Mr. Cowley, father of Miss Cowley, was, at an early age, left an orphan,
with an ample inheritance in Jamaica, the place of his birth. He was
consigned by the will of his father, who had survived his mother, to the
guardianship of a gentleman who resided in London, and who, in his
commercial concerns, had for a course of years evinced an integrity,
founded on the liberal principles of an enlightened mind and a
cultivated understanding. The care of his estate was left in the hands
of a friend, not less qualified for this more subordinate office. He
lived on the spot; and was enriched by the vigilance and honesty with
which he discharged his duty. His first care after his benefactor’s
decease, was to send the young heir to England, for the purpose of his
improvement; and his London guardian, not only placed him within the
reach of the attainments requisite for his future happiness, but by his
truly parental care and tenderness, gave him the fairest example of the
influence and benefits resulting from a conduct governed by virtue and
solid wisdom. Thus secured on all sides by a gracious Providence, Henry
Cowley lived to reach his twenty-first year; when, by the sudden death
of his benevolent friend, he found himself master of his time, his
fortune, and his amusements. But love had provided an armour of defence
against the seductions of the world; and the difficulties he had to
surmount in attaining the object of his affections, gave to his youthful
ardour pursuits far remote from the dangers of dissipation. To conquer
the reluctance of Mrs. Dawson, the young lady’s mother, to her
daughter’s marrying him, or any other pretender to her favour, was a
trial, not only of his patience and perseverance, but also of her
daughter’s health and spirits; for she had long since given her heart to
young Cowley, and well knew that the only impediment in the way to her
union with the man she loved, was the excessive and fond attachment of
her mother to her society, and the wish of having no competitor for a
heart which she conceived to be made only for herself. The young lady’s
declining spirits, and the arguments urged by her lover, at length
gained a cold consent, to which were annexed conditions that Cowley
cheerfully agreed to. These were principally confined to the young
couple’s residence under her roof, and a promise, never to hazard a
voyage to Jamaica without her concurrence. Satisfied on these essential
points, she hastened the nuptials, in order to expedite her removal with
her daughter to Bristol Hot-Wells, whither she was ordered by her
physician; and entirely regardless of procuring settlements, her
daughter being an only child, the party proceeded from the altar to
their destined abode at Clifton; where health, peace, and gaiety met the
happy pair. Mrs. Dawson’s apprehensions for the life of her beloved
daughter had not long subsided before she became alarmed for herself:
the honey-moon continued longer than her forbearance; she imagined
herself neglected. Fears and explanations were succeeded by
altercations, and fits of sullenness and even rudeness to poor Cowley;
who, in consideration of his wife’s tranquillity, redoubled his
attentions to her mother. This tribute of true affection gained him
nothing with Mrs. Dawson, for it unfortunately gave her daughter an
opportunity of observing, more than once, that “Mr. Cowley’s behaviour
to her mother was of itself sufficient to engage her love, her esteem
and gratitude.”
During the space of three years the amiable wife bore with patience
these jealous caprices of her mother; not so acquiescent was the
husband: he was weary of the contest, and the tender Marian trembled for
her husband’s peace and her own future happiness. The death of Mr.
Cowley’s faithful agent in Jamaica, which happened at this period,
rendered a voyage thither indispensible to Mr. Cowley. He explicitly
placed before his wife and her mother his intentions to visit his
patrimony; and left them to decide whether he was to go unaccompanied by
the only person who could solace him in his absence from England. Mrs.
Cowley firmly declared her purpose of going with him, and to every
argument and entreaty used by her mother, applied the same answer:—“My
duty, my affection, my very life, urge me to undertake a voyage which my
husband hazards; and were it round the world I would cheerfully share
the dangers with my Cowley.” Let it suffice that Mrs. Cowley persevered,
and from the hour of her daughter’s departure, her mother nourished an
irreconcilable hatred to Mr. Cowley; attributing to his cruelty and
undue authority the absence of his wife, “who was not permitted to love
even her mother, nor that mother to shelter her from his tyrannical
temper.”
