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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 % 3 7 P' 
 
 PEN TAMAR; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE HISTORY OF AN OLD MAID. 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 MRS. H. M. BOWDLER. 
 
 / " The Old Maid is a sort of venomous animal ; so wicketl in its temper, 
 
 and so mischievous in its disposition, that one is surprised that its veiy 
 existence should be tolerated in civilised society." 
 
 Hindoo Rajah, vol. ii. p. 25, 
 
 S)econD (Ktiinon. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR • 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-KOW, 
 
 183L
 
 PREFACE 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 The publication of the following tale ha^dng 
 been delayed at the time it was written, the 
 author at length decided on deferring it 
 during her life, — expressing a "wish that it 
 should finally be offered 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 her acquaintance, 
 to whom such a memorial of her amiable 
 and pious mind will not be acceptable ; and 
 even those to whom she was personally 
 unknown, can scarcely fail to derive grati- 
 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
 
 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 exemplified them in her own 
 life, — and her writings still bear testimony 
 to their truth. 
 
 This tribute of esteem and respect is 
 gratefully offered to her revered memory, 
 by her affectionate friend. 
 
 The Editor. 
 
 Exeter^ July 17. 1830.
 
 PREFACE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR, 
 
 In oifering this little tribute of affection 
 and gratitude to my friends, I feel it neces- 
 sary to observe that it was written during 
 the winter of the year 1801 ; with a wish 
 to induce authors of far superior talents to 
 unite instruction with amusement in works 
 of imagination. The 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.*'
 
 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 perused; and the world had not 
 seen the masterly productions of the un- 
 known genius of the North, nor the ad- 
 mirable 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 sliould 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 the inci- 
 dent of the fire in Pen Tamar so strongly 
 resembles a story in the Cottagers of Glen- 
 burnie, that it may appear to have been 
 borrowed 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 
 whilst I endeavour to clear myself from the 
 charge of plagiarism, I acknowledge that
 
 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 forget. 
 May it be fresh in my recollection in the 
 awful hour which must now be near ! May 
 I die the death of the righteous, and may 
 my last end be like his ! 
 
 H. M. BOWDLER, 
 Exeter^ Dec.2\. 1819.
 
 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 1681, on the beautiful banks 
 of the river Tamar, which separates Corn- 
 wall from 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 ? — If not, take my ad- 
 vice ; put a little money into your purse, 
 and make the tour of Devonshire. It is a 
 
 B
 
 <2 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 land flowing with milk and honey; — flow- 
 ing 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 beauties 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, whilst 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." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 When you have feasted your eyes with 
 the wonders of nature, and with the finest 
 efforts of human skill and industry, let me 
 call your attention to the last and best of all 
 God's works, — tlie women. Every where 
 charming, here they are peculiarly lovely. 
 Never did I see such artless grace, such
 
 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 enchanting modesty, such unaffected man- 
 ners, as in the fair nymphs of Devon. It is 
 certainly foreign to my subject to speak of 
 young women ; but I 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 
 politer circles of the metropolis ; where the 
 annals of Doctors' Commons prove that 
 vice, at least, has a perpetual 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, and paint 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 awful 
 shapes of some of the boldest rocks, that 
 Nature ever formed. Far from the crowd 
 
 B 2
 
 4 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 and noise of a busy 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 of 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 morn- 
 ing to visit his poor neighbours. 
 
 Though far advanced in life, he had 
 still a very fine person ; and what his 
 face had lost in beauty, it had, perhaps, 
 gained in expression ; for *' the gay con- 
 science of a life well spent" was seen to 
 animate every feature. His health was 
 secured by temperance, his strength was 
 preserved by active exertion, his eye 
 sparkled with sense, and his smile was the 
 genuine expression of benevolence. After 
 receiving the blessings of two or three cot- 
 tagers, to whom his presence gave more 
 pleasure than his bounty, he was met b}^ 
 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 hold only a very 
 small family; but it was thought that the un- 
 usual mildness of the climate might make it 
 
 B 3
 
 6 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 desirable for an invalid; and as Sir William 
 had few near neighbours, and this house was 
 within an easy walk fi'om his own, he was 
 particularly desirous to see it respectably 
 occupied. 
 
 After the usual morning greetings, not 
 in the forms of polished life, 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- 
 tageous 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 ; but I am 
 sadly afraid she is an old maid." 
 
 " O, plague take them all, for a set of 
 malicious, spiteful, mischief-making devils! 
 What, is she very old ?" 
 
 " Not very young, indeed." 
 
 " And as ugly as a witch ?"
 
 VEN TAMAIl. 7 
 
 " Yes, sure, she is ugly enough. Her 
 face is sadly disfigured ; and she is very 
 lame, and cannot walk upright." 
 
 " In tlie name of all that is mischievous, 
 Rowley, what could induce you to let the 
 house to such an old hag ? 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 what 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, 
 passionate, 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 
 immortal Homer, whose hero makes his 
 entree in a passion, and expresses it in 
 language which Mr. Pope was obliged to 
 
 B 4
 
 8 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 polish, that the Englisli reader might not 
 suppose that *' the watery goddess," his 
 mother, was a fishwoman at Billingsgate ; 
 yet this hero, in the progress of the poem, 
 displays so many great and amiable qaa- 
 lities, that it is evident the poet was not 
 obliged to make him 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 Trelawney, 
 if I am permitted to explain the reason of 
 his particular 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 I 
 please, and to conduct my reader to the 
 end of my story on the principles of modern 
 gardening, by many turnings and windings, 
 and, perhaps, for the same reason, viz. — that 
 the walk may be a little the longer. Cer- 
 tain it is, that my story is 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." 
 
 Miss Bowdler's Poems. 
 
 Sir William Trelawney was born in the 
 year 1619, the only heir of a noble family ; 
 but the joy which his birth occasioned was 
 soon changed into grief by the death of his 
 lovely and amiable mother, which happened 
 three days after her husband had attained 
 the only blessing that seemed wanting to 
 complete the happiness he enjoyed with 
 her. This event was attended with still 
 more 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 passed in listless indolence, or gloomy 
 discontent. The sports of the field in the
 
 10 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 morning, and the bottle in the evening, 
 assisted to chive away thought j 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 have made a worse choice. Dis- 
 agreeable 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." Envious of all 
 whose superior accomplishments enabled 
 them to move in a higher sphere, her nar- 
 row mind was only employed in spreading 
 scandal, and disturbing happiness which she 
 Was not formed to enjoy. To be young or 
 beautiful, innocent or happy, was sufficient 
 to awaken her dislike ; and every art which 
 low malice could invent was practised to 
 weaken the power of those qualities over 
 the minds of others. 
 
 Mrs. Rachel Trelawney was several years 
 older than her brother, and had early gained 
 such an ascendancy over his mind, that he 
 never presumed to dispute her will; though 
 her temper continually disturbed the peace 
 of his family, and made her detested by
 
 PEN TAMAU. 11 
 
 every individual in it. Teased with con- 
 tinual disputes, Sir Henry interposed as 
 seldom as possible in the management of 
 his own affairs ; and not even the infant 
 charms of his lovely boy were sufficient to 
 awaken the sensibility which seemed to be 
 buried in the grave of his wife : he ap- 
 peared to consider the unfortunate child 
 only as the cause of her death, not as the 
 heir of her charms and her virtues. Ne- 
 glected by his father, and tormented by his 
 aunt, the little WilHam was left to seek for 
 comfort and instruction wherever he could 
 find it. The darling of all the servants, he 
 lived in the stable or the fields. The groom 
 taught him to ride ; the butler, who had 
 been a serjeant 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 
 points — she taught him to fear God, to 
 be kind to the poor, and to bear with pa- 
 tience those mortifications which she could 
 not prevent. The parish clerk was employed 
 to teach him to read and write ; and, for- 
 tunately for his little scholar, this man 
 could do both extremely well. William
 
 12 PE>J TAMAU. 
 
 made the task easy by his attention, do- 
 ciUty, and ardent desire of improvement, 
 added to very strong powers of mind. At 
 seven years of age, Mrs. Rachel desired 
 tliat he might be sent to school, as the 
 servants spoiled him, and she could not 
 make him mind what she said. The charge 
 was unjust, for he was gentleness personi- 
 fied J but the real meaning of it was, that 
 she could not succeed in making him mi- 
 serable ; 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 old friend, Mr. Hey wood. 
 The choice was a fortunate one for William, 
 as it placed him in the hands of one of the 
 worthiest of men ; by whose care he be- 
 came, in a few years, an excellent scholar, 
 an accomplished gentleman, and a sincere 
 Christian.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 18 
 
 Under the tuition of this judicious in- 
 structor WilHam continued, until, at an early 
 age, though superior in learning to most of 
 his contemporaries, he was entered at the 
 University of Oxford ; where he spent some 
 years in the studies which his excellent 
 friend had first pointed out to him ; and, 
 at twenty years of age, he was generally 
 allowed to be one of the finest and most 
 promising young men in that seminary of 
 learning. I'he distance from Devonshire 
 furnished his aunt with a pretence for keep- 
 ing him as much as possible from home ; 
 and the long vacations were spent in travel- 
 ling over different parts of England, or in 
 visiting some of the valuable friends whose 
 affections he had gained at school, or at 
 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 summer of the year 1640, Mr. 
 Trelawney at last obtained permission to 
 visit his father, after an absence of nearly 
 three years ; and, in spite of the stupid 
 insensibility which frequent intoxication 
 had produced in his mind, Sir Henry could
 
 14 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 not behold such a son without admh'ation 
 and dehght. The image of his mother 
 in person as well as in mind, beautiful in 
 his form, graceful in his manners, — with 
 the spirit and dignity of a man, William 
 Trelawney had the gentleness and sensi- 
 bility of a woman. When he saw Sir Henry 
 burst into tears, as the first view of his 
 figure recalled the 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 father. He left his beloved books, to 
 follow the hounds ; and, though he detested 
 the bottle, he submitted to witness its odious 
 effects 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 that the wine 
 was placed out of his reach ; and a walk in 
 the fields, with his beloved son, awakened 
 him to long-forgotten happiness. 
 
 There was another point which AVilliam 
 laboured to gain with persevering industry, 
 and in which he was at last successful. On 
 his return to Pen Tamar, he was much hurt 
 at seeing all the ancient hospitality of the
 
 PEN TAMAR. 1,5 
 
 place at an end. No neiglibours or tenants 
 surrounded the cheerful board; no roast 
 beef and pkun-porridge at Christmas warmed 
 and refreshed the poor. Mrs. Rachel, like 
 a harpy, hovered 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 employed in doing good. Even 
 Mrs. Rachel would have experienced 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 hap- 
 piness return in the train of his long-lost 
 virtues, this unfeeling woman saw nothing 
 but waste in his charities, and trouble in 
 his hospitality. But this was not all. She 
 saw, in the increasing influence of his 
 amiable son, the ruin of her own ; and 
 she determined to employ all her arts in
 
 16 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 order to break the lately-renewed friend- 
 ship. Young Trelawney gave her no rea- 
 sonable cause of complaint ; but, being 
 incapable of flattery, and regarding her 
 with the contempt she deserved, he could 
 pay her only the cold civility which he 
 thought due to his father's sister. She per- 
 ceived his dislike, and determined to be 
 revenged ; but no opportunity presented 
 itself during his stay in Devonshire. Sir 
 Henry and his son parted with mutual 
 regret and mutual affection. William went 
 from Pen Tamar to visit his first and best 
 friend, Mr. Heywood, and spent a few 
 weeks at his house, before he returned to 
 the university. But the virtues of this ex- 
 cellent young man could not secure him 
 from the malice of his aunt ; and an oppor- 
 tunity soon presented itself to gratify that 
 malice, at the expense of the happiness of 
 his future life.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 17 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 " But love's true flower, before it springs, 
 Deep in the 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 
 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. 1 need 
 not tell you, my dear Sir, how much, even 
 from childhood, I have loved Matilda Hey- 
 wood. You have often laughed at what 
 you called a boyish passion, and told me 
 
 c
 
 18 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 that the world would cure it ; but the world 
 presents no object so perfect in my eyes, or 
 so dear to my lieart. Every day shows me 
 new perfections in this lovely woman ; and 
 reason has gained strength only to confirm 
 the choice of my heart. Never did I know 
 a mind so formed to be loved, and loved for 
 ever. Never did I know such steady prin- 
 ciples, such noble sentiments, such pure and 
 unaffected piety, adorned with beauty which 
 might make even vice attractive, and man- 
 ners which might make deformity pleasing. 
 
 my dearest father ! I have no mother to 
 plead my cause ; but, by the dear remem- 
 brance of your long-lost angel, on my knees 
 
 1 entreat you, do not oppose my wishes ! 
 Nothing else in this world can ever make 
 me happy. O do not forbid me to love 
 her ! You would perhaps wish for greater 
 advantages of birth and fortune ; but her 
 family is ennobled by sense and virtue, and 
 she has charms which would adorn a throne. 
 I ask for no addition to my allowance. I 
 could live with her in the poorest cottage, 
 and should never wish for more. My dear 
 father, I will not deceive you in any thing ; 
 though my heart is for ever bound, my honour
 
 PEN TAMAR. 19 
 
 is free. My eyes alone have told her that I 
 love. Mr. Hey wood 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 
 consent to any engagement formed without 
 your permission. I have obeyed him : I 
 have torn myself from my beloved Matilda ; 
 and from you I now expect my happiness or 
 misery; but, w^iatever 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 understanding 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. He tried in 
 vain to read the letter, and then gave it to 
 Mrs. Rachel to read aloud to him. This 
 
 c 2
 
 20 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 she did, in tones not exactly suited to the 
 feelings which it was designed to awaken, 
 and with the following comments : — 
 
 " A pretty story, truly ! The heir of the 
 Trelawneys of Pen Tamar to marry a coun- 
 try curate's daugliter, without a shilling ! 
 A dirty, beggarly girl, who never can have 
 had even the breeding of a gentlewoman ! I 
 hope, brother, you mean to cut this matter 
 very short ? " 
 
 " Why, to be sure, it would be a sad thing; 
 but somehow, I say, it would be a pity 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 spoiled from 
 first to last ; and now he is to ruin himself, 
 and disgrace one of the first families in Eng- 
 land, because you have not spirit enough to 
 contradict him.'* 
 
 " Yes, I will, I tell you, — I will contra- 
 dict him ; but what can I do ? " 
 
 " Do! — Why you cannot well write to- 
 night, and the butcher goes at six to-mor- 
 row ; so you had better let me write for 
 you, and I shall do it properly."
 
 PEN TAMAR. 21 
 
 This point being settled with very Uttle 
 difficulty, and Sir Henry completely intoxi- 
 cated and fast asleep, Mrs. Rachel com- 
 posed the following tender epistle ; which 
 was (very properly) consigned to the care 
 of the butcher^ and sent off before the knight 
 was awake in the mornine: : — 
 
 
 Nephew William, 
 You have made your poor father so 
 miserable, that he cannot write to you with 
 his 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 Trelawney." 
 
 Ancient spinsters! when you have read 
 this letter, and considered the feelings with 
 which it was probably read by William Tre- 
 lawney, tliougli 1 do not pretend to excuse 
 
 c 3
 
 22 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 what is always inexcusable, may I 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 : — 
 
 ** Madam, 
 " I 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 I will 
 receive neither commands nor insults from 
 any other. 
 
