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[Illustration: FRONTISPIECE.

_page 4._

_DEAF & DUMB._

"_Pray come to us when you take your ride._"]


DEAF AND DUMB!

By the Author of
"_The Twin Sisters_," _&c. &c._

   "That good diffus'd may more abundant grow,
   And speech may praise the Power that bids it flow."

   _Cowper._

THIRD EDITION.







London:
Printed for Darton, Harvey, and Darton,
No. 55, Gracechurch-Street.
1818.




PREFACE.


It is hoped the title of the following book will excite attention: how
much more, then, should the unhappy situation of those who are in that
state demand compassion! and it is gratefully acknowledged, that in some
benevolent minds the tide of pity has flowed even to them. An Asylum, on
a plan more and more extensive, as the means of making it so has
increased, has been formed for these _once_ melancholy appellants to
their commiseration, but who are _now_, through their means, enabled
cheerfully to pass through life; and scarcely to feel the deprivation of
those powers, which, were it not for this institution, would have sunk
them into listless apathy, or moody ideotism.

Perhaps the reader is little aware how many of his fellow-creatures are
labouring under this misfortune, and how much the number of those who
cannot, from want of room, or means for their support, be admitted into
the Asylum, exceeds those who have received the benefit of it. Let the
following extract acquaint them with it:--"The unhappy malady which
affects these children is found to exist to a dreadful extent; scarcely
a week passes without some application for admission, and though the
number of pupils has been gradually augmented from six to sixty, it must
be stated (and it is stated with deep concern) that at every election,
the _number of candidates_ exceeds, in a _tenfold proportion_, the
number of vacancies! Such a painful fact makes a most interesting and
powerful appeal to every benevolent mind." Another powerful plea may
also be added: that, after twelve, the age appointed by the committee,
they cannot be admitted. Arrived at these years, any one possessing all
his faculties, (and who has till then been brought up in comparative
ignorance,) finds it difficult to learn. But to these unhappy children,
the difficulty must of necessity be increased; besides the danger there
is that, if till that time, they are taught _nothing_, it will be beyond
the reach of human means to rescue them from the state above described.

The writer of the following pages earnestly appeals to the lively
feelings of youth, (the season of compassion,) to consider these things.
Let them remember, it is for those of their own age that their
assistance is demanded; and who, instead of having to look forward to a
life of activity and usefulness--or that they shall fill up their place
in society beneficially, either to themselves or others, must, without
the improvement afforded them by these means, drag on a miserable
existence--a burden to themselves and all around them. The necessitous
in more advanced life, have, at least, the consolation of thinking every
year that passes brings them nearer to the end of their sorrows; and
_blessed_ are they, if they have a _well-grounded_ hope of happiness in
eternity. Their troubles then are nothing; but these poor children are
not only suffering want at the present, (for it is for the children of
_the poor_ I plead,) but continuing as they are, they have no prospect
of ever raising themselves, by useful industry, above it. And what is
still worse, they are in this state excluded from those _means_ which
are appointed by Divine Wisdom for the instruction of his people, and
which lifts their minds to higher views, and enables them to support
affliction, by acquainting them with another and a better world.




DEAF AND DUMB!


"We are going out in a cart," said Henry Rawlinson, as he jumped down
the steps of the street-door, to meet Mr. Beaufort, a gentleman who was
then on a visit to his father, and who had gained the affections of all
the children he was acquainted with, by his kindness to them. "Dear Mr.
Beaufort, do you know where we are going?" continued he: "to nurse's
house, the woman who nursed me; we are to spend the whole day there."
Then taking his hand, he begged him to accompany him into the yard, to
see the vehicle that was to convey them: "It is such a very nice cart,"
said he, "it is open at the top: won't it be pleasant to ride in it?"
"Very pleasant indeed," replied his good friend, smiling to see him so
happy; "and who is to be of the party? I fear there would not be room
for _me_, should _I_ wish to join it," added he, on seeing the neat
little cart they were going in. "Why, I think," replied the little boy,
in a lower tone, "that you would not like to ride with the servants, not
but that they are very good to us. There are Miller, and Sally, and my
sister Caroline, and myself; and nurse's son drives us. Do you think
there will be room for you?" added he, with an enquiring look. "I
believe not," answered Mr. Beaufort; "and besides, my weight, added to
all yours, would be too much for the poor horse. But suppose I ride over
in the course of the day, and see how you get on; and then I can take
you up before me, and we can ride a little way together." "Oh, do, do!"
exclaimed Henry, skipping for joy, "I shall be _so_ glad; and as for the
road, if you don't know it, nurse's son can tell you _that_."

While they were thus settling this pleasurable scheme, the horse and
cart were gone round to the door, and "Master Henry" was loudly called
for. Mr. Beaufort accompanied him back again, and Henry introduced him
to nurse's son, that he might understand the road he was to come to
them. "You _cannot_ mistake it now," said Henry, on hearing it
accurately described; "I hope you'll come."

