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Hivnoo Hajaii, vol. ii p. 25. ^ ' V LONDON: I-ONOlVfAN, nKES, OUME, UROWN, AND OREKN, PATRRNOSTRR.ROW. 1880. 5^f,6 i PREFACE BY THE EDITOR. The publication of the following tale having been delayed at the time it was written, the author at length decided on deferring it during her life, — expressing a ivish that it should finally be oflfered to the public ; yet leaving that point to be determined by two, of her confidential friends. There cannot surely be any one in the very extensive circle of b^r r quaintance, to whom such a memj- and pious mind will not ' even those to whom s. unknown, can scarcely fail fication, as well as advantage, from the perusal of this work. The lessons incul- cated are plain to every capacity, —the virtues described are attainable in every A 3 l/V. ^er amiable Me ; and rsonally /e grati- iHi iliimiiiiriiiii "■^"JrnH VI PREFACE. Station; and whilst the "Sermons on the Doctrines and Duties of Christianity- ex- plain and enforce those "doctrines" and " duties," the excellent and lamented author has endeavoured, in this interesting little story, to delineate a character formed upon Christian principles, and to trace the pro- gress of their influence from infancy to old age. She exemphfied them in her own We-, and her writings still bear testimony to iheir truth. ^ This tribute of esteem and reject is gratefnlly offered to her revered memory, by her affectionate friend. The Edxtor. Ihxetei; July 1 7. I830. .1 # mrn^ ;e. "Sermons on the ' Christianity'' ex- " doctrines" and d lamented author i interesting little icter formed upon to trace the pro- om infancy to old lem in her own II bear tf^itimony I and reject is revered memory. The Edxtor. PREFACE BY THE AUTHOR. In offering this little tribute of affection and graiaude to my friends, I feel it neces- sary to, observe that it was written d' rt'ng the winter of the year 1801 ; with >« wish to induce authors of far superior talents to unite instruction with amusement in works of imagination. Tl °: writings of Mr. God- win and others had spread Jacobinical principles j and the horrors of the French Revolution, then fresh in my recollection, led me to choose a period in the English history which would give me an oppor- tunity of bearing my humble testimony in favour of the plain and simple politics of the Gospel, — "Fear God, and honour the king." 1 VIU Novels at that time were in general little calculated to improve the morals, or even the taste, of those by whom they were eagerly p3rused; and the world had not seen the masterly productions of the un- known genius of the North, nor the admir- able lessons of Christian morality which have since appeared in the enchanting works of Mrs. Brunton. If Discipline had made me acquainted with Miss Mortimer, I never should have ventured to delineate the character of Matilda Heywood. The idea of placing the introductory chapter at the end of the book, might be supposed to be borrowed from Waverley, if Waverley had then been in existence ; and tie inci- dent of the fire in Pen Tamm so strongly resembles a story in the Cottagers of Glen- burnie, that it may appear to have been borro'ved from that ingenious work j — but this little tale was written before the other was published, and it was never seen by my lamented friend Mrs. Hamilton. But while I endeavour to clear myself from the charge of plagiarism, I acknowledge that itfUliitmmmmmimmmm^ IX the most interesting part of my little book IS not the production of my imagination ; for the principal circumstances mentioned in the two last chapters describe a scene which it is impossible I should ever for- get. May it be fiesh in my recollection in the awful hour which must notv be near • May I die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his ! Exetet; Dec. 21. 1819. H. M. BoWDLEIl. ,1 LIST OF THE PLATES. Tlic General View of Plyinoutli Tlie View of Canada The View on the Taniar The View of the Grove to face Chai*. L XII. xin. XX. • i i — . ^ '^jm^StitfS^JKMjSI^^^^^ I ' i'j^^HaiM^iiiiiwMfe"! I '^* r^ t*»m irf*! il PEN TAMAR. ' CHAPTER I. " O Nature! how in every charm supreme ! Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new ! O for the voice and fire of seraphim, To sing thy glories with devotion due ! " Beattie. In the year 1(581, on the beautiful banks of the river Taniar, which separates Corn- wall fiom Devonshire, there stood an an- cient mansion, surrounded by a fine estate, which was then the property of a younger branch of the respectable family of Tre- lawney. Gentle reader, did you ever see the banks of the Tamar H— If „ot, take my ad- vice ; put a httle money in your purse, and make the tour of Devonshire. It is a land ii m 2 PEN TAMAR. I flowing with milk and honey ; — flowing with the milk of human kindness. Every charm of nature, every improvement of art, may there be seen in perfection. When you have viewed the various heauties of Mount Edgecumbe, you will not wonder at the Spanish admiral, who claimed that enchant- ing spot as his reward after the expected conquest of England by the invincible armada. But, if you go from thence to the opposite shore, and examine the dock-yard, I trust your British spirit will feel no appre- hension that any invader will ever gain that glorious prize, while our triumphant navy rules the ocean. *' Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them! — Nought shall make us rue, If England to herself do rest but true." SlIAKSPEARE. When you have feasted your eyes with the wonders of nature, and with the flnest efforts of human skill and industry, let me call your attention to the last and best of all God's works — the women. Every where charming, here they are peculiarly lovely. Never did I see such artless grace, such PI::.'^ TAMAR. 3 enchanting modesty, such unaffected man- ners, as in the fair nymplis of Devon. It is certainly foreign to my subject to speak of young women ; but 1 cannot help retaining a prejudice in their favour, which was con- tracted during my rustic education in the west, and which is not yet cured in the po- liter circles of the metropolis, where the annals of Doctors* Commons prove that vice, at least, has a perpetuirl spring, and lead us to suppose that the partiality ex- pressed by our ancestors for the opening rose was an absurd prejudice. Let us now leave Plymouth, and proceed through the Hamoaze, until, passing Saltash, we ascend through the fairest scenes that ever painter drew. Let us pass the ruins of Cotehele, surrounded by its noble woods, to the more romantic scenery near the Wear Head. Here Salvator Rosa should take the pencil from Claude, antl })aint rocks to which he alone could do justice. The Tamar, forming a little cascade, is here no longer navigable ; but it still fertilises the most beautiful meads, and reflects the aw- ful shapes of some of the boldest rocks, that Nature ever foiined. Far from the crowd H» PEN TAMAR. and noise of a hnsy port, undisturbed even by the murmur of the waves, cut off by surrounding hills from any distant view, but enriched with beauties which leave the mind without a wish for more; — in this seques- tered spot lived Sir William Trelawney. It was in the month cf May, and at an early hour of the morning, when this gen- tleman, accompanied by his only son, went out to visit some of his humble friends, " And banquet on the blessings of the poor !" And here again it may be necessary to ob- serve, that, in those unenlightened times, Nature, as well as her fairest work, was sup- posed to be most charming when she was young : for the poets of those days speak in raptures of the beauties of spring, and par- ticularly of the blooming month of May. Now, indeed, that month is voted to be winter. It is welcomed in full assemblies, and illuminated with wax candles. The song of the nightingale is only known by the ingenious imitations of Signor Ros- signol ; and the existence of lambs might be doubted, if our fine gentlemen and ladies did not sometimes see them roasted. Some PEN TAMAR. 5 people, however, still believe that spring has charms, which would be admired if they were ever seen ; and to them, perhaps, it may not appear incredible that Sir William Trelawney spent that season in the country, and walked out at six o'clock in the morning to visit his poor neighbours. Though far advanced in life, he had still an uncommonly fine person : and what his face had lost in beauty, it had, perliaps, gained in expression ; for " the gay con- science of a life well spent'* was seen to animate every feature. H;s health was secured by temperance, his strength was preserved by active exertion, his eye sparkled with sense, and his smile was tl^e genuine expression of benevolence. After receiving the blessings of two or tlnee cot- tagers, to whom his presence gave more pleasure than his bounty, he was met by Mr. Rowley, who rented one of his farms, and had lately, by the assistance of his patron, fitted up a very pretty little resi- dence, for which he had wished to find a good tenant. It would only hold a very small family, but it was thought that the un- usual mildness of the climate might make it B 3 6 PEN TAiMAR. iv- desirable for an invalid; and as Sir William had few near neighbours, and this house was within an easy walk from his own, he was particularly desirous to see it respectably occupied. After the usual morning greetings, not in the forms of polished hfe, but in the genuine language of kindness and gratitude, Rowley informed the knight (who had been for some days absent from Pen Tamar) that he had let his house. The news was received with much pleasure, with warm wishes that the agreement might be advan- lageons to his friend, and with an anxious enquiry who was the tenant. This question Rowley answered with evident embarrass- ment. " Why, Sir William, I hope the lady will not be disagreeable to you." "A lady, is it?" •* Yes sure. Sir, it is a lady j but I am sadly afraid she is an old maid." " O, plague take them all, for a set of malicious, spiteful, mischieflmaking devils ! V/hnt, is she very old?" *' Not very young, indeed." " And as ugly as a witch? " PEN TAMAR. or a set of "Yes, sure, she is ugly enough. Her face is sadly disfigured ; and she is very lame, and cannot walk upright.** " In the name of all that is mischievous, Rowley, what could induce you to let the house to such an old \v\g ? Here is an end of all peace and quietness in the village. She will set all the neighbours together by the ears. She will pry into every hole and corner of the parish, and make mischief every where." And now let me pause for a moment, and enquire v/hat impression this extraor- dinary dialogue has made on those to whom my hero is at present only slightly known. May it not appear strange, that, after leading my readers to suppose this gentleman possessed of the most generous and benevolent feelings, I should bring him on the stage to act the part of a hasty, j)assionate, prejudiced man, using language which must at once create disgust in every candid bosom ? In excuse for this apparent solecism, I might plead the example of the innuortal Homer, whose hero makes his etitree in a passion, and expresses it in lan- guage which Mr. Poj)e was obliged to B 4> 8 PEN TAMAR. polish, that the Enghsh reader might not suppose that "'the watery goddess," his mother, was a fishwoman at BilUngsgate ; yet tliis hero, in tlie progress of the poem, (lisplays so many great and amiable qua- lities, that it is evident the poet was not obliged to make hmi disagreeable at first sight, and only did it to heighten admir- ation by surprise. Such I hope may be the case with regard to Sir William Ti-elawney, if I am permitted to explain the reason of his prtr/icidar aversion to old maids. On this, and all other occasions, I beg leave to observe, that I think myself at full liberty to make as many digressions as 1 please, and to conduct my reader to the end of my story on the princij)les of modern gaidening, by many tiu-nings and windings, and perhai)s Ibr the same reason, viz.— that the walk may be a little the h)nger. Cer- tain it is, that my story if so simple, and so short, that, without adopting this method, I could not possibly answer the expectations of my bookseller. PEN TAMAR. 9 CHAP. II. And still, from morning's dawn to evening's close, Some horrid purpose would her thoughts employ For never could her heart enjoy repose, Nor e'er her restless spirit taste of joy, Save when her cruel arts could others' peace destroy." Bowdlrr's Poems. Sill William Trelawncy was born in the y-'nr 1()1(), tlio only heir of a noble family; bnt the joy which his birth occasioned was soon changed into grief by the death of his lovely and amiable mother, which ha])pened three days after her husband had attained the only blessing that seemed wanting to complete the hai)]»iness he enjoyed with her. This event was attended with still iiiore dreadful consequences. Sir Henry Trelawney, whose mind was not of a firm texture, sunk under the pressure of this severe misfortune: the remainder of his life i)assed in listless indoliMice, or gloomy discontent. 'I'he sports of the field in the 10 PEN TAMAll. morning, and the bottle in he evening, assisted to drive away thouglit; but the care of his family, the education of his son, and the management of all his affairs were placed in the hands of his sister ; and he could not liave made a worse choice. Dis- aLneeable in her temper, repulsive in her manners, with a soul which seemed inca- pable of feeling one generous or liberal sen- timent, this lady had passed through life, « unloving and unloved." Lnvious o all ^vhose superior accomplislunents enabled them to move in a higher sphere, her nar- row mind was only employed in spreading scpndal, and disturbing happiness which she was not formed to enjoy. To be young or beautiful, innocent or happy, was sutticicnt to awaken her dislike; and every art wliich low malice could invent was practised to weaken the power of those qualities over the minds of others. Mrs. Rachel Trelawnevwas several years older than her brother, and had early gamed such an ascendancy over his n>ind, that he never presumed lo dis|)ute her will, though her temper continually disturbed the peace <,!' his family, and made her detested by I ^EN TAMAR. 11 e evening, J but the of his son, affairs were ir ; and he oice. Dis- sive in her emcd inca- hberal sen- nougli life, vious of all its enabled re, her nar- n spreading ss wliich she be young or vas sufficient ry art whicli })ractised to uahties over several years i early gained v\\n\, that he • will, though »ed the peace [• detested by every individual in it. Teased with con- tuHial disputes, Sir Henry interposed as seldom as possible in tlie management of his own affairs; and not even the infant charms of his lovely boy were sufficient to awaken the sensibihty which seemed to be buned in the grave of Jiis wife : he ap- peared to consider the unfortunate cliild only as the cause of her death, not as the lieu- of her charms and her virtues. Ne- glected by his father, and tormented by his aunt, the little William was left to seek for comfort and instruction wherever he could find it. The darling of all the serxants, he hved in the stable or the ffelds. The groom taught him to ride ; the butler, who had been a soijeant in Sir Henry's regiment, taught him to march, and to handle his little stick like a soldier ; and an honest house- keeper instructed him in more important pouits— .she taught him to /ear God, to be kind to the poor, and to bear with pa- tience those mortifications which she could not ))revenl. The parish clerk was employed to teach him to read and write ; and, fbr- O'nately for his lidle scholar, this man could do both extremely well. William *»" ■-"'■^'"•"■' 12 TEN TAMAR. made the task easy by his attention, do- ciUty, and ardent desire of improvement, added to ve?y strong powers of mind. At seven years of age, Mrs. Rachel desired that he might be sent to school, as the ser\ants spoiled him, and she could not make him mind what she said. The charire was unjust, for he was gentleness personi- fied ; but the real meaning of it was, that she coidd not succeed in making him mise- rable : for his happy flow of spirits, and inexhaustible fund of good-humour, made him proof against all her arts of ingeniously tormenting, and nothing which she could possibly do could make him either angry or unhappy for more than five minutes. Sir Henry was seldom sober long enough to know what passed, and readily consented to his sister's proposal of sending the boy to school, but insisted on putting him under the care of his okl friend, Mr. Heywood. Tiie choice was a fortunate one for Wilham, as it phiced him in the hands of one of the worthiest of men, by wliose care he became, in a few years, an excellent scholar, an accomi)nshed gen .nan, and u sincere Christian. % PEN TAMAR. 13 Under the tuition of this judicious in- structor WiHiam continued, until, at an early age, though superior in learning to all his contemporaries, he was entered at the Uni- versity of Oxford, where he spent some years in the studies which his excellent friend had first pointed out to himj and, at twenty years of age, he was generally allowed to be the finest and most promising young man in that seminary of learning The distance from Devonshire furnishe^d his aunt with a pretence for kee})ing him as much as possibl from home ; and the long vacations were spent in travelling over difl ferent parts of England, or in visiting some of the valuable friends whose aflections he had gained at school, or iit the university. The shorter vacations were usually spent at the house of Mr. Heywood, which was only a few miles distant from Oxford. In the sunnner of the year KJM), Mr. Trelawney at last obtained permission to visit his father, aftei- an absence of nearly three years ; ami, in s})ite of the stupid insensibility which frequent intoxication luul i)r()duci>d in his mind. Sir Henry could not behold such a son^^ithout admiration I 14 PEN TAM/Ml. I and delight. The image of his mother in person as well as in mind, beautiful in his form, gracetul in his manners, — with tl e spirit and dignity of a man, William Tre- lawney had the gentleness and sensibility of a woman. Wlien he saw Sir Henry burst into tears, as the first view Oi" his %ure recalled tie image of a beloved wife, and the recollection of happier days, William forgot all his former neglect, and resolved to devote his life to promote the happiness of his fatner. He left his beloved books, to follow the hounds ; and, tliough he detested the bottle, he submitted to witness its odious cftects on Sir Henry, in order to lead him, by degrees, to more refined pleasures. In the charms of his conversation, the old gentleman sometimes forgot tliat tlie wine was phiced out of his reach ; and a walk in the fields, with his beloved son, awakened him to long-forgotten happiness. There was another i)oint which William laboured to gain with persevering industry, and in vvhicli he was at last successful. On his return to Pen Tamar, lie was much luut at seeing all the ancient hospitahty of tlie phice at an end. No neighbours or tenants PEN TAMAU. 15 surrounded the cheerful board; no roast beef and i)hmi-porndge at Christmas warmed and refreshed the poor. Mrs. Rachel, like a harpy, Jiovered over the table and drove away every guest. Her unfeeling avarice, and the indolence of her brother, had closed the gate, and it was seldom opened at the call of friendship or of charity. William endeavoured to prevail upon his father to go with him to visit the neighbouring cot- tagers, and to find pleasure in relieving their wants ; and, in doing this, he showed no less knowledge of the human heart than regard to duty. No man is ever tired of life while emj)loyed in doing good. Even Mrs. Rachel would have found the beneficial effects of this receipt, if she could have been persuaded to try it; but, while Sir Henry found much of his long-lost hai)pi- ness return in the train of his long-lost virtues, this unfeeling woman saw nothino* but waste in his charities, and trouble in his hospitality. But this was not all. 8he saw in the increasing influence of his amiable son, the ruin of her own ; and she determined to employ all her arts in order to break the lately-renewed tWend-. 16 PEN TAMAR. ship. Young Trekwney gave lei no ,ea sonable cause of complaint; but. being incapable of flattery, and regarding hei Utlfthe contempt she deserved, he couW pay her only the cold civility which he thought due to his father's sister She per- ched his dislike, and determined to be evenged, but no opportunity presented itself during his stay in Devonsme S Henry and his son parted wi h mutua "It and mutual affection. William wen ■™„i Pen Tamar to visit his first and best friend, Mr. Hcywood, and spent a tew teeUs^t his house, before he return^^^^^^^^ the university. But the virtues ot this ex cellent young man could not secure him Smthc^nalfce of his aunt-, and an oppor- tunity soon presented itself to gratify tha malice, at tlie expense of the happiness ot his future lite. PEN TAWAU. 17 CHAP. III. " But love's true flower, before it springs, Deep in tlie breast its fibres shoots, And clasps the heart, and closely clings, And fastens by a thousand roots ; Then bids its spreading branches climb, And brave the chilling power of time." A FEW days after Mr. Trelawney returned to Oxford, he wrote the following letter to his father : — . ■■ ^ ** Dear and ever-honoured Sir, ** Your kindness to me during the happy months that I spent at Pen Tamar, and all the letters which I have received from you since we parted, encourage me to hope that I may venture to open my heart to you, and to consider my father as my best and most indulgent friend. I need not tell you, my dear Sir, how much, even from childiiood, I have loved Matilda Hey- wood. You have often laughed at what I \^^ li I i 18 TEN TATVIAU. you called a boyish passion and to^^^^^^^^^ ihat the world would cure ^^^^ J^ "he w 4-. nr. nhiect so perfect in my ey^«> ''Ta trmy e vt- Every day shows me so deal to my ^^^^^^ ^nj •If ^nVp even vice attractive, and man nLv O do not forbid me to love ;::'Tuw?uld perhaps wish for greater advanta..es of birth and fortune ;, but he Sis ennobled by sense and vutue, and Sr L eharms whieh would adorn a throne^ I sk for no addition to my allowance^^ I could live with her in t^>e poorest cottage and should never wish for more. My dca. PEN TAMAR. 19 father, I will not deceive you in any thing ; tlioiigh my heart is for ever bound, my honour is free. My eyes alone have told her that I love. Mr. Heywood has forced me to write to you, by forbidding me to visit at the par- sonage in future, without your approbation. I thought I might still have been happy in her friendship; but he says that it would be fatal to us both, and that he will never con- sent to any engagement formed without your permission. I have obeyed him : I have torn myself fi*om my beloved Matilda; and from you I now expect my happiness or misery: but, whatever your determination may be, I am, and ever will be, my dear and honoured father, *• Your dutiful son, *' William Trelawney.'* Unfortunately for poor William, the letters always arrived at Pen Tamar in the evening, when Sir Henry was seldom capable of read- ing or uTiderstanding them. He was sitting with his sister after supper, and had nearly emptied his second bottle, when the servant returned from Plymouth, and he saw the well-known hand of his son. Ha tried in r 2 20 PEN TAMAR. u M vain to read the letter, and then gave it to Mrs. Rachel to read aloud to hnn. ihis she did, in tones not exactly suited to the feelings which it was designed to awaken, and with the following comments :— u A pretty story, truly! The heir of the Trelawneys of Pen Tamar to marry a conn- try curate's daughter, without a shilhng ! A dirty, beggarly girl, who never can have had even the breeding of a gentlewoman 1 1 liope, brother, you mean to cut this matter very short ?" " Why, to be sure, it would be a sad thing ; but somehow, 1 say, it would be a pi^y to vex the boy." " Ay, to be sure, that is just the old story. When I boxed his ears, and set him in a corner, at three years old, you took him out again, because pretty master must not be made to cry ; and so he was spoded from first to last, and now he is to rum himself, and disgrace one of the first famiUes in Eng- land, because you have not spirit enough to contradict him." «« Yes, I will, I tell you — I will contradict him ; but what can I do ? " PEN TAMAR. 21 «« Do ! — Why you cannot well write to- night, and the butcher goes at six to-mor- row J so you had better let me write for you, and I shall do it properly." This point being settled with very little difficulty, and Sir Henry completely intoxi- cated and fast asleep, Mrs. Rachel com- posed the following tender epistle, which was (very properly) consigned to tlie care of the bidcher, and sent oft* before the knight was awake in the morning : — •' Nephew William, " You have made your poor father so miser- able, that he cannot write to you with liis own hand. Howsomever, this does not matter, as he has desired me to do it for him, and to tell you that if you dare to disgrace your family by such a beggarly marriage, he will never see you again, nor give you a single shilling. You must never see the face of the infamous girl who has seduced you, or never see his or mine. I am, if you behave so as to deserve it, ♦' Your loving aunt, " Rachel Tiielawney." c 3 ^'2 TEN TAMAU. Ancient spinsters ! when you have read this letter, and considered the feelings with which it was probably read by William Tre- lawney, though I do not pretend to excuse what is always inexcusable, may 1 not hope that my hero will not entirely forfeit your esteem, though truth obliges me to confirm the most objectionable part of his history, and honestly to confess, that, with the image of his aunt Rachel before his eyes, he did certainly say, " Plague take them all ?'* William Trelawney's answer was as fol- lows : — \ :' ♦ if »• Madam, «« 1 know my father too well to be- lieve that he ever saw the letter you have thought proper to write to me, or could possibly approve of its contents. Be pleased to tell him, with my most humble duty, that I shall receive his commands from his own hand, with the submission which is due to them ; but I beg you to observe, that 1 will receive neither commandH nor insults from any other. •« I am, &c. «• William Tuiclawnky.*' TEN TAMAll. '^3 J need not repeat the comments winch were made on this letter. They had their effect on Sir Henry ; but he had had some houi's of sober- waking thought ; and of such connnents, and such reflections, the follow- ing letter was the result : — ({ My dearest William, " I am much hurt and surprised that you should doubt the truth of what your aunt told you from me, and 1 am sorry you give me the painful task of re})eating my re- solution, never to consent to the imprudent marriage you propose to me. You have acted like a man of honour in not attempt- ing to gain the affections of the poor girl j and you will, I trust, act as the re])rosent- ative of one of the first families in England, by determining to see her no more. To make this less painful to you, 1 desire you will immediately go to London, to the house of Mr. Hamilton, who will, according to the |)lan which 1 have already proposed to you, innncdiately attend you to France. I must deny myself the ])leasure of seeing you before you go, for 1 cannot l)ear to see you unhappy ; but in a few years you will c I 1^. i V 24 TEN TAMAR. think as I do. Go to London, 1 cluirge you, immediately, and write to me from thence. I hope you will not be long absent j and may every blessing attend you 1" The feelings with which William Tre- lawney read this letter may be more easily imagined than described. He loved, as few hearts are capable of loving ; all his hopes of happiness, all his prospects in life, were to be at once relinciuislied. He was sent to wander in an empty world : such it must be to him if Matilda were not there. But he was accustomed, on all occasions, to consi- der only what it was his duty to do. He was a son, and he had promised to obey his father. If misery must be the consequence, that misery he would endure. After a short time spent in unavailing sorrow, he rang for his servant, and gave the necessary orders for leaving Oxford in two days. The die was now cast, and virtue luul prevailed. But must he not sec his Matilda '^ must he never Bee her more? His father's orders on this ])oint were positive ; and a moment's reflec- tion convinced him that he ought to s[mre PEN TAMAR. '25 licr and himself the pain of parting. But he might write to her. He did so. " I must leave you, my Matilda, without one parting look ! My father's connnands must be obeyed j but, wherever I go, your image will be always present. Sweet and ever amiable friend ! will you sometimes think of Treluwney, when oceans roll be- tween us ? " His trcmbliiig hand could scarcely guide the pen ; but he had just finished these few lines when Mr. Heywood entered the room. Bu'^iness unexpectedly called him to Oxford, and friendship always led him to Trelawney. Never, indeed, was there a more seasonable visit. To him the unhappy young man told every thought, every feeling of his heart, sure of finding comfort in his tried friendship. Mr. Heywood confirmed his resolution to obey his father, with every argument which reason and religion could suggest ; and he soothed his afllictiou, by pointing out the possibility that, at a more liivourable period, he nn-iit still be happy. •• Though my (amily may nppear con- I H I i h\ U(} PEN TAMAU. tcmptible to your aunt, believe me, my dear Trehiwney, it has not been disgraced by vice, and I liope it will never be dishonoured by a base or an ungenerous action. Dear as you are to my heart, —though I love and esteem you more than any man living, — tliough, if I were a prince, you are of all men the one with whom I should most wish to entrust the hapi)iness of my only darling, yet I solemnly declare, that, while Sir Henry lives, she never sliall be yours in opposition to his will. J believe you are incapable of asking, or Matilda of consenting, to a union wliich would bring dishonour on me, and ruin on you. All that remains then, my dearest William, is to go where duty leads, in these circumstances you must not see Ma- tilda." »« I have written to her, m) dear Sir. You will not refuse to give her this letter?" «t lie you by an I If fi '28 I'EN TAMAll. M ! . H| cnivagemcnt which you might not then wisli to fulfil. No, my dear Trelawney, poor as I am in every thing else, I possess m Matilda a treasure, which I would not be- stow on a monarch if I did not believe that he would value it more than the brightest jewel in his crown. Go, then, my best of fViends,— go, in obedience to your father, and may the blessing of Heaven attend you! Never lose sight of those principles which luive hitherto preserved you from vice. Steadily pursue the path of virtue. A mind like yours will gain much improve- ment from travelling j and Mr. Hamilton will l)e every thing you can desire as a com- panion. Write to me often ; and, when you think of Matilda, let it be as a charm iigainst vice and folly. Let her image, ever placed before your eyes, lead you on in the path of duty: never will she lead you into any other path. Let her be tlie guide, the example,— and perhaps she may be the reward, of all those virtues by which alone you can deserve her !'* PEN TAMA II. '29 not then relawney, possess in cl not be- ?lieve that brightest ly best of )ur father, ttend you ! )les which rom vice, irtue. A I improvc- Hamilton 3 as a com- , when you I a charm ler image, lad you on II she lead licr be the ps she may js by which I CHAP. IV. " Still charm'tl by hope's sweet music, on they fare, And think they soon shall reach the blissful goal, Where never more the sullen knell of care, Departed friends, and sever'd loves, shall toll ! " Bowles. William Trelawney left Oxford and Mr. Heywood the .lext morning, joined Mr. Hamilton in London, and, with feelings which I will not attempt to describe, began his tour on the Continent, after writing a few lines to his father, expressive of his duty and submission, and without complaint or murmur. Parental authority is now so nnich out of fashion, that this part of my story may perhaps appear unnatural ; but those who are much acquainted with the history of the seventeenth century, and the letters whicii were then written, will allow that a very great change has taken place, since that period, in the ideas generally en- tertaineil of fiUal duty. Whether that i 30 PEN TA.vIAIl. t 1! change is advantageous, I will not stay to enquire : it is certainly great. Mr. Hamilton was a young clergyman, of excellent principles and pleasing manners ; of great learning, and sincere piety. He had been tutor to Mr.Trelawney at Oxford, and (Mr. Heywood alone excepted) was the friend whom he most esteemed, and in whose society he had most pleasure. Sir Henry had engaged this gentleman to travel with him, and every thing had been previously arranged, with the consent of William, be- fore he left Pen Tamar, though it was has- tened by the imprudent confession of his attachment to Miss Heywood. This secret he had not had resolution to carry in his own bosom to the Continent. He had hoped that he might obtain leave to marry the lovely object of his choice ; and many delightful plans had been laid in his fertile brain for enjoying with her the romantic scenes of Switzerland, or the admirable works of art in Italy. These gay dreams of bliss were over ; and he began his travels with very different views, and accompanied only by Mr. Hamilton. I will not obhge my readers to take the PEN TAMAR. 