Chapter II: Part 2

In their way home, the young folk entertained Mr. _Graves_ with an account of their days amusement, and bestowed great praise on _Fanny_’s good-nature, at the same time that they blamed the haughty manners of Miss _Lofty_ and her companions. “Your observations, my dear children,” replied their grandfather, “give me the highest pleasure, as there is nothing more truly contemptable than that pride which arises from the possession of wealth and finery. The poor are a more useful set of people than the rich; since to their industry we must owe all those distinctions that bestow the conveniences and luxuries of life. And though the difference of station was appointed for the wisest ends; yet, it is our duty to behave with kindness to our inferiors, and not subject them to unnecessary mortifications. A prudent person will always endeavour to keep such company as may suit his rank, because it is an error to associate only with those beneath us, as we cannot learn from them such qualifications which are essential to be known; but a _good_ mind will at all times pay a tender regard to the feelings of those in poverty and distress, because it is an act of cruelty and oppression to insult any who are in circumstances less happy than ourselves. Instead, therefore, of being _proud_ on account of your family and fortune, you should be thankful to Providence that you will have it in your power to assist others; and remember, that the higher your rank, and the greater share of wealth you may possess, so much the more it is necessary to set a good example; as God will expect more from you in consequence of such advantages, than from those who by having fewer opportunities of instruction, are not so well acquainted with their duty. Every incident, my dears, may afford you some useful lesson, if you accustom yourselves to reflect seriously; and this afternoon has taught you by experience, that the benefit of a good education, the finery of dress, and the distinction of noble connections, are altogether insufficient to engage your love or respect; while the superior charms of good-nature and good sense have in the humble _Fanny_ found means to win your regard. Remember then, for the future to cultivate in yourselves the internal graces of a generous disposition; and let the pride and folly of Miss _Lofty_ and Master _Tradewell_, be a warning to you to shun their errors. Every degree of grandeur and ostentation can be but comparative. If _you_ despise the poverty of _Fanny_, or the inferior fortune of your acquaintance _Sam Ivy_; Sir _Thomas Young_, or your school-fellow Lord _Newson_, may look down upon _you_ with equal contempt; because they have already each a title to boast, and have larger estates to expect than yourself: and as you would dislike to be treated with disdain by _them_, remember others have equal sensibility: and always judge by your own feelings, what is the course of action you should pursue; since, to _do_ as we would be _done_ by, is a rule of the greatest importance in life. Master _Tradewell_ could but ill bear the scorn with which Miss _Lofty_ treated a mercantile employment, though he had joined in her haughty behaviour to _Fanny Mopwell_. And those who are most ready to give offence to others, can in general the least submit to such insolence themselves; because, knowing their own want of more valuable endowments, and thinking such a vain superiority of the highest consequence, they are mortified in proportion to their pride, and suffer the just punishment of their arrogance in the folly which causes their distress.” _William_ thanked his grandfather for his good advice, to which they had all listened with great attention; and then retired to bed, with the satisfaction of having behaved well during the course of the day. As soon as he conveniently could the next morning, he went into his sister’s room, and taking _Fanny_’s book from his pocket, they both sat down in one chair, with his arm round her neck; and began to read the continuation of the story as follows:

“Mr. _Active_ and his family were now left exposed to the greatest distress. One of his legs had been terribly burnt in getting his daughters down stairs; and the loss of their house and furniture it was out of their power ever to repair. Several of the neighbours were so kind as to give them a few cloaths for the present; and the gentlemen of the parish, out of regard to his merit, made a subscription for him, and gave him some money for his immediate relief. With this assistance they took as cheap a lodging as they could procure; but were obliged to live very differently from their usual manner. The poor man, though he went out to work, could earn but little, his leg growing worse for want of proper assistance; and the fright of the fire had had such an effect on his wife, that she never was well after. In this state of poverty the money which had been given them was soon spent; and though many persons had pitied them at the time, yet their sufferings were now forgot, and nobody thought any more about them. _Nanny_ and _Susan_, though their undutiful behaviour had been the cause of all the misfortunes which they suffered, still continued to be ill-tempered and untractable. They were discontented with their situation, and grumbled at the hardship to which they were reduced; and though their mother had got some work to employ them, yet they were so idle that they neglected to do it, notwithstanding they were starving for want. Poor _Kate_, indeed, did what she could; and though she was but young, proved of great assistance to her mother. “I will do all I am able,” she would say, “and do not grieve, for in time we shall have more money I hope.” And when she saw there was but little for dinner, she would not eat what she wanted, in order to leave it for her parents. Sometimes she would talk to her sisters, and advise them to behave better. “I am sure,” she has said, “we owe a great deal to our father and mother for their care; and as they have worked hard for _us_, it is but reasonable that we in our turn should try to support _them_.” The two elder sisters were at length provided for, by getting into place, and going to service. _Nanny_ was taken by a grocer’s wife to nurse a young child and go of her errands, and whatever else she was capable of doing: and _Susan_ went to a farmers in the neighbourhood as an assistant in the family. It fell to her lot to carry milk every morning to a gentleman who lived near the place where her sister was settled; and she used frequently to meet her there, and stay and talk to her a little. They pursued this custom for some time without any bad intention; but one day, as the place where they stood happened to be close to a pastry-cook’s shop, they were tempted by the sight of some hot buns to go in and buy one between them. They found the taste so delicious, that they would gladly have eaten more; but considering the cost would be what they could not well afford, they parted for that time, with a mutual agreement to meet the next day at the same house, and renew their treat.

