EMILIA.
Had it died a natural death, I should soon have forgotten it; but such an unfortunate end vexes me.
CHARLES.
Another death might have been harder; the cat caught it instantly, and not through the wires of the cage.
EMILIA.
Think you so, then I am content, and forgive the cat.—She then left us.
WILLIAM.
LETTER XXXIX.
Mrs. D—— to William.
You are a comfort to me, my son, and Annette deserves my tender affection, she is so tractable and good. Your letters improve and please her; she requests me to read them twenty times over, that she may remember them. The tears were in her eyes when I read what you had written concerning the canary-bird. Poor Emilia, said she, how I do pity her. It gives me pleasure, replied I, that you participate in your friend’s grief; it is a sign that you have a good heart, and deserve the sympathy of others: mutual affection is necessary, it softens affliction. Indeed I have experienced it, mamma, answered she, that is, I have never been so much vexed at any thing, when I saw somebody pitied me, as when they laughed at me.—And I love those people who have compassion, they look so good-natured.
But, William, I must give you a caution. The beginning of your letter was too alarming, it startled me; I thought at least that Emilia had been dreadfully hurt; if she had lost an eye or a limb it could not have shocked me more. You might have expressed your pity, as she was grieved, but not in such terms; what other words could you have used, had she lost her mother? Learn in future, when a thing of the same kind occurs, to be more cautious how you write, and do not confound proper feelings; nor even the expressions, which should convey to others a notion of what passes in your mind.