LETTER VIII.
Charles to William.
This morning I set out, with Dr. Bartlett, for the country where my father’s estate is situated. I shall not have many opportunities of sending letters to you, yet I shall not neglect to write.
The account you gave me of Frederick does not prejudice me in his favour.
I was obliged to leave off suddenly when I had written thus, for my cousin G—, who accompanied us part of the way, came to tell me that Dr. Bartlett was waiting for me. We left him near home, and for some time we missed his sprightly sallies; but his taste for humour, to which I think he is too much addicted, often hurt me while we were on the road. The first instance, that I now recollect, had a reference to Dr. Bartlett.
As the good old man was stepping out of his carriage, his foot slipped, and he fell with great force on the ground. While I assisted him to rise, I turned my eyes on my cousin, whom I saw endeavouring in vain to smother a laugh; at last he was obliged to run into the house to give way to it, out of our hearing. I felt that I was red with anger; nothing displeases me more than to hear any one laugh at an accident. I have often heard people say they cannot help it, but in my opinion it is a great proof of insensibility. The most ludicrous accident never makes me smile when I see a fellow-creature, or even an animal, in pain. I could not forbear communicating my sentiments to my cousin as soon as we were alone.
CHARLES.
I have often heard you say you loved and esteemed Dr. Bartlett.
JAMES.
Yes; why do you doubt it?
CHARLES.