"What," said Caroline, who was a year or two older than her brother, and
who was already seated in the cart, "does Mr. Beaufort talk of coming to
us? O! pray do, Sir; you cannot think what a pleasant place it is." "I
won't promise," answered the good-natured man, pleased at their
eagerness, "but perhaps I may;" and then kindly assisting the servants
to get up, he had the pleasure of setting off the whole party, rewarded
by their smiles and thanks. "Pray come to us when you take your ride,"
was loudly repeated, both by Caroline and Henry, till they were out of
his sight, and with a look of kindness, he gave them, what they
considered, a nod of assent.

Mr. and Mrs. Rawlinson were not up when their children left the house,
and had not Mr. Beaufort been an early riser, he would have lost the
satisfaction he felt on seeing their happy faces, as it was not quite
six o'clock when they commenced their journey. He had the pleasure of
describing them to their parents, whom he met at breakfast, and they
were equally delighted at the recital. He also mentioned the invitation
he had received to pay them a visit some time in the day, and Mr.
Rawlinson earnestly seconded it: "Do," said he, "for it is just by the
spot on which I wish you to build; and, were I not particularly engaged
this morning, I would accompany you." This was _one_ inducement to Mr.
Beaufort, as he had long talked of building a residence for himself in
that neighbourhood; and the idea of giving the children pleasure was
_another_. He therefore ordered his horse at the usual time, and
determined to comply with their request.

In the mean while, the happy party arrived at nurse Goldsmith's cottage,
highly pleased with their ride and the kind reception they were sure to
meet with. It was between four and five miles from the town, and
situated on the side of a common, part of which belonged to Mr.
Rawlinson's estate, and on which he had formed several plantations of
firs. Before the house was a neat little garden, sheltered from the
north wind by a small coppice of hazel trees, through which ran a
murmuring brook, that supplied the family with water. The good woman,
with all her children, was at the wicket gate to receive her guests; and
all who _could_ speak, expressed pleasure at seeing them. But, alas!
_all_ could not, for two of them were deaf and dumb!

Do my young readers fully consider the extent of this misfortune? and
are they truly sensible of the blessings of speech and hearing? Oh, what
a pity that they should ever misapply the gift of speech, in murmuring
and complaints, because they have not always every thing they wish; or
in that which is still more wrong, speaking of the faults of others, or
in telling untruths.

Having never heard the sound of the human voice, nor indeed any sound at
all, these poor children could not frame their mouths to speak; they
could never add to the pleasure of their parents, by repeating what gave
pleasure to themselves; nor could they speak their wishes, or their
simple thanks, when they were complied with. Let the little ones who
read this tale, reflect upon what it is that makes them in any measure
agreeable to others. Is it not their conversation? and do they not
express themselves, as they think will be most likely to induce their
friends to comply with their request, whenever they have a favour to ask
of them? Alas! those children who labour under the misfortune here
described, have no such power; and many such, I am sorry to add, there
are! What, then, is the reply of the benevolent heart?--"It is our duty
to speak for them, to alleviate their distress, as much as possible,
and, if in our power, to contribute to the removal of it." I hope this
is the language of all my readers. It has been (and I have seen it with
pleasure) that of not a few children, who, on hearing of the Asylum for
those of their own age that are thus unfortunate, where they are taught
to speak, and to understand others, have contributed their small
donations; while some, even by a penny a week, collected from a number,
have, within a few months, added no inconsiderable sum to the fund which
is raised for the support of this charity; and their pleasure is
increased by it, in proportion as the gratification of contributing to
the relief of such distress, is superior to that obtained by toys or
sweetmeats.

Caroline and Henry were soon out of the cart, and greeted with an
affectionate kiss from Mrs. Goldsmith; particularly the latter, who
returned her caresses with equal affection. He then shook hands with his
foster brother, who had been named after him, and began asking after
the health of some rabbits he had left in his care, while Caroline
offered a present she had brought for the eldest girl. She spoke to all
the rest; but William and Lucy, one ten, and the other five years old,
stood on one side. Caroline took the hand of the eldest, and would have
kissed little Lucy, but feared distressing her, as she could not
recollect her former visits to them. The poor mother's eyes bore witness
that she felt her kindness to the unfortunate child: "It is of no use to
tell her who you are, Miss," said she, "or I know she would not be
afraid of so good a friend, for she is not insensible of kindness." A
tear shone in Caroline's eye, as she handed her some sugar-plums and
cakes she had brought in her pocket; and the little girl was the only
one whose pleasure, at that time, was not mixed with regret. She was too
young to feel her situation; and though she often found herself at a
loss to express her meaning, she had not yet observed that others had
not the same difficulty. But this was not the case with William, _he_
severely felt the difference between himself and his brothers, though he
could not understand what made it: he saw their lips move, and he moved
his, unconscious whether he uttered a sound or not. In every other
respect his senses were perfect, and perhaps more keen from this
deficiency. Hardly any thing escaped his notice: he was even more
useful to his mother than any of the rest; and whatever she wanted, he
was the one most likely to find it out, and bring it to her, though he
could not hear her say what it was. Her tears, as on this morning, were
often mingled with her smiles, on observing his affectionate attention;
and a sympathetic feeling would excite the same in him, though he could
not judge from what cause it proceeded. He would wipe his eyes, and kiss
the tears from hers, and then, with his arms around her neck, endeavour
to comfort her with his inarticulate expressions. Happily for him, he
was not conscious that the very attempt added to her distress.

