LETTER XXIII.
Young Grandison to his Father.
I am just returned, my dear father, from visiting poor Mr. Wilson. Emilia has written my mother an account of the dreadful accident which happened last night; and I wish, ardently wish, to alleviate the distress I could scarcely behold without tears—indeed I believe I should have wept, if I had not been full of a plan, which darted into my head, when I heard the grey-headed old man lament the disaster, which, in the course of one night, swept away the hard-earned fruits of many toiling years. To be plunged into poverty, said he, when my strength faileth me, and even the sweat of my brow will not procure the necessaries of life—is sad. And so it is; now I will tell you what I have thought of. You know my uncle left me five thousand pounds—I think it a great fortune, and I can surely spare two hundred to help Mr. Wilson out of his extreme distress; that sum would be sufficient to stock another farm. I shall be rich enough, and the more so, as you are so good as to let the interest accumulate. I beg, Sir, you will not refuse my humble request—I shall have more satisfaction in relieving this unfortunate man, than ever my two hundred pounds can give. To rescue from poverty an industrious man and his family, what a blessing! In this respect, let me be like my father, who is himself so benevolent,—who has taught me to be compassionate. Were you but here, I would throw myself at your feet, and—but it is enough, you will judge if my request merits your attention; my duty is submission, and I know I need not try to persuade you—you will at once do what appears to you right.