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<h2>CHAPTER X.</h2> One morning in winter, just as the dean, his wife, and darling child, had finished their breakfast at their house in London, a servant brought in a letter to his master, and said “the man waited for an answer.” “Who is the man?” cried the dean, with all that terrifying dignity with which he never failed to address his inferiors, especially such as waited on his person. The servant replied with a servility of tone equal to the haughty one of his master, “he did not know; but that the man looked like a sailor, and had a boy with him.” “A begging letter, no doubt,” cried Lady Clementina. “Take it back,” said the dean, “and bid him send up word who he is, and what is his errand.” The servant went; and returning said, “He comes from on board a ship; his captain sent him, and his errand is, he believes, to leave a boy he has brought with him.” “A boy!” cried the dean: “what have I to do with a boy?  I expect no boy.  What boy?  What age?” “He looks about twelve or thirteen,” replied the servant. “He is mistaken in the house,” said the dean.  “Let me look at the letter again.” He did look at it, and saw plainly it was directed to himself.  Upon a second glance, he had so perfect a recollection of the hand, as to open it instantaneously; and, after ordering the servant to withdraw, he read the following:— <blockquote>“Zocotora Island, April 6. “My Dear Brother William,—It is a long time since we have seen one another; but I hope not so long, that you have quite forgotten the many happy days we once passed together. “I did not take my leave of you when I left England, because it would have been too much for me.  I had met with a great many sorrows just at that time; one of which was, the misfortune of losing the use of my right hand by a fall from my horse, which accident robbed me of most of my friends; for I could no longer entertain them with my performance as I used to do, and so I was ashamed to see them or you; and that was the reason I came hither to try my fortune with some other adventurers. “You have, I suppose, heard that the savages of the island put our whole party to death.  But it was my chance to escape their cruelty.  I was heart-broken for my comrades; yet upon the whole, I do not know that the savages were much to blame—we had no business to invade their territories! and if they had invaded England, we should have done the same by them.  My life was spared, because, having gained some little strength in my hand during the voyage, I pleased their king when I arrived there with playing on my violin. “They spared my child too, in pity to my lamentations, when they were going to put him to death.  Now, dear brother, before I say any more to you concerning my child, I will first ask your pardon for any offence I may have ever given you in all the time we lived so long together.  I know you have often found fault with me, and I dare say I have been very often to blame; but I here solemnly declare that I never did anything purposely to offend you, but mostly, all I could to oblige you—and I can safely declare that I never bore you above a quarter of an hour’s resentment for anything you might say to me which I thought harsh. “Now, dear William, after being in this island eleven years, the weakness in my hand has unfortunately returned; and yet there being no appearance of complaint, the uninformed islanders think it is all my obstinacy, and that I will not entertain them with my music, which makes me say that I cannot; and they have imprisoned me, and threaten to put my son to death if I persist in my stubbornness any longer. “The anguish I feel in my mind takes away all hope of the recovery of strength in my hand; and I have no doubt but that they intend in a few days to put their horrid threat into execution. “Therefore, dear brother William, hearing in my prison of a most uncommon circumstance, which is, that an English vessel is lying at a small distance from the island, I have entrusted a faithful negro to take my child to the ship, and deliver him to the captain, with a request that he may be sent (with this letter) to you on the ship’s arrival in England. “Now my dear, dear brother William, in case the poor boy should live to come to you, I have no doubt but you will receive him; yet excuse a poor, fond father, if I say a word or two which I hope may prove in his favour. “Pray, my dear brother, do not think it the child’s fault, but mine, that you will find him so ignorant—he has always shown a quickness and a willingness to learn, and would, I dare say, if he had been brought up under your care, have been by this time a good scholar, but you know I am no scholar myself.  Besides, not having any books here, I have only been able to teach my child by talking to him, and in all my conversations with him I have never taken much pains to instruct him in the manners of my own country; thinking, that if ever he went over, he would learn them soon enough; and if he never did go over, that it would be as well he knew nothing about them. “I have kept him also from the knowledge of everything which I have thought pernicious in the conduct of the savages, except that I have now and then pointed out a few of their faults, in order to give him a true conception and a proper horror of them.  At the same time I have taught him to love, and to do good to his neighbour, whoever that neighbour may be, and whatever may be his failings.  Falsehood of every kind I included in this precept as forbidden, for no one can love his neighbour and deceive him. “I have instructed him too, to hold in contempt all frivolous vanity, and all those indulgences which he was never likely to obtain.  He has learnt all that I have undertaken to teach him; but I am afraid you will yet think he has learned too little. “Your wife, I fear, will be offended at his want of politeness, and perhaps proper respect for a person of her rank: but indeed he is very tractable, and can, without severity, be amended of all his faults; and though you will find he has many, yet, pray, my dear brother William, call to mind he has been a dutiful and an affectionate child to me; and that had it pleased Heaven we had lived together for many years to come, I verily believe I should never have experienced one mark of his disobedience. “Farewell for ever, my dear, dear brother William—and if my poor, kind, affectionate child should live to bring you this letter, sometimes speak to him of me and let him know, that for twelve years he was my sole comfort; and that, when I sent him from me, in order to save his life, I laid down my head upon the floor of the cell in which I was confined, and prayed that Heaven might end my days before the morning.” </blockquote> This was the conclusion of the letter, except four or five lines which (with his name) were so much blotted, apparently with tears, that they were illegible. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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