Sheer Lane,December 30.
I was walking about my chamber this morning in a very gay humour,when I saw a coach stop at my door,and a youth about fifteen alighting out of it,who I perceived to be the eldest son of my bosom friend,that I gave some account of in a previous paper.Ifelt a sensible pleasure rising in me at the sight of him,my acquaintance having begun with his father when he was just such a stripling,and about that very age.When he came up to me,he took me by the hand,and burst into tears.I was extremely moved,and immediately said,"Child,how does your father do?"He began to reply,"My mother--"but could not go on for weeping.I went down with him into the coach,and gathered out of him,"That his mother was then dying;and that,while the holy man was doing the last offices to her,he had taken that time to come and call me to his father,who,he said,would certainly break his heart,if I did not go and comfort him."The child's discretion in coming to me of his own head,and the tenderness he showed for his parents would have quite overpowered me,had I not resolved to fortify myself for the seasonable performances of those duties which I owed to my friend.
As we were going,I could not but reflect upon the character of that excellent woman,and the greatness of his grief for the loss of one who has ever been the support to him under all other afflictions.
