In a country house near Wanstead, in Essex, one of England's bravest
admirals,--Sir William Penn,--lay on a bed of sickness. By his side
stood a grave-looking gentleman in a scarlet cloak, and huge ruffles on
his wrists.
"Tell me honestly, Master Kennard, whether you deem this sickness unto
death?"
"Honestly, Sir William, as you ask me, I confess that you are in a worse
state than I have before known you. At all events, it behoves you to
make such preparations as you deem important, should you be summoned
from the world."
"It is enough; I understand you, my friend," said the admiral, with a
smile. "I would rather it were so. I am weary of the world, and am
ready to leave it; but there is one who seems but little able to watch
over his own interests, and, I fear me much, will be subjected to many
persecutions in consequence of the opinions he has of late adopted. I
would therefore ask you to indite a letter in my name to our gracious
Sovereign and his royal brother, that I may petition them to extend to
him those kind offices which they have ever shown to me. The Duke of
York is his godfather, as you know; and, whatever may be his faults, he
is an honest man, and will fulfil his promises. You will find paper and
pen on yonder table. I pray thee perform this kind office for me."
Dr Kennard did as he was requested, and forthwith the letter was
despatched by a trusty hand to London. Soon after it had been sent off,
a servant announced that Master William Penn had just arrived, and
craved permission to see his father. Grief was depicted on the
countenance of the young man when he entered his father's chamber. He
had just had an interview with his mother, and she had told him that all
hopes of the admiral's recovery had been abandoned by his medical
attendants. He knew not how his father might receive him. Although,
when they last parted, the admiral's feelings had been somewhat softened
towards his son, yet he had not even then ceased to blame him for the
course he had pursued. Sir William Penn had already received numerous
rewards and honours for the services he had rendered to his sovereign,
and he had every reason to believe that he would have been raised to the
peerage. His son William had, however, refused to accept any title, and
he had therefore declined the honour for himself. He was now, however,
at the early age of forty-nine, struck by a mortal disease, and he had
begun to estimate more truly than heretofore the real value of wealth
and worldly honours.
When William entered, he put out his hand.
"I thank Heaven, son William, you have come back to see me ere I quit
this troubled scene of life," said the dying admiral. "I once wished to
know that my son was to become a peer of the realm, the founder of a
great family; but such thoughts have passed away from me. I now
confess, William, that you have `chosen the better part.' Your honour
and glory no man can take away from you. In truth, I am weary of this
world, and, had I my choice, would not live my days over again, for the
snares of life are greater than the fears of death."
The affectionate son expressed his joy at hearing his father speak thus.
The admiral smiled.
"Yes," he said, "our thoughts change when we see the portals of death so
close to us. With regard to you, William, I am satisfied; but for our
unhappy country I cannot cease to mourn. Alas! what fearful profligacy
do we see in high places: vice and immorality rampant among all classes;
the disrepute into which the monarchy and all connected with it have
justly fallen; and the discredit into which our national character has
been brought abroad."
William almost wept tears of joy when he described his father's state of
mind to his mother. They could now converse freely on important
matters. One day, while his son was with the admiral, two letters were
brought him.
"Here," he said, "read them, son William, for my eyes are dim."
The young man took the letters.
"Indeed, father, they are such as should satisfy us," he said. "This
one is from the king, who seldom puts pen to paper. He promises largely
to protect me from all foes, and to watch over my interests. He
expresses great regret at hearing of your illness, and wishes for your
recovery. The other, from the Duke of York, is to the same effect. He
speaks of his friendship to you for many years; and his sincere desire
is, to render you all the service in his power. Therefore, with much
satisfaction he undertakes the office of my guardian and protector when
I am deprived of you. There is a kind tone throughout the epistle, for
which I am duly grateful."
William then read both documents to his father, who desired to hear
them. Still the admiral's constitution was good, and hopes were
entertained that he might recover.