“_Nanny_’s business would not permit her to be there so early as her sister, who after having waited at the door for some time, entered the shop by herself, and bought a penny custard, which she had just finished eating, when _Susan_ arrived, and with much pleasure informed her, that a gentleman had given her a shilling for her trouble in waiting upon him during his stay at her Master’s; and she wanted to consult her in what manner she should lay it out. “Suppose,” added she, “I should carry it to my mother, it is the first money I have had, and she is in great distress?” “Why, yes,” replied _Susan_, “they do want money at home; and so after you have eaten one of these plum-cakes let us go: I would have bought one before had I been able to pay for it.” “Well! but,” returned _Nanny_, “then I must change the shilling, and that will be a pity: to carry only eleven-pence will not look half so well, and we had better go without our cakes: we have both had a good dinner, and perhaps they have not fared so well: I think it would be kinder to let them have it.” So saying, she was going to leave the shop, when the pastry-cook’s boy passed by her with a tray full of hot cheesecakes. They smelt so delicious, that _Nanny_ wished very much to taste them; and her sister joining in the same inclination, added, “we shall often have a _shilling_ given us now we are in service: it is but a trifle! what would a shilling buy? My mother will not _expect_ it; and therefore will not be hurt, or vexed about it: come, come, do not stand thinking any longer.” “To be sure they are very nice,” said _Nanny_, and took up one in her hand.—It broke!—What was to be done? It must be paid for; and when the shilling was once changed, she argued that it would look unhandsome to carry such a trifle to her parents.—Weak, silly girls! They spent the whole of it before they left the shop.

“_Kate_, in the mean time, continued with her parents, whose misfortunes encreased every day. Mr. _Active_ fell from a ladder and broke one of his arms, and was by this accident reduced to a starving condition. His wife was attacked by a violent fever, of which she would not inform her daughters, for fear they should take the infection. These distresses in a few weeks, as they were both unable to work, reduced them to the most wretched state of poverty; and on the day that their two daughters were feasting, as has been related, they were almost expiring with hunger. Poor _Kate_, with weeping eyes, beheld them both. She had _nothing_ to give them, and had exhausted her strength in nursing and attending them. Her mother lay on her wretched bed, and her melancholy father with his right arm in a sling sat beside her. “I will get them something!” said _Kate_ to herself. Her father told her it was dinner time. “Bring what there is, my good child, for your mother.” She went to their little cupboard.—Alas, it was empty! Not a crumb remained! She had wiped it clean in the morning, and those scraps had been her only breakfast. “Is there _nothing_, my child?” added he, and he looked at his wife, stroaked his left hand across his eyes, but not quick enough to prevent the tears which dropped upon the sling that supported his right. “I will fetch something,” said _Kate_; and was hastening to the door. “Alas!” replied he, sobbing with distress, “my _last_ farthing was spent yesterday.” She went out, however. “I will _beg_,” said she to herself, but I will procure them something.” She stood in the street a few moments, not knowing what to do. At last she ran as fast as her weakness would permit (for she was beginning to be ill with the same fever which had attacked her mother.) She ran till she reached the grocer’s. She enquired for her sister, but she was not at home. She begged them to give her a bit of bread; but the men in the shop who did not know her, accused her with being a beggar and a thief; and would not believe that _Nanny_ was her relation. They threatened to send her to the house of correction, and turned her disgracefully out of doors.

