My last letter informed you of our intention of remaining stationary
for some months; and I have now the satisfaction of telling you, that
I think Lord William has, on the whole, gained more from this climate
than from any he has tried, and that hitherto we have had no reason
to regret the plan we have adopted. An assured refuge from the heats
of summer and the advantages hoped for from his vicinity to the sea,
have not altogether failed. He has been amused, his thoughts divested
from what he calls "a cowardly flight from death," and free from the
inconveniences of Lisbon, he enjoys placidly, the few short days of
his allotted space. We have been constant residents in this terrestrial
paradise only since the first of June. Our spacious house and elevated
situation at Lisbon, being perfectly adapted to our dear invalid's
comforts; and to say the truth, we quitted the view of the noblest
harbour in Europe, with an intire persuasion, that we might have
remained with safety under its protection and the sea-breeze, which
blew on our faces from every balcony. But Lord William had not then
seen Cintra! He had not then seen from the _Cabo de Penah_, nor from
_Cape Roque_, the sublime objects of nature which surround them. Rocks
and mountains; the expanded ocean; the wide-stretching Tagus; plains
rich in cultivation; impending woods; bubbling fountains, and falling
cascades! Nor had he then traced the footsteps of havoc and confusion,
left by the earthquake, and which the broken fragments and ponderous
masses of the bare rock, mark at every approach.--But recommending to
my Lucy the names of those writers who have embellished their works
with a description of this favoured haunt of nature, I will proceed to
place before her an adventure much more interesting to myself. Twiss,
Baretti, Southby's Tours through Spain and Portugal will satisfy your
curiosity, as to the spot in which I met with my good genii. You will
not wonder, that your brother seeks solitude. My Curro[1], who knows
his master for his friend, is no less impatient than he is, for the
early dawn; about that hour he conducts me daily to some otherwise
almost inaccessible haunt, and contentedly browzes the verdant paths
in his way. The sun had gained upon us, whilst my Grison breakfasted
on what nature made to him a luxurious repast. I conversed with an
intelligent friar, one of the inmates of this singular retreat, who
has been banished by the superior of his order to this place from his
convent in Lisbon, to expiate the sin of loving _English heretics_, and
English books; both of which temptations are yet too strong for him, in
a spot
"Whose darksome round contains
"Repentant sighs and voluntary pains;
"The rugged rocks, which holy knees have worn,
"The grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn."
But leaving these allusions and poetical flights, let us proceed
in our usual way.--Slowly winding up the steep ascent we reached
the ruins of a Moorish castle, which is on one of the three highest
promontories. You will imagine that the prospect from this elevation is
unconfined. Alas! my Lucy, your brother saw only _one_! It was clouded
by despair, and rendered intolerable by the certainty that I was not
the only sufferer who was enveloped in its frowning aspect. "Were I
alone to suffer, I would try to meet disappointment and contradiction
like a man," thought I: "but to know that I am beloved, that I am as
necessary to the happiness of the being whom I love, as she is to
mine! To know that we might be happy, but for considerations----"
I checked my murmurs _then_, as I suppress them _now_; and with my
usual despondency, quitted the spot. In descending I saw, not far
remote, an elegant girl, seated on a fragment of a rock; a gentleman
on his knees before her, and she in evident distress. The narrow path
admitted of no deviation; I was obliged to pass the supposed lovers.
In so doing I perceived that the pretty creature had hurt her ankle,
which the gentleman was rubbing; and the expression of her countenance,
indicated that the application of his hand had not allayed the sense
of pain. I stopped, and learned, that fearful of trusting herself
to the sagacious animal she had rode, she had left her party at the
Cork convent[2], preferring to walk. "With a shoe of _this fashion_,"
added the gentleman producing a green satin slipper, which might have
rivalled Cinderella's, you will not be surprised at our disaster; the
heel snapped, and here we are, with a sprained ancle! The _husband_,
rather than the _lover_, appeared in this _observation_; and my idea
was confirmed; for the pretty creature, rubbing the ancle with a hand
which did not disgrace it, displayed a wedding ring; and with assumed
gaiety, said, "The accident was nothing, she was certain the sprain
was trifling; the pain was already subsiding, it was only numbed.
