LETTER IV.CharlestoWilliam.

Again do I see return that delightful season in which every thing appears to be revived, and we are once more at our beloved Grandison Hall. You remember well how pleasantly last summer past away; the shady woods, these charming walks, all brought you to my remembrance, and particularly our little garden.

Edward has left us for some time; his friends have procured a commission for him; but I have another companion, my cousin James, the eldest son of Lord G—. He is a handsome lively youth, and, my father says, has a good understanding, yet I observe he does not find that pleasure in the country that you and I do. He is of a humourous turn,and sometimes treats the most serious matters with too much levity. His disposition would better agree with Edward’s than mine, for he loves a frolic, and calls mischief fun; however he has a good heart, and possesses a winning chearfulness of temper.

We yesterday took a pleasant ride; Emilia accompanied us: we went out of the high road to a small village, and stopt at a little farm house to purchase some fruit. We had not been long in a little room near the garden when we heard a confused noise in the kitchen, and I ran out to enquire the cause, leaving my cousin with my sister. A young man, well dressed, ran hastily through the passage; he had been disputing with the farmer, who now allowed him to conceal himself in the garden.

He was scarcely out of sight, when a respectable looking woman ran in,exclaiming, My son is here; I must, I will see him! A mother who demanded her son, and a son who avoids his mother, thought I, this is something uncommon. I felt extreme compassion, which seemed to command me to assist her: who, indeed, could see a distressed mother without being moved? You weep, said I; I cannot see a parent’s tear without concern; has any misfortune befallen your son? Yes, she replied, I am almost without hope; perhaps it is even now too late to save him from ruin. I requested her to go into the parlour to my sister, whilst I spoke to the farmer, and sought for the son. Emilia was surprised to see me enter with a woman apparently distressed, but with compassionate politeness she took her hand, while I reached a chair. I stopt a moment, afraid to ask her any question, lest she should think me impertinent; yet I wished her to speak thatI might know what to say to her son. She soon broke silence, and when her tears allowed her to speak articulately, said, “your kindness affects me, I am an unfortunate widow, who formerly knew better days, and never thought I should be obliged to work for the necessaries of life; but the sudden death of my husband, a clergyman, has thrown me destitute on the world. He left me a son, who might have made my life comfortable, if he had not been drawn aside from the path of virtue by bad company. Falling from one error to another, instead of helping to soften my griefs, he has made me feel that my afflictions indeed are very heavy. My intreaties, my threatenings, have all been fruitless; I could not separate him from his thoughtless companions, or induce him to follow any useful employment, and”——here her sobs prevented her from proceeding, when she added, “I have justheard, that he has entered himself as a sailor, and is soon to go on board a man of war which is now preparing for sea. If he would exert himself he might gain an honest livelihood, and be a comfort to his unfortunate mother: it would almost break my heart to part with him; but though I could part with him for his good, I cannot bear that he should go with the companions who seduced him from his duty, and first led him into vice; should he become thoroughly vicious, I should then lose him for ever, and he would bring my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”—I could not refrain my tears, Emilia, and even James wept.—No, Madam, said I, he shall not leave you, I know where he is, and I will hasten to him, to awaken him to repentance, and I hastily left the room.

I found the young man in a shed at the bottom of the garden, and the following conversation ensued.

CHARLES.

Shun me not, Sir, I am your friend, at least I desire to be so; I have heard that you wish to hide yourself, and that even from your parent; pardon the liberty I take, I cannot help endeavouring to divert you from your design: it grieves me to see that you avoid your mother.

BRADLEY.

I must not, I cannot see her again; do not betray me, I beseech you, but persuade the master of the house to let me escape without seeing her.

CHARLES.

Could I desire the man to do this! I who have seen your distrest mother weep, and have wept with her!

BRADLEY.

How! has she told you all?

CHARLES.

Yes, she has told me you would fly from her, you, her only son, and that it will cost her her life. What a proof of tenderness! Can you be unconcerned?

BRADLEY.

My mother is in necessitous circumstances; she cannot support me according to my birth.

CHARLES.

It is noble in you not to wish to be a burthen to your mother; a son of your age should not expect a support, except his parents are blest with affluence. But I have been informed you are very ingenious, and have received a good education; heaven has not given you these talents for no purpose.

BRADLEY.

I must endeavour to advance my fortune in a foreign country.

CHARLES.

You will find no mother in a foreign country; and can you leave a parent already overwhelmed by misfortune? would you snatch from her her last support? Surely you have no affection for her.

BRADLEY.

What, Sir, no affection for a mother who has done so much for me!

CHARLES.

A strange proof you would give of it, to leave her in solitary misery, when she declares your absence would be her death.

BRADLEY.

That is a weakness; how many mothers are there that must be separated from their children?

CHARLES.

I acknowledge it; but a weakness that arises from an affection for you should rather endear her to you. Excuse me, Sir, but I think that children who have such tender apprehensive parents, ought to sacrifice a wavering uncertain prospect of happiness rather than grieve them. Nay, it would be for their own advantage, if, as my tutor says, no happiness is to be obtained by the violation of duty. Should you return from sea successful, and find her dead, repentance would imbitter your whole future life, for she assures me you have naturally an affectionate good disposition. Continue with her; when a mother in poverty begins to labour under a weight of years, it would be cowardly in a son to desert her.

BRADLEY.

What shall I do, I have not learned any business, would you have me work in the fields?

CHARLES.

There is nothing shameful in pursuing any honest employment; but you are not reduced to that situation. Any one who has a tolerable understanding, and has had a good education, may make himself friends by his diligence: in short, there is no one who is virtuous and industrious but may gain a subsistence, and secure himself respect and esteem. Come, consent; let me conduct you to your mother; she has lived for you, you in your turn ought to live for her. Our parents are our best friends, whose loss nothing can recompense; let those go to sea who have no parents to weep for them, who have no abilities to push them forward in the employmentswhich require mental exertions; it becomes not you who have such qualifications.

BRADLEY.

It is too late, I have already entered; I have no alternative; go I must.

CHARLES.

That difficulty may easily be removed. Come, throw yourself at your mother’s feet, and give her cause to weep for joy.—At last I persuaded him, and he silently followed me, very much distressed.

The mother no sooner saw us enter the room, than she fell on his neck. Oh! William, how tender is the affection of a mother for her children. Bradley seemed truly penitent and abashed; but I shall not attempt to describe all the affecting circumstances. Afterwards he took me aside, and said, I am reallysorry to leave my mother, yet I must fulfil my engagement, for I have spent the bounty money; and the captain would not be willing to part with a stout hand supposing I could return it, which is impossible. I bid him be easy, and if he would promise to remain with his mother, I did not doubt but that I should prevail on my father to use his interest with the captain. I said the same to his mother, whose acknowledgment made me blush, and, to avoid them, I hastened our departure, and thought the road very tedious till I arrived at Grandison Hall, and had interested my father in this poor woman’s favour. I am to see Bradley next Friday: I desired him to call on me; before that time my father will take me to the neighbouring sea-port, where the vessel is fitting out for sea.—You shall hear all about it: till then adieu.

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