He had this morning seen his mother's face enlivened by a smile, without
any appearance of sorrow, and this was enough to make him happy. He had
also seen his eldest brother preparing the cart to fetch their young
visitors; and his memory, which was very retentive, immediately recurred
to their former visits, in which he had often experienced their
good-nature. Harry, the namesake and foster brother of little Rawlinson,
was one year younger than he, but William had long given up the
seniority, and allowed him to take the lead in all their amusements. On
seeing their guest, he recollected that the rabbits which he had often
fed in Harry's absence, belonged to him, and pointing to the place in
which they were kept, endeavoured to draw him to them. The two Henrys
immediately followed him; and Caroline was as eager to notice the baby
Mrs. Goldsmith held in her arms. This again produced a sigh from the
poor woman: "I am afraid," said she, "that this dear child is as
unfortunate as my poor William and Lucy: it is now nine months old, and
yet it does not seem to know its name. If I speak ever so loud, it does
not turn its head, and I am very much afraid I shall never have the
pleasure of hearing it answer me: only when it sees a thing, does it
seem to notice it! Ah, my poor dear," continued she, "what shall I do
with you?" "Oh, I hope you will not be so unfortunate, Mrs. Goldsmith,"
returned Caroline, and she again kissed the child and called it by its
name. He saw her look of kindness, and smiled at her in return, but the
sound of her voice did not reach him.

The servants, who had by this time unpacked the provision with which
they were loaded, saw there was ground for the poor woman's fears, but
Caroline would fain have persuaded her they were without foundation. The
rest of Mr. Goldsmith's family consisted of the boy who drove them, then
about fourteen; Mary, the eldest girl, two years younger; and Jane, who
was between Harry and little Lucy; a boy still younger, in petticoats;
and the little one in arms: seven in the whole; and three of these, my
young readers, would have been incapable of getting their bread, had it
not been for the Asylum I have spoken of: their parents being _poor_,
and having no means of procuring for them such instruction as would make
them useful, and which is provided for them there.

Master Goldsmith was a day-labourer, and at this time came home for his
breakfast, which his cleanly wife had prepared for him before the
company came: the bread and cheese and cold bacon were on the table when
he entered. The kettle was also boiling, and all the party sat down to
eat their meal together. Master Goldsmith and his eldest boy at one
table, and the children and the maids, with Mrs. Goldsmith, at another.
The little ones, who, on other mornings, had bread and milk for their
breakfast, were on this occasion treated with tea and bread and butter,
as Mrs. Rawlinson had sent enough for all to partake of.

It was pleasing to see the attention which William paid to his sister
Lucy: it seemed as if he considered her as doubly endeared to him, by
their both sharing in the same misfortune; and yet those who noticed it
were at a loss to account for his knowing it.--Nature had taught it him,
and the sorrow of their mother was much alleviated by perceiving it. He
watched every thing that was given to her, and appeared more anxious
that _she_ should have enough, than for himself. When the rest of the
children had had two cups of tea, and hers was not given to her
immediately, he held up one of his fingers, (the way in which his mother
had taught him to distinguish _numbers_,) and pointed to Lucy, as if to
tell her she was neglected. Caroline saw his meaning, and touching his
hand to draw his attention, offered him hers to give to his sister. With
an eye as quick as lightning, he looked to his mother, as if to ask if
that were proper, and seeing her disapprove, he shook his head, and
again pointed to Lucy's cup, which when Miller had once more filled, he
nodded his thanks, and quietly drank what was in his own. His father
also was another object of his attention: he would have carried some tea
to him, had not the good man preferred the more substantial food he was
taking, and by signs made him understand so.

When the breakfast was ended, he and his son went again to their work;
and Mary, after looking in vain to her mother, to introduce the subject
for her, begged Miss Caroline to accept of a squirrel she had been
taming purposely for her: "My brother made the cage, Miss," said she,
"and you will be kind enough to excuse the rough work; but the little
fellow in it, is what I hope you will like." William seemed to know
what she was speaking of; he watched her motions, and when he saw her
bring the cage into the room, he discovered as much pleasure that he had
understood what she intended to do with it, as that Miss Rawlinson
should have it. He took some nuts out of his pocket, and showed her
those were what it was to eat; and then running to his mother, with a
look which she as perfectly understood as if he had spoken to her, asked
if she were not glad Miss Rawlinson was going to have it. But little
Lucy, who had been often entertained by the squirrel's tricks, was not
so willing it should be parted with: she thought something was going to
be done with it, and, as well as she could, expressed her enquiries and
dissatisfaction. William saw her distress, and by motions, understood
only by themselves, made her know it was what _he_ approved of, and if
so, he concluded she could have no objection. In this conclusion he was
right, for the countenance of Lucy immediately cleared up, and she
appeared perfectly content.

