Having faithfully performed my pleasing task, and exerted my best
abilities to recommend myself to my readers, I do honestly confess, that
I am gratified by finding that something remains, in which my services
may be useful to their curiosity. Except two letters, from Miss Cowley
to her correspondents at Heathcot, nothing appears of sufficient
consequence to this work, they being confined solely to Miss
Hardcastle’s and Miss Howard’s journey to Farefield; which they reached
in the month of February.
It remains with me, consequently to supply a few pages to this,
otherwise abrupt conclusion of a work, already reprehensible in the
critic’s eye.
My readers may be able to recollect the name of Montrose, the early
friend of Mr. Philip Flint, who, with his sister, the wife of Mr.
Lindsey, shared in his confidence, with the truth and ardour of youthful
zeal and friendship, during his progress to Miss Sinclair’s heart.
To this gentleman am I at present indebted for a situation in life which
I would not exchange for the most brilliant which this world has to
give. For I am sheltered from “the proud man’s contumely,” and “the pang
which the worthy of the unworthy takes.” I was in my friend’s hospitable
house at the shocking termination of Mr. Flamall’s life. This event
produced many changes in favour of those, to whom he had been more
obnoxious than useful. My brother Lindsey, was immediately placed in Mr.
Flamall’s office, as this regarded Miss Cowley’s property on the island;
and Mr. Flint, with Counsellor Steadman’s advice and concurrence,
relieved her, by an appeal to Chancery, from the restrictive clauses in
her father’s will, they being her appointed guardians until she was of
age.
In the mean time, I was judged capable of educating the young Cowley’s.
Their gentle and interesting mother had formed an intimacy with my
sister Lindsey, during the time they resided under the same roof, at Mr.
Dalrymple’s; and to judge of the future by the present, these friends
will never have but one and the same roof.
In the hours of confidence, which succeeded to their first acquaintance,
Marian informed Mrs. Lindsey, of her motives for withdrawing from Mr.
Flamall’s authority and power, by quitting an abode she loved. He had
importuned her with his passion even before Mr. Cowley’s death; and she
held him in abhorrence and terror. She made no doubt of the illegality
of Mr. Cowley’s will, he having repeatedly told her that she would find
a protector and a guardian for her sons in Mr. Oliver Flint; and from
the moment she was informed of Mr. Flamall’s authority, she determined
never to lose sight of her children. Mr. Philip Flint befriended her,
because Juba had told him that I was afraid of his uncle. Her entire
concurrence in committing her children to my care; her confidence in my
integrity, led her cheerfully to part with them, and we reached England
in safety; where my trust was sanctioned by their expecting sister and
maternal friend.
From that hour I have experienced the comforts of a home, endeared to me
by all that can give zest to rational pleasure with an undepraved heart.
Montrose was understood as a man to be trusted; although, to say the
truth, my friends appear to be governed by motives, not unlike Bassanio,
when he decides on the casket.—
“Thou meagre lead,
Which rather threat’nest than dost promise aught;
Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence,
And here I chuse.”
In giving up to my discretion her correspondence with Miss Hardcastle,
during her residence at Farefield, Mrs. Hardcastle added those
occurrences which had taken place after the day which terminated “her
captivity.” “You will easily believe,” said she smiling, “that
Counsellor Steadman was as ready to resign the heiress, as I was to be
rid of the plagues of heirship; but Alice was a wife before I left the
hall; and, my dear Lady Maclairn was obliged to confess, that life has
its blessings; and, that the human heart can never want an inlet to joy,
until it has banished affection for others. She was right in saying
this; and she knows, and feels it to be truth. Mary has neither changed
her _colours_ nor her _mind_ with her fortune, and her uncle prefers
Henry Heartley to a rich baronet. We shall see these _true_ lovers
united,” added she, “when at Farefield; and then Sir Murdoch and his
lady, will quit the hall for Wenland Place; where, I confidently hope,
they will find a home of uninterrupted repose.
“The Duke of S——,” continued Mrs. Hardcastle, “finding that my Horace
had enough of the good things of this world; and, well knowing, he had a
recompense in store for himself in Heaven, contrived to be useful to Mr.
Sedley, and by his _interest_, procured for him a valuable crown living;
and with his _money_ secured to him the parish, of which his uncle is
the pastor, and he still the curate.” “Such, Mr. Montrose,” added she,
with seriousness, “is the present state and condition of those persons,
in whose happiness you are so interested, and in whose sorrows, you have
taken so lively a concern. If, as you say, the whole tissue of events
before you have confirmed you in your belief of a retributive justice,
it is well: as it is displayed in this scene of action, it may be useful
to others; although I am of opinion, that not a day passes, that does
not add to our conviction, that the sinner is taken in his own snare,
and the virtuous kept from falling by a power beyond our finite reason.