Poor _Kate_ wept most bitterly at this treatment. She was very timid and had not courage to reply, but wandered back again in deeper affliction than before. As she drew near home, she felt rather sick; and as she had scarcely eaten any thing for several days, she much wished for something to appease her hunger. A baker’s shop was at hand, and she determined to go in and beg them to give her a roll. But she saw nobody to apply to. She called several times, but no one answered. Loaves of bread, of all sizes, stood on the counter before her. “Shall I take one?” said she: “I am quite unobserved.” “But is it _right_?” said she again to herself. “Shall I do a _wrong_ thing only because I am not _seen_?”—She walked away. “Shall I go back,” once more she added, “to my poor father and mother, and have _nothing_ for them?”—She sat down upon the threshold and wept. “It is better to _starve_,” at length she exclaimed, “it is better to _starve_ than be _wicked_!” and she walked away. A gentleman was riding by in a chaise, and the wind blew off his hat. She ran, picked it up, and gave it to him; and he tossed her a half-penny for her trouble. She took it up with gratitude; and as she ran back to the bakers, she repeated aloud to herself, “It is better to be _honest than to steal_.” The owner of the shop was now returned. She told her distressful tale, and he gave her a stale penny loaf for her money. With what joy did the poor girl return to her parents.—“Was she not happier than if she had eaten an _hundred cheesecakes_?—In the afternoon _Nanny_ had leave to visit her mother. She blushed when she saw them, and recollected how she had spent her shilling.”—

So far went the story, when _William_, to his great disappointment, perceived he had left the rest behind him. The cover of the little book was torn, and the leaves were fastened together with a pin, which had dropped out; and _Fanny_ in giving it him when they were called to tea, had, without knowing it, kept back the rest.

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.

The distressed _Sedley_ had nothing left, except a silver medal which his grandfather had given him that morning, and told him to keep it for his sake. He took it from his pocket, looked at it, and bursting into tears, exclaimed, “No! not even to save me from _prison_ would I part from this.”—A poor chimney-sweeper, who had come to see the merriment of the fair, and who watched the event of the uproar which this affray had occasioned, recollecting the features of _William_ as he turned his head with the eagerness of despair, knocked his brush and shovel together, and feeling in the tatters of his waistcoat, produced a shilling. “Will this help you, master,” said he: “I took it to-day for sweeping Squire _Nicely_’s chimney; but you shall have it, be the consequence what it will.”——_William_’s conscience smote him.——“I would not change my half-guinea for thee, _Tony_”—and the tears trickled down his blushing and repentant cheek.—The man insisted on having the medal; but _William_ would not consent. For a long time he refused, till at length it growing late, he was terrified with apprehension, and his companions declared they would stay no longer. So overcome by their importunity, he yielded it up, thanked _Tony_ for his kindness, which he promised to repay the next day, and with a melancholy countenance accepted his discharge, and went back to Captain _Fairform_’s.

As they did not chuse to return directly from the village, they were obliged to go a farther away about; so that it was near the dusk of the evening when they reached home. _Harry_ told a plausible tale to excuse their stay, and said, “they had met with their two play-fellows, and been walking with them.” Young _Sedley_ sat in silent vexation without uttering a syllable, and soon after took his leave, and returned to his father’s.