 " I am, &c. 
 *' William Trelawney.'* 
 
 I need not repeat the comments which 
 were made on this letter. They had their 
 effect on Sir Henry j but he had had some
 
 PEN TAMAR. 23 
 
 hours of sober-waking thought ; and of such 
 comments, 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 I am sorry you 
 give me the painful task of repeating 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 ; 
 and you will, I trust, act as the represent- 
 ative of one of the first families in England, 
 by determining to see her no more. To 
 make this less painful to you, I desire 
 you will immediately go to London, to the 
 house of Mr. Hamilton, who will, according 
 to the plan which I have already proposed 
 to you, attend you to France. I must deny 
 myself the pleasure of seeing you before 
 you go, for I cannot bear to see you un- 
 happy; but in a few years you will think 
 as I do. Go to London, I charge you, im- 
 mediately, and write to me from thence. I 
 
 c 4
 
 :24 .PEN TAMAR. 
 
 hope you will not be long absent ; and may 
 every blessing attend you ! " 
 
 The feelings with which William Tre~ 
 lawney read this letter may be more easily 
 imagined than described. He loved with 
 the tenderest affection : all his hopes of 
 happiness, all his prospects in life, were to 
 be at once relinquished. 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 con- 
 sider 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 had prevailed. But 
 must he not see his Matilda ? must he never 
 see her more? His father's orders on this 
 point were positive ; and a moment's reflec- 
 tion convinced him that he ought to spare 
 her and himself the pain of parting. But 
 he inight write to her. He did so.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 25 
 
 " I must leave you, my Matilda, without 
 one parting look ! My father's commands 
 must be obeyed ; but, wherever I go, your 
 image will be always present. Sweet and 
 ever amiable friend ! will you sometimes 
 tliink of Trelawney, when oceans roll be- 
 tween us ? " 
 
 His trembling hand could scarcely guide 
 tlie pen ; but he had just finished these 
 few lines when Mr. Heywood entered the 
 room. Business 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 feehng 
 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 affliction, by 
 pointing out the possibility that, at a more 
 favourable period, he might still be happy. 
 
 " Though my family may appear con- 
 temptible to your aunt, believe me, my dear 
 Trelawney, it has not been disgraced by vice ; 
 and I hope it will never be dishonoured by
 
 26 PEN TAMAIl. 
 
 a base or an ungenerous action. Dear as you 
 are to my heart, — though I love and esteem 
 you more than any man living, — though, if 
 I were a prince, you are of all men the one 
 with whom I should most wish to entrust 
 the happiness of my only darling, — yet I 
 solemnly declare, that, while Sir Henry lives, 
 she never shall be yours in opposition to his 
 will. I believe you are incapable of asking, 
 or Matilda of consenting to, a union which 
 would bring dishonour on me, and ruin on 
 you. All that remains then, my dearest 
 William, is to go where duty leads. Under 
 these circumstances, you must not see Ma- 
 tilda." 
 
 " I have written to her, my dear Sir. You 
 will not refuse to give her this letter?" 
 
 *' No, certainly : I will deliver it faith- 
 fully ; and I will do all I can to support her 
 under an affliction which I know she will 
 deeply feel. Let me stay with you till you 
 leave Oxford : I am not expected at home. 
 Let me assist in the preparations for your 
 journey, and endeavour to support your 
 spirits. I do not wish to see Matilda, till I 
 can tell her that Sir Henry is obeyed, — 
 that her friend has fulfilled his duty."
 
 PEN TAMAR. ^7 
 
 This evening, and the next, were spent in 
 much interesting conversation. Mr. Hey- 
 wood endeavoured to support the courage, 
 while he soothed the feeUngs, of his friend. 
 WilUam declared his unalterable attach- 
 ment to Matilda, and offered to bind him- 
 self, in any manner which would make 
 such an engagement irrevocable, to offer 
 her his hand whenever it should be at his 
 own disposal, if he could not sooner obtain 
 his father's consent ; but every proposal of 
 this kind was rejected by Mr. Heywood. 
 
 " Never will I consent to any engage- 
 ment which may prevent your feeling your- 
 self at full liberty, if you should change 
 your present opinion. I believe, indeed, it 
 is impossible that you should ever forget 
 Matilda ; yet you may, perhaps, see more 
 weight in your father's objections at some 
 future time than you do now. But, if your 
 heart remain unchanged, you want no oaths 
 to bind you. If it should change, for the 
 wealth of India I would not tie you by 
 an engagement which you might not then 
 wish to fulfil. No, my dear Trelawney, 
 poor as I am in every thing else, I possess 
 in Matilda a treasure, which I would not
 
 28 TEN TAMAR. 
 
 bestow 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 friends, — go, in obedience to 
 your father, and may the blessing of 
 Heaven attend you ! Never lose sight of 
 those principles which have hitherto pre- 
 served you from vice. Steadily pursue the 
 path of virtue. A mind like yours will 
 gain much improvement from travelling ; 
 and Mr. Hamilton will be every thing you 
 can desire as a companion. Write to me 
 often ; and, when you think of Matilda, 
 let it be as a charm against 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 the guide, the example, 
 and perhaps she may be the reward, — of 
 all those virtues by which alone you can 
 deserve her ! "
 
 PEN TAMAR. 29 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 " Still charm'd 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. 
 
 VViLLiAM Trelawney left Oxford and 
 Mr. Hey wood the next 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 
 much 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 which were then written, will allow 
 that a very great change has taken place, 
 since that period, in the ideas generally 
 entertained of filial duty. Whether that
 
 80 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 change be 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. Hey wood 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 Tamarj 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 oblige my readers to make the
 
 PEN TAMAR. 31 ^ 
 
 tour of France and Italy. It is sufficient to 
 say, that Mr. Trelawney derived every pos- 
 sible advantage from those opportunities 
 of improvement 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, were 
 very short and unsatisfactory, and seemed 
 to show a mind much weakened and dis- 
 ordered. With Mr. Hey wood 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 affection 
 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 :
 
 32 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 " Such is the 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 have tlierefore 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 
 misinterpreted, 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 
 extraordinary, though the more distressing. 
 He was with Mr. Hamilton, at Florence,
 
 PEN TAMAR. 33 
 
 when two letters were given to him, with 
 compUments 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. William 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 cannot 
 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." 
 
 D
 
 34< PEN TAMAR. 
 
 *' Good heaven!" cried Trelawney, "what 
 can this mean ?" 
 
 " What can it mean, indeed ! '* said Mr. 
 Hamilton : *' surely she cannot have in- 
 vented this inhuman falsehood only to tor- 
 ment you." 
 
 ** She is capable of any thing ; but O 
 that I were sure it was only invention !" 
 
 *' 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: 
 I 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 yj?u, and though I wished 
 to tell you that I and my Matilda were 
 well, perhaps the less you hear of your 
 poor country the better ; nor should I now 
 disturb the tranquillity which you, I hope, 
 enjoy in a happier land, if your honour
 
 PEN TAMAR. 35 
 
 were not dearer to me than your ease, and 
 if I did not know the anxiety which you 
 must fee] 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 post. The ruin of this dear and once 
 happy country is now, I fear, inevitable. 
 The King 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 King 
 into a civil war ; and the nobility and gentry 
 are almost everv where flocking to his 
 standard. May Heaven support and bless 
 him! — 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 am 
 too well acquainted with your principles, 
 my dear Trelawney, to doubt the part which 
 you would take in such a contest as the 
 
 D 2
 
 36 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 purchased with the blood, not of 
 rebellion, but of martyrdom. In the op- 
 posite party are many who, I believe, wish 
 well to their country ; but I fear they are 
 deceived by others of a very different de- 
 scription. Alas! they know not what they 
 do, when they draw their sword against 
 their king and their fellow-subjects ! They 
 will, perhaps, often wish to sheathe it again ; 
 but ' the beginning of strife is as when one 
 letteth out water' — the dyke is already re- 
 moved, and the torrent threatens to over- 
 whelm us all. You, my dearest William, 
 are young : you are the representative of 
 a noble family, always distinguished for 
 loyalty : this is a time 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 degrading habit, 
 in which he has indulged himself more than
 
 PEN TAMAR. 3? 
 
 ever since you left him, certainly affects his 
 understanding; and he is, I fear, sinking 
 fast into idiotism. Such is the account I 
 have received from a friend, on whose 
 veracity I believe you may depend. It is 
 thought that his sister encourages this fatal 
 propensity, in order to be 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 
 kind heart by mentioning my own situation. 
 The present state of this country is dread- 
 ful ; but I cannot help seeing that it will 
 soon be worse. As a clergyman, I am pre- 
 cluded from taking an active part ; and, as 
 a clergyman, I am marked for persecution. 
 I know what to expect from the tender 
 mercies of these pretended saints ; and I am 
 already informed that none will be suffered 
 to hold a cure of souls without taking the 
 covenant ; which no consideration on earth 
 shall induce me to do. I hope I could bear 
 the miseries of poverty, the horrors of a 
 prison, or even death itself, if called to do 
 so ; but, for the sake of one who is dearer 
 to me than my life, I think I ought to 
 
 D 3
 
 ;^8 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 shun the storm, whilst I can -do it without 
 forfeiting 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 Matilda at the mercy of the 
 brutal soldiery, whose want of order or dis- 
 cipline is such that it matters little whether 
 they are friends or enemies. If I should be 
 thrown into prison, or removed from her by 
 death, I have not one relation in whose 
 hands I could properly place her. I have 
 resigned my curacy, and given up my 
 school ; and, except a few hundred pounds, 
 the whole of my property was lent to a most 
 dear and 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 intercourse 
 may be interrupted ; and he has written to 
 press me, in the kindest manner possible, to 
 put myself and my daughter under his pro- 
 tection, imtil this tyranny be over-past." 
 *' O Hamilton ! this confirms it all."
 
 PEN TAMAll. ' 39 
 
 " I hope not, my dear friend. Let me 
 finish the letter." 
 
 " My dear girl could not, in case of my 
 death, be more properly placed than with 
 this worthy man and his wife.'* 
 
 *' O, why not in these faithful arms ? — 
 I should be her only proper protector. But 
 I left her, — I exposed her to insults, to 
 poverty, to death ! — But let me know the 
 worst." 
 
 " The insults offered to some neighbour- 
 ing clergymen have alarmed my Matilda : 
 she fears for me, as I do for her, and wishes 
 me to accept the safe asylum which friend- 
 ship offers. We have therefore taken our 
 passage in the Elizabeth, of Liverpool, and 
 hope 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 paternal tenderness. O, 
 why are you not indeed my son ? — But ho^ 
 nour and duty forbid it, and 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. 
 
 D 4 
 
 (C
 
 4-0 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 You will be exposed to more danger by 
 land than we must encounter by sea ; 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 
 li-om whence no friend departs ! — Once 
 more, my best of friends, farewell ! " 
 
 " But here are a few lines from Miss 
 Hey wood.** 
 
 *' 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 our house with you. May they 
 attend you, wherever you are ! Farewell ! 
 Be happy ; but do not quite forget your 
 absent friends 1 *'
 
 PEN TAMAR. 4-1 
 
 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 roll'd away ; 
 Or wlien thou most didst hope firm faith to see. 
 Thou meetest fickleness, estranged and cold; 
 Or, if some true and tender heart there be, 
 On which, through every change, thy soul might 
 
 trust, 
 Death comes, with his fell dart, and strikes it to 
 the dust." 
 
 Bowles. 
 
 Trelawney fixed his eyes on the paper, 
 but neither moved nor spoke. Mr. Ha- 
 milton had too much sense and feeUng to 
 tease him by attempting to combat the vio- 
 lence of his emotions, in the first moments 
 of grief; but, when they had been some 
 time silent, he said. — "Perhaps, my dear 
 Trelawney, we could obtain some inform- 
 ation from Mr. Waller : he is an Oxford- 
 shire man, and must have known Mr. 
 Heywood. Shall I go to him?"
 
 42 PEN Tx\MAR. 
 
 " O yes, yes, my kind friend! — I never 
 thought of him." 
 
 *' I would not awaken hopes, which I do 
 not feel ; — but any thing is better than sus- 
 pense ; and you seem to think it jmssible 
 that your aunt may have said it only to 
 distress you." 
 
 ** Any thing is possible to a woman who 
 could 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 escaped by swimming, and 
 got on shore, as did three or four others ; but 
 all the passengers were lost. The 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 from her when she sunk,
 
 PEN 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 j 
 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, — *' O ! 
 my dear Hamilton," said he, " if you could 
 have brought me any comfort I know you 
 would not have stayed so long." 
 
 Hamilton pressed his hand, and could 
 not restrain the 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- 
 claimed, — "Father of mercies ! teach me 
 to submit to thy will, and make me worthy 
 to be eternally united to my Matilda ! " 
 
 Mr. Hamilton omitted nothing which 
 could contribute to support and comfort 
 his unhappy friend, under the most severe 
 affliction which it was possible for him to 
 feel ; and Trelawney did not reject the
 
 44 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 consolations of friendship and of religion. 
 In well-regulated minds, guided by reason, 
 and supported by faith, grief may be 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 tlie 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 1642. 
 Impatient to see his father, he and Mr. Ha- 
 milton procured horses, and immediately 
 rode to Pen Tamar. Many and various were 
 the emotions with which William revisited
 
 ■•* 
 
 PEN TAMAR. 45 
 
 his 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, however, promised Mr. Hamilton that 
 he would keep his temper ; and this was the 
 only occasion 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. 
 
 When 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, caught him in 
 his arms, and, with tears and blessings, 
 bade him welcome to Pen Tamar. The 
 first greetings being over, Mr. Trelawney 
 enquired for his father. 
 
 " Ah, Master William ! you will find a 
 sad change there ; 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 the parlour." 
 
 " Where is my aunt?"
 
 46 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 " 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 
 lament 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, when the person by whom he has been 
 most cruelly injured is called to answer for 
 all offences before a higher tribunal ; and, 
 for the time at least, aversion and resent- 
 ment gave place to pity. 
 
 Silent and pensive he entered the house ; 
 where a much severer shock awaited him, 
 when, disengaging himself from a crowd of
 
 PEN TAMAR. 47 
 
 happy servants, by whom he was almost 
 adored, he entered the apartment of his 
 father. Sir Henry knew liim ; 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 perish ! 
 
 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 committed 
 all his affairs, during the time that he must
 
 48 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 
 opportunity of administering comfort to 
 the poor sufferer ; and with this excellent 
 friend William knew that he might intrust 
 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.
 
 PEN TAMAR. AQ 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 ♦' In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands, 
 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. 
 
 JVxr. Trelawney's attention was now called 
 to more important concerns. He found his 
 country plunged in all the miseries of civil 
 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 the west of 
 England, under leaders whom every man 
 of honour must have been proud to follow ; 
 and Trelawney, with as many of liis ser- 
 vants and tenants as were tit to bear arms, 
 immediately joined the standard of Sir 
 
 E
 
 50 PENT TAMAK. 
 
 Bevil Granville and Sir Halph Hopton. 
 The heroic actions performed by the army 
 under 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 him foremost 
 in every engagement: his 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 
 might be said of him, as of one of his 
 countrymen in our own times, — 
 
 " The proud oppressor felt his sword, 
 The vanquish'd bless'd his shield."* 
 
 The celebrated battle of Lansdown raised 
 the fame of the western army to the highest 
 point ; but it was dearly purchased by the 
 loss of their heroic leader, the brave and 
 accomplished Sir Bevil Granville. Tre- 
 
 * General Simcoe. See Poems by Gentlemen of 
 Devonshire and Cornwall.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 51 
 
 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. 
 
 The courage and virtue of Sir Bevil 
 Granville survived in his friend, Sir Ralph 
 Hopton; with whom Trelawney shared the 
 glories of a campaign which 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 ! " 
 
 In the fatal engagement near Alresford, 
 in which the western army was entirely 
 defeated, a random shot brought Trelawney 
 to the ground ; and he was seized and car- 
 ried a prisoner to London. 
 
 The wound was not dangerous ; but often 
 had the unfortunate captive too much rea- 
 son to wish that it had been so ! They who 
 are not well acquainted with the spirit of 
 those unhappy times can form but a very 
 faint idea of imprisonment, in the hands of 
 the pretended champions of liberty. Tre- 
 
 E 2
 
 52 PEN TAMAH. 
 
 lawney was one of eighty gentlemen who 
 were confined in the liold of a ship, where 
 they could not stand upright, 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, 
 deprived his prisoner, not only of all the 
 pleasures of life, but almost of what was 
 necessary to support 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 appear incredible ; 
 but I beg leave to refer the reader to the 
 works quoted below, if he would wish to 
 form a just idea of the horrors of civil war. t 
 
 * See the Life of Dr. Barwick, p. 125. 
 