Candour, as well as the proofs before me, exact from my pen, however,
some qualifications, which will soften down to the weakness of human
nature these severe traits in Mrs. Dawson’s character; for it would be
unjust not to give it more favourable lineaments, and amongst several,
it is proper to distinguish one, namely, her generous cares in
sheltering under her roof a young lady, who was left an orphan for more
than three years, at the end of which period she married happily. As
this act of friendship and benevolence on Mrs. Dawson’s part produced a
course of active and important duties on the young lady’s, and as these
are materially connected with my narrative, it must be allowed me to
mention more particularly the advantages which had, at this period of my
history, accrued to Mrs. Dawson from her kind protection of Miss Otway.
Her age, her various talents, and her attractive virtues, had
contributed to form Marian Dawson’s mind, and to obviate the evils of
her mother’s unlimited indulgence. Till her marriage with Mr.
Hardcastle, to whom she had been engaged before she lost her father, and
whom from prudential motives she refused to marry when deprived of this
support, her whole attention had been given to Miss Dawson’s education;
and although the instructress and the pupil differed not in age more
than two or three years, nothing less than the blindest folly could have
overlooked the rich recompence which Mrs. Dawson derived from her
kindness to Miss Otway: the most perfect friendship and confidence
subsisted between the young women. Cowley was the intimate friend of Mr.
Hardcastle, though several years younger than himself, and few of Mrs.
Dawson’s connections doubted of the share which the Hardcastles had
taken in the unhappy dissentions caused by Mrs. Dawson’s ill-regulated
fondness to her child. It is certain, that both Mr. and Mrs. Cowley had
the concurrence of these friends in regard to the measures they pursued;
and with the most sanguine hopes of succeeding, they both engaged to
spare no pains in reconciling Mrs. Dawson to the temporary absence of
her son and daughter, nor in preparing her to expect Mr. Cowley to have
an establishment of his own at his return. Faithful to their
engagements, they in part effected their purpose. Their attentions
soothed the afflicted mother. She found that she was not wholly
abandoned; she talked of her poor unhappy child till compassion had
subdued resentment, and time had banished tears and bewailings; and Mrs.
Dawson again tasted the comforts of health, affluence, and friendship,
although still dead to the pleasure of _forgiveness_, probably, because
it was less painful to hate Cowley than to reproach herself.
Mr. Hardcastle’s succession to his uncle’s estate of about five or six
hundred pounds per annum, induced a change in his plans of life. He gave
up his profession in the law, and retired to his inheritance with his
lady and child, then an infant, Mrs. Dawson suffered little from this
change, for she passed months at a time with them in the country, and
enjoyed the variety of the seasons with health, and few regrets beyond
her usual topic for discontent. “Seven years a wife without the chance
of being a mother,” had not been unfrequently adverted to by Mrs.
Dawson, as a proof of Mr. Cowley’s demerits in the sight of Heaven. “He,
that so fervently wished for children! But his wretched temper would
have its punishments.” Alas! his fond and too eager wishes had most
unquestionably their disappointment in the hour of their fruition; for,
in consequence of a fever which no skill could overcome, he lost his
wife six weeks after she had given him a daughter. Mrs. Dawson sunk
under this heavy stroke. Nothing remained but her enmity to Cowley; and
in order to gratify this, she made her will. To Rachel Marian Cowley,
her grand-daughter, she bequeathed all her property; but subjected it to
conditions, which sufficiently marked her hatred to the infant’s father.
In case Mr. Cowley submitted to relinquish the rights of a parent, and
to place his daughter under Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle’s care, the child
was immediately after her decease to be conveyed to England, and given
into their protection. On this condition, she was entitled to the annual
interest resulting from the sum which constituted her fortune, and which
was vested in the public funds, to the amount of a capital which
produced more than six hundred pounds per annum. The father’s refusal to
concede to these terms, restricted her from the fortune till she was
twenty-one, or till she married with the consent of Mr. Hardcastle and
the other trustee appointed to this duty. In case of her death before
she could claim her fortune, the whole sum, with its accumulations, was
left to Mr. Hardcastle and his family. Satisfied with this disposition
of her worldly possessions, she appeared to have recovered her usual
health and composure, except when speaking of her grand-child. On these
affecting occasions, her only consolation appeared to rise from Mr. and
Mrs. Hardcastle’s reiterated promises to receive the child, whenever Mr.
Cowley should think it proper to claim their kind offices. They repeated
this assurance in the most solemn terms, and Mrs. Hardcastle, with
ceaseless labour, endeavoured to fix on her mind the persuasion, that
Mr. Cowley would think of no one but himself for so precious a charge.