31 tour of France and Italy. It is sufficient to say, that Mr. Trelawney made every possi- ble advantage of those opportunities of im- provement which travelling affords. During his absence, he wrote constantly to his father; but the few letters which he re- ceived in answer, though always kind, w^re very short and u.nsatisfactory, and seemed to show a mind much weakened and dis- ordered. With Mr. Heywood he kept up a most interesting correspondence. From him he always received the best advice, in the language of the tenderest friendship ; and Matilda often added a postscript to his letters, expressing esteem and afiection with all the artless simplicity of their early friendship. Trelawney sent constant ac- counts of his travels to his excellent friend, mixed with many expressions of the most passionate fondness for Matilda, which seemed to increase in spite of time and dis- tance. These letters Mr. Heywood did not always read to his daughter, though he never scrupled to express, in the strongest terms, his esteem and regard for the writer. Early in the summer of the year 1642, Trelawney writes thus to Mr. Heywood : i hi \^ li •I' - i;! . l| 1 32 PEN TAMAR. *' Sucli is tile state of my country at pre- sent, that I cannot think it right to waste time which might be more usefully em- ployed. I am too far off to judge of the sad scenes which are now acting in England ; but I think it necessary to be better in- formed, and to take the part which duty requires: I liave therefore written to re- quest my father's permission for my imme- diate return to England." Before this letter could be received by Mr. Heywood, he had written a very long one to Trelawney, which was sent by a gen- tleman of his acquaintance ; as, in those sad times, it was important to find a safe con- veyance for sentiments which might be mis- interpreted, and which would probably offend one, if not both, of the contending parties who were then preparing to decide the contest by a civil war. Trelawney had received no letters from England for several months; and the state of things there, which he learned from general report, made this appear the less extraor- dinary, though the more distressing. He was with Mr. Hamilton, at Florence, when two PEV TAMAll. 33 country at pre- right to waste I usefully em- idge of the sad ^ in England; be better in- rt which duty written to re- for my imme- e received by n a very long sent by a gen- is, in those sad »d a sq/e con- might be mis- )uld probably lie contending ring to decide letters from md the state of 1 from general J less extraor- ssing. He was tee, v/hen two letters were given to him, with compHments from a Mr, Waller, who had brought them from England, and was at a neighbouring inn. One of them was written by Mrs. Rachel Trelawney, and the other by Mr. Heywood. Wilham eagerly opened the latter, which was very long ; but finding in the first lines nothing to alarm him, and being suddenly struck with the idea that the other might perhaps contain bad news of his father, he hastily tore it open, and read the following words : — " Nephew William, *• I never thought I should demean myself to write to you again, after the impertinent letter you sent me ; but your father can- not do it himself, having got the gout in his hand, and he desires you will come home to take care of things in these troublesome times. It does not matter how soon you come now, as the curate and his daughter were drowned going to America; and I hope you will now be disposed to make up for the past, and marry somebody proper. " I am your loving aunt, " Rachel Trelawney." 4 ?6 -./f 1, (■ i . ■ k \ 1 ' t ^ ft I I ^ 34 PEN TAMAR. (( ■■ Good heaven ! " cried Trelawney, " what can th.s mean?" .. at " What ^an it mean, indeed! said Mr. Hamilton: "surely she cannot have m- vented this inhuman falsehood only to tor- ment you." t . o « She is capable of any thmg ; but U that I were sure it was only invention 1" « You have a letter from Mr. Hey wood : what is the date ? " Trelawney, trembling with eagerness, turned to the date. It was written about three months before that from Pen Tamar. "Alas', my dear Hamilton, this cannot remove my fears— but read it yourself: 1 am incapable of doing it." He threw himself into a chair, and burst into tears. Mr. Hamilton read as follows : — " My best and dearest friend, " It is long since I have ventured to ad- dress, a letter to you, and though I wished to tell you that I and my Matilda were well, perhaps the less you hear of your poor coi try the better •, nor should I now disturb the tranquillity which you, I hope. TEN TAMAU. 36 enjoy m a liappier land, if your Iionour were not clearer to me than your ease, and It 1 did not know the anxiety which you must feel for me and mine in times like the present. I write by a safe, though -a very slow conveyance, and I avail myself of it to say what I could not venture to write by the ..St. The ruin of this dear and once ha} :>^ country is now, I fear, inevitable. I he Kmg has been very ill-advised, but I have not a doubt that his intentions are up- right and just. Alas! my dear William redress of grievances is, I fear, only a pretence, and conceals a determination to change our glorious constitution in church and state— to introduce a republic, and to deluge the land with blood. They have at last taken up arms, and forced the Kincr into a civil wav; and the nobility and gentry are ahnost every where flocking to his standard. May Heaven support and bless liiinl—but I fear he is engaged in a very unequal contest. Little do they know the consequence who begin a war, of which, per- haps, none of us may see the end. I know your principles too well, my dear Trelaw- ncy, to doubt the part wliich you would u '2 ff'. I ■ -5 .^.^-r^iw ff I if i! ii ' V .( ir ill Ml If I 96 PEN TAMAH. take in such a contest as the present. You have learned the plain and simple politics of the Gospel, — * Fear God, and honour the King.* You will support those liberties, and that religion, which our ancestors pur- chased with the blood, not of rebellion, but of martyrdom. In the opposite party are many who, I believe, wish well to their coun- try ; but I fear they are deceived by others of a very different description. Alas ! they know not what they do, when they draw their sword against their king and their fel- low-subjects ! They will, perhaps, often wish to sheathe it again ; but * the begin- ning of strife is as when one letteth out water* — the dyk"' is al dy removed, and the torrent threa ' > overwhelm us all. You, my dearest >^i''" -, are young : you are the representative of a noble family, al- ways distinguished for loyalty : this is a cime for a man to act, and I know you will act as a man of honour ought to do. I think you should return without delay. Your father, I grieve to tell you, is sadly changed, and I fear he will not long be in a state to take care of his affairs, or of himself. The de- grading habit, which he has indulged more m. :Ll: I f PEN TAMAR. 37 than ever since you left him, certainly affects his understanding, and he is, I fear, sinking fast u.to idiotism. Such is the account I liave received from a friend, on whc ie ve^ racity I beheve you may depend. It is thought that his sister encourages this fatal propensity, in order to he more completely mistress of every thing at Pen Tamar. Thus every motive, whether of a public or private nature, conspires to call you home. And now my best friend, I must grieve your Ivind heart by mentioning my own situation. Ihe present state of this country is dread- tnl ; but I cannot help seeing that it will soon be worse. As a clergyman, I am pre- eluded from taking an active part ; and, as a clergyman, I am marked for persecution. 1 know what to expect from the tender mercies of these pretended saints; and I am already uifbrmed that none will be suffered to hold a cure of souls without taking the covenant, which no consideration on eartli shall uuluce me to do. I hope I could bear the nnsenos of ,,ove.ty, the horrors of a Pnson. or even death itself; if called to do '^» ; but, for the sake of one who is dearer to me than my life, I think I ought to n S r 71 ipi IHBI 38 PEN TAMAU. ^ . I .! I shun the storm, while 1 can do it without forfeitinfif my honour, or neglecting my duty. I have no fears for myself; but, indeed, Trelawney, I tremble for my child. No place is now secure from the licentious inso- lence of the soldiers : even churches are no longer held sacred. I shudder at the idea of leaving my Matikla at the mercy of the brutal soldierv, wliose want of order or dis- cipline is such that it matters Tittle whether they are friends or enemies. It' I should be thrown into prison, or removed from her by death, I have not one rehition in whose hands I couUl j)r()perly place her. I have resigned my curacy, and given uj) my school ; and, exce[)t a few hundred ])()unds, the whole of my ])roperty was lent to a most dear anil valuable friend, and secured on an estate in New England, which he purchased, and has cultivated with great success. As yet, the interest has been regularly received; but he fears, as I do, that our intercoiu'sc may be interrui)ted ; and he has written to press me, in the kindest mannei possible, to put myself and my daughter uiuler his pro- tection, until this tyranny be over-])ast.** " () Hamilton! this couHrms it all.*' do it without ting my duty, but, indeed, y child. No centious inso- urches arc no ;r at the idea mercy of the ' order or dis- littlc whether [f I shoukl be I from her by on in whose her. I have iven uj) my iched ])ound.s, lent to a most secured on an lie purchased, success. As uly received; ir intercourse las written to n j){)ssible, to luiU'r liis pro- )ver-))ast.** IS it all.*' TEN TAMAR. $Q " I Iiope not, my dear friend. Let me finish the letter.*' " My dear girl could not, in case of my death, be more i)roperly placed than with this worthy man and his wife." " O, why not in these faithful arms!— I should be her only ])roper protector. But I left her,— I exposed her to insults, to i)o- verty, to death! — But let me know the worst." •• Ine insults offered to some neighbour- ing clergymen have alarmed my Matilda: she fears for me, as I do for her, and wishes me to accej)t the safe asylum which friend- ship offers. \Vc have therefore taken our passage in the Elizabeth, of Liverpool, and hoj)e to sail in less than a week." *' Then all is lost! — But go on." ** It only remains, my Trelawney, to send you the prayers and blessings which flow from more than ])aternal teiiderness. (), why are you not indeed my son !— But ho- nour and duty fhrbid it, aiul they shall be obeyed. Farewell, then, dearest William. I will write to you as soon as we land in America, and I will direct to Pen Tamar, as I do not doubt your immediate return. u '!• 40 PEN TAMAR. You will be exposed to more danger by land than we must encounter by sea j but the same kind Providence controls the raging of the waves, and the madness of the people. If we never meet again in this world, may we be for ever united in that blessed place where no enemy enters, and from whence no friend departs ! — Once more, my best of friends, farewell ! " " But here are a few lines from Miss Heywood." " Oh, give me the letter !'* — Trembling and pale, he eagerly seized the paper : it contained these words : — *' We are going far from England, and from you, my dear William, to seek the peace which has left this wretched country. God grant that my dearest father may find it in America ! — I think peace and happi- ness left Ota- house with you. May they attend you, wherever you are ! Farewell ! Be happy ; but do not quite forget your absent friends !** I III -t PF.N TAMAR. 41 CHAP. V. — •' O Love ! how seldom art thou found Without annoyance in this earthly state ! For, haply, thou dost feed some rankling wound, Or on thy youth pale poverty doth wait, Till years on years heavy have roH'd away ; Or when thou most didst hope firm faith to see, Thou meetcst fickleness, estranged and cold ; Or, if some true and tender heart there be, Oil which, through every change, thy soul might trust, Death comes, with his fell dart, and strikes it to tlie dust." Bowles, Trelawney fixed his eyes on the paper, but neither moved nor spoke. Mr. Ha- milton had too much sense and ihcVmp; to tease him by attemptinp^ to combat tlie vio- lence of Ills emotions, in the first moments of ^rrief ; but, when they had been some time silent, he said,—" Perhaps, my dear Trelawney, we could obtain some inform- ation from Mr. Waller: lie is an Oxford- shire man; and nnist have known Mr, Hey wood. Shall I go to him ?" """mr — ' — """• ' U 42 PEN TAMAR. ■|l i( O yes, yes, my kind friend ! — I never thoufflit of him." ** I would not awaken hopes, which I do not feel — but anything is better than sus- pense ; and you seem to think it possible that your aunt may have said it only to distress you.'* ** Any thing is possible to a woman who coidd write such a letter as that ; yet I fear it is too true. However, go to Mr. Waller : I will be composed — indeed I will." Hamilton soon found the English tra- veller, and immediately explained the reason of his visit, and enquired what he knew of Mr. Hey wood? "Oh, he is lost!" cried Mr. Waller; " and that sweet angel, his daughter ! — The ship was wrecked on the Scilly Islands." " And is there no hope left?" ** None upon earth ! — I saw one of the sailors, who had esca])ed by swinnning, and got on shore, as did three or four others ; but all the passengers were lost. Tlie captain put them into a boat, but she could not weather the storm. A ship was in sight, and sent some men to her assistance : they were not ten yards Crom her when she sunk, TEN TAMAR. 43 and every soul perished! The rough sailor shed tears when he told me of it, and talked of the beauty and sweet manners of Matilda." Mr. Hamilton had now heard too much ; and, after promising to call again the next day, he returned to his friend. Trelawney heard him slowly ascend the stairs; he stood eagerly watching the door, and when it opened, and he looked in his face,—" Oh ' my dear Hamilton," said he, '« if you could have brought me any comfort I know you M'ould not have stayed so long." Hamilton pressed his liand,''and could not restram tiie starting tear. » Then, you have no hope to give me ; and I must never, never see her more ? " " Yes, in a happier world!'* Trelawney, falling on his knees, ex- clanned,-" Father of mercies ! teach me to subnnt to thy will, and make me worthy to be eternally united to my Matilda!" Mr. Hamilton omitted nothing which could contribute to sup,,ort and ^ comfort iHs unhnppy friend, under the most severe alHulion which it was possible for hiui to 1^'cl ; and Trelawiiey did not reject the 1 ul i ?i 44 PEN TAMAR. ! * ^ • u consolations of friendship and of religion. In well-regulated minds, guided by reason, and supported by faith, grief maybe deeply felt, but it cannot be insupportable. Tre- lawney lived, and lived to be a useful and respectable member of society. By degrees, much of his natural cheerfulness returned. He acted his part in life with honour and dignity ; and he enjoyed the blessing of an approving conscience, and the esteem of all who knew him. But though he bowed with humble resignation to the will of Heaven, he felt deeply, and he felt for ever : his Matilda was ever present to his me- mory, and the unrivalled mistress of his heart. The information which Mr. Hamilton received from Mr. Waller of the state of affairs in England, determined Trelawney to go thither as soon as possible; and, after passing through France to Brest, he procured a vessel there, and landed at Ply- mouth in the autumn of the year 104^2. Impatient to see his father, he and Mr. Ha- milton i)rocured horses, and innnediately rode to Pen Tamar. Many and various were the emotions with whichWilliam revisited his PEN TAMAR. 4>5 native country and his father's house ; and it was not one of the least painful which was awakened by the certainty of finding there the only human being who was the object of his resentment and aversion. He had, how- ever, promised Mr. Hamilton that he would keep his temper ; and this was the only oc- casion on which he found it difficult to do so : for he possessed more than his share of that milk of human kindness which I have mentioned as the staple commodity of Devonshire. Wlien he entered the gate of the court before the house, he was immediately re- cognised by his old friend the groom, who, forgetting that there existed such distinc- tions as master and servant, cauglit him in his arms, and, with tears and blessings, bade him welcome to Pen Taniar. TJie first greetings being over, Mr. Trelawney enquired for his father. " Ah, Master William ! you will find a sad change there j though he was out before the door just now, and is pretty well to-day. But you had better see Mrs. Lucas before you go into tlie parlour." *• Wliere is my aunt ? *' 4(3 PEN TAMAll. .t i: "What, Madam Rachel?— Oh, she is safe enough ! " « Safe ! — What do you mean ?" " Why, she was buried last Thursday ; and I hope that is the last trouble she can give us." « Is she dead?" « Yes, sure. You don't think we would bury her alive, do you ? She is dead, sure enough ; and if you choose to cry about it, you may ; but it is more than any body else has done, except old Fop, the fat lap-dog, whom I mean to hang to-morrow — and then we shall be rid of all our troubles." Trelawney certainly had no reason to cry on this occasion ; but the emotions which it awakened were very different from the levity with which poor Joseph told his tale. He felt, what I hope every Christian feels, wlien the person by whom he lias been most cruelly injured is called to answer for all offences before a higher tribunal ; and, for the time at least, aversion and resentment gave place to })ity. Silent and pensive lie entered the house, where a much severer shock awaited him, when, disengaging himself from a crowd of PEN TAMAR. 47 liappy servants, by v/hom he was almost adored, he entered the apartment of his father. Sk Henry knew him ; but his joy was only expressed by a vacant laugh, soon succeeded by a flood of tears. He was reduced to a state of almost total imbe- cility, in which childish play, or stupid insensibility, were only exchanged for occa- sional fits of ungovernable rage. I do not wish to dwell on the most melancholy spec- tacle which can possibly be seen in the sad variety of human woe, — a rational and ac- countable being, formed in the image of God, and originally destined to rise, by virtue, to angelic perfection and immortal bliss — such a being, sunk by intemperance below the level of the brutes that i)erish ! Mr. Trelawney, with the assistance of Mr. Hamilton, endeavoured to settle a plan to make what remained of this wretched existence as easy as possible. He knew he could depend on Mrs. Lucas, who was sin- cerely attached to her old master, to whom she was the best and tenderest of nurses. Mr. Hamilton consented to reside at Pen Tamar, and to his care William connnitted all his affairs, during the time that he must 48 PEN TAMAR. I I himself be engaged in more active duties. If any interval of reason should render his presence desirable, Mr. Hamilton was to inform him of it, and to watch for every op- portunity of administering comfort to the poor sufferer ; and with this excellent friend William knew that he might entrust the care of all his concerns, if the circum- stances of the times should keep him long away. Such was his attention to the wants and wishes of all with whom he was con- nected, that all had reason to rejoice at his return; to England. Even old Fop was rescued from, the cord, and placed in the care of a poor woman, who was so well paid for his maintenance that it was her in- terest to bear all his ill-humours, and to let him growl on as long as he could. A ■ \ \ i II ta PEN TAMAU. 49 CHAP. VI. ** In the field of proud honour, our swords in our Iiands, Our king and our country to save ; While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, Oh, who would not die with the brave?" Burns. Mr. Trelawne/s attention was now called to more important concerns. He found his country plunged in all the miseries of ivil war. He was, by principle^ strongly attached to the royal cause, and determined to exert all his powers in defence; of his king, and of the ancient constitution in church and state ; and he was called to take an imme- diate and important part in the exertions then making for that purpose. An army was at that time forming in tlie west of Englan(l. under leaders whom every man of honour must have been proud to follow ; and Trelawney, with as many of his ser- vants and tenants as were fit to bear arms, immediately joined the standard of Sir £ : T L li, I ^ 50 PEN TAMAU. Beville Granville and Sir Ralph Ilopton. The heroic actions performed by the army inuler the command of these great and good men, are too well known to make it neces- sary for me to repeat them. Trelawney shared in all their toils, and in all their glory. His courage placed hini foremost in every engagement : l:is humanity made him the protector of the vanquished. Ever ready at the call of duty, no officer was more active in every enterprise, however dangerous ; but always desirous to lessen the horrors of war, none was more attentive to every claim of justice or humanity. It miglit be said of him, as of one of his countryniLU in our own times, — " The proud oppressor felt his sword, The vnnquish'd bless'd hif? shield."* The celebrated battle of Lansdown raised the fame of the western army to the highest ])()int ; but it was dearly purchased by the loss of their heroic leader, the brave and accomplished Sir Heville Granville. Tre- ! : -I' * (fcncral Simcoc. Sec Poems by Gntitlcmcn of Devonshire and CtMnwnll. PEN TAMAR. 61 jftitlcmcn of lawney fought by his side, and had a dis- tinguished share in the glorious victory ob- tained by his troops on that memorable day. His conduct on that occasion procured him the honour of knighthood, with the thanks of his unfortunate sovereign, to whom he carried the account of the battle. Ti.e courage and virtue of Sir Beville Granville survived in his friend, Sir Ralph Hopton, with whom Trelawney shared the glories of a campaign wnich equalled all that we read of Greek or Roman valour. ** There ends thy glory ! — There the fates untwine The last black remnant of so bright a line 1 " In the fatal engagement near Alresfbrd, in which the western army was entirely defeated, a random sliot brought Tielawney to the ground, and he was seized and carried a prisoner to London. The wountl was not dangerous; but often had the unfortunate captive too much ret - son to wish that it had been so ! They who are not well acquainted with tiie spirit of those unhappy times can form but a very faint idea of impiisonment, in the hands of the pretended championH of liberty Tre- *" -"•»»>■''■ ■Mr- 52 PEN TARIAR. lawney was one of eighty gentlemen who were confined in the hold of a ship, where they could not stand ui)right, and were not allowed even straw to rest their weary and perhaps wounded limbs. From thence he was conveyed to a dungeon under the Tower, secluded from the company of all mankind, except a stern unfeeling gaoler, who not only kept him from any intercourse with his friends, but denied him the use of pen and ink, and, for many months, dei)rived his ])risoner, not only of all the pleasures of life, but almost of what was necessary to sup})ort it.* Through all these trials his firmness was unshaken, and his health continued uninjured. To us, who live in happier times, such cruelties may perhaps api)ear incredible; but 1 beg leave to rel'er the reader to the works (pioUtl below, if he woidd wish to form a just idea of the horrjrs of civil war.f • Soo tl'C Lifo of Dr. Harwick, p. 125. f Seo Wliitolocke's MemorialHol'tlie English AHUirs, p. 417. Also Kcu tliu Lite of Dr. Ikrwick ; Walker's 8ullcrin{?H ot'tlio Clergy , ami the History of the UebcU lion, by Lord C'lanndon. Tlu' noble Instorian ntentions particularly a gentleman of the iiame of Trelawnoyi mmmmm PEN TAMAll. 53 WlicMi he has considered the facts which are there related, he will, I ho])e, be dis- posed to attend to the reflections which they suggested in the upright mind of the judicious Whitelocke : — " This may he sufficient argument, that there is neither safety nor discretion, for any one who can avoid it, to engage in matters of this nature. We, who were engaged in tliose befoje mentioned, were unexperienced in these things, and in the conse(piences of them ; slip-ped into them by degrees, and before many of us were aware of them; and being once in, were, by little and little, plunged further in, and knew not how to get out again, liut those who have the examples and warnings of the age j)re- ceding, and have in j):irt known, and heard their fathers relate, the dee}) miseries and calamities of the civil war in their days, and to both ])arties, will be inexcusable if they ever engage in such atlliirs : and may they never see again those sad days which have been in these times!" who was suflcrcd to dio in prison for wnnt of food s vol. i. p. iM). I'ulio. ^1 - 54. PEN TAMAll. n lin i Such were the sentiments of this wise cand good man (for such he appears to have been), at the close of a rebellion of which he had been an active and zealous pro- moter ; and to these sentiments may every honest Briton say, Amen ! My history presents only a dismal blank till the year 1051. Through tlie whole of this long period, liberty could only be pro- cured on conditions to which Trelawney would never submit. He was often tlireat- ened with the fate of many of the most exalted characters in the nation, and lived in constant expectation of u public trial and execution. He was prepared to meet the utmost malice of his enemies with the firm- ness of a liero, and the resignation of a Christian. He had fouglit like Capel and Montrose ; and he would have dieil like tliem, had he been called to do so. He luul, indeed, little attachment to lite, and uU his hopes of happiness were fixed on u better world. After nearly two years spent in tlie Tower, Trelawney, at the earnest solicitation of his friends, was removed to a more comfortable apartment, and allowed to receive letters, MHIili PEN TAMAU. 55 under the inspection of the governor ; and he then learned, from his faithful Hamilton, that his father's sufferings were ended by death. Tiie hardships of his confinement were gradually lessened. He was allowed the use of books, and he was afterwards re- moved into the country, and obtained leave to walk a little in the air; but it was not until after the defeat at Worcester, and the young King's escape to the Continent, at tlie latter end of tlieyear 1(J51, that Trelawney recovered his liberty, without any humili- ating conditions, and returned to take pos- session of the estate of liis late father, at Pen Tamar. The war was now at an end ; and the power of the Protector ap|)eared to be too firmly established to be shaken. Notliing, therefore, remained to be done by an indi- vidual, but to lessen, as much as possible, the sufferings of those whom he could no longer hope to rescue from tyranny and oppression. It is impossible to describe the joy witii which Sir William Trelawney was received by all his friends and depentl. ants. His Ibrtune had been less injured than that of most royalists in the late scene 56 PEN TAMA 11. h i will II [\ 1 1 il^ of confusion, and Mr. Hamilton had been a most faithfid and attentive steward. By his assistance, all was put on the best pos- sible footing. Pen Tamar was once more the seat of hospitality and cliarity, and a large estate was spent in the noblest exer- tions of beneficence. In such employments, joined to the pleasures of friendshii, and the delight afforded by his Mtely recovered books, Sir William's natural clieerfulness returned; and he was again, what I'rovidence intended him to be, the delight and adiTiir- ation of all who knew him. In the spring of the year 1(352, he married Lady Mary D , daughter of the unfortunate Karl of , who had lost his fortune and his life in the late unhappy contest. Formed for domestic happiness, Sir Wil- liam wished for a companion and a fritnd. To Lady Mary he liad told the secret of his heart ; and she accepted his hand, and con- sented to an union Ibrmed by friendship and esteem, though he confessed that he could love but once as he had loved — nay, as he still hwed, MatiMa lieywood. The pa- tience with which Lady Mary had Hstened to Ills tule of sorrow, when he led her to a -gft^fdtSJr - '^^gB*- ^sam PEN TAMAll. 57 favourite grove which was sacred to the memory of his Matilda, had perhaps con- tributed to fix his clioice more than any other circumstance. Lady Mary Trehiwney was pleasing in person and manners, gentle in her disposition, and unexceptionable in her conduct. Her connections were highly respectable, and the misfortunes of lier fa- mily made her appear more interesting in the eyes of Sir William than she would have done in a more prosperous situation. She had not brilliant talents, nor acute feelings ; but a constant wish to please, and a conduct always regulated by the strictest principles of religion, secured the esteem of her husband, and their domestic hai)pi- ness met with no interruption except t'lom the loss of several children, who were suc- cessively the objects of their hope. It ,vas not until the year l(j()7, that Sir William became the hap))y father of a very fine boy, wiiom he named Henry, and who lived to be the comfort and support of his declining years. When the death of Cromwell revived the hopes ofthe royalists, Sir William Trelawney took an active part in the busy scenes which ■A >\ PEN TAMAR. followed, and which led to the restoration of King Charles the Second. The joy occa- sioned by that event can be described only by those who had seen and felt the misery which preceded it, during twenty years of anarchy and distraction, of civil war, and military tyranny. Let me be permitted to borrow the language of two of these suf ferers, in describing this great and unex- pected change : — " Oil ! with vhat acclamations of joy did the city of London then triumph!'* says Dr. Barwick, on occasion of General Monk's de- claration against the long parliament ; " how hardly did slie contain herself through exces^^ of gladness, seeing all things at length in safety, or assuredly hoping they would be, when now,— immediately after the city gates and portcullises were broken down, the citizens thrown into prison, and tyranny ravaging with cruelty and haughtiness through all her streets,— by an unexpected message of glad tidings, she was ordered again to be free ! O that joyful and fes- tive night,— for we who saw it and bore a part in that exultation, great as the calamities we had lately been pai takers of) cannot but PEN TAMAR. 