 ■\- See Whitelocke's Memorials of the English Affairs, 
 p. 417. Also see the Life of Dr. Barwick; Walker's 
 Sufferings of the Clergy; and the History of the Rebel- 
 lion, by Lord Clarendon. The noble historian mentions 
 particularly a gentleman of the name of Trelawney,
 
 PEN TAMAR. 53 
 
 When he lias considered the facts which 
 are there related, he will, I hope, be dis- 
 posed to attend to the reflections which 
 they excited in the upright mind of the 
 judicious Whitelocke : — 
 
 ** This may be 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 those before mentioned, were 
 unexperienced in these things, and in the 
 consequences of them ; slipped into them by 
 degrees, and before many of us w^ere aware 
 of them ; and being once in, were, by little 
 and little, plunged further in, and knew not 
 how to get out again. But those who have 
 the examples and warnings of the age pre^ 
 ceding, and have in part known, and heard 
 their fathers relate, the deep miseries and 
 calamities of the civil war in their days, 
 and to both parties, will be inexcusable if 
 they ever engage in such affairs ; and may 
 they never see again those sad days which 
 have been in these times ! " 
 
 who was suffered to die in prison for want of food 
 vol. i. p. 349. folio. 
 
 E 3
 
 64 PEN TAjMAR. 
 
 Such were the sentiments of this wise and 
 good man (for such he appears to have 
 been), at the close of a rebelHon of w^hich 
 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 1651. Through the whole of 
 this long period, liberty could oaily be pro- 
 cured on conditions to which Treiawney 
 would never submit. He was often threat- 
 ened with the fate of many of the most 
 exalted characters in the nation, and lived 
 in constant expectation of a public trial and 
 execution. He was prepared to meet the 
 utmost malice of his enemies with the firm- 
 ness of a hero, and the resignation of a 
 Christian. He had fought like Capel and 
 Montrose ; and he M'ould have died like 
 them, had he been called to do so. He 
 had, indeed, little attachment to life, and 
 all his hopes of happiness were fixed on a 
 better world. 
 
 After nearly two years spent in the Tower, 
 Treiawney, at the earnest solicitation of his 
 friends, was removed to a more comfortable 
 apartment, and allowed to receive letters,
 
 PEN TAMAll. 55 
 
 under the inspection of the governor ; and 
 he then learned from his faithful Hamilton, 
 that his fatlier*s sufferings were ended by 
 death. The 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 the 
 latter end of the year 1651, that Trelawney 
 recovered his liberty, without any humili- 
 ating conditions, and returned to take pos- 
 session of the estate of his late father, at 
 Pen Tamar. 
 
 The war was now at an end ; and the 
 power of the Protector appeared to be too 
 firmly established to be shaken. Nothing, 
 therefore, remained to be done by an indi- 
 dual, 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 with which Sir William Trelawney 
 was received by all his friends and depend- 
 ants. His fortune had been less injured 
 than that of most rovalists in the late scene 
 
 E 1.
 
 56 PEN TAMAK. 
 
 of confusion ; and Mr. Hamilton had been 
 a most faithful 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 charity, and a 
 large income was spent in the noblest exer- 
 tions of beneficence. In such employments, 
 joined to the pleasures of friendship, and 
 the delight afibrded by his lately recovered 
 books. Sir William's natural cheerfulness 
 returned ; and he was again, what Providence 
 intended him to be, the delight and admir- 
 ation of all who knew him. In the spring 
 of the year 1652, he married Lady Mary 
 
 D , daughter of the unfortunate Earl 
 
 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 friend. 
 To Lady Mary he had told the secret of his 
 heart ; and she accepted his hand, and con- 
 sented to a union formed by friendship and 
 esteem, though he confessed that he could 
 love but once as he had loved, — nay, as he 
 still loved, Matilda Hey wood. The pa- 
 tience with which Lady Mary had listened 
 to his tale of sorrow, when he led her to a
 
 PEN TAMAR. 57 
 
 favourite grove which was sacred to the 
 memory of his Matilda, liad perhaps con- 
 tributed to fix liis choice more than any 
 other circumstance. Lady Mary Trelawney 
 was pleasing in person and manners, gentle 
 in her disposition, and unexceptionable in 
 lier conduct. Her connections were highly 
 respectable, and the misfortunes of her 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 happi- 
 ness met with no niterruption except from 
 the loss of several children, who were suc- 
 cessively the objects of their hope. It was 
 not until the year I667, that Sir William 
 became the ha})py father of a very fine boy, 
 whom he named Henry, and who lived to 
 be the comfort and support of his dechning 
 years. 
 
 When the death of Cromwell revived the 
 liopesofthe royalists. Sir William Trelawney 
 took an active part in the busy scenes which
 
 58 PEN TAMAU. 
 
 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 : — 
 
 "O! with what 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 she contain herself through excess 
 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 festive 
 night, — for we who saw it and bore a part 
 in that exultation, great as the calamities 
 we had lately been partakers 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; when the most agreeable name 
 of liberty, now for many years obsolete, was 
 every where echoed through the streets ; 
 when, lastly, the obsequies of the late 
 tyranny were celebrated with bonfires, illu- 
 minating all tlie city as with a long-wished- 
 for 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, which was seconded by many volleys 
 of shot. So favourable was the wind, that the 
 wherries went from 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 
 in the world, — to hear the trumpets and all 
 other music, — to see near an hundred brave 
 
 * See the Life of Dr. Barwick, p. 253.
 
 Go FEN TAMAR. 
 
 vessels sail before the wind, with their flags 
 and streamers, — the neatness of the ships, the 
 strength and jolhty 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 suffered not a 
 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 Trelawneyj 
 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 school of 
 adversity ; who, it was hoped, would inherit 
 the piety and virtue of his father, with 
 the advantage of superior abilities and un-
 
 PEN T AMAR. 61 
 
 bounded popularity ; and who professed to 
 be guided by the advice of one of the most 
 virtuous and truly patriotic ministers who 
 had ever been intrusted with tlie reins of 
 government. How soon all these hopes 
 were blasted, it is the business of the histo- 
 rian to relate. I will only say, that Tre- 
 lawney 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- 
 liament, against the tide of vice and cor- 
 ruption, which, beginning from the throne, 
 threatened destruction to the nation, grieved 
 and disappointed at his ill success, he once 
 more retired to Pen Tamar. 
 
 The remainder of his life affords no 
 events until the death of his lady in the 
 year 1679 ; 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 
 release for both ; her sufferings 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
 
 6^ ' PEN TAMAR. 
 
 meeting with Rowley produced the con- 
 versation which I have interrupted to give 
 this account of his Hfe, but which I will 
 now resume.
 
 PEN TAMAR. C)3 
 
 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, 
 If ancestry can be in aught believed, 
 Descending spirits have conversed with man, 
 And told the secrets of the world unknown." 
 
 Tragedy of Douglas. 
 
 *' Pray, 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 a widow, for she seems a very quiet 
 civil lady, — not at all like Madam Rachel." 
 
 " 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 
 Mrs. 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.
 
 ()4 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 if you don't go to her ; so I liope 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 
 house fast enough, if she sends you a beg- 
 ging already." 
 
 *♦ Bless your heart, Sir, no, no ! She did 
 not send me ; but she is very ill, and had a 
 mind for 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." 
 
 '* O surely, with all my 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-stuff, and such 
 like." 
 
 " Indeed ! Then perhaps she would like 
 some strawberries, and there are none ripe 
 yet, except in my garden. My dear Harry, 
 run and tell the gardener to gather all the 
 strawberries that are ripe, and to cut a pretty 
 dish of asparagus j and ask Sally for a couple
 
 PEN TAMAR. 65 
 
 of new-laid eggs, and let them be put into 
 a basket directly for Mr. Rowley." 
 
 <* Ay, that's just like your honour ! Now 
 you know she is sick, you forget Madam 
 Rachel." 
 
 ** No, my dear Rowley ; 1 would do more 
 than this for Madam Rachel herself, if she 
 were alive and wanted my assistance. Com- 
 mon humanity requires it ; and, indeed, I 
 am ashamed of the warmth with which I 
 expressed myself in regard to this poor sick 
 lady ; who may be very different from my 
 aunt, though she is an old maid." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir William, I believe she is 
 very different ; for Mrs. Hannah nurses her 
 night and day, and seems to love her as if 
 she was her mother ; and she cried so this 
 morning, that it went to my heart to see her, 
 and said she should lose the best friend that 
 ever she had in her life. Now, I remember, 
 when Madam Rachel died, Joseph said he 
 would give a ball-, and we should all have 
 squab pies and cider, 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 hoped Madam Rachel was 
 gone to heaven j but all the men laughed, 
 
 F
 
 66 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 agam, and Mrs. Lucas 
 could not stop them." 
 
 " Well, Heaven foi-give her ! — I wish 
 to think of her as little as I can. Pray, 
 Rowley, does this Mrs. Johnson 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 
 power of good. She stayed in a little room 
 at the Chequers, until she took my house ; 
 and I find she works all day for the poor, 
 whilst 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 poor 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 littlg way. Sir ; but she walks with a 
 crutch, for she is sadly lame, and she leans 
 on Mrs. Hannah besides. She is sadly dis- 
 tressed at the distance from church, and
 
 PEN TAMAR. 67 
 
 said it was impossible she could ever get 
 there ; and she was very sorry that Mr. 
 Hamilton was gone to his poor dying sister, 
 and wanted sadly to see him, and said she 
 was sure he would be so good as to read 
 prayers to her at home." 
 
 '* O ! but, Rowley, give my respects, and 
 tell her the coach shall be at her command 
 to-morrow, and every Sunday, if she pleases. 
 Harry and I can walk." 
 
 " Indeed, Sir, I believe this will do her 
 more good than the new-laid egg or the 
 strawberries. So I may give your honour's 
 respects to her ? " 
 
 " Yes, to be sure : I cannot send the 
 coach without a civil message." 
 
 " But you won't let me say that you will 
 call on her ? " 
 
 " No, not I, — I hate old maids. Proba- 
 bly she would not wish it, as she is so ill." 
 
 " Why, Sir, I don't know how it is, but 
 somehow I think she wants to see your 
 honour ; for she asks a power of questions 
 about you." ; 
 
 " Ay, there it is now, — just as I told you, 
 she must know all the gossip of the parish, 
 because she has nothing else to think about," 
 
 F 2
 
 68 PEN 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. 
 Johnson that I beg she will command what- 
 ever my garden affords. Good morning to 
 you, honest Rowley ! I must go home to 
 breakfast." 
 
 " God for ever bless your honour ! " 
 
 Sir William sat down 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 
 and thoughtful. When breakfast was over 
 he took a book ; but his imagination wan- 
 dered to the cottage, and the poor sick lady.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 69 
 
 Why did he speak of her in such harsh terms? 
 It was ilhberal, — it was cruel. She seemed 
 to be reHgious, charitable, gentle ; — she was 
 old, sick, poor. He might, perhaps, procure 
 for her many comforts which her little for- 
 tune would not purchase. It would be kind- 
 to visit her once, at least, and see whether 
 she was as disagreeable as his aunt Rachel. 
 Yet, perhaps, she was too ill to wish it at pre- 
 sent. Suppose he was to send Harry, and 
 offer her the use of his library. She need 
 not see the boy unless she liked it. 
 
 This idea pleased him, and he wrote the 
 following note : — 
 
 " Sir William Trelawney sends the cata- 
 logue of his books, and begs that Mrs. John- 
 son will do him the honour to command any 
 of them that may be agreeable to her." 
 
 This he thought would do; and Harry 
 was despatched with the note and the cata- 
 logue, which he was directed to give to 
 Mrs. Hannali, but not to go in unless he 
 was particularly invited. 
 
 When he was gone, Sir William again 
 tried to read, but it would not do ; and, after 
 
 F 3
 
 70 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 thus 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 mes- 
 senger 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 j — 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. After 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 placed an inscription to the memory of 
 his long-lost love. As he approached to read
 
 PEN TAMAR. 71 
 
 it, he saw written below the lines, *' Matilda 
 lives ! " He started, 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! 
 What cruel hand could thus sport with my 
 distress?" He stood motionless, with his 
 eyes fixed on the paper, when Harry came 
 softly behind him, and touched his arm. Sir 
 William started, with a degree of agitation 
 which 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, and having 
 quieted his fears, endeavoured to turn the 
 discourse, and asked if he had delivered 
 the note. 
 
 " Yes, indeed. 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 
 
 F 4
 
 72 FEN TA3IAK. 
 
 saw me, she threw her arms about my neck, 
 and cried so as I never saw any body cry 
 before ; and she tried to speak again and 
 again, but she could not get out a word ; 
 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 ; 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 : — 
 
 '* If 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
 
 PEN TAMAK. 7^ 
 
 u little strength ; and I wished to prepare 
 you for the change which a dreadful acci- 
 dent, added to time, sickness, and sorrow, 
 has made in my appearance ; but the cer- 
 tainty that you have not forgotten me, and 
 your message this morning, have overset all 
 my resolutions. Best of men, and dearest 
 of friends, come to your r,jH\ 
 
 " Matilda Heywooo." 
 
 At the sight of his son and his servant. 
 Sir William started as from a dream. The 
 gardener offered him some water, which he 
 hastily swallowed, then falling on his knees, 
 cried out in a transport of gratitude and joy, 
 " Gracious God ! accept my thanks." The 
 astonished servant attempted to make some 
 enquiries ; but Sir William knew not what 
 he said, and breaking from him in an instant, 
 flew to the cottage, burst open the door, and 
 threw himself at the feet of his long-lost friend. 
 
 And now, whilst I leave Trelawney and 
 Matilda to the peaceful enjoyment of friend- 
 ship, which forty years of absence had not 
 had power to destroy, — I proceed to answer 
 some questions which I imagine my readers 
 may wish to ask, and to relate the particu- 
 lars of her life duiing their separation.
 
 74 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 " No jealousy their dawn of 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. 
 
 Though it suited Mrs. Rachel Trelawney'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 1601, 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. 7^ 
 
 tues, he owed them to her instructions and 
 example. Her income not being equal to 
 the expense of his education, his uncle 
 agreed to advance the small sum which was 
 necessary for his support at Winchester 
 school ; from whence he was removed to 
 New College, where he obtained a fellow- 
 ship, and determined to take orders. To this 
 profession he w^as led by inclination, and he 
 was peculiarly qualified for it by his talents 
 and disposition. He passed through his 
 academical studies w^ith universal approba- 
 tion and esteem, and was considered as one 
 of the most learned men at Oxford, at a 
 time 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 1621, 
 Mr. Hey wood, having taken priest's orders, 
 accepted a curacy about ten miles from 
 Oxford ; which, with his fellowship, would 
 have been sufficient for his support j but he 
 had lost the latter by marrying a very beau- 
 tiful and amiable woman, whom he tenderly 
 loved, who brought him much happiness, 
 but no fortune. Being thus reduced to
 
 76 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 the moderate stipend of a curacy, Mr. Hey- 
 wood determined to employ his talents in 
 the instruction of a few pupils ; and he suc- 
 ceeded so well in this important task, that 
 lie soon found himself at the head of a laro;e 
 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 j 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. Hey wood 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 unenlightened 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 commonly called 
 accomplishments 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, witli 
 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 
 mind to virtue, and to build virtue on its only 
 sure 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 revelation 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 simplicity which 
 leads us to submit our reason to the revealed 
 will of God, as well as our inclinations to 
 his commands. He did not wish merely to 
 load the memory with unexplained forms, 
 but he wished to connect Christian prin- 
 ciples with every pursuit and every enjoy-
 
 78 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 ment of life. The fear and love of God, the 
 contmual 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 protection, 
 promised through the merits of our Saviour, 
 — and the glorious hopes which animate all 
 our exertions, and support us under all our 
 sorrows, — 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 
 affliction, 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 as 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 5 and
 
 PEN TAMAR. 79 
 
 until vice and profligacy, after the Restor- 
 ation, charging ReHgion herself with the 
 crimes committed under her name, threw 
 off all restraint, and plunged into infidelity. 
 Before the fatal civil war, Christianity was 
 universally respected. It was not concealed 
 in the closet, but professed in the writings, 
 and adorned by the virtues, of men and 
 women of the highest rank : the young and 
 lovely Lady Jane Grey, the lion-hearted 
 Elizabeth, the gallant Sydney, the learned 
 Bacon, — all were proud to own that they 
 were Christians. Though of various charac- 
 ters, and various professions, yet all agreed 
 in doing homage to religion. In those days, 
 the patriot, the statesman, the soldier, all 
 learned their different duties in the Gospel. 
 They had burst the bonds of popery ; and 
 seeking for the truth as it is in Jesus, they 
 found, in the grand scheme of revelation, 
 the firm foundation of public and private 
 virtue. The Church of England, purified 
 in the flames of persecution, and washed in 
 the blood of martyrs, presented to the world 
 the nearest resemblance to primitive Christ- 
 ianity that the Reformation had produced. 
 O! may she still guard her sacred doctrines
 
 80 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 from all innovation, and, presei*ving tlie 
 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 affectionate 
 heart of Matilda, that, from infancy, she 
 never had an idea of disputing her mothei'^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, wliich 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 themselves. No deviation from rec- 
 titude, no 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 
 all, more pleasing to God, — this was the
 
 PEN TAMAR. ^' 
 
 prize always set before her, the object of 
 all her hopes and wishes ; and by these 
 methods she was led into such a habit of 
 self-government, and such constant self-exa- 
 mination, as proved the guard of her virtue 
 thi'ough life. When, after a little review 
 of the past day, which they made together 
 every evening, her fond mother pressed her 
 to her heart, and told her that she had not 
 observed any thing in her conduct that she 
 could wish otherwise, — Matilda felt herself 
 more richly rewarded than by any gratifi- 
 cation which could be given her. When, 
 on the contrary, her mother, without anger, 
 but with the tenderest concern, pointed out 
 some little fault, or called to her recollection 
 some duty omitted, and urged the necessity 
 of asking pardon of God before she slept, — 
 the little penitent would do this with such 
 feelings of genuine piety and self-abasement 
 as never lost their influence at any period of 
 her future life. When she was deprived of 
 her tender monitress, still the habit of self- 
 correction remained ; and the effect of this 
 constant watchfulness was visible in every 
 part of her conduct. 
 
