He communicated the accident to his grandfather; and gave him an account of what he had been reading; and concluded with hoping, that Nanny and Susan would in the end meet with the punishment which their neglect of their parents deserved; that he should rejoice to hear they were starved for their barbarity. “You see, my dear,” returned Mr. Graves, “that the appearance of ingratitude is so odious, that it fills you with abhorrence only to read an imperfect account of it, and yet I doubt whether you who are so warm in your detestation of the crime, are not sometimes tempted to commit it.” “What I?” said William rather warmly, “I disobey my parents, and forget them in their distress! If I had but a mouthful of bread they should have it between them; and I am sure I always do as they desire me.” “You are a good boy,” replied the old gentleman; “but you have never yet been put to such a trial. Few persons know themselves, or are sensible how they should act in situations which they have not experienced. The only way you can prove your affection to your friends, is by rendering yourself worthy their regard. Only remember, that to do a wrong thing will give them more uneasiness than you can imagine; and that their concern for your welfare is so great, it would be the heaviest affliction they could experience to have you behave improperly; and, therefore, to merit their confidence, you must act with the same attention to their commands when they are absent as when they are present to observe you.”
William was vexed at his grandfather’s observation, and told him, “it seemed to imply a doubt of his conduct,” Mr. Graves commended him tenderly; but said, “he had observed, that he was often severe in his judgment; and when he saw a fault in others, or read of any blameable character, he was apt to condemn it without any regard to that mercy which was a most amiable attribute, and peculiarly necessary in creatures, who were every moment in danger of falling themselves. Young persons,” continued he, “are apt to look upon every crime of which they have not been guilty as impossible for them to commit: but that confidence in their own strength is sometimes a most dangerous snare to them in future life. I will give you an instance of this sort which fell under my own observation. When I first went ’prentice, there was a young man about sixteen, with whom I had been always intimate, and who was bound about the same time to an uncle who lived next door to my master’s. This circumstance was a great addition to our happiness, and the more I saw of him the more I had reason to esteem him. But there was one thing I wished had been otherwise in his disposition. His principles were so rigid, that I was sometimes afraid to tell him of any inadvertence I had been guilty of, though he was about my own age; for he declared such an abhorrence of every thing that was mean or deceitful, as to confess, if one of his friends should do a dishonorable action, he would cast him off for ever.—But the best hearts may be tempted to evil before they are aware, if they depend so much upon themselves as to be off their guard. He had leave one evening to visit an acquaintance, and upon his arrival found that the family were engaged to go to the play. They gave him an invitation to accompany them, which for some time he declined, thinking it not quite right to do this without his uncle’s knowledge. At length, however, as it was an entertainment which (as he had been but a short time in London) he had never seen, he determined to accept their offer. He felt a secret uneasiness upon his mind, as he thought his conduct not strictly right, and had great reason to suppose the proposal would by no means have met with his uncle’s approbation. His regret was however forgotten during the representation; and he would have been quite happy had his consent been obtained. The time however, went faster than he imagined, and when he returned home it was eleven o’clock. He had unfortunately broken his watch, and his companions assuring him it was early, he sat down with them to supper. The clock at length struck twelve; and the hours had passed so agreeably, that he thought it had been but eleven. He rose immediately, and hastened home, afraid of his uncle’s displeasure, and angry with himself for a conduct which his conscience disapproved.