If the gentleman would only have the goodness to call as he passed
the Convent, and send forward the beasts, all would be well." _The
gentleman_, as in duty bound, assisted her in mounting his own; and
with the utmost caution, we proceeded down to the village. Having
safely gained the more easy road, our timid charge unaffectedly
thanked me for my goodness; and in reply to her companion's raillery
on being such a coward, she remarked the superiority of the beast
she was on, to the wretched animal they had lent her at the hotel;
adding, that the satisfaction of leaving him feeding, was one motive
for her preferring to walk. "I might have guessed as much," replied
her companion; "but after all, my dear Margaret, you have been more
charitable than fortunate. You should have kept your glass slipper
for more level ground: it will be long enough before you see again
a spot like this, or find a mountain to ascend."--"That may be,"
answered she with cheerfulness, "but I shall have time to rest on
ship-board." This observation led to my being informed that she was
going with her _brother_ to Jamaica, where her husband was expecting
her. "It will be a long and a tedious time before we shall meet,"
added she with tenderness: "and when I think of the many hours of
expectation!"----"Never fear!" cried the brother, "you are a good
sailor, Margaret, and with fair winds we shall go quicker than we do at
present."--"God grant us them!" replied she with emotion.
We reached the hotel, and I took my leave of the strangers. The
following morning on passing it, civility prompted me to enquire after
the sprained ancle. The brother gave me a favourable account of the
accident, adding, that _Mrs. Flint_, his sister, would be happy to see
me again; and instantly leading the way to the next room, introduced
me to his sister, and another lady whom I recollected as being the
wife of a merchant resident in Lisbon. The name of _Flint_ had visibly
discomposed me; and for some moments I had only to listen to the
reiterated acknowledgments of the delicate Mrs. Flint. She was still
at the breakfast-table, and with the most perfect contentment she told
me that her friend had not only enjoined her the penance of remaining
in her bed longer, by some hours, than was her custom, but had doomed
her to the sofa for the whole day; and with a sweet and amiable
frankness of manner she reminded me of my little services; intreating
me to assist her again, and by dining with them to make her peace with
her brother, who had threatened to reduce her to a pigmy-height by
obliging her to wear flat-heeled shoes. I bowed my acceptance of this
invitation. The island of Jamaica and the appellation of "Mrs. Flint"
had rivetted me to my seat. At length I summoned up resolution to ask
her, whether she was connected with the _Flints of Tarefield-hall_. She
coloured deeply; and the brother, without hesitation, answered, that
his sister was the wife of Mr. Philip Flint, the youngest son in the
family. "Then you know Miss Cowley," said I trembling with agitation,
"you know she is at Tarefield with Lady Maclairn?"--"Margaret knows
little of her husband's family," answered he, "having always resided
in Scotland." I was silenced, and a certain air of embarrassment was
dispelled from Mrs. Flint's countenance by the lady's asking her
brother, whether it was still his intention to leave Lisbon on the
Saturday. He replied in the affirmative, allowing for winds and tides;
then turning to me, he asked me to take a ramble in the gardens of
Penah Verde. I complied; but on sallying out we found the potent rays
of the mid-day sun inconvenient; and allured by a fountain within
two hundred paces of the hotel, we took our seats by it, under the
umbrageous shelter of the cork and elm-trees.
