Young Grandison, volume 1 (of 2) A series of letters from young persons to their friends

LETTER I. WILLIAM D—— to his MOTHER:

You desired me to write to you, my dear mother. What a comfort it is to be able to converse with you in this way, now I am at such a distance, and cannot see you!

I did not find the journey fatiguing; I was not sea-sick—but I was sorrowful—very sorrowful, I assure you. You will say that I am childish, when I tell you, that, during the voyage, as often as I thought of the last kiss you gave me, I could scarcely restrain my tears, or mention your name without sobbing. I hid myself in a corner of the cabin, that I might weep freely without being seen: I was not ashamed of it; yet as the captain endeavoured to amuse me, I did not wish him to know that I was so very unhappy. Besides, my dear mother, my tears will not flow when any one looks at me;—but I will have done. I know you love me, and I would not willingly grieve you. My heart is lighter.

What a great city this is! and how full the streets are of people! The large towns in Holland are nothing to it. Every thing pleases me; but I find not here my dear mother: I cannot run hastily home to tell her all I have seen, and I do not half enjoy the fine sights.

You praised Lady Grandison; indeed she is so good-natured every one must love her, as soon as they see her face. How she pressed me in her arms when I arrived—just as you do, when you are pleased with me. And Sir Charles Grandison, oh! I cannot tell you what a worthy man he seems to be: he is so tender-hearted. My father was like him, I dare say; yes, he certainly was, for you have often told me that he was a good man. Ah! had I yet that father, how happy should I be: I would love and obey him, as young Charles obeys his father; and I should not love you less. God, you have frequently said, is now in a peculiar manner my father. I pray every night to him, with more earnestness than ever, to bless my mother, my only parent, and to enable me to be a comfort to her. Now farewel, my dear mother, think often of me, and love your own

WILLIAM.

LETTER II. Mrs. D—— to WILLIAM.

Your letter afforded me the most solid satisfaction, my dear son; while I felt for you, the sorrow, you so well described, drew you still closer to my heart. Your warm manner of expressing your filial affection pleased me, as it convinced me, that you have a feeling heart. A son who could leave an indulgent mother, without experiencing similar emotions, will never love God, or do good to his fellow-creatures; he will live for himself alone, and gradually lose the dignity of his nature. But dry up your tears; immoderate sorrow is a sign of weakness, and will prevent your improvement, the principal end of life. We must arm ourselves with courage to ward off the casualties that in this uncertain state we are exposed to; the happiest situations are not exempt from them; heaven sends pain and sorrow to teach us virtue, and not merely to afflict us. When you lament that we are separated, think with what pleasure we shall meet again; and how eagerly my eyes will run over your whole person, and my ears be on the catch to weigh your words: that I may trace your improvement, and love you still more.—And this love would be a comfort to my age, I should not consider myself a widow.—Yes, your father was virtuous; resemble him; and console, in some degree, your mother, by cultivating the virtues which just begin to dawn in your mind.

We shall write to each other often; to write is the same as to speak. You are now rewarded for the diligent attention you paid to my commands, though at first it was an irksome task to learn to write; but had you neglected it, we could not have converted when a vast sea, or large tracts of land were between us—then, indeed, I should have been absent in the true sense of the word. Now I can participate in all your pleasures: be very particular in your account of them; and remember to write as you speak. A letter ought to be simple and natural; regulate your thoughts, and let your expressions appear easy and not studied. Above all, strictly adhere to truth; you violate it, when you use unmeaning compliments, or permit affectionate words to drop from your pen, which are fabricated by the head for selfish purposes, and do not flow from a good heart. Take care always of your spelling: it is a shameful thing for any one to be ignorant of his native language.

Present my best respects to Lady Grandison.

LETTER III. WILLIAM to his MOTHER.

