Chapter II: Part 2

In the course of the next half year, Mr. Beaufort paid a second visit to Mr. Rawlinson; and while there, kindly called on Mrs. Goldsmith with the pleasing intelligence of William's advancement both in speaking, writing, and the business which he was now learning. The poor woman thanked him for his goodness, while he enquired after Lucy and the youngest child, who was now two years old, and the fears of his mother unfortunately confirmed, as it evidently appeared he was a sharer in the affliction which attended the others. Mr. Beaufort gave her hopes, that, as the fund increased the scheme would be enlarged, and that he should then have it in his power to get one or both of them into the school, when they were of a proper age.

"I hope they will," said Henry Rawlinson, who had accompanied his old friend, (not now riding before him, as when they first met at the cottage, but on a little horse his father had bought for him,) "I hope they will: it is such an advantage to William, that I should be sorry the others should not share it likewise. And Jacob Goodyer, also, will be able to get his living any where; his father says he will soon come home, and make shoes for the whole parish." Mr. Beaufort smiled at this information, and, as they returned, Henry enquired if the fund did not increase. "I wish I was a man," said he, "I would give a great deal towards it." "My dear boy," said Mr. Beaufort, "you give a great deal now for your age;" (for Henry and Caroline also, had, from their first hearing of this charity, contrived to lay by part of their pocket-money towards the support of it;) "if every boy and girl were to spare as much from their weekly or quarterly allowance as you do, and your sister, how would the fund be increased, as well as the pleasure they would receive from thus employing it. Perhaps three or four children might be admitted every year, in addition to the present number; and thus they might be a means of rescuing their fellow-creatures from a state worse than that of oblivion!" "Oh, that they would;" said Henry, ready to spring from his horse at the idea; "Oh, that they would! and did they but know the pleasure it gave to poor nurse Goldsmith to hear her son speak, I think there would be no doubt of it."

We shall now proceed to relate the further benefit this benevolent institution was of to William, and how it enabled him, in some measure, to requite the kindness of Mr. Beaufort and Henry Rawlinson, as well as materially to assist his family when he grew up.

When Mr. Beaufort returned to town, he took Henry with him for a fortnight's pleasure, and knowing it would be as great a one to him as any, to see William Goldsmith, and the manner in which he was instructed, almost the first place they visited, was the Asylum in which he was placed. He saw the method by which these unfortunate children were taught to speak--the kind attention of their teachers--the way in which they lived--and how they were permitted to amuse themselves. William had great pleasure in speaking to him of these things, and that Henry might carry the most accurate account of himself and his proceedings to his mother, he showed him every part of the school, as well as of his workmanship, from which the governors permitted him to send her a small trifle of his own making.

During the time Henry staid with Mr. Beaufort, as a further pleasure to them both, William was one day asked to dine; and after dinner, as Henry expressed a wish to walk out, Mr. Beaufort gave him leave, and William to accompany him. The two boys set off together, highly delighted, and Henry made William understand that he would go and look at the Monument. He had been there once with Mr. Beaufort, but he wished to see it again; and he thought he knew the way: "if not," said he, "I can enquire, and what harm can happen to us?" William was equally pleased with his intention; but before they had proceeded far on their way, so many various things in the different shop-windows attracted their attention, and the crowds of people who were continually passing, with the narrowness of the streets, all added to the difficulty they had in keeping with each other; and at length, in crossing the road, they were entirely separated. William had been standing at a shop-window, and who, from his want of hearing, had been more used to have his eyes employed, did not cross so soon as Henry, as he saw some carriages in the way; but he hoped to find his friend waiting for him on the other side. How was he disappointed, therefore, on not finding him there. He looked on every side, but could see no one like him; he walked on a little way, then back again, fearing he might have passed him in the crowd; till, at a distance, and on the opposite side of the way, he saw two men bearing in their arms a boy of his size, and who appeared to be lifeless. Judge of his alarm and distress, when, on pushing by the carriages, and hastening towards them, he saw it was Henry himself, whom they were thus carrying. He followed them into one of the narrow lanes or alleys, with which London abounds; and saw them take him into a low, dirty-looking house, into which he entered also. "He is not much hurt," said they, not at all attending to William's being there; "only stunned a little: he is a gentleman's son, I can see, by his clothes, and if we keep him here, he will be advertised, and we shall get a handsome reward." "_I_ know who he is," said William; "_I_ know to whom he belongs," as articulately as his agitation would allow him to speak. "Hollo!" said one of the brutish fellows, "who have we here? a dumb boy! Don't let us mind what _he_ says, he may be a _fool_ for what we know."