“As he was running hastily along, full of uneasiness for the reception he might meet with, his foot slipped, and down he fell against a post. He was slightly bruised, and cut his face by the accident; but the thought immediately occurred to him to make that an excuse for his stay; and as he had mistaken a street which led him farther from home, for one which he designed to have taken; without any further reflection, he related a plausible tale to his uncle of his having lost his way; and as he had never before told an untruth, the account was believed by the old gentleman.—So far his falsity had escaped detection. He retired to-bed; but not to sleep; that comfort he could not obtain: his conscience represented the wickedness of which he had been guilty, and he could think of nothing but the crime which for the first time he had committed. In the morning he rose with a heavy heart; for cheerfulness is only the companion of virtue. He had too much false pride to confess his folly; and the questions which his uncle put to him, obliged him to confirm one lie by the addition of many more.—So easily, my dear boy, do we sink from one wickedness to the commission of another; and so difficult is it to regain the right path, when once we have wandered from it.—He passed a most wretched morning, occupied with reflections upon his conduct, and entered the parlour upon a summons to dinner with a mind penetrated with remorse. But guess at his confusion, when the first object which he saw was the gentleman he had accompanied to the play, and who had called to return him his stick, which in the haste of his departure he had left behind. The explanation that followed, was such as to mortify him to the last degree. It not only exposed his deceit to his uncle, but to the rest of the company; and his character was so much injured by the discovery, that it was many years before he could entirely reinstate himself in their good opinion: and to this day he is cautious of making a positive declaration, or profession of what he will do, for fear he should be ensnared into evil.”—“It is in every one’s power,” said William, “to be good if they please; therefore, they are accountable certainly for their bad actions.” “Very true,” replied his grandfather, “but take care that you are never drawn to the commission of bad actions by the example or persuasions of others. And you should remember, that the end of all your studies is to make you better by the force of example. When you meet with vicious characters, let the detestation which you feel for their crimes be a warning to you to avoid a similar conduct; while on the other hand, every noble action should inspire you with emulation to imitate what you applaud. My hopes,” continued the good old gentleman, “are fixed upon you all; but in a particular manner my cares have been engaged for you, as I have had a nearer concern in your education; and I trust, my William, you will recompence my solicitude, by becoming a worthy example to your brother and sister; for really I think your misconduct would break my heart.”
William was generous, frank, and affectionate. He loved his grandfather most tenderly; and pressing his hand, promised his future conduct should be all he wished.—But alas! with all his good qualities, he was in some respects of too easy a disposition. He had not resolution to oppose what he knew to be wrong when his companions proposed it; and was frequently drawn into such errors through his weak compliance, as he had long occasion to lament. Good-nature is a great virtue; but young people should endeavour to distinguish between what is kind and what is weak. True goodness is always obliging to others, where it can be so without acting wrongly. But no politeness can excuse an ill action; and those who propose what is blameable, ought never to be complied with. We should then, with gentleness endeavour to shew them the impropriety of their behaviour; and if they are too obstinate to be convinced, leave them to their folly without partaking it with them.
William was engaged to dine that day at the house of Captain Fairform, where another boy of his own age had been invited to meet him. This gentleman’s eldest son was handsome, sensible, and clever: his manner and address were uncommonly graceful and pleasing; and he behaved so well in company as to be generally admired. What a pity was it that such an insinuating appearance should not have been equalled by a better heart! He was so deceitful as to appear virtuous in the society of his parents and friends; and misled them to believe, that he was as good as he pretended. I shall pass over all the occurrences of the meeting, and what passed between this young gentleman and his visitors, till after they had dined; when Harry Fairform proposed to them to take a walk. His father desired them not to go towards the village of Boxley, as there was a fair kept that day, and he did not chuse they should mix with the company who frequented it. Harry promised obedience, and bowing, set forward with his companions the opposite way.
As soon as they were out of sight of the house, young Fairform turned about, and taking William by the arm, “Come,” said he, “Tom Wilding, and you and I, will go across that field, and see what is going forward yonder,” pointing as he spoke to the place they had been forbidden to visit. “Why you do not mean surely to go to the fair?” replied Sedley with astonishment. “Have you not promised that you would not?” “Pooh! you filly fellow,” returned Harry, “Promises and pye-crust—did you never hear the old proverb?—they are both made to be broken. What will my father be the worse for it, whether I walk one way or the other? and I know which will afford me the most amusement. He is a cross old fellow to wish to confine me in such a manner without reason: I dare not tell him so, but I promise you, I take care to do as I please.”
