in the hall, wanting the courage to meet his assembled
friends; till hearing his grandfather’s voice, he listened to know what
he was saying. Mr. _Graves_ was speaking to little _Bob_. “Yes,” said
he, “I have given your brother and sister a medal exactly like that; and
now I shall see (_for my sake_) which of you will keep it the longest.”
To express what the poor fellow felt at that moment, is almost
impossible. He ran up into his own apartment, and throwing himself with
his face upon the bed, sobbed out, “What shall I do? What can I say?” At
length after weeping some time, he determined, as he really felt a
violent head-ache, to plead that as an excuse, and to go to-bed
immediately. With this resolution he composed his countenance as well as
he could, and slowly walked into the parlour. His brother, with that
fondness which he always expressed, directly brought the present Mr.
_Graves_ had given him, and jumping as he spoke, pressed _William_’s
arm, and looking up in his face, “Is it not a _nice_ medal?” said he,
“Let me look at your’s, to see if they are _exactly_ alike.”—The poor
boy was covered with blushes; and as _Robert_ repeated his question, he
peevishly replied, “I have not got it about me.” He then mentioned the
pain in his head, and wished his friends good night.—The kind concern
which they expressed for his indisposition, added greatly to his
uneasiness. “How little,” said he, “do I deserve their tenderness! and
how unworthy do I feel of their solicitude! If they knew in what manner
I have behaved out of their sight, they would think me deserving of
punishment and contempt. How will _they_ be able to rely upon me, when I
cannot depend upon _myself_? I _knew_ it was wrong to go with
_Fairform_, yet I went:—and now all these troubles are the consequence
of one bad action. I think I will never more be persuaded to do what is
not strictly right.”—Such was his firm resolution at that instant; but
though his heart was noble, generous, and open to conviction, it was
_weak_ in the moment of temptation. He wanted _resolution_ to complete
his character; for with many virtues, and an excellent disposition, he
was easily persuaded to act contrary to his judgment. Hence he was
frequently seduced by his companions into such errors as gave him
lasting cause for repentance. In the present instance his regret for his
fault was sincere. He wept till he fell asleep; and his first thoughts
in the morning were an earnest wish that he had returned to school. “All
the pleasure I have felt on this addition to my holidays, does not pay
me for my present pain; since nothing,” said he, “is so terrible as a
guilty conscience!”

Who now would have imagined, that under the sense of this conviction and
suffering, from _one_ deviation, he would directly have sunk into
another of a worse kind?—With a melancholy countenance he left his room,
and was going through the hall into the garden, when _Harry Fairform_
entered at the opposite door, and joining him, they walked out together.

“Why you look still more pitiable,” said his visitor, “than when we
parted last night: surely your old square-toes did not give you a
drubbing! I came on purpose to know how you came off after the loss of
your money?” “A drubbing!” returned _William_ with indignation: “no
indeed! neither my father or grandfather ever beat me in their lives: I
am not afraid of _that_, I assure you. At present they do not know how
much I am to blame; but I would give any thing in the world that I had
not gone with you to the fair.” “Why then, _Sedley_,” replied his
companion, “you are a greater fool than I thought you. My father is
pretty free with his horse-whip; and when he finds out that I have
disobeyed him, he makes me feel what he calls _military discipline_,
till I can neither sit, stand, or go; but had I nothing more to fear
than one of old _Graves_’s mumbling preachments, it would be a great
while before I should look thus dismal.” “For shame!” exclaimed
_Sedley_, who loved his grandfather to the highest degree, “for shame!
do not utter such sentiments: if you can only be governed by a
_horse-whip_, you _deserve_ to feel its strokes: but I would have you
know, that I scorn to be kept within bounds merely by the fear of
punishment. I wish my friends to _depend_ upon me in their _absence_, as
well as if they could _see_ all my actions; and it is from the
consciousness of having abused their confidence, that my looks shew that
sorrow which you so much ridicule. The loss of that _medal_ too,” added
he, bursting into tears, “which my grandfather gave me to keep for his
sake, what must he think of my _affection_, when he knows on what
occasion I parted with it?”