59 remember it with pleasure,— when the sol- diers and citizens congratulated each other that the yoke they had groaned under (alas ! too long) was now at length happily shaken off j when the most agreeable name of liberty, now for many years obsolete, was every where echoed througli the streets; when, lastly, the obsequies of the late ty- ranny were celebrated with bonfires, iUu- minating all the city as with a long-wished- fbr funeral pile ! ** * Permit me to add an account of the great event which followed, extracted from the manuscript Memoirs of Lady Fanshawe:— " The King embarked about four of the clock, the shore being crowded with people, and shouts from all quarters of a good voy- age, whicli was seconded by many volleys of shot. So favourable was the wind, that the wherries went fiom ship to ship to visit their friends all night long. But who can suffi- ciently express the joy and gallantry of that voyage ! To see so many great ships, the best m the world,— to Jiear the trumpets and all other music,— to see near an hundred brave n * See the Life of Dr. Bar wick, p. 253. h'fSH m ■f i ("I 0fr-^ m f w rn- sr imamm,' GO PEN TAMAR. M I "r I WW i! 11 vessels sail before the wind, with their flags and streamers : the neatness of the ships, the strengtli and jollity of the mariners, the gal- lantry of the commanders, but, above all, the glorious majesty of the King, and his two brothers, was beyond men's expectation and expression. The sea was calm, the moon shone at full, and the sun suftered not i\ cloud to hinder his prospect of this best sight ; by whose light, and the merciful bounty of God, the King was safely set on shore at Dover in Kent. So great were the acclamations and the numbers of the people, that they reached from Dover to Whitehall." No man more sincerely shared in the general joy than Sir William Trelavvney ; and, in the hope of being useful to his king and country, he willingly relinquished the tranquil enjoyments of Pen Tamar, and accepted a seat in parliament, and an office in the new administration. He expected, as almost every one then did, another golden age, under a king formed in the sc, ool of adversity, who, it was hoped, would inherit the piety and virtue of his fatlier, w'th the advantage of suj)erior abilities and un- PEN TAMAR. Gl bounded popularity ; and who professed to be guided by the advice of one of the most vntuous and truly patriotic ministers who had ever been entrusted with the reins of government. How soon all these hopes were blasted, it is the business of the histo- nan to relate. " I will only say, that Tre- awney resigned his office after the fall and banishment of the Lord Chancellor Claren- don, to whom he was particularly attached ; and, after many ineffectual struggles in par- hament, against the tide of vice and cor- niption which, beginning from the throne, threatened destruction to the nation, grieved and disappointed at his ill success, he once more retired to Ten Tamar. The remainder of his life affords no events until the death of his lady in the year 1079 ; which was sincerely lamented by Sir William, though it was considered by Mr Hamilton (then rector of Pen Tamar), and by the rest of his friends, as a happy re- lease for both ; her suflferings having been great for some years before her death, and his attention and tender care seeming likely to injure his health. It was about half a year after this event, that Sir William's IJJwMiiSjiiitjf w^ iS?«SC"">'«»««'8iess?»sjsi«£.-5 i ti f^ C2 PEN TAMAR. k ,'i !. ;y meeting with Rowley produced the axwcf- sation which I have interrupted to ;nvc tbis account of his life, but which I will c* re- sume. PEN TAMAR. 63 CHAP. VII. " This is the place, the centre of the grove • Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood. In such a place as this, at such an hour, n ancestry can be in aught believed, Descending spirits have conversed with man. And told the secrets of the world unknown." Tragedij of Douglas. " Prai, Rowley," said Sir William, "what may be the name of this blessed tenant of yours ? " " Why, Sir, the maid called her Mrs Johnson ; and I thought sure enough she was .. widow, for she seems a very quiet civd lady— not at all like Madam Ra-hel " ** No, Heaven forbid ! " " I have not forgot her. Sir, no more than your honour. But, as I was saying, this lady seemed too quiet for an old maid ; but Mi's. Hannah says she is ; and it can't be helped now, for I have let the house to her. Howsomever, she cannot visit your honour, mmm ■MM !B>Mn<* WMWIH * M I I' 1 I i; .' 64 PEN TAMAR. if you don't go to her j so I hope I have done no great harm. But, to say the truth, I came a begging for her just now." " Begging ! I think she will get into my liouse fast enough, if she sends you a beg- ging ah'eady." " Bless your heart, Sir, no, no ! She did not send me ; but she is very ill, and had a mind fo • a new-laid egg this morning. She sent to ask me where she might buy one ; and as I knew of none, except your honour's, nearer than farmer Jones's, I made bold to ask if you would give her one." « () surely, with all luy heart. But is she ill, Rowley ?" *• Yes, sure, she is, and very ill too. She is so thin, that her bones are ready to come through ; and she can't eat a bit of meat : nothing but milk, and garden-stuf!; and such like." ** Indeed! Then perhaps she would like some strawberries, and there are none r'\\)e yet except in my garden. My dear Harry, nui and tell the gardener to gather all the strawberries that are rii)e, and to cut a })retty dish of asparagus ; and ask Sally for a couple PEN TAMA 11. a> of new-Iaitl eggs, and Jet them be put in a basket directly for Mr. Rowley." " Ay, that's just hke your honour! Now you know she is sick, you forget Madam Uachel.*' " No, my dear Rowley ; I would do more than this for Madam Rachel herself, if she were alive and wanted my assistance. Com- nion humanity requires itj and, indeed, I am ashamed of the warmth with which I ex- pressed m:yself in regard to this poor sick Jady, who may be very different from my aunt, though she is an old maid." " Indeed, Sir William, I believe she is very different j for Mrs. Hannah nurses her "ight and day, and seems to love her as if she was her mother ; and she cried so this moj-ning, that it went to my heart to see iier, and said she should lose the best friend that ever she had in her life. Now, I remembei-, when Mndam Rachel died, Joseph said he would give a ball, and we should all have squab pies and ciiler, and drink to her good journey. Indeed Mrs. Lucas told him it was very wicked to talk so, for we were all sinners, and she hoi)e(l Madam Rachel was gone to heaven ; bur all tlie men laughed mm m PEN TAMAll. and Sally said, she hoped she would be bet- ter tempered before she got there, or there would be no comfort for any body : and then they all laughed again, and MrSo Lucas could not stop them." " Well, Heaven forgive her ! — 1 wish to think of her as little as I can. Pray, Row- ley, does this Mrs. Jr\nson seem to be in good circumstances ? ** " No, sure, Sir; she hardly allows herself necessaries ; and yet, though she has been but a few days in the village, she has done a })ower of good. She stayed in a little room at tile Chequers, until she took my house j and 1 find she works all day for the poor, wliile Mrs. Hannah reads to her, for she can hardly see to read herself; but she makes coarse shirts and shifts, and knits nice warm stockings, which she gives away to the j)oor people ; and she speaks so kind to them, that they say it does them more good than the clothes.*' " Does she walk out at all, then ?*' *' A little way, Sir; but she walks »vith a crutch, for she is sadly lame, nni she leans on Mrs. Hamiah besides, She if. udy dis* tressed at the distance iWiin church, and PEN TaIVJAR, (>7 m more prayers to l.er at home " ^^'^ to-morrow, and every S„n, ' '';^'""""'nd -espectstoher?" "''^""^'^'""•''-'"-•» " Yes, to be sihy» • r co^h Without a c:r.eL^r-^^ call o!lK ""'^ ^^^ "^' '^^^ ^'-^ yo" will " No. not I-I hate old maids P.-.i h\y she would i.ot wisf .^ ''^''^■ ^^"y. ^^ir, 1 don't k»v')w hnu, .V ; i somehow I th.„k ,he wantsT ' ^"' ''<«>o"'-. «'°"'- about you." '"'""' "^ 1"««"«n» " Ay, ther ■ it i» , _:,„. „, , , , , she must kn-m .ll th J ■,'''' >'""• "''s nolliinr else to (hiuk of" 1- « :1& flMl I,- Jl 68 TEN TAMAR. " No, I cannot say that either. She has never asked about anybody but parson Hamilton and you, and not at all about your servants ; but she has asked every day whether you were returned, and if you had good health, and if you did not do a deal of good ; and she asked about Master Harry, and if he was like you, and whether I could remember you a boy, and whether Master Harry would ever walk by her house that she might see him, and whether you did not always go to church ; and when she found she could not go there she cried sadly." " Indeed ! Well, Rowley, walk in for five minutes, and take your basket, and tell Mrs. Johns' n that I beg she will command what- eve a\^ garden affords. Good morning to yoi , ' nest Rowley, I must go home to breakfast.'* *' Cod for ever bless your honour! " Sir William sat done to breakfast at the usual hour, but not with his usual cheerful- ness. Even his darling Harry failed in his endeavours to amuse him. He was absent a»id thoughtful. When breakfast was over he took a book ; but his imagination wan- dered to the cottage, and the r dr . ick hidv- >,*„':.. *»#- I'iiN TAMAR. She has parson 1 about ery day ^ou had deal of* Harry, I could Master ise tliat did not e found for five ell Mrs. d what- ning to ome to I »» at the lieerf'ul- [\ in his absent lis over >n wan- 'k lady. 69 to r '''•-" ^"^ ""'^- Sl'e seemed to be ,ehg,ou.,, charitable, gentle , -she was old, sick, poor. He might, perhaps, procure o her ,„a„^ comforts which her liule for «.>e wouhl not purchase. U would be lay be agreeable to her." This he thought woidd do ; and Hurv was despatched with the note and the tl^ Mrs. Hannah, but, not to go in „„C I ! was particdarly invited. '^ When he was gone, Sir William a«-u'n tned to read, but it would not do, ami, Xr F 3 ■paipmiMMM f (\( 70 PEN TAMA II. i! some unsuccessful attempts, he determined to take a walk to his Matilda's grove. Harry would return that way, as it was just above Mrs. Johnson's house, and there he could not miss him. In that grove Sir William sought for comfort in all his sorrows, and there he always found it. The image of Matilda always met him there — the messen- ger of peace, and hope, and joy ! There she seemed to call him to a happier world, to tell him that she would be his for ever; that they should soon meet, to part no more ! He threw himself on his favourite bench under the great oak — he read her last letter — he took from his finger a ring, in which was a lock of her hair, which she had given him in the sweet confidence of early friendship: he gazed on it for a moment, pressed the ring to his lips, and burst into tears. Here he was secure from interrup- tion, and he indulged his feelings without restraint. Ai\cv some time thus spent, he sprung from his seat, and recollecting that his boy must soon return, he dried his eyes, and walked to a root-house, in which he had ])!acetl an inscription to the memory of his long-lost love. As he approached to read ii, PEN TAJViAR. 71 , lie saw written below the lines, " Matilda l.!l i , , '^f'"^' trembled, and hardly could believe his eyes. The words were written with a pencil, but they could not be mistaken — -Matilda lives." "She lives !» cried he,-» impossible ! Uistiess? He stood motionless, with his sof y behind him, and touched his arm. Sir Wilham started, with a degree of agitation wluch alarmed the boy, who asked, with trembling eagerness, if he was ill. His gentle voice immediately restored his father to his senses : he tried to smile j and having quieted his fears, endeavoured to turn the dis course, andasked if he had delivered the note " Yes, mdeed, Sir; but it is all very odd." " What is odd, my dear boy ? " " Why, Sir, I gave the note and the cata- logue to the maid, and waited at the door • and after some time the maid came back' and said she should be sorry to distress me but her lady begged to see me. I did not know why this was to distress me, but I am sure it distressed her; for the moment she saw me, she tliivw her arms about mv neck, F 4 ^hgyfff^ ..a*»iws*aSS!teKK'''»*»--? 72 PEN TAMAR. !h ■>if and cried so as I never saw any body cry before ; and sle tried to speak again and again, but she could not get out a word j and at last she took a letter, ready sealed, out of a drawer in the table, and gave it to me, and begged I would give it to my father. Then she said " ** Merciful Heaven !'* exclaimed Sir Wil- liam, " where is the letter ? *' " Here it is, Sir j but it is not directed." Sir William tore open the seal, and read ** Matilda Heywood.'* He read no more, but sunk, pale and lifeless, on the bench. Harry, surprised and terrified, ran instantly towards the house to seek assistance, and soon returned with the gardener, bringing a glass of water. They found Sir William trembling in every limb, with his eyes eagerly fixed on the letter. It contained these words : — *• Tf William Trelawney is still the same, he will fly to his long-absent Matilda ! But I wrong my best, and now my only friend, by expressing a doubt of his affection, after the proofs which I saw of it yesterday in the grove. O, my dearest William ! I had in- tended to wait a few days, in hopes to regain Til PEN TAMAR. 73 a ht e strength ; and I wished to prepare you for the change which a dreadful accident added to time, sickness, and sorrow, has made m my appearance , but the certainty that you have not forgotten me, and your message this morning, haye oycrset all my resolut,o„s. Best of men, and deare tTf friends, come to your " Matilda Heywood." Su- Wdham started as from a dream. The gardener offered him some water, which he hastily swallowed, then falling on his knee, cned out ma transport of gratitude and joy! Gracious God ! accept my thanks." The astonished seryant attempted to make some enquiries; but Sir William knew not whul he said, and breaking from him in an instant flew to the cottage, burst open the door, and threw iimselfatthcfeetofhislong-losttrlend And now. while I leaye Trelawney and Matilda to the peaceful enjoyment of fiind- Inp which forty years of absence had not had power to destroy, I proceed to ansJer some questions which I imagine my readers may WIS to ask. and to relate the pLcnlli^ "J licr hie during their separation. jJAr^m : - ina»iniaifa8'ilf6!iai«>*»i8r-i 74 TEN TAMA II. CHAP. VIII. " No jealousy their dawn ot" love o'ercast, Nor blasted were their wedded days with strife ; Each season look'd delightful, as it pass'd, To the fond husband and the faithful wife." Beattie. m Though it suited Mrs. Rachel Trelawiiey's argument to treat the family of Mr. Hey- wood with contempt, it was in reality very respectable ; and had it been less so, he would have been ** ennobled by himself." He was a man of considerable talents, and still more considerable merit; but fortune had been far less liberal to him than nature. He was the son of a younger brother, who was unfortunately killed at the siege of Ostend, in the year KJOl, when his son was only six years old. Mr. Heywood was thus left to the care of his mother, who proved fully equal to the trust ; and he was often heard to say, that, if he possessed any vir- PEN TAMAR. r^^ example. Her income not being equal to the expense of l.i.s education, his uncle agreed to advance the small sum which was necessary for his support at Winchester I^ew College, where he obtained a fellow- ship, and determined to take orders. To this profession he was led by inclination, and he was pecuharly qualified for it by his talents and disposition. He passed through his academical studies with universal upproba- tion and esteem, and was considered as one of the most learned men at Oxford, at a Ume when that renowned seminary could boast of some of the brightest ornaments of the English Church. Soon after the death of his excellent mother, which happened in the year 1C21 Mr. Heywood, having taken priest's orders' accepted a curacy about ten miles fioin Oxford, whicli, with his fellowship, w-ould 'ave been sufficient for his support ; but he .ad lost the latter by marrying a very beau- iful and amiable woman, whom he tenderly oved, who brought hiin much happiness^ but no fortune. Being thus reduced to lu'0m <^, ^^^1^ IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I U 1.25 1.4 |l.6 ^ ^" _ •. ^^A P7 ^? .V FhotogTdphic Sciences Corixration 93 WIIT MAIN STRUT WIHTIII.NY I4SI0 (7I«) in^soi & ■^ I I It- 1 I 70 PEN TAMAIl. the moderate stipend of a curacy, Mr. Hey- wood determined to employ liis talents in the instruction of a few pupils ; and he suc- ceeded so well in this important task, that he soon found himself at the head of a large school. Matilda was his only child, and, with more than her mother's beauty, she inherited the talents and virtues of both her parents. To the instruction of this lovely creature, Mr. Hey wood devoted every leisure moment; and the success of his endeavours fully answered his most sanguine expect- ations. Such was the facility with which she acquired information on all subjects, and the pleasure with which she applied herself even to those which are most diffi- cult, that Mr. Heywood was tempted to make her mistress of the Latin as well as of the French and Italian languages, and to lead her much further than women usually proceed in philosophical researches. In those unenlighteneil times, it was not usual to borrow the assistance of a French go- verness ; and Mr. Heywood thought that his situation in life, as well as the state of his finances, put what are conunonly called ac- complisiunents out of the question, and PEN TAMAR. 77 that it would be improper, as well as ex- tremely imprudent, to send ten miles for masters to instruct the daughter of an humble curate in music and dancing : but Matilda's natural talents enabled her, with only such assistance as her mother could give, to excel in both these accomplish- ments. All these acquirements were, however regarded by Mr. Heywood as only the or' namental part of education. The principal object of both her parents was to form her mmd to virtue, and to buiid virtue on its onlysure foundation —revealed religion. Mr Heywood was of opinion that the principles of Christianity could not be inculcated too early. He considered the great mysteries of reve ation as beyond the comprehension of our limited faculties at every period of life ; and that we cannot too soon learn the humility and child-like simphcity which leads us to submit our reas. to the revealed wdl of God, as well as our inclinations to his commands. He did not wish merely to oad the memory with unexplained forms but he wished to connect Christian prin! ciples with every p,„suit and every enjoy. \ ■ \ 78 PEN TAMAR. i ment of life. The fear and love of God, the continual sense of his presence, he considered as the only guard against temptation. The constant watchfulness which proceeds from an humble sense of our own weakness, — the confidence which the Gospel teaches us to feel in the Divine assistance and protect'.on, promised through the merits of our Saviour, — and the glorious hopes which animate all our exertions and support us under all our sorro" . ; — these were the principles which he thought could not be too soon impressed on the mind, and on which he depended to guard his Matilda, from infancy to old age, from the snares of vice, the arrows of af- fliction, and the terrors of death. Mr. Heywood*s religion was free from enthusi- asm or superstition : it was learned in the writings of Hooker and Andrews ; it was afterwards confirmed by familiar intercourse with many of our best divines. Never, per- haps, did our church produce such bright and shining ornaments us in the time of which I am now speaking ; — until hypocrisy assumed the cloak of religion, to wade through seas of blood, and overthrow all that was venerable in church or state ; and PEN TAMAIl. 79 cha.g ng Rehgion herself with the crimen co„,m,tted under her name, threw offTr ! tSr f "^"^ '"'° '""'■''"t^ Before the fatal civil war, Christianity was univer ally respected. It was not concealeT i^ the closet, but professed in the writings and adorned by the virtues, of nTrand women of the highest rank : 'the young a„1 Wely Lady Jane Grey, the lion-holte E^izae, the g,„ Sydney, tlie leanS ifacon,_all were proud to own that they were Chn. ans. Though of various character and various professions, yet all agreed i 1 . oing homage to religion: I„ tho'se day !'e pa not, the statesman, the soldiei a i learned their different duties in the Spe They had burst the bonds of popery Za seeking f the truth as it is i„''jL„l't' Tt le fill '"'"^ "' ^"«''""'' >'""fi«» ' f "rf °' persecution, and washed in the blood of martyrs. presente.I to the worl itv"h:r,rp'';'''"'-''*''p''""'-''- Chris. '■> nty that the Heformation had produced Ol may she still guard her sacredlii-i h 80 PEN TAMAR. from all innovation, and, preserving the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace, be found faithful unto the end ! Mrs. Heywood was particularly skilful in the management of the temper, and had gained such influence over the aflfectionate heart of Matilda, that, from infancy, she never had an idea of disputing her mother's commands, nor could have greater pleasure than in fulfilling them. She had never heard a harsh word, she had hardly seen an angry look ; but the slightest fault was not passed over without pointed, and, at the same time, gentle censure. The line which separates right from wrong was always accurately marked ; nor was the smallest indulgence ever allowed which might induce her to pass it on any occasion. No faults were ever excused, from an idea that they were of no consequence in a child, and would mend tliemselves. No deviation from rec- titude, r degree of peevishness or ill- humour, was ever overlooked; but the task of correcting them seemed to be her own. To become better every day, more worthy of the love of her parents, and, above ail, more pleasing to God,— this was the nng the eace, be kilful in ind had ctionate icy, she nother's pleasure ;r heard n angry : passed le time, jparates :urately jigence her to ;s were !y were would irn rec- or ill- Jt the be lier more above as the PEN TAMAR. 81 P ize always set before her, the object of thods she was led into such a habit of sdf the past day. which they made together every evenmg, her fond mother pressed he to her heart, and told her that she had no observed any thing in her conduct that she couW w,sh otherwise, Matilda feit hlS more richly rewarded than by any gratTfl cation which could be given her. ' fv Ten" on the contrary, her mother, without anger' somrmH ; *r"'""' '^""'^'='"- 1"""^-' ' some 1 ttle fault, or called to her recollection ^ome duty omitted, and urged the necessity o as ing pardon of God before she sle, ( he httle penitent would do this with such feehngs of genuine piety and selflabasenient as never lost their influence at any period of her uture life. When she wa,s deprived of he, tender monitress, still the habit of self- correction remained , and the effect of this constant watchfulness was visible in every part ot her conduct. "^ > ' iM PEN TAMAU. n CHAP. IX. " What pure and whlte-wing'd agents of the sky, Who rule the springs of sacred sympathy, Inform congenial spirits when they meet ? — Sweet is their office, as their nature sweet." Rogers, Mrs. Heywood lived to witness tlie happy effects of the tender and unwearied attention which she had bestowed on the education of her only child. I,ovely in mind as in person, Matilda was the delight of all who knew her ; but, though formed to command admiration, the distinguishing feature of her character was humility. She had never learned to conceal envy or vanity under the fashionable title of emulation. She had no oj)portunity of knowing that her acquirements were su- perior to those of other young women ; and taught to compare her conduct only with the strictest rules of Gospel perfection, she felt that humble sense of imperfection which every one will feel who really looks PEK TAMAR. 83 nto h,s own heart. Vanity always proceeds f om Ignorance and inattention to the real state of the soul; but humility, the result ot constant attention and impartial self-exa- mination is, as a celebrated writer expresses It, the low, but firm foundation of every Christian virtue." • ' From her parents Matilda had always heard the language of affection, but never of flattery. She had from infancy been ac- customed to hear of her faults, and was per- fectly convinced of their existence, and of the absolute necessity of conquering them • and she was encouraged to do so by the praises which were liberally bestowed on every endeavour to improve in virtue, though very sparingly on her astonishing progress in earning. Mrs. Heywood often thouglu with much anxiety of her beauty which was so uncommon, and of such a very striking kind, that she felt many fears as to the effect it might have on her future destiny She never attempted to conceal irom Matilda what she must hear from everybody else. She could not help know- * Mr. Burke. ■p !il .. m ' 84 TEN TAMAR. H ing that she was singularly handsome ; but Mrs. Heywood endeavoured to prevent her from setting any improper value on this cir- cumstance, and taught her heartily to despise all the flattery it occasioned. Simple and natural in her manners, perfectly free from pride or affectation, with a form in which envy could not point out a defect, and a mind in which every day seemed to show new virtues, Matilda attained her eighteenth year, when those virtues were severely tried by deep and unexpected affliction. She was 'sitting by her mother, and en- gaged in a very interesting conversation, when Mrs. Heywood was suddenly seized with a paralytic attack, and fell back in her chair. Matilda called for help : Mr. Hey- wood and the servants laid her on the bed, and all possible assistance wa^ given, but she never spoke more. The tenderness with whicli she looked on her husband and her child, showed that she had not lost her senses ; but she lived only a few hours. Such a shock, to a mind which had never known affliction, was a severe trial. The loss of so excellent a parent must have been felt by such a daughter deeply, and for «*R" PEN^TAMAIl. 85 ever ; but the sight of her father's distress showed her what duty required, and that duty she determined to fulfil. From that time she was his only comfort: all the powers of hei mind were now displayed, and the good effects of the lessons she had received from both her parents were evident in every part of her conduct. She seemed equal to everything. The management of Mr. Heywood*s large family, the care of his declining health, all fell upon her. She was his secretary, his steward, his most pleasing companion ; and during two years which elapsed before he left England, 'each day gave him fresh reason to rejoice in the accomplishment of every wish which his fond heart had formed while he had watched her opening virtues. Such was Mat Hey wood : but one part of her early hist t remains to be mentioned. The friendship between Matilda and Trt^ lawney began so early, that they could hardly remember a period when it did not constitute their chief happiness. Some obligations, which Mrs. Heywood had re- ceived early in life from the late I.ady Tre- lawney, made her feel particularly interested G 3 "^^p 86 PEN TAMAR. for William; and his amiable disposition soon gained her heart so completely, that she felt for him the affection of a mother. When he was not in the school-room, he was almost always with her. In him, Matilda found a protector in every danger, a com- forter in every sorrow. She had then no other friend of her own age j and no sister ever loved a brother with more tenderness. They knew each other by no names but William and Matilda : e- ry thought, every wish was mutually imparted : he assisted in her studies-- he shared in her ple^isures. When she was sent on her favourite errands to the poor cottagers, William was her guard: when she took a walk with Mrs. Heywood, William ran to open the gates. As they grew older, William, who had a remarkable talent for drawing, instructed his fair friend. When her mind opened to the charms of poetry, William pointed out what pleased him most ; and she thought the lines nrver were 30 sweet as when read by him. They fol- lowed with enthusiasm the Red Cross Knight and Britomarte ; they wept for Des- demona and Imogen; and triumphed at Agincourt with Henry the FifUi. No hours PEN TAMAR. gy were so delightful to either, as those which were thus spent: they shared v/ith each other ali the instruction they had received ; and, when the business of the day was over, William left all his schoolfellows to walk or to read with Matilda. He stayed at Mr. Heywood*s till he '^-is seventeen ; and his removal to Oxford was, to both the young friends, the severest misfortune they had t 'er felt. During his absence, they corre- sponded with the same unreserved confi- dence. William frequently visited the par- sonage : Matilda stih regarded him as her brother and her friend; and when, at a later period, he would have wished to pre- sent himself to her in a different chit acter, the fear of losing her confidence kept him silent. Should he talk of love and marriage, perhaps she would not lean on his arm as she had done from infancy; perhaps she would not call him her dear William, and receive him with the artless joy of a sister. It was not till after his long visit at Pen Tamar, that he observed a change in her behaviour to him, though he flattered him- self that it did not proceed from any dimi- nution of affection or esteem. She had then G 4 WUmammm U i 88 PEN TAMAH. '4 lost I jr beloved mother; and her deep affliction, when he first saw her in her mourning dress, gave her a thousand new charms. He endeavoured to address her as usual : but he was not formed to deceive ; and Matilda perceived the delicacy of her situation, and the necessity of discouraging a passion which he was unable to disguise. She received him as a friend, but carefully avoided giving him any oi)portunity to de- clare himself a lover, before she could know that his choice was sanctioned by the appro- bation of his father. Trelawney felt the propriety of her conduct ; and that regard to duty wliich always regulated his own, determined him to be silent till he should have obtained his father's permission to speak. For this he had intended to wait two years longer, and to fulfil Sir Henry's wish bys})ending that time on tlie Cor jnent: but love prevailed over every other consi- deration, and he wrote the letter, and re- ceived the answer, which have been already mentioned. Mr. Heywood saw the growing attach- ment between WilliMni and Mahlda, and he saw it with pleasure, because he loved and Uh I'iiN TAMAU. 8Q esteemed Trelawiiey more than any man iivmg, and he did not foresee the diificul- ties which afterwards prevented their union. He had known Sir Henry Trelawney from his childhood, and lie knew him to be generous, affectionate, and good-natured. It did not require the partiality of a parent to see that Matilda was formed to adorn the highest station. He despised money too much, to think that her want of fortune ought to be an objection in the eyes of a man who had himself married for love, and who seemed to have no wish but to make us son hajipy. He saw the ardour of Wil- lium's attachment; and he felt no doubt that the easiness of Sir Henry's tem})er would yield to his wishes, even if he shoidd not en- tirely approve them. But when Trelawney told him the secret of his heart, he exacted from him a promise that he would leave the parsonage, ami avoid any explanation with Matilda, till he should have obtained his father's permission to offer her his hand. Unlbrtunately, neither Mr. Heywood nor Jus young friend knew how much Sir Henry's mind was weakened, nor how en- tnely he had submitted to be governed by i 90 PEN TAMAll. ,1 1. an artful and unfeeling woman ; and when William took leave of his Matilda for a few days, and went to Oxford to wait for the reply to his letter, he left her with eyes sparkling with pleasure, and a heart beating with hope : he pressed her hand to his lips, and when she hastily withdrew it, with a blush which spoke the language of modesty, but not of resentment, love whispered to his enraptured heart that he should soon return to claim it as his own, and that his adored Matilda would allow the claim. Little did he then thinK that he was to see her no more ! His sense of duty, and Mr. Hey- wood's advice, determined him to obey his father's commands : but he still looked forward to a more favourable moment for obtaining his consent ; and he lefl England, with an unalterable resolution to preserve for Matilda a heart which was all her own. I PEN TAMAR. 91 CHAP. X. " Ah - why should virtue dread the frowns of fate? Hers what no wealth can win, no power create - A httle world of clear and cloudless day. Nor wrcck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay/' ROGEIIS. When Mr. Heywood returned to the pa.so:..age, after Trelawney had left Ox- tord, he was received by Matilda with a coimtenance in which the penetrating eye might discover various emotions : but one look at luT fatlier banished hope and joy. and. with trembling anxiety, she asked what had distressed him ? He paused for a mo- ment. " My dearest father, arc yon well ? " —••Perfectly well, my love." With a (alter- ing voice, she asked if he had seen Trc hvwncy?_..n,ave."