It was well for Henry, and William also, perhaps, that the distress he felt, prevented his speaking more distinctly at that time; for had they found that he could have been understood, they might have kept _him_ there also, in order to conceal the place that Henry was in; from the hope, that the longer his parents were kept in suspense about him, the larger reward would be offered. But supposing that William's information would be unintelligible, or considered of no consequence, they forced him from the house; and he had the distress of seeing that Henry had not recovered his senses, when he was thus obliged to leave him.

He ran back to Mr. Beaufort's, with all the speed he was capable of using, feeling what none can enter into but those who are in a similar situation--a dread of the danger his friend was in; anticipating the distress, if not the displeasure, of Mr. Beaufort: and, above all, afraid that he should not be able to speak so as to be understood. Almost out of breath, and with a face pale and full of distress, he rapped at the door. "What is the matter?" said the footman who opened it, alarmed at his countenance; but William could only answer by his tears. On hearing this, Mr. Beaufort, who was still sitting with his wine after dinner, hastened out of the parlour, and seeing only William, immediately guessed the cause of his distress. "You have lost Henry," said he; "I was foolish to let you go out together." William tried in vain to speak, but pulling him by the arm, he waved his hand for Mr. Beaufort to accompany him. The good man caught up his hat, and telling the footman to follow, he hastened, with the trembling boy, to the place in which he had left Henry. "Has any accident happened?" said Mr. Beaufort, looking steadily at William, who could only shake his head; till being a little recovered, he endeavoured to acquaint him with what he had seen. Mr. Beaufort hurried on, and they were presently at the house.

The man who opened the door, on seeing William with the gentleman, thought it would be of no use to deny Henry's being there, he therefore expressed pleasure, rather than surprise, at seeing him; and said, "We have taken great care of the young gentleman, Sir, and he is better already." "Have you sent for a surgeon?" asked Mr. Beaufort; "let me see him directly," and rushing forward, he discovered Henry lying on an old blanket upon the floor, with a bundle of rags for his pillow. His eyes were open, and he instantly knew the friends who were about him. William wept for joy at again seeing him sensible, while Mr. Beaufort, with great indignation, exclaimed: "Do you call _this_ taking care of him?" "Bless your honour," replied the man, "we are but poor folk, and have no better place; but my wife is gone out to see if she can get a bed for him."

This was a made-up story, and William, by his countenance, showed he thought it so. Mr. Beaufort having sent his servant for a surgeon, he asked if there was not a chair in the house, in which Henry might be placed, for none was in the room. The man brought in a very old one, and with his assistance Mr. Beaufort lifted him into it. "A carriage knocked him down, your honour," said the man, "but it did not go over him; and I and my comrade took him up. We did not know to whom he belonged." "And where was _you_ at this time?" asked Mr. Beaufort, turning to William. "Oh, Sir," said he, now quite able to speak, "I was looking in at a shop-window, and I did not see the accident; but I saw the men with him in her arms, and saw them bring him here. I told them that I knew who he was, and where he lived, but they would not hear me." "We did not know what he said, your honour," replied the man, with a still more servile air, "and we could not think that such a one as he could tell us any thing about the young gentleman."

William watched every word the man spoke, and, with his eyes flashing fire, he replied: "But _I_ knew what _you_ said, and I believe you understood me, though you pretended not; for you said that you would not attend to what I told you, and that he was a gentleman's son, and that a handsome reward would be offered for him; and you would not let me stay with him, but pushed me out of doors." Mr. Beaufort saw, by the man's countenance, that he understood William, and with a significant look, he said, "You may depend upon it that you shall be _rewarded_, and that all the accommodation the _young gentleman_ has had shall be paid for."

