Part 4

“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.”—