_ They were both SI ent for a moment, but a look from Ma- tilda, more 'o<,uent than words, demanded an exjilanation. •• My child, 1 have endca^ ourcd to teach i fl' m \)'^ TEN TAMAll. you such })rinciples as ought to be your support uucler every trial : I must now put them to the proof. I am not to Jearn that you love Trehiwney, and lie deserves your love, but duty requires that you should l)art." Matilda, pale as ashes, sat with her eyes fixed on the ground. ** At the connnand of his father, he has left Oxford, and will soon leave England." 8he started. " Must I, then, see him no more ? '* *< No, iny child, you must not see him till his father shall have learned the value of the treasure which he rejects, or till William shall have a right to follow the dictates of his iieart. He is gone, my Matilda, to the Continent; but he has left this letter for you." While she read it her father walked to the window, and letl her at liberty to in- dulge the tears which now flowed in abun- dance. In a few minutes he returned, and clasping her in his arms, he said : " My child ! my only treasure ! now is the time to prove that the lessons of the best of mothers have not been lost : now is the time to 1 PEN TAMAR. 9.3 show the self-command which she always endeavoured to teach. Trelawnev loves you tenderly : I believe he is no less dear to you. It was the first wish of my heart to give you to him, but obstacles have arisen which 1 did not expect. His father treats us with contempt, but he shall see that wo do not deserve it. I believe Trelawney IS nica[)able of proposing a marriage against his father's consent ; but promise me that, if he does, you will always reject the pro' posal." " I do promise it, my dear father; but let me hope that you will nev3r wish me to give to another a heart which is and must be his alone." " No, my beloved child : while his sen- timcnts shall remain unchanged, and your affection shall continue undiminished, no advantage of rank or fortune could induce me to wish you married to another. We will try to make each other happy ; we will talk of I'relawney; we will feel an honejt pride in having acted as duty required ; and we will hope that, at some futiue period, inclination and duty may be no longer at variance.'* (7. !l!^ ; i i ! i i s \ 94 PEN TAMA 11. Mr. Heywood then told her every parti- cular of his conversation with Trelawney : he allowed her to indulge her grief; and he soothed her feelings by the just praise which he bestowed on the object of her choice. Matilda felt all her obligations to such a father, and, for his sake, she endea- voured to support her spirits : she resumed all her usual occupations, and, by degrees, her cheerfulness returned. Frequent letters from Trelawney relieved her anxiety on his account, while they proved his unalterable attachment; - and hope, which at her age is not easily banished, resumed its place in her bosom. About a year before she lost her mother, Matilda had formed an intimacy with a very respectable family of the name of Wilkin- son, who had lately come into possession of the principal property and the manor-house in tiie village of Southwick, where her father was curate. With them, and parti- cularly with Miss Wilkinson, whose kind- ness on the deatli of Mrs. Heywood had made a deep impression on her feehng heart, Matilda spent many interesting hours j and the first year of Trelawne/s absence passed Br4«BS?*S' PEN TAMAR. 95 in the tranquil enjoyments which the country affords, with the addition of pleasing so- ciety and a choice collection of books. I he small distance from Oxford afforded opportunities, of which some of Mr. Hev wood's former scholars, and other young men of their acquaintance, willingly availed themselves, to see the "eighth wonder of the world » which was the name that one ot them had given to Matilda. Her ad mirers were numerous, but their hopes were nnmediately checked. Averse fiom co- quetry, and incapable of disguise, MatUda rejected every proposal without hesitation : and Mr. Heywood adhered to his promise though tempted to break it by offers which wouhl have gratified the highest expect- ations that avarice and ambition could have formed J and, after several unsuccessful attacks, Jie fair recluse was given up as unconquerable. The war, which broke out in the year 1642, put an eiid to all hope of domestic happuiess. Mr. Heywood saw the danger w ncli threatened hiui and every clergynmn who was resolved to reject the Covenant ; and the reasons which he detailed in his I 96 PEN TAMAU. "1 " ■ r ' HI • litit Hilt' i 1 > i I letter to -^^^^.^^^ZZ in America, n ^ ^^^^ ^„ f Tnid in abou^wo .nonths after S' Hltood was to sail, and who he knew Ml. n*-}'^^ 4-^ Trplawnev ; and tie ,ould ^1'^''- ,;Vot deS^^^^^^ - '>'= f'"u:aUuro"4 Hend might sacnfice 'uie -"ideratU and immediately :lUn "o take on himself the charge of p..otecting his Ma^da ^^^ ^ mournful leave o ^.^^^_ ;tirr=-ip -nd .r New ^">a iTi:'£arida th; "^^"° of a hero w tlall the softness of a '°'"T She upported his drooping spirits woman. ^Je ^PP^gj^^ities, and thought of lessened all Ins aimcu > comfort. awaken hopes which she did n ^^®^* . . ri^v^ the weather was re- PEN TAMAR. him to r. Arnold, letter to oposed to Qths after 3 he knew ^ ; and he mer, as he Kt sacrifice nmediately charge of iter took a friends at lom Liver- d for New lent to Mr. Matilda the softness of a )ping spirits, i thought of his comfort, and tried to not herself ather was re- xiles, in some 97 by weariness ^TZlfll " ''""''"^'"^ to be seen bu the f ST ™ """''''«''' when the ineollt "wtet S ^ mode of oonv«.r«« wmcn attend that -uppoiaiTe Tn;r;,:ir'^- ^ r^ English coasf ^h!, ' "«•" "^ the vessel near the Sd^'l T " r ^"^ Jorty-eig. t hours their' situaS .Sr^ dangerous : and Mr R^ j -^ t^d. shoe'kea witf L^Slret^:- r.:;^:; £:'-;;- '-ope ie.r^ ^ "1 mat Crod whom thev fii..« dared to rnsul,, remained in the 'cab ^ and endeavoured to nreiwm f 1 ' which the, had ..e';''::j:\x:::: i hen. ,„deed Mr. Heywood saw the eS ' of those pnncples which he had inculcated Then he saw how „,uch the fortitude whS S" '"■^P"'^^ '' -P-'o'- to that „S,a uc courage which is only the effe o" "cibit. ^ne sudors expected fhp.r ^w agonies of horror- Jlv '" '' Willie the young and H ■i: m il 98 PEN TAMAIJ. lovely Matilda, firm and undaunted, was calm, resigned, and tranquil. Many a tender thought dwelt on the grief of her Trelawney, and the silent tear stole from her eyes : but Christianity taught her to see the hand of Providence in all events, and resignation and hope were still triumphant. After a long interval of suspense and silence, they felt a severe shock, and h^ard an exclamation of horror. They ran up to the deck, and saw despair on every countenance. The ship had struck upon a rock, arid was rapidly sinking ; but a vessel was very near them, evidently trying to give assistance ; and the boat was prepared, as the only chance of escape. Mr. Hey- wood and Matilda were hurried into it, with their servants, and most of the crew ; thougli some, who were expert swimmers, and who thought it impossible that the boat could weather the storm, prti'erred the chance of climbing the rocks, and escaping to the island ; and in this attempt three or four succeeded. The boat was still too full ; but the sight of the ship, which approached very fast, excited the sailors to fiesh exer- tions. They rowed for i considerable tihie, PEN TAMAR. 99 and were now very near the object of all their hopes, when a wave clashed over the fi,T M "T"'^ '"''^' '"'" '^'^'^^'* ^han the fiist. Mr. Hey wood clasped his daughter in his arms : they heard a universal shriek^ and the boat sunk ! The ship, which was now within a few yards, was bound from France to Canada • and a humane wish to reheve the distressed h:.cl induced some of the crew to venture m a boat to their assistance ; but they had the mortification of seeing those wliom they had hoped to save perisli before their eyes. Mr. Heywood and Matilda were instantly separated by the waves ; and he sunk, to rise no more ! Her dress supported her a little longer, and pointed her out to a young Frenchman, who, being a remarkably skilful swimmer, instantly plunged into the waves, in tlie hope of saving the unfor- tunate female. With great difficulty he succeeded, and bore his lovely prize to the boat, but in a state which gave little room to hope that her life could be saved. Her brave deliverer could not look in her face though then pale and lifeless, without anxiously wishing that his exertions might H 2 100 PEN TAMA It. '.i be successful ; and, after many fruitless at- tempts to save any more of the crew, he conveyed her on board the ship, and com- mitted her to the care of his sister and her female attendant, by whom she was put into a bed, and every proper means used to restore her to life. Her kind nurses were soon convinced that she Vad not ceased to breathe ; but it was long before she opened her eyes, or gave any other sign of life ; and, when p re was able to speak, they had the mortification to f^nd that the shock had affected her brain. In this sad state the poor sufferer continued during many weeks, with no change, but from wild raving to stupid insensibility ; and, in this state, the lovely and accomplished Matilda Heywood was left to the mercy of strangers, to whom her name was unknown, and who did not understand her language. But that Divine Protector in whom she always trusted had not now forsaken her ; for he had placed her in ihi" liands of those to whose hu- manity distress was a suificient recommend- ation. PEN TAMAR. 101 CHAP. XI. " Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconciled. Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds Find balm to soothe her bitter rankling wounds : Here heart-struck Grief might Heavenward stretch her scan. And injured Worth forget and pardon man ! » Burns. The gentleman to whom MatiJda owed her hfe was the Comte de Clairville ; of a noble family, and large property in Nor- mandy. His grandfather was the friend and associate of the unfortunate Admiral Cohgny, and one of the earliest and most zealous converts to Protestantism, at the time when persecution raged with the most dreadful violence. His eldest son was at- tached to the established system ; and when his father was murdered, soon after his illus- trious friend, in the horrible massacre of St; Bartliolomew, he was observed to take pos- session of the title and estate with a degree H 3 f i n II i ! t ' 1 ' li i^l 102 PEN TAMAR. of insensibility which shocked even the most bigotted Papists. Tlie younger brother, whose disposition and princi})lcs were totally different, iiaving little besides his own in- dustry on which he could depend for his future support, determined to quit a country stained with the blood of his father, and al- most all his friends, and to join a little colony originally founded hi Florida, under the auspices of the late Admiral, and in which many Protestants had Ibund a safe asylum. France had allowed the Spaniards and Portuguese to divide the New World be- tween them, till this great man, in the midst of the horrors of civil war, sent, in the year 15()'2, John Riband to make a settlenient in Florida. The Spaniards had abandoned that country, because it produced no gold. The French Ibund there treasures which were far more ])recious — a serene sky, a fertile soil, a temperate climate, and inhabit- ants who were friends to peace and hospi- tality. The new settlers fbunil every thing succceil beyond their hopes, till the ambition and jealousy of the Sj)aniards led them to attack the intant settlement, and to nunder most of the inhabitants, with every circuni- PEN TAMAU. 103 Stance of savage cruelty. Some of those who had escaped the massacre were hung lip ahve on the trees, with this inscription : — " Not as Frenchmen, but as heretics." A severe revenge was afterwards taken by a new colony of Protestants, who drove the murderers from Florida, and, imitating too closely the crimes of which they had heard with horror, hung uj) some of their prisoners with these words:— » Not as Spaniards, but as assassins." * But the neighbourhood of the Sj)aniards making Florida an unsafe situation, the colony removed to a very distant j)art of the country ; and being afterwards joined by many new settlers, of whom the Chevalier deClairville was one, tlicy established them- selves in Canada, and, in the year KiOS, laid the foundation of Quebec. In this ( ountry Clairville continued to reside; and when, by persevering industry, he had gained all that his moderate wishes recjuired, in his fiftieth year he married the tlaughter of a neighbouring planter, with whom, in an in- ♦ For the liistoricHi pari of the chapter, sec Abb^ Hayiuil. II % I Ilff 104 PEN TAMAR. hospitable desert, he enjoyed tranquillity and peace, which fanaticism and cruelty had banished from his native country. When the generous and noble-minded Henry sheathed the sword of persecution, and taught his subjects, under his paternal go- vernment, to be once more hai)py, the Che- valier de Clairville had been invited to re- turn ; but he was then attached to the little creation of his own industry, and wished to end his days in Canada, though he was after- wards induced to send his son and daughter to France, in order to give them such ad- vantages of education as America did not afford. Young Clairville had completed his stu- dies, when the death of his uncle, and of a son who was the last of a numerous flunily, opened io him very different i)rospects froni those which the woods of Canada afforded. He wrote to inform his father of these events, and invited him to relurn and take l)Ossession of the title and estates of his an- cestors; but, after a long interval of silence, he received a letter from his mother, to in- form him (hat his father was no more. She consented to his wish of fixing his abode in ! PEN TAMAR, 105 a country which she had never seen, b'.t requested him to return to Canada, with his sister and to remain there for some .nonths at least: dunng which time they might ispose of then- property, so as to secure L l>appi,.ess of their numerous dependents ■ a>Hl she would then consent to quit he native woods for ever md tn .,„ her children to Franc:: "'""''""^ In obchence to the co.nmands of a parent H- .on. he tenderly loved, the Comte de Cauvdle purchased a vessel to convey hin,- self and Ins sister to Canada, in which they sa.ledfromCherbo,ug; but contrary wink drove then, out of their course, and brought then, „, s,ght of the wreck of the Klizabeth whose most precious treasure H.e young 1 lenclnnau had the happiness to rescue fiom the waves. The Comte de Clairville was in the bloom of youth : he was „„bly born, possessed of a large f.,rtune pleasing in person and man- ne.s, and consulere.l by ail who knew him as one o .ho Hnest young „„,,. ,•„ ,..,,„„,^_ He was full of the (ire and nuin.ation, the Kcnerousenthusiasu,. and r,m,nutie bravery, iorwhuh his coun.ryn,en were in those days 106 PEN TAMAR. eminently distinguished ; and he deserved the title which had been given to Bayard, *' Le chevalier sans peiir, et sans reproche." His sister was not less amiable ; and in her the unfortunate Matilda found the tenderest of friends, before she could have any claim to the unwearied attention which preserved her life, except the interest which her un- common beauty awakened in tliose who were as yet unacquainted with her merit. The voyage was tedious, and attended with many dangers, to which Matilda was insensible. Continually calling for her fa- ther or Trelawney, in a language which was understood by none of her attendants, her gentle nurse found it impossible to calm the violence of her grief The intervals of reason were short, and she never seemed clearly to recollect what had passed, or to know where she was ; yet her natural gen- tleness remained, and she did whatever was pointed out by Ilenriette de Clairville with- out com})laint or murmur. Once she seemed to have recollection enough to perceive the kindness with which she w treated : she saw the tears which started from the eyes of her protectress, and seizing her hand, she PEN TAMAR. 107 pressed it to her heart. This was to Hen riette a moment of transport which is not to be described. She exclaimed, in French, U that she could know what I feel for her !» Matilda, who spoke that languaL^e as perfectly as her own, cried out, - Are you my guardian angel ?» Clairville, who was sittuig by the side of her cot, but con- cealed by the curtains, surprised and de- lighted at hearing her speak his own Ian- guage, suddenly darted forward. She caught an nnperfect view of his figure, nd, always nnpressed with one idea, she eagerly cried out in English, '' O, William ! is it you ?» 1 he language of tenderness is always intel- iigible, and Clairville ventured to come nearer ; when, with a loud screan), and a look of aversion and terror, she instantly •sunk back, and spoke no more. This dis appomtment seemed to have made a deep impression on her mind : she continued in a state of stupid insensibility, seldom spoke, and could hardly be persuaded to swallow food or medicine : but the only moment in winch she was /..nv./y had made Ilenriette more than ever solicitous to restore her I -■^fcess^s-;,-' ! it m r ri 108 PEN TAMAR. and her attention and tenderness were un- wearied. Afler many weeks, and when they were arrived near the mouth of the river St. Lawrence, Matilda, for the first time, liad many hours of deep and uninterrupted sleep ; and when Henriette went to her in the morning, she found her in an agony of tears. They were the first that she had been seen to shed. Mademoiselle Clairville took her hand, and asked if she wordd take some refreshment. Matilda looked earnestly in her face, and said, in the same language, " O tell me who you are, and why you are so kind to me ?" " I am your friend — and I wish to make you well and happy.** " Then tell mo, where is my father ? — I am sure I was fast locked in his arms. How could I lose him ? " " It has pleased God to take him from you J and you nnist wait till he gives him to you again." There never was a moment of iier life in which Matihla was deaf to the voice of religion ; and Henriette was soon convinced that she had now touched the right string. When she spoke of submission !)! PEN TAMAR. 109 to the Divme decrees, her lovely patient always listened with attention : her reason gained strengtli, tliough very slowly; but the return of reason brought with it the dreadful recollection of all that she had lost Mademoiselle Clairville answered her anx' lous enquiries with tenderness and caution, but with strict truth ; and the poor sufferer was at last awakened to all the horrors of her situation. She found herself torn from all that had been dear to her on earth, deprived of the Dest of parents, banished from P:ndand without fortune-without friends : she was tlirown on the compassion of strangers, to whom she was under obligations which it was impossible she could ever return, but with whom she must go to a country of which the name was almost unknown to her where she would probably have no commu- nication with England, no means of telliuLr her only friend that she was stid in exist- encx., no ojjportunity of knowing whether helived,— and lived for her! The leep and settled meiancholy which these reflections produced was still inter- rupted by occasional fits of horror, approach.. I T" I.? * i 'I . ,i?y %i l\ 110 PEN TAMAR. ing to madness, and particularly when she saw the water; and when, at the end of their long voyage, it was necessary to remove her into a boat, all her agonies returned, and she was carried on shore almost as ill as ever. But, in the peaceful residence of Madame de Clairville, she recovered beyond the most sanguine hopes of her friends. In a few days she was perfectly herself; and, though in the deepest affliction, her fine mind by degrees resumed all its powers. 1 ' \ PEN TAMAR. Ill CHAP. XII. " Along these lonely regions, where, retired From little scenes of art, great Nature dwells In awful solitude, and nought is seen But the wild herds that own no master's stall, Prodigious rivers roll ! " Thomson. A LATE elegant writer * has made the sub- lime scenery of Canada so familiar, even to those wliose reading extends no further than novels, that I will not attejnj)t any descrip- tion of the country into which Matilda was now unexpectedly thrown. But I must ob- serve, that, though the grand features of nature were the same, the embellishments of art were then almost entirely wanting. All was savage grandeur : vast woods, inha- bited only by wild beasts and serpents j lakes, of which the eye could not trace the circum- ference ; and r-vcrs, whose immense torrents swelled the bed of the ocean. In this un- * See Emily Montague. Y U; 112 PEN TAMAIl. touclied region of tlie world, all was grand and sublime. The richness, the magnifi- cence, the majesty of the scene, left every work of art so far behind, that the awe- struck mind, feeling its own littleness, could only wonder and adore ! In the midst of these magnificent works of Nature, or (to speak more properly) of Nature's God, appeared the little settlement in which a few unfortunate beings, whom per- secution had banished from France, had fixed their humble residence. They were far from possessing the comforts which Canada now affords; but the persevering hand of indus- try secured them from want, and the neces- sity of mutual assistance united them to each other. During a great part of the year, they were cut off from the possibi- lity of intercourse with Europe, by the ice, which prevented navigation ; and, at the re- mote period of which I am now speaking, that intercourse was always uncertain, and often totally discontinued during several years. No commerce tempted the mer- chant to navigate unknown seas and dan- gerous rivers ; and the promises of protec tion, which had been liberally bestowed by I i k V TEN .AM All. 113 government, were forgotten. The great Henry had fallen by the hand of an assas. sni ; and Ilicheheu, who never listened to the voice of lunnanity, was engaged in plans which, to his boundless ambition, ap- peared of far greater importance. Thus abandoned by all the world, the colonists found it necessary to exert all the efforts of united skill and industry, in order to conquer the difficulties with which they were surrounded j and at the time when the young Comte de Clairville arrived, the plantation had attained to such a degree of peifection, that, to those who had no ar- tiiicial wants, it appeared a little paradise. The late Monsieur de Clairville's residence was far superior to any in tlie settlement : it was surrounded by a pretty garden, which produced much both for ornament and use. He had procured from France many articles which contribute to domestic happi- ness, and amongst the rest a well-chosen collection of books. The house was small, but well.built ; and an air of neatness and simple elegance seemed to point it out as the mansion of peace. In this retired spot Matilda was wel- T"' 1 ') 114 PEN TAMAR. corned by Madame de Clairville, witli that genuine politeness whicli springs from be- nevolence, ard of which only the unfor- tunate know the worth ; and here, in the society of fiiends who were every day more dear to her, she passed the remainder of the year 164^2. The climate seemed particu- larly to agree with her ; for she never had appeared so well, or so lovely. The first violence of grief had subsided, and a deep but gentle melancholy succeeded, which, far from rejecting the consolations of friend- ship, seemed ever ready to seek the comfort which the feeling heart has so much pleasure in bestowing. She was conscious of obliga- tions which could never be repaid ; but she had none of the pride which arrogates to Itself the name of sensibility. She be- lieved that, when Madame de Clairville and Henriette spoke of her arrival as of the greatest happiness that could have befallen them, they spoke the language of truth. Her grateful and affectionate heart felt the value of such friends ; aiid the ardent wish of contributing to their happiness made her exert all her j)owers of pleasing, and per- haps did more than reason could have done PEN TAMAR. 115 le, witli that igs from be- y the unfor- here, in the ny day more ainder of the ned particu- le never had % The first , and a deep ded, which, >ns of friend- the comfort uch pleasure us of obliga- lid ; but she arrogates to She be- lairville and I as of the a-ve befallen ;e of truth, eart felt the ardent wish ss made her 2^, and per- 1 have done to calm the violence of her grief. Far supe- rior to either of her new friends in accom- plishments and information of various kinds, she found a thousand ways to be useful as well as pleasing to them. She pointed out many improvements, which added to the comfort of their little residence. She con- trived many ways to lessen the inconveni- ences of a rigorous climate,— many employ- j ments which made the tedious winter nights seem short. She instructed Henriette in the English language, and taught her to read a few of our best authors, of whom the late Chevalier de Clairville had been a warm admirer. She led her young friend to take pleasure in drawing, for which the surround- ing scenes furnished the noblest subjects. Henriette found her generous friendship amply repaid, and considered the hour in which she first saw Matilda as the most for. tunate of her life. The young Comte was their constant com- panion ; and his behaviour to Matilda was always delicate and respectful in the highest degree. Never appearing to presume on her obligations to him, but always attentive to promote her happiness, he seemed to I 2 no TKN-JfAMAR. I ■ I ( !,,. ! liave no wish but to alleviate those sufferings, which he respected too much to mention his own ; but he lo\ed, with all the ardour of a young and romantic mind, and impatiently waited for the moment when he might with propriety urge his suit. Had he seen Matilda Heywood in the most fashionable circles of Paris, he could not have hesitated to pronounce her the most beautiful woman that he had ever beheld. It is easy to ima- gine the impression which such charms must make on his heart in the solitudes of Ca- nada, and when habits of intimacy gave him continual o|)portunities of knowing that her mind was far more lovely than her form ; yet he was so guarded in his behavioiu-, that Matilda, who was not apt to suppose that every man she met was to be in love with iier, saw in him only the humane ])rotector of a helpless stranger, and ielt and express- ed the gratitude and esteem to which he had so just a claim. Month after month j)assed on, without the possibility of any intercourse with E;.rope, and to Matilda each day appeared an age ; but, at last, she heard her friends mention the ai)proach of that season, when the breaks \ ■■'taRBRS'"' PEN TAMAR. 117 ing up of the ice, at the moiitli of the river St. Lawrence, opens the communication with the rest of the world ; and slie ventured to ask the Comte if lie knew of any shij) which was sailing to France or England. Ciair- ville, trembling with anxiety, said, "Do you then wish to leave us?'* Matilda could not help seeing the agitation with which tliis (luestion was asked, but slie endeavoured to conceal the distress which it gave her. Slie expressed, in the strongest terms, the high sense she should ever entertain of her obli- gations to him and to his family, but said she had already given them too much trouble. Clairville threw himself at her feet, and, seizing her hand, eagerly exclaimed, *' Talk not of trouble, loveliest of women ! I adore you ; nor can I form an idea of haj)piness on earth, if I must part from you." Matilda, nmch distressed, drew back her hand, and entreating him to rise, said, " You have now made it impossible for me to stay." *• Is it, then, imjmssibic that 1 can ever obtain your good o])ini()n ?" ** () no ! my esteem — my friendship—my unbounded gratitude, ure yoins for ever. But you (ies(M\ e what I have not to give ■MH . n 4 U >i i 118 PliN TAMAIt. a heart entirely your own ! Do not, I en- treat you, distress me by ever naming this subject again. Be still my friend— my kind, my generous protector; but do not give me the misery of thinking that I have in- flicted pain upon him to whom I owe mv hfe." ^ She disengaged herself from him, and hastily leaving the room, she was met by Henriette, who observed her emotion, and enquired tJie cause. To her Matilda con- ie ied her unalterable attachment to Tre- lawney, and entreated her assistance to pre- vent the repetition of a scene which liad so much distressed her. It was evident that Henriette was scarcely less disappointed than her brother. She had hoped that the friend whom she most tenderly loved would have been united to her by a still dearer tie ; and she now felt and regretted the impru- dence with which she had encouraged a passion, of which she had long been the confidant. With all the earnestness of a warm and affectionate heart, she pleaded the cause of her brother; but Matilda, in- capable of deceit, declared her unalter. able attachment to another, and so strongly \ PKN TAMAIl. 11;) pointed out the impropriety of her remaining in her present situation, that Henriette at hist promised to prevail with Clairville to contrive some means for her removal, and, for both their sakes, to forbear any further mention of a subject which had given her so much concern. She found her brother in a state which really alarmed her ; and it was long before she could prevail with him to resign all his hopes. When he appeared at dinner, he was the picture of despair ; and Matilda felt, more strongly than ever, the sad necessity which confined her to a place, where she only stayed to destroy the happi- ness of a man to whom she owed the highest obligations. But the next morning, as she was walking alone, Clairville a})pr()ached, and, entreating her pardon for the pain which he had given her, said, that he did not now come to tUk of his own misfortunes, but, if possible, to al. leviate hers. «' Tell me, then, my lovely friend, (if I may still presume to address you by that name) — tell me what you wish. Is it lo return to England ?'* Matilda could scarcely restrain her tears, while she tried to Ihank liiiu. She told him ihat it was I I' IV i: ); !m 1/ IJ^O PEN TAMAIl. her wish to go, according to the plan pro- posed by her father, to his friend Mr. Arnold, in New Enghuul, who was in possession of her fortune, and with whom she coukl have a safe asyhim, till the accounts which she Iioped to receive from EngUuul might per- haps induce lier to return to her native country. Her voice faUered wlicn she said this, and a deep sigh from Clairville proved that he understood it; but, after a moment's pause, he told her that all intercourse by land with the English settlements was prevented by almost impenetrable woods, which the little colony in Canada considered as their best security against too powerful neighbours: that therefore the only plan which he could propose was, her accompa- nying his family in the ship which was to convey them, early in the autumn, to France; and that ship being entirely under his com- mand, he would engage that it should con- vey her to Boston, before it proceeded to Cherbourg. This oHer was most gratefully accepted, though not without more concern at the long delay than she chose to express. (Mair- PKN TAMAR. 