Williamwas engaged to dine that day at the house of CaptainFairform, 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 gracefuland 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; whenHarry Fairformproposed to them to take a walk. His father desired them not to go towards the village ofBoxley, as there was a fairkept that day, and he did not chuse they should mix with the company who frequented it.Harrypromised obedience, and bowing, set forward with his companions the opposite way.
As soon as they were out of sight of the house, youngFairformturned about, and takingWilliamby 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 thefair?” repliedSedleywith astonishment. “Have you not promised thatyou would not?” “Pooh! you filly fellow,” returnedHarry, “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 ofWilliamwas shocked at the idea of such ungenerous deceit. He blamed him for his principles, and refusedto go.—“Nay, then,” said his companion, “if you will stay, you must do as you please; but it wasmypromise, not your’s; and if I am willing to take themightyguilt upon my own shoulders, and what is worse, run the risk of the punishment, what is that toyou?” “Idid notpromiseto be sure,” criedWilliam, pausing; “but I know my friends would be angry, was I to go without leave, and especially when the Captain has desired us so positivelynotto do it.”—“The Captain’ssonmust answer for that,” interrupted youngWilding; “that is none of our business; but ifyouare afraid of adrubbing, why that isanother thing.” “I have nosuch fear,” returnedWilliamwith 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; andJack CarelessandWill Sportivecoming 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 themost at our poor distressedSedley. 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; andWilliamagreed 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, andWill Sportive, unseen by any body, picked it up, and put it into his bosom. The owner soon missed his property, and chargedWilliamwith 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 conveyit into his companion’s pocket; andSedley, 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“hereis 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 poorWilliamto bear the blame as well as he could, and only stood by a silent spectator of those inconveniences whichhe had himself been the cause of. The man still continued in a great passion, and declared he would take youngSedleybefore 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 daybefore; 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.Fairformhad half-a-crown:Tom Wildingcould find but three-pence three farthings, though he felt in all his pockets, and kept the expectingWilliamin an agony of suspence.Jack Carelessthrew down two-pence, but said his father would be angry if he parted with his silver.Sedleylooked at him with displeasure. “Yourfatherangry,” said he: “if these scruples had been urgedsooner, it would have become you better.” “You shall nothavethe two-pence,” returnedCareless, taking it up again and putting itin 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 distressedSedleyhad 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 fromprisonwould 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 ofWilliamas 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 SquireNicely’s chimney; but you shall have it, be the consequence what it will.”——William’s conscience smote him.——“I would notchange my half-guinea for thee,Tony”—and the tears trickled down his blushing and repentant cheek.—The man insisted on having the medal; butWilliamwould 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, thankedTonyfor his kindness, which he promised to repay the next day, and with a melancholy countenance accepted his discharge, and went back to CaptainFairform’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.Harrytold a plausible tale to excuse their stay, and said, “they had met with their two play-fellows, and been walking with them.” YoungSedleysat 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 feltat meeting with his friends, he crept softly along, oppressed with the consciousness of having actedwrong; 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.Graveswas speaking to littleBob. “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 intohis 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.Graveshad given him, and jumping as he spoke, pressedWilliam’s arm, and looking up in his face, “Is it not anicemedal?” said he, “Let me lookat your’s, to see if they areexactlyalike.”—The poor boy was covered with blushes; and asRobertrepeated 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 willtheybe able to rely upon me, when I cannot depend uponmyself? Iknewit was wrong to go withFairform, 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 wasweakin the moment of temptation. He wantedresolutionto 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, fromonedeviation, he would directly have sunk into another of a worse kind?—With a melancholy countenance he left his room, and was going throughthe hall into the garden, whenHarry Fairformentered 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!” returnedWilliamwith indignation: “no indeed! neither my father or grandfather ever beat me in their lives: I am not afraid ofthat, I assure you. At present they do not know how much I am to blame; but I would giveany 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 callsmilitary discipline, till I can neither sit, stand, or go; but had I nothing more to fear than one of oldGraves’s mumbling preachments, it would be a great while before I should look thus dismal.” “For shame!” exclaimedSedley, who loved his grandfather to the highest degree, “for shame! do not utter such sentiments: if you can only begoverned by ahorse-whip, youdeserveto 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 todependupon me in theirabsence, as well as if they couldseeall 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 thatmedaltoo,” added he, bursting into tears, “which my grandfather gave me to keep for his sake, what must he think of myaffection, when he knows on what occasion I parted with it?”