 G
 
 82 PEN TABIAR. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 " What pure and white-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 the happy 
 effects of the tender and unwearied atten- 
 tion which she had bestowed on the edu- 
 cation of her only child. Lovely in mind 
 as in person, Matilda was the delight of all 
 who knew her ; but, though formed to com- 
 mand 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 opportunity of knowing that 
 her acquirements were superior to those of 
 other young women ; and taught to com- 
 pare her conduct only with the strictest 
 rules of Gospel perfection, she felt that 
 humble sense of imperfection wliich every
 
 TEN TAMAR. 83 
 
 one will feel who really looks into his own 
 heart. Vanity always proceeds from igno- 
 rance a,nd inattention to the real state of 
 the soul ; but humility, the result of con- 
 stant attention and impartial self-examin- 
 ation, 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 learning. Mrs. Hey wood often 
 thought with much anxiety of her beauty ; 
 which was so striking, that she felt many 
 fears as to the effect it might have on her 
 future destiny. She never attempted to 
 conceal from Matilda what she must hear 
 from every body else. She could not help 
 
 * Mr. Burke. 
 G 2
 
 84 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 knowing that she was singularly handsome ; 
 but Mrs. Heywood endeavoured to prevent 
 her from setting any improper value on this 
 circumstance, 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 was given ; but 
 she never spoke more. The tenderness 
 with which 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
 
 PEN TAMAR. 85 
 
 ever ; but the sight of her father's distress 
 sliowed her what duty required, and that 
 duty she determined to fulfil. From that 
 time she was his only comfort : all the 
 powers of her 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 every thing. 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 Matilda 
 Heywood ; but one part of her early history 
 remains to be mentioned. 
 
 The friendship between Matilda and 
 Trelawney began so early, that they coidd 
 scarcely remember a period when it did 
 not constitute their chief happiness. Some 
 obligations, which Mrs. Heywood had re- 
 ceived early in life from tlic late Lady Tre- 
 lawney, made her feel particularly interested 
 
 G 3
 
 8(3 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 ; and no sister 
 ever loved a brother with more tenderness. 
 They knew each other by no names but 
 William and Matilda : every thought, every 
 wish was mutually imparted : he assisted in 
 her studies ; — he shared in her pleasures. 
 When she was sent on her favourite errands 
 to the poor cottagers, William was her guard: 
 when she took a walk with Mrs. Hey wood, 
 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 never were 
 so 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 Fifth. No hours
 
 PEN TAMAR. 87 
 
 were so delightful to either, as those which 
 were thus spent : they shared with each 
 other all 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 was seventeen ; and his 
 removal to Oxford was, to both the young 
 friends, the severest misfortune they had 
 ever felt. During his absence, they cor- 
 responded with the same unreserved con- 
 fidence. William frequently visited the 
 parsonage : Matilda still 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 character, 
 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 
 
 G 4
 
 88 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 then lost her beloved mother ; and lier 
 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 opportunity to de- 
 clare himself a lover, before she could 
 know that his choice was sanctioned by the 
 approbation of his father. Trelawney felt 
 the propriety of her conduct ; and that 
 regard to duty which always regulated his 
 own, determined him to be silent till he 
 should have obtained his father's permis- 
 sion to speak. For this he had intended 
 to wait two years longer, and to fulfil Sir 
 Henry's wish by spending that time on the 
 Continent ; but love prevailed over every 
 other consideration, and he wrote the letter, 
 and received the answer, wliich have been 
 already mentioned. 
 
 Mr. Heywood saw the growing attach- 
 ment between William and Matilda, and he 
 saw it with pleasure, because he loved and
 
 PEN TAMAR. 89 
 
 esteemed Trelawney more than any man 
 living ; and he did not foresee tlie difficul- 
 ties which afterwards prevented their union. 
 He had known Sir Henry Trelawney from 
 his childhood ; and he 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 
 his son happy. He saw the ardour of Wil- 
 liam's attachment ; and he felt no doubt that 
 the easiness of Sir Henry's temper would 
 yield to his wishes, even if he should 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, and avoid any explanation with 
 Matilda, until he should have obtained his 
 father's permission to offer her his hand. 
 
 Unfortunately, neither Mr. Hey wood nor 
 his young friend knew how much Sir 
 Henry's mind was weakened, nor how en- 
 tirely he had SLibmitted to be governed by
 
 90 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 left England, 
 with an unalterable resolution to preserve 
 for Matilda a heart which was all her own.
 
 PEN TAMAIl. 91 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 " Ah ! why should virtue dread the frowns of fate? 
 Hers what no wealth can win, no power create, — 
 A little world of clear and cloudless day, 
 Nor wreck'd by storms, nor moulder'd by decay.'' 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 When Mr. Heywood returned to the 
 parsonage, after Trelawney had left Ox- 
 ford, he was received by Matilda with a 
 countenance in which the penetrating eye 
 miffht discover various emotions ; but one 
 look at her father banished hope and joy, 
 and, with trembling anxiety, she asked what 
 had distressed him ? He paused for a mo- 
 ment. '' My dearest father, are you well ?" 
 — " Perfectly well, my love." With a falter- 
 ing voice, she asked if he had seen Tre- 
 lawney? — *' I have." — They were both 
 silent for a moment, but a look from Ma- 
 tilda, more eloquent than words, demanded 
 an explanation. 
 
 " My child, I have endeavoured to teach
 
 92 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 you such principles as ought to be your 
 support under every trial : I must now put 
 them to the proof. I am not to learn that 
 you love Trelawney, and he deserves your 
 love ; but duty requires that you should 
 part." 
 
 Matilda, pale as ashes, sat with her eyes 
 fixed on the ground. 
 
 " At the command of liis father, he has 
 left Oxford, and will soon leave England." 
 
 She started. " Must I, then, see him no 
 more?" 
 
 " No, my child, you must not see him 
 until his father sliall have learned the value 
 of the treasure which lie rejects, or until 
 William shall have a right to follow the 
 dictates of his heart. He is gone, my Ma- 
 tilda, to the Continent ; but he has left this 
 letter for you." 
 
 While she read it her father walked to 
 the window, and left 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
 
 PEN TAMAR. 9-3 
 
 show the self-command whicli she always 
 endeavoured to teach. Trelawney 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 I did not expect. Though his father 
 treats us with contempt, he shall see that we 
 do not deserve it. I believe Trelawney is 
 incapable 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 never wish me to 
 give to another a heart which is and must 
 be his alone." 
 
 ** No, my beloved child : while his sen- 
 timents 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 Trelawney, — we shall feel an 
 honest pride in having acted as duty re- 
 quired; and we will hope that, at some 
 future period, inclination and duty may be 
 no longer at variance."
 
 94 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 the village of Southwick, where her 
 father was curate. With them, and parti- 
 cularly wdth Miss Wilkinson, whose kind- 
 ness on the death of Mrs. He^^vood had 
 made a deep impression on her feeling heart, 
 Matilda spent many interesting hours ; and 
 the first year of Trelawney*s absence passed
 
 PEN TAMAR. 95 
 
 in the tranquil enjoyments which the country 
 affords, with the addition of pleasing society 
 and a choice collection of books. The 
 small distance from Oxford afforded oppor- 
 tunities, of which some of Mr. Heywood's 
 former scholars, and other young men of 
 their acquaintance, willingly availed them- 
 selves, to see the ** eighth wonder of the 
 world;" — which was the name that one 
 of them had given to Matilda. Her ad- 
 mirers were numerous, but their hopes were 
 immediately checked. Averse from co- 
 quetry, and incapable of disguise, Matilda 
 rejected every proposal without hesitation ; 
 and Mr. Heywood adhered to his promise, 
 though tempted to break it by offers which 
 would have gratified the highest expect- 
 ations that avarice and ambition could have 
 formed; and, after several unsuccessful 
 attacks, the fair recluse was given up as 
 unconquerable. 
 
 The war, which broke out in the year 
 1642, put an end to all hope of domestic 
 happiness. Mr. Heywood saw the danger 
 which threatened him and every clergyman 
 who was resolved to reject the Covenant ; 
 and the reasons which he detailed in his
 
 9() PEN TAMAR. 
 
 letter to Trelawney determined him to 
 seek an asylum with liis friend, Mr. Arnold, 
 in America. He consigned that letter to 
 the care of Mr. Waller, who proposed to 
 leave England in about two months after 
 Mr. Heywood was to sail, and who he knew 
 would deliver it safe to Trelawney ; and he 
 did not wish it to be delivered sooner, as he 
 feared that his young friend might sacrifice 
 all other considerations, and immediately 
 return to take on himself the charge of 
 protecting his Matilda. 
 
 Mr. Heywood and his daughter took a 
 mournful leave of their worthy friends at 
 the manor-house, and sailed from Liver- 
 pool in a merchant-ship bound for New 
 England. It was a trying moment to Mr. 
 Heywood; but he found in Matilda the 
 courage of a hero, with all the softness of a 
 woman. She supported his drooping spirits, 
 lessened all his difficulties, and thought of 
 every thing that could add to his comfort. 
 She smiled through her tears, and tried to 
 awaken hopes which she did not herself 
 feel. 
 
 During some days the weather was re- 
 markably fine ; and the poor exiles, in some
 
 PEN TAMAR. 97 
 
 degree reconciled to their situation, began 
 to feel the cheerfuhiess which the sea ah', 
 and the beauty of the surrounding scenery, 
 seldom fail to inspire, before it is succeeded 
 by weariness and disgust, when nothing is 
 to be seen but the boundless ocean, and 
 when the inconveniences which attend that 
 mode of conveyance grow every day more 
 insupportable. They had lost sight of the 
 English coast, when the weather suddenly 
 changed, and a dreadful storm drove the 
 vessel near the Scilly Islands. During forty- 
 eight hours their situation was very danger- 
 ous ; and Mr. Hey wood and Matilda, 
 shocked with the oaths and execrations of 
 those who had no hope left but in the 
 mercy of that God whom they thus dared 
 to insult, remained in the cabin, and en- 
 deavoured to prepare for the event which 
 they had every reason to expect. Then, 
 indeed, Mr. Heywood saw the effect of 
 those principles which he had inculcated. 
 Then he saw how much the fortitude which 
 religion inspires is superior to that mecha- 
 nical courage which is only the effect of 
 habit. The sailors expected their fate in 
 agonies of horror ; while the young and 
 
 H
 
 98 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 lovely Matilda, firm and undaunted, was 
 calm, resigned, and tranquil. Many a ten- 
 der thought dwelt on the grief of her Tre- 
 lawney, and the silent tear stole from her 
 eyes; but Christianity taught her to see the 
 hand of Providence in all events, and re- 
 signation and hope were still triumphant. 
 
 After a long interval of suspense and 
 silence, they felt a severe shock, and heard 
 an exclamation of horror. They ran up 
 to the deck, and saw despair on every coun- 
 tenance. The ship had struck upon a rock, 
 and 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. Heywood 
 and Matilda were hurried into it, with 
 their servants, and most of the crew; though 
 some, who were expert swimmers, and who 
 thought it impossible that the boat could 
 weather the storm, preferred the chance 
 of climbing the rocks, and escaping to the 
 island; and in this attempt three or four 
 succeeded. Tlie boat was still too full ; 
 but the sight of the ship, which approached 
 very fast, excited tl; :;ailors to fresh exer- 
 tions. They rowed for a considerable time,
 
 PEN TAMAR. 99 
 
 and were now very near the object of all 
 their hopes, when a wave dashed over the 
 boat. A second wave rose higher than the 
 first. Mr. Heywood 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 fi'om France to Canada ; 
 and a humane wish to relieve the distressed 
 had induced some of the crew to venture 
 in a boat to their assistance ; but thev had 
 the mortification of seeing those whom they 
 had hoped to save perish 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 remark- 
 ably skilful swimmer, instantly plunged into 
 the waves, in the 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 c.id lifeless, without 
 anxiously wishing that his exertions might 
 
 H 2
 
 100 PEN fAMAR. 
 
 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 had not ceased to 
 breathe ; but it was long before she opened 
 her eyes, or gave any other sign of life ; 
 and, when she was able to speak, they had 
 the mortification to find 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 the hands of those to whose hu- 
 manity distress was a sufficient recommend- 
 ation.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 101 
 
 CHAR XI. 
 
 " Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconciled, 
 Misfortune's Hghten'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. 
 
 Xhe gentleman to whom Matilda owed 
 her life 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 
 Coligny, 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. 
 Bartholomew, he was observed to take pos- 
 session of the title and estate with a degree 
 
 H 3
 
 102 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 of insensibility which shocked even the most 
 bigotted Papists. The younger brother, 
 whose disposition and principles were totally 
 different, having 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 in Florida, under the 
 auspices of the late Admiral, and in which 
 many Protestants had found 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 
 1562, John Riband to make a settlement in 
 Florida. The Spaniards had abandoned 
 that country, because it produced no gold. 
 The French found there treasures which 
 were far more precious, — a serene sky, a 
 fertile soil, a temperate climate, and inhabit- 
 ants who were friends to peace and hospi- 
 tality. The new settlers found every thing 
 succeed beyond their hopes, until the ambi- 
 tion and jealousy of the Spaniards led them to 
 attack the infant settlement, and to murder 
 most of the inhabitants, with every circum-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 103 
 
 stance of savage cruelty. Some of those 
 who had escaped the massacre were hung 
 up 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 up some of their prisoners 
 with these words : — ** Not as Spaniards, 
 but as assassins," * 
 
 But the neighbourhood of the Spaniards 
 making Florida an unsafe situation, the 
 colony removed to a very distant part of the 
 country ; and being afterwards joined by 
 many new settlers, of whom the Chevalier 
 de Clairville was one, they established them- 
 selves in Canada, and, in the year I6O8, laid 
 the foundation of Quebec. In this country 
 Clairville continued to reside ; and when, 
 by persevering industry, he had gained all 
 that his moderate wishes required, in his 
 fiftieth year he married the daughter of a 
 neighbouring planter, with whom ; in an in- 
 
 * For the historical part of the chapter, see Abbe 
 Raynal. 
 
 H 4
 
 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 hapjjy, the Che- 
 valiQr 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 
 cousin who was the last of a numerous family, 
 opened to him very different prospects from 
 those which the w^oods of Canada afforded. 
 He wrote to inform his father of these 
 events, and invited him to return and take 
 possession of the title and estates of his an- 
 cestors; but, after a long interval of silence, 
 he I'eceived a letter from his mother, to in- 
 form him that 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, but 
 requested him to return to Canada, with his 
 sister, and to remain there for some months 
 at least : during which time they might 
 dispose of their property, so as to secure the 
 happiness of their numerous dependents ; 
 and she would then consent to quit her 
 native woods for ever, and to accompany 
 her children to France. 
 
