I admire Emilia, she is a good, and a pleasing girl; there is not a more amiable virtue than compassion. It is much to be wished that all young ladies would take her for their pattern; and, instead of falling into the two shameful extremes, familiarity and haughtiness, which are often to be observed in the same character, they would treat their servants with humanity and decent kindness. You know how frequently I have praised you for your affability to your inferiors.—But, William, why are you grieved that I have but one servant? A number of servants are not necessary; they serve more for shew than use. Had I riches, I would try not to waste the precious deposit; I would live according to my station. And while my own real and artificial wants were supplied, I should think with pleasure, that though so many servants were not necessary to wait on me, I enabled some industrious fellow-creatures to earn an honest livelihood; and by humane treatment made their labour pleasant. But since it has not pleased heaven to give me riches, I am content, and thankful that I can keep a girl to do the most laborious and menial part of my household business, which I could not do without injuring my health, and neglecting your sister’s education. I am not in absolute need of any more assistance. And what now is that employment, which, you say, is unbecoming the widow of a colonel? You wrote hastily, it is not dishonourable to serve ourselves when we cannot afford to pay for the services of others. It will be more satisfaction to you, to be able to say, after my death, my mother provided her own dinner; her clothes were the work of her hands; her economy made up for the deficiencies of fortune; and her virtues made her respectable; than if you heard your parent reproached, for living according to her rank, and birth. She had a fine house, rich furniture, a number of servants; but she has left nothing behind her; and what is still worse, has injured several industrious people who trusted to her honour. What would then be the son of a colonel? A despised youth, who, though innocent, must blush for his mother’s want of thought and justice. The son of a reputable tradesman, would scarcely acknowledge him as an equal; but I have laid enough, I hope, to dissipate your false pride and concern for me: you find I am satisfied with my station. Again let me tell you, your letters are a comfort to me; was I much poorer than I am, I should still esteem myself rich in the possession of such a son.
Farewel, my dear William, regulate and follow the good inclinations I have endeavoured to cultivate, then you will not only be the comfort of your mother, but the protector of your sister.
D.
LETTER XXII.
Emilia Grandison to Lady Grandison.
We have been greatly alarmed, dear mother. Mr. Wilson’s house was last night burned to the ground. Oh what frightful flames! The air was as red as blood; my heart beat very strong, I trembled lest the family should be destroyed in their beds.—It was dreadful to see such devastation by fire; how careful we ought to be to avoid the sudden horror of so terrible a calamity. If they had been careful, this misfortune would not have happened; the two Miss Wilsons were the occasion of it. They had in the evening, without its being observed, lighted a fire in their play-room; and spread the coals on the hearth to bake privately some cakes. The fire must certainly have caught the boards; but they did not perceive it; as they were interrupted before the cakes were half baked, and obliged to go to their mother, who called for them. They swallowed hastily the unwholesome, and even unpalatable cakes, and shut the door without thinking any more about it. The flames did not burst out till the whole family had been some time fast asleep. There is not any thing saved. All the furniture, clothes, and the stock of the farm were reduced to ashes. The poor girls escaped with only a single petticoat on; and Mrs. Wilson was with difficulty rescued from the devouring flames, which consumed all her substance.
What will now become of that pride, which made the Miss Wilsons treat with such disdain the neighbouring farmers daughters, because they were their inferiors in birth and fortune—and now they are happy to find a shelter in the houses they despised. Indeed, mama, I will obey you, and ever behave with kindness to my inferiors. But I have something else to tell you, and I am sure you will not be angry with me; I sent some of my clothes to the Miss Wilson, who is about my size; I have more than I want—and surely, mama, if that was not the case, I ought cheerfully to bear a trifling inconvenience to do a fellow-creature an essential service. Wearing for the first time new clothes, never gave me half the pleasure—no, it cannot be compared with what I felt, when I gave away my old ones. I did not send my best (though I would have parted with them without feeling any reluctance) as I thought, common clothes would suit her better. Farewel, dear mother.
EMILIA.
LETTER XXIII.
Young Grandison to his Father.
I am just returned, my dear father, from visiting poor Mr. Wilson. Emilia has written my mother an account of the dreadful accident which happened last night; and I wish, ardently wish, to alleviate the distress I could scarcely behold without tears—indeed I believe I should have wept, if I had not been full of a plan, which darted into my head, when I heard the grey-headed old man lament the disaster, which, in the course of one night, swept away the hard-earned fruits of many toiling years. To be plunged into poverty, said he, when my strength faileth me, and even the sweat of my brow will not procure the necessaries of life—is sad. And so it is; now I will tell you what I have thought of. You know my uncle left me five thousand pounds—I think it a great fortune, and I can surely spare two hundred to help Mr. Wilson out of his extreme distress; that sum would be sufficient to stock another farm. I shall be rich enough, and the more so, as you are so good as to let the interest accumulate. I beg, Sir, you will not refuse my humble request—I shall have more satisfaction in relieving this unfortunate man, than ever my two hundred pounds can give. To rescue from poverty an industrious man and his family, what a blessing! In this respect, let me be like my father, who is himself so benevolent,—who has taught me to be compassionate. Were you but here, I would throw myself at your feet, and—but it is enough, you will judge if my request merits your attention; my duty is submission, and I know I need not try to persuade you—you will at once do what appears to you right.
CHARLES GRANDISON.