"A carriageknocked him down, your honour," said the man, "but it did not go overhim; and I and my comrade took him up. We did not know to whom hebelonged." "And where was _you_ at this time?" asked Mr. Beaufort,turning to William. "Oh, Sir," said he, now quite able to speak, "I waslooking in at a shop-window, and I did not see the accident; but I sawthe men with him in her arms, and saw them bring him here. I told themthat 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 astill more servile air, "and we could not think that such a one as hecould tell us any thing about the young gentleman."
William watched every word the man spoke, and, with his eyes flashingfire, he replied: "But _I_ knew what _you_ said, and I believe youunderstood me, though you pretended not; for you said that you would notattend to what I told you, and that he was a gentleman's son, and that ahandsome reward would be offered for him; and you would not let me staywith him, but pushed me out of doors." Mr. Beaufort saw, by the man'scountenance, that he understood William, and with a significant look, hesaid, "You may depend upon it that you shall be _rewarded_, and that allthe accommodation the _young gentleman_ has had shall be paid for."
At this moment the surgeon arrived, who pronounced the patient to be inno danger, but that it was necessary for him to be bled. This wasimmediately done, after which a chair was procured, and the invalid, whoalready declared himself much better, was taken home, Mr. Beaufort andWilliam 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, hadit been in your power, you would have kept his friends in ignoranceof his situation, till they had enquired for him; nor would youhave let them know it then, till their anxiety had led them to paya good price for the information. And as for your wife's being gone toseek a bed for him, I don't believe a word of it." The man began togrumble at the smallness of the sum; he declared he had lost half aday'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. "Ireadily 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. Iknow how to reward assistance, but not imposition; and I can distinguishwhat is _servile_ from civility."
On their getting home, Henry was put to bed, and William sat by him tillit was time for him to return to the Asylum; but never did he go towardsit with such regret. To have remained with Henry all night would havebeen the highest gratification he could at that time have had; however,he had the pleasure of leaving him _well_, in comparison to the state hehad seen him in, and in the care of a kind friend: and with thesethoughts, and the comparison of what his feelings would have been had henot discovered him as he did, he endeavoured to reconcile himself toreturning.
The next day he was afraid to ask leave to go out again, as it was not aholiday: but when he was at liberty, he narrowly watched the entranceinto 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 someinformation respecting Henry. But, alas! no one arrived, and his anxietyincreased as the day declined. At length he thought of sending a note toMr. Beaufort, and getting one of the elder scholars to write it for him,he set forth, with the most affecting simplicity, his uneasiness at nothearing of Henry; he begged his pardon for being thus troublesome;"but," continued he, "I do so want to know how Master Rawlinson is, thatif you could tell me he was _well_, it seems as if I should want nothingelse."
Mr. Beaufort smiled at his expression; but he could not be angry, exceptwith himself, that he had not thought of letting him know that hisfriend was recovering very fast; and the next morning Henry was wellenough to accompany him to the Asylum, where William had the pleasure ofonce more beholding him, and _seeing_ him say he felt no ill effectsfrom the accident that had so alarmed him. But the part which he hadtaken in it, and his letting Mr. Beaufort know into what hands he hadfallen, was not easily erased from the mind of Henry, and he expressedhis sense of it in strong terms. "The Asylum," said he, "has been anadvantage to _me_, for if William had not been educated there, I shouldhave had no one to speak for me when I was senseless, and no one wouldhave known to whom I belonged." "Did I not say, your beneficence wouldnot go unrewarded?" said Mr. Beaufort, exultingly; "and if you nevermeet with a similar occurrence, _this_ has been sufficient to convinceyou 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 intheir power, contribute their little share towards the support of suchan institution. Let them reflect, that though such a circumstance as Ihave described may never happen, yet the enabling these poor children tounderstand, and be understood; the relieving their parents from theanxiety they must feel on their account, while in the helpless statetheir misfortune places them in; as well as removing what theythemselves would have felt, on being all their lives useless and aburden to others, are no mean advantages: and, to some minds, thesewould be more powerful inducements, than the chance of its being abenefit to themselves.
On his return home, Henry related this adventure to his old friend andnurse, Mrs. Goldsmith, with the most grateful sensations; who, in herturn, rejoiced that her son had been of such service to one whom she soloved. Caroline received equal pleasure on hearing of her brother'sescape; and from this time not only the annual gift of the young folk tothe charity was increased, but that of their parents also.
William was always considered as more peculiarly their charge, and eachtime 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 theirinterest 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 whomshe recommends her. William works as a journeyman cabinet-maker andupholsterer, having now perfectly learned the trade; and is enabled toadd greatly to the comforts of his family, as well as procure forhimself every necessary of life. Jacob Goodyer also set up the trade ofshoe-making when he returned home, and, as his delighted father hadsaid, was employed by the whole parish. These young men retain aparticular friendship for each other; and no pleasing occurrence whichhappens to one, is half so gratifying, if not shared by the other. Thepart which they take in each other's feelings, can only be compared tothat interest, which men, belonging to the same society, feel for eachother in a distant country, where, though they may meet with attentionand kindness from the inhabitants of it, they are still considered asstrangers, and the union among themselves is strengthened by it.
His youngest brother has a particular claim to William's attention; andMr. Beaufort, who has by no means forsaken the family, promises to usehis interest in assisting him, as he already has his brother and sister;but so many are the candidates on the list at present, whosecircumstances are still more distressing[A], that unless the fundincreases so as to admit a larger number, Mrs. Goldsmith herself canhardly wish his success, when she reflects what must be the feelings ofmany of those mothers, who have travelled more than once or twice totown with their children, and received the severe disappointment oftheir not being admitted from want of room. Such, the author knows, hasbeen the case of many; and again she recommends it to her readers toconsider whether it is not in their power to add a small sum--if ever solittle, _that_ willingly, and regularly bestowed, might at least save_one_ of these anxious mothers another disappointment. Would every onewho reads this book, but ask their acquaintance to join their little totheir own, (supposing it was only what they would spend one morning inthe week at the pastry-cook's,) this added together would make noinconsiderable sum in the list of donations; and a lasting benef
it wouldaccrue to their unfortunate fellow-creatures of the same age, and withthe same feelings as themselves, and who, like them, have to passthrough this world, perhaps to spend many years in it. But, alas! unlessthe advantage of this charity be extended to them, these years must bespent in sorrow, or unmeaning cheerfulness, and without the means ofimprovement, 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 thesemute supplicants of benevolence, a few of the cases now in the Asylumare subjoined.
"Catherine Griffith, father an ironmonger, with nine