 In obedience to the commands of a parent 
 whom he tenderly loved, the Comte de 
 Clairville purchased a vessel to convey him- 
 self and his sister to Canada, in which they 
 sailed from Cherbourg ; but contrary winds 
 drove them out of their course, and brought 
 them in sight of the wreck of the Elizabeth ; 
 whose most precious treasure the young 
 Frenchman had the happiness to rescue 
 from the waves. 
 
 The Comte de Clairville was in the bloom 
 of youth : he was nobly born, possessed of 
 a large fortune, pleasing in person and man- 
 ners, and considered by all who knew him 
 as one of the finest young men in France. 
 He was full of the fire and animation, the 
 generous enthusiasm, and romantic bravery, 
 for which his countrymen were in those days
 
 106 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 eminently distinguished ; and he deserved 
 the title which had been given to Bayard, 
 " Le chevalier sans peur, 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 j)reserved 
 her life, except the interest which her beauty 
 awakened in those who were as yet unac- 
 quainted with her merit. 
 
 The voyage was tedious, and attended 
 with many dangers, to w^hich 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 Henriette de Clairville with- 
 out complaint or murmur. Once she seemed 
 to have recollection enough to perceive the 
 kindness with which she was 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, 
 ** O that she could know what I feel for 
 her!" Matilda, who spoke that language 
 as perfectly as her own, cried out, " Are 
 you my guardian angel ? " Clairville, who 
 was sitting by the side of her cot, but 
 concealed by the curtains, surprised and 
 delighted at hearing her speak his own lan- 
 guage, suddenly darted forward. She caught 
 an imperfect view of his figure, and, always 
 impressed with one idea, she eagerly cried 
 out in English, *' O, William ! is it you ? " 
 The language of tenderness is always intel- 
 ligible, and Clairville ventured to come 
 nearer; when, with a loud scream, and a 
 look of aversion and terror, she instantly 
 sunk back, and spoke no more. This dis- 
 appointment seemed to have made a deep 
 impression on her mind : she conthiued in 
 a state of stupid insensibility, seldom spoke, 
 and could hardly be persuaded to swallow 
 food or medicine ; but the only moment in 
 which she was herself had made Henriette 
 more than ever solicitous to restore her,
 
 108 PEN TAMAR* 
 
 and her attention and tenderness were un- 
 wearied. 
 
 After many weeks, and when they were 
 arrived near the mouth of the river St. 
 Lawrence, Matikla, for the first time, had 
 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 de Clairville 
 took her hand, and asked if she would 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 me, 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 ; and you must wait till he gives him to 
 you again." There never was a moment of 
 her life in which Matilda 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 Divine decrees, her lovely patient 
 always listened with attention : her reason 
 gained strength, though very slowly ; but 
 the return of reason brought with it the 
 dreadful recollection of all that she had lost. 
 Mademoiselle de Clairville answered her 
 anxious enquiries with tenderness and cau- 
 tion, but with strict truth ; and the poor 
 sufferer was at last aw^akened to all tlie hor- 
 rors of her situation. 
 
 She found herself torn from all that had 
 been dear to her on earth, deprived of the 
 best of parents, banished from England, 
 without fortune, without friends : she was 
 thrown 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 telling 
 her only friend that she was still in exist- 
 ence, no opportunity of knowing whether 
 he lived, — and lived for her ! 
 
 The deep and settled melancholy which' 
 these reflections produced was still inter- 
 rupted by occasional fits of horror, approach-
 
 110 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 ing to madness, and particularly when she 
 saw the sea ; 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.
 
 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 riyers roll !" 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 A LATE elegant writer * has made the sub- 
 lime scenery of Canada so familiar, even to 
 those whose reading extends no further than 
 novels, that I will not attempt any descrip- 
 tion of the country into which Matilda was 
 now unexpectedly thrown. But I must 
 observe, 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 rivers, whose immense torrents 
 swelled the bed of the ocean. In this un- 
 
 * See Emily Montague.
 
 11^ PEN TAMAR. 
 
 touched region of the world, all was grand 
 and subUme. The richness, the magnifi- 
 cence, the majesty of the scene, left every 
 w^ork of art so far behind, that the awe- 
 struck mind, feehng 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 
 persecution 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 
 industry secured them from want, and the 
 necessity of mutual assistance united them 
 to each other. During a great part of the 
 year, they were cut off from the possibility 
 of intercourse with Europe, by the ice, 
 which prevented navigation ; and, at the 
 remote 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 bestow^ed by
 
 PEN TAMAR. 113 
 
 government, were forgotten. The great 
 Henry had fallen by the hand of an assas- 
 sin ; and Richelieu, who never listened to 
 the voice of humanity, 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 ; and at the time when 
 the young Comte de Clairville arrived, the 
 plantation had attained to such a degree 
 of perfection, that, to those who had no ar- 
 tificial wants, it appeared a little parachse. 
 The late Monsieur de Clairville's residence 
 was far superior to any in the settlement : 
 it was surrounded by a pretty garden, which 
 produced much both for ornament and use. 
 He had procured from France many articles 
 w^iich contribute to domestic happiness ; 
 and, amongst the rest, a well-chosen collec- 
 tion 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 sj)ot Matilda was weL 
 
 I
 
 114 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 corned by Madame de Clairville, with that 
 genume poUteness which springs from be-^. 
 nevolence ; and of which only the unfor- 
 tunate know the worth ; and here, in the 
 society of friends who were every day more 
 dear to her, she passed the remainder of the 
 year 1642. The cHmate seemed particu- 
 larly to agree with her j 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 tlie feeling heart has so much plea- 
 sure in bestowing. She was conscious of 
 obligations which could never be repaid ; 
 but she had none of the pride which arro- 
 gates to itself the name of sensibility. She 
 believed 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 ; and the ardent wish 
 of contributing to their happiness made her 
 exert all her powers of pleasing, and per- 
 haps did more than reason could have done
 
 PEN TAMAR. 115 
 
 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 I'igorous climate, — many employ- 
 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 sur- 
 rounding scenes furnished the noblest sub- 
 jects. Henriette found her generous friend- 
 ship amply repaid, and considered the hour 
 in which she first saw Matilda as tlie most 
 fortunate 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 ^
 
 116 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 have no wish but to alleviate those sufferings, 
 which he respected too much to mention his 
 own ; but he loved, 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 Ma- 
 tilda Hey wood in the most fashionable cir- 
 cles of Paris, he could not have hesitated 
 to pronounce her the most beautiful woman 
 that he had ever beheld : it is, therefore, 
 easy to imagine the impression which such 
 charms must make on his heart in the soli- 
 tudes of Canada, and when habits of inti- 
 macy gave him continual opportunies of 
 knowing that her mind was far more lovely 
 than her form 5 yet he was so guarded in 
 his behaviour, that Matilda, who was not 
 apt to suppose that every man she met was 
 to be in love with her, saw in him only the 
 humane protector of a helpless stranger, 
 and felt and expressed the gratitude and 
 esteem to which he had so just a claim. 
 
 Month after month passed on, without the 
 possibility of any intercourse with Europe ; 
 and to Matilda each day appeared an age ; 
 but, at last, she heard her friends mention 
 the approach of that season, when the break-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 117 
 
 ing Up of the ice, at the mouth of the river 
 St. Lawrence, opens the communication with 
 the rest of the workl ; and she ventured to 
 ask the Comte if he knew of any ship which 
 was saihng to France or England. Clair- 
 ville, trembUng with anxiety, said, *' Do you 
 then wish to leave us ?" Matilda could not 
 help seeing the agitation with which this 
 question was asked ; but she endeavoured to 
 conceal the distress which it gave her. She 
 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 happiness 
 on earth, if I must part from you." 
 
 Matilda, much distressed, drew back her 
 hand, and, entreating him to rise, said, " You 
 have now made it impossible for me to stay." 
 
 *' Is it, then, impossible that I can ever 
 obtain your good opinion ?" 
 
 " O no ! my esteem, — my friendship, — my 
 unbounded gratitude, — are yours for ever. 
 But you deserve what I have not to give, — 
 
 I 3
 
 118 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 my 
 life." 
 
 She disengaged herself from him, and 
 hastily leaving the room, she was met by 
 Henriette, who observed her emotion, and 
 enquired the cause. To her Matilda con- 
 fessed her unalterable attachment to Tre- 
 lawney, and entreated her assistance to pre- 
 vent the repetition of a scene which had 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
 
 PEN TAMAR. 119 
 
 pointed out the impropriety of her remaining 
 in her present situation, that Henriette at 
 last promised to prevail with Clair ville 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 approached, and, entreating 
 her pardon for the pain which he had given 
 her, said, that he did not now come to talk 
 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 to return to England ?" Matilda could 
 scarcely restrain her tears, while she tried 
 to thank him. She told him tliat it was 
 
 ' I 4
 
 120 PEN TAMAR.. 
 
 her wish to go, according to the plan pro- 
 posed by her father, to his friend Mr. Arnold, 
 in New England, who was in possession of 
 her fortune ; and with whom she could have 
 a safe asylum, until the accounts w^hich she 
 hoped to receive from England might per- 
 haps induce her to return to her native 
 country. 
 
 Her voice faltered when 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 w^as 
 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 in which they 
 were to sail, early in the autumn, for 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 offer w^as most gratefully accepted ; 
 though not without more concern at the 
 long delay than she chose to express. Claii'-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 121 
 
 ville, always generous and humane, antici- 
 pated her wishes, by saying, that though 
 there was no road by which she coukl pos- 
 sibly pass the woods, the savage inhabitants 
 of the country did it occasionally ; and that, 
 if she wished to w^ite to her friends at 
 Boston, he would endeavour to find a way 
 by which she might send a letter, and re- 
 <jeive an answer before the time appointed 
 for her voyage. This was joyful news to 
 Matilda ; who wrote to Mrs. Arnold an 
 account of her fathei-'s death, and of her 
 own miraculous escape ; and mentioned 
 her wish of still putting herself under her 
 protection, if it would be convenient to her 
 and Mr. Arnold to receive her. She re- 
 quested a small sum of money to pay — what 
 money could pay — of her immense debt to 
 the Clairville family ; of whom she had been 
 obliged to borrow what was necessary in 
 order to supply herself with clothes. But 
 the last, and to her the most important, re- 
 quest was, that Mrs. Arnold would tell her 
 what accounts had been received from Enff- 
 land since she left it, which was almost a 
 year. 
 
 Clairville kept his promise j and some
 
 V22 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 Matilda had requested her to send. 
 
 The letter expressed the liveliest joy at 
 her safety ; of which no hope had 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. Arnold 
 earnestly requested Matilda to come to her, 
 and promised all that friendship could do 
 to lessen her affliction, and promote her 
 future happiness. She mentioned some par- 
 ticulars with regard to her little fortune, 
 which showed how honourably Mr. Arnold 
 had discharged his trust; and she entreated 
 her to think of no other home, whilst Eng- 
 land continued in the dreadful state which 
 her last letters described. She then gave 
 a melancholy picture of the horrors occa- 
 sioned by the civil war. She mentioned 
 the death of the Earl of Lindsay, and many 
 otliers distinguished by their rank, and by 
 their virtues ; and added, " If the royal
 
 PEN TAMAR. 123 
 
 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- 
 formed wonders." Matilda knew that in 
 that army her Trelawney was probably serv- 
 ing ; and, whilst she rejoiced at his triumphs, 
 she 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 terror to Matilda, that Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairville dreaded its effect on her 
 spirits ; but she exerted all her fortitude, 
 that she might not distress Henriette and 
 her brother; and, without any particular 
 cause of alarm, she was safely landed in 
 New England. With many tears, which 
 spt)ke the language of a truly grateful 
 heart, Matilda left her friends ; with a 
 promise of unalterable attachment, and as 
 frequent correspondence as circumstances 
 would permit. 
 
 Clairville had avoided her society as much 
 as possi])le, since he knew of her attachment
 
 124 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 to his rival ; though he always showed the 
 same concern for her happiness, the same 
 desire to oblige and serve her. When he 
 was to take the last 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.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 125 
 
 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 part, deem'd evil, — is no more ! " 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 JVIatilda was received by Mr. and Mrs. 
 Arnold with warm and sincere affection ; 
 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 friendsliip and society, much
 
 126 , PEN TAMAR. 
 
 comfort during many tedious years of 
 exile. 
 
 Thougli an intercourse was now open 
 with England, it was neither regular nor 
 frequent; but Matilda availed herself of 
 the first opportunity that offered to write to 
 her friend, Miss Wilkinson. To her she 
 told her tale of sorrows ; 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 
 Trelawney 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 Wilkinson 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 TAMAR. 127 
 
 It was filled with the tenderest expressions 
 of friendship, and the liveliest joy at her 
 unhoped-for safety ; but it strongly painted 
 the wretched state of England ; and it 
 mentioned the death of Sir Bevil Granville, 
 the destruction of the brave Cornish army, 
 and the uncertain fate of her Trelawney. 
 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 
 Alresford ; and I can learn nothing more. 
 Had he been executed, thus sharing the fate 
 of many of the bravest officers, it must have 
 been publicly 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 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 you any on which I can place the smallest 
 dependence." 
 
 During several years which followed, 
 before Trelawney was released from his 
 confinement, Matilda 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 King into the power of his enemies, — 
 his 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 
 Wilkinson, in every letter, advised her to 
 remain in America, and mentioned many 
 alarming circumstances which had attended 
 her own situation ; but, in the year 1650, 
 she informed 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 interval, Matilda had the 
 satisfaction of hearing repeatedly from 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 she asked many 
 questions as to Matilda's future prospects, 
 and the time of her return to England. 
 Matilda told her all, but took care to dis- 
 courage any hope which might be formed 
 from her uncertain situation, and professed 
 her friendship for 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 all 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 very different kind. Your Tre- 
 
 K
 
 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 intrusted me ; and I 
 do this with the 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 ; but, while I had too mucli 
 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 which my 
 tortured heart can never cease to feel. I am 
 not to learn that every hope is lost ; but 
 let me entreat you, dear Madam, to tell me 
 all the dreadful particulars with which I 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 in seeing you, in talking of my only 
 love to the friend of her heart, and in re- 
 visiting the place where I once was happy ! 
 If 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 mean time, tell me, I entreat you, 
 all you have heard of that tale of horror. 
 This wretched world was not worthy of 
 her : 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, w^iere we might talk of 
 you, and unite our lamentations. After 
 the battle of Lansdown, Mr. Trelawney was 
 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 knight- 
 hood, with the thanks and applause 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 2
 
 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 duty as a 
 soldier, — and, perhaps, it might be the in- 
 tention of Providence that he might 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 j and that 
 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 immediate return ? The deaths 
 of his father and aunt have left Sir William
 
 PEN TAMAK. 133 
 
 Trelawney at full liberty to follow the dic- 
 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 reward the constancy of the best 
 of men. If you wish to see me before you 
 make yourself known to Trelawney, come 
 to your constant friend. Mr. Saville will 
 be delighted to receive you, and to execute 
 any commands with which you will intrust 
 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 Sir William has given that 
 living. From him you may obtain every 
 information you can desire ; and I am per- 
 suaded that he will confirm all I have told 
 you of your faithful 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 protect you from 
 every danger, and bring you in safety to 
 " Your ever faithful 
 
 *' Mary Savili.e." 
 
 K 3
 
 134 PEN TAMAU. 
 
 Many were the tears which Matilda 
 shed over this letter ; but they were tears 
 of gratitude and joy. Having offered an 
 humble 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 w;is always accustomed to put to her 
 heart was, not what is pleasant, but what is 
 right ; and, afraid of being warped by in- 
 clination, she seriously considered the argu- 
 ments of her 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 ship which was to sail, she 
 could not write to Sir William, or release 
 her friend from her promise ; but she de- 
 termined to proceed with the caution whicli 
 the delicacy of her situation required. It
 
 PEN TAMAR. - 135 
 
 was her intention, on her arrival in her na- 
 tive country, 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 de- 
 licious solitude, before reason pointed out 
 the difficulties which were still to be con- 
 quered, and told her that she was far from 
 England, — that she must .cross that dreadful 
 element which liad been so fatal to her 
 peace, — and that many weeks must pro- 
 bably pass before it would be possible for 
 her to obtain any conveyance to Europe. 
 It was a tedious interval; but at length 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 settlements. 
 