_Fairform_ in vain used every argument to afford him consolation; his
distress encreased as the hour of breakfast approached; and neither
ridicule or advice had the power to render him composed. When just as
they were returning to the house, _Harry_ stopped, and in the middle of
the gravel-walk picked up little _Bob_’s medal, which he had a few
minutes before dropped from his coat-pocket, in taking out his
handkerchief. “Here,” said he, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; “now I
hope you will dry your tears: take this, and have no further dread of
detection.”—_William_ stretched forth his hand in a transport of
delight; but immediately recollecting himself, “It is not mine,” said
he: “_O that it were!_ I dare say my brother has lost it.” “And will you
not take it then!” exclaimed the astonished _Fairform_: “What a
ridiculous scruple is this! If _Bob has_ lost it, it is but a piece of
_negligence_; and no creature need be acquainted that you have found it;
as they are exactly alike you cannot be discovered; and only think how
angry they will be, if they know all the circumstances of our last
night’s frolick.”——Poor _Sedley_ paused—every reproach which he
deserved, and the reproof which he dreaded, rose in sad prospect to his
mind. _Harry_’s persuasions seconded his inclination, and encreased his
fears. The moment was critical to his virtue. Honor forbad him to do
such a base action, while his apprehension of his friend’s displeasure
inclined him to run the hazard of _future_ remorse to escape from
_present_ shame. The struggle of his mind was great, and it ended nobly
for a moment.—“No!” said he with firmness, “I have suffered enough
already from doing wrong, I will not be so ungenerous as to injure my
brother, and deceive my friends: I will trust to my grandfather’s
indulgence: I will honestly confess the whole truth, and let my sorrow
expiate my fault.” “For pity’s sake,” returned _Fairform_, “do not be so
rash: if you have no regard for yourself have some consideration for me.
You agreed to be of our party, and now you will involve me in distress.
If you tell the whole to Mr. _Graves_, he will say, that I seduced you
to do what you would not otherwise have been guilty of, and will prevent
our meeting in future. I know his rigid notions of obedience: he will
tell my father, and his punishments are so severe, that my heart sickens
at the thought—Cruel, unkind _Sedley_! I came on purpose to give _you_
comfort, and you will heap these evils upon me in return. I may have
acted wrong last night; but I am sure I would not be thus unfriendly to
you.”

This argument was directly suited to the generosity of _William_’s
disposition. He could not bear to give pain to another. To make his
companion suffer through _his_ means, seemed to him so mean and
cowardly, that all the more powerful reasons of truth and virtue were
considered as inferior to this one consideration; while from motives of
the highest good-nature, by viewing the affair in a false light, he at
length yielded to _Fairform_’s persuasions; and what no temptation on
his _own_ account could effect, the solicitude for _Harry_’s safety
induced him to comply with.—A striking lesson to young persons, of the
danger which must arise from bad company; and an alarming caution to
all: since without _prudence_ and _resolution_ a good disposition may be
led into the commission of evil, even when they intend to do right.—For
a long time they debated on the subject; till at length overcome by his
companion’s entreaties, he put the medal in his pocket, and added, “I
shall keep this as a monument of my _folly_, in first yielding against
my conscience to go with you to the fair: _that_ has been the foundation
of every inconvenience, and now I see not _where_ the evil will _stop_.
Let this warn _you, Harry_, for the future, that however you may escape
detection, every disobedience will bring its own punishment.”—

A repeated call to breakfast now obliged them to go in. Young _Fairform_
paid his compliments with that grace which distinguished him upon all
occasions, and without embarrassment sat down by Mr. _Sedley_. _William_
placed himself in the windowseat, and could scarcely answer the
enquiries which were put to him about his health. He had lost the
confidence of an innocent mind; and his behaviour was confused, bashful,
and silent. _Harry_ soon took his leave, and Mr. _Graves_ invited his
grandson to take a walk. Master _Sedley_ would at that time have
willingly been excused; but having no reason which he could urge against
it, he prepared to go: when just as they were ready to set off, little
_Bob_ came out of the garden in great distress, saying, “he did not know
_how_, or _where_; but he had lost his medal!”—_William_ coloured like
crimson!—He made him no answer, but turning round, stooped down at the
same time, as if looking for something.—“O! there is a good boy, do look
for it,” said _Bob_: “you are very kind, but I do not think I lost it
here: I know I had it this morning.” “You have not kept it long for my
sake,” said his grandfather: “I dare say _William_ and _Nancy_ can both
shew theirs.”—Miss _Sedley_ pulled hers from her pocket. Her brother was
going to do the same, but his conscience would not let him draw forth
his hand. He held the medal between his finger and thumb, but did not
dare to bring it out to view.—“Do not cry, _Bob_” said Mr. _Graves_,
“you are a little boy, and are not used to be entrusted with money: I
will get you another, and your brother shall take care of it. He loves
me so well, that I dare say he will be able to produce his, when I am
dead and gone.”—_William_ could not answer—but the tears trickled down
his cheeks.—His grandfather embracing him, told him not to be concerned.
“I am an old man, my dear boy, and cannot expect to live many years
longer; but do not grieve for that circumstance: when you look at the
medal which I gave you, though but a trifle in itself, let it remind you
how much I loved you, and how earnestly I wished to promote your
happiness. Remember, my child, that you can never be comfortable, unless
you have a clear conscience; and let every testimony of your friends
affection to you, be a remembrance to act with honor, generosity, and
integrity.”