After this, all the young ones, with Miller and Sally to take care of
them, went to the copse to search for nuts; while Mrs. Goldsmith and her
daughter staid within, to put away what had been used at breakfast, and
to prepare the dinner. In the party out of doors, William was the most
active: he climbed the trees, and not being interrupted by the
conversation of the others, his whole attention was employed in
gathering nuts for Miss Rawlinson and her brother, except that every now
and then a glance was directed towards Lucy, who stood looking on his
employment. With a look fully expressive of his meaning, he never
presented the nuts to their visitors, without giving Lucy a few, as if
to say: "Poor thing, she is but a child, and she is unfortunate; she
will be uneasy if she has not some, and I know you will excuse it:" and
then, with an approving nod and smile, he would direct her eyes towards
their company, as if to make her sensible it was proper they should have
the largest share. Having filled their little baskets, Miller
prohibited their gathering any more, and then proceeded to an opening in
the middle of the wood, and agreed to play at _hunting the hare_. "And
shall not William play with us?" said Caroline, as she was endeavouring
to make him sensible of the game, while his brother Harry directed him
to sit with Lucy at a distance. "I don't _like_ that in _you_, Harry,"
said Henry Rawlinson, who thought he meant to forbid his joining them,
"why should not he be amused as well as we?" Harry blushed, and said,
"Lucy would not be quiet unless William was with her; besides,"
continued he, "when he sees what it is we are playing at, and can
understand it, he will come; and he can make Lucy sit without him
better than we can."

During this conversation, William had marked the countenance of each; he
saw anger in that of Master Rawlinson, and shame in his brother's, and
entirely unconscious that he was himself the cause, his whole attention
was directed to make up the disagreement he perceived between them.
Tears stood in his eyes as he took the hand of Harry, and bringing him
to Henry, whom he thought he had offended, he stroked the face of each,
and with an imploring look seemed to say: "Do be reconciled." "He
_shall_ play," said Henry. "My dear," said Miller, who now interfered,
"he did not mean any other; but you must think that _he_ knows best
what will suit his brother." "_That's_ what I meant," replied Harry,
pleased to find some one take his part, "when he sees what our game is,
he will join us." "So much the better then," said Henry; "I beg your
pardon;" and taking the hand of his foster-brother, he gave it a hearty
shake.

Smiles once more appeared in their faces, but no countenance showed more
pleasure than that of William, on seeing them thus friends again: he
expressed it by "nods, and winks, and wreathed smiles;" and then went
and took his place by Lucy, and in _his_ manner made her understand they
were going to play.

The game began, and the little girl was as much amused by looking on,
as they were who were engaged in it. She discovered no want of
understanding, but clapped her hands and laughed as loud as any of them,
fully entering into their amusement. When William became thoroughly
acquainted with the game, he made her sensible he was going to join
them, (as his brother had said he would,) and then Lucy was doubly
interested. Whenever she saw _him_ likely to be caught, she screamed
out, not with alarm, but as if to warn him of his danger, though neither
herself nor he could hear the caution.

During this pleasant exercise Mr. Beaufort arrived, to whom Henry had
almost forgotten he had given so pressing an invitation. The place of
their retreat was near the road, and he heard the voices of his young
friends, long before he saw them. Tying his horse to the paling which
surrounded the house, he made his way to them, without seeing the good
woman who belonged to it, and for some minutes, he stood unobserved,
till Henry Rawlinson caught his eye: "Oh, there is Mr. Beaufort!" said
he, and the game was ended in an instant. The eyes of all were directed
to the stranger, and William, who had not heard the exclamation,
immediately saw the cause of their breaking off so abruptly. But indeed
it was not particularly so to him, to whom, from not having his hearing,
every thing that happened, and for which he was not prepared by
_seeing_ what was going on, had that appearance. "You _are_ come then,"
said Henry, to his friend, "this is very good of you;" and in his
eagerness to welcome him, he had nearly overthrown little Lucy; who, on
seeing the game ended, had risen from her seat to seek the hand of her
favourite brother. "Oh, my dear!" said Henry, setting her again on her
feet, "I did not mean to hurt you. She is deaf and dumb, Sir," continued
he, addressing Mr. Beaufort, whose benevolent hand was stretched out to
keep her from falling, and whose countenance, when he heard this, bore
witness to his feelings. "Poor little girl," said he, offering her his
hand, "what can be done for you?" Lucy looked half pleased, half
frightened at his notice; yet there was something in his manner which
excited her regard, and William's also, who by this time was at her
side, and who read in the stranger's looks, that compassion for their
case which he had often observed in others, when either Lucy or himself
was the object of attention; and for which he felt a grateful sensation,
such as seemed to tell him he had found a _friend_.