 With sincere regret she left Mr. and 
 
 K 4
 
 130 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 her security for the 
 remainder 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 with no particular 
 cause of alarm ; and after many sad recol- 
 lections 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.
 
 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 comitry, — 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.
 
 138 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 town of Plymouth, with' a more distant view 
 of the Dock Yard, the village of Stoke, and 
 the 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 Pen Tamar. 
 A thousand hopes, a thousand fears, crowded 
 on her imaerination. She stole one look at 
 a little picture which always hung round her 
 neck, and thought the countenance wore 
 more than common 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. 139 
 
 appoint, — after offering up the feelings of a 
 grateful 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 oif. Madam : he said he was 
 going to spend two or three days with the 
 Curate of Stonehouse, which is not ahove 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 chuse to say more, or to let 
 him see her handwriting ; wishing to avoid 
 the possibility of discovery, until she should 
 learn from him whether the news of her ar- 
 rival would still be welcome to Trelawney,
 
 140 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 and until 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. Heywood : 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 Tre- 
 lawney. To him, therefore, she resolved to 
 open her own, and to be guided in her future 
 conduct by his advice. She waited with a 
 beating heart the return of her messenger ; 
 but hope predominated in her bosom. The 
 constant heart of her Trelawney could never 
 cease to love. She 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 unwilling to receive a few
 
 PEN TAMAR. 141 
 
 worthless counters from the friend to whom 
 we are willing to owe all the happiness of our 
 lives ; and to whom we delight to pay that 
 debt with love, esteem, and gratitude mi- 
 bounded ? 
 
 Whilst 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. Scarcely 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
 
 142 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 happiness. She had seen him : she knew 
 that he was well, — that he was almost within 
 call, — that she could see him again in a 
 moment. No doubt, no fear, disturbed 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, whether the carriage which 
 was just gone by did not belong to some of 
 the Trelawney family. 
 
 " Yes, sure. Madam, — to Sir William 
 Trelawney, 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 fortunate that the waiter was no
 
 PEN TAMAR. 143 
 
 physiognomist, and knew not the pain he was 
 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 ; and though the first 
 bloom of youth w^as gone, its loss was fully 
 compensated by the dignity and elegance, 
 the spirit and animation, of a mind which 
 knows its own powers, and illuminates every 
 varying expression of the countenance. The 
 joy which Mr. Hamilton expressed at see- 
 ing her thus miraculously 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
 
 144 PEN TAMAH. 
 
 with which he offered his best services in 
 future, — awakened in the gentle heart 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 happened to her since she left Eng- 
 land, and of the circumstances which had 
 induced her to return, without informing 
 any of her friends, except Mrs. Saville, that 
 she still lived. 
 
 The pleasure with which Mr. Hamilton 
 listened to her story could not conceal very 
 different feelings ; and at last he exclaimed, 
 " O, would to Heaven this could have been 
 known only six months sooner ! " 
 
 " I understand you, my excellent friend ; 
 and had / known a little sooner what I have 
 now accidentally learned, I would have 
 spared you and myself the pain of meeting, 
 only to part again for ever ; but, since we 
 have met, I will conceal nothing from you. 
 I came here with the hope of seeing Sir 
 William Trelawney, and I intended to ask 
 your assistance to acquaint him with my 
 return to England ; but what I have just 
 heard leaves me only one request to make.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 145 
 
 which is, that you will give me your most 
 solemn promise, that nothing shall ever in- 
 duce you to tell him that Matilda Hey wood 
 exists, until you shall receive my permission 
 to do so. I shall leave Plymouth in a few 
 hours, and go to reside in a very distant 
 part of the kingdom ; and I most earnestly 
 entreat that no human being may know 
 from you that I am still alive." 
 
 " You will go, then, without seeing Sir 
 William ? " 
 
 " For the world I would not see him now, 
 I might perhaps disturb the happiness which 
 I would sacrifice my life to promote ! " 
 
 Her voice faltered; and, in spite of all her 
 resolution, she burst into tears. 
 
 " O, could he have had but the most dis- 
 tant hope that you still lived ! — But it is too 
 late to think of that. You are too generous to 
 blame him, or those friends who pressed him 
 to marry; of whom I confess that I was one." 
 
 " Blame him, Mr. Hamilton ! Heaven 
 forbid that I should be capable of such 
 injustice ! O no ! — May the happy object of 
 his choice prove far more worthy of it than 
 I am ; and may she love him, — as I shall 
 do for ever ! "
 
 146 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 " I will confess to you, Madam, that I do 
 not wish you to see him now : I wish 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 from the only subject 
 which could then occupy them. He an- 
 swered all her anxious enquiries, and told 
 her every circumstance in relation to Sir 
 William which she could wish to know j 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 qualities 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 promote the happi- 
 ness of all around him. The remainder of 
 the day was spent in a conversation highly 
 interesting to both ; and when Mr. Hamil- 
 ton rose to take his leave, after solemnly 
 repeating his promise of inviolable secrecy, 
 he requested her permission to write to her 
 sometimes, as he must ever feel most affec- 
 tionately interested in her happiness. This
 
 PEN TAMAR. 147 
 
 proposal was gratefully accepted, and Ma- 
 tilda did not disguise the satisfaction she 
 should feel in thus hearing of Sir William ; 
 but she told Mr. Hamilton, that she thought 
 concealment now so necessary, that, to pre- 
 vent the possibility of a discovery by the 
 direction on his letters to her, it was her in- 
 tention to assume another name. She was 
 going into Yorksliire, 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- 
 piness, and earnest entreaties that she would 
 command his services whenever they could 
 be useful, he took his leave, promising to 
 see her in the morning. He did so, and 
 found her calm and serene, though deeply 
 afflicted. He assisted in arranging her jour- 
 ney; and having obtained a promise of hear- 
 ing from her as soon as possible after her 
 arrival in Yorkshire, he conducted her to 
 the carriage, and, with prayers and blessings, 
 committed her to the care of Providence. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 " Oh ! who can tell the triumphs of a mind 
 By truth illumined and by taste refined!" 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 JMany and great were the sorrows which, 
 at different periods of life, Matilda Heyw ood 
 was called upon to encounter ; but never was 
 her firmness 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 happiness which 
 her 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 friendship 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. 149 
 
 happiness. But what did it now present to 
 her ? Deprived of" the best of parents, and 
 of ahnost every friend, and obhged 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 happy 
 wife presided ; and, if a thought of his Ma- 
 tilda ever disturbed his peace, he must now 
 tvish to drive it from his mind ! 
 
 During a long and very difficult journey, 
 she had 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 prospect of her future life 
 with the firmness and resignation of a Chris- 
 tian ; but that time came at last, and she 
 resumed all the dignity of her exalted cha- 
 racter. The virtue of Matilda Heywood 
 was not merely the result of natural good 
 
 L 3
 
 150 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 dispositions, of tranquil nerves, an even 
 temper, or freedom from any strong emo- 
 tions. 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 aright. She 
 saw the hand of Providence in every event ; 
 and she relinquished the hope which she 
 had so 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 different 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 self-reproach. No 
 guilt, no imprudence of her own, had dashed 
 from her lips the untasted cup 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 j but
 
 PEN TAMAR. 151 
 
 was it therefore impossible 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. If 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 that he 
 would never leave nor forsake her ; and, 
 though her path was strewed with thorns, 
 yet faith, and hope, and humble resignation 
 would teach her patiently to pursue it, until, 
 through the gate of death, it should lead to 
 everlasting bliss 1 
 
 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 j)leasure, and 
 
 L 4
 
 152 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 ^tention in his power, to 
 prove that her merits were not unknown to 
 him. A few hnes from Plymouth had led 
 her friends to expect her, and prepared them 
 for her intended change of name. They 
 were already acquainted with the circum- 
 stance which made it necessary; though their 
 distance from Plymouth had prevented their 
 hearing of Sir 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 
 Ti'elawney 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 subjectmight be mentioned no more. 
 She wished and endeavoured to turn her 
 thoughts to other things ; and, if she could 
 
 •■f
 
 PEN TAMAR. 153 
 
 not succeed in this, she had sufficient reso- 
 lution to conceal her feelings. She was 
 again the pleasing companion, the tender 
 and affectionate friend, -fcke guardian of the 
 poor, the delight and admiration of all. If 
 a few tears often fell on the picture of Tre- 
 lawney, 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- 
 prised 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 house was not 
 large, but neat and convenient. It was 
 situated at the entrance of a village, in 
 which all the cottagers were his tenants. 
 Early in life he had travelled into most 
 parts of Europe : he had seen and read 
 much J and an excellent understanding 
 
 * Hay ley.
 
 15 i PEN TAMAR. 
 
 had received every advantage that 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 ex- 
 ertion, lie 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 pro- 
 posals, 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 gratified, and 
 he had become the happy father of a very 
 fine boy ; who was the darling of both his 
 parents. Having had the misfortune to lose 
 several children during his former marriage, 
 and being now far advanced in life, he con- 
 sidered the birth of this child as the happiest 
 event that could befall him ; and the joy 
 which it occasioned in the village was still 
 visible when our fair traveller first appeared 
 there. She could always command her own 
 feelings, and almost ibrget her own sorrows, 
 to rejoice in the prosperity of her friends ; 
 and tlie pleasure with which she witnessed 
 Mrs. Saville's happiness would sometimes
 
 PEN TAMAR. 155 
 
 suspend for a moment the sad recollection 
 of her own very different situation. 
 
 After a few weeks spent under Mr. Sa- 
 ville's hospitable roof, 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 adopting 
 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 PENT TAMAR. 
 
 mind, and teaching her whatever might be 
 of use in her humble station. In Mr. Sa- 
 ville's house, where she was always a wel- 
 come 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 
 occasionally wrote to him, and had the sa- 
 tisfaction of receivino" some information on 
 the subject which was always nearest tc her
 
 PEN TAMAR. 157 
 
 heart. From him she knew that Sir WilUam 
 Trelawney was united to an amiable woman, 
 and that his hfe was devoted to the exercise 
 of every virtue. Every remarkable 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.
 
 158 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 " Yet at the darken'd eye, the wither'd face, 
 Or hoary hair, I never will repine : 
 But spare, O Time ! whate'er of mental grace, 
 Of candour, love, or sympathy divine, 
 Whate'er of fancy's ray, or friendship's flame, is mine !" 
 
 Beattie. 
 
 JMatilda wrote to Henriette de Clairville 
 soon after her arrival at Longford ; and the 
 style of her letter, with the account of her 
 having fixed on a residence there, would 
 have been sufficient to convince her friend 
 that the hope which led her to England had 
 ended in disappointment, even if she had 
 not accidentally learned that Sir Wilham 
 Trelawney was united to another. The 
 Comte was still attentive to all her concerns, 
 and the news of this event liad revived all 
 his hopes. He had resisted the solicitations 
 of his friends, and was still unmarried ; and, 
 in the midst of all the pleasures which wait on 
 rank and fortune, in the most brilliant court
 
 FEN TAMAR. , 159 
 
 of Europe, he had never forgotten Matilda 
 Hey wood. Too deUcate to disturb the first 
 emotions of sorrow, he suffered a few months 
 to elapse before he attempted to renew his 
 addresses ; but, in the beginning of the 
 year 1653, Matilda 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 tenderly interested in 
 your happiness ; for it appears to be written 
 under the influence of melancholy, of which 
 I easily guess the cause. Yet think me not 
 selfish or unfeeling, if, whilst I from my heart 
 lament that you cannot be happy in the way 
 you wished, I venture to appeal from dis- 
 appointed love to the cool decision of your 
 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, dur- 
 ing many years of absence, the sincerity of
 
 160 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 his attachment has been proved by his de- 
 termined resolution not to marry till you 
 should be the wife of another. He, surely, 
 is not unworthy of your esteem ; and his 
 faithful love gives him some claim on the 
 gratitude of such a heart as my friend pos- 
 sesses. Allow me, however, to reason on 
 this subject with a view to your own situa- 
 tion only, and without thinking of his ; for, 
 dear as he is to me, I would not purchase 
 his happiness 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 life ; — many are the 
 slights which a friendless unprotected fe- 
 male must experience, when youth and 
 beauty are gone. Why will you encounter 
 these difficulties ? Why will you brave the 
 evils of poverty, and drag through life a
 
 TEN TAMAR. l(il 
 
 useless existence, when a man, to whom 
 your liappiness is far dearer than his own, 
 offers you all tlie 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: his 
 watchful tenderness would guard you from 
 every danger. He does not expect the de- 
 voted attachment which you felt for his 
 envied rival: give him your friendship, — 
 regard him with the esteem which he de- 
 serves, — only allow him to make you happy, 
 and he will be so in doing it. Do not, I en- 
 treat you, return a hasty answer to this letter. 
 Consider every circumstance of his situation 
 and your own. Think of all the sorrows, the 
 slights, the neglect, which attend a single life. 
 Your spirits, already depressed, will perhaps 
 be unequal to trials which are not the less 
 formidable for being unnoticed by the world. 
 When that beauty, which now commands 
 universal admiration, shall yield to time ; 
 when a narrow fortune shall prevent your 
 seeking the pleasures of society, — will you 
 not then wish for a sympathising friend, 
 whose rank and fortune would place you 
 
 M
 
 16^ PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 
 sliall have passed away? What extensive 
 good might be done with a large fortune, 
 when placed under your direction! How 
 many might you then 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, in order once more to lay 
 his heart and his fortune at your feet ; but 
 I have ventured, without his knowledge, to 
 take tliis method of learning your sentiments 
 in regard to him ; for, if you are resolved 
 to reject his suit, I earnestly wish to prevent 
 his ever seeing you more. But, my dearest 
 friend, let me flatter 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 that of friend. 
 
 " Henriette de Clairville.'*
 
 PEN TAMAR. lG3 
 
 To this letter Matilda returned the fol- 
 lowing answer : — 
 
 " Could you, dear Henriette, read the 
 heart of your friend, and know the feelings 
 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 think 1 
 should not hesitate to offer it. Even this 
 obligation is the smallest part of what I owe 
 to you and to my noble-minded — my amiable 
 protector. No day of that life which you 
 saved can, I hope and believe, ever close 
 without my entreating that Great Being, who 
 takes on himself the debts of the unfor- 
 tunate, to reward and bless you ! Dear and 
 ever-valued friend, can you forgive me, if, 
 while thus acknowledging all I owe, I at 
 the same time implore you never more to 
 mention a request which you tell me is im- 
 portant to your happiness? — though Heaven 
 only knows how dear your happiness is to 
 me. Hear me, I entreat you, with your 
 
 M S
 
 164 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 usual candour : attend to a faithful account 
 of the state of my mind,^ — forgive and pity 
 me ! BeUeve me when I assure you that I 
 am not insensible to the merits of your ex- 
 cellent brother. I think him one of the 
 best and noblest of men ; and I consider 
 my having ever given him so much pain 
 as one of the greatest misfortunes of my 
 life ; but, my Henriette, as I am situated, 
 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 
 principles condemn ? Shall I kneel at the 
 sacred altar to vow love to one man while 
 my heart is devoted to another ? Never ! — 
 never ! O, my friend ! let me entreat you 
 to convince your brother that this reso-
 
 PEN TAMAR. . l65 
 
 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 poverty ; but no consi- 
 derations of this nature can move me. I 
 have seen enough of the world to have lost 
 the romantic expectationsof 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 ; and 
 though that path be strewed with thorns, it 
 is — it must be short. But I still hope to 
 enjoy many blessings in my pilgrimage 
 through 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 little mind which can be 
 hurt at the impertinence of fools, or feel it- 
 self degraded by the ridicule of those whose 
 esteem would scarcely appear worth its ac- 
 
 M 3
 
 160 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 slie 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 TAMAR. iG? 
 
