WILLIAM.
LETTER XXVIII.
William to his Mother.
Oh! my dear mother, my friend Charles has scalded his leg, and cannot walk. Edward, who always does things rashly, was the occasion of it, by throwing down a kettle of boiling water. But I never saw such patience, such goodness as Charles possesses. Instead of being angry, he, on the contrary, concealed the pain he felt. It is nothing, said he, it has not hurt me much, do not make yourself uneasy Edward. But we soon perceived how it was, for his leg swelled so suddenly, they were obliged to cut his stocking, before they could get it off. Emilia began to cry, and upbraid Edward for his carelessness; and thoughtlessly wished he had scalded himself. Charles interrupted her; I do not wish any one to suffer, said he; be composed, dear sister, my leg will not, I hope, be much the worse. Edward did not do it on purpose, it was an accident; reproaches cannot mend the matter; and if it was worse we ought rather to encourage each other. He then sent for the house-keeper, and requested her to dress it—and hearing Dr. Bartlett’s foot-step, entreated his sister not to mention Edward as the cause of the accident; your anger, he added, gives me more pain than the scald.
How happy it is when we can command such presence of mind—such composure in a moment. Tell me, does it not arise from thinking more of what others suffer, than the actual pain we ourselves endure? Had he been fretful, it would not have done him any good; I should have pitied, without admiring him, as I now do.—But the pleasure I find in writing to my dear mother, makes me forget that he desired me to keep him company. I give you then a night kiss in the thoughts of my heart. Adieu.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXIX.
William to his Mother.
Charles begins to walk a little. I love him, and if I was not excited by affection, my sense of duty would prompt me to attend him now he is sick. Besides, I have much pleasure when we are alone together. We were yesterday busy with our glasses the whole afternoon. Dear mother, what amazing things there are which we cannot see with our naked eye. Should you think there are living creatures in a small grain of sand, and that those grains of sand contain small holes, in which they hide themselves. The mould that is in old cheese, appears like a wood of trees, with branches and leaves. In the hair of the head, we discovered a tube, through which a juice ran. Who would believe that small insects, scarcely visible, have blood vessels and bowels, constructed with as much care as those of the largest animals.
And the flowers, they are indeed beautiful. Come, said Charles, let us see the difference between the works of God and man. We employed our attention on the natural rose first; all was splendid and perfect: we then viewed an artificial rose; but what a difference! All was rough and disagreeable, and the beauty vanished. We looked at some highly polished steel; but it appeared like unwrought rusty iron. What then is the art of man, compared with the almighty power of the Creator? Nothing, indeed!—Oh that every body knew this! They would have more reverence for the Supreme Being. But what do we? We pluck a flower—we keep it some hours; and then throw it away without thinking that the greatest effort of human art could not produce such another. We slowly labour—but God spoke—and it was done.
WILLIAM.