In conversing with Mr. Stanley on my happy prospects, and my future
plans; after having referred all concerns of a pecuniary nature to be
settled between him and Sir John Belfield, I ventured to entreat that he
would crown his goodness, and my happiness, by allowing me to solicit
his daughter for an early day.
Mr. Stanley said, the term _early_ was relative; but he was afraid that
he should hardly consent to what I might consider even as a late one.
"In parting with such a child as Lucilla," added he, "some weaning time
must be allowed to the tenderest of mothers. The most promising
marriage, and surely none can promise more happiness than that to which
we are looking, is a heavy trial to fond parents. To have trained a
creature with anxious fondness, in hope of her repaying their solicitude
hereafter by the charms of her society, and then as soon as she becomes
capable of being a friend and companion, to lose her forever, is such a
trial, that I sometimes wonder at the seeming impatience of parents to
get rid of a treasure, of which they best know the value. The sadness
which attends the consummation even of our dearest hopes on these
occasions, is one striking instance of that _Vanity of human wishes_, on
which Juvenal and Johnson have so beautifully expatiated.
"A little delay indeed I shall require, from motives of prudence as well
as fondness. Lucilla will not be nineteen these three months and more.
You will not, I trust, think me unreasonable if I say, that neither her
mother nor myself can consent to part with her before that period."
"Three months!" exclaimed I, with more vehemence than politeness. "Three
months! it is impossible."
"It is very possible," said he, smiling, "that you can wait, and very
certain that we shall not consent sooner."
"Have you any doubts, sir," said I, "have you any objections which I can
remove, and which, being removed, may abridge this long probation?"
"None," said he, kindly. "But I consider even nineteen as a very early
age; too early, indeed, were not my mind so completely at rest about you
on the grand points of religion, morals, and temper, that no delay
could, I trust, afford me additional security. You will, however, my
dear Charles, find so much occupation in preparing your affairs and your
mind for so important a change, that you will not find the time of
absence so irksome as you fancy."
"Absence, sir?" replied I. "What then, do you intend to banish me?"
"No," replied he, smiling again. "But I intend to send you _home_. A
sentence, indeed, which in this dissipated age is thought the worst sort
of exile. You have now been absent six or seven months. This absence has
been hitherto justifiable. It is time to return to your affairs, to your
duties. Both the one and the other always slide into some disorder by a
too long separation from the place of their legitimate exercise. Your
steward will want inspection, your tenants may want redress, your poor
always want assistance."
Seeing me look irresolute, "I must I find," added he, with the kindest
look and voice, "be compelled to the inhospitable necessity of turning
you out of doors."
"Live without Lucilla three months!" said I. "Allow me, sir, at least to
remain a few weeks longer at the Grove?"
"Love is a bad calculator," replied Mr. Stanley, "I believe he never
learned arithmetic. Don't you know that as you are enjoined a three
month's banishment, that the sooner you go, the sooner you will return?
And that however long your stay now is, your three months' absence will
still remain to be accomplished. To speak seriously, Lucilla's sense of
propriety, as well as that of Mrs. Stanley, will not allow you to remain
much longer under the same roof, now that the motive will become so
notorious. Besides that, an act of self-denial is a good principle to
set out upon, business and duties will fill up your active hours, and an
intercourse of letters with her you so reluctantly quit, will not only
give an interest to your leisure, but put you both still more completely
in possession of each other's character!"
"I will set out to-morrow, sir," said I, earnestly, "in order to begin
to hasten the day of my return."
"Now you are as much too precipitate on the other side," replied he. "A
few days, I think, may be permitted, without any offense to Lucilla's
delicacy. This even her mother pleads for."
"With what excellence will this blessed union give me an alliance!"
replied I. "I will go directly, and thank Mrs. Stanley for this
goodness."
I found Mrs. Stanley and her daughter together, with whom I had a long
and interesting conversation. They took no small pains to convince my
judgment, that my departure was perfectly proper. My will however
continued rebellions. But as I had been long trained to the habit of
submitting my will to my reason, I acquiesced, though not without
murmuring, and, as they told me, with a very bad grace. I informed Mrs.
Stanley of an intimation I had received from Sir George Aston of his
attachment to Ph[oe]be, and of his mother's warm approbation of his
choice, adding that he alleged her extreme youth, as the ground of his
deferring to express his hope that his plea might one day be received
with favor.
"He forgot to allege his own youth," replied she, "which is a reason
almost equally cogent."
Miss Stanley and I agreed that a connection more desirable in all
respects could not be expected.