_Sedley_ made no reply, but by his sobs. The caresses of Mr. _Graves_
wounded him more than the keenest reproaches. He would have confessed
all, but the fear of drawing _Fairform_ into disgrace kept him silent;
and he set forward on his walk with an uneasiness too great to be
described. In vain did his venerable companion endeavour to engage him
in conversation: he was too conscious of deserving blame to join with
his usual freedom and gaiety. At length, as they ascended to a rising
ground which opened to a very extensive prospect, Mr. _Graves_, pointing
to the village where _William_ had lately been in search of his
chimney-sweeper acquaintance, enquired, “When he had seen him? and
whether he had yet fulfilled his intention of giving him any
money?”—This question was too important to admit of immediate answer: if
he told _when_, he might be asked _where_ he had met him? and that would
amount to a confession of all he had taken such pains to conceal. He
hesitated for some time, till his grandfather observing his confusion,
took his hand, and with tender seriousness thus addressed him.—“I have
seen with uneasiness, my dear boy, that some secret burthens your mind,
nor do I wish for your confidence, unless you can _willingly_ repose it
in my affection. Perhaps I may be able to advise you—speak your
difficulties, and let not mistrust or anxiety overspread your features.”
“I do not deserve,” said the repentant _Sedley_, “that you should treat
me thus kindly; nor am I at liberty to tell you the subject which
distresses my heart. Another is concerned, or greatly as I have been to
blame, I would this moment confess it all.” “You best know, my love,”
returned Mr. _Graves_, “whether you have made any promise which honor
would oblige you to keep sacred; but remember, that you may be drawn
into guilt, by a too steady adherence to a bad cause; and be assured,
that person cannot be your real friend, who would engage you to conceal
from your parents, what you think they ought to be acquainted with.”—A
pause now ensued, and _William_ after debating some time, was going to
confess the whole: when a man with a little girl came in sight; whom
upon a nearer view, they discovered to be _Fanny Mopwell_. They
immediately renewed their acquaintance; and she informed them that she
had come the morning before on a visit to her uncle, who kept a little
shop in the village of _Boxley_, and had invited her to be present at
the fair. _William_, with his grandfather’s leave, asked her to pass the
day with him; and as Mr. _Sedley_’s family was well known in that part
of the country, her uncle who was with her, consented to her going.

Our young gentleman was much rejoiced at having a companion whose
presence might interrupt any farther conversation; though to take such a
walk with his grandfather was at any other season what he most wished
for. At their return he presented _Fanny_ to his mother and sister, who
both received her with great pleasure. As for little _Bob_ he sat
weeping in the window, sucking the corner of his pockethandkerchief, and
now and then gently touching a fly on the glass of the window, to see it
walk from place to place.——Again, _William_ felt the stings of remorse.
He went out into the garden, and taking the pocket-piece once more in
his hand, determined to restore it to its right owner. “My brother shall
not be thus distressed for my crimes: I will not be so base, let the
event be what it may.” With this resolution he again rejoined the
company; and going up to master _Robert_, said with a smile, “Will this
cheer your spirits? I have found your treasure.” _Bob_ eagerly jumped
down to take it, and throwing his arms round his brother’s neck, held
him almost double to receive his caresses. “Where did you find it? said
he. Thank you! thank you a thousand times!”

_William_’s delight was damped with the recollection of how little he
deserved his acknowledgments.—A bad action interrupts the enjoyment of
every satisfaction, and transforms all our pleasure into pain.—He was
then obliged to give an account of the place where he had discovered it;
but carefully concealed how long it had been in his possession; leaving
every one to imagine he had but just picked it up. His feelings,
however, on the occasion were so uncomfortable, that he retired to his
own apartment to think of the occasion in solitude. _Bob_, in the mean
time, skipping and jumping about with the lighthearted pleasure of
innocence, carried his dear medal to _Fanny Mopwell_, desiring her to
observe its beauties, and declaring he would always carefully guard it
for the future. The girl looked at it some time, and then said, “she had
one just like it, which a man of her uncle’s acquaintance had given her
that morning;” and taking it out of a little iron box which she had
bought at the fair, said, “it was too large to go in a red striped one
in which she kept all the rest of her money.”

Mr. _Graves_ begged he might see it, as those he had given his
grand-children were of great age, though they had been so well
preserved, and he thought were extremely scarce. So laying it down on
the table while he put on his spectacles, he afterwards took it to the
window, and examined it very minutely; and turning round, begged _Fanny_
would tell him if she knew how the man had gotten it. _Fanny_ replied,
“she had heard him say, he received it the night before from a saucy boy
who was going to steal a book from his stall; but that she knew nothing
more about it.” The old gentleman thanked her, and went out of the room.
He walked up stairs, and going into his grandson’s chamber, found him
writing at his bureau.—“I do not wish to interrupt you, my dear,” said
he, “but pray lend me your medal for a moment, as I want to compare it
with one I have in my hand.”——_Sedley_’s cheeks were the colour of
crimson: he was too honest to tell a falsehood; but his confusion left
him not a word to say.—“I-I-I,” stammered he out, “I-I-I have not”—and
burst into tears. “_William!_” said his grandfather gravely, “Tell me
the truth.”—He could make no answer for some time but by his sobs, till
the question being again repeated, he took Mr. _Graves_ by the hand, and
in an agony of grief proceeded as follows:

