Your letter afforded me the most solid satisfaction, my dear son; while I felt for you, the sorrow, you so well described, drew you still closer to my heart. Your warm manner of expressing your filial affection pleased me, as it convinced me, that you have a feeling heart. A son who could leave an indulgent mother, without experiencing similar emotions, will never love God, or do good to his fellow-creatures; he will live for himself alone, and gradually lose the dignity of his nature. But dry up your tears; immoderate sorrow is a sign of weakness, and will prevent your improvement, the principal end of life. We must arm ourselves with courage to ward off the casualties that in this uncertain state we are exposed to; the happiest situations are not exempt from them; heaven sends pain and sorrow to teach us virtue, and not merely to afflict us. When you lament that we are separated, think with what pleasure we shall meet again; and how eagerly my eyes will run over your whole person, and my ears be on the catch to weigh your words: that I may trace your improvement, and love you still more.—And this love would be a comfort to my age, I should not consider myself a widow.—Yes, your father was virtuous; resemble him; and console, in some degree, your mother, by cultivating the virtues which just begin to dawn in your mind. We shall write to each other often; to write is the same as to speak. You are now rewarded for the diligent attention you paid to my commands, though at first it was an irksome task to learn to write; but had you neglected it, we could not have converted when a vast sea, or large tracts of land were between us—then, indeed, I should have been absent in the true sense of the word. Now I can participate in all your pleasures: be very particular in your account of them; and remember to write as you speak. A letter ought to be simple and natural; regulate your thoughts, and let your expressions appear easy and not studied. Above all, strictly adhere to truth; you violate it, when you use unmeaning compliments, or permit affectionate words to drop from your pen, which are fabricated by the head for selfish purposes, and do not flow from a good heart. Take care always of your spelling: it is a shameful thing for any one to be ignorant of his native language. Present my best respects to Lady Grandison. LETTER III. WILLIAM _to his_ MOTHER.