As he drew nigh the gate, he began weeping afresh; and instead of the pleasure and alacrity with which he usually entered; and the joy which he always felt at meeting with his friends, he crept softly along, oppressed with the consciousness of having acted _wrong_; and finding the coach gates open, sneaked unobserved into the house. He stood for some time in the hall, wanting the courage to meet his assembled friends; till hearing his grandfather’s voice, he listened to know what he was saying. Mr. _Graves_ was speaking to little _Bob_. “Yes,” said he, “I have given your brother and sister a medal exactly like that; and now I shall see (_for my sake_) which of you will keep it the longest.” To express what the poor fellow felt at that moment, is almost impossible. He ran up into his own apartment, and throwing himself with his face upon the bed, sobbed out, “What shall I do? What can I say?” At length after weeping some time, he determined, as he really felt a violent head-ache, to plead that as an excuse, and to go to-bed immediately. With this resolution he composed his countenance as well as he could, and slowly walked into the parlour. His brother, with that fondness which he always expressed, directly brought the present Mr. _Graves_ had given him, and jumping as he spoke, pressed _William_’s arm, and looking up in his face, “Is it not a _nice_ medal?” said he, “Let me look at your’s, to see if they are _exactly_ alike.”—The poor boy was covered with blushes; and as _Robert_ repeated his question, he peevishly replied, “I have not got it about me.” He then mentioned the pain in his head, and wished his friends good night.—The kind concern which they expressed for his indisposition, added greatly to his uneasiness. “How little,” said he, “do I deserve their tenderness! and how unworthy do I feel of their solicitude! If they knew in what manner I have behaved out of their sight, they would think me deserving of punishment and contempt. How will _they_ be able to rely upon me, when I cannot depend upon _myself_? I _knew_ it was wrong to go with _Fairform_, yet I went:—and now all these troubles are the consequence of one bad action. I think I will never more be persuaded to do what is not strictly right.”—Such was his firm resolution at that instant; but though his heart was noble, generous, and open to conviction, it was _weak_ in the moment of temptation. He wanted _resolution_ to complete his character; for with many virtues, and an excellent disposition, he was easily persuaded to act contrary to his judgment. Hence he was frequently seduced by his companions into such errors as gave him lasting cause for repentance. In the present instance his regret for his fault was sincere. He wept till he fell asleep; and his first thoughts in the morning were an earnest wish that he had returned to school. “All the pleasure I have felt on this addition to my holidays, does not pay me for my present pain; since nothing,” said he, “is so terrible as a guilty conscience!”

Who now would have imagined, that under the sense of this conviction and suffering, from _one_ deviation, he would directly have sunk into another of a worse kind?—With a melancholy countenance he left his room, and was going through the hall into the garden, when _Harry Fairform_ entered at the opposite door, and joining him, they walked out together.

“Why you look still more pitiable,” said his visitor, “than when we parted last night: surely your old square-toes did not give you a drubbing! I came on purpose to know how you came off after the loss of your money?” “A drubbing!” returned _William_ with indignation: “no indeed! neither my father or grandfather ever beat me in their lives: I am not afraid of _that_, I assure you. At present they do not know how much I am to blame; but I would give any thing in the world that I had not gone with you to the fair.” “Why then, _Sedley_,” replied his companion, “you are a greater fool than I thought you. My father is pretty free with his horse-whip; and when he finds out that I have disobeyed him, he makes me feel what he calls _military discipline_, till I can neither sit, stand, or go; but had I nothing more to fear than one of old _Graves_’s mumbling preachments, it would be a great while before I should look thus dismal.” “For shame!” exclaimed _Sedley_, who loved his grandfather to the highest degree, “for shame! do not utter such sentiments: if you can only be governed by a _horse-whip_, you _deserve_ to feel its strokes: but I would have you know, that I scorn to be kept within bounds merely by the fear of punishment. I wish my friends to _depend_ upon me in their _absence_, as well as if they could _see_ all my actions; and it is from the consciousness of having abused their confidence, that my looks shew that sorrow which you so much ridicule. The loss of that _medal_ too,” added he, bursting into tears, “which my grandfather gave me to keep for his sake, what must he think of my _affection_, when he knows on what occasion I parted with it?”

_Fairform_ in vain used every argument to afford him consolation; his distress encreased as the hour of breakfast approached; and neither ridicule or advice had the power to render him composed. When just as they were returning to the house, _Harry_ stopped, and in the middle of the gravel-walk picked up little _Bob_’s medal, which he had a few minutes before dropped from his coat-pocket, in taking out his handkerchief. “Here,” said he, his eyes sparkling with pleasure; “now I hope you will dry your tears: take this, and have no further dread of detection.”—_William_ stretched forth his hand in a transport of delight; but immediately recollecting himself, “It is not mine,” said he: “_O that it were!_ I dare say my brother has lost it.” “And will you not take it then!” exclaimed the astonished _Fairform_: “What a ridiculous scruple is this! If _Bob has_ lost it, it is but a piece of _negligence_; and no creature need be acquainted that you have found it; as they are exactly alike you cannot be discovered; and only think how angry they will be, if they know all the circumstances of our last night’s frolick.”——Poor _Sedley_ paused—every reproach which he deserved, and the reproof which he dreaded, rose in sad prospect to his mind. _Harry_’s persuasions seconded his inclination, and encreased his fears. The moment was critical to his virtue. Honor forbad him to do such a base action, while his apprehension of his friend’s displeasure inclined him to run the hazard of _future_ remorse to escape from _present_ shame. The struggle of his mind was great, and it ended nobly for a moment.—“No!” said he with firmness, “I have suffered enough already from doing wrong, I will not be so ungenerous as to injure my brother, and deceive my friends: I will trust to my grandfather’s indulgence: I will honestly confess the whole truth, and let my sorrow expiate my fault.” “For pity’s sake,” returned _Fairform_, “do not be so rash: if you have no regard for yourself have some consideration for me. You agreed to be of our party, and now you will involve me in distress. If you tell the whole to Mr. _Graves_, he will say, that I seduced you to do what you would not otherwise have been guilty of, and will prevent our meeting in future. I know his rigid notions of obedience: he will tell my father, and his punishments are so severe, that my heart sickens at the thought—Cruel, unkind _Sedley_! I came on purpose to give _you_ comfort, and you will heap these evils upon me in return. I may have acted wrong last night; but I am sure I would not be thus unfriendly to you.”