1^21 ler native ville, always generous and luunane, antici- pated her wishes, by saying, that though there was no road by which she could pos- sibly pass the woods, tlie savage inhabitants of the country did it occasionally ; and that, if she wished to write to her friends at Boston, he would endeavour to find a way by whicli she migiit send a letter, and re- ceive an answer before the time appointed for her voyage. This was joyful news to Matilda, who wrote to Mrs. Arnold an account of her father's death, and of her own miraculous escape ; and mentioned her wisii of still putting herself under her protection, if it would be convenient to her and Mr. Arnold to receive her. Sfie re- quested a small sum of money to pay—what money amid pay, — of her inmiense debt to the Clairville family, of whom she had been V liged to borrow what was necessary in order to supply herself with clothes. But the last, and to her the most imjxH-tant, re- cpiest was, that Mrs. Arnold would tell her what accounts had been received from Kng- land since she lefl it, which was almost a year. Clairville kep< his promise; and some 1^<2 i n '1 ■M V r i /' 'III I'KN TAMA 11. Indians, whom his kindness had attached to his interests, undertook to convey the letter. They were long absent, but they were faith- ful to their trust, and returned at last with a letter from Mrs. Arnold, and the money which MatiUla had requested her to send. The letter expressed the liveliest joy at her safety, of whicii no hope liad been en- tertained, since the account of the wreck, as described by the few sailors who escaped,* had reached the merchants at Boston to whom the cargo was consigned. Mrs. Arnohl earnestly retiuested Matikla to come to her, and promised all that frientlsliip coidd do to lessen her affliction, and promote her fu- ture happiness. Nlie mentioned some j)ar. ticulars with regard to her little fortune, which showed how honoiuably Mr. Arnold had discharged his trust; and she entreated lior to think of no other home, whilst Eng- land contuiueil in the dreadful state which her hist letters described. Slie then gave a mohu.choly picture of the horrors occa- sioned by the civil war. She mentioned the death of the Earl of Lindsay, and many others djsfuiguislied by their rank, and by then- virtues j and adileil, ♦• If the roval » I I'KN TAiMAU. V23 cause can be supported, it must' be by the active zeal and invincible courage of the brave army of the west, which, under the command of Sir Bevil Granville, has per- fc-med wonders." Matilda knew that in t.. ^L her Trelawney was probably serv- ing, and, whilst she rejoiced at his triumphs, slie trembled for his safety. Many weeks of suspense and anxiety passed before she quitted the hospitable asylum in Canada, and accompanied her kind friends on a very fatiguing and dan- gerous voyage. The sea was still an object of such tenor to Matilda, that Mademoi- selle Clairville dreaded its effect on her spirits; but she exerted all her fortitude, that she might not distress her friends, and, without any particular cause of alarm, she was safely laiuled in New England. With many tears, which spoke the language of a truly grateful heart, Matilda lefl her friends, with a promise of unalterable attachment, and as frequent correspondence as circum- stances would permit. Clairville had avoided her society as much as possible, since he knew of her attachment to his riv ., tiiougli he always showed the ssmm^' i 'I a t:' ' 124 PEN TAMAR. same concern for her happiness, tlie same desire to obhge and serve her. Wlien he was to take the hist farewell, Matilda, with tears starting from her eyes, gave him her hand, and endeavoured to express her grate- ful sense of his generous friendship; when, dropping on one knee, and fervently pressing her hand to his lips, he said,— «< Be happy, loveliest and best of women! and forget that such a wretch as Clairville exists." With- out giving her time to reply, he hastily withdrew, and she saw him no more. ^11- \l. \x \l PEN TAMAU. 1^5 CHAP. XIII. " Ye good, distress'd ! Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand Beneath life's pressure ;--yet bear up a while, And what your bounded view, which only saw A little |.art, deem'd evil, Is no more ! " Thomson. a Matilda was received by Mr. and Mrs. Arnold with warm and sincere affection j but the period of her residence in New England affords little to interest the reader. Mr. Arnold had been a faithful guardian of her little fortune ; and, in a country where the necessaries of life were cheap, and luxuries few, Matilda found the income sufficient to gratify all her wishes. She consented to reside constantly with Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, at their earnest request, on such terms as prevented her feeling any pecuniary obligation to them; and she found, in their friendship and society, much i,|»ft-w^;aiiiillrji>ii-. no PEN TAMAlt. h Ti ImI', 11 ; ( comfort during many tedious years of exile. Though an intercourse was now open with England, it was neither regular nor frequent j but Matilda availed herself of the fir^ opportunity that offered to write to her friend, Miss Wilkinson. To her she told her tale of sorrows j and, after en- joining the strictest secrecy as to her being still alive, she requested some account of her English friends, and, above all, of Tre- lawney. She expressed her determination to remain in America while Sir Henry Tre- lawney lived, as nothing should induce her to break the promise which she had made to her father ; but she wished to know if her William were yet alive,— if she still were dear to him, before she would send him an account of her miraculous escape. Miss Wilkii.son was acquainted with all that had passed, and in her prudence and deli- cacy she knew that she might confide : to her, therefore, she wrote with the most unreserved confidence. Many tedious months passed before Ma- tilda received an answer to this letter, and, when it arrived, it confirmed all her fears. PEN TAMAU. 127 It was filled with the tenderest expressions of friendship, and the HveUest joy at her unhoped-for safety; but it strongly painted the wretched state of England, and it mentioned the death of Sir Bevil Gran- ville, the destruction of the brave Cornish army, and the uncertain fate of her Tre- lawney. On that subject Miss Wilkinson expressed herself as follows : — "In an army where every soldier was a hero, Mr. Trelawney outshone them all : his courage and his humanity were the theme of every tongue. But, alas! my friend, what I have more to say can give you only pain. He was certainly wounded and taken prisoner in the engagement at Alresfbrd, and I can learn nothing more. Had he been executed, as many of the bravest officers have been, it inust have been known. I trust, therefore, that he lives, but in such close confinement that no friend is permitted to see, or even to write to him. Doubt not the zeal with which I will endeavour to forward your wishes : your secret shall be faithfully kept; and I will spare no pains to procure some intelligence of Trelawney, and transmit to 128 PEiV TAMAll. L»» ;4. r lii 1 you any on which I can place the smallest uependence.** During several years which followed, before Trelawney was released from his confinement, Matik.. remained in anxious suspense. Miss Wilkinson wrote by every opportunity, but could tell nothing satis- factory. The defeat at Naseby,-the in- famous treaty by which the Scots gave up the Kuig into the power of his enemies, -> Ins imprisonment, trial, and death, — the usurpation of Cromwell, and the overthrow of the ancient constitution in church and state, -all filled Matilda's gentle mind with horror, and made her dread a letter from England as much as she wished it. Miss Wilkmson, in every letter, advised her to remam ni America, and mentioned many alarming cnx-umstances which had attended her own situation ; but, in the year 1650 she mformed her friend that she had ac cepted the addresses of a gentleman of the name of Saville, and that her future re- sidence would be at the village of Longford, in Yorkshire. During this interv. , Matilda had the satisfaction of hearing repeatedly from Hen- B the smallest ch followed, Jed from his d in anxious 'ote by every lothing satis- ;by, — the in- 'cots gave up s enemies, — death, — the le overthrow church and le mind with letter from 2d it. Miss /ised her to ioned many ad attended ■ year 1650, jhe had ac- ^man of tiie future re- r Longford, a had the irom Hen- PEN TAMAR. 129 riette de Clairville, and of knowing that she and her excellent parent were arrived at the destined port in health and safety. Of her brother she said little ; but asked many ques- tions as to Matilda^s future prospects, and the time of her return to England. Ma- tilda told her ail, but took care to dis- courage any he. - which might be formed from her unceri.',; situation, and professed her friendship fwr the Comte with such openness and warmth as convinced him that he must hope for nothing more. Her residence in America was marked by no in- cidents worth relating, though her bene- volent heart found means to make it of advantage to many ; and her virtues, still more than her beauty, commanded the admiration of ail who knew her. At the beginning of the year 1652, and after a very long interval of silence, Ma- tilda received a letter from Mrs. Saville, of which I will transcribe the most important part: — " It has been my sad task, during many years, to send you only tales of woe ; but at last, my dear Matilda, I can give you intel- ligence of a veiy different kind. Your Tre- K 11 I I 4 - 130 PEN TAMAR, lawney lives : he is free, and in possession of his paternal estate. In obedience to your commands, I have as yet kept the secret with which you entrusted me ; and I do this witli less reluctance, as I hope he will soon learn it from your own lips. On one subject only have I ever been guilty of reserve to you j but, while I had too much reason to fear that you would never see him again, I durst not tell you how dear you were to this excellent man. Now I will conceal nothing. In a few days after his return from the Continent, he wrote me a letter, of which I send you a copy : * To the friend of my lost angel I will venture to lay open all the agony w'nch r *• tortured heart can never cease to fe^ ' n not to learn that every hope is los. • ' y let me entreat you, dear Madam, to tell me ull the dreadful particulars with which 1 am as yet unacquainted. You cannot make me more wretched than I am. Indeed, I think the only comfort I could now feel would be hi seeing you, m talking of my only love to the friend of her heart, and in re- visiting the place where I once was happy I W I can at any time quit the army for a few PEN TAMAR. 131 days, I will throw myself at your feet ; but, in the inean time, tell me, I entreat you,* all you have heard of that tale of horror. This wretched world was not worthy of he;-: her William never could have de- served to be so blessed ! But no human being knows how I have loved ! Forgive a wretch who only lives to mourn. Every earthly hope is buried in the watery grave of my Matilda ! * " To this letter," continued Mrs. Saville, " I replied, by telling him all the sad par- ticulars, which left not the smallest hope of your safety. I did not then conceal your love for him ; and I pressed him to visit me at Southwick, where we might talk of you, and unite our lamentations. After the battle of Lansdown, Mr. Trelawneywas sent to the King, at Oxford, with the news of victories in which he had borne a distin- guished part. His fame had travelled before him; and he received the honour of kniglit- hood, with the thanks and ajiplauso of his unfortunate sovereign. He then came, for a few hours, to Southwick ; and never shall I forget that visit ! No woman ever deserved to be loved more than my dear Matilda; K ^ WH * pi I* ;1 1 i 132 PEN TAMAR. but surely no man ever loved like Tre- lawney! He would visit every spot in which he had ever seen you : and never did I behold such a picture of woe ! Yet it was not the violence of passion, but calm, resigned, and uncomplaining sorrow. He said that he submitted to the will of Hea- ven ; — that he would do his dutv as a soldier ; — and, perhaps, it might be the in- tention of Providence that he nn'glit fall in battle, and be again united to his Matilda : but if he could only deserve that blessing by years of such misery as he now endured, he would try to support it like a man and a Christian. Many years have since passed, and they have been sad years to Tre- lawney ; but I have every reason to believe that his heart is still the same. I am told that, since his return to Pen Tamar, he has erected a little root-house, with an inscrip- tion to your memory, in a grove which he planted before he went abroad ; and tiiat he now visits it every day, and appears to feel his misfortune as keenly as ever. •* And now can it be necessary for me to press your innnediate return ? The deaths of his father and aunt have left Sir William TEN TAiMAU. 133 Trelawiiey at full liberty to follow the die- tates of his heart. Your promise to your father has been faithfully performed, and the strictest principle of duty no longer opposes your love. Come then, dear Ma- tilda, and "ward the constancy of the best of men. xf you wish to see me before you make yourself known to Trelawney, come to your constant friend. Mr. Saville will be delighted to see yru, and to execute any commands with wiiich you will entrust him. If you rather wish to go first to Pen Tamar, and can contrive to do so, you will find there your old acquaintance, Mr. Ha- milton, to whom 8ir William has given that living. From him you may obtain every in- formation you can desire ; and I am per- suaded that he will confirm all 1 have told you of your fiiithfid Trelawney. Every thing now seems to lead you to happiness, which will be doubly sweet from a compa- rison with past sorrows. Come, then, without delay ; and may Heaven i)rotect you from every danger, and bring you in safety to •• Your ever faithful, •' Mary Savillk.** K 3 if I, U: I' iV! 134 PEN TAMAR. Many were the tears which Matilda shed over this letter, but they were tears of gi-atitude and joy. Having offered an hum- ble tribute of thanks to Heaven for the safety of Trelawney, she tried to collect her scattered thoughts, in order to determine on her future conduct. The question which she was always accustomed to put to her heart was, not what is pleasant, but what is nght ; and, afraid of being warped by in- clination, she seriously considered the argu- ments of iier friend : but, after the most impartial scrutiny, she could discover no reasonable objection against following the dictates of her heart. Her promise to her ever-lamented father had been faithfully performed: Sir William Trelawney was now master of himself and his fortune : it was certain that he still loved her; and his happiness, as well as her own, seemed to depend on an union which nothing now opposed. As she resolved to go to Eng- land by the first ahip which was to sail, she could not write to 8ir William, or release lier friend from her promise ; but she de- termined to proceed with the caution which the delicacy of her situation required. It PEN TAMAll. 135 was her intention, on her arrival in her na- tive countr)', to learn from Mr. Hamilton the real situation of his friend ; and if then she should have reason to think it neces- sary, she would go to Mrs. Saville, and never let Trelawney know that she existed. But hope painted far different prospects. She knew the heart of her William — and she knew that it was all her own. Many were the little plans which she contrived in order to make herself known to him, and many were the airy castles which her ima- gination formed, during some hours of deli- cious solitude, before reason pointed out the difficulties which were still to be conquered, and told her that she was far from England, that she must cross that dreadful element which had been so fatal to her peace, and that many weeks must probably pass before it would be possible for her to obtain any conveyance to Europe. It was a tedious interval ; but at last she procured a passage in a vessel bound directly to Plymouth, which was then the principal port for ships trading to any part of the American settle- ments. With sincere regret she lelt Mr. and K h ^fi^^^ii'mss&m^^-*' If' I'll 136 PEN TAMAK. Mrs. Arnold ; and she was followed by the prayers and blessings of all who knew her. Mr. Arnold paid into her own hands as much of her fortune as was necessary for present use, and gave lier security for the rest on a respectable merchant in London. More than six months had elapsed, from the date of Mrs. Saville's letter, before Matilda left the house of Mr. Arnold, once more to encounter the dangers of the ocean ; and the voyage employed two more. It was, however, attended witli no particular cause of alarm ; and after many sad recollections of the past, and many fears, which even her uncommon strength of mind could with difficulty conquer, she caught a distant view of Britain, and every other feeling gave place to hope and joy» "HI PEN TAMAR. 137 «< CHAP. XIV. Lighter than air, Hope's summer visions die, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky : If but a beam of sober Reason play, Lo, Fancy's fairy frost-work melts away : But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power. Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? " Rogers. After ten years of banishment, Matilda saw once more her native country, — that country, so justly dear to those who have had an opportunity of comparing it with any other. The day was fine— -the Sound was full of vessels : to the left were the beautiful woods of Mount Edgecumbe ; to the right, the entrance of Catwater, under Mount Batten, with a view of the lovely vale in which now stands the residence of Lord Boringdon*, and which, on that side, is bounded by the distant hills of Dart- moor. In front was the little Island of St. Nicholas; and beyond it, the citadel and * Now Earl of Morley. »i|i"ll > lf-~"T«t--Tn -i i m. WW" •«>*«9I 138 PEN TAMAK. town of Plymouth, with a more distant view of the Dock Yard, the village of Stoke, and charming surrounding scenery. Matilda had never been in the west of England, but every object which she beheld was familiar to her. Trelawney drew remarkably well, and delighted in giving her some idea of his favourite spot. Nothing which Matilda had learned from him was ever forgotten by her. She immediately recognised Mount Edge- cumbe, and the mouth of that beautiful river on whose banks was placed PenTamar. A thbusand hopes, a thousand fears crowded on her imagination. She stole one look at a little picture which always hung rouna her neck, and thought the countenance wore more than connnon sweetness. "Would her Trelawney look thus ? Did he still live, and did he live for her?" — Such were the thoughts which filled her mind when she landed near the Dock Yard, and went, with trembling anxiety, to the nearest inn. It was early in the day, and she was shown into a parlour ; where, after endea- vouring to collect her scattered thoughts, and to arm herself with resolution to meet whatever Providence should be pleased to PEN TAMAR. 130 appoint,— after offering up the feelings of a gratefui heart to Heaven, for her safe pre- servation during a voyage which she had had so much reason to dread, and placing the future disposal of all her concerns in his hands who only knows what we ought to wish, — she rang to order some refresh- ment, and took that opportunity of asking the waiter if he knew Mr. Hamilton. " What! Parson Hamilton of Pen Tamar? Yes, sure. Madam, very well : he was here this morning.'* ♦• Do you think he is still in the town ?" " He is not far oflf; Madam ; he said he was going to spend two or three days with the Curate of Stonehouse, which is not above a mile distant." This was joyful news to Matilda, at whose request a messenger was sent to tell Mr. Hamilton that a person, just arrived in England, was at the inn, and requested the favour of seeing him on particular business. She did not choose to say more, or to let him see her handwriting, wishing to avoid the possibiHty of discovery, till she should learn from him whether the news of her ar- rival would still be welcome to Trelawney, 140 PEN TAMA 11. and till she should have concerted with him the proper method of making herself known to his friend. Mr. Hamilton had been the intimate friend of Mr. Hey wood : his honour and delicacy were well known to Matilda : he was already acquainted with her early attachment, and he knew every secret of the heart of her Trelawney. To him, therefore, she resolved to open her own, and be guided in her future conduct by his advice. She waited with a beating heart the return of her messenger j but hope predominated in her bosom. The constant heart of her Trelawney could never cease to love. Siie knew that a few months before her return he was at liberty — he was well— he was all her own. His estate was so large, that her want of fortune would not appear of any importance to him. Con- vinced of his truth, his honour, his generosity, she judged of his heart by her own. Had she millions, they should be his ; and she felt no proud reluctance to owing pecuniary obli- gations to the friend of her soul — the only lord of her heart. What, indeed, can be more absurd, than giving such importance to money, as to feel iniwilling to receive a few I PKN TAMAR. 141 worthless counters from the friend to whom we are wilHng to owe all the happiness ofour lives; and to whom we delight to pay that debt with love, esteem, and gratitude unbounded? While our fair wanderer's thoughts were thus engaged, the sound of a carriage drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a very elegant coach and six drive up to the door, followed by two servants on horse- back, with the well-known livery of Tre- lawney. She started— trembled, but had recollection enough to place herself where she could see without being seen. The car- riage stopped at the door of the inn, and she saw Trelawney, — her own Trelawney, put his head out of the window to speak a few words to the waiter. She saw — she knew him. He was, indeed, less changed than is usual in ten years, and she thought him handsomer than ever. Hardly could she command herself enough to prevent her flying into his arms; but her sense of pro- priety prevailed. She gazed at him for a moment, and the carriage drove on. She threw herself on a chair ; and, perhaps, at no moment of her life had she known such happiness. She had seen him : she knew HHHa 142 PEN TAMAR. '<'■ M 'Hi. • !•/ that he was well,— that he was almost within call, — that she could see him again in a moment. No doubt, no fear distir bed the sweet illusions which had taken entire pos- session of her mind. Ten years of sorrow were forgotten ; and she saw nothing in the future prospect but peace, and joy, and everlasting love ! After a few minutes spent in this delight- ful dream, the waiter entered with the re- freshments she had ordered, and Matilda ventured to ask, if the carriage which was just gone by did not belong to some of the Trelawney family. " Yes, sure. Madam— to Sir William Tre- lawney, of Pen Tamar, one of the best gentlemen in the world. It is a nice smart new carriage. I believe he and Lady Mary are gone to return some wedding visits. Sir William has not been married above six weeks. There have been grand doings at Pen Tamar, and all the country is rejoicing, for every body loves him ; and his friends were sadly afraid that he would never marry, he took on so for the loss of his first love." it was happy that the waiter was no phy- siognomist, and knew not the pain he was PEN TAMAR. 143 giving ; but had he plunged a dagger into the heart of Matilda, it would have been less cruel. He soon quitted the room, and she was left to her own reflections. The un- tasted food stood on the table: she neither spoke nor shed a tear, but sat, fixed as a statue, in motionless grief I will not at- tempt to describe the agony of her mind until a shower of tears came to her relief The trial was great ; but she had recovered some degree of firmness and composure, when the door opened, and Mr. Hamilton entered the room. His astonishment was beyond description. He knew her instantly: indeed he could not do otherwise, for she never appeared more lovely j and though thp first bloom of youth was gone, its loss was fully compensated by the dignity and elegance, the spirit and animation of a mind which knows its own powers, and illut .nates every varying expression of the count-nance. The joy which Mr. Hamilton expressed at seeing her thus mira..uIously restored,— the tears which he gave to the memory of her father,— the warmth of friendship with which he welcomed her return, and the ardour with which he offered his best services in ^;;p;*«Mi^ 144 PEN TAMAR. future, — awakened in the gentle lieart of Matilda a sensation of pleasure which seemed to have been lost. She felt the comfort of kindness and confidence; and answered his anxious enquiries by a short account of all that had ha})ened to her since she left Eng- land, and of the circumstances which had induced her to return, without intbrming any of her friends, except Mrs. Saville, that she still lived. The pi.asure with which Mr. Hamilton listened to her story could not conceal very different feelings ; and at last he exclaimed, •• O, would to Heaven tiiis could have been known only six months sooner!'* " I understand you, my excellent friend ; and had / known a httle sooner what I have now accidentally learned, I woukl have spared you and myself the pain of meeting, only to part again lor ever : but, since we lu»"e met, I will conceal nothing from you. I came here with the ho])e of seeing Sir William Trelawney, and I intended to ask your assistance to actpiaint him with my return to England : but what I have just - heard leaves me only one recpiest to make, which is, that you will give me your most 1^. PEN TAW A 11. 145 solemn promise, that nothing sliall ever in- duce you to tell him that Matilda Hey wood exists, until you shall receive my permission to do so. 1 shall leave Plymouth in a few iiours, and go to reside in a very distant part of the kingdom ; and I most earnestly entreat that no luunan being may know ^romyou that I stui live." x,rM..^'^" ^"'^^ ^""^ ^'*^^"» without seeing Sir Wilham?" "For Jie world I would not see him note. 1 nught perhaps disturb the happiness which 1 would sacriHce my lite to promote ' " Her voice faltered, and, in spite of all her resolution, she burst into tears. " O, could he have had but the most (lis- taut ho])e that you still lived I-Uut it is too iate to think of that. You are too generous to blame him, or those iiiends who pressed hmi to marry, of whom 1 confess that J >.'a,s one." "Blame him, Mr. Hamilton! Heaven forbid that 1 should be capable of such ...instice! O no!-May the happy object of his choice ])rove tiu' more worthv of it than iam; and may she love him. -las I shall do lor ever !** 14() PEN TAMAR. Ml l! ! ! ir " I will confess to you, Madam, that I do not wish you to see him now : I wisli him to be spared such a trial." Mr. Hamilton said all that friendship could suggest to soothe and comfort the lovely mourner, but without attempting to turn her thoughts i'rom the only subject which could then occupy them. He an- swered all her anxious encpiiries, and told her every circumstance in relation to Sir William wliich she could wish to know, con- cealing only the tender attachment which he still felt for her memory. Of this he wished her now to be ignorant; but he soothed her feelings by dwelling on the great and good (piaiities of the object of her choice, told her all that he had done and suffered for his king and country, and what he was then doing to i)romote the happi- ness of all around him. The remainder of the day was sj)ent in a conversation highly interesting to both; and when Mr. Hamil- ton rose to take his leave, alter solenuily re- peating his promise of inviolable secrecy, he recpiested her permission to write to her sometimes, as he must ever feel most affec- tionately interested in her ha])piness. This li w PEN TAMAU. U7 proposal was gratefully accepted, and Matilda did not disguise the satisfaction she should feel in thus hearing of Sir William ; but she told Mr. Hamilton, that she thought con- cealment now so necessary, that, to prevent the possibility of a discovery by the direc- tion on his letters to her, it was her inten- tion to asstune another name. She was going into Yorkshire, where she was un- known to every human being except Mrs. Saville ; and, in future, she would call her- self by the name of Johnson, which could awaken no curiosity, as it was too common to be noticed. To this Mr. Hamilton as- sented ; and, with prayers for her future hap- j)iness, and earnest entreaties that she woidd command his services whenever they could be usefid, he took his leave, })romising to see her in the morning. He did so, and lo(md her calm and serene, though deeply alHicted. He assisted iu arranging her jour- nay; and ha\ ing obtained a promise of hear- ing from her !is soon as j)ossil)le after her arrival in Yorkshire, he conducted her to the carriage, and, with jjrayers and blessings, committed her to the care of Providence, L 'i 148 PEN TAMAU. CHAP. XV. " Oh ! who can tell the triumphs of a mind By truth illumined and by taste refined !" Rogers. Many and great were the sorrows whicli, at different periods of life, Matilda Hey wood was called to encounter; but never was her firnjness put to so severe a trial as at the moment which I have been describing. When every difficulty appeared to be re- moved, and every idea of ha})piness which lier imagination could form seemed to be within her grasp, in an instant all had vanished as a dream ! Even her existence must now be concealed from Trelawney, even his friendshij) must now be denied her. Had she but arrived in England only a few months sooner, — he then was all her own: now, bound by the most sacred of all vows to another, they must never — never meet again. She was returned to her na- tive country,— to the scene of her early PEN TAMAR. H9 happiness. But wliat did it now present to Iier? Deprived of tlic best of parents, and of almost every friend, and obliged to con- ceal herself under a borrowed name, she was to relinquish the fond hope which, during ten years of banishment, in every varied scene of misery, had still told her that her William was faithful,— that he might be hers at last. The picture still wore the same smile ; but, while she bathed it with her tears, she felt that she was invading the rights of another. That smile now illu- mined the cheerful board at which a haj)py wife i)resided; and, if a thought of his Ma- tilda ever disturbed his j)eace, he must now tcis/f to di-ive it from his mind ! During a long and very difficult journey, sIjc iiad much time for reflection. Many were the sleepless nights and miserable days which she passed in solitary woe, before she was capable of looking forward, and considering the jnospect of her futiu'e life with the firmness and resignation of a Chris- tian J but that time came at last, and she resumed all the dignity of her exalted cha- racter. The virtue of Matilda I ley wood was not Jnerely the result of natural good 1. 3 I I 150 PEN TAMAR. f' 'P ■' '•. < p. f irltil III' dispositions, of tranquil nerves, an even temper, or freedom from any strong emo- tio.is. Her feelings were uncommonly acute. Her lively imagination heightened every picture of happiness or misery which the changing scenes of life presented to her view; but her feelings were regulated by principle — her passions were subdued by religion. From infancy she had been taught the self-command which, without lessening sensibility, always directs it arigjit. She saw the hand of Providence in every event ; and she relinquished the hope which she had «o long and so fondly cherished, with deep affliction indeed, but with humble re- signation. It only remained to consider what duties she might still perform, what comforts she might still hope to enjoy, in a far diflerent situation from that which had been the object of her wish, but in a state where at least her remaining pleasures would not be embittered by selflreproacii. No guilt, no imprudence of her own, had dashed from her lips the untasted cuj) of happiness : it was not the will of Heaven that she should enjoy it— and let Heaven's high will be done! To be happy seemed impossible ; but was it I I PEN TAMAR. 151 therefore impossibh to be useful? Might she not still live for others, though the world presented only a dismal blank to her- self? Her fortune, indeed, was so small that it would scarcely procure the necessaries of life • but her time, her talents, might still be employed in doing good. She had still one friend, and to her she would devote her attention. Some humble virtues might be practised,— something might be done to serve or assist her fellow-creatures. W she could not herself be happy, she could still enjoy the delight of seeing that others were so. To the great Disposer of all events she resigned her future life. It was not his will that it should be happy in the way that she had hoped ; but still she trusted tliat he would never leave nor forsake her; and, though her path was strewed with thorns, yet tiiith, and hope, and humble resignation would teach her patiently to pursue it, till, through the gate of death, it should lead to everlasting bliss ! After a tedious and fatiguing journey, Matilda arrived at the little village of Long, ford, in Yorkshire, where she was received by Mrs. Saville with heartfelt pleasure, and L 4 PEN TAMAR. with the warmest expressions of affection and esteem. She presented her to Mr. Saville as her first and dearest friend; and he seemed anxious, by every attention in liis power, to prove tliat lier merits were not unknown to Inm. A few hnes from Plymouth liad led her friends to ex])ect her, and prepared them for lier intended cliange of name. They were ah'eady acquainted witli the circum- stance which made it necessary; thougli their distance from Plymouth liad prevented their hearing of 8ir William's marriage till it was concluded ; for in those days no mail-coach fulfilled the lover's modest wish, and annihi- lated time and space to make him happy,— no Morning Post conveyed to every part of the kingdom the intelligence that a treaty of marriage was on foot between Sir William Trelawney, and the Right Honourable Lady Mary D . Mrs. Saville's distress at hearing of this event, when she was in daily expectation of the arrival of her friend, may be easily imagined ; but, after a few hours spent in unavailing regret, Matilda requested that the subject might be mentioned no more. She wished and endeavoured to turn her thoughts to other things ; and, if she could PEN TAMAR. 