But as your intention and labour will have little aid from fiction, let
your fidelity, as an historian, compensate for the absence of the
marvellous. Do not omit to say, that Philip Flint and Malcolm Maclairn
are brothers, whose hearts are not divided by the ocean which separates
them. They live in hopes of being re-united; but Mr. Flint has inherited
from his grandfather so strong a predilection in favour of the island of
Jamaica, that it would not surprise me, if he remained there until he
could man a ship with his own boys, and freight it with Sinclairs and
Lindseys. I am not quite so solicitous on this subject, as Malcolm,”
added she, “we are happy _now_ at Wenland place: besides, let us be
content. I do not wish my deputy, your sister, to be deserted. She is
kind and gentle to my numerous dependents; and _Lindsey_ is the
_sweetener_ to the sugar he sends us. Heaven be praised,” continued she,
“Cowley’s slaves are yet cherished as men, though unfortunate men! _But
I hate the subject._”
To these instructions I have paid due obedience; but I have passed some
weeks at Farefield Hall since writing the above.
And I think it will be no matter of surprise, much less of censure, that
I should indulge myself with a supernumerary page or two, for the sole
purpose of paying my tribute of respect to a character so much
distinguished by Miss Cowley, in her letters to her friend. Mr. Serge
was not forgotten by her, when she became Mrs. Hardcastle. “You will see
my favourite when you go to Farefield,” said she, “and you will judge of
my hasty sketches of the most simple-hearted man who lives. Supported by
the rectitude of his own mind, and a piety which rests solely on the
goodness of God, he has sustained very severe trials, with a patience
and resignation that ought to put philosophy to the blush. The loss of
his favourite daughter, the prop of his comforts, was followed by the
death of Mrs. Fairly, who, in consequence of a severe cold taken at a
place of public amusement, to which she was reluctantly hurried, after
an indisposition of a dangerous kind, fell into a rapid decline, and was
consigned to the grave before she was one and twenty. Her, giddy,
thoughtless mother was at this melancholy period on a tour of pleasure
with Mrs. Dangle, recently become a widow; and Captain Fairly, with
another military beau were their escorts.
Poor Mr. Serge, assisted by his friends the Tomkins’s, supported this
scene, and without designing to write to his unfeeling son, or to his
foolish misled wife, sheltered his sorrows at his daughter Mrs.
Willet’s, leaving to the public papers to announce to the travellers the
event, which they might have foreseen before they left home. “But the
claims of the disconsolate widow, Mrs. Dangle, could not be overlooked.”
Mr. Maclairn and his wife joined the dejected Mr. Serge at his daughter
Willet’s; and by diverting his thoughts to the final establishment of
this child, they had the satisfaction of seeing him improve in health
and spirits. He had not, however, lost his resentment in regard to his
wife’s desertion; but with firmness declared, that he meant to give up
his house at Putney, and to live remote from London. With these
resolutions he returned to town; and it appears that he was steady. The
lady returned also from her excursion, somewhat humbled by the reception
he gave her; and probably, shocked by the death of her child, she made
concessions which failed in their effect; for she would not submit to
give up her dear Mrs. Dangle, nor refuse Captain Fairly’s visits—points
_obstinately_ enforced by her husband. He again returned to Mrs.
Willet’s, and found consolation. His grandson amused him; and “honest
William,” as he calls Mr. Willet, hourly rose in his estimation. Some
months passed: he resolutely refused to return home, without an
assurance that he should find his wife willing to give up her son,
Fairly, and Mrs. Dangle’s society. But this poor, weak, and misguided
woman, had too promptly acquired the lessons they had taught her; and
she was hastening on to destruction, when an accident deprived her of
life. A Major Ogle, who had his hopes and projects, flattered by the age
and vexations “of the rich old taylor,” drove one morning Mrs. Serge an
airing in his tandem from Dangle Park, leaving his friend the noble
Captain Fairly to amuse Mrs. Dangle. Though a proficient in gallantry
and gaming, the major could not manage two high fed and spirited horses.
Some linen drying on a hedge by a cottage, frightened the leader; he
became ungovernable, the carriage was overset, and Mrs. Serge received a
blow on the temple from the horse’s foot, which killed her on the spot;
her admirer was quit with a broken arm. Mr. Serge received the
intelligence of this shocking accident with silent sorrow: he took to
his bed, and Malcolm was soon his nurse. “I have outlived my feelings!”
said the poor man to him; “I dare not tell you what are my thoughts at
this hour; but I sometimes think, it would be sinful to sorrow, for the
loss of a woman, who, had she lived, would have lived only to have
disgraced herself. She is taken from the evil company of those who have
perverted her simplicity, and made her the laugh of their dissolute
hours. But the day will come, when they will remember having corrupted
innocence, and misled ignorance: her cause, and mine will be heard at a
tribunal, they will tremble to approach.” He now determined on his plans
for his future life, and with his usual munificence left his house and
furniture at Putney for Mrs. Tomkins’s use; and he has from that time
resided at Mr. Wilson’s, in Captain Flint’s deserted apartments; where,
in the comforts of a family attached to him, and in the society of Mrs.
