SIR CHARLES.
No, my dear, you are mistaken; you love yourself better, or you would not wish me to live in a world where there are so many cares and sorrows.
CHARLES.
It is true, but I pray forgive me, I cannot help wishing to keep you here. I cannot forbear thinking how unhappy I shall be, when I lose my father; I have such need of your wise counsel, you are the guide of my youth,—my first friend.
SIR CHARLES.
You will still have a good mother, and you have a Father in heaven, who will never leave you nor forsake you; reconcile your mind to the event: if I die, recollect that I am only gone a little while before you; be virtuous, remember your Creator, fulfil all your duties to your fellow-creatures, and you will without fear wait for the last solemn hour, and the moment when we shall meet again.—But I have said sufficient, submit yourself to the Ruler of the universe, who loves you even better than I do.
My friend Charles rose up, and retired from the bed, without being able to speak, his heart was full, he threw himself into a chair. My father, said he, has commanded me to submit to the will of heaven; this affecting command is, perhaps, the last I shall ever receive from his dear mouth.—Well then, I must, I will be resigned. I will suppress my grief as well as I can, and wait the event with fortitude; my father has taught me how to live, and I shall now learn of him how to die; by imitating his virtues, I may be thought worthy to dwell with him in heaven, to meet him never to part again.
The physician came in with Dr. Bartlett, he found his patient much better, and gave us some hopes; the good Doctor took Charles by the hand, and advised him to take some rest, for he had not been in bed these three nights: but Charles begged to be excused; I cannot sleep, Sir, said he, while my father suffers so much. No, I slumber by his bed when he rests, that is sufficient. Indeed, who can so well take care of a father as his own son? Who can love him as well as I do? My eye must see if he lies down soft and easy, I must cover him, I must warm his dear hands in mine when I find them cold.—I must do more—I must receive his last breath.—He could not go on, and when they still continued to press him, he said, he esteemed too much the few precious hours he could now spend with his father to lose one, while there was a shadow of danger.
What a son, dear mother! but even the recital has affected me so much, I can only assure you that I am your dutiful son,
WILLIAM.