153 not succeed in this, she had sufficient reso- lution to conceal her feelings. She was again tlie pleasing companion, the tender and affectionate friend, the guardian of the poor, the delight and admiration of all. If a few tears often fell on the picture of Tre- lawnej, they were concealed from every eye. If a fervent prayer was offered for his happiness, that prayer was heard by no human ear. Even Mrs. Saville was sur- j)rised at the composure and cheerfulness which concealed her inward woe, while on her lovely and expressive countenance «* Departing Sorrow's faint and fainter trace, Gave to each charm a more attractive grace."* Mr. Saville was in possession of a small estate, which he had greatly improved by his skill in agriculture. His liouse was not large, but neat and convenient. It was situated at the entrance of a village, in which all the cottagers were his tenants. In the early part of his life he had travelled into most parts of Europe : he had seen and read much J and an excellent understanding * Ilayley. 154 PEN TAMAR. I'-B'! liad received every advantage tliat could be gained from the best society, both at home and abroad. He was a scholar and a gen- tleman ; and, after a life of much active exertion, he had retired to his paternal estate and his books. He had been some years a widower, when, being on a visit to a friend near Oxford, he first saw Miss Wilkinson, and, after a short acquaintance, he made proposals, which were accepted. They were very happy in each other ; and a few weeks before the arrival of Matilda, Mr. Saville's only remaining wish had been grati- fied, and he had become the happy father of a very fine boy, who was the darling of botli his parents. Having had the misfortune to lose several children during his former marriage, and being now far advanced in life, he considered the birth of this child as the happiest event that could befal him ; and the joy which it occasioned in the village was still visible when our fliir traveller first appeared there. She could always com- mand her own feelings, and almost forget her own sorrows, to rejoice in the prosperity of her friends ; and the pleasure with which she witnessed Mrs.Saville's ha|)piness, would xim. I PEN TAMAR. 155 sometimes suspend for a moment the sad re- collection of her own very different situation. After a few weeks s})ent under Mr. Sa- ville's hospitable root; Matilda resisted all their entreaties that she would prolong her visit, and fixed on an humble lodging in a neighbouring cottage, which she soon made a comfortable residence. Though her in- come was very small, she determined to live in a home of her own, not wishing to accept pecuniary obligations, even from Mr. and Mrs. Saville ; but she agreed to his proposal of taking her little fortune, and paying her an annuity. This was a mutual accommo- dation ; and, as she had no relations who had any claim whatever on her property, there could be no objection to her adoptinc^- this method of increasing it during her life. She had two small rooms, which her elegant taste furnished, at little expense, with all that was requisite for comfort. Mr. Sa- ville supplied her with books : his lady pre- sented her with a musical instrument. Her pencil afforded an exhaustless fund of amuse- ment. The daughter of a poor widow, with whom she lodged, acted as her servant ; and Matilda took great delight in forming her 156 PEN TAMAR. Ill f HI mind, and teaching her whatever might be of use in her liumble station. In Mr. Sa- ville's house, where she was always a welcome guest, she found society well suited to her taste. He drew round him all the men of sense and learning who came within his reach ; and, when they were alone, his own stock of knowledge appeared to be inex- haustible. In Mrs. Saville, Matilda found the same kind and affectionate friend whom she had long loved, and in her little infant she had an object of almost maternal ten- derness. Deprived of those to whom she had been most fondly attached, all the af- fections of her warm heart were now drawn to this family, and it was her principal study and delight to add to their happiness by numberless little attentions, which are paid by those alone who can forget themselves to think only of their friends. The first year of Matilda's residence in Yorkshire was distinguished by no remark- able events. She kept her promise to Mr. Hamilton ; and, during many years, she oc- casionally wrote to him, and had the satis- faction of receiving some information on the subject which was always nearest to her >H PEN TAMAll. 157 might be 1 Mr. 8a- welcome id to her e men of ithhi his , his own be inex- I'ci found nd whom ;le infant rnal ten- hom she the af- w drawn )al study iness by are paid 2m selves i heart. From him she knew tliat Sir WiUiam Trelawney was united to an amiable ^yoman, and that his life was devoted to the exercise of every virtue. Every remarkaole event of his public and private history was told her by Mr. Hamilton ; and she still shared in all his joys and sorrows. Proud of her choice, she listened with enthusiasm to the voice of just applause, which was loud in his praise ; and the tear which then fell on his picture was followed by a smile. lence in re mar k- 2 to Mr. she oc- he satis- tion on 5t to her >!«**^# 158 PEN TAIVIAR. CHAP. XVI. l" '• Yet at the darkeii'd eye, the witliei'd face, Or hoary hair, I never will repine : IJut s^)are, O Time ! vvhate'er of mental grace, Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, Whate'er of fancy's ray, or A-endship's flame, is mine!' IJkattie. Matilda wrote to Henriclf.' do Chiirville soon litler her arrival at Longford ; and the style of her lette)-, with the acconnt of her having fixed on a rcsidenee there, would Iiave been snfHeient to convince her friend that the hope which led her to England had ended in disai-poinlmcnt, even if she had not accidentally learned that Sir William Trelawney was nnited to another. T'le Conite was still attenti\e to all her concerns, and the news of this event hatl revived all liis hopes. He had resisted the solicitations of his friends, and was still unmarried; and, i!i the niidst of all the pleasures which wait on rank and fortune, in the most brilliant court I'EN TAMAR. 1>9 of Europe, he had never forgotten Matilda Heywood. Too dehcate to disturb the first emotions of sorrow, he suffered a few months to ehipse before he attempted to renew his addresses; but, in th? beginning of the year lt)53, Matikla received a letter from Henriette, of which the following is a trans- lation : — •* I had anxiously wished to hear from you, my dear friend ; but your last letter is not calculated to afford unmixed satisfaction to those who are ever tendcrlv interested in your happiness ; for it ap])ears to be written under the influence of melancholy, of which I easily guess the cause. Yet think me not selfish or unfeeling, if) while I from my heart lament that you cannot be lia})py in tlie way you wished, 1 venture to appeal from dis- aj)poiuted love to the cool decision of yoiu' excellent understanding, and to ask if the noble mind of my Matilda will yield to hope- less sorrow? Let me entreat you calmly to consider all that I venture to suggest on a subject which, till now, delicacy has re- strained me from naming. Clairville still loves you with the same ardour; and, cur- ing many years of absence, the sincerity of I y '(J ;' tllifl 4 Uk) PEN T AM Alt. his attaclimeiit lias been proved by his de- termined resohition not to marry till you should be the wife of another. He, surely, is not unworthy of your esteem; and his faithfid love gives him some elaim on the gratitude of siieh a heart as my friend j)os. sesses. Allow me, however, to reason on this subject with a view to yom- ow situa- tion only, and without thinking of his ; for, dear as he is to me, I would not purchase liis liai)piness at the expense of yours. Your heart was formed for tenderness : your mind is enriched with virtues which should adorn the wife and the mother— which should be an example and a blessing to the world. Must these virtues be wasted in solitude and obscurity? Must that exalted mind be a prey to useless sorrow, because it is not the will of Heaven that you should be united to the first object of your choice? Many are the sorrows which meet us in the course of the happiest Hie;— many aie the slights which a friendless unprotected ie- malc must experience, when youth and beauty are gone. Why will vou encounter these dilliculties? Why win'you brave ^ho evils of poverty, and drag tlirough lite ,t PEN TAMAR. 161 useless existence, when a man, to whom your happiness is far dearer than his own, offers you all the joys that love and fortune can bestow? He would place you in a si- tuation where your talents and virtues would be seen in all their lustre. His faithful love would shield you from every sorrow : liis watchful tenderness would guard you from every danger. He does not expect thedevoted attachment which you felt for his envied rival: give him your friendship,— regi^id him with the esteem which he deserved- only allow him to make ?/ou happy, mui he will be so ni doing it. Do not, I entreat you, return a hastyanswer to this hotter. Con- sider every circumstance of his situation and your own. Think of all the sorrows, the slights, the neglect, which attend a singk- life. Vour spirits, already dej)ressed, will ])crhaj)s be unc(iual to trials which dvc not the less formidable lor bL-ing unnoticed bv the world. W!u'n that beauty, which now commands universal admiration, shall yield to limcj when a narrow fortune shall i)rever your seeking the pleasiues of society will you not then wish for a sj'miathising friend, whose rank and Ibrtune would ph.ce you M 162 PEN TAMAIl. 'I j W 1 » , ' j i ]^H ' 1 , t m ' R 1 i 1 ll 1 1 1 above the malice of an unfeeling world — who would raise you to a station which you are formed to adorn, and in which the charms of your mind would command admiration, when those of your person shall have passed away? What extensive good might be done with a large fortune, when placed under your direction ! How many might you th.en make happy ! Your Clairville would imitate the virtues which he almost adores ; and, if I may venture to name my own wishes, your Henriette would be happier than any other circum- stance in this world can ever make her. I know that my brother meditates an excur- sion to England, ir order once more to lay his heart and hi .. une at your feet ; but I have venturec' • aout iiis knowledge, to take this method or learning your sentiments in regard to liim ; ibr, if } ou are resolved to reject his suit, I earnestly wish to prevent liis ever seeing you more. But, my dearest fiiend, let me flutter myself that you will allow me to encourage the hopes which he builds on the ardour and constancy of his attachment, and that you will permit me to add the name of sister to tiiat of friend. •♦ Hi.NRiHT'iK UK Clairville." S ;i R 'C:f-*t' PEN TAMAR. 163 To this letter Matilda returned the fol. lowing answer : — (( Could you, dear Henriette, read the heart of your friend, and know the feehngs with which your last letter was received, you would, I hope, be convinced that I am not ungrateful. Never can I cease to feel that to your generous brother and to your- self I owe my life ; and if; by the sacrifice of that life which you preserved, I could prove my sense of this obligation, I tliink I should not hesitate to offer it. Even this obligation is tiie smallest part of wliat I owe to you and ;o my noble-minded^my amiable protector. No day of that life whicli you saved can, I hope and believe, ever close without my entreating that Great Being, who takes on himself the debts of the unfor- nate, to reward and bless you ! Dear and ever-valued fiiend, can you forgive me, if, while thus acknowledging all I owe, I at the same time implore you never more to mention a re(iuest which you tell me is im- portant to your hapj)iness?~thougM Heaven only knows how dear yoiw happiness is to me. Hear me, I entreat you, with yoiu- M 2 I ^)\ II' I <.lt 104 PEN TAMAR. usual candour : attend to a faitliful account of the state of my mind — forgive and pity me ! Believe me when I assure you that I am not insensible to the merits of your ex- cellent brother. 1 think him one of the best and noblest of men ; and I consider my having ever given him one moment's pain as one of the greatest misfortunes of my life ; but, my Henriette, as I am situ- ated, it is impossible that I can make him happy. Mine is not a common attachment. I never remember a time when all my ideas of happiness in this world were not con- nected with Trelawney ; and never — never can I love another as I have loved him. The warm and affectionate heart of Clair- ville could never be satisfied with a reluctant hand : this is not the return due to his ge- nerous and ardent attachment. Shall I offer him a heart in which Trelawney still reigns without a rival ? Shall I be persuaded to do what my feelings, — my reason, — my prin- ciples condemn ? Shall I kneel at the sa- cred altar to vow love to one man while my heart is devoted to another P Never!— never! (), my friend ! let me entreat you to convince your brother that this reso- kl PEN TAMA»l. 165 account nd pity !i that I ^oiir ex- of the consider oment*s lines of im sitii- ,ke him :hment. \y ideas ot con- —ncver 3d him. f (;iair. ^hu'tant his pfe- 1 1 orter I reigns idcd to 1) prin- tlie sa- 1 while ,»ver! — L'at } on s reso- lution is unalterable! It rests on a firm conviction of what honour and conscience require, and it never can be shaken. If the gratitude which I feel to my noble-minded protector — if affection for you — cannot change this resolution, I need not surely tell you that no other arguments can have any weight. I know the value of rank and fortune, and feel the inconveniences which attend on friendless i)overty ; but no consi- derations of this nature can move me. I have seen enough of the world to ha\ e lost the romantic expectations of happiness which I once felt ; but I view my situation in it without terror. I view it as the appointed path to the regions of eternal bliss j and though that path be strewed with thorns, it is — it must be short. But 1 still hope to enjoy many blessings in my pilgrimage tlnough this world. I cannot say that the situation of a single woman appears to me in the formidable light in which you view it. It must be a very li///e mind winch can be hurt at the impertinence of fools, or feel it- self degraded by the ridicule of those whose estee-n Mould scarcely appeal v^'ortli its uc- M 3 16G PEN TAMAU. ft; f m I,: : . .. ceptance. I should blush for the dignity of virtue, if our happiness really depended on what is in itself so worthless and so despi- cable. But surely, my friend, if a woman acts properly, in any situation in which Pro- vidence is pleased to place her, she will — she must be respected. If age will assume the dress, and ape the follies of youth ;— if the superannuated beauty will continue to haunt every public assembly, or only ex- change vanity and affectation for peevish- ness and ill humour, — such a woman must be always ridiculous and contemptible : but, if sense and virtue remain when beauty is gone, and the pleasures of books and refined con- versation be substituted for the usual amuse- ments of youth, such a woman will not be an object of contempt, only because a single life was her choice. And why must she be useless in the world ? Even poverty, which confines the exertions of beneficence, does not wholly restrain them. It is not with money alone that the sorrows of life are re- moved ; and a heart which really feels for others can never want opportunities to ex- ercise its charity, in such a world as this. PEN TAMAU. 167 ^nity of tied on ) despi- woman ch Pro- will — assume th ;— if in lie to tily ex- teevish- nust be but, if s gone, id con- amuse- not be I single she be which ?, does )t with are re- ;els for to ex- is this. The freedom from domestic duties, the lei- sure which a single life affords, may open a wide field for the exercise of benevolence. The pleasures of friendship, of taste, of lite- rature, of piety, may be enjoyed at every period and in every situation of life. I do not deny tliat the happy wife and mother is placed in a far more useful, — in a far more enviable situation. I will own that such was the happiness on which mi/ heart was fixed ; but Heaven — perhaps in mercy — denied it ! It is not in this state of trial that we are to expect unmixed felicity : our bu- siness here is to form our minds in tiie school of affliction, and make them fit for the hap- piness of a better world. My dear friend, I have opened my heart to you without dis- guise : pity its weakness, and forgive its failings. For ever devoted to one object, I have no heart to give to another ; and never will 1 make a vow which I feel that I can- not perform. 1 do not mean that I could not perform the duties of a wife. Esteem and gratitude, as well as principle, would secure my conduct. Believe me, my Hen- riette, his happiness is one of the first wishes M 4 i i 1(38 PEN TAMA 11. of my lieart, though it has lost its own. Do not Iiate the unfortunate disturber of his peace. O ! do not let me lose your friend- ship, though I cannot fulfil your generous wishes. Could you see the tears which have fallen on this paper, you would believe me when I assure you, that only one human being is more dear than my Henriette to her ever affectionate ** Matilda Heywood." ■** I- As a faithful historian of the life of Matilda, it is my duty to give this letter as she wrote it j though I fear that her con- duct in this instance will not meet with ge- neral approbation. On this subject I will or V say, that the letter had the effect which tL writer wished. It put an end to the hopes of the Comte, without robbing her of his esteem, or of the friendship of his sister, which continued uninterrupted through life. In the course of the next year, Matilda had the pleasure of hearing that the Comte de Clairville was married, with every prospect of happiness ; and her wishes on that subject were confirmed by PEN TAMAR. 169 many letters which she afterwards received, from which she had the satisfaction of knowing, that the virtues both of the bro- ther and of the sister were rewarded by a larger share of prosperity through life than usually falls to the lot of mortals. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // fj^ Mi. :/. y. ^ <<9 1.0 I.I 1.25 u m S 1^ 1110 1^ 1.4 mm 1.6 <^' /. . -^^^ //, PhotogTcipliic Sciences Coipordtion 33 WIST MAIN STRIIT WHSTIH.N.Y USaO (n*) •73<4S03 4fS W \ o \ # 170 TEN TAMAR. n. I \^ CHAP. XVII. " True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind Virtue hns raised above the things below ; Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd. Shrinks not, tho' Fortune aim her deadUest blow." Beattie. After two years passed in the tranquil en- joyments which I have described, interrupted only by some months' residence at York, which was then the London of the northern counties, and afforded the best and most elegant society, Mr. Saville was called to town by business of importance, and with much reluctance left liis peaceful home, and his beloved wife and child, thoufrh with the hope and expectation of returning in a few weeks. At the close of a fine day in Noveml)er, after Mrs. Saville had seen her lovely boy safely placed in his little bed, she agreed to spend the evening with Matilda. Whilst the child was awake, he engaged nuich of IP** ^VMiffi PEN TAMAR. 171 the attention of both these amiable friends. He could now entertain them with his little attempts at conversation ; and Matilda seemed almost as much interested as his mother in every circumstance which, in their partial eyes, appeared to promise great sweetness of disposition as well as good sense. Perhaps the name of William, which he inherited from his grandfather, made him still more dear to her ; but, from what- ever cause it proceeded, such was her fond- ness for this lovely child, that Mr. Saville oflen told her, with a smile of gratitude and pleasure, that the boy would not be able to discover which was his mother. When he was laid to sleep, the remaining hours of the evening were usually devoted to books ; and (in the absence of Mr. Saville) Matilda was reading one of the plays of Shakspeare, while Mrs. Saville was at work. It was near ten o'clock, when the stillness and sweet trancpiillity of the scene was inter- rupted by very unusual noises in the village. They heard some hasty footste[)8 before tiie house, and presently distinguished the cry of fire. They started from their seats, and were running to the door, when they were 17'^ I'EN TAxMAU. met by a girl who was usually employed to watch the little William whilst he slept, who, rushing into the room, in a state of terror which deprived her of all prudence, cried out, ** The house is on fire !" Where is my child?'* exclaimed the terrified mother. — "O! he is burnt— he must be burnt ! " Mrs. Saville gave a loud shriek, and dropped senseless on the floor. Ma- tilda, who never on any occasion lost her presence of mind, called to the girl to take care of her mistress, and flew to the scene of horror. She saw 'le flames through a window on the second floor, but it was not the room in which the child slept. Five or six perrons were before the door ; and Robert the gardener was hastily bringing a ladder. " Where is the child ?" cried Matilda; "has nobody saved him ?" Robert told her the stairs were on Are ; but he would get in at the window, and hoped to save him. He tried the ladder, but it was too short. " It is impossible!** cried he; **I cannot reach the window.** — ** Could you catch him if he were thrown out to you ?** — «« Yes, certainly.** — "Thengo upthe ladder, and wait a moment." Matilda flew like hit PEN TAMAR. 17^ liglitning to the house, and up the stairs. Every voice oied out, " Stop— stop: you must be killed !** She found the house full of smoke, and tlie upper part of the stair- case dreadfully illuminated by the flames which burst out under the roof j but they were far above her head. She ran into the room, threw open the window, and seizing the sleeping boy on his little bed, called to Rvjbert to catch him. He did so, and she saw him safe in his arms. " O ! carry him instantly to his mother." Then, and not till then, Matilda per- ceived the danger of her own situation. To escape from the window w^as impossible. She ran back to the stairs. They were still Standing, but there was not a moment to lose. Just as she began to descend, a shower of si)arks and burning straws fell from the roof; and in a momont she felt that she was on fire. She ran down to the top of tlie next flight of stairs, which were narrow and winding : her head and neck were all in a blaze. The pain and terror deprived her trembling limbs of strength : she missed the first step, and fell from the top to the bottom. Her leg 174 PEN TAMAR. was bent under her and broken, and the fire had reached her gown : when several of the poor villagers, who had ventured into the house to her assistance, attempted to extinguish the flames with their coats, and at last succeeded. By this time Robert was returned, followed by Mrs. Saville, whose fears for her boy now gave place to anxiety for his generous preserver. The poor suf- ferer was carried, in tortures not to be de- scribed, to her own house, and put into bed, while an express was sent for a surgeon; bui. two hoius of agony must pass before he could arrive. Her head, face, and neck were dreadfully burnt. Her lovely hair had been all in a blaze ; and it was feared that she would never recover the use of her eyes. Her mouth had escaped, but all the upper part of her face and neck were in a state which lefl Mrs. Saville scarcely a hope that her life could be saved. Her terrors were still increased, when the surgeon, after ex- amining the leg, declared it to be a compound fracture, and found it so much swollen that it could not be set. He proposed ampu- tation ; but Mrs. Saville, who had little coiifiden(f» in his judgment, insisted on %^; ^ PEN TAMAR. 175 waiting until a more skilful practitioner should arrive from York. A dreadful night preceded his arrival; and, when he examined the state of his patient, he had little comfort to give. He said the fever was so high that it was impossible she could live through the operation which had been proposed. He attempted to set the leg, and so far suc- ceeded that her sufferings were lessened ; but she never recovered the use of it. Under the skilful management of this gen- tleman, the effects of the fire were, after many months of very severe pain, by de- grees removed ; but her sufferings from the fracture were much more lasting. During many years, she was constantly attended by a surgeon, and underwent several pain- ful operations to e ^ract splinters of the bone ; and after his attendance was become no longer necessary, she was still unable to walk without the assistance of a crutch, and continued in that state through life. Her health was greatly injured by this long confinement ; and her life, from the time of this fatal accident, was spent in almost con- stant suffering. The fire had been occasioned by a spark, 176 PEN TAMAR. f H n which fell on some linen placed too near the chimney, in Mrs. Saville*s bed-chamber. The room was small ; and the flames soon communicating with the curtains of the bed, the whole was in a blaze. The nursery- maid, having put the child to bed, had drop- ped asleep in his room ; but was awakened by the smoke, which filled every part of the house. She ran to the door and saw the flames, which already were making their way to the rooi\ She might then have saved the child, but she thought only of herse;lf ; and, running down stairs, she spread the alarm in the village by her cries, and then ran to tell her mistress. No other person was at that moment in the house. The gardener, who slept over the stable, was alarmed by the cries of the nursery- maid, and ran directly to ijive all the assist- ance in his power : lie tried to ascend the stairs ; but seeing the flames, he thought it better to attempt saving the child, and the most valuable effects, by a ladder placed at the window. After Robert had, by the assistance of Matilda, saved the little boy, and delivered him to his motiier, and after he had con- PEN TAMAR. 177 veyed the unfortunate sufferer to her own house, he united his efforts with those of his poor neighbours to save some of the furniture, the plate, and papers of value. Every thing of that kind being in a store- room on the ground-floor, the loss of pro- perty was comparatively small ; though the house was completely burnt, the outward walls only remaining. Mrs. Saville procured an apartment in a neighbouring farm-house for her servants and child, but devoted all her time and attention to her suffering friend. The account which Mr. Saville received of the misfortune in his family hastened his return to Longford ; where he had the satisfaction of finding his wife and child safe, and his pecuniary loss much less than he had expected. To him, as well as to Mrs. Saville, all other misfortunes appeared inconsiderable, when compared with the agonies which, during many months, were endured by the heroic preserver of their darling child. Their gratitude was un- bounded; and Mr. Saville, wishing to ex- press it in every possible way, earnestly pressed her acceptance of an annuity, of N 178 PEN TAMAR. I more than double the value of that which he already paid to her. But Matilda de- clined all pecuniary obligation, except a small sum to pay the expense incurred dm'- ing the first months of her confinement. - When her health was sufficiently restored to admit of her leaving her room, she en- deavoured to arrange a plan for the remain- der of her life, which might reduce her expenses within her income, and still leave her some power of doing good. It seemed probable that she would never be able to walk again, and that her life must in future be a state of much suffering; but she determined, if posssible, still to make it useful to others. By degrees she recovered some use of her eyes, and the appearance of her face became less shocking. The loss of that beauty which had commanded universal admiration seemed to give her no concern ; and, when Mrs. Saville lamented it, she said, — "Some years ago, I should perhaps have considered this as a great misfortune ; but the only man whom I wished to please is for ever lost to me." — After some years, she was able occasionally to accompany her friends in their winter excursions to York ; PEN TAMAR. 179 t which ilda de- tcept a ed diu'- ent. 'estored she en- remain- ice her 11 leave seemed able to I future )ut she [lake it covered ance of ! loss of liversal mcern ; it, she 3erhaps )rtune ; ' please 3 years, my her York; when the charms of her mind still made her the delight of every society, though those of her person were gone. She could, how- ever, enjoy conversation only in her own house, or in a very confined circle of friends ; the state of her health making it impossible for her to bear any fatigue. In the country, her time and thoughts were constantly employed in promoting the happiness of all around her. Mr. Saville had three sons, to all of whom Matilda was tenderly attached; and she took the prin- cipal part in the pleasing task of forming their infant minds, and sowing the seeds of every virtue. Her hours of leisure were spent in reading, or in working for the poor J and during twenty-seven years spent "*■ ^^ -^-.xbrd, her life was marked only by * w. t actions. Whenever the state of nade it possible, she still con- tL se early, and the morning was devottt».v .^ .ne poor^ By her directions, the widow with whom she klged established a little school, at which the children of the village were taught to read and work. Matilda took this opportunity of instructing them in still more valuable knowledge. She N 2 180 PEN TAMAR. admitted them alternately to her own apart- ment, where she watched their gradual im- provement, and taught them the principles of religion and morality. Her engaging manners made her little pupils always listen with pleasure to her instructions. She led them into conversation, and, by judicious questions, taught them to reflect on what they read. A little amusing story oflen conveyed a most important moral ; and trifling rewards, besiowed with impartiality, contributed to fix attention, and stimulate industry. On Sunday the little flock at- tended her to the church; which was so near to her lodging, that she could walk there with the assistance of her maid ; and she ihvited some of the good old people to her house in the evening, and read the Bible to those who could not have the com- fort of reading it to themselves. She ex- plained what seemed diflicult, and enforced those duties which particularly belong to their station in life ; while the example of patient suffering and humble resignation, which her conduct placed before their view, doubled the eflect of her precepts on their minds- She was the confidant of all their sor- PEN TAinAll. 181 rows — she settled all their disputes — she assisted in regulating their domestic con- cerns — she nursed them when the\ were sick, — and she taught them to applj tor help, in all tlieir troubles, to Him who is mighty to save. Matilda's friendship with the Saville family was uninterrupted, and in all the joys and sorrows, which must necessarily mark such a long period of human existence, she always felt a tender interest. She saw her young frier is grow up to maturity, and witnessed thr ^ood effects of the pains she had taken in their early education. Wil- liam was always most gratefully attached to her; and after the death of his worthy father, which happened in the year 1674, she, as well as his own family, found in him the kindest of friends. One more affliction still remained to com- plete the trials which this excellent woman was destined to sustain, and it was indeed deeply felt : this was the death of her be- loved Mrs. Saville, who survived her hus- band only five years. This was a blow for which Matilda was not prepared, as the state of her own health had not led her N 3 182 PEN TAMAR. to expect that she should be the survivor. After the death of this dear and e-er la- mented friend, Matilda still continued the same course of life, tho same exertions of active benevolence ; but the hopes, which religion taught her to fix on a better world, were 7ioxv the only support of her painful existence. Yet still she was not only pa- tient, but cheerful. The charms of her conversation, and the respect which was universally felt for her character, procured her every possible attention from the neighbouring families; and the society which she still enjoyed, though not numer- ous, was select. 