Heartley, who still lives at the Abbey, he is cheerful and contented.
“When you know him,” continued Mrs. Hardcastle, “it will not surprise
you to find him, treated by his friends with an affectionate fondness,
resembling that which is given to a cherished child; but although he may
be called the pest of every house he frequents, such is the genuine
goodness of his nature, that indulgence cannot make him forward or
capricious. He does not even claim the respect due to his age and
station; and whilst the poor around him regard him as their tutelary
divinity, they love him as a neighbour, and he converses with them like
one. His loquacity will amuse you, for he may be said to think aloud;
and his gratitude to those who, in his own words, “are kind to him,” is
displayed by the minutest attention to their ease. Though he greatly
prefers an open carriage to a coach, he keeps one because his _ladies_
want it in bad weather; and Mrs. Wilson is not permitted to take cold
when she goes to church, for he insists on using it as a _family
convenience_.”
My recommendations were too powerful to be overlooked by Mr. Serge. We
we were intimate friends in an hour; and it has been a source both of
satisfaction and curiosity to me, to profit from the frankness and
openness of a mind so uncommon. I have seen that the encroachments of
age and natural infirmities may find a barrier, without the aid of
philosophy, and that in a cheerful piety a man may find a safe refuge
from the cold apathy and querulous temper of near fourscore years,
without other aid than his Bible, and a good heart.
Our conversations are long, though desultory. He frequently, however,
talks of his past sorrows and troubles. Speaking of his daughter, _Mrs.
Fairly_, he observed, “that from the time she married, she resembled a
poor unfledged bird, who had been ensnared within sight of the nest, and
the wing which had cherished her.” “Poor thing,” added he, “she told me
once that _her husband_ had taught her to love me.” I spoke of his
satisfaction in regard to Mr. Willet, with whom Mr. Maclairn was so
pleased. “Yes,” replied he, “thank God, Lydia is the wife of an honest
man. I do not wish him to be such a gentleman as Fairly. Plain cloth
suits me, Mr. Montrose: I have worn no other, since I was born; except
the trimmings are, like Malcolm’s, of pure gold, they are not ornamental
in my opinion: tinsel may decorate a fool, and set off a knave, whilst
it lasts; but it will be for a very little time. Mark what I tell you;
Fairly will die in in a gaol; and his wife, late Mrs. Dangle, will want
bread, and pity into the bargain. But I forgive them; it is my duty; and
like all my Master’s burthens, easy; for what should I gain by being
unforgiving?
The other day he with much jocularity asked me whether the witnessing so
much of conjugal felicity had not put matrimony into my head? I replied,
that, on the contrary, it would probably stamp me a batchelor for life.
“How so,” asked he, “Why,” answered I, “I see that in this lottery of
life, there are some capital prizes; but I am too poor to hazard any
part of my fund of present happiness, lest I spend my money for a blank,
and I am become too ambitious to be contented with a petty prize.” He
laughed, warning me, that I might change my mind. “For such things do
happen,” continued he; “at your age I was in no hurry to marry, yet when
turned of forty, I married, without consulting my register, or my
reason. My good aunt who lived with me, perceived, I suppose, that I was
thinking of changing my condition, and she was much pleased;
recommending perpetually to my notice, a very worthy young woman of her
acquaintance; but I know not how it fell out, after seeing two or three
times my poor, artless, good humoured Lydia, I was not easy in my mind;
and thought my aunt’s favourite, Miss Welldon, looked of a fretful
temper, and was of too ceremonious a turn for me, though she was comely,
and only six and thirty, which certainly was a more suitable age for
mine, and I might have been comfortable with her. I soon found that
Lydia was too young a wife for me,” continued he, thoughtfully, “but I
loved her, and I well knew what kindness would do with her. She was
contented, and all was peace with us, till she was perverted by bad
company. Whenever, you marry, Mr. Montrose, take care to know what
company the lady keeps; much depends on that; and avoid a disproportion
in years: there is hazard in trusting too much, in some cases.”