“Indeed Sir, I will not _deceive_ you. I have been very much to blame;
and one crime has involved me in many others; but if you can now forgive
me, I think I shall never do so again. When I went to Captain
_Fairform_’s yesterday, _Harry_ wanted me to go with him and _Tom
Wilding_ to the fair. His father had desired him not, and I thought it
wrong to go; but they laughed at me so much for my squeamishness, and
would have it I was afraid only of _punishment_, knowing _that_ not to
be my motive; against my _conscience_ I consented. When we got there I
took hold of a _plaguy_ pocket-book intending only to ask the price; and
finding it to cost six shillings, I laid it down again, as I could not
afford it. The man soon after said I had _stolen_ it. I knew I was
innocent, and denied the charge. He wanted to feel in my pockets; which
I thought very insolent, and would not let him. However, among them,
they would do so, and my resistance was in vain:—and to be sure _there_
it _was_!—and _Brestlaw_ must have conjured it there, for I cannot
imagine how else it was done. So then, Sir, there was such a mob about
me you cannot think; and I was abused and called a thief, and I do not
know what; and he declared he would send me to the justice, unless I
would give him a guinea: and amongst us _all_ we could not muster one,
and so at last I was forced to let him have my medal; but indeed, Sir, I
did not till the _very last_; and I have been miserable ever since.”
“The _guilty, William_, will ever be so,” returned Mr. _Graves_ very
seriously; “and I am sincerely sorry to rank you in that number; but
tell me when you felt for it in the morning, was it in your pocket? You
know it could not be, why then did you suffer me to think the contrary,
and to commend you while I partly blamed your brother?” “You have taught
me, Sir,” replied he, “that an honest confession is the best reparation
for a fault. I wish I had done it sooner, but _Harry Fairform_ persuaded
me to keep it _secret_ for his sake. I do not wish to lay the blame upon
_him_ to make _myself_ appear less guilty; but his bad advice made me
take my brother’s medal, which he found in the garden, and I have kept
it till just now, when I could not be easy longer to detain it. And now,
Sir, you know the whole;—if you can trust my promise for the future, I
will never again behave so unworthy of your affection; and if you knew
what I have suffered for my present fault, it might incline you to pity
and forgive me.”—Here he ceased, held down his head, nor had courage to
look up.—

Mr. _Graves_, with great kindness, took him by the hand, “Your
_honesty_,” said he, “pleads much in your favor, and as you feel a
conviction of your fault, I hope I may rely upon you for the future. The
end of reprehension and punishment, is but to _amend_ the offender: and
if your heart is truly _generous_, an immediate _forgiveness_ of your
error, will bind you most strongly to future watchfulness. Let this
instance, however, teach you that _candor_ of disposition which you
ought to exercise for _others_; and remember that although, as you
justly observed, “every one may be good if they _please_,” yet that
circumstances do sometimes arise, where the best hearts may be _seduced_
or surprised into guilt: and therefore, though you should guard your own
conduct with peculiar care, yet you ought never to forget every
charitable allowance for the faults of _others_. It is rashness,
presumption, and folly, to condemn those actions of which we know not
the cause, the temptation, or the motive. But as to the character of
_Harry Fairform_, you may fairly conclude it to be improper for your
imitation. Vice cannot be divested of guilt; and he must be extremely
wicked who can laugh at a parent’s prohibition, and wilfully persuade
another to do wrong. His advice this morning was founded in _meanness_,
_selfishness_, and _deceit_; and thus, my dear boy, have you been led on
step by step from the commission of one bad action to another; till you
have lost the calm peace which _innocence_ only can bestow, and feel
your mind a prey to the uneasy sensations of _guilt_. Be assured, my
child, that if you pursue that course, it is still more thorny. Had you
added to your crimes a _lie_, I should have detected you immediately, as
the man to whom you gave the medal, presented it to _Fanny Mopwell_, and
I have it now in my hand. This _W. S._ I scratched on it myself in this
particular place, that I might know in case either of them were lost to
which it belonged; and the initials of your brother and sister you will
find in theirs. Consider then the improvement that you may reap from
this transaction.—However in secret any ill action may seem to be
committed; yet some unthought of and unexpected circumstance may
discover it. Little did you think this morning of seeing the child who
is below; and still less was you apprehensive when you invited her home,
that she would be the person to bring your medal to me. Let this
convince you, then, that if you do wrong, you are ever liable to
_detection_ by the most unlikely means, and in consequence are open to
_disgrace_. _Security_, my dear child, is the certain attendant on
_Virtue_: an _honest_ heart has no mean secret to _conceal_; and
therefore, is at all times free from those uneasy cares, with which you
have this morning been so much distressed: it needs no evasion, and is
above the use of any. Cherish, therefore, this openness of character
which is so truly amiable, by avoiding every thing which your
_conscience_ tells you is improper. That inward monitor is in such cases
your best director. If you feel _uneasy_, and are conscious you are
acting as your friends would condemn, be not afraid of _ridicule_. You
may suffer from its shafts for a few moments, and may find it
disagreeable to be laughed at by those who are more foolish and more
wicked than yourself; but in a little time this will be over, and
afterwards you will enjoy the approbation of your friends, and your own
heart: and this, my boy, is a noble recompence. As for doing wrong from
the principle of not fearing _punishment_, it is the weakest argument
that can be urged. A boy who is not afraid to _deserve_ chastisement,
must have lost every principle of honor: and though your friends have
always treated you with generosity, it is because you have hitherto been
_obedient_ and _good_ in return. Nor would it be to their credit to let
you escape with impunity, if you should pursue a different conduct.
Never, therefore, boast that you are not _afraid_ of the rod, but that
you are determined never to incur the smart: that you will never be
persuaded to a _mean action_, and _therefore_ it is an object which can
cause you no terror. I know your heart is generous, but you are easily
persuaded. You must fortify yourself in this particular, or you will be
in great danger of error in your future life. _Steadiness_ of
_principle_, my dear _child_, is absolutely necessary to form a great
and good man. You love your brother,—but to oblige a worthless boy, you
consented to _injure_, to _deceive_, and to _distress_ him. Did not his
unsuspecting innocence wound you, when he begged you would _look_ for
his medal, and thanked you for your trouble?—Thus it is, that wickedness
of any kind, hardens the heart. However, I flatter myself, you will take
warning from this instance of your misconduct, and be taught, that it is
impossible to fix bounds to a _bad action_, or to say, I will go on so
far in error, and then I will stop: when once you consent to the
smallest deviation from innocence, it is not possible to determine how
deeply you may be involved in guilt, or to what lengths of mischief or
wickedness your first fault may conduce.”