"And this poor boy has the same misfortune, Sir," said Miller, who was
standing by them, and knowing the compassionate nature of Mr. Beaufort,
felt assured he would not be unmindful of them. "Indeed!" replied he,
"and yet what intelligent faces." "Oh, Sir! they are both very sensible
children," returned Miller, "and you would be delighted to see their
affection for each other." "Have they never heard of the Asylum?"
resumed Mr. Beaufort, with earnestness, "their misfortune might be
greatly lessened.--Where is their mother? I'll speak to her about it."
And he turned hastily round, unmindful of his friend Henry, and every
thing else but the charitable design he had in view. "She is within the
house, Sir," answered Miller; "she feels their situation very keenly,
but has no means of helping them." "I will help her," said he, as they
led the way to the cottage. "There is one of our neighbour's sons in
that Asylum," whispered Harry Goldsmith to his namesake, "and my mother
has often wished William could be there; he has not been long, and he
can speak already. She meant to ask your papa about it, the next time
she came to town."

By this time Mr. Beaufort had entered the house; the table was neatly
spread for the young folks' dinner, and the mother sitting with her baby
in her arms. "Speak to it _now_, Mary," said she to her eldest daughter,
who was standing behind, "_now_ that it does not see you." She did so,
but it took no notice.

"Oh! at nine months old this would not be the case, if it was not deaf,"
continued the poor woman, with a heavy sigh. "Another unfortunate!"
exclaimed Mr. Beaufort on hearing this, as he entered the door. Mrs.
Goldsmith instantly arose, and Henry Rawlinson introduced him as a
gentleman who had come from their house. "Set the gentleman a chair,
Mary," said she; and while Lucy, who had now reached her mother's side,
kept pulling her by the gown, and pointing towards the stranger, she
motioned her to be silent; and rather seemed to wish her to escape his
notice, than to obtrude her on his attention.

"I am come to know the state of your family, my good woman," said he,
"and to know whether I can be of any service to you. How old is _that_
little boy?" pointing towards William. "Ten, Sir," answered she, "and
the next is nearly eight." "No children older?" "Yes, Sir, a boy who is
at work with his father, and that girl." "But whom do you wish
assistance for most?" said Mr. Beaufort. "Oh, Sir, my poor William and
Lucy!" she replied with great emotion; "they most need it." "I
understand so," answered the benevolent man; "I know how they are
situated; but do you know that there is a charity established lately,
exactly suited to their case?" "Yes, Sir, I have heard of it," said she;
"but I have no friend but Mr. Rawlinson," she continued, hesitatingly,
"and I have thought that I would speak to him about it." "_I_ will be
your friend," said Mr. Beaufort; "I am one of the _governors_ of that
charity!"

It is impossible to describe the expression of joy and gratitude which
appeared in the countenance of the poor woman. She could not utter a
word; but her looks, and the tears which flowed from her eyes, spake her
thanks more impressively than any thing she could have said. "No time is
lost yet," continued Mr. Beaufort; "your boy could not have been
admitted till he was nine years old, and, the next vacancy, I will give
all my votes for him." The poor woman, a little recovered, could now
express her thanks; and William, whose face had been like scarlet on
seeing her distress, advanced towards her. "Have you taught him any
thing?" asked Mr. Beaufort. "Oh, Sir, he has taught himself!" answered
she: "he knows my meaning almost as soon as I look at him. I think he
knows his _letters_, though I am not sure he puts the same meaning on
them as we do; and figures he can tell, by counting on his fingers as
many as he sees written. I am sure he does not want for sense, or his
sister either; you can't think, Sir, how they love me, or how I love
them! Dear little creatures, whenever I am out for a day's work, they
sit by the road-side together, and as soon as they see me, if it is at
half a mile's distance, William leads little Lucy towards me, and they
meet me with _such_ delight!" "Why, my good woman," said Mr. Beaufort,
whose eyes bore witness to the pleasure with which he heard her artless
relation, "your other children will be jealous, if you thus speak of
them." "No, they won't, Sir," said she, "they are very good; they know
that I _ought_ to love these best, because they are unfortunate. And
this poor baby, Sir," added she, pressing it to her bosom, "I fear it is
in the same state: it takes no notice of any thing but what it sees." "I
am sorry for you," replied the good-natured man, "but we will hope
better things: it may be only a temporary deafness. At present, this
little boy is the most to be attended to;" and he took his name and age
down in his pocket-book, while the grateful mother put up a secret
prayer that it might be attended with success.

William watched all that was done, with an expression of anxiety which
could not be accounted for, unless he thought that something either very
pleasant or distressing was to happen to his mother from it. The rest
stood in silent attention, listening to what was said; and the
countenance of each bespoke their earnest wishes for their brother's
welfare.

Mr. Beaufort now invited Henry to ride with him to the spot Mr.
Rawlinson had wished him to see; and Mrs. Goldsmith, seeing it was just
one o'clock, pointed to the door, for William to go and call his father
home to dinner. Lucy, who had been accustomed always to accompany him on
that errand, made a sign to do so now; but William, by stepping out his
feet in a peculiar manner, let her know that he must make great haste,
and that she could not walk so fast as he; and with this information she
was made satisfied to remain at home.

While Henry was riding before Mr. Beaufort, all their conversation was
respecting William and the Asylum. "I will give all the money I have,
for him to go," said the kind-hearted boy; "and I think that Caroline
will too: I'll ask her when I get back." And on his return he called his
sister on one side, to make the request: "Mr. Beaufort says that a
great deal is wanting to support the children," said he, "and that they
have built a new house for them to live in; the other was not large
enough: won't you give _your_ money towards it." "Yes, that I will;"
replied she, "and as soon as we get home, we will speak to papa and
mamma about it."