8he rejected no innocent pleasure which was still within lier reach. She wished to promote the happiness of others, though her own was lost; and in the midst of poverty and affliction, of sick- ness and pain, when every earthly comfort seemed to fail, she still enjoyed that peace "which goodness bosoms ever," — that peace, which this world can neither give nor take away ! Such was her situation, and such was the state of her mind, when she received from Mr. Hamilton, with whonj she still PEN TAMAR. 183 occasionally corresponded, an account of tlie death of Lady Mary Trelawney ; and at his request, about six months after that event, she determined to encounter the fatigue of the journey, and to make herself known to her long lost friend. The cir- cumstances whic'i led to that discovery have been already related ; and all the sor- rows which had tilled her eventful life were forgotten, when Matilda saw herself once more happy in the esteem and friendship of William Trelawney. N 4' U H' ? 184 PEN TAMAR. |;f ( ■ ' '■ i f^i ■*;)!, ' i; CHAP. XVIII. " No more her eyes their wonted radiance cast, No more her cheek the Paestan rose surpassed ; Yet seem'd her lip's etherial charm the same ; — That dear distinction ev'ry doubt remov'd ; Perish the lover, whose imperfect flame Forgets one feature of the nymph he lov'd ! " Shenstone. I MUST acknowledge, tliat the joy which Sir William felt at again seeing his beloved Matilda was not entirely unmixed with very different feelings. Every man, who marries a young and beautiful woman, must, if he lives, see her changed j but the ravages of time are not perceptible from day to day J and if love survives, it gradually changes with its object, and thougli less violent, it is not less sincere. This will be attended with no pain or disappointment, if passion only gives i)lace to esteem, and the charms of the mind imi)rovc. while those of the person decay. This, it must be con- iessed, is not always the case. The pas- PEN TAMAR. 185 sionate admirer has too often adorned the object of his choice with imaginary vutues, which fade much sooner than her beauty ; for, though Cupid is bUnd, Hymen is an excellent oculist; but no man could see such a change as was suddenly presented to the eyes of Sir William Trelawncy, without very painful em-otions.- He had left Matilda Heywood lovely beyond description, for na- ture never formed more perfect beauty; and her light and elegant form, her lovely com- plexion, the sparkling lustre of her fine blue eyes, the angelic smile which played on her rosy lip, the flowing ringlets of auburn hair which hung on her snowy neck, — all were still as fresh in his recollection as imme- diately afler the separation. He now saw a feeble and emaciated old woman, still ele- gant and graceful, but unable to rise from her chair without assistance ; her fine eyes so injured by the fire as to be almost use- less, her few remaining hairs completely grey, her complexion still delicately fair; but sickness, as well as time, had faded all the roses, and the fire had marked all the upper part of the face with an indelible scar. The hand, which he bathed with his tears. 186 PEN TAMAR. I 'i R itg -L' I was still white as snow, but it was wasted to a shadow. Matilda, whom I will now call Mrs. Heywood, had wished to lessen the shock which she knew he would feel; but he had read her letter with too much agitation, to attend to any thing except the name at the end. His own Matilda was restored, and t'orty years of absence were forgotten. Such were the first emotions of Tre- lawney, and such was the disappointment which followed ; but it was soon succeeded by v^ry different feelings. Reason cor- rected the errors of imagination, and if he was less a lover, he was more than ever a friend. Every hour showed new charms in the mind of this accomplished woman ; who had gained, much more than she had lost, by the lapse of time, and in the school of affliction. Her understanding was uncom- monly fine, and, under the direction of Iier excellent father, it had been cultivated with the greatest care j but, when she was separ- ated from Sir William, she had never been thirty miles from home; and the attention to family cares, which a narrow fortune lequired, had not left much time for read- PEN TAMAR. 187 ing, before she was twenty years of age. Now he found a mind adorned with every elegant accomplishment, as well as enriched with every virtue. Mrs. Heywood had seen and read much, and she had reflected more. In her society Sir William found an inexhaustible fund of instruction and delight. .The purest taste, the noblest sen- timents, expressed in the most elegant language, in the most harmonious tone of voice, in a manner so irresistibly fascinating, that, while he heard her converse, it was impossible to remember that she was no longer handsome. But she had still higher claims to the friendship and esteem of such a man as Sir William. Her r.naffecteti piety, her pure benevolence, her temper always regulated by reason and religion, her patience in a state of much suffering, and her constant attention to his happiness, when a less noble mind would have dwelt only on its own misfortunes, — all contri- buted to raise his attachment to the most enthusiastic veneration. Never had he known such liappiness as in her society. Lady Mary was good and gentle, but a very uninteresting companion : her cduca- 188 PEN TAMAR. r^' ! ' tion, according to the fashion of the times, had not been very extensive, and her reading went no further than Baker's Chronicle, and a few books of devotion. She wished Sir William to read to her during the win- ter evenings, because it gave him pleasure, and because it saved her the trouble of talking, and left her more at liberty to attend to her cross-stitch. He sometimes looked up, after reading one of the finest passages in Macbeth or Othello, to witness its effect on his fair companion, and found her, iq undisturbed tranquillity, counting the rows, with a laudable wish to avoid any mistake in the half finished peacock. But his most admire authors acquired new charms when he read them with Mrs. Hey- wood. She pointed out unobserved beau- ties in his Shakspeare. She shared all the enthusiasm with which he read the sublime, but then neglected, pages of the immortal Milton. Religion itself appeared more lovely when she painted its charms. He saw it animate every action of her life. Without superstition, without enthjsiasm,* fievere to herself and indulgent to others, PEN TAMAR. 189 she seemed to view this world and its in- habitants, from — ** A height sublime — , Above the fogs of sense, or passion's storms." Young. Sir William's hospitable mansion was al- ways open to his friends; and though Mrs. Heywood did not give up her hum- bler residence, she was frequently persuaded to join the party at Pen Tamar ; where she was revered and beloved by every indivi- dual who composed it. To young Harry, whom she tenderly loved, she contrived to make her conversation so pleasant, that he never seemed more happy than with her. Every day he filled the little basket with the best fruits that the garden afforded, and anxiously watched the progress of the cherries and the apricots, not for his own sake, but for hers. If she wished to walk, Harry's arm was always ready to support her, — if she had any message to send, he flew to obey her commands. He watched the gradual improvement in her health; and his eyes sparkled with delight, when he told his father that he hoped he should lead ami B . wtL M" W ' '- ' "!. * i&!.." 190 PEN TAMAR. Mrs. Heywood from the house to the grove before he went to sclioolj for she walked a little better every day. The grove was at the end of some beautiful pleasure ground, and much further from Pen Tamar than from Rov^ley*s cottage. But Mrs. Heywood was still more anxious than Harry to attain this object of his ambition ; and she pro- mised to attempt it, if she should be toler- ably well, the evening before he was to return to school. Sir William Trelawney's liberality was unbounded; and it was supported by a splendid fortune, which it \,as his constant endeavour to lay out to the best advan- tage; but after Mrs. Heywood assisted in the distribution of his charity, he found that the sum-total of happiness which he bestowed was increased beyond all calcula- tion. She thought of so many ways of doing good, — she found out so many little comforts for the poor, — she entered into all their feelings with so much kindness, — she pointed out to them the advantages of in- dustry, the duty of resignation, and its glorious reward in a better world, with such irresistible eloquence, that the poor PEN TAMAR. 191 sufferers looked up to her as to a guardian angel, sent from heaven to comfort them. The peasants of Devonshire and Cornwall are, I think, particularly sensible of kind- ness, and disposed to attachment and grati- tude. Without servile flattery, or awkward shyness, they tell you their little aflfairs, or offer any thing they have to give, with a sort of friendly confidence which is very engaging j — " For never any thing can be amiss, When simpleness and duty tender it." Shakspeare. They will join a stranger in his walk, en- quire if they can be of any use, and enter into conversation with freedom, but never with impertinence. " So man and man should be ;** but it is not always thus. With such dispositions on both sides, Mrs. Heywood soon became the friend and con- fidant of all the neighbourhood. Mr. Hamilton, the constant and faithful friend of his patron, was married to a very de- serving wife, and the happy father of a large and fine family. They were frequent guests at Pen Tamar, and most useful assist- tfw'i)j.a: .'mjMfmm 192 PEN TAMAR. ants to Mrs. Hey wood in all her schemes of charity. Mrs. Hamilton was well acquaint- ed with the wants of every inhabitant of the village ; — Mrs. Hey wood pointed out the best means of relieving those wants; — Sir William's purse was always open, — and Harry and the young Hamiltons were never so happy as when employed to carry that relief to the poor sufferers. In such oc- cupations, and in su \ enjoyments, passed the summer of the year 1680. Never had Sir William Trelawney known such happi- nesk ; and all who were in any degree con- nected with him shared his feelings, and united to bless the excellent woman whose presence spread perpetual sunshine on Pen Tamar, ^^^^.;«^ ssmamm ■"^^ PEN TAMAR 193 * I H CHAP. XIX. " In life, how weak, how helpless is a woman ! Soon hurt, in happiness itself unsafe, And often wounded while she plucks the rose i So properly the object of affliction, That Heav'n is pleased to make distress become her, And dresses her most amiably in tears.** Young. One morning, after a very cheerful break- fast at the cottage, during which Mrs. Heywood had declared that she felt her- self gaining health and strength every day from the return of summer, and still more perhaps (she added with a smile) from the return of happiness, Sir William earnestly pressed her to accept his hand and his for- tune as well as his heart. The proposal was made with much seriousness, but it was not received with the same solemnity j and Mrs. Heywood contrived to make the idea of going on crutches to be married so com- pletely ridiculous, and to describe the emotions which it would awaken in the 1^ 194 PEN TAMAU. spectators with so much humour, that Sir William was forced to join in the laugh, and the proposal was never repeated. " No, my dear Sir William," continued Mrs. Heywood, •* let me hear no more of matrimony j for I am determined to con- quer your unreasonable prejudice against old maids ; and I cannot consent to rehn- quish a character in which I hope to gain so much glory. Indeed I should not have a doubt of success, if I could once prevail with you to forget your aunt Rachel." ' "Oh, my Matilda ! how is it possible for me to forget all the sorro\v she has occa- sioned to us both, — that she has robbed me of forty years of happiness with you !" " Forty years of happiness I Alas, my friend, who, in this world of woe, ever en- joyed forty years of happiness ? Many are the causes which might have destroyed it, though your aunt had never existed. But whatever reason you might have to dis- like hevy why should you condemn the whole sisterhood? why must you suppose that all old maids must of course be objects of aversion and contempt?" ** My dearest friend, how can it be other- I PEN TAMAU. 195 at Sir laugh, cinued ore of J con- igainst relin- o gain t have prevail ble for occa- robbed l^ou !" as, my ver en- any are )yed it, I. But to dis- [Tin the suppose objects e other- wise ? A woman is unmarried at forty, be- cause she is disagreeable ; and she grows ten times more disagreeable, because she is unmarried. Having nothing to do in the world, she must do mischief; while the activity which should have been employed in educating her children, and making home pleasant to her husband, must be wasted in scandal or in cards, — in imper- tinence, or in ill-humour/* *' Gently, my good Sir William, I be- seech you ; for I beg leave to deny every part of this charge. Many are the causes which may prevent a woman from marr- ' g, though she may be far from disagreeable. The custom of society allows us no right but the right of refusal; and from my heart I honour and respect those who assert that right, and resolutely preserve their liberty, if they do not happen to receive proposals from a man whom they really prefer to all others. But it requires some courage to encounter the difficulties witli which such women often struggle. Accus- tomed perhaps to ease and affluence, young women are often left, at V^e death of their fathers, to support the inconveniences at- 2 o ■"* wTtiiirSb. — ^- 196 PEN TAMAR. tending a very narrow fortune. Though brouglit up in every indulgence which wealth affords, they may not have enough to procure the comforts, to say nothing of the pleasures, of life. In such a situation, it surely proves a very superior mind to despise all the temptations which a rich lover may offer, rather than sacrifice honour and conscience by a false vow." *' Pshaw ! most of them never had any offers at all, and would accept them fast enough if they had." "And, if that is the case, the trial is l)erhaps still greater. Many womei of sense and merit, may, for want of beauty or fortune, pass through life without attracting notice ; but it does not follow that they do not deserve it. Manv a modest unpretend- ing being, too gentle for this rough world, is neglected and forgotten, though entitled to the highest esteem. Such women do nnt deserve contempt ; and they ought not to experience it from a generous mind. " Do you really think there are man^ such ? " «« I do indeed ; and many of a much su- perior class, who, far from being useless, I i j V PEN TAMAR. 107 are engaged in the constant exertion of active benevolence : many who employ the leisure which a single life affords to cultivate their minds by reading and reflec- tion : many who devote their time and thoughts to parents, sisters, friends, — to smooth the bed of sickness, or cheer the languor of age. 1 could bring examples of single women, equal in talents and in virtues to any of my married acquaintance, and who deserve and possess, in the highest degree, the respect and esteem of all who know them. But indeed, Sir WilUam, women are often much to be pitied." " When they resemble you they are to be almost adored j and no man hving is more ready to allow their merits than myself; when they are what they ought to be." " They would be so much oftener, if they were differently educated, and more generously treated. That v^ry prejudice, which I wish to remove from your mind, destroys the happiness of thousands. Taught from infimcy to consider marriage as the first of blessings, and the single life as a misfortune and a tlisgrace, a husband is the object of all their wishes, from the cradle o 3 I'ii 198 PEN TAMAll. to the grave. If the child is attentive to her hook, ** she shall have a smart young husband;" if she is idle and stupid, " she will certainly be an old maid.** With this association of ideas strongly impressed on her imagination, the young adventurer is sent to make her fortune. She is to dress, and dance, and sing, and play, not to please a man whom she loves, and whom she wishes to make happy through life, but to attract the notice of fifty men who are equally indifferent to her, with a determin- ation to accept any one of the fiily who may happen to ask her, and thus avoid the disgrace of spinsterhood. If that wish be disappointed, she perhaps sinks into a sour, discontented, disugreeable old maid." «* Just so, my dear friend ; you are de- scribing exactly the being that I think so odious." " But are you sure that the same being would be less so if she married? The same unfeolip^, selfisli character would make her equally odious as a wife or a mother. 1 must repeat it, my dear Sir William, the fault is in our education. Providence has given to most women talents, which ought PEN TAMAll. 199 to be cultivated, and whicli would make them amiable in society, or happy in soli- tude ; but, if" they are from infancy taught to think that their only business in life is to be married, tliey will cultivate only the superficial accomplishments which attract notice, and neglect the virtues which should secure esteem. While this is the general state of society, the woman who has too much delicacy to practise these arts, — who endeavours to be happy by improving her mind, and despises the unfeeling ridicule of the world, — such a woman ought to be respected by every liberal mind." " Well, my Matilda, I will endeavour to behave better for the future. I hope you will never hear me abuse the poor sister- hood any more ; and as you are determined against matrimony, I believe I fnust make tlie amende honorable for past offefices, by founding a nunnery, and making you lady abbess." I shall be happy if my heroine should suc- ceed as well with the generality of readers, and lead them, like Sir William, to renounce a very illiberal prejudice, which has been at- tended with consequences that every friend o 1 1 200 PEN TAMAR. to the female sex must regret. Had Mrs. Heyvvood lived in a period adorned by the talents and virtues which now command universal admiration, it would not have been difficult to prove that single women may be an honour and a blessing to the world ; and that when they are really con- temptible and ridiculous, it is generally owing to defective education, and the want of proper ideas of the true dignity and great importance of the female character. As the part which women are intended to act in life is different Irom that which is assigned to men, I am inclined to believe that their mental, as well as bodily, powers are different, and that they are not in gene- ral more formed for the labours of the poli- tician, the lawyer, or the mathematician, than for those of the soldier or the sailor. But if they have not the close application which is requisite for deep study, they have the quickness of apprehension which often supplies the want of it ; and if; notwith- standing some brilliant exceptions, they must yield the palm of literary fame to the other six, there are triumphs of much higher PEN TAMAR. ^^01 importance to which they may with strict propriety aspire. To the woman is committed the care of all that is most valuable in domestic society. She is the guardian of religion, of morals, of manners, of taste ; of all that charm, in private life, and is necessary to the happi- ness of every day. The modest dignity of a virtuous woman can silence the blas- phemer, and make the libertine blush. To her particularly belong. « The gentle offices of patient love, Beyond all flattery, and all price above ! " Mrs. H. MoHE. From her the indigent expect relief — to her the afflicted apply for consolation. It', as I readily allow, the delicacy of their organs makes females in general unfit for the deep study, as well as the active exertion neces- sary to form the statesman, the philosopher, or the hero, it is because they are not designed to act in these characters. But, on the other hand, if the superior delicacy of those organs gives them quickness of apprehension, refinement of ta-^o, pene- tration into character, compassion for the ml 202 !|| P£N TAMAR. unfortunate, -if, when they are what thev ought to be. they have more feeling, more tenderness, more patience, and more hu- manity, than men in general possess. -it is because Providence intended them to soften the harshness and calm the passions which contmuu'ly disturb the peace of the world, and to heal the wounds which men too often niflict. These aie duties which belong to the single as well as to the married woman ; and It shou d be the business of education to prepare ^,eir minds for the performance of them. They should be taught to know and feel their own importance in society and to fulfil with dignity the part M i-rovidence assigns to them. While thus employed, they will always be respected by all whose esteem is worth their acceptance ; and only fools and profligates would yen- ture to ridicule such an old maid. if they more J hu- -itis 3ften hich arid, too the an ; tion nee JOW ^ty, ich ms by ej tn- i\^ PEN TAMAR. 203 CHAP. XX. " Ask the faithful youth, Why the cold urn of her, whom long he loved, So often fills his arms ; — so often draws His lonely footsteps, silent and unseen, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O ! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego Those sacred hours, when stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With virtue's kindest looks his aching breast, And turns his tears to rapture ! " Akenside. I HOPE it is not necessary to say, that the intended walk on the twentieth of June, from which Harry promised himself so much pleasure, was not the Jirst visit which Mrs. Heywood had paid to the Grove ; and I hope this, because nothing is so unplea- sant to me, or tries iny temper so much, as telling a story to those who \v*ll not attend enough to understan4 i'« There are how- ever some circumstances attending that visit, which the most sagacious reader can- ""•"fcswwsss 204 PEN TAMAR. not discover without my assistance, and which therefore it is my duty to explain. The Grove consisted of a very fine and venerable oak, under which was a bench, and of an extensive plantation of flourishing trees of various kinds, which Sir William had obtained his father's permission to place there, in the year 1640, when he spent the autumn at Pen Tamar. They stood on a little hill, which commanded one of the loveliest prospects that imagin- ation can form ; a rich and highly cultivated valley, through which the Tamar winds over broken rocks, till it reaches the wear- head, where it forms a small cascade ; be- low which it gradually swells into a majestic river, and united with the Tavy and the St. Germains, forms the Hamoaze ; from whence its waters, flowing under Ply- mouth dock-yard, bear into the ocean the bulwarks of the British empire. At Pen Tamar it is, however, only a small, but beautiful stream, bounded on one side by smiling meads, adorned with flocks and hards, and on the other by a majestic range of rocks, finely clothed with wood. At the foot of the hill on which stood the PEN TAMAR. ^^05 Grove, was seen the little village j and on an opposite hill, of which the ascent was very steep, was placed the church. The Grove was at the utmost extent of the pleasure-ground, and nearly half a mile from the mansion-house ; but much nearer to the cottage which Mrs. Heywood had hired of Mr. Rowley. Such a spot as I have described had natural beauty enough to recommend it to Sir William Trelawney ; but a circumstance of a different kind had made it particularly dear to him. He happened to be sitting under the great oak, in the summer of the year 1640, when he received from his ser- vant a letter, in which he thought Matilda Heywood expressed, more clearly than she had ever done before, the affection which delicacy obliged her to endeavour to con- ceal, but which, he had every reason to hope, would make the union, which then occupied all his thoughts, almost as much the wish of her heart as of his own. Ma- tilda's letter was only intended to express the friendship which she had been accus- tomed from childhood to acknowledge j yet Trelawney thought there was something in 200 PEN TAMAll. \ its general terms so peculiarly affectionate, that the moment in which he received it seemed by far the happiest that he had ever experienced : and this awakened a wish to distinguish the spot by planting a grove, which in a few years became one of the most beautiful features in the landscape of Pen Tamar. But, while the trees flourished in con- stantly increasing beauty, all Sir William's hopes were nipped in the bud. When he returned from his travels, he visited the Grbve with very different feelings ; but it was still raised to the memory of Matilda, and therefore no spot was so dear to him. When he took possession of his paternal estate, after his long imprisonment, he formedthe Grove into many beautiful walks ; and in the most sequestered spot he placed a little root-house, in which, during the rest of his life, he spent some of the most deli- cious hours that he could now experience. In the root-house he fancied that he met the shade of his Matilda. There he read her letters, which he had always carefully preserved; — there he pressed to his lips a ring which she had given him in the happy PEN TAMAR. 207 days of childhood ; — there he disengaged his thoughts from earth, and fixed them on that place where he trusted that his lost angel waited to receive him. Lady Mary was not of a jealous disposi- tion ; and she was acqainted with the Grove before she had any thoughts of marrying its master. The patience with which she listened to the story of his early misfortunes, first gained the esteem and friendship, which her real merit secured. More ardent at- tachment was never promised by him or expected by her. She felt no fears of a rival who had been dead ten years, and the frequent visits to the Grove never gave her the smallest uneasiness. When Mrs. Heywood was naturally led to enquire the situation of Pen Tamar, Rowley pointed out the Grove, as the favourite walk of the knight, from which she might see a very fine prospect, and which she might perhaps reach without much fatigue j and the wish of tracing Sir William's footsteps, and viewing a spot which his elegant taste had made parti- cularly beautiful, induced her, with the assistance of her faithful Hannah, to attempt .ja8p»s»*'»*? 208 PEN TAMAH. |i: HP-^i tlie walk, wlien she knew that he was ab- sent from Pen Tamar, thougli expected to return in the evening. This occuned on the day previous to that on which Rowley first named his lodger to Sir William, and at a time when Mrs. Heywood's thoughts were constantly employed in contriving the best means of making herself known to her long-lost friend ; for which she intended to wait the return of Mr. Hamilton. It was not without some difficulty that she reached the Grove; but the enchanting beauty of the scene made her rich amends. She viewed the trees which Sir William had planted, the seat wliere he usually sat, the lovely prospect on which he had often gazed with delight. At last her attention was drawn to a little winding j>ath, amongst the trees, adorned with a profusion of the sweetest flowers. She pursued it only a few steps till it led to the root-house, which she entered j and, being much fatigued, she tlirew herself on a seat. The first object that met her eye was a tablet, on which were insciibed the following lines: — " Gunrdiun angel of tin; (irove, My firit, my Insr, my only love! mmmtttt/tm PEN TAMA 11. 5()[) Though lost are all tliy blooming cliarms, Though death has torn thee from my arms, Matilda, — still this heart of mine, This faithfu heart, is only thine ! The sighs, that speak my constant woe, The bitter tears, which ceaseless flow, The pangs, which love alone can feel, The grief, which death alone can heal, Shall prove that still this heart of mine, Matilda, can be only thine ! And should my soul, by grief refin'd. Its dearest hope to Heav'n resign'd, In Sorrow's school be taught to rise On Faith's bright pinions to the skies, Matilda, then this heart of mine, May hope to be for ever thine ! When death, misfortune's only friend, When death shall bid ray sorrows end ; Shall hush to peace my bursting sighs. Shall gently close my streaming eyes; Matilda, then this heart of mine, Though cold in death, shall still be thine ! Guardian angel of the Grove, My first, my lust, uiy only level Oh lead me to that peaceful shore, Where fricndi shall meet to part no more ; For then, this faithful heart of mine, Matilda, sha!' be ever thine ! wm m **% -■m^^lf^^^ !^ 210 PEN TAMAR. The emotions with which these lines were read by Mrs. Hey wood, may be more easily imagined than described. It is only necessary to add, that the wish to prepare Sir William for a meeting, so unexpected on his part, induced her to write with a pencil under the concluding line of the inscrip- tion,— "Matilda lives !'* What followed is already known to the reader; and Mrs. Hey wood, restored to health, paid her second visit to the Grove, with much less fatigue than the first, and with sensations which I leave the feeling heart to guess. Sir William and Harry had contrived a little treat of fruit in the root- house ; and the affectionate heart of the amiable boy felt all the pleasure which he heard his friends express. Sir William, de- lighted with his attention to Mrs. Heywood, told him he had a proposal to make «'If you can get the Greek prize on Michaelmas Day, my dear Harry, which, if you take pains, I think you will, ~I invite you to come home for a week, and keep Mrs. Hey wood's birth-day on the fifth of October. We will have another treat in the Grove, if the day is fine. Mr. and Mrs,. Hamilton, and their ir PEN TAMAn. 211 young ones, shall be invited to meet us here. Matilda must promise to be well, and I will promise to be happy/* The agreement was soon concluded, much to the satisfaction of all parties, and Harry ran to tell his friend the gardener, while the knight and Mrs. Hey- wood were left for a few minutes in the root- house. Her eyes were fixed on the tablet, and they were filled with tears. She laid her hand on Sir William's, and tried to smile, — "Matilda lives, my Trelawney, and lives to bless and thank you!" — "Friend of my soul ! how many years of liopeless sorrow are overbalanced by this delicious moment!— 'Many are the afflictions which we have both endured since we parted : we may be ca?led to suffer more; but, what- ever be my future lot, I think I never can be unha|Tpy while I can say to my faithful heart — Matilda lives!" V Q 21<2 ri:N TAAIAR. CHAP. XXI. \ii I I " When thy last breath, ere nature sunk to rest, Thy meek submission to thy God express'd ; When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled, A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed ; What to thy soul its glad assurance gave, Its iiope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?" Rogers. i Harry returned to scliool, smiling througli his tears when his father repeated liis pro- mise J and t'uWy determined to do his part, in order to secure the performance of it. Times of domestic, as well as of national, tranquillity aftbrd few materials for his- tory; and such wrs the summer of the year IGHO, to the liai)py inhahitants of Pen Tamar; but it was filled with actions, which the guardian spirits of the good de- light to record in that book, fiom whence many an unknown virtue will be made manifest to men and angels at the great day of account. — Mrs. Hey wood appcareil PEN TAMAR. 