_William_, with the greatest contrition, promised to be more cautious
for the future; and his grandfather after sealing his forgiveness with
repeated embraces, left him to recover his former composure.—His mind
now in some measure relieved from the heavy burthen with which he had
been oppressed, soon regained a sufficient degree of calmness to rejoin
his friends; though still the consciousness of the late transactions
abated his vivacity, and made him bashful and silent. His thoughts
during the morning had been wholly engaged with his own concerns; but
when dinner was over, he recollected that he had promised to return the
shilling to _Tony_, which he had so generously lent him in his distress.
Unwilling to renew the subject with any of his relations, he was again
distressed for money; but resolving to keep his promise, he applied to
his sister for two shillings, which she immediately gave him, and he set
off full speed on his way to the village, to find his sooty friend. For
some time before he arrived at the place, he heard the screams of an
object seemingly in violent pain. As he approached, they sounded fainter
and more exhausted; and when he reached the spot, they ceased
entirely.—But judge of his disappointment, terror, and compassion, when
he beheld the unfortunate _Tony Climbwell_, unbound from a tree by his
inhuman master, who had been beating him with a leather strap, and had
afterwards given him a blow on the head with his brush, which had
stunned and deprived him of sense, in consequence of which he fell to
the ground, and was left there with a kick from the same brutal wretch,
and threatened,—“that if he did not soon get up, he would come and rouze
him with a vengeance.”

_William_ went to him with an intention to raise him; but found he could
not stand, nor return him any answer to his enquiries. At a little
distance, however, he discovered the boy who had been _Tony_’s companion
at their first meeting; and after calling him some time in vain, went up
to him, and begged to know for what crime his fellow apprentice had been
so cruelly used. “I am afraid of going to help him,” said _Jack_,—“but
Master has beat him because he did not bring home the shilling which he
had yesterday for sweeping ’Squire _Nicely_’s chimney. He told master as
_how_ he could bring it him to-day; and master did wait till the
afternoon; but now he _was_ in such a passion, that he said, “he would
kill him;” and I was afraid as _how_ he would, and I believe he has, I
do not see him stir; and sure he would get up if he could, for fear of a
second drubbing.” “And has my crime been the occasion of _this_ evil
too?” said _William_: “Well might my grandfather say I did not know
where the mischief of an error may stop. My poor _Tony_! what shall I do
to recover thee? and how shall I recompence thy sufferings? sufferings
too which _I_ have occasioned!”—With this lamentation he returned to the
unfortunate object of his pity, who after a heavy groan opened his
eyes.—“_Tony!_” cried _Sedley_, endeavouring to raise him, “my dear boy,
how do you do?”—The voice of compassion sounded so strange to him, that
he looked amazed at his friend; who repeating his question, begged him
to get up, and if he could, to walk forward with him a little way.

A chimney-sweeper is accustomed to ill usage; and _Tony_ had not fallen
into the hands of a master who would spare him his full share of
suffering.—He arose, however, with _William_’s assistance, and crept on
till they came to a field-gate, over which he scrambled with difficulty,
and then sat down under a hedge, which concealed him from
observation.—_Sedley_ with tears entreated him to forgive him for not
having sooner discharged his debt, and for being the occasion of
bringing him into so much trouble; “but why,” said he, “did you not come
to me, and you might have been sure I would have paid you immediately.”
“Ah! master,” replied _Tony_, “I thought you would; and so this morning
I went to his honor’s at the great house, where I first saw you, and the
gay coach, and the long tail nags; and so I _axed_ for young master, for
I did not know your name; and the coachman I fancy it was, said, “I was
a pretty fellow to _axe_ for young master truly; but that, however young
master, was not at home.” I then said you owed me a shilling, and begged
him to pay it for you, and I dared to say you would return it. Upon this
he bid me go about my business for an impudent knave; and giving me two
or three hearty smacks with a long horse-whip he had in his hand, sent
me out of the court-yard.” “How very unfortunate!” cried _Sedley_; “this
must have happened while I was out with my grandfather; but I will now
pay you immediately,” added he, giving him the two shillings he had
brought. “I have no more at present; but the first money I get, you
shall share it I promise you.” “I lent you but _one_,” said _Tony_, “so
you have given me this too much.” “Keep it, keep it,” replied _William_,
“I only wish that I had more to give.”—

