Elizabeth Sandham Deaf and Dumb! Third Edition 
 
 
 Transcriber's note Pg 1 
 Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). 
 
 
 
 PREFACE Pg 2 
 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,  
 
 
 
 PREFACE Pg 3 
 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 Pg 4 
 "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.  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 5 
 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. 
   
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 6 
 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. 
   
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 7 
 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.  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 8 
 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." 
   
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 9 
 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?"  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 10 
 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!" 
   
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 11 
 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."  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 12 
 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. 
   
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 13 
 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.  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 14 
 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.  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 15 
 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.  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 16 
 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.  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 17 
 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. 
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 18 
 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. 
   
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 19 
 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." 
   
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 20 
 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."  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 21 
 "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.  
 
 
 
 DEAF AND DUMB Pg 22 
 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. 
   
 
 
 
 Transcriber's note Pg 23 
    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, 
   
 
 
 Publication Date: February 23rd 2015 https://www.bookrix.com/-mk496e398f1e345