"My children," he said, calling his son and daughters to his bedside, "I
have but a few days to live,--I know it. I leave you some worldly
wealth, but that may be taken from you. I would leave you my counsel,
of which no man can deprive you. There are three rules I would give
you, which, if you follow them, will carry you with firmness and comfort
through this inconstant world. Now listen to me. Let nothing in this
world tempt you to wrong your conscience; so you will keep peace at
home, which will be a feast to you in the day of trouble. Secondly,
whatever you design to do, lay it justly, and time it seasonably, for
that gives security and despatch. Lastly, be not troubled at
disappointments, for if they may be recovered, do it; if they cannot,
trouble is vain. If you could not have helped it, be content. There is
often peace and profit in submitting to Providence; for afflictions make
wise. If you could have helped it, let not your trouble exceed your
instruction, for another time."
These rules, the admiral's son laid to heart; and, as his after life
showed, they were never forgotten. William was greatly rewarded for all
he had gone through by hearing his father at length thoroughly approve
of his conduct.
"My son, I confess I would rather have you as you are, than among those
frivolous and heartless courtiers who beset our sovereign. Their fate
must be miserable. They are bringing reproach and ruin upon our
country; and albeit, though I wish to die as I have lived, a member of
the Church of England, yet I am well-content that you, my son, should be
guided by the principles you have adopted; and I feel sure that if you
and your friends keep to your plain way of preaching, and also keep to
your plain way of living, you will make an end of priests to the end of
the world." Almost the last words the admiral uttered were: "Bury me
near my mother. Live all in love. Shun all manner of evil. I pray God
to bless you; and He will bless you."
The spirit in which the admiral died, greatly softened the poignancy of
the grief felt by his wife and son. The funeral procession set forth
towards Bristol, where the admiral had desired to be buried, in
Redcliffe Church, where a monument, still to be seen, was raised to his
memory. William Penn was now the possessor of a handsome fortune
inherited from his father. With youth, a fine appearance, fascinating
manners, well acquainted with the world, numerous friends at court, and
royal guardians pledged to advance his interests, he, notwithstanding,
resisted all the allurements which these advantages offered to him, and
set forth through the country, travelling from city to city, and village
to village, preaching the simple gospel of salvation.
In a picturesque village in Buckinghamshire, called Chalfont, a young
gentleman on horseback might have been seen passing up the chief street.
There were but few people moving about at that early time of the
morning. At length he saw one advancing towards him, who, though
dressed in sober costume, had the air of a gentleman.
"Friend," said the young horseman, "canst tell me the abode of Master
Isaac Pennington?"
"Ay! verily I can," answered the pedestrian; "and, if I mistake not, he
to whom I speak is one who will be heartily welcome. His fame has gone
before him in this region, remote as it is from the turmoils of the
world. Thou art William Penn; I am Thomas Elwood, a friend of the
family. Their abode is the Grange, which they have rebuilt and
beautified. Further on, at the end of the street, is the dwelling of
one known to all lovers of literature,--John Milton. And here is my
cottage, where thou wilt be always welcome."
"Thanks, friend Elwood," said William Penn, dismounting from his horse.
"If thou wilt show me the Grange, I will thank thee, and accept at
another time thy hospitality."
"I am bound thither myself," said Elwood, "and I shall enjoy thy society
on the way."
On reaching the Grange, William Penn found assembled in the breakfast
parlour several guests. The lady of the house was Lady Springett, the
widow of a Parliamentary officer; she had some years before married
Isaac Pennington, both having adopted the Quaker principles. But there
was one person present who seemed more especially to attract the young
Quaker's attention. She was the daughter of Lady Springett; her name,
Gulielma Maria, though addressed always by her family as Guli. William
Penn had not been dreaming of love, but he at once felt himself drawn
towards her; and before he left the Grange he acknowledged to himself
that she had the power of adding greatly to his worldly happiness.
Again, however, he went forth on his mission, but he frequently returned
to Chalfont, and at length the fair Guli promised to become his wife.