This argument was directly suited to the generosity of _William_’s disposition. He could not bear to give pain to another. To make his companion suffer through _his_ means, seemed to him so mean and cowardly, that all the more powerful reasons of truth and virtue were considered as inferior to this one consideration; while from motives of the highest good-nature, by viewing the affair in a false light, he at length yielded to _Fairform_’s persuasions; and what no temptation on his _own_ account could effect, the solicitude for _Harry_’s safety induced him to comply with.—A striking lesson to young persons, of the danger which must arise from bad company; and an alarming caution to all: since without _prudence_ and _resolution_ a good disposition may be led into the commission of evil, even when they intend to do right.—For a long time they debated on the subject; till at length overcome by his companion’s entreaties, he put the medal in his pocket, and added, “I shall keep this as a monument of my _folly_, in first yielding against my conscience to go with you to the fair: _that_ has been the foundation of every inconvenience, and now I see not _where_ the evil will _stop_. Let this warn _you, Harry_, for the future, that however you may escape detection, every disobedience will bring its own punishment.”—

A repeated call to breakfast now obliged them to go in. Young _Fairform_ paid his compliments with that grace which distinguished him upon all occasions, and without embarrassment sat down by Mr. _Sedley_. _William_ placed himself in the windowseat, and could scarcely answer the enquiries which were put to him about his health. He had lost the confidence of an innocent mind; and his behaviour was confused, bashful, and silent. _Harry_ soon took his leave, and Mr. _Graves_ invited his grandson to take a walk. Master _Sedley_ would at that time have willingly been excused; but having no reason which he could urge against it, he prepared to go: when just as they were ready to set off, little _Bob_ came out of the garden in great distress, saying, “he did not know _how_, or _where_; but he had lost his medal!”—_William_ coloured like crimson!—He made him no answer, but turning round, stooped down at the same time, as if looking for something.—“O! there is a good boy, do look for it,” said _Bob_: “you are very kind, but I do not think I lost it here: I know I had it this morning.” “You have not kept it long for my sake,” said his grandfather: “I dare say _William_ and _Nancy_ can both shew theirs.”—Miss _Sedley_ pulled hers from her pocket. Her brother was going to do the same, but his conscience would not let him draw forth his hand. He held the medal between his finger and thumb, but did not dare to bring it out to view.—“Do not cry, _Bob_” said Mr. _Graves_, “you are a little boy, and are not used to be entrusted with money: I will get you another, and your brother shall take care of it. He loves me so well, that I dare say he will be able to produce his, when I am dead and gone.”—_William_ could not answer—but the tears trickled down his cheeks.—His grandfather embracing him, told him not to be concerned. “I am an old man, my dear boy, and cannot expect to live many years longer; but do not grieve for that circumstance: when you look at the medal which I gave you, though but a trifle in itself, let it remind you how much I loved you, and how earnestly I wished to promote your happiness. Remember, my child, that you can never be comfortable, unless you have a clear conscience; and let every testimony of your friends affection to you, be a remembrance to act with honor, generosity, and integrity.”