The honest heart of William was shocked at the idea of such ungenerous deceit. He blamed him for his principles, and refused to go.—“Nay, then,” said his companion, “if you will stay, you must do as you please; but it was my promise, not your’s; and if I am willing to take the mighty guilt upon my own shoulders, and what is worse, run the risk of the punishment, what is that to you?” “I did not promise to be sure,” cried William, pausing; “but I know my friends would be angry, was I to go without leave, and especially when the Captain has desired us so positively not to do it.”—“The Captain’s son must answer for that,” interrupted young Wilding; “that is none of our business; but if you are afraid of a drubbing, why that is another thing.” “I have no such fear,” returned William with indignation; “but I am too generous to abuse the confidence of my friends. They believe in my honor, and it would be base to make a wrong use of the trust they repose in me.”
The two boys, with uplifted eyes, sneered at this speech. They ridiculed his notions, and derided his attention to his parents when they were absent; and Jack Careless and Will Sportive coming up while they were in debate, they applied to them on the occasion. All now was uproar and confusion; each one trying which should laugh the most at our poor distressed Sedley. His conscience told him it was wrong to comply; but the example, the persuasions, and the ridicule of his companions prevailed, and he reluctantly set forward with them to the village. They soon arrived at the fair; and walking up to the booths, surveyed with delight the various toys with which they were furnished. Called upon on all sides to purchase something, they each began to ask the price of what most attracted their attention; and William agreed to buy a trumpet for his brother: and afterwards taking up a little red morocco pocket-book, was told it would cost six shillings. He laid it back on the stall, saying, “it was too dear;” but in turning round, the flap of his coat brushed it down on the ground, and Will Sportive, unseen by any body, picked it up, and put it into his bosom. The owner soon missed his property, and charged William with the theft. This accusation he warmly resented; but the man persevered in laying the blame on him, till a mob was soon gathered round, and it was determined he should be searched.
Will Sportive, who had only taken the book for a frolick, for the same reason now contrived amidst the bustle to convey it into his companion’s pocket; and Sedley, conscious of his own innocence, grew more angry at the treatment he met with; and absolutely refused the satisfaction that was demanded. This added to the suspicions against him, and he was soon overpowered by numbers. He held his hands over his pockets, sunk down on the ground, and did all that was in his power to prevent those about him from the execution of their design:—but judge of his astonishment, when after being overcome by force, the book was found upon him.—In vain he protested his innocence. No one gave him credit, and the general cry of “here is a young thief!” resounded from every tongue. Some threatened him with a ducking in a horse-pond, others with a whipping at the cart’s tail, and others prophecied that he would end his days at the gallows, and come at last to be hanged.
Will Sportive, whose joke was attended with such serious consequences, began to repent his frolick; but had not the courage to own it, as he was afraid of drawing a share of the condemnation on himself. He therefore left poor William to bear the blame as well as he could, and only stood by a silent spectator of those inconveniences which he had himself been the cause of. The man still continued in a great passion, and declared he would take young Sedley before a justice of peace. Terrified at this threat, and shocked at the thought of going to a prison for a supposed offence, he begged on his knees for mercy, and offered all he had about him as a compensation for a crime of which he knew he had not been guilty. For a guinea the owner of the book agreed to let him go; but nothing less should be the price of his liberty. Such a sum the unfortunate youth had not to give. He had spent six-pence for his trumpet, and three-pence for plum-cakes the day before; so that nine shillings and nine-pence were all he had remaining; but this would not satisfy the person he had offended. His companions offered to lend him all they were worth, but even that was insufficient for the demand. Fairform had half-a-crown: Tom Wilding could find but three-pence three farthings, though he felt in all his pockets, and kept the expecting William in an agony of suspence. Jack Careless threw down two-pence, but said his father would be angry if he parted with his silver. Sedley looked at him with displeasure. “Your father angry,” said he: “if these scruples had been urged sooner, it would have become you better.” “You shall not have the two-pence,” returned Careless, taking it up again and putting it in his pocket: “if you do not chuse it, I will not oblige you against your inclination.” Will Sportive, desirous to repair the damage he had done, offered him all he was possessed of, which amounted but to thirteenpence-halfpenny.