"When I assure you," replied Mrs. Stanley, "that I am quite of your
opinion, you will think me inconsistent if I add that I earnestly hope
such a proposal will not be made by Sir George lest his precipitancy
should hinder the future accomplishment of a wish, which I may be
allowed remotely to indulge."
"What objection," said I, "can Mr. Stanley possibly make to such a
proposal, except that his daughter is too young?"
"I see," replied she, "that you do not yet completely know Mr. Stanley:
or rather, you do not know all that he has done for the Aston family.
His services have been very important, not only in that grand point
which you and I think the most momentous; but he has also very
successfully exerted himself in settling Lady Aston's worldly affairs,
which were in the utmost disorder. The large estate which had suffered
by her own ignorance of business, and the dishonesty of a steward, he
has not only enabled her to clear, but put her in the way greatly to
improve. This skill and kindness in worldly things so raised his credit
in the eyes of the guardian, young Sir George's uncle, that he declared
he should never again be so afraid of religious men; whom he had always
understood to be without judgment, or kindness, or disinterestedness.
"Now," added Mrs. Stanley, "don't you perceive that not only the purity
of Mr. Stanley's motives, but religion itself would suffer, should we be
forward to promote this connection? Will not this Mr. Aston say, that
sinister designs influenced all this zeal and kindness, and that Sir
George's estate was improved with an eye to his own daughter? It will be
said that these religious people always know what they are about--that
when they seem to be purely serving God, they are resolved not to serve
him for nothing, but always keep their own interest in view. Should Sir
George's inclination continue, and his principles stand the siege which
the world will not fail to lay to a man of his fortune--some years
hence, when he is complete master of his actions, his character formed,
and his judgment ripened to direct his choice, so as to make it evident
to the world, that it was not the effect of influence--this connection
is an event to which we should look forward with much pleasure."
"Never," exclaimed I, "no not once, have I been disappointed in my
expectation of consistency in Mr. Stanley's character. O, my beloved
parents, how wise was your injunction that I should make _consistency
the test of true piety_! It is thus that Christians should always keep
the credit of religion in view, if they would promote its interests in
the world."
When I communicated to Miss Stanley my conversation with _her_ father,
and read over with her the letters of _mine_, how tenderly did she weep!
How were my own feelings renewed! To be thus assured that she was
selected for their son, by my deceased parents, seemed, to her pious
mind, to shed a sacredness on our union. How did she venerate their
virtues! How feelingly regret their loss!
Before I left the country, I did not omit a visit of civility to Mr.
Flam. The young ladies, as Sir John predicted, had stepped back into
their natural character, and natural _un_-dress; though he was too
severe when he added, that their hopes in assuming the other were now at
an end.
They both asked me, if I was not moped to death at the Grove; the
Stanleys, they said, were _good sort_ of people, but quite
_mauvais-ton_, as every body must be who did not spend half the year in
London. Miss Stanley was a fine girl enough, but knew nothing of the
world, wanted manner, which two or three winters in town would give her.
"Better as she is," interrupted Mr. Flam, "better as she is. She is a
pattern daughter, and will make a pattern wife. _Her_ mother has no
care, nor trouble; I wish I could say as much of all mothers. I never
saw a bad humor, or a bad dinner in the house. She is always at home,
always employed, always in spirits, and always in temper. She is as
cheerful as if she had no religion, and as useful as if she could not
spell her own receipt-book."
I was affected with this generous tribute to my Lucilla's virtues; and
when he wished me joy, as he cordially shook me by the hand, I could not
forbear saying to myself, why will not this good-natured man go to
heaven?
I next paid a farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. Carlton, and to the amiable
family at Aston Hall, and to Dr. Barlow. How rich has this excursion
made me in valuable friendships; to say nothing of the inestimable
connection at the Grove! I did not forget to assure Dr. Barlow that if
any thing could add a value to the blessing which awaited me, it was,
that his hand would consecrate it.
Through the good Doctor I received a message from Mr. Tyrrel, requesting
me to make him a visit of charity before I quitted the neighborhood. I
instantly obeyed the summons. I found him totally changed in all
respects, a body wasted by disease, a mind apparently full of
contrition, and penetrated with that deep humility, in which he had been
so eminently deficient.
He earnestly intreated my prayers, adding, "though it is presumption in
so unworthy a being as I am, to suppose his intercession may be heard, I
will pray for a blessing on your happy prospects. A connection with such
a family is itself a blessing. Oh! that my nephew had been worthy of it!
It is to recommend that poor youth to your friendship, that I invited
you to this melancholy visit. I call him poor, because I have neglected
to enrich his mind: but he will have too much of this world's goods. May
he employ well what I have risked my soul to amass! Counsel him, dear
sir; admonish him. Recall to his mind his dying uncle. I would now give
my whole estate, nay, I would live upon the alms I have refused, to
purchase one more year, though spent in pain and misery, that I might
prove the sincerity of my repentance. Be to Ned what my blessed friend
Stanley would have been to me. But my pride repelled his kindness. I
could not bear his superiority, I turned away my eyes from a model I
could not imitate." I now intreated him to spare himself, but after a
few minutes' pause he proceeded: "As to Ned, I trust he is not
ill-disposed, but I have neither furnished his mind for solitude, nor
fortified his heart for the world. I foolishly thought that to keep him
ignorant, was to keep him safe. I have provided for him the snare of a
large fortune, without preparing him for the use of it. I fell into an
error not uncommon, that of grudging the expenses of education to a
relation, for whom I designed my estate. I have thus fitted him for a
companion to the vulgar, and a prey to the designing. I thought it
sufficient to keep him from actual vice, without furnishing him with
arguments to combat it, or with principles to abhor it."
Here the poor man paused for want of breath. I was too much affected to
speak.
At length he went on. "I have made over to Dr. Barlow's son two thousand
pounds for completing his education. I have also given two thousand
pounds apiece to the two elder daughters of Mr. Stanley in aid of their
charities. I have made a deed of gift of this, and of a large sum for
charitable purposes at the discretion of my executors. A refusal to
accept it, will greatly distress me. Ned still will have too much left,
unless he employs it to better purposes than I have done."
Though deeply moved, I hardly knew what to reply; I wished to give him
comfort, but distrusted my own judgment as to the manner. I promised my
best services to his nephew.
"Oh, good young man!" cried he, "if ever you are tempted to forget God,
as I did for above thirty years; or to mock him by an outward profession
as I have lately done, think of me. Think of one who for the largest
portion of his life, lived as if there were no God. And who, since he
has made a profession of Christianity, deceived his own soul, no less by
the religion he adopted, than by his former neglect of all religion. My
delusion was this, I did not choose to be good, but I chose to be saved.
It was no wonder then that I should be struck with a religion which I
hoped would free me from the discipline of moral rectitude, and yet
deliver me from the punishment of having neglected it. Will God accept
my present forced submission? Will he accept a penitence of which I may
have no time to prove the sincerity? Tell me--you are a Christian."
I was much distressed. I thought it neither modest nor prudent for me to
give a decisive answer. He grasped my hand. "Then," said he, "you think
my case hopeless. You think the Almighty can not forgive me?" Thus
pressed, I ventured to say, "To doubt his will to pardon, and his power
to save, would, as it appears to me, sir, be a greater fault than any
you have committed."
"One great comfort is left," replied he, "the mercy I have abused is
infinite. Tell Stanley I now believe with him, that if we pretend to
trust in God, we must be governed by him, if we truly believe in him, we
shall obey him; if we think he sent his Son to save sinners, we shall
hate sin."
I ventured to congratulate him on his frame of mind; and seeing him
quite overcome, took leave of him with a heart deeply touched with this
salutary scene. The family at the Grove were greatly moved with my
description, and with the method poor Tyrrel had found out of eluding
the refusal of his liberal-minded executors to accept of legacies.
The day fixed for my departure too soon arrived. I took a most
affectionate leave of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, and a very tender one of
Lucilla, who gratified my affection by the emotion she evidently felt,
and my delicacy by the effort she made to conceal it. Ph[oe]be wept
outright. The children all hung about me, each presenting me some of her
flowers, saying they had nothing else to give me; and assuring me that
Rachel should be no loser by it. Little Celia was clamorous in her
sorrow, when she saw me ascend the curricle, in which neither she nor
Lucilla was to have a place. I took the sweet child up into the
carriage, placed her by me, and gently drove her through the park, at
the gate of which I consigned her to the arms of her father, who had
good-naturedly walked by the side of the carriage in order to carry her
back. I drove off, enriched with his prayers and blessings, which seemed
to insure me protection.
Though this separation from all I loved threw a transient sadness around
me, I had abundant matter for delightful reflection and pious gratitude.
I experienced the truth of Ph[oe]be's remark, that happiness is a
serious thing. While pleasure manifests itself by extravagant gayety,
exuberant spirits, and overt acts, happiness retreats to its own proper
region, the heart. There concentrating its feelings, it contemplates its
treasures, meditates on its enjoyments, and still more fondly on its
hopes; counts up its mercies, and feels the consummation of them in
looking to the fountain from whence they flow; feels every blessing
immeasurably heightened by the heart-cheering reflection, that the most
exquisite human pleasures are not the perfection of his nature, but only
a gracious earnest, a bounteous pre-libation of that blessedness which
is without measure, and shall be without end.