213 to gain strength, as well as spirits, every day; and Sir William's eyes sparkled with pleasure, as he witnessed the gradual im- provement in her looks: while Hannah, with tears of joy instead of grief, told Mr. Rowley, that she had never hoped to see her dear lady so well in this world. In a constant succession of useful occu- pations, and rational pleasures, every day appeared too short ; and the autumn stole on imperceptibly, till a letter from Harry announced the happy news that he had gained the prize, and claimed the promised reward. The delighted father sent for him at the time a})pointed ; and preparations were made to celebrate the birth-day, in a manner worthy of the occasion. Above fifty of the neighbouring poor were enter- tained at dinner in the hall ; and some excel- lent cider was produced, in which the healths of Mrs. Heywood and the worthy knight were drank with heartfelt gratitude and joy. This ceremony being over by one o'clock. Sir William led his friend to the Grove; where all the best productions of the garden were prepared, under the direc- tion of Harry, who was master of the least j 1' 3 tt-1 2U VEN TAMAH. and where the Hamilton family, and a small party of neighbours and friends, were assembled in honour of the day. The weather was remarkably fine : the rich autumnal tints added new charms to the noble woods of Pen T +he sun shone brightly on the rocks } and every heart was gay* Mrs. Heywood had suj)ported tlie con- versation with uncommon spirit, and, as usual, had delighted all who heard herj when, after more than an hour had been thus hapj)ily sj)ent. Sir William, whose at- tention to his friend was never interrupted, saw her suddenly turn pale. He prevented her from falling by catching her in his arms ; but she instantly fainted. Proper remedies were applied with success ; she was carried to Sir William's house, from which he would not suflbr her to be removed, though she was 80 much better in tlie evening, that she expressed her hope that this little attack had been only owing to niore exertion than her weak spirits could support. A few days, however, gave her atHicted fiicnd Uuy much reason to fear that her illness was of a more serious nwUnw A'' iier former ! PEN TAMAR. 215 complaints returned with increased violence: her strength and appetite failed; and a physician, who had been immediately sent for, and who afterwards attended her con- stantly, confessed to Sir William that he feared medicine could do nothing ; that her constitution was entirely worn out, and that he apprehended a confirmed and incurable atrophy. It is painful to dwell on scenes of hope- less affliction. Every heart, which is capa- ble of friendship, can form a stronger idea of Sir William's feelings than any words could convey. The sufferings of his be- loved friend were very great ; and they in- creased, during a long period of gradual decay. At times they were indeed beyond description dreadl'ul ; and they continued until all who were most attached to her, until even Sir William himself, who would have sacrificed his life to lessen those sufferings, had no wish lefl but for her release. Such was the state in which the mortal part of this admirable woman languislied, during many months of agonis- ing torture. At a very early period of her illness, 1» "h Qi6 PEN TAMAR. Mrs. Heywood was convinced of her danger ; and she had obhged her physician to acknowledge to her his opinion of the case. During many years of her life she would have quitted the world with little re- gret; but she was just restored to long-lost happiness,— she felt thegrief of her friend! She had hoped to contribute to the com- fort of his declining years,— she must now plunge him into the deepest affliction ! She had desired to ^ e left alone, after her con- ference with the physician. Many tender i-ecollections crowded on her mind ; and a few tears were given to friendship ;— but they were the last. Whatever be the cause of grief; "to a Christi-^ii, the moment of re- flection is the moment of consolation."* — To the great Disposer of all Events she resigned all her hopes of earthly happiness. From Him she requested assistance in every trial : from Him she hoped an eternity of bliss ! She felt no support fiorn pride, — from a wish of appearing insensible to p'ain and sorrow: she knew that she had nnich to suffer, in body and in mind; and humblv. * Dr. liaiulolph. PEN TAMAR. 217 on her knees, she asked His aid who could alone enable her to bear it. To those who have tried the efficacy of such prayers, I appeal for the truth of an assertion which others have no right to dispute J while I venture to say, that none ever made that prayer (if it proceeded from an humble and pious heart) in vain. When we pray to be relieved from our distresses, we ask what our heavenly Father often in mercy denies j but, when we beg for strength to bear them, we ask what we shall certainly obtain. Child of sorrow, whoever thou art, do not lose sight of this great truth ! It has been proclaimed in songs of triumph amidst the flames of persecution : it has been felt in tortures more dread- ful, because more lasting, on the bed of death ! Mrs. Hey wood having attained the com- posure she wished, desired to see Sir Wil- liam. He approached her with a smile which ill concealed the anguish of his heart; but lie could not speak. She gave him her hand: he pressed it to his lips, and burst into tears.-— "My friend— -my dearest friend," said the dying saint, *' I sent for 218 PEN TAMAR. you that I might endeavour to prepare your mind for a short parting— soon, 1 trust, to be followed by an eternal union." "O my Matilda! were we allowed to enjoy a few months of happiness only that they might imbitter every remaining mo- ment of my wretched life ?'* " Not so, my dear Sir William : let us not make such an ungrateful return to the Author of all good. We have met to enjoy the sweet security that our friendship had remained unshaken in spite of absence j to be convinced that our mutual ei^teem was just. We have met, that I might feel the delight of owing all my happiness in life, all the comforts which make sickness supportable, to your tender friendship ; that you might enjoy the transport of relieving all my sorrows, of removing me from poverty and distress to ease and affluence. We must part, my William ! but our separ- ation cannot now be long. We shall not now be exposed to such distress as we have formerly felt. You will be left with many comforts, and I shall go where pain and soirow are no more !" <* You speak as if you had no hope. Oh, PEN TAMAR. 219 do not fancy that your health may not be restored, at least in some degree 1" ** How long my life may be spared, God only knows. I may perhaps still enjoy some happy hours with you; but do not deceive yourselfi my best friend ; and above all do not endeavour to deceive me. Join your prayers with mine, that I may be enabled to bear my allotted portion of sutferings; but do not flatter me with the expectation of health or ease. No, my dearest William, this is not the comfort I want ^rom you. Talk to me of a better world, where pair, and grief will never enter j where we shall be for ever happy ! — But I have distressed you too much. Leave me now, my deadest friend j we will meet at dinner. I shall be able to walk to the dining-room ; and we must not disturb poor Harry's happi- ness during the short time he has to stay." At dinner Mrs. Hey wood appeared re- markably cheerful ; and Harry left Pen Tamar the next morning, without any sus- picion of the misfortune which was hang- ing over him. As such he would have considered it ; for he was most sincerely attached to this excellent woman. 2-20 PEN TAMAR. During the next six months her suf- ferings gradually increased, and they were at times almost insupportable. She was now unable to go to cijurch ; but she found great comfort in her pious and learned friend Mr. Hamilton, who read prayers, and administered the sacrament to her, and w^ho was every way qur'"Hed to give the consolation which her 2 re- quired ; though he often declare a that when he attended Mrs. Heywood he learned more than he tauglit, and that he hoped always to be the better lor such a glorious example of patience and resignation. In the evenings, she still found pleasure in hearing Sir William readj and, when ' her sufferings were not very severe, her remarks showed that her fine mind was still the same. One evening, early in March, when they were thus employed, Mrs. Heywood stopped him, and said she was sorry to lose what was always her greatest pleasure, but she felt that she could not attend to the book ; and added, "My head is strangely confused to-night. Do not read any more, my dear on- Wil- liam J but come and sit by me on the PEN TAMAil. Q21 coucli." He did so. She gave him her hand, and he found it hot and fe t rish, and her pulse extremely high. He persuaded her to go to bed, and lie sent for the phy- sician, — who found her very ill, though not, as he thought, in immediate danger ; but, as far as her fi ads could judge, it might have been hap^ y if it had been so ; for what she suffered during the three fol- lowing weeks was beyond description dread- ful, and it appeared astonishing that her weak frame could support them so long. During all these sleepless nights, and days of agony, no impatient word ever escaped her lips. Always gentle and resigned, thank- ful for every attention from her friends; anxious to prevent her attendants, and par- ticularly Sir William and her faithful Han- nah, from injuring their health by too much watching ; — no sufferings could change the angelic sweetness of her disposition. At times the pain occasioned delirium. She was then often talking of her father, and said he was waiting for her on the other side of the water. Then she would seize Sir WilUam's 1. \nd, and entreat him to go with her. — " Do not let me lose you agJn, ■'^m&hi. 222 PEN TAMAR. t my William ! Oli, you know not how I have loved you! — Will you not go with me to my father?** But even when reason was gone, religion remained; and there never was a moment when he could not calm her mind, by reading a prayer, or a chapter in tlie Bible. At last a composing medicine took effect, and she fell into a deep sleep which lasted several hours. She waked free from pain, and her head perfectly cleai*. She asked for Sir WiJliam } and with her own sweet smile, and coim- tenahce which beamed more than earthly joy, she told hiwi she was quite well, and would be taken up and carried into he -f*' ^ing room. This was done ; and . .sH rh she appeared to be extremely weak, / continued free from pain, and able to converse with even more than her usual aninmtion. In the evening she requested Sir William to read one of Hooker's Ser- mons, which concludes with these word« : "The earth may shake, the pillars of the world may tremble under us ; the sun may lose his light, the moon her beauty, the stars tlieir ghxry ; but concerning (he man that ti'usteth in (iotl, if the fire have pro^i ) V PEN TAMAR. 223 claimed itself unable so much as to singe a hair of his head ; if lions, ravenous by nature and keen with hunger, being set to devour, have, as it were, religiously adored the fait! ful man, — what is there in the world that shall change his heart, over- throw his faith, alter his affection towards God, or the affection of God to him ? If I be of this number, who shall make a separation between me and my God ? Shall tribulation, or anguish, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword ?— No, I am persuaded that neither tribula- tion, nor anguish, nor persecution, nor famine, nor nakedness, nor peril, nor sword, nor death, nor life, nor angels, nor princi- palities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, shall ever so far prevail over me. 1 know in whom I have be- lieved. I am not ignorant whose precious blood has been shed for me. I have a Shepherd full of kindness, full of care, and full of love. His own finger hath engraven this sentence on the tables of my heart,— * I have prayed for thee, tliat tJiy faitli tail not!*"* ♦ See Hooker's Worki, p. 556, 11 ^ 22t PEN TAMAR. CHAP. xxir. '« Go, gentle spirit, now supremely blest, From scenes of pain, and st. ^^gling virtue go ! From thy immortal seat of heav'nly rest. Behold us lingering in a world of woe ! " Sargent. "I THANK you, my dear Sir William,'* said Mrs. Heywood. " I inherit my dearest father's partiality for this excellent writer. He has been my comforter in many sorrows, and I knew he would be so now, when I most want it. — I have suffered much, and perhaps the pain may return j though I hope my strength is nearly exhausted." • *'0 my Matilda!— do you wish to leave me?" " No, my dearest William. Had it been the will of Providence, I should have wish- ed, — I had humbly hoped, — that I might have been happy with you a little longer. My best and dearest friend, this is not a time to ilisguise my feelings. Never, I believe, did any human being love with more ten- ' *ft PEN TAMAU. '2'25 dcrness than I have always felt — than I still feel — for you. Dear object of my highest admiration and esteem, of my everlasting gratitude ! all the affections of a heart na- turally tender have been fixed on you. Pre- sent or absent, your virtues were my pride, your happiness my fondest wish. When you thought me lost for ever, I was still listening with rapture to every voice which spoke your praise — still glorying in my choice — still rejoicing in the hope that in Heaven you would be mine! — Friend of my heart ! do not suppose I wish to leave you ; but indeed I have suffered much, and if I might presume to beg that those suf- ferings might not return ;— but, O Father of mercies, not my will, but thine be done ! " Sir William tried in vain to speak ; and the hand which he pressed to his lips was bathed with his tears. «• I have done wrong in thus distressing you, my best of friends; but I may not have another such sweet interval of ease. I meant to have employed it in giving you comfort; and I wished, though it is un- necessary, to recommend my poor Hannah Q 1 2-26 PEN TAMAR. to your protection. She deserves every thing from me, and you know I have nothing of vahie to leave. Let her have a small sum which you will find in my bureau ; but I must trust her future inter- ests to your friendship. Thus in life and in death, my William, I must owe all to your bounty; and it is my pride and delight to do so." •• O my dearest friend ! if I can know one moment of ease or comfort in this miserable world, it must be in fulfilling every wish of yours. Never shall your faithful servant know a sorrow which I can possibly remove." " I know you too well to doubt it. But there is another legacy which I wish to mention to you, for it concerns the most precious treasure which I possess. Do you remember giving your picture to my fiither V* " Oh yes ; and I remember the transport 1 felt, when you said that you thought it a strong resemblance j for I hoped that my Matilda, as well as my dear and honoured friend, would Hometimes look at it with })lea8ure." PEN TAMAR. 227 «» Here it is, and here it has been for ' nearly forty years. I was particularly for- tunate in saving this, when I lost every thing else. Before we left England, my beloved father gave it to me, with some other things which he valued, to be carefully packed in his strong box. Perhaps I did not do quite right; — it was the only time that I ever disobeyed him, and I meant to restore it with the rest; — but the pleasure of possessing it for a few weeks tempted me to hang it on my bosom, instead of putting it into the box. At that most dreadful mo- ment of my life, when I lost my father, this dear picture was not injured by the water. It was then all I had in the world, for every Jiing was lost ; and in the agony I then felt, as soon as I was capable of thinking, it afforded me a degree of com- fort which 1 cannot describe. From that hour to this it has always kept its place; and 1 believe I can venture to say, that, in all the years which have since elapsed, I have never closed my eye^ to sleep, if I preserved the use of my reason, till I had looked at this dear image of Trolawney— till I luid pressed it to my heart!— I caa- 228 PEN TAMAR. not part with it till that heart shall cease to beat; but when it shall be useless to me, give it to my dear Harry, who I trust wilt resemble you in mind, as he already does in person. Tell him to love it as I have done. Tell him to look at it every night ; and, if his conduct through the day has been worthy of such a father, let him press it to his lips for his reward. If he ever should be so unhappy as to leave the path of duty, he will not dare to look on that dear face." « My sweet enthusiast ! How can I ever thank you as I ought? Oh what a treaure did I lose, when my cruel aunt forbade me to be yours! — My father would not have refused me j — I think he would not." *• Every thing, my dear Trelawney, is ordered by a power which human agents cannot control. Let us not look to second causes, but bless the kind though severe decree, which, by separating us on earth, has, I hope, made us more worthy to be for ever united in Heaven. — But, my Wil- liam, I have one more request to make, and you must not refuse it.'* PEN TAIVIAR. 229 " Never will 1 refuse any thing that you can ask/* " Promise me, then, that you will not suffer your noble mind to sink under afflic- tion. Promise me, that you will not give up your usual occupations, — that you will not indulge solitary grief. Let our good friends be your constant guests in future. Mr. Hamilton will read and converse with you : his excellent wife will pay you many little attentions which are best under- "stood by women : the lovely children will by degrees amuse you. Above a^l, do not give up your constant walks to the village, and your attention to your poor neighbours. The best cure, in all our sorrows, is to be found in endeavouring to remove the sor- rows of our fellow creatures. — Sometimes, perhaps, you will walk to the Grove. Let me not increase the grief which I wish to soothe. My William, we have already known what it is to part. You have known what it is to think me dead ; and, even in the violence of youthful passion, you bore it like a man and a Christian. Let me not find you more weak, when love is changed Q 3 230 I'EN TAMAIl. to friendsliip, and when reason has con- quered passion." "O Matilda! that trial was nothing to this. Never were you half so dear to me as at this dreadful moment! I did not then know half your worth.** "My own heart teaches me to believe you ; but we shall not be long parted. Yes, — go to the Grove, dear William, and let my image meet you there: — let it whisper peace to your affliction, and tell yoi^ we shall meet again !" She was silent j but seeing him unable to speak, she pressed his hand, and said, — " May Heaven support and comfort you, best and dearest of friends ! — I believe it is better for us both to seek repose. Ring the bell, my dearest William, and good night.'* He threw himself at her feet, and tried in vain to speak : then hastily rising, he pressed her to his heart, and went to his own apartment, to seek relief in solitude and tears. Mrs. Heywood passed the night without severe pain ; but tlie agitation of her spirits preventeil her rest till towards morning, PEN TAMAll. 231 when she had some hours of sleep, and waked much refreshed. — It was Sunday, and she persuaded Sk Wilham to go to church J from whence he was to return with Mr. Hamilton, who had promised to administer the sacrament to her. Accom- panied by Sir William, Mrs. Hamilton, and her faithful Hannah, she performed this sacred duty, with the sweet serenity which religious exercises always pro jced in her pious and well regulated mind. Perfectly free from superstition, her religion was pure as that virtue of which it was the firm sup- port. Happy in the fixed belief of a super- intending Providence, in an unshaken faith in the great truths of Christianity, she trusted in a Saviour's merits, and prepared herself to suffer and to die for his sake who suffered and died for us all. She joined with pious ear- nestness, but with perfect composure, in a prayer which Mr. Hamilton, at her request, offered for up her support in the last dreadful trial; and when this awful ceremony was finished, she thanked him for all the com- fort he had given her. Then, giving her hand to each of her weeping friends by turns, she expressed in the strongest terms I PEN TAMAR. her gratitude for all their kind attention to her, and prayed God to bless them. In the evening, after some hours of very sweet sleep, she sent for Sir William and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and conversed with much apparent pleasure. She led the discourse to the subjects which naturally occupied her thoughts ; spoke of the com- fort which religion affords in the last awful scene of our earthly existence j and led Mr. Hamilton to speak of those whom he liad attended in their last moments. He knew her too well to wish to turn the dis- course, but followed where she seemed desirous to lead him. He said, that, except in one or two cases, where constitutional melancholy or mistaken notions of religion produced a degree of insanity, he had never met with one sincere and humble Christian, who did not meet death witli such firmness as led him to think, that, in that greatest of trials, those who looked up for protec- tion to Him who has promised that he will never leave nor forsake us, did actually re- ceive support, and were armed with forti- tude far above their own powers of mind. Mrs. Heywood listened to many instances of h PEN TAMA II. Q33 this kind, and seemed to receive particular pleasure from the conversation ; till, at the hour when Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton usually took leave, she said to him, — " If you have no particular objection to it, my dear Sir, I wish you would sleep at Pen Tamar to- night." " Are you worse ? ** eagerly exclaimed Sir William. " Indeed I am not, my dear friend ; on the contrary, I feel such an extraordinary degree of ease, that I cannot help flatter- ing myself that I shall not again suffer as I have done." "Your sufferings," said Mr. Hamilton, have indeed been great ; but your patience has been much greater; and sufferings so supported, make you in my eyes an object of envy rather tlian of pity." " I must have been most ungrateful to such friends as I am blessed with, if I had not been desirous to distress them as little as possible ; and though pain is an evil, and a great one, yet it is less insupportable than it appears. There are always intervals of ease ; and when it goes so far as to disorder the senses, or to produce convulsions, the 234 PEN TAMAU. sense of it is lessened. In short, my good Mr. Hamilton, I feel the truth of what you have just said; and I knoAv that our merciful Father will enable us to bear the trials which He is pleased to send." "But, Matilda," said Sir William, "if if you are better, tell me, I entreat you, why you wish Mr. Hamilton to stay here to-night." " Because, though you are worn out with watching, I cannot get you to allow your- self one quiet night: I sent you to bed yesterday ; but I know you lay all night on the couch in the dressing-room, though there was not any reason for it. Now, as I am perfectly easy, and hope to sleep, I think, if Mr. Hamilton would be so good as to rest on that couch, and promise to call you if I should be worse, you could not refuse my request, and would go to your own apartment. Sec (added she with a smile), how I command every body in your house, like an impertinent old maid, as }'0U were afraid I should do ! " Sir William, delighted to see her so cheerful, consented to her little arrange- ment ; and, after desiring Mr. Hamilton to PEN t AM All. 235 read a prayer as usual, she was carried to her apartment, and soon fell into a sweet sleep. Sir Wiliiam passed some miserable hours ; but, exhausted with fatigue, he had at last fallen into an uneasy slumber, when he was awakened by Mr. Hamilton ; who, with all the tenderness so natural to his disposition, informed him that a change had taken place which made him think it necessary to send for the physician, and to perform the promise wMc i he had exacted from him when he retii i to rest. Sir William went with trembling agitation to the room ; where he found Mrs. Heywood almost de- prived of speech and motion, and with an expression of countenance, which those who have been accustomed to see it under- stand too well. It was, however, plain that she retained her senses, and i,'> it she knew him ; for she felt for his hand, and when she had found it, he saw a faint smile, and heard the words, "Dear — dear — William!'* Mr. Hamilton appeared on the other side of the bed. They thought she asked for prayers, and Mr. Hamilton began to read the usual prayer. She said, — *' No, not 23G PEN TAMAR. that." He then read the commendatory prayer. She tried to smile. Sir William knelt by the side of the bed, and held her hand. He felt it feebly press his own. The physician arrived ; but nothing could be done. There was not the smallest appear- ance of pain or struggle ; and one Sir William heard her say, — "Thank God — very happy! " — These were the last words she uttered, and in aboii an hour she ceased to breathe. PEN TAMAR. 237 CHAP. XXIII. ** Still shall the tale instruct, if it declare How they have boine the load oi .selves are doom'd to bear!" Beattie. Having now concluded the history of Matilda Heywood, may I be permitted to address a few words to those who have had the patience to read it, in order to explain the motives whicli have induced me to add one more to the long catalog! e of novels ? This explanation is usually given in a preface ; but, as Voltaire justly observes, young ladies do not read prefaces ; and to the young, as well as to the old, 1 wish to point out the moral of my tale. If it has awakened any interest, without the assist- ance of an elopement, a duel, a murder, or a ghosi, I may venture to hope that the fhlse taste, which too generally prevails at present, has not blunted the moral feelings in the minds of my readers j and curiosity being no longer fixed on the story, I will request their attention, while I explain the "Si '238 PEN TAMAR. principles on which it was written, and the effect which it was intended to produce. No friend to rehgion and virtue can he an unconcerned spectator of the danfTorons attacks to which they liave of late been exposed, from the false principles incul- cated in works of imagination ; and parti- cularly by the German poets and novelists, and their imitators in this country. Writers of this description call evil gootl, and good evil* ; and we are led into an approbation of vice, because it is clothed " In virtue's borrowed robe, and steals her title."t The friends of morality are called upon to exert all their influence in opposing this dangerous corruption of the pul)lic taste ; but this, I apprehend, will be most effect- ually done by interesting the imagination and feelings in the cause of truth and vir- tue. That this rnoy be done, has been lately proved by some excellent publica- tions, which have greatly contributed to check the progress of false principles ; that * See on this subject the admirable preface to The F.ogress of the Pilgrim (Jood Intent. t I'atal Falsehood —a tragedy. Hy Mrs. II. More. TEN TAMAR* 239 \\\ T think, be allowed it ouglU to be done, v^^U 1^^ . ,^^,„^„ by alWl.o consider the "^t"" . .^^^ ind. the reluctance wlj^^^^^^^ ^""^"'^rd'StS'vhich we follow :S"-i:^who interests the feeling, and 1 +i.nt 1 mi«"ht do some little ser led to l>oi'- *^ /^ '";f%,„th, by combating ^ice to the cause oi ^ j^g some some popular prejudices by en^ 8^^ ,„eful maxims, and '"'^ f | ^_^ ^,^^ example rather than ^X P-" ^„,^ ,„ „ffe. Uttle work wlucU 1 "- , ,„ ,evWe to the pubhe, I have e ^^. ^j^.^,^ that respect lor age t^,e ^^ is, perhaps, one o< th« mo * b ^_ ^^^^ of the depravity oi >"«"■'" ^ ^^,,,,,.,1 pre-" to combat an "n«'''''"*\'',.^"„,ed virtuous. j,„lice, that has --"«;!^^f,rr lule and and respectab e ^^^^.^ aeserve. contempt which they y ^^^^ ^,,^ At the same tune 1 ave po ^^^ conduct by w nd . g.^. v- „„y by poverty, ^''♦'"""'y;, '" ,.,,,,cct which -^"'T'°rrpdto"irtue-.andI ovi{2;Ut always to be pam ^ S40 PEN TAMAR. have endeavoured to reconcile botli the young and the old to that period of human existence. I wish to convince them, that, in spite of the infirmities and sorrows which frequently attend it, " to the intelHgent and virtuous, old age presents a scene of tranquil enjoyments, of obedient appetites, of well regulated affections, of maturity in knowledge, and of calm preparation for immortality. In this serene and dignified state, placed as it were on the confines of two worlds, the mind of a good man re- views what is past with the complacency of an approving conscience, and looks forward unto futurity with humble confidence in the mercy of God, and with devout aspira- tions towards his eternal and ever-increas- ing favour." • But the object which I had principally in view, when I drew the character of Matilda Heywood, was to show the effect of reli- gious principles in producing that passive courage which is so necessary in our pass- age through this vale of tears. In doing this, I have ventured to differ from novel- * Sec rather's Instructions, by the late Dr. Pcrcivul. ''^ I PEN TAMAR. S4l ists and moral writers in general ; as, in defiance of what is commonly called po- etical justice, I have not made worldly prosperity attend on virtue j but, on the contrary, have represented the life of my heroine as marked by very severe trials and sufferings. In doing this, I have en- deavoured to avoid what I conceive to be a dangerous mistake, and to represent the world as it is ; viz. a state of trial, and not of retribution. The moral which I wish to inculcate is, not that we must be virtuous, in order to be happy in tJiis world, but that wc must be virtuous, in spite of all the suffer- ings wiiich can attend our progress through life, in order to be happy in the 7iext. It is in this light that the Gospel represents the pre- sent state of trial. We are to take up the cross, and follow the great Captain of our salvation. Our life is represented as a combat, a war- fare, a race ; and all the hope, which is held out to the best of men, is, that they must, through much tribulation, enter into the kingdom of heaven. The reason of this is obv'ious, and it is so freely expressed in a late excellent publication, that I cannot help borrowing the words of its lamented ic ■#■ «,^ 242 PEN TAMAR. author:— "Passive virtues, of all others the severest, of all others perhaps the aiiost acceptable to the Deity, would, it is evident, be excluded from a constitution in which hap- piness and misery should regularly follow virtue and vice. Patience and composure under distress,, affliction, a-d pain ; a stead- fast ke*'ping up of our confidence in God, and of our reliance on his final goodness, at the time when every thing present is adverse and discouragnig ; and (what is no less diflicult to retain; a cordial desire for the happiness of others, even when we are deptived of our own; these dispositions, which constitute, perhaps, the perfection of our moral nature, would not have found their proper office and object in a state of avowed retribution.*'* But, if Christianity does not promise us the enjoyment of worldly prosperity, it promises that peace which the world can neither give nor take away. " What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Are virtue's prize ! " f * Paley's Elements of Natural Theology. t Pope's Essav on Man. I' « PEN TAMAR. 243 If religion does not give a man wealth, it makes him contented without it. If it does not enable him to do what he likes, it enables him to like what it is his duty to do. When our hopes and wishes are fixed where true joys are to be found j when we are con- vinced that we were sent into this world in order to prepai or a better; when we know and feel that " the best of men may be made better by affliction, and that if we could propose the question to those saints in heaven who were once destitute, afflicted, tormented, — they would tell us that they do not now wish it to have been otherwise*,"— we shall then give up the vain hope that we can escape from sufferings j but we shall suffer, not with patience only, but with joy ! I will sum up the whole in the words of a writer, whose life and death afforded the most convincing proof that her principles were founded on that rock, against which the storms of adversity must for ever beat in vain, t * Home's Sermons. t Sec Poems and Essays, hy the late Miss Howdler. 'iU MN TAMAB. " Religion cannot prevent losses and dis- appomtments pain and sorrow; for to these m this imperfect state we must be liable • nor does it require us to be insensible to them for that would be impossible ; but in the midst of all, and even when all earthly pleasures fail, it commands, it instraS. ( enables us^to be happy." THE END. LONUOM i N.'w Stri>i.i.s«j„„,.i.. } id dis- ► these iable ; ble to but in arthly cts, it