At this instant little _Jack_ (whose fear of his master had kept him
from visiting his companion, but who had watched him into the field)
came running to _Tony_ with information that he might go home, for that
his tormentor was gone to the ale-house.—The boy immediately got up, and
said, “he would make the best of his way, and take the opportunity of
going back; for that his mistress was the kindest creature in the world,
and would be glad to see him again.”—_William_ was determined to
accompany him; and they soon reached the cottage together.—The poor
woman was holding one hand over her eye, the other sustained a little
infant whom she was suckling, and who looked up at her every now and
then with a smile, while her tears dropped on its innocent face. A girl
about two years old was standing by her knee, and crying for some
victuals, and to be taken up, mammy. Another child at a broken table,
was trying to reach a bit of stale crust covered with soot, that his
father had tossed out of his pocket.—Such was the scene young _Sedley_
beheld at his entrance; and which presented a striking contrast to the
elegance he had been always accustomed to.—“What is the matter,
mistress?” cried _Tony_, in an accent of compassion and concern.—At the
sound of his voice, she looked up, and shewed her eye, which was swelled
in such a manner she could scarcely see.—“Oh! my poor boy, how are you?”
she replied, “I thought you had been killed, and by interceding in your
behalf, provoked your master so much, that he gave me a blow so severe I
really thought it would have ended all my troubles together.—But who is
that young gentleman?” added she.—_Tony_ briefly related the account of
their late meeting, as he had before informed her of the occasion of
their acquaintance, and that he had lent _William_ the shilling, which
had caused them so much trouble.

The children now became more clamorous for food; but she told them she
had nothing to give them.—_Tony_, however, shewed the money he had
received; and promised if they were good, they should have a quartern
loaf. He then dispatched _Jack_ to fetch one, whose speedy return
afforded all parties great satisfaction. The eagerness with which they
devoured the stale bread, occasioned _Sedley_ the highest astonishment.
They each thanked him for his kindness, when told they owed it to him;
and he experienced more pleasure in having contributed to their comfort,
than any amusement had hitherto afforded him: yet his delight was much
damped by the recollection of the pain he had occasioned; and the bruise
on poor Mrs. _Blackall_’s eye was an addition to all the other mischief
which had attended his fault. He thought it time, however, to take his
leave, and wishing them a good night and a speedy recovery, set out on
his return home.—_Fanny_ was gone when he arrived; and he was not a
little disappointed that he had lost the opportunity of enjoying her
company, and still more, that he had forgotten to ask for the rest of
the book, which contained the account of Mr. _Active_ and his family; or
to return the part which she had lent him. The next morning he sent the
servant to deliver it to her at her uncle’s, as he had promised to
return it before he went back to school.