A thousand thanks do I wish to send you, my dear mother, for your letter; I feel myself of some consequence now you correspond with me. Was I wrong, when I was proud of your praises? I wished Lady Grandison to know that I had been an obedient son, and I gave her your letter to read. What an excellent mother you have, William, said she! you must obey all her commands, and console her by acquiring virtue. You must try to amuse her by communicating your sentiments; and do not forget to tell her of all your amusements, your business, and even the conversations which you listen to in this family: and this attention will in some degree make her happy. But, Madam, said I, my mother has often forbid me to mention any conversations I heard, when I went with her to pay a visit. William, she replied, you must learn to make distinctions; conversations are not to be repeated; but you may confide every observation you make in the bosom of a friend, except indeed the secrets you have promised to keep, they are sacred. A young person ought never to promise to keep any secrets from an indulgent parent, till their reason enables them to govern themselves, and they are no longer children.

Oh! how glad I was, for you know, dear mother, that I am now fond of writing. How much I shall have to tell you of young Charles; yes, it is of him, that I mean to speak the most. You cannot think how much sense he has, and how good he is; indeed I do love him. We are almost always together, for his cousin Edward, though he is two years older, has not half his sense and goodness. But Lady Grandison told me yesterday, his education had been neglected, so I pity him; yet cannot love him as I love Charles and Emilia.

LETTER IV. Mrs. D—— to WILLIAM.

I wish you happy, my son, and rejoice that you have chosen such a friend as Charles. Yet, while you admire your friend, do not hate Edward; remark his faults only to avoid them. He is really an object that should excite your compassion, while you thank God for having placed you in a different situation. You had the advantage of receiving early instruction, and was not allowed to contract any bad habits. Sir Charles paid the same diligent attention to cultivate your new friend’s mind, and Dr. Bartlett assisted: but poor Edward was suffered to run almost wild.

You have seen in the little garden I have, that weeds grow quickly; and would soon choke the vegetables and flowers, if a careful hand did not pluck them up by the roots.

Lady Grandison praises you; do your best to deserve her approbation, and you shall ever be the beloved of my heart.

LETTER V. WILLIAM to his MOTHER.

I enjoy here much pleasure; we walk, we draw, we learn music; and we sometimes go to the Play. But what pleases me most, is a microscope, my friend has. We see in it the most wonderful things; every body ought to have microscopes to know rightly what there is in the world. We view the flies, the spiders, &c. I shall speak to you often of them, I shall communicate our conversations word for word. Dr. Bartlett, who is with us every day, teaches us many wonderful things. Yes, Mama, your son shall be well furnished with knowledge; but I must leave off writing, for I am called. Go then away, letter, and tell my dear mother how much I love her; and assure her that I shall be always her dutiful son.

LETTER VI. WILLIAM to his MOTHER.

To-morrow we go to the country-seat—what pleasure I shall have there! Charles has packed up a great many books to take with him; for we are both fond of reading. Our drawings and our pencils are not forgotten. Charles has drawn some landscapes from nature; and I will try to do a view of the house, and send it to you. I enclose you one of the town habitation. You must observe two windows on the left side of the house, I will mark them, your William sleeps in that room, pray look at it.

We are all glad to go to the country-seat, except Edward, he is displeased. I have been present at a conversation, which interested me. I will repeat it.

Do you know, said Emilia, that our dear Dr. Bartlett goes with us into the country? Yes, answered Charles, and I am glad of it. So am not I, grumbled Edward. And why? Because he is always reproving me. The reproofs of so wise a man as Dr. Bartlett are very useful, and then he speaks in such a mild voice, the very tone encourages me to hope that I may correct the faults he reproves: I am sorry but not hurt, said Charles. I thought at least I should be free for some time from learning that miserable Latin, continued Edward; but, no, we must write a theme every day, I suppose. I hope so, said Charles, and that will not be tiresome. But, Edward, have you nothing to pack up? I shall let the servants do that, answered he. The servants will have enough to do, said Emilia. Then they may go an hour later to bed. Poor servants, replied Emilia, they are tired and want sleep; besides, they must rise very early in the morning; you could spare them some trouble, and that would be a better employment than tormenting your dog. But he is my dog, snarled Edward. Yes, said Emilia, but the servants are not your servants nor mine. I need not your lessons, Madam.—Charles interrupted him, and took them both by the hand, and, turning to Edward, said, we have been taught from our infancy to think attendance a proof of weakness; and that we ought not to give the meanest of our fellow-creatures trouble when we can avoid it, if we desire to be truly great. Give me the business of the servant and you will oblige me.