PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON, Nº 72, ST. PAUL’S
CHURCH-YARD.
M DCC XC.
YOUNG GRANDISON.
LETTER I.
William D—— to young Charles Grandison.
I wish to inform you, my dear Grandison, what joy I felt when I returned back again to a dearly loved mother.—But, no;—you who love your parents so tenderly, can easily imagine what I cannot describe. How full of transport was the moment, when, after a year’s absence, I again embraced the dear guardian of my youth. It was very early in the morning when we entered the city; my mother, as we had not had a fair wind, did not expect me, and of course was in bed. My first eager desire made me ascend the stairs; but as I was hastening to her bedchamber I recollected myself, and returned softly back. It is still dark, thought I, shall I disturb her repose, by my sudden appearance at her bedside? Certainly not. That would be mistaken love, mere selfish affection. You will, I think, approve of this prudence. Mean while I was full of impatience: a thousand times I wished her to wake, counted the minutes, and listened continually.—At length the moment arrived; my heart beat quick; I almost flew up the stairs; but again I stopped myself, and resting on the last stair, I called out, Here is your own William, dear mother, may I come in? Was I not right, my friend? for the sudden surprise of seeing me, would have been too much for her spirits. Before I could well hear her answer my patience was exhausted, and I rushed in, and was at her bedside out of breath; I could only say, My dear mother. She pressed me to her bosom, crying, My William, my son!—and we both wept together: but they were delightful tears: I never in my life experienced so much heart-felt satisfaction.
My sister Annette hurried on her clothes as soon as she heard of my arrival, and jumped about me half mad with joy. She then ran for the doll, which your sister Emilia sent her, and made me observe how well she had preserved it, and asked twenty questions in a breath about this dear sister of your’s. In the midst of them, the maid came to tell her that her writing master waited for her. I wish it was an hour earlier, said she, with tears in her eyes; the moment I see you I am forced to leave you; another day, I should not mind writing four copies; but to-day I know not how to go. Well, said my mother, observing the tears she tried to hide, we will desire the master, for this time, to excuse you. Annette stood a moment irresolute, then ran to her mother, and said, it is from pure goodness that you indulge me; but I know you would rather I did not neglect my writing. Besides, good Mr. M—— might be displeased with me; it would not be right to send such an old man away, I will take my lesson. Would not Emilia do so? and she skipped out of the room.
I believe all children might be induced to learn to read and write, if it was made an amusement to them, without all that gloom which generally accompanies lessons. Children are very fond of imitating men if they are allowed to follow their own inclinations; yet are averse to constraint: but you will think me too serious. And I hasten to tell you what I suffered when I left your dear family. Your father’s kindness melted my very soul, and even the expectation of seeing the best of parents did not cheer me when I first got into the packet-boat. Farewell, sometime think of your affectionate friend,
WILLIAM.
P. S. The anniversary of Emilia’s birth is now past without my being able to celebrate it with you. With what delight should I have gathered her a nosegay of my best flowers, those hyacinths and jonquils, which I raised with so much care. But I was denied that pleasure; my heart longs to tell her all the good wishes you must now present to her in my name. May she be as happy as I wish her to be! I need say no more.