Fairformin 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,Harrystopped, and in the middle of the gravel-walk picked up littleBob’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.”—Williamstretched forth his hand in a transport of delight; butimmediately 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 astonishedFairform: “What a ridiculous scruple is this! IfBob haslost it, it is but a piece ofnegligence; 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.”——PoorSedleypaused—every reproach which he deserved, and the reproof which he dreaded, rose in sad prospect to his mind.Harry’spersuasions 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 offutureremorse to escape frompresentshame. 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 myfault.” “For pity’s sake,” returnedFairform, “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, unkindSedley! I came on purpose to giveyoucomfort, 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 ofWilliam’s disposition. He could not bear to give pain to another. To make his companion suffer throughhismeans, 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 toFairform’s persuasions; and what no temptation on hisownaccount could effect,the solicitude forHarry’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 withoutprudenceandresolutiona 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 myfolly, in first yielding against my conscience to go with you to the fair:thathas been the foundation of every inconvenience,and now I see notwherethe evil willstop. Let this warnyou, 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. YoungFairformpaid his compliments with that grace which distinguished him upon all occasions, and without embarrassment sat down by Mr.Sedley.Williamplaced 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 behaviourwas confused, bashful, and silent.Harrysoon took his leave, and Mr.Gravesinvited his grandson to take a walk. MasterSedleywould 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, littleBobcame out of the garden in great distress, saying, “he did not knowhow, orwhere; but he had lost his medal!”—Williamcoloured 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,” saidBob: “you are very kind, butI 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 sayWilliamandNancycan both shew theirs.”—MissSedleypulled 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 daresay he will be able to produce his, when I am dead and gone.”—Williamcould 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 yourfriends affection to you, be a remembrance to act with honor, generosity, and integrity.”
Sedleymade no reply, but by his sobs. The caresses of Mr.Graveswounded him more than the keenest reproaches. He would have confessed all, but the fear of drawingFairforminto 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 arising ground which opened to a very extensive prospect, Mr.Graves, pointing to the village whereWilliamhad 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 toldwhen, he might be askedwherehe 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 addressedhim.—“I have seen with uneasiness, my dear boy, that some secret burthens your mind, nor do I wish for your confidence, unless you canwillinglyrepose 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 repentantSedley, “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 anypromise 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, andWilliamafter 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 beFanny Mopwell. They immediately renewed their acquaintance; and she informed them that she had come the morning before on a visit toher uncle, who kept a little shop in the village ofBoxley, 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 presentedFannyto his mother and sister,who both received her with great pleasure. As for littleBobhe 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,Williamfelt 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 masterRobert, saidwith a smile, “Will this cheer your spirits? I have found your treasure.”Bobeagerly 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 concealedhow 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 toFanny 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.Gravesbegged 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, beggedFannywould tell him if she knew how the man had gotten it.Fannyreplied, “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.Gravesby the hand, and in an agony of grief proceeded as follows:
“Indeed Sir, I will notdeceiveyou. 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 CaptainFairform’s yesterday,Harrywanted meto go with him andTom Wildingto 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 ofpunishment, knowingthatnot to be my motive; against myconscienceI consented. When we got there I took hold of aplaguypocket-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 hadstolenit. I knew I was innocent, and denied the charge. He wanted to feel in my pockets; which I thought very insolent, and wouldnot let him. However, among them, they would do so, and my resistance was in vain:—and to be surethereitwas!—andBrestlawmust 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 usallwe could not muster one, and so at last I was forced to let him have my medal; but indeed, Sir, I did not till thevery last; and I have been miserable ever since.” “Theguilty, William, will everbe so,” returned Mr.Gravesvery 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, butHarry Fairformpersuaded me to keep itsecretfor his sake. I do not wish to lay the blame uponhimto makemyselfappear less guilty; but his bad advice made me take mybrother’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, “Yourhonesty,” said he, “pleads much in your favor, and as youfeel a conviction of your fault, I hope I may rely upon you for the future. The end of reprehension and punishment, is but toamendthe offender: and if your heart is trulygenerous, an immediateforgivenessof your error, will bind you most strongly to future watchfulness. Let this instance, however, teach you thatcandorof disposition which you ought to exercise forothers; and remember that although, as you justly observed, “every one may be good if theyplease,” yet that circumstances do sometimes arise, where the best hearts may beseducedor surprised into guilt: and therefore, though you should guard your own conduct withpeculiar care, yet you ought never to forget every charitable allowance for the faults ofothers. 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 ofHarry 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 inmeanness,selfishness, anddeceit; and thus, my dear boy, have you been led on step by step from the commissionof one bad action to another; till you have lost the calm peace whichinnocenceonly can bestow, and feel your mind a prey to the uneasy sensations ofguilt. Be assured, my child, that if you pursue that course, it is still more thorny. Had you added to your crimes alie, I should have detected you immediately, as the man to whom you gave the medal, presented it toFanny Mopwell, and I have it now in my hand. ThisW. 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. Considerthen 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 todetectionby the most unlikely means, and in consequence are open todisgrace.Security, my dear child, is the certain attendant onVirtue: anhonestheart has no mean secrettoconceal; 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 yourconsciencetells you is improper. That inward monitor is in such cases your best director. If you feeluneasy, and are conscious you are acting as your friends would condemn, be not afraid ofridicule. 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 wickedthan 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 fearingpunishment, it is the weakest argument that can be urged. A boy who is not afraid todeservechastisement, must have lost every principle of honor: and though your friends have always treated you with generosity, it is because you have hitherto beenobedientandgoodin 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 notafraidof the rod, but that you are determined never to incur the smart: that you will never be persuaded to amean action, andthereforeit 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.Steadinessofprinciple, my dearchild, is absolutely necessary to form a great and good man. You love your brother,—but to oblige a worthless boy, you consented toinjure, todeceive, and todistresshim. Did not his unsuspecting innocencewound you, when he begged you wouldlookfor 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 abad 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 returnthe shilling toTony, 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 unfortunateTony 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.”
Williamwent 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 beenTony’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,” saidJack,—“but Master has beat him because he did not bring home the shilling which he had yesterday for sweeping ’SquireNicely’s chimney. He told master ashowhe could bring it him to-day; and master did wait till the afternoon; but now hewasin such a passion, that he said, “he would kill him;” and I was afraid ashowhe would, and Ibelieve 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 ofthisevil too?” saidWilliam: “Well might my grandfather say I did not know where the mischief of an error may stop. My poorTony! what shall I do to recover thee? and how shall I recompence thy sufferings? sufferings too whichIhave occasioned!”—With this lamentation he returned to the unfortunate object of his pity, who after a heavy groan opened his eyes.—“Tony!” criedSedley, endeavouring to raise him, “my dear boy, how do you do?”—The voice of compassionsounded 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; andTonyhad not fallen into the hands of a master who would spare him his full share of suffering.—He arose, however, withWilliam’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.—Sedleywith tears entreated him to forgive him fornot 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,” repliedTony, “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 Iaxedfor young master, for I did not know your name; and the coachman I fancy it was, said, “I was a pretty fellow toaxefor young master truly; but that, however young master, was not at home.” I then said you owedme 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!” criedSedley; “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 butone,” saidTony, “so you have given methis too much.” “Keep it, keep it,” repliedWilliam, “I only wish that I had more to give.”—