I immediately began the conversation by apologizing for the warmth and
earnestness of my interrogations relative to Tarefield; and proceeded
to inform him of so much of Miss Cowley's history as was needful, in
order to account for the interest I had discovered in relation to
her. In the course of my little narrative, I spoke of Mr. Flamall,
as having by his authority removed his ward from friends devoted to
her, and to whom she was attached; and I added that, having learned
from you the repugnance with which Miss Cowley had quitted her wonted
asylum, I wish to know, that, with Lady Maclairn, her situation had
been such as she merited. "We know none of Philip's connections,"
answered he, carelessly lading the limpid water with a brass bason
attached by a chain to the fountain; "but if Philip's mother resembles
him, she must be worthy of the guest you have described; for he is a
good and an _honest man_. For the rest of his relations, to give you
my honest opinion of them, I do not believe they would give this cup
of water towards the happiness of any one. As for his precious uncle
Flamall, he is a complete scoundrel."--"Then you know him!" observed
I, eagerly. "Yes, yes," answered he, with warmth, "I know him, and I
trust he will know _Sinclair_ before many months elapse. He will not
be the first rascal this arm has chastised!"--"Would to God," cried
I, "that mine could second you!" He smiled and observed, "He would
recollect my wish, and that it should strengthen his own." I now, my
dear Lucy, more explicitly detailed to him Miss Cowley's connection
with this villain: and if my own wretched anxieties appeared, I could
not help it. He listened to me with the deepest attention, and grasping
my hand, swore a solemn oath, to search to the bottom of a business so
perfectly consonant to the man's character and conduct. "Hear my story,
Mr. Hardcastle, and then judge whether your Miss Cowley's cause can be
in better hands," added he, in an impressive tone. "I do not believe
she would need a defender whilst an honest man can be found; but to
me she shall be another sister, and with Margaret's injuries will I
remember Miss Cowley's! My situation in life," continued he, "separated
me from my mother soon after she became a widow; a maternal uncle, who
lives at Boston in America, having destined me to the same pursuits in
life, from which he had risen to respectable opulence. I had quitted
my father's study, who was a minister of the kirk of Scotland, some
time before his decease; and under the favour of my good uncle had then
risen nearly to my present station, to wit, commander of one of _his_
ships, instead of one of my _own_, which is at present in this port. I
was fortunately not too remote from my father for his last blessing and
embrace. I had also the consolation to find, that my uncle was disposed
to render my mother and sister comfortable; an attention peculiarly
necessary in the low condition of my father's finances. I am eight or
nine years older than Margaret, and, both in principles and affection,
disposed to perform the relative duties of a father and a brother. Such
were my sentiments when I left her, after the events which I have
mentioned, to return to America. During an absence of three years from
my native home, I heard with contentment of my mother's tranquillity,
and of the improvement of the poor little girl you have seen. She was,
Mr. Hardcastle, my delight and pride from her cradle; and I knew that
in my mother's care, her innocence was secure. This spring I had an
opportunity I had long desired; and I failed not to avail myself of it
to visit my mother. I was so pressed for time, and urged by impatience,
that I arrived unexpectedly; and with some surprise I found that my
mother had given up her house in Edinburgh, and lived near it, at a
small village indicated to me. On reaching her abode, the cause of
her removal was apparent in the emaciated form which poor Margaret
exhibited. I was told she had been some months declining in health; and
that country air had been judged more favourable to her, than that
of the town. We are no adepts at hypocrisy. My mother's agitations
betrayed her. On my asking whether any love disappointment had laid the
foundation of the illness, she burst into tears; and unable to contain
the secret, told me the sorrows of her aching heart.
"My sister had for a playmate and friend an amiable girl, somewhat
older than herself, of the name of Montrose. They were near neighbours,
and their parents were in the habits of familiar and friendly
intercourse. On the death of Mr. Montrose, his widow, unwilling to give
up her house, received, but with extreme circumspection, boarders.
Philip Flint was recommended to her by her usual adviser, an old
friend of her husband and a professor in the college. The young man
was particularly committed to his care, and as peculiarly formed for
the suitable inmate of a house remarkably sober and well regulated.
Young Montrose was a pupil of the same gentleman, and had already
distinguished himself for talents and application. I will abridge my
romance, by telling you at once the result of his love advances to
Margaret. Their measures were wonderfully prudent, when you take into
the account the age of the lovers, who could only reckon eight or nine
and thirty years between them; and those of their faithful and zealous
confidants, who, in their calculation might have a right to four or
five more. With the assistance of Montrose, they were married, and
with the consummate prudence of an _old civilian_ this young man saw,
that the marriage was duly and legally valid, according to the laws of
Scotland, his friend being anxiously solicitous on this point; pleading
his dread of his despotical uncle, and the influence he maintained
over every branch of his family. A few short weeks of _perfect
happiness_ were the prelude to Margaret's cares. The fond husband took
all the blame on himself like an honest fellow; and at my mother's
feet made a confession which subdued her; for it finished by imploring
her pity and consideration of his wife's condition; urging her to
permit the marriage ceremony to be renewed in her presence, if she
were dissatisfied with the proofs which her daughter could produce of
the legality of those vows which had united them. 'My own marriage was
not more binding,' added my dear mother, 'and what could I do, Henry?'