He is very curious in his questions relative to my two pupils, who are
his favourites. “It is all in good time yet,” observed he, “but we must
be careful not to neglect our blessings. My grandson, Jerry, is a fine
boy, and little William very active and promising. Their mother is an
excellent _nurse_, and Mrs. Maclairn was quite surprised at seeing her a
notable housewife. She has been favoured, Mr. Montrose. There is a
curate and his wife near them, that are invaluable to these young
people; and I will take care that their goodness shall not be lost. But
poor Lydia must not be trusted with my boys too long. Happily she
promises to be a “fruitful vine.” So the nursing will be transferred. I
mean to give my children a _good education_, Mr. Montrose. It shall not
be my fault, if they lack knowledge. I cannot reproach myself with
having wilfully neglected my duty; but with a more enlarged knowledge I
might have performed it better, and shunned many errors in conduct. I
have, of late, been of opinion, that I had, in common with other men
better instructed, a capacity that might have been improved by learning;
and I will tell you the reason for this seeming presumption,” added he,
suddenly stopping and facing me; “it is this: that, although I cannot
talk, nor argue like you, and our friends within, yet I very often
comprehend the drift of your discourse, and am entertained by your
debates.” Before I could make any answer to this observation, Mr.
Hardcastle called him, and reminded him of the dampness of the evening,
adding, that he was waited for at the loo-table. He nodded in sign of
obedience, and said to me, “you may think I am vain, but I must tell
you, that I perceive what has brought _pam_ into favour here; I see all
the kindness of their good hearts! It is well for me that I know that my
debts of gratitude will be discharged in full by One who is able to pay
them.” He entered the house, and with bustling cheerfulness claimed his
privilege of sitting next Mrs. Hardcastle.
Should these touches of my pencil be judged injurious to a portrait
already so faithfully delineated by a more skillful hand, I have only to
request the censurer to place the mistake, and others as glaring, to my
account, and to separate them from the labours of a copyist, whose sole
merit is confined to a diligent and honest purpose; and whose simplicity
of heart has, in the presence of the unlearned Mr. Serge, a hundred
times pronounced, that learning would not have added one line to his
stature.
“An honest man’s the noblest work of God.”
It is now more than three years since my manuscript has been in my
writing desk. Already has time shadowed off a portion of those vivid
colours, with which my picture of Farefield Hall then glared. The death
of Lady Maclairn this spring, has saddened every heart; whilst, from her
dying lessons and calm resignation, have resulted a consolation which
all have found useful. Sir Murdoch yielded to Mrs. Hardcastle’s
entreaties, to join her in London soon after this melancholy event.
Again has she been to him the “angel of peace,” and, with renewed health
and spirits, he accompanied the family to Heathcot in June.
It is at Heathcot, according to Sir Murdoch’s opinion, that Mrs.
Hardcastle must be seen, in order to be justly viewed. I think as he
does; for it is here, and here only, that the vivacity and brilliancy of
her mind, appear to yield to the satisfactions of her heart. She is
always amiable; but _at Heathcot_ she is more placid, more affectionate,
and, to use her own words, “never from home.”
I conceived, that this was the season for renewing my petition relative
to her and Mr. Hardcastle’s letters. I could not succeed. She saw that I
was disappointed. “Be comforted,” said she smiling; “I will, if you
please, formally announce to the public, what will satisfy half your
readers, as well as the best written love letters extant. I can assert,
that Horace Hardcastle is still obstinate in error; and that he yet
worships the idol formed by his own hand; an acquaintance with its
defects, serves only to augment his attachment, for he pretends to find,
even in these, grounds for his faith and motives for his love.”
“But do you not see?” observed I, “how much my moral must lose in its
moral design, by the omission of such letters as yours and Mr.
Hardcastle’s? A passion built on so noble a basis!”——She interrupted me.
“Enough has appeared,” said she, “to justify my preference and affection
for my husband. My principle of conduct is at the service of my sex. The
young cannot adopt a better. The moment they know, that every approach
to vice and libertinism is contagious, they will shun them, however
decorated; and when they know, that by marrying a fool, their own gold
will be mingled with an alloy which must sink its value and obscure its
brightness, they will be safe, and preserve a heart worthy of a good
husband.”
“I cannot help having my fears,” said I, rising, somewhat discomfited,
and taking up my manuscript. “It is so unlike the popular novels of the
day.”——“What should you fear?” replied she, with eagerness. “Why,
misses, in their teens write novels and publish them. They make, nothing
of it.” I laughed, and gravely wished, that I had their youth and
attractions to plead for my folly and failures. “Nonsense,” cried she,
laughing in her turn, I was speaking of their _courage_, not of their
performances. Imitate them, at least in your good opinion, of your own
talents; and should you, like them, find you have over-rated your
abilities, settle the business, like our friend Sancho Panza; and say,
“que Sancho écuyer cru bien aussi vîte en Paradis, que Sancho
gouverneur.” My father, and the _mother of this family_, as you justly
stile Mrs. Allen, wish you to print your work. They think your _secret_
worth knowing, and we admire the skill and discretion, with which you
have contrived to divulge it, with usefulness to all, and without
wounding any. I bowed, and have obeyed.