At this instant littleJack(whose fear of his master had kept him from visiting his companion, but who had watched him into the field) came running toTonywith 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.”—Williamwas determinedto 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 youngSedleybeheld at his entrance; and which presented astriking contrast to the elegance he had been always accustomed to.—“What is the matter, mistress?” criedTony, 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.—Tonybriefly related the account of their late meeting, ashe had before informed her of the occasion of their acquaintance, and that he had lentWilliamthe 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 dispatchedJackto fetch one, whose speedy return afforded all parties great satisfaction. The eagerness with which they devoured the stale bread, occasionedSedleythe highest astonishment. They each thankedhim 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.—Fannywas gone when he arrived; and he was not a little disappointed that he had lost the opportunity of enjoyingher company, and still more, that he had forgotten to ask for the rest of the book, which contained the account of Mr.Activeand 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.Graveshaving 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.”—Williamassured 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.—“UnhappyTony!” 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, onlybecause 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,thatstate in which you are placed is the best suited toyou. Higher wisdom than our’s directs every event; and it is well we are not left to determine our own situation.”—“I,” said MasterSedley, “as I am now convinced, have indeedreasonto be satisfied; but sureTony, exposed to the world without a friend, left to the savage cruelty of an inhuman master, obliged tolabourfor hisbread, and tostarvewhen he has earned it,—surely, Sir,hemay wish to change, and notbe 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.Tonywished to be in your place onMonday; 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 hadyourideas, 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 theonlyhope of thegood. Riches are not to be considered as yourownproperty. They arelentyou 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 poornow, and you will find increasing pleasure in the power of being more liberal hereafter. Ourvices, William, in every state will be productive of misery. No situation is necessarily unhappy. If thericharewicked, they can have no enjoyment; and the same cause will add double distress topoverty.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 notto 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 toTony’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 wassweeping 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 strugglehard; 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, Whylookeenow,Beckey! when we werealonewe did but live, and when we hadonechild 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 howfastmoneywent out, and howslowitcame 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 meneverto 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 fromthe 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 hissmall 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.Gravesconcluded this sentence Mr.Sedleysoftly 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 fromWilliamas 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 theheartthen,” repliedthe melancholySedley, “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 ofOvid? thatArachnewas converted into a spider,—Narcissustransformed to a flower,—thatPyramusandThisbewere turned into mulberry-trees,—and the rest of the fabulous stories of the poets? What is it to me thatÆneaswent toCarthage,—thatDidostabbed herself when he departed thence; or that he afterward, conquered in the engagement withTurnus; and the rest of the history with which we are plagued inVirgil? And as to the care of mymoralsI am undermuch 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 soverymuch.” “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 withHomer,Virgil,Terence,Ovid, and those authors who you seem so much to despise; you can never makean 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 whichafford 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 thatMinervathe Goddess of wisdomwas produced out ofJupiter’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 ofJupiter; that is, from the inexhausted fountain of theDivine 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 toMinerva, 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 astaskswhich you are to get by heart, and what will be of no use to you in future, you defeat the purposeof your education, are unhappy now, and will be despised and contemned hereafter. Agentlemanshould be still more superior by hismeritthan hisfortune: 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 yourestatealone for respect. Letreligion be your guide and chief study; but let history, poetry, with every branch of polite and useful learning, be considered asessentialto 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 Squanderhad called to inviteWilliamto dine with him, and afterwards to return to school in his father’s coach; and Mrs.Sedleynow 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 poorSedleywas ashamed to express his reluctance while in company with his school-fellow; and made noopposition 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 wasnecessary 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 thechimney-sweeper, and tried to be satisfied. At length his companion being impatient, he was obliged to takea hasty leave of his beloved relations, and followed by their affectionate wishes for his welfare, accompaniedJeffery Squanderwith a melancholy heart to dinner, and toSchool.