Mr. _Graves_ having been rather indisposed the preceding evening, did
not breakfast with the family; and his grandson very soon retired to his
apartment in order to amuse him with his conversation.—“You are very
kind, my dear boy,” said he, “to favor me with your company; but as your
holidays are nearly over, I do not wish to confine you to an old man’s
room, as I am sensible that more lively entertainments are better
relished at your time of life.”—_William_ assured him that his
attendance was voluntary; and then informed him of his visit to the poor
chimney-sweeper, and all the circumstances which had attended
it.—“Unhappy _Tony_!” replied Mr. _Graves_, “his fate is a severe one!
and yet, my child, it is but a few days ago, since you wished to be in
his situation. Do you not now feel the folly of seeking to change your
state in life at a venture, only because you are dissatisfied with some
trifling circumstance which disturbs you at the present moment? I would
not wish you to be insensible to the grief of parting with your friends.
That heart which is destitute of affection and gratitude, is unworthy to
be ranked with human beings. But do you consider, that an opportunity of
pursuing your studies is a blessing which you ought to value as
inestimable; and instead of repining at your fate, you should be
thankful that your parents have it in their power to give you this high
advantage. Never, therefore, for the future, allow yourself to judge by
outward appearance; nor let any agreeable prospect either in the
affluent or the indigent, incite you to wish yourself in the condition
of another; since you may be assured, _that_ state in which you are
placed is the best suited to _you_. Higher wisdom than our’s directs
every event; and it is well we are not left to determine our own
situation.”—“I,” said Master _Sedley_, “as I am now convinced, have
indeed _reason_ to be satisfied; but sure _Tony_, exposed to the world
without a friend, left to the savage cruelty of an inhuman master,
obliged to _labour_ for his _bread_, and to _starve_ when he has earned
it,—surely, Sir, _he_ may wish to change, and not be blamable for being
discontented.” “No one, my dear,” returned Mr. _Graves_, “can stand
excused for murmuring against Providence when we know that the world is
not left to the confusion of chance. We have reason to be easy under the
most afflictive circumstances. _Tony_ wished to be in your place on
_Monday_; and had he been metamorphosed in person and situation, with
the remembrance of his former state in his mind, he would probably for
some time have been much happier. But supposing him to have had _your_
ideas, he would have been, as you then stiled yourself, _the most
miserable creature in the world_; and even wished for that very state
which now excites all your compassion. The miseries of poverty are
great: they call for your pity: they have a right to expect your relief.
But this world is not the _only_ hope of the _good_. Riches are not to
be considered as your _own_ property. They are _lent_ you to be well
bestowed. Every one is accountable for his portion, be it great or
small. You have now only a few shillings, or it may be a guinea at your
disposal. As you use the little you have at present, in all probability
in the same manner you will bestow the possessions you will have in
future. Accustom yourself, therefore, to consider you should lay by a
part of your small stock to relieve the poor _now_, and you will find
increasing pleasure in the power of being more liberal hereafter. Our
_vices, William_, in every state will be productive of misery. No
situation is necessarily unhappy. If the _rich_ are _wicked_, they can
have no enjoyment; and the same cause will add double distress to
_poverty_. _Tony_’s master is drunken, passionate, and prodigal. He
wastes his small gains at the ale-house, beats his apprentice without
reason, abuses his wife, and injures his children. This causes misery to
himself and to his whole family. But these evils are not to be reckoned
as attendant upon poverty: they would equally destroy the felicity of
the man of fortune. A bad temper spoils the relish of every enjoyment: a
good one sweetens the toils of labour; nay, can mitigate sorrow,
sickness, and want.—I called the day before yesterday on a poor family
who live in a cottage adjoining to _Tony_’s master. Mr. _Scrapewell_,
just risen from a neat but shabby bed; was placed in an old wicker chair
on one side the door, to feel the refreshment of the air; while his
eldest daughter, a girl of about fifteen years of age, appeared busy in
putting the room in order; and when I entered was sweeping the sand on
the floor with a little heath broom. Another girl was picking some
parsley, which she put into a bason of water, or pipkin I believe they
call it, for it had yellow stripes and black spots upon it, and I should
not have noticed it, if I had not afterwards thrown it down by accident
and broke it. Three or four other children were playing about; and the
youngest, near six months old, was asleep in a cradle, which he rocked
every now and then with his foot. They placed a seat for me, and I
enquired how large a family he had?” “O! Sir,” replied he, “we have
nine; and that is my eldest. We struggle hard; for it is a great many to
maintain. My first four put us almost out of heart, as my wife had them
very fast, and used to grieve, and fret, and vex herself to think where
we should get bread; but I told her God would fit the back to the
burden, or the burden to the back; and I tried to comfort her all I
could, and used to say, Why _lookee_ now, _Beckey_! when we were _alone_
we did but live, and when we had _one_ child we could do no more; so I
trust if we have a dozen we shall do as much. But yet, Sir, I own my own
heart failed me, when I thought how _fast_ money _went out_, and how
_slow_ it _came in_, though I worked, and worked my fingers to the bone.
Yet I prayed God to bless us, and hitherto, though we have been driven
to many a hard pinch, thanks to his mercy, we have kept out of the
workhouse; and often when I have been at my last farthing, and we have
lived within an inch of starving, he has raised us up some unexpected
friend, and we have jogged on again much as usual. So this has taught me
_never_ to despair; and I am determined to put the best foot forward,
and hope we shall do again yet, though I have been laid up with an ague
and fever these six weeks.”—As he finished this account, his wife
returned from the field with her gown on her arm, her green stays left
open on account of the heat, and her cap tied up over her head. She
looked hot indeed; and dropping me a curtsy as she entered,
affectionately enquired after her husband: then taking up the infant,
kissed it, suckled it, and gave it to one of the girls to nurse, while
she went back again to her labour, after eating a few mouthfuls of bread
and cheese. Love, harmony, neatness, good-humour, civility, and
kindness, dwell in their little cot, and yet, _William_, their riches
are not greater than the chimney-sweeper’s. Virtue and œconomy only make
the difference. While the one squanders his small gain at the ale-house,
the other is laying up every farthing as a provision for his children;
and his good conduct ensures him assistance and protection from all who
know him. Add to this one consideration, which is more than all the
rest, that the blessing of Heaven will attend the good, and keep that
mind in peace which is staid on its support.