At this moment the surgeon arrived, who pronounced the patient to be in no danger, but that it was necessary for him to be bled. This was immediately done, after which a chair was procured, and the invalid, who already declared himself much better, was taken home, Mr. Beaufort and William walking all the way with the chairmen.

Before they left the house, Mr. Beaufort offered the man half-a-crown:-- "Quite as much as you deserve," said he, "for it is clear, had it been in your power, you would have kept his friends in ignorance of his situation, till they had enquired for him; nor would you have let them know it then, till their anxiety had led them to pay a good price for the information. And as for your wife's being gone to seek a bed for him, I don't believe a word of it." The man began to grumble at the smallness of the sum; he declared he had lost half a day's work by it, and if he had known he should have had such a _small_ matter for it, he would have let him lie there till that time. "I readily believe it," said Mr. Beaufort; "but remember, you are in _my_ power, and if you are at all abusive, I know how to procure a constable. This boy's evidence, or mine either, will not be much in your favour. I know how to reward assistance, but not imposition; and I can distinguish what is _servile_ from civility."

On their getting home, Henry was put to bed, and William sat by him till it was time for him to return to the Asylum; but never did he go towards it with such regret. To have remained with Henry all night would have been the highest gratification he could at that time have had; however, he had the pleasure of leaving him _well_, in comparison to the state he had seen him in, and in the care of a kind friend: and with these thoughts, and the comparison of what his feelings would have been had he not discovered him as he did, he endeavoured to reconcile himself to returning.

The next day he was afraid to ask leave to go out again, as it was not a holiday: but when he was at liberty, he narrowly watched the entrance into the yard, hoping that every person who came into it might be Mr. Beaufort, or some one from his house, from whom he could gain some information respecting Henry. But, alas! no one arrived, and his anxiety increased as the day declined. At length he thought of sending a note to Mr. Beaufort, and getting one of the elder scholars to write it for him, he set forth, with the most affecting simplicity, his uneasiness at not hearing of Henry; he begged his pardon for being thus troublesome; "but," continued he, "I do so want to know how Master Rawlinson is, that if you could tell me he was _well_, it seems as if I should want nothing else."

Mr. Beaufort smiled at his expression; but he could not be angry, except with himself, that he had not thought of letting him know that his friend was recovering very fast; and the next morning Henry was well enough to accompany him to the Asylum, where William had the pleasure of once more beholding him, and _seeing_ him say he felt no ill effects from the accident that had so alarmed him. But the part which he had taken in it, and his letting Mr. Beaufort know into what hands he had fallen, was not easily erased from the mind of Henry, and he expressed his sense of it in strong terms. "The Asylum," said he, "has been an advantage to _me_, for if William had not been educated there, I should have had no one to speak for me when I was senseless, and no one would have known to whom I belonged." "Did I not say, your beneficence would not go unrewarded?" said Mr. Beaufort, exultingly; "and if you never meet with a similar occurrence, _this_ has been sufficient to convince you that such a way of disposing of your money has not been useless."

And _thus_, I hope, will some of my readers think, and, as far as is in their power, contribute their little share towards the support of such an institution. Let them reflect, that though such a circumstance as I have described may never happen, yet the enabling these poor children to understand, and be understood; the relieving their parents from the anxiety they must feel on their account, while in the helpless state their misfortune places them in; as well as removing what they themselves would have felt, on being all their lives useless and a burden to others, are no mean advantages: and, to some minds, these would be more powerful inducements, than the chance of its being a benefit to themselves.

On his return home, Henry related this adventure to his old friend and nurse, Mrs. Goldsmith, with the most grateful sensations; who, in her turn, rejoiced that her son had been of such service to one whom she so loved. Caroline received equal pleasure on hearing of her brother's escape; and from this time not only the annual gift of the young folk to the charity was increased, but that of their parents also.

William was always considered as more peculiarly their charge, and each time he came home, while in the school, he was well clothed by Mrs. Rawlinson, in remembrance of the service he had done her son. All their interest was also exerted to get his sister Lucy into the Asylum, who, from the instructions he had given her when at home in the vacations, was much forwarder in her education when she went there, than he was; and at her return from it, she was able to get her living by needlework. Most of her employment is in Mrs. Rawlinson's family, and those to whom she recommends her. William works as a journeyman cabinet-maker and upholsterer, having now perfectly learned the trade; and is enabled to add greatly to the comforts of his family, as well as procure for himself every necessary of life. Jacob Goodyer also set up the trade of shoe-making when he returned home, and, as his delighted father had said, was employed by the whole parish. These young men retain a particular friendship for each other; and no pleasing occurrence which happens to one, is half so gratifying, if not shared by the other. The part which they take in each other's feelings, can only be compared to that interest, which men, belonging to the same society, feel for each other in a distant country, where, though they may meet with attention and kindness from the inhabitants of it, they are still considered as strangers, and the union among themselves is strengthened by it.

His youngest brother has a particular claim to William's attention; and Mr. Beaufort, who has by no means forsaken the family, promises to use his interest in assisting him, as he already has his brother and sister; but so many are the candidates on the list at present, whose circumstances are still more distressing[A], that unless the fund increases so as to admit a larger number, Mrs. Goldsmith herself can hardly wish his success, when she reflects what must be the feelings of many of those mothers, who have travelled more than once or twice to town with their children, and received the severe disappointment of their not being admitted from want of room. Such, the author knows, has been the case of many; and again she recommends it to her readers to consider whether it is not in their power to add a small sum--if ever so little, _that_ willingly, and regularly bestowed, might at least save _one_ of these anxious mothers another disappointment. Would every one who reads this book, but ask their acquaintance to join their little to their own, (supposing it was only what they would spend one morning in the week at the pastry-cook's,) this added together would make no inconsiderable sum in the list of donations; and a lasting benefit would accrue to their unfortunate fellow-creatures of the same age, and with the same feelings as themselves, and who, like them, have to pass through this world, perhaps to spend many years in it. But, alas! unless the advantage of this charity be extended to them, these years must be spent in sorrow, or unmeaning cheerfulness, and without the means of improvement, either to the mind or body.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] See the list at the end, copied from the account of this charity.

EXTRACT FROM THE ACCOUNT OF THE CHARITY, IN 1818.

"In order to acquaint the public with the unfortunate condition of these mute supplicants of benevolence, a few of the cases now in the Asylum are subjoined.

"Catherine Griffith, father an ironmonger, with nine children.

"William Jones, father a labourer, with four children; two deaf and dumb.

"John Clucas, mother a widow, with seven children.

"Ann Byford, mother a widow and washerwoman, with three children; one a cripple.

"Thomas Ryley, father a collier, with six children; two deaf and dumb.

"Thomas Pricket, father a small farmer, with six children; two deaf and dumb.

"Elizabeth Redhead, one of seven orphan children.

"Eliza Hemsley, father a watch-maker, with six children.

"Ambrose Davis, father a journeyman cotton-spinner, with eight children.

"Ann Elizabeth Caulfield, father a music engraver, with eight children; two deaf and dumb.

"Jane Minter, father a baker, with six children; two deaf and dumb.

"Martha Pearce, mother a poor spinner, with two children; both deaf and dumb.

"Elizabeth Bright, father a lime-burner, with nine children.

"William Arnold, mother a widow in great poverty, with four children.

"Robert Smith, parents poor, with three children; two deaf and dumb.

"Ann Jones, father a poor carpenter, with two children; both deaf and dumb.

"Wharton Rye, father a mariner, with two children; both deaf and dumb.

"W. E. Cherry, mother a widow, with five children; two deaf and dumb."

Darton, Harvey, and Co. Printers, Gracechurch-street.

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Transcriber's note:

Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible.

The following is a list of changes made to the original.
The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.

Smiles once once more appeared in
Smiles once more appeared in

pressing an invitation. The place
so pressing an invitation. The place

have, for him to go," said the kind-hearted-boy;
have, for him to go," said the kind-hearted boy;

speak at last?" Well, if I lose some
speak at last? Well, if I lose some

taken great care of of the young gentleman,
taken great care of the young gentleman,