Mr. Beaufort had taken his leave, but not without a liberal earnest of
his generosity to Mrs. Goldsmith, and an assurance that William should
not be forgotten. He had brought his father and eldest brother home to
dinner, to whom the poor woman related the circumstance of Mr.
Beaufort's visit, with the greatest pleasure.

Never was such a happy dinner as these affectionate parents sat down to
with their young guests, though their feelings could scarcely allow
either of them to partake of what was placed before them. "Why he'll
speak as well as neighbour Goodyer's boy," said the delighted father,
"_he_ has been up to London to see him, and he says all the children are
treated so kindly!" "The time of admission is the second Monday in next
month," said his mother, "and perhaps he may be admitted _then_. _We_
are only expected to keep him decently clothed. I must begin making him
some shirts; won't you let me buy him a few?" continued she. To this her
husband readily consented; and Miller said she was sure her mistress
would give him a jacket and trowsers. This point being settled, and the
dinner ended, the children returned to their play, till the time of tea;
after which, the horse was again harnessed to take them home, and the
same party which he had brought in the morning, with the squirrel, and
two rabbits Henry had obtained leave to take with him, were all placed
in the cart, with a large basket of nuts, and some greens for the
rabbits. They took their leave of nurse, with many thanks for the
pleasure they had had, and expressions of kindness to all the children,
particularly William and Lucy, the latter of whom had, in the course of
the day, become so sociable with Caroline, as to cry at seeing her
depart.

When they reached home, they found their parents, and Mr. Beaufort,
sitting, after dinner, with another gentleman or two, and the little
Goldsmiths were the subject of their conversation. Henry would have
directly asked his mamma for his little store of money, that he might
put it into Mr. Beaufort's hands, for the benefit of the charity, had
not a significant look from Caroline prevented him. When they retired
for the night, he asked her the reason. "It is like asking the
gentlemen, who were strangers, to praise you," said she; "and besides,
you know mamma has told us, that whenever we give any thing away, we
should not speak of it: to-morrow, when she is alone, will be time
enough."

In a day or two after this, Mr. Beaufort returned to town, after fixing
the day for William and his mother to come up, in time for the meeting,
when he hoped to be so fortunate as to get him admitted. The intervening
time was fully employed in preparing his clothes, in which Caroline
assisted, and in endeavouring to make him understand the good fortune
which awaited him. Mrs. Rawlinson had him to visit her, a day or two
before he was to go; she took him to the school, to which, he
recollected, his eldest brother had gone, and gave him a copy-book,
pen and ink, and slate. William blushed, and lifted up his hand
affectingly, he shook his head, as if to say, "I don't know how to use
them." He had been very fond of their neighbour's son, who was already
in the Asylum, and before he went they were constant companions. William
had for a long time understood he was gone somewhere greatly to his
advantage, and whenever he went into the cottage of his parents, he
pointed to the stool on which his old companion used to sit, as if to
enquire how he was, while an approving smile from Mrs. Goodyer always
told him he was well off.

On their return from Mrs. Rawlinson's, his mother took him to their
neighbour's, and directing his attention to the stool, which always
recalled the idea of his friend, she showed him the books and slate
which Mrs. Rawlinson had given him, and made him understand that he was
gone to be instructed how to use them. William nodded his approval, but
when she distinctly said, "_you_ are to go _to_ him, (and such a
sentence as this he could understand by the motion of her lips,) he
danced for joy, he kissed his mother and Mrs. Goodyer, caught up the
books and hugged them, then the pen, with which he showed them he should
soon know how to write; and then, by every means in his power, he asked
the question _when_ he should go? He looked up to the sky, then waved
his hand with the sun, once, twice, thrice, as if to enquire, was it in
such a number of days? His mother held up one finger; and then, by
moving his hand, as if in the act of driving, he asked if _that_ was to
be the mode of their conveyance. On receiving a nod of assent to this
question also, he again capered round the room, and all the way, as they
walked home, delighted his mother with his expressive gestures of
pleasure.

When there, he met his brothers and sisters with increased affection,
and with the same significant motions, made them sensible that he knew
what was designed for him. He marked the return of the next evening with
some appearance of regret, and, for the first time, seemed to recollect
that all his family could not go with him; and he kissed them all again
and again, especially little Lucy, who as yet had not a notion that she
was so soon to lose him. He led her to his mother, and, with an
expressive look, bespoke her double affection for her when he was away,
and waving his hand towards the door, he tried to tell his sister he was
going a great way off. In this manner he led her round to each of the
family separately, as if to beg them all to be attentive to her in his
absence.

The next morning, he and his mother were up before any of the children;
and to spare him the pain of taking leave, she directed Mary not to
awake them till they were gone. Our travellers had about a mile to walk
to meet the coach, to which his father accompanied them, and, with the
most earnest wishes for his success in gaining admittance, he bade his
affectionate child--farewell.

Poor William had, till then, been all joy and ecstasy, but when he saw
his father turning back, a tear stole from his eye. He had hoped, from
his coming thus far with them, that _he_ was also to accompany him; and
with an enquiring look, he turned to his mother, with whom he was seated
on the top of the coach, to know why he did not. The novelty of
William's actions soon attracted the attention of the other passengers,
and the recital of his case excited their pity. Among the number, the
poor woman met with one who very well knew the part of the town she was
going to, and where Mr. Beaufort had secured a room for them to sleep
in, near the Asylum: and in the morning this benevolent man called to
see her before the committee assembled. William instantly knew him
again, and, from his mother's behaviour, he saw that it was to _him_ he
was obliged for the education he was about to receive, and with all the
eloquence of silent gratitude he expressed his thanks.

At length eleven o'clock came, and William was introduced to the
gentlemen. The votes were given, and he obtained his admission by a
majority only of one; and that was from Mr. Beaufort having the number
of votes which constitutes a governor for life; and the pleasure with
which he informed Mrs. Goldsmith of her son's success, could only be
excelled by hers on hearing it.

William was then introduced to some of the scholars, among whom was
Jacob Goodyer: they immediately recollected each other, and ran to
express their pleasure in thus meeting. "How do you do, Mrs. Goldsmith?"
said Jacob, delighted thus to use his newly-acquired speech, and to have
an opportunity of displaying his improvement. "How are my father and
mother?" The poor woman could not answer him: she burst into tears. "And
will my boy ever speak so well as he?" she exclaimed to one of the
matrons of the school, who was with her. "No doubt he will," answered
the woman, who was equally affected. She then described more of Jacob's
attainments; and when the first emotions of surprise were over, Mrs.
Goldsmith was able to converse some time with him. He told her he had
seen his father lately, begged her to carry his duty and love to all at
home, and tell them he had made six pair of shoes since his father was
there. He walked round the school and house with his old friends; told
them how happy he was, and what pleasure it gave him that William was
come, to whom he often spoke in his own way; and the poor boy, with the
most intelligent look, showed how well he understood stood him.

Mr. Beaufort recommended Mrs. Goldsmith to stay one day longer in town,
so that she had the pleasure of seeing her son happy, and settled in his
new situation. He knew she was not to stay longer, and seemed reconciled
to her departure; and before he gave her his parting kiss, he opened his
book, and showed that he should be able to read and write by the time he
saw her again; he also touched his mouth, in token that he should
_speak_. She expressed her earnest hopes that it might be so, and, with
the most affectionate regard, bade him be a good boy, and wished him
farewell.

Jacob gave her a letter to carry to his parents, the first he had ever
written. And Mr. Beaufort, who was then in the house, promised that, if
any thing happened to her son, she should immediately be informed of it;
and also that, through Mr. Rawlinson's family, he would often let her
know how he got on, and what improvements he made. With this assurance,
the poor woman left him without the least regret, being well convinced
that he was in the only place in which he could gain sufficient
knowledge to become a useful member of society; and she returned to her
expecting family, full of the kindness of the ladies and gentlemen she
had met with, and the wonderful improvement of Jacob Goodyer, whose
parents (particularly his mother) listened to her account with anxious
joy. His letter was shown and read to all the village, as a proof of
the excellency of the charity; and Mrs. Goldsmith received the
congratulations of all her neighbours, on her son's being admitted into
it.

It would be hardly possible to describe the distress of little Lucy,
when she found her brother gone; nor was she old enough for them to make
her understand it was for his advantage. She hunted in every part of the
house and garden for him, and on not discovering the object of her
search, she sat down and cried. Mary and Harry tried to pacify her, and
with her dolls and playthings she began to be amused, till, as the
evening drew on, she put herself into a great bustle, and, taking
Harry's hand, she led him to the road side, where, with William, she had
so often sat, to watch the return of their mother. It was in vain he
endeavoured to let her know she would not return that night, and Mary
was at last obliged to put her crying to bed, where, at length, she
forgot her sorrows in sleep. The next morning she renewed her search,
and till her mother's return, she appeared truly unhappy; but on seeing
her, her countenance revived, and while receiving _her_ affectionate
caresses, she seemed to forget that her brother was not returned with
her.

Mr. Beaufort wrote frequent accounts of William's welfare and
improvements; and at the next vacation, to which all the family looked
forward with pleasure, he was permitted to come home, with his
neighbour, Jacob Goodyer. They came on the top of the coach, and as they
drew near their home, these poor boys expressed to each other the
greatest pleasure. "I shall _speak_ to my mother," said William, and
hardly had he spoke the words, than he saw her standing with Lucy,
Harry, and Jane, who had all walked a mile or two to meet him. The
agitation he felt, at thus unexpectedly seeing them before he reached
home, prevented his speaking as he wished: he pulled the coachman's arm,
and pointing to the happy group below, his lips moved, but he could not
utter a word. The coach stopped, and he was down in an instant, and in
his mother's arms. "Mother! my dear mother!" repeated he, as
articulately as his emotion would allow him, while Harry and Jane were
in raptures to hear his voice.

Jacob had yet some miles further to go; he could therefore only nod and
smile, rejoicing that, in a very short time, he should have a pleasure
equal to his friend's. "We will go round by the field where your father
is at work, my dear," said the delighted mother, "for he is impatient to
see you." "My father," returned William, "and Edward," meaning his
eldest brother. He then repeated the names of all his brothers and
sisters, and received the affectionate welcome of those who were then
present. Lucy did not at first recollect him; but when he spoke to her,
and she observed his looks and motions, no one can express her pleasure.
She kissed him twenty times, pressed his hand, and held it tight all the
way they walked together, as if nothing should again part them from each
other.

When they reached their father, William ran towards him, and repeating
his name, made the heart of the poor man leap for joy: "Oh, my dear
boy!" said he, "_do_ you speak at last? Well, if I lose some of my
week's wages, I must leave work, and go home with you. Here, Edward,
Edward," continued he, calling to his eldest son, who was in the next
field, "William is come home." Edward heard the news with pleasure, and
impatient to see the brother for whom they were so deeply interested, he
jumped over the hedge in an instant; and William no sooner saw him, than
he flew to meet him, and greeted him with all the expressions of joy
which he could utter. This was a happy evening for them all, and when
the joyful party arrived at the cottage, Mary, who had been left in
charge of the baby, expressed the same delight.

The tea-things were ready, and William repeated the names of every thing
he saw; he walked round the room, and, as if anxious to show the
advantage he had gained, called over all that was in it, or on the
shelves about the room, while his delighted parents listened with fond
emotion to all he said. His little stock of clothes was now opened, and
eagerly taking out his spelling-book, which was in the parcel, he began
to read. He showed his writing also; in short, there was none of his
acquirements which he was not eager to exhibit, and to receive the
congratulations of his parents upon. He watched the motion of their
lips, and understood every word they said, when they expressed their
pleasure to each other.

In the course of the next day, he visited his old acquaintance in the
village, whither little Lucy accompanied him, proud to be once more
with her dear brother. All the neighbours were astonished at his
improvement, and William was in danger of thinking himself something
extraordinary, he was so much noticed and admired. He also paid his
respects to Mrs. Rawlinson; and received from her the sincerest
congratulations, as well as from his old friends, Miller and Sally.
Caroline and Henry made him say every thing that he could speak; and
when unable to answer them, (which, among the numerous questions they
asked him, was sometimes the case,) they immediately removed the
distress he showed on these occasions, by replying for him. Yet this did
not seem to satisfy him, and before he left them, he was, after
repeatedly endeavouring, able to pronounce the word himself.

A few days after this, Jacob Goodyer came over to visit his friend, and
it was pleasant to see with what delight they met each other. The
simplicity of childhood was blended with their artless manners, and they
seemed to take an interest in each other's concerns, which none other
could have. William related to his attentive friend, all that had
happened to him since they parted; even mentioned what he had ate and
drank each day, and received the same information from Jacob. While thus
conversing with each other, they seemed to feel themselves the objects
of attention to all around; but when they could get away together,
quite alone, and enjoy a conversation in their own way, partly by signs
mingled with words, (for though able to understand others by the motion
of their lips, _they_ could not so exactly frame _their_ mouths to
pronounce what they wished, as to be clearly comprehended by the _sight_
alone,) it appeared as if nothing was wanting to their happiness.

Each of these unfortunate children, throughout the whole school, seemed
allied to the others by a nearer tie than that of relationship: they
were a world within themselves, and their manners and ideas were, in one
sense, unmixed with that evil which is in others. Having not the sense
of hearing, their acquaintance with what was wrong was excluded through
this channel; and as, before their admittance to the school, their age
and misfortune in great measure precluded their beholding it; so, while
they were there, the attention paid to their morals, and to keep them
from every thing which might add to that taint of sin, which is so
inherent in our nature, and which these children were not exempt from,
gave to the simplicity with which they acted, the appearance of
innocence; or rather what is called so by us, who are totally ignorant
of what _innocence_ really is, and can only comparatively judge of it.
They were taught to love each other, and feeling themselves equally
unfortunate, there was not among them that air of superiority, which
too many are apt to assume, from possessing powers which they see are
wanting in others. The pride, also, of the human heart, revolts at times
at the compassion shown in such cases, though at others it feels
grateful for the expression of it, and much depends on the manner in
which it is displayed; but among themselves there was nothing of this
sort--all felt for each other. Their wants they could often make known
to others: but while shut out from the power of language, they could not
describe their comforts to any one, so well as to themselves.

William and Jacob both spake highly of the school, and of the kindness
with which they were treated; and, as the time for their going back
drew near, they rather expressed pleasure than regret at the thought of
returning. Mrs. Goldsmith bade her boy farewell, with still greater
comfort than at the first; she was now assured of his improvement, and
had no fear of his continuing to do so. Jacob had tried to persuade him
to become a shoe-maker like himself, at which employment he was getting
more and more expert; but William had always shown a desire to be a
cabinet maker, and the gentlemen of the committee meant to indulge him
in having him instructed in that trade, making it a point to consult the
disposition of the children, where it was possible.

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,