As Mr. _Graves_ concluded this sentence Mr. _Sedley_ softly opened the
door. “I thought you had been asleep, Sir,” said he, “or I should have
been with you sooner. I am afraid this young man has disturbed you.” “O!
not at all,” returned the old gentleman, “his company is always a
cordial to me. I forget the infirmities of age when I see my children
and grand-children round me; and I am sorry we must so soon part from
_William_ as you mentioned this morning.” “He must go to school this
week,” said his father. “We shall all grieve to lose him; but his
learning cannot be neglected. He will not wish, I hope, to waste this
most important part of his life without its due improvement; and now is
the time to lay the foundation for every future excellence.” “But is not
the culture of the _heart_ then,” replied the melancholy _Sedley_, “is
not that the most essential point? and I am sure if I improve in the
knowledge of the classics, I do not in the science of Virtue: and pray
of what use is it to learn the metamorphoses of _Ovid_? that _Arachne_
was converted into a spider,—_Narcissus_ transformed to a flower,—that
_Pyramus_ and _Thisbe_ were turned into mulberry-trees,—and the rest of
the fabulous stories of the poets? What is it to me that _Æneas_ went to
_Carthage_,—that _Dido_ stabbed herself when he departed thence; or that
he afterward, conquered in the engagement with _Turnus_; and the rest of
the history with which we are plagued in _Virgil_? And as to the care of
my _morals_ I am under much greater temptations, from the bad examples
of my school-fellows, and from wanting the kind advice of my friends,
than I could be at home. And as I am not designed either for a clergyman
or counsellor, I do not see any great necessity for my learning so
_very_ much.” “I am sorry to see you thus averse to study,” said his
father, “as it is of the utmost consequence to your appearance in life.
Do you consider, that without a cultivated understanding, a thorough
knowledge of history, and an acquaintance with _Homer_, _Virgil_,
_Terence_, _Ovid_, and those authors who you seem so much to despise;
you can never make an agreeable companion to men of sense. By the
perusal of history you will learn to distinguish truth from fable, and
to know what part is founded on fact, and what on the imagination of the
poet. These authors will store your mind with images the most sublime
and beautiful, assist your judgment, and form your taste; since their
works have been esteemed the model for composition in all succeeding
times. Without a constant attention, therefore, to improve in reading
and understanding them, you will be ignorant of those subjects which
every author refers to; which are frequently the foundation of
conversation, and which afford hints to the sculptor and the painter for
their finest pieces. You will stare with stupid wonder at every object
of this kind that you meet with, unknowing to what they refer, or what
they mean to represent. Besides, as the Heathen Mythology, or account of
their Gods, is connected with this study, it is absolutely necessary you
should be acquainted with it. Many things that now appear absurd in the
account of their worship, had in their original a deeper moral: this
though idle boys may not understand or search for, it would much improve
you to be taught. When you read that _Minerva_ the Goddess of wisdom was
produced out of _Jupiter_’s brain; the poets intended to represent by
it, that the wit and ingenuity of man did not invent the useful
sciences, which were for universal advantage derived from the brain of
_Jupiter_; that is, from the inexhausted fountain of the _Divine
Wisdom_, from whence not only the arts and sciences, but the blessings
of knowledge and virtue also proceed. The helm, the shield, and all the
different symbols which belong to her character have each their
particular meaning: to instance to you only in one of them. The owl, a
bird supposed to see in the dark, was sacred to _Minerva_, and painted
upon her images, as the representation of a wise man, who scattering and
dispelling the clouds of ignorance and error, is clear sighted when
others are stark blind. So you, who take all the fictions of the poets
for nonsense and folly, would, if you had learning to comprehend their
meaning, not only be entertained with their beauties, but improved by
the moral they contain. The more you know, and the greater proficiency
you make in study, the higher pleasure will it afford you; but while you
consider your lessons as _tasks_ which you are to get by heart, and what
will be of no use to you in future, you defeat the purpose of your
education, are unhappy now, and will be despised and contemned
hereafter. A _gentleman_ should be still more superior by his _merit_
than his _fortune_: his knowledge should be more general and diffusive
than is required for any profession whatever. He ought to be acquainted
with the great authors of ancient and modern times, understand the
constitution and laws of his own country; and by the contemplation of
every noble character, learn to form his own to perfection. Do not,
therefore, entertain so mean an opinion of yourself, or your future
consequence, as to rely on your _estate_ alone for respect. Let religion
be your guide and chief study; but let history, poetry, with every
branch of polite and useful learning, be considered as _essential_ to
your education.”—

Here ceased Mr. _Sedley_, and his son looked down in timid silence,
fearful he had offended his friends by the indifference he had expressed
for his exercise. Mr. _Graves_, however, encouraged him, by kindly
adding, “When you have mastered the first steps, you will mount upward
with alacrity. The beginning of every attempt is difficult; but be of
good courage; persevere, and you will find it afterwards pleasant, easy,
and agreeable.”

During the foregoing conversation, _Jeffery Squander_ had called to
invite _William_ to dine with him, and afterwards to return to school in
his father’s coach; and Mrs. _Sedley_ now introduced the young gentleman
up stairs. The offer was so convenient (as it was before intended he
should go back the next morning) that it was accepted with satisfaction
by all but the person whom it most concerned. Yet poor _Sedley_ was
ashamed to express his reluctance while in company with his
school-fellow; and made no opposition to the proposal. The tears,
however, which he endeavoured to suppress, would officiously start into
his eyes.—His father patted him on the back, and said, “it would make
but a few hours difference.”—His grandfather stroaked his cheek as he
turned round towards the window to hide his emotion. This affected him
still more, and his mother letting fall her scissars, he picked them up;
but as she was stooping for them at the same time, he saw that her eyes
shewed equal concern; which, unwilling to have observed, she had not
immediately wiped away, and he received a tear upon his hand.—It was
necessary he should immediately retire to prepare for his departure. He
was spared the pain of taking leave of his brother and sister, they
happening to be from home; a circumstance which he much regretted, as
they would not return till the evening.

When he had given a little indulgence to his grief in private, he
returned to his friends, and endeavoured to assume a more cheerful
countenance than suited the affliction of his mind. But he remembered
the _chimney-sweeper_, and tried to be satisfied. At length his
companion being impatient, he was obliged to take a hasty leave of his
beloved relations, and followed by their affectionate wishes for his
welfare, accompanied _Jeffery Squander_ with a melancholy heart to
dinner, and to SCHOOL.


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 Page           Changed from                      Changed to

  128 putting it  his pocket: “if you  putting it in his pocket: “if
                                       you

  200 into a spider,—_Narcissus_       into a spider,—_Narcissus_
      transform- to a flower           transformed to a flower

 ● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
 ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 ● The caret (^) serves as a superscript indicator, applicable to
     individual characters (like 2^d) and even entire phrases (like
     1^{st}).





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