Mrs. Dawson was suddenly removed by an apoplectic fit the following
winter; and Counsellor Steadman, her executor and trustee, in
communicating to Mr. Hardcastle the contents of Mrs. Dawson’s last will
and testament, was neither surprised nor offended at the sentiments his
old friend so warmly expressed, though they were so opposite to the
gratitude usually bestowed even on _contingent_ donations; and having
informed Mr. Cowley of this event, and its consequences, he left him to
determine at his leisure, on the fitness of Mrs. Dawson’s arrangements
for his daughter’s benefit and security.
During this period of time, the unhappy Mr. Cowley was giving the most
unequivocal and melancholy proofs to those about him, of the affection
he cherished for his amiable and lost Marian. A long and dangerous
illness had succeeded to her death, the consequence of his attendance,
fatigue, and grief; and when rescued from the grave by the vigour of his
constitution, his friends found his mind sunk into the deepest gloom.
From this deplorable condition, he was gradually roused by the sight of
his infant daughter. Happily the child was healthy, and had for its
preservation an attendant well qualified to supply a mother’s cares.
Mrs. Cowley, on quitting England, had fortunately secured in the female
attendant who accompanied her, more than the talents and fidelity of a
domestic. Mrs. Allen was a widow; she had been well instructed in her
youth, and matured in wisdom and knowledge by a natural good sense, and
the discipline of adversity. The _femme de chambre_ was forgotten in the
usual friend and companion of the voyage, and Mrs. Cowley introduced
Mrs. Allen to her new circle in a manner suitable to her merits. To this
excellent woman she in some sort bequeathed her infant, engaging her, in
the most affecting terms, to watch over the child till it was safe with
Mrs. Hardcastle, who had promised her to be its parent when in England.
This request was enforced by Mr. Cowley also; and Mrs. Allen forgot not
her obligations in the performance of her duty. From the time of her
lady’s death, as she always called Mrs. Cowley, she regularly
corresponded with Mrs. Hardcastle; and from her letters to this lady, I
have learned to judge both of Mr. Cowley’s attachment to his wife and
child, and of Mrs. Allen’s good sense. I shall transcribe a part of one
of the letters she wrote to Mrs. Hardcastle, when the child was
something more than three years old: it delineates the condition of a
father seeking refuge from sorrow in the indulgence of fondness, the
fruits of which are too often found in bitter repentance. After an
account of Mr. Cowley’s improved health, and incessant demands on her
little charge for the cheerfulness he still needed, she thus proceeds:
“Judge, my dear Madam, what must be the result of this excessive
fondness! what must be the condition of a being, liable to contradiction
and disappointment from the very tenure on which she holds her being,
who must never be controuled in her will, whose tears put Mr. Cowley
into a fever, and whose infant caprices are laws which no one dare to
disobey. Nature, my dear Madam, has formed her for a better purpose,
than subduing her father’s judgment by her attractive person and
irresistible vivacity. But with all the sportive charms of infancy,
with, I may say, redundant health and activity, with beauty to dazzle
all sober judgment that views her in her happy moments, she cannot
impose on me, nor quiet my apprehensions for her future life; for she
has passions which need the curb, and those are hourly strengthening.
Already she is more despotic with her father than he is with his slaves;
and my influence with her depends only on her generous nature. She
cannot bear to see me ‘grieve,’ to use her language: she has been just
making her dear Allen ‘_well_.’ This was the occasion: a young and
sweet-tempered negro girl in the house, has been with my concurrence
promoted to her nursery; she plays with her, and is docile to my
instructions. This, with the singular beauty she possesses, have gained
her an interest with me, and I have taught her to read, and the habits
of order. Marian was busy in making a cap for her doll this morning,
when summoned to romp with her little tyrant. She begged for _a
moment_—it was granted; but Marian still plied her needle: a blow on her
face was the rebuke her tardiness met with, and the poor girl’s tears
followed it. No ways softened, ‘her dear Missee’ cuffed and kicked her,
till I interposed, and, with a sorrowful tone, said, ‘I must leave you,
my child, you will make me sick and sorrowful, for I cannot love you.’