'Exactly that which you have done,' answered I. 'Proceed.' 'Nothing
could be more amiable than his conduct was to Margaret and myself,'
continued my mother, 'nor more prudent. He explained his situation to
us over and over again: said he was certain he should have a friend
in his mother, and that his sister Lucretia would make him independent
the day he was of age; for that she hated to see him controuled by a
man so tyrannical as Mr. Flamall.' A letter from this sister, broke in
upon our comforts: it was affectionate and tender in the extreme; it
contained bank notes to the amount of a hundred and twenty pounds, and
a letter from Mr. Oliver Flint, his eldest brother, with an invitation
to come over to him to Jamaica. My mother then mentioned Philip's being
a posthumous child, with those particulars which you know relative to
his father's second marriage, and extraordinary will, continued Mr.
Sinclair, which particulars I pass over. Miss Flint urged him, in this
letter, to avail himself of his brother's good intentions. 'You will,'
added she, 'by this means shake off the yoke, which now oppresses you
more than it serves you. You will soon be independent of your mother's
family; and I think you ought to lose no time. The bills enclosed are
for your use. Say nothing of them to your uncle. You may have incurred
some little debts, which although not disgraceful to a young man, he
will call profusion, and tease me, and torment you for months with
lectures, should they be brought to his accounts. For once in his life,
at least, during the term of years, he has concurred in your mother's
and my opinion relative to you. Lose no time in coming hither. We must
enjoy your society a little while before you commence your voyage.
Your absence has already been tedious to your affectionate--_Lucretia
Flint_.'
"In a postscript she again added her caution: respecting the bills
informing him that she had got the start of his uncle by a post or
two, who was then writing to his father! 'The doctor,' adds Miss
Flint, 'is to settle every thing of a pecuniary sort, and to supply you
with cash for your journey. I have insisted on your not travelling in
the stage-coach; you will therefore on your part be prepared for his
intentions on this point.'
"'This letter,' continued my mother, 'occasioned all the distress that
it was calculated to produce on the mind of your sister. Her husband
consoled her with sanguine hopes, arising from his prospects in this
cruel separation. His brother Oliver was very rich, had buried all his
children, and had promised to provide amply for him, on condition he
paid him a visit. He would be a mediator he stood in need of with his
uncle; and his sister Lucretia's letter was brought forwards in proof
of her affection. He also exulted in his prudence. 'I have not,' said
he, 'a single debt that I fear leaving to my tutor's examination. My
wife will have a little supply, and Providence has rendered my best
friend useful to my first of earthly blessings.' He quitted us, leaving
his sister's remittance with his wife. His letters from the hall and
till he embarked were cordials to Margaret. In his last from London,
was inclosed another bill of a hundred pounds, and in this he suggested
the expediency of our retiring into the country. We had already
determined on so doing. Your sister advanced in her pregnancy, and
concealment was becoming daily necessary. From this time we have not
heard from Mr. Flint. During the course of these events,' pursued my
mother, 'poor Mrs. Montrose was suddenly removed by an apoplectic fit.
Her family was broken up. Charles went to the south; and Miss Montrose
took a situation as governess in a family at Leith. I shall only say,'
continued she weeping, 'that during these trials Fanny Montrose was
our consolation. She also is removed from us! A Mr. Lindsey, the
head clerk in Mr. Maclin's office, married her; and they removed to
London, with advantageous views of his going abroad as supercargo to
the West Indies in a ship of Mr. Maclin's. Poor Margaret, who had not
recovered from her lying-in, and the shock of losing her little boy,
whom grief had prepared for a speedy grave, sunk under the loss of her
affectionate Fanny, and the doubts which distracted her: she will soon
quit this world of sorrow!'
"It is needless to mention to you, Mr. Hardcastle," added Sinclair,
"the inducements I had for suppressing those resolutions from
appearing, which, as a man, and as the guardian and only prop of an
injured sister, it became me to adopt. To comfort and to sooth was my
business whilst I remained with her; and her spirits relieved from
the oppressive secret with me, became more composed. In the third
week of the four which I was permitted to be absent from my vessel,
then undergoing some necessary repairs, we were one morning surprised
into a state of more imminent danger to Margaret's life than any she
had hitherto sustained. A double letter was delivered to my mother by
the servant-maid, in my sister's presence. She saw the address, and
uttering a faint scream, instantly fainted. The contents of Philip's
letter will better please you, than a description of the alarm which
it produced," added Sinclair smiling. "To my mother he recommends the
utmost caution in the delivery of the one enclosed 'to his beloved
wife, to his long lost and only blessing.' To Margaret he writes with
incoherent joy. His brother Oliver was stiled 'his saving angel,'
'his more than father:' 'Providence in rescuing him from the blackest
treachery, had in its mercy, he confidently trusted, preserved her.
She could not, it was not possible that she could have believed him a
faithless villain, unless the same wickedness which had been employed
to destroy him, had reached her.' This letter concluded with ample
instructions, to repair immediately to London; where his brother's
agent would receive her, and provide for her immediate passage to him.
An unlimited credit on this gentleman, with a draft for two hundred
pounds on a banker at Edinburgh, were inclosed, with a positive
injunction written by the good old man, to take care of herself as
well as of the _dear infant_: to bring with her a female servant,
qualified to be useful to her, as well as the nurse; and to be heedful
about _fashions_, he having promised some of the girls, who had been
unsuccessfully employed in setting their caps at Philip, the pattern
of the one which had gained his heart. Poor Margaret on reading this
passage forgot for a time her joy; but the hurry of the moment and my
presence, checked her useless lamentations. My duty was prescribed. I
was resolved never to lose sight of her till she was in her husband's
arms. When in London I made some inquiries respecting this Flamall.
From what I could collect from Margaret relative to her husband's
opinion of this _worthy_ uncle, I made no doubt of his having been the
cause of all the mischief. The character he bears in London justifies
me in this suspicion; for I was informed, that he had the talents of
a swindler, and the impudence to face any danger but the frown of an
honest man. I shall put this to the test whenever we meet."--"You
would do much, better," observed I, "to turn him over to those as
well disposed as yourself to rid the world of a rascal; and who have
not your impediments in their way. Remember that your sister's worthy
husband is his nephew; and beware of breaking into the happiness which
now invites her to Jamaica."--"We shall see," answered he rising,
"much will depend on my knowing the particulars of this story. I am no
Drawcansir; but by G-d he shall find me a _Sinclair_!"--We returned
to the ladies; and after dining with my new friends, and drinking
to the health of Philip Flint, with the utmost sincerity of heart,
I escaped from Sinclair's toasts of Miss Cowley, with a head still
sufficiently cool to detail my adventure to his lordship. He has done
what he never fails to do; he has entered with the most lively interest
into my concerns. Sinclair has letters from him to the governor of
Jamaica and some others of his father's connections. He dined with Mrs.
Flint; and was charmed by her sweet and modest manners. She is one of
the prettiest women I ever saw. The perfect symmetry of her form and
features is wonderful! and with an expression of innocent vivacity
and an infantile simplicity, she appears the beautiful _school-girl_,
rather than the wife. She wants not solidity; for with some address
she entered on the subject of her past troubles; and with a direct
application to mine, bade me never despair, for that virtue would
always attain its recompence. "You will have friends in Jamaica," added
she affectionately, "who, in their own happiness, will not forget yours
nor Miss Cowley's interest. Be assured of this, and contrive to inform
the young lady that my husband will vigilantly watch his uncle. Philip
is, Mr. Hardcastle, the most amiable and worthy of the human race! I
was always convinced that he could not desert me; and I am certain he
will serve Miss Cowley if he can."
I have seen my friends depart from this port. The ship sailed on
Sunday evening. Sinclair will write to me immediately on reaching
Jamaica.--My father will expect to hear something of my health and
pursuits. I have no inducements to wish the former of these articles
better than it is: the latter are such as will not disgrace him or
myself. To any nearer inquiry I cannot reply to his satisfaction,
without deviating from that sincerity and truth, which he has taught me
to respect even with more veneration than himself. I wish I were able
to deceive myself in regard to my dear friend Lord William. Alas, Lucy,
he must die! Nothing can save him from the ravages of the cruel though
insidious destroyer. He knows this; and it is his concealed wish to die
any where rather than at home. "My absence," said he to me the other
evening, "has prepared my mother for the more final separation. She
will not see my last struggle, nor hear my last sigh. Her home will
not be a perpetual remembrance of my funeral obsequies. I will winter
at the Madeiras, Hardcastle, in order to be more remote from her." Poor
fellow! amiable as thou art, what can lessen the sorrow which thou art
doomed to inflict, long before that period, on all who know thee? I
think he cannot live two months!
Yours, affectionately,
Horace Hardcastle.
* * * * *
Here also is found a break of a few weeks in the correspondence between
the friends. Letters, however, regularly passed from and to Lisbon,
and the animated Miss Cowley, with renewed health and gaiety, thus
continues her correspondence to Heathcot.