 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 that 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 my 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 busi^J 
 ness here is to form our minds in the 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 I make a vow which I feel that I can- 
 not perform. I do not mean that I could 
 not perform the duties of a wife. Esteem 
 and gratitude, as well as principle, would 
 secure my condiict. Believe me, my Hen- 
 riette, your brother's happiness is one of tlie 
 
 M 4
 
 168 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 first wishes of my heart, though it has lost 
 its own. Do not hate the unfortunate dis- 
 turber of his peace. O ! do not let me lose 
 your friendship, 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 Hen- 
 riette to her ever affectionate 
 
 " Matilda Heywood." 
 
 As a faithful historian of the life of 
 Matilda, it is my duty to give this letter 
 as she wrote it; though 1 fear that her con- 
 duct in this instance will not meet with ge- 
 neral approbation. On this subject I will 
 only say, that the letter had the efi'ect which 
 the 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. l69 
 
 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.
 
 170 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 " True dignity is his, whose tranquil mind 
 
 Virtue has raised above the things below ; 
 Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd, 
 Shrinks not, tho' Fortune aim her deadliest 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 his peaceful home, 
 and his beloved wife and child, though with 
 the hope and expectation of returning in a 
 few weeks. 
 
 At the close of a fine day in November, 
 after Mrs. Saville had seen her lovely boy 
 safely placed in his little bed, she agreed to 
 spend the evening with Matilda. While 
 the child was awake, he engaged much of
 
 PEN TAMAR. 17 1 
 
 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 his lovely child, that Mr. Saville 
 often 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 j 
 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 tranquillity of the scene was inter- 
 rupted by very unusual noises in the village. 
 They heard some hasty footsteps before the 
 house, and presently distinguished the cry 
 of fire. They started from their seats, and 
 were running to the door, when they were
 
 17^ PF.N TAMAR. 
 
 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 ter- 
 rified 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 the flames through a 
 window on the second floor, but it was not 
 the room in which the child slept. Five or 
 six persons were before the door ; and 
 Robert the gardener was hastily bringing a 
 ladder. " Where is the child?" cried Ma- 
 tilda ; " has nobody saved him ?" Robert 
 told her the stairs were on fire ; 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." — " Then go up the lad- 
 der, and wait a moment." Matilda flew like
 
 PEN TAMAR. 173 
 
 lightning to the house, and up the stairs. 
 Every voice cried out, '* Stop — stop : you 
 must be killed!" She found the house full 
 of smoke, and the upper part of the stair- 
 case dreadfully illuminated by the flames 
 which burst out under the roof; 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 
 Robert 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 was 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 sparks and burning straws fell 
 from the roof, and in a moment she felt 
 that she was on fire. She ran down to 
 the top of the 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 mto 
 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 
 described, to her own house, and put into 
 bed, whilst an express was sent for a surgeon ; 
 but two hours 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 her neck were in a state 
 which left 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 com- 
 pound fracture, and found it so much swollen 
 that it could not be set. He proposed am- 
 putation ; but Mrs. Saville, who had little 
 confidence in his judgment, insisted on
 
 PEN TAMAll. 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 fi-om the 
 fracture were much more lasting. During 
 many years, she was constantly attended 
 by a surgeon, and underwent several pain- 
 ful operations to extract 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,
 
 IjC) PEN TAMAR. 
 
 whicli 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 dropped 
 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 roof. She might then have 
 saved the child, but she thought only of 
 herself; 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 give all the assist- 
 ance in his power : he 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 mother, 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 ; as well as the plate, and papers 
 of value. Every thing of that kind being in 
 a store-room on the ground-floor, the loss of 
 property 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, Jbut 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. 
 
 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 dur- 
 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 possible, 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 j 
 but the only man whom I wished to please 
 is for ever lost to me." — After some years, 
 she was able occasionally to accompany Mr. 
 and Mrs. Saville in their winter excursions to
 
 PEN TAMAR. 179 
 
 York; and the charms of her mind still made 
 her the delight of every society, though 
 those of her person were gone. She could, 
 however, enjoy conversation only m her own 
 house, or in a very confined circle of friends: 
 the state of her health making it impossible 
 for her to bear any considerable 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 iia 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 ; and during twenty-seven years spent 
 at Longford, her life was marked only by 
 benevolent actions. Whenever the state of 
 her health made it possible, she still con- 
 tinued to rise early, and the morning was 
 devoted to the poor. By her directions, the 
 widow with whom she lodged 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 TAMAK. 
 
 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, b}'^ judicious 
 questions, taught them to reflect on what 
 they read. A little amusing story often 
 conveyed a most important moral ; and 
 trifling rewards, bestowed witli impartiality, 
 contributed to fix attention, and stimulate 
 industry. On Sunday tlie little flock at- 
 tended her to the church j which was so 
 near to her lodging, that she could walk 
 there with the assistance of her maid ; and 
 she invited some of the good old people to 
 her house in tlie evening, and read the 
 Bible to those who could not have the com- 
 fort of reading it to themselves. She ex- 
 plained what seemed difficult, 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 effect of her precepts on their 
 minds. She was the confidant of all their sor-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 181 
 
 rows, — she settled all their disputes, — she 
 assisted in regLdati)ig tlieir domestic con- 
 cerns, : — she nursed them when tliey were 
 sick, — and she taught them to apply for 
 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 
 lier young friends grow up to maturity, and 
 witnessed the good effects of the pains she 
 had taken in their eaily education. Wil- 
 liam was always most gratefully attached to 
 her ; and after the death of his worthy 
 father, which happened in the year I674, 
 she, as well as his own family, found in him 
 the kindest of friends. 
 
 One more affliction still remained to com- 
 plete tlie 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 led her to ex- 
 
 N O
 
 182 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 pect that she should not be the survivor. 
 After the death of this dear and ever la- 
 mented friend, Matilda still continued the 
 same course of life, the same exertions of 
 active benevolence ; but the hopes, which 
 religion taught her to fix on a better world, 
 were now 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. She rejected no innocent 
 pleasure which was still within her reach. 
 She wished to promote the happiness of 
 others, though her own was lost ; and in 
 the midst o^' 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 whom she still
 
 PEN TAMAR. 183 
 
 occasionally corresponded, an account of 
 the 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 which led to that discovery 
 have been already related j and all the sor- 
 rows which had filled her eventful life were 
 forgotten, when Matilda saw herself once 
 more happy in the esteem and friendship of 
 William Trelawney. 
 
 N 4
 
 184 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 " No more her eyes their wonted radiance cast. 
 No more her cheek the Paestan rose surpass'd ; 
 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, that 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 ; but the ravages 
 of time are not perceptible from day to 
 day ; and if love survives, it gradually 
 changes with its object; and though less 
 violent, it is not less sincere. This will be 
 attended with no pain or disappointment, if 
 passion only gives place to esteem, and the 
 charms of the mind improve, while those 
 of the person decay. This, it must be con- 
 fessed, is not always the case. The pas-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 185 
 
 sionate admirer has too often adorned the 
 object of his choice with imaginary virtues, 
 which fade much sooner than her beauty j 
 for, though Cupid is bhnd, Hymen is an 
 excellent oculist ; but no man could see 
 such a change as was suddenly presented to 
 the eyes of Sir William Trelawney, without 
 very painful emotions. He had left Matilda 
 Heywood lovely beyond description, for 
 nature never formed more perfect beauty ; 
 and her light and elegant form, her lovely 
 complexion, the sparkling lustre of her fine 
 blue eyes, the angelic smile which played on 
 her rosy lip, the flowing ringlets of auburn 
 hair w^hich hung on her snowy neck, — all 
 were still as fresh in his recollection as im- 
 mediately after the separation. He now saw 
 a feeble and emaciated old woman, still ele- 
 gant and graceful, but unable to rise from 
 her chair wdthout 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. 
 
 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 forty 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 very 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 fine understanding had, 
 under the direction of her excellent father, 
 been cultivated with the greatest care ; but, 
 when she was separated from Sir William, 
 she had never been thirty miles from home ; 
 and the attention to family cares, which a 
 narrow fortune required, had not left much 
 time for reading, before she was twenty years
 
 PEN TAMAR. 187 
 
 of age. Notv he found a mind adorned with 
 every elegant accompHshment, as well as 
 enriched with every virtue. Mrs. Heywood 
 had seen and read much, and she had re- 
 flected more. In her society Sir William 
 found an inexhaustible fund of instruction 
 and delight. The purest taste, the noblest 
 sentiments, were expressed in the most ele- 
 gant language, in the most harmonious tone 
 of voice, in a manner so irresistibly fascinat- 
 ing, 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 unaffected 
 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 happiness as in her society. 
 Lady Mary was good and gentle, but a 
 very uninteresting companion : her educa-
 
 188 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 tion, according to the fashion of the times, 
 had not been very extensive, and her read- 
 ing went no further tlian Baker's Chronicle, 
 and a few books of devotion. She wished 
 Sir WiUiam to read to her during the win- 
 ter evenings, because it gave him pleasure, 
 and because it saved her tlie trouble of 
 talking, and left her more at liberty to 
 attend to her cross-stitch. He sometimes 
 looked up, after reading one of the linest 
 passages in Macbeth or Othello, to witness 
 its effect on his fair companion, and found 
 her, in undistuibed tranquillity, counting 
 the rows, witli a laudable wisli to avoid any 
 mistake in the half-finished peacock. But 
 his most admired 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. 
 Witiiout superstition, witliout enthusiasm, 
 severe to lierself 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 WilUam'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 wlio composed it. To young Harry, 
 whom s]ie 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 watclied the progress of the 
 cherries and the apricots, not for his own 
 sake, but for hers. If she wislied to Avalk, 
 Harry's arm was always ready to suj^port 
 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
 
 190 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 Mrs. Heywood from the house to the grove 
 before he went to school ; 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 Rowley'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 was 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 calcu- 
 lation. 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 
 oiorious reward in a better world, with 
 such irresistible eloquence, — tliat the poor
 
 PEN TAMAR. 191 
 
 sufferers looked up to her as to a guardian 
 angel, sent from heaven to comfort them. 
 The peasants of Devonshne 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 affairs, or 
 offer any thing they have to give, with a 
 sort of friendly confidence which is very 
 engaging ; — 
 
 " For never any thing can be amiss, 
 When simpleness and duty tender it." 
 
 Shakspeareu 
 
 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 
 deserving wife, and the happy father of a 
 large and fine family. They were frequent 
 guests at Pen Tamar, and most useful assist-
 
 192 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 ants to Mrs. Heywood in all her schemes of 
 charity. Mrs. Hamilton was well acquaint- 
 ed with the wants of every inhabitant of the 
 village; — Mrs. Heywood 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 such enjoyments, passed 
 the summer of the year 1680. Never had 
 Sir William Trelawney known such happi- 
 ness; 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.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 193 
 
 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 ! 
 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 
 eturn 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 ; and 
 Mrs. Heywood contrived to make the idea 
 of going on crutclies to be married so com- 
 pletely ridiculous, and to describe the 
 emotions which it would awaken in the 
 
 o 
 
 r
 
 194< PEN TAMAR. 
 
 spectators with so much humour, that Sir 
 WilUam was obhged to join in the laugh, 
 and the proposal was never repeated. 
 
 " No, my dear Sir AVilliam," continued 
 Mrs. Heywood, " let me hear no more of 
 matrimony ; for I am determined to con- 
 quer your unreasonable prejudice against 
 old maids ; and I cannot consent to relin- 
 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 sorrow she has occa- 
 sioned to us both, — that she has robbed 
 me of forty years of happiness with you ! " 
 
 " Forty years of happiness ! 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, 
 p-^hough your aunt had never existed. But 
 ' whatever reason you might have to dis- 
 like her, 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-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 19^ 
 
 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 marrying, 
 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 with 
 which such women often struggle. Accus- 
 tomed perhaps to ease and affluence, a 
 young woman is often left, at the death of 
 her father, to support the inconveniences 
 
 o 2
 
 196 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 attending a very narrow fortune. Though 
 brought up in every indulgence which 
 wealth affords, she 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 be the case, the trial is 
 perhaps still greater. Many wom^n 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. Many a modest unpretend- 
 ing being, too gentle for this rough world, 
 is neglected and forgotten, though entitled 
 to the highest esteem. Such women do 
 not deserve contempt ; and they ought not 
 to experience it from a generous mind." 
 
 " Do you really think there are many 
 such ?" 
 
 " I do indeed ; and many of a much su- 
 perior class, who, far from being useless.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 197 
 
 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. I could bring examples of 
 single women, equal in talents and in virtues 
 to any of my married acquaintances, and 
 who deserve and possess, in the highest 
 degree, the respect and esteem of all who 
 know them. But indeed. Sir William, 
 women are often much to be pitied." 
 
 " When they resemble you they are to be 
 almost adored ; and no man living 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 very prejudice, 
 which I wish to remove from your mind, 
 destroys the happiness of thousands. Taught 
 from infancy to consider marriage as the 
 first of blessings, and the single life as a 
 misfortune and a disgrace, a husband is the 
 object of all their wishes, from the cradle 
 
 o 3
 
 198 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 to the grave. If the child is attentive to 
 her book, * 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 fifty who may 
 happen to ask her, and thus to avoid the 
 disgrace of spinsterhood. If that wish be 
 disappointed, she perhaps sinks into a sour, 
 discontented, disagreeable 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 unfeeling, selfish character would make 
 her equally odious as a wife or a mother, 
 I must repeat it, my dear Sir William, the 
 fault is in our education. Providence has 
 given to most women talents, which ought
 
 PEN TAMAR. 199 
 
 to be cultivated, and which would make 
 them amiable in society, or happy in soli- 
 tude ; but, if they are from infancy taught 
 to think that their sole business in life is 
 to be married, they 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 must make 
 the amende honorable for past offences, by 
 founding a nunnery, and making you lady 
 abbess." 
 
 I shall be happy if my heroine should sue* 
 ceed as well with the generality of readers, 
 and lead them, like Sir William, to renounce 
 a very illiberal prejudice, which has been 
 attended with consequences that every friend 
 
 o 4
 
 200 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 to the female sex must regret. Had Mrs. 
 Heywood 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 
 mai/ be an honour and a blessing to the 
 world, — and that when they are really 
 contemptible and ridiculous, it is gene- 
 rally owing to defective education, and to 
 the want of proper ideas of the true dignity 
 and great importance of the female cha- 
 racter. 
 
 As the part which women are intended 
 to act in life is different from 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 
 general more formed for the labours of the 
 politician, 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 brilhant exceptions, they 
 must yield the palm of literary fame to the 
 other sex, there are triumphs of much higher
 
 PEN TAMAR. 201 
 
 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 charms 
 in private life, and is necessary to the hap- 
 piness 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. More. 
 
 From her the indigent expect relief; — to 
 her the afflicted apply for consolation. If, 
 as I readily allow, the delicacy of their 
 organs makes females in general unfit for 
 the deep study, as well as the active exertion, 
 necessary to form the statesman, the philo- 
 sopher, or the hero, — it is because they are 
 not designed to act in these characters. 
 But, on the other hand, if the superior deli- 
 cacy of those organs gives them quickness 
 of apprehension, refinement of taste, pene- 
 tration into character, compassion for the
 
 202 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 unfortunate, — - if, when they are what they 
 ought to be, they have more feehng, more 
 tenderness, more patience, and more hu- 
 manity, than men in general possess, — it is 
 because Providence intended them to soften 
 the harshness and cahn the passions which 
 continually disturb the peace of the world, 
 and to heal the wounds which men too 
 often inflict. 
 
 These are duties which belong to the 
 single as well as to the married woman ; 
 and it should be the business of education 
 to prepare their 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 which 
 Providence 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 ven- 
 ture to ridicule such an old maid.
 
 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 unnecessary 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 my temper so much, as 
 telling a story to those who will not attend 
 enough to understand it. There are, how- 
 ever, some circumstances attending that 
 visit, which the most sagacious reader can-
 
 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 j be- 
 low which it gradually swells into a majestic 
 river, and, united with tlie 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 
 herds, 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. 205 
 
 Grove, was seen the little village ; 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, wlien 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 ; yet 
 Trelawney thought there was something in
 
 206 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 
 Grove 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 formed 
 the 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 tliem 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 acquainted 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 ; 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
 
 208 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 the walk, when she knew that he was ab- 
 sent from Pen Tamar, though expected to 
 return in the evening. This occurred 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 where he usually sat, — 
 the lovely prospects on which he had often 
 gazed with delight. At last her attention 
 was drawn to a little winding path, 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 ; and, being much fatigued, she 
 threw herself on a seat. The first object 
 that met her eye was a tablet, on which 
 were inscribed the following lines : — 
 
 " Guardian angel of the Grove, 
 My first, my last, my only love !
 
 PEN TAMAR» 209 
 
 Though lost are all thy Ulooming charms. 
 Though death has torn thee from my arms, — 
 Matilda, — still this heart of mine, 
 This faithful 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 my 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 last, my only love ! 
 Oh lead me to that peaceful shore, 
 Where friends shall meet to part no more ; 
 For then, this faithful heart of mine, 
 Matilda, — shall be ever thine ! 
 
 P
 
 210 PEN TAMAR* 
 
 The emotions with which these lines 
 were read by Mrs. Heywood, may be more 
 easily imagined than described. It is only 
 necessary to add, that the wish to prepare 
 Sir William for a meeting, so miexpected 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. Heywood, 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. Heywood's 
 birthday on the fifth of October. We will 
 have another treat in the Grove, if the day 
 is fine. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and their
 
 PEN TAMAR. ^11 
 
 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. 
 Heywood 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, myTrelawney, and 
 lives to bless and thank you ! " — " Friend 
 of my soul ! how many years of hopeless 
 sorrow are overbalanced by this delicious 
 moment ! — Many are the afflictions which 
 we have both endured since we parted : we 
 may be called to suffer more; but, what- 
 ever be my future lot, I think I never can 
 be unhappy whilst I can say to my faithful 
 heart, — Matilda lives ! " 
 
 p 2
 
 212 PEN TAMAR, 
 
 CHAP. XXI. 
 
 " 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 hope in death, its triumph o'er the grave?" 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 Harry returned to schoo], smiling through 
 his tears when his father repeated his pro- 
 mise, and fully determined to do his part, 
 in order to secure the performance of it. 
 
 Times of domestic, as well as of national, 
 tranquillity afford few materials for his- 
 tory ; and such was the summer of the 
 year 1680, to the happy inhabitants of Pen 
 Tamar ; but it was filled with actions, 
 which the guardian spirits of the good de- 
 light to record in that book, from whence 
 many an unknown virtue will be madfe 
 manifest to men and angels at the great 
 day of accoimt. — Mrs. Heywood appeared
 
 PEN TAMAR. 213 
 
 to gain strength, as well as spirits, every 
 day ; and Sir William's eyes sparkled with 
 pleasnre, 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 appointed ; and preparations 
 were made to celebrate the birthday, m a 
 manner worthy of the occasion. Above 
 fifty of the neighbouring poor were enter- 
 tained at dinner in the hall ; and some ex- 
 cellent cider was produced, in which the 
 healths of Mrs. Heywood and the worthy 
 knight were drunk 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 direction 
 of Harry, who was master of the feast; 
 
 p 3
 
 214 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 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 Tamar, — the sun shone 
 brightly on the rocks ; and every heart was 
 
 gay. 
 
 Mrs. Heywood had supported the con- 
 versation with unusual spirit, and, as 
 usual, had delighted all who heard her ; 
 when, after more than an hour had been 
 thus happily spent, 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 j 
 but she instantly fainted. Proper remedies 
 were applied with success : she was carried 
 to Sir William*s house, from which he would 
 not suffer her to be removed, though she 
 was so much better in the evening, that she 
 expressed her hope that this little attack 
 had been only owing to more exertion than 
 her weak spirits could support. A few 
 days, however, gave her afflicted friend too 
 much reason to fear that her illness was of 
 a more serious nature. All her 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 in- 
 curable disease. 
 
 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 dreadful ; 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 left but for her 
 release. Such was the state in which 
 the mortal part of this admirable woman 
 languished, during many months of agonis- 
 ing torture. 
 
 At a very early period of her illness, 
 
 p 4
 
 216 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 Mrs. Heywood was convinced of her dan- 
 ger ; and she had obliged 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 regret ; 
 but she was just restored to long-lost hap- 
 piness, — she felt the grief 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 be left alone, after her con- 
 ference with the physician. Many tender 
 recollections crowded on her mind ; and a 
 few tears were given to friendship ; — but 
 they were the last. Whatever be the cause 
 of griefi "to a Christian, 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 from pride, — 
 from a wish of appearing insensible to pain 
 and sorrow : she knew that she had much 
 to suffer, in body and in mind ; and humbly, 
 
 * Dr. Randolph.
 
 PEN TAMAll. 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 ; whilst 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 ; 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. Heywood, 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 he 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 miglit endeavour to prepare your 
 mind for a short parting, —soon, I trust, to 
 be followed by an eternal union." 
 
 " O my Matilda ! were we allowed to 
 enjoy a few months of happiness only that 
 they miglit embitter 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, — 
 to be convinced that our mutual esteem 
 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 sepa- 
 ration 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 sorrow are no more ! " 
 
 " You speak as if you had no hope. Oh,
 
 PEN TAMAll. 219 
 
 do not fancy that your health may not be 
 restored, at least in some degree ! " 
 
 " How long my life may be spared, God 
 only knows. I may perhaps still enjoy some 
 happy hours with you ; but do not deceive 
 yourself, 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 sufferings ; but 
 do not flatter me with the expectation of 
 health or ease. No, my dearest William, this 
 is not the comfort I want from you. Talk 
 to me of a better world, where pain and 
 Sfrief will never enter, — where we shall be 
 for ever happy ! — But I have distressed 
 you too much. Leave me now, my dearest 
 friend ; we will meet at dinner. I shall 
 be able to walk to the dining-room ; and 
 we must not disturb poor Harry's happiness 
 during the short time he has to stay." 
 
 At dinner Mrs. Heywood appeared par- 
 ticularly 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.
 
 220 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 During the next six months her suffer- 
 ings gradually increased ; and they were at 
 times almost insupportable. She was now 
 unable to go to church ; but she found 
 great comfort in her pious and learned 
 friend Mr. Hamilton ; who read prayers, 
 and administered the sacrament to her, and 
 who was every way qualified to give the con- 
 solation which her state required ; though 
 he often declared that when he attended 
 Mrs. Heywood he learned more than he 
 taught, and that he hoped always to be 
 the better for such a glorious example of 
 patience and resignation. 
 
 In the evenings, she still found pleasure 
 in hearing Sir William read; 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 Sir Wil- 
 liam ; but come and sit by me on the
 
 couch." He did so. She gave him her 
 hand, and he found it liot and feverish, and 
 her pulse extremely high. He persuaded 
 her to go to bed, and he sent for the phy- 
 sician, — who found her very ill, though 
 not, as he thought, in immediate danger ; 
 but, as far as her friends could judge, it 
 might have been happy 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 William's hand, and entreat him to go 
 w^ith her. — ** Do not let me lose you again,
 
 ^Q,'-2 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 my William ! Oh, 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 
 the Bible. At length 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 
 clear. She asked for Sir William j and 
 with her own sweet smile, and countenance 
 which beamed more than earthly joy, she 
 told him she was quite well, and would be 
 taken up and carried into her dressing 
 room. This was done ; and though she 
 appeared to be extremely weak, she con- 
 tinued free from pain, and able to converse 
 with even more than her usual animation. 
 In the evening she requested Sir William 
 to read one of Hooker's Sermons, which 
 concludes with these words : — 
 
 " 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 their glory ; but concerning the man 
 that trusteth in God, if the fire have pro-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 223 
 
 claimed itself unable so much as to singe 
 the hair of his head, — if lions, ravenous by 
 nature and keen with hunger, being set to 
 devour, have, as it were, religiously adored 
 the faithful 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 se- 
 paration 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. I know in whom I have believed. 
 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, that thy faith fail not 1* " * 
 
 * See Hooker's Works, p. 556.
 
 ^24 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 CHAP. XXII. 
 
 " Go, gentle spirit, now supremely blest, 
 
 From scenes of pain, and struggling 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 ; though I 
 hope my strength is nearly exhausted." 
 
 " O 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 disguise my feelings. Never, I believe, 
 did any human being love with more ten-
 
 PEN TAMAR. 225 
 
 derncss 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
 
 22G PEN TAMAU. 
 
 to your protection. She deserves every 
 thing from me, and you know I have 
 nothing of value 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 feel 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 
 father ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; and I remember the transport 
 I felt, when you said that you thought it a 
 strong resemblance ; for I hoped that my 
 Matilda, as well as my dear and honoured 
 friend, would sometimes look at it with 
 pleasure."
 
 PEN TAMAR. 2^7 
 
 *' Here it is; and liere 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 
 things wliich 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 
 moment 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 thing was lost j and in the agony 
 I then felt, as soon as I was capable of 
 thinking, it afforded me a degree of com- 
 fort which I cannot describe. From that 
 hour to this it has always kept its place ; 
 and I believe I can venture to say, that, 
 in all the years which have since elapsed, 
 I never closed my eyes to sleep, if I pre- 
 served the use of my reason, until I had 
 looked at this dear image of Trelawney, -^ 
 until I had pressed it to my heart ! — • I can- 
 
 Q 2
 
 ^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, will 
 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 ? O what a 
 treasure did I lose, when my cruel aunt 
 forbade me to be yours ! — My father would 
 not have refused me ; — 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 TAMAR. 229 
 
 " Never will I 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 all, 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 
 
 a 3
 
 230 TEN TAMAIi. 
 
 to friendship, and wlien 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 sliall 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 
 you we shall meet again ! " 
 
 She was silent ; 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 the agitation of her spirits 
 prevented her rest until towards morning.
 
 PEN, TAMAR. 231 
 
 when she had some hours of sleep, and 
 waked much refreshed. — It was Sunday, 
 and she persuaded Sir WiUiam to go to 
 church ; from whence he was to return 
 with Mr. Hamilton, who had promised to 
 administer the sacrament to her. Accom- 
 panied by Sir WiUiam, Mrs. Hamilton, and 
 her faithful Hannah, she performed this 
 sacred duty, with the sweet serenity which 
 religious exercises always produced 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 pre- 
 pared herself to suffer and to die for his sake 
 who suffered and died for us all. She joined 
 with pious earnestness, but with perfect com- 
 posure, in a prayer which Mr. Hamilton, at 
 her request, offered up for her support in the 
 last dreadfid trial ; and v/hen this awful cere- 
 mony was finished, she thanked him for all 
 the comfort he had given her. Then, giving 
 her hand to each of her w^eeping friends by 
 turns, she expressed in the strongest terms 
 
 Q 4
 
 232 I'EN TAMAU. 
 
 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, — and led 
 Mr. Hamilton to speak of those whom he 
 had 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 me- 
 lancholy or mistaken notions of religion had 
 produced a degree of insanity, he had never 
 met with one sincere and humble Christian, 
 who did not meet deatli with 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 
 receive support, and were armed with forti- 
 tude far above their own powers of mind. 
 Mrs. Hey wood listened to many instances of
 
 PEN TAMAR. ' 233 
 
 this kind, and seemed to receive particular 
 pleasure from the conversation ; until, 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 flattering 
 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 than of pity." 
 
 " I must have been most ungrateful to 
 such friends as I am blessed witli, 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 a})pears : there are always intervals of 
 ease ; and when it goes so far as to disorder 
 the senses, or to produce convulsions, the
 
 23 i PEN TAMAR. 
 
 sense of it is lessened. In short, my good 
 Mr. Hamilton, I feel the truth of what you 
 have just said ; and I know that our merci- 
 ful Father will enable us to bear the trials 
 which He is pleased to send." 
 
 " But, Matilda," said Sir William, " 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 v/as not any reason for it. Now, as I 
 am perfectly easy, and hope to sleep, 1 
 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. See (added she with a 
 smile), how I command every body in your 
 house, like an impertinent old maid, as you 
 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 TAMAU* Q35 
 
 read a prayer as usual, she was carried to 
 her apartment, and soon fell into a sweet 
 sleep. 
 
 Sir William 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 which he had exacted from 
 him when he retired 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 that she knew 
 him, as 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
 
 286 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 once Sir 
 William heard her say, — *' Thank God — 
 very happy ! " — These were the last words 
 she uttered ; and in about an hour she 
 ceased to breathe.
 
 TEN TAMAR. QSJ 
 
 CHAP, xxiir. 
 
 " Still shall the tale instruct, if it declare 
 
 How they have borne the load ourselves are dooni'd 
 to bear !" Beattie. 
 
 AviNG now concluded the history of 
 Matilda Hey wood, 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 which have induced me to add 
 one more to the long catalogue of novels ? 
 This explanation is usually given in a 
 preface ; but, as Voltaire justly observes, 
 young ladies do not read prefaces ; and t© 
 the young, as well as to the old, I 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 ghost, I may venture to hope that the 
 false taste, which too generally prevails at 
 present, has not blunted the moral feelings 
 in the minds of my readers ; and curiosity 
 being no longer fixed on the story, I will 
 request their attention, whilst I explain the
 
 238 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 principles on which it was written, and the 
 effect which it was intended to produce. 
 
 No friend to religion and virtue can be 
 an unconcerned spectator of the dangerous 
 attacks to which they have 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 coimtry. Writers 
 of this description call evil good, 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." f 
 
 The friends of morality are called upon 
 to exert all their influence in opposing this 
 dangerous corruption of the public 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 may 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 
 Progress of the Pilgrim Good Intent. 
 
 f Fatal Falsehood — a tragedy. By Mrs. H. More.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 239 
 
 it ought to be done, will, I think, be allowed 
 by all who consider the nature of the human 
 mind, the reluctance with which we enter 
 into cold inanimate discussions, and the 
 eagerness and delight with which we follow 
 every writer who interests the feelings and 
 captivates the imagination. 
 
 Viewing the subject in this light, I was 
 led to hope that I might do some little 
 service to the cause of truth, by combating 
 some popular prejudices, by enforcing some 
 useful maxims, and illustrating them by 
 example rather than by precept. In the 
 little work, which I now venture to offer 
 to the public, I have endeavoured to revive 
 that respect for age, the want of which 
 is, perhaps, one of the most striking proofs 
 of the depravity of modern manners, — and 
 to combat an unreasonable and absurd pre- 
 judice, that has sometimes exposed virtuous 
 and respectable characters to ridicule and 
 contempt which they by no means deserve. 
 At the same time I have pointed out the 
 conduct by which age, even accompanied 
 by poverty, deformity, and sickness, may 
 still hope to secure that respect which 
 ought always to be paid to virtue ; and I
 
 240 TEN TAMAR. 
 
 have endeavoured to reconcile both the 
 young and the okl 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 intelligent 
 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 
 hnmortality. 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 aspirations 
 towards his eternal and ever-increasing 
 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 Father's Instructions, by tlie late Dr. Percival.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 241 
 
 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, 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 this world, but that 
 we must be virtuous, in spite of all the suffer- 
 ings which can attend our progress through 
 life, in order to be happy in the next. 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 
 obvious, and it is so freely expressed in a 
 late excellent publication, that I cannot 
 help borrowing the words of its lamented 
 
 R
 
 242 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 author: — "Passive virtues, of all others 
 the severest, of all others perhaps the most 
 acceptable to the Deity, would, it is evident, 
 be excluded from a constitution in which 
 happiness and misery should regularly follow 
 virtue and vice. Patience and composiu'e 
 under distress, affliction, and pain ; a stead- 
 fast keeping up of our confidence in God, 
 and of our reliance on his final goodness, 
 at the time when every thing present is 
 adverse and discouraging j and (what is no 
 less difficult to retain) a cordial desire for 
 the happiness of others, even when we are 
 deprived 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 Essay on Man.
 
 PEN TAMAR. 24cJ 
 
 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, — when we are 
 convinced that we were sent into this world 
 in order to prepare for 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 ; 
 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 See Poems and Essays, by the late Miss Bowdler.
 
 244 PEN TAMAR. 
 
 " Religion cannot prevent losses and dis- 
 appointments, pain and sorrow ; for to these 
 in 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 instructs, it 
 enables us — to be happy." 
 
 THE END, 
 
 London : 
 
 Printed by A. & R. Spottiswoode, 
 
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