_Sedley_ made no reply, but by his sobs. The caresses of Mr. _Graves_ wounded him more than the keenest reproaches. He would have confessed all, but the fear of drawing _Fairform_ into disgrace kept him silent; and he set forward on his walk with an uneasiness too great to be described. In vain did his venerable companion endeavour to engage him in conversation: he was too conscious of deserving blame to join with his usual freedom and gaiety. At length, as they ascended to a rising ground which opened to a very extensive prospect, Mr. _Graves_, pointing to the village where _William_ had lately been in search of his chimney-sweeper acquaintance, enquired, “When he had seen him? and whether he had yet fulfilled his intention of giving him any money?”—This question was too important to admit of immediate answer: if he told _when_, he might be asked _where_ he had met him? and that would amount to a confession of all he had taken such pains to conceal. He hesitated for some time, till his grandfather observing his confusion, took his hand, and with tender seriousness thus addressed him.—“I have seen with uneasiness, my dear boy, that some secret burthens your mind, nor do I wish for your confidence, unless you can _willingly_ repose it in my affection. Perhaps I may be able to advise you—speak your difficulties, and let not mistrust or anxiety overspread your features.” “I do not deserve,” said the repentant _Sedley_, “that you should treat me thus kindly; nor am I at liberty to tell you the subject which distresses my heart. Another is concerned, or greatly as I have been to blame, I would this moment confess it all.” “You best know, my love,” returned Mr. _Graves_, “whether you have made any promise which honor would oblige you to keep sacred; but remember, that you may be drawn into guilt, by a too steady adherence to a bad cause; and be assured, that person cannot be your real friend, who would engage you to conceal from your parents, what you think they ought to be acquainted with.”—A pause now ensued, and _William_ after debating some time, was going to confess the whole: when a man with a little girl came in sight; whom upon a nearer view, they discovered to be _Fanny Mopwell_. They immediately renewed their acquaintance; and she informed them that she had come the morning before on a visit to her uncle, who kept a little shop in the village of _Boxley_, and had invited her to be present at the fair. _William_, with his grandfather’s leave, asked her to pass the day with him; and as Mr. _Sedley_’s family was well known in that part of the country, her uncle who was with her, consented to her going.

Our young gentleman was much rejoiced at having a companion whose presence might interrupt any farther conversation; though to take such a walk with his grandfather was at any other season what he most wished for. At their return he presented _Fanny_ to his mother and sister, who both received her with great pleasure. As for little _Bob_ he sat weeping in the window, sucking the corner of his pockethandkerchief, and now and then gently touching a fly on the glass of the window, to see it walk from place to place.——Again, _William_ felt the stings of remorse. He went out into the garden, and taking the pocket-piece once more in his hand, determined to restore it to its right owner. “My brother shall not be thus distressed for my crimes: I will not be so base, let the event be what it may.” With this resolution he again rejoined the company; and going up to master _Robert_, said with a smile, “Will this cheer your spirits? I have found your treasure.” _Bob_ eagerly jumped down to take it, and throwing his arms round his brother’s neck, held him almost double to receive his caresses. “Where did you find it? said he. Thank you! thank you a thousand times!”

_William_’s delight was damped with the recollection of how little he deserved his acknowledgments.—A bad action interrupts the enjoyment of every satisfaction, and transforms all our pleasure into pain.—He was then obliged to give an account of the place where he had discovered it; but carefully concealed how long it had been in his possession; leaving every one to imagine he had but just picked it up. His feelings, however, on the occasion were so uncomfortable, that he retired to his own apartment to think of the occasion in solitude. _Bob_, in the mean time, skipping and jumping about with the lighthearted pleasure of innocence, carried his dear medal to _Fanny Mopwell_, desiring her to observe its beauties, and declaring he would always carefully guard it for the future. The girl looked at it some time, and then said, “she had one just like it, which a man of her uncle’s acquaintance had given her that morning;” and taking it out of a little iron box which she had bought at the fair, said, “it was too large to go in a red striped one in which she kept all the rest of her money.”

Mr. _Graves_ begged he might see it, as those he had given his grand-children were of great age, though they had been so well preserved, and he thought were extremely scarce. So laying it down on the table while he put on his spectacles, he afterwards took it to the window, and examined it very minutely; and turning round, begged _Fanny_ would tell him if she knew how the man had gotten it. _Fanny_ replied, “she had heard him say, he received it the night before from a saucy boy who was going to steal a book from his stall; but that she knew nothing more about it.” The old gentleman thanked her, and went out of the room. He walked up stairs, and going into his grandson’s chamber, found him writing at his bureau.—“I do not wish to interrupt you, my dear,” said he, “but pray lend me your medal for a moment, as I want to compare it with one I have in my hand.”——_Sedley_’s cheeks were the colour of crimson: he was too honest to tell a falsehood; but his confusion left him not a word to say.—“I-I-I,” stammered he out, “I-I-I have not”—and burst into tears. “_William!_” said his grandfather gravely, “Tell me the truth.”—He could make no answer for some time but by his sobs, till the question being again repeated, he took Mr. _Graves_ by the hand, and in an agony of grief proceeded as follows: