He was walking slowly on, with his purchase in his hand, when a butcher’s boy, and a lad who was driving some cows from the field to be milked, overtook him with a nest of blackbirds, in which were four young ones. William asked what they would take for their prize? which they at first refused to sell; but afterwards said, he should have it for a shilling. He objected that it was too much; and taking out his money, found that he had only half a guinea, which had been given him to take to school, and which, therefore, he did not chuse to change, and nine-pence half-penny, for which the boys agreed at last he should have the blackbirds.
Once more then he proceeded in his journey to look for Tony. He soon found the house, and his black acquaintance with a young child, whom he was teaching to walk. They renewed their intimacy, and William told him the design of his visit; but coloured with confusion when he recollected the situation of his money, which he had never thought of when he was making his bargains. He did not at all like to own the true state of the case, nor did he know what method to pursue. He wished to keep his gold for many reasons, and he had beside, neither silver nor copper. His conscience urged him to give Tony something; but he had pleased himself greatly with the thought of having a half-guinea in his pocket, which he could call his own. His sensibility represented the wants of the orphan boy but the pride of having a piece of gold in his possession, overcame every consideration of pity. “If you will call to-morrow at our house, Tony,” said he, “you shall have some bread and meat.—Good bye, I cannot stay any longer!” And away he went, with the uneasy consciousness of having behaved wrong.
He was on his return to his grandfather, when Jeffery Squander and his sister, who were taking a walk, met him as he was crossing by the end of a lane. They had stopped to buy some plum-cakes of a man with one leg, who made it his business to carry them about. Jeffery and William were neighbours and school-fellows, and immediately saluted each other; the former inciting the other to follow his example. He refused at first, because he had no money; but was very unwilling to make known his real reason. Upon being pressed still farther, he said, “he had nothing but gold about him, which he supposed Jonathan, the cake man, could not give him change for, otherwise he should be glad to eat some.” Jonathan felt in a leathern bag, which was fastened before him, and divided in the middle to hold silver and halfpence, and said, “he had money enough for the purpose.” William was sadly disappointed; but as he could urge no farther objection, gave up his dear half-guinea with regret, and eat three plum-cakes with a worse appetite than usual.
Mr. Graves, in the mean time, had walked onward in quest of his grandson, whose stay began to give him some uneasiness. He came up with him just as he was finishing his last mouthful, and gently blamed him for the length of his absence, at the same time inviting his companions to join him, and to return to Mr. Sedley’s. They politely declined his offer, as they were engaged to spend the evening with an uncle.
As soon as they had taken leave, Mr. Graves enquired after the success of William’s visit. “You made me quite uneasy,” said he, “I hope you have done a great deal of good. How much did you give honest Tony? or had you as much money as you wanted? I forgot to make that enquiry, you set off in such a hurry.”—William blushed, hung down his head, slackened his pace, and slunk behind his grandfather in silent confusion.—Mr. Graves turned round, and taking his hand, “What has happened, my boy,” said he, “to cover that open countenance with the suspicious appearance of guilt? Or do I injure you, my noble child, and is it only the blush of your modesty at the enquiry of your generosity?” “Indeed, Sir,” said William, “I feel the keenness of your reproof. But if my honesty in confessing can excuse my fault, you shall be acquainted with the whole truth. I went from you with a full design to relieve poor Tony; but I soon overtook a Jew pedlar, and I was so weak as to spend my money in the purchase of this glass, and that bilberkit. Nine-pence I had still left; and nine-pence would have been something for the chimney-sweeper; but this bird’s nest which I have in my handkerchief, I am ashamed of myself, Sir, but I gave that to the boys for the birds.” “And was that all your money?” said Mr. Graves. “Did you not pay for the cakes you were eating?” “Yes, Sir,” replied William. “Then why had you nothing for the boy?” again enquired his grandfather. “Because,” returned William, blushing still more, “I did not like to change half a guinea: nor should I have done it, had not Squander seemed to think it mean of me, and I was afraid he would laugh at my stinginess when we return to school: for he has always so much money, that he does not care how much he spends.” “The frankness of your acknowledgment,” replied Mr. Graves, “must entirely shield you from reproof; and you seem to be so sensible of your error, that I need not, perhaps, point it out with any further aggravations. I would not tire you with my advice, and yet I feel such an interest in your happiness, as makes me wish to observe the improvement which may arise from any incident that occurs. Young people are apt to pass over every action without reflection; and when a day is once concluded, they think no more of their behaviour during the course of it. Our lives, my dear William, are made up of trifling accidents; but if we incur guilt by behaving improperly, the future misery of an uneasy conscience will be ill repaid by the enjoyment of any present pleasure. You should always, therefore, be upon your guard; since you see an occasion to draw you into error, may arise where you least expect it. To purchase the toys, or to buy the birds as the naughty boys had taken the nest was not wrong; though if you know where they got it, I should hope you would replace it. But when you had only that two shillings and nine-pence, I think, some part of it ought to have been saved for the purpose on which you set out. But then, William, a worse part of your conduct is still to come. You were convinced that it was right, that it was your duty, to do something for Tony; yet you left him without relief: while the fear of being laughed at by so silly a fellow as Jeffery Squander, had more effect upon you than your pity for your fellow creature, a boy of your own age in want. This weakness, I am much afraid, will often lead you into danger. Wicked people will laugh at you for being better than themselves; but will by no means like to share in the miseries which your follies may incur.”
As he concluded these words, they arrived within sight of Mr. Sedley’s house, and were soon discovered by two children who were kneeling in the parlour window; but immediately upon seeing Mr. Graves, they jumped down, and came running to meet him. The eldest was a girl about a year older than William; and the other, little Bob, had the day before left off his petticoats, and honoured his birth-day with a suit of new boy’s cloaths.
Miss Sedley and her little brother had both been to dine with a neighbouring gentleman, in consequence of their parents intention of conveying their son to school; which the reader has already heard Mr. Graves’s arrival had postponed. They both expressed their joy at the sight of their grandfather, who took Bob in his arms to kiss him; while Nancy, with a smile of delight, pressed her brother’s hand, and assured him of the pleasure she felt that she should have his company a few days longer.
Bob was so impatient, in the mean time, to shew his dress, that setting both his feet against his grandfather’s stomach, he very nearly pushed himself backwards. “Look, Sir,” said he, “Pray look at my buttons! I shall soon be a man now. I was four years old yesterday; and see, I have got a pocket to my waistcoat; and this is my new handkerchief.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “I will see them all presently, but let me set you down first; you had very near tumbled us both on the grass; and you are very heavy, I can tell you, in your new cloaths.” “I dare say I am,” returned Bob. “To be sure, Sir, I am too big to be lifted now I am in breeches; and besides, I have got money in my pocket; so it is no wonder I am heavy, for Mr. Goodwill the clergyman gave me six-pence yesterday afternoon, because, he said, I was such a good boy, that he was sure I should take care and spend it properly.—And see what a nice one it is, Sir!” Mr. Graves took it in his hand, and admiring it greatly, gave it to little Bob, who turned it about with much pride and pleasure as he walked along, till it unfortunately dropped down upon the grass, and was lost from his sight. “O stop! stop!” said he in a hurry, “my six-pence! my own dear new six-pence! what shall I do?” and immediately fell upon his hands and knees in search of his treasure. William did the same, and Nancy stooped forward to assist them; while their grandfather pushed about the grass with his stick, in hopes by that mean to discover it. Their endeavours, for a long time, were in vain, and Bob’s impatience became so great, that he burst into tears.
“Do not cry, my love,” said his sister, “I have got a six-pence which my papa gave me last Thursday when I finished his shirts, and you shall have that.” “But it is bent and ugly,” replied he: “It is not a new one: I do not like it: It is an ugly one.—O my pretty six-pence! what shall I do for it?” “Not be a naughty boy! I hope, Robert,” said Mr. Graves: “you told me just now, you were almost a man; but this behaviour, and these tears, look like a baby. I think Nancy is very kind to you; and I am ashamed to see you make such a return to her good-nature. However there is your six-pence,” continued he, putting his stick close to it. Bob jumped at it, and picking it up, kissed it most heartily, saying, “I am glad you are found: I will put you in my pocket, and never take you out again when I am walking.” They soon reached the house; and found Mr. and Mrs. Sedley waiting tea for them: to whom Mr. Graves gave an account of their walk. During their conversation two gentlemen who were riding by stopped their horses, and looked up at the house. Mr. Sedley got up, and walking to the window with his cup lifted to his mouth, and the saucer in his left hand, “I wonder what those gentlemen are looking for,” said he. “They seem to have mistook their way.” “O no! Papa,” replied Bob, “I dare say they only stand still to look at my new cloaths. They are surprised I suppose to see me in breeches.” “Upon my word, child,” said his father, “you think yourself now of prodigious consequence; but it is very silly and unlike the man you wish us to think you, to talk so much of your dress.——Your brother’s behaviour,” added he, turning to Miss Sedley, “puts me in mind of the little girl we met one day at Mr. Wilmot’s. Do not you remember her, Nancy? I think she was called Miss Gaudery: with her red silk slip, and fine gold watch. She looked so stiff as if afraid to stir. She would not walk in the garden for fear it should spoil her shoes; nor sit close to her companions, that she might not tumble her cuffs; nor would she eat any strawberries, because if one happened to drop, it would stain her apron. In short, all her attention was so evidently fixed upon her fine cloaths, that she incurred the contempt of the company; who all agreed it was much to be lamented, that her mind should be neglected for the sake of adorning her person. I know that dress is a very favorite subject with girls. And what pretty thing have you got? says one; and let me see your new cap, says another, when you have play-fellows come to see you. Is not that true, Nancy? And then you pull out your band-boxes; and this is my cloak; and this is my furbelowed apron; and here is my flounced petticoat; and that is my feathered bonnet; and in this drawer I put my shawl.—Tell me, Nancy, is not that the way you entertain and are entertained by your visitors?” “Those with whom I am intimate,” replied Miss Sedley blushing, “I sometimes shew my new cloaths to; but I do not wear half of those things you have named: it would look strange indeed to see a little girl in a furbelowed apron; at least, I am sure we should not call it by that name. But pray, Sir, inform me whether you think there is any thing wrong in this practice, and I will not do it for the future?” “I do not mean, my dear,” returned her father, “to blame that good-nature which would engage you to please your companions with the sight of a new acquisition; but to warn you from the danger of a vain temper, which is proud of fancied finery, and imagines its worth to consist in the smartness of dress rather than in real goodness. And I address myself to you upon this subject; because I think, that in general, girls are apt to shew a greater tendency to this failing than boys: but I hope my Nancy has too much good sense to be proud of any thing which reflects no honor upon herself, but as she behaves properly, and makes a right use of the advantage of fortune. The pleasure which Bob has expressed in his new coat, has not arisen from its being finer than his other cloaths, but because he looks upon himself as so much more like a man than he was before; but it is a certain proof from his speaking so much about them, that it is a new thing to him; otherwise he would have thought no more of the circumstance than does your brother William. So when a girl is dressed out to make a visit, and takes particular notice of her ruffles, or her frock, or any other part of her dress, you may almost always be sure she is not accustomed to it. You do not look at those shoes, nor think of that cap, because you usually wear them; and you should endeavour to be as easy in your behaviour in your best as in your common garb; otherwise you appear stiff and ungraceful, and will lose every advantage which your dress is designed to produce. But above all, my girl, remember, that good-nature, affability, and sweetness of manners, is the charm to render you agreeable; and will always have the power of pleasing, independent of outward decorations.” “I hope,” said Mrs. Sedley, “that our Nancy’s good sense will secure her from an error which is the strongest mark of an uninformed mind. She has just favored me with the sight of a little poetic piece, which was occasioned by the behaviour of the child you have mentioned; and as you are so well acquainted with the author, I dare say she will oblige you with the perusal. Mr. Sedley expressed his wishes to that purpose, and his daughter immediately fetched them down, and presented them to her father, who read as follows:
’Twas when the harvest first began,