The storm was allayed; and taking Marian by the hand, she left me
without speaking a single word. In a short time she returned, leading
the poor girl laden with toys and her finery. ‘Marian loves me now,’
said she, creeping to my knees, ‘she has kissed me—will not you? I am
sorry. I will be good, if it will make you well;—do smile, only smile
once.’ Such is the child that claims your forming hand: have pity on
her, Madam; use your influence over her father, urge him to perform his
duty; every day she remains with him will render your task of love and
friendship more difficult.”
This letter produced its desired effect; for, some months after its
date, the following one appears to have been addressed to Mr.
Hardcastle, from Mr. Cowley. As it will serve to ascertain his
character, I shall transcribe its contents.—“Your wife has conquered, my
dear friend. I have at length summoned up resolution to be a parent and
a man. Good God! thou only knowest the price of the sacrifice to my
duty! and thou only canst render it propitious to thy creature! But I
will still hope in thy mercies. My child, Hardcastle, has been spared
hitherto; she has happily encountered, not only the diseases peculiar to
her tender age, but also the small-pox, which she has had, since our
last dispatches, in the mildest form, and is now in _perfect health_. To
what purpose has she been thus preserved? Not to be the victim of my
doating fondness. My promise to her dear mother shall be fulfilled, and
whilst it is yet time to save her from a father’s weakness. Captain
Vernon, who loved her mother, and whose attachment to this child is
little less than my own, shall be entrusted with her; and Mrs. Allen
will attend her. You may expect to see her with the next Jamaica fleet.”
“I have only to observe to you, as I have done to Counsellor Steadman,
that I consider Mrs. Dawson’s legacy to my daughter, as totally remote
from any calculations of her expences as my child; I shall never
interfere with him as to the disposal of the money. I have long since
forgotten Mrs. Dawson’s weaknesses and prejudices, nor did I need any
inducement for my conduct of the nature she supposed. My wife’s dying
request in regard to her infant, shall be religiously observed; and it
is an unspeakable consolation to me to know, that the friend whom she
appointed as her substitute, is as willing to engage in the duty as she
expected. I shall remit you annually eight hundred per annum for her and
Mrs. Allen’s maintenance under your roof. You know that this excellent
woman is bound by her engagement to her mother to serve her. You know
the station she has filled in my house since the death of my wife. Mrs.
Hardcastle is prepared to meet in her a valuable addition to her family:
she will not be disappointed; for her modest worth will ensure her a
welcome in any abode where virtue dwells.
“I entreat you, my dear Hardcastle, to curb your disinterested spirit,
whilst I indulge my provident one, as it relates to my child’s
accommodations. She must have a nursing maid, she will need a carriage;
and I have explained myself fully to the counsellor on these points. In
regard to my expectations as these relate to my child’s advantage, they
are incalculable! I fondly hope when we meet again to behold her adorned
in the attractive graces of modesty and gentleness, rich in piety, and
principled in duty: such was her mother, and to Mrs. Hardcastle was she
indebted for the example she rivalled. Forget not to prepare her for
wealth, she will be probably amongst the number of those whom the world
envies. Teach her, Hardcastle, the _duties_ annexed to wealth, and give
her those treasures that will amply supply the want of gold.”
The remaining part of the letter is suppressed as useless to the subject
before us, although it marks the utmost anxiety and tenderness for the
object of Mr. Cowley’s cares.
Rachel Cowley had nearly attained her fifth year, when she was joyfully
received in London by Mrs. Hardcastle. Mrs. Allen had prudently refused
to have any attendant with her on the voyage, and had not Captain
Vernon’s fondness for her pupil frustrated her designs, it is probable
the little rebel to authority might have appeared to greater advantage
in the eyes of wisdom than she did. But the extreme loveliness of her
person, her near affinity to a friend still tenderly regretted, and the
circumstances under which she beheld her, soon rendered Mrs. Hardcastle
favourably disposed towards a child whose misfortune it had been, to be
from her birth the idol of slaves, and the ruler of their master. A few
days were given to Mrs. Allen’s business and the child’s repose in town,
when they were conducted to the home which Heaven had graciously
destined for them.
Mr. Hardcastle’s house was a fit abode for its inmates, and from the
hour it became the family residence, Mr. Hardcastle had given up a
profession he never loved, and relinquished the pursuits of the
barrister for those of the farmer, and the indulgence of a taste which
had rendered his habitation an ornament to the adjacent country. The
little stranger was met at Worcester by Mr. Hardcastle and his two
children. This excursion was short for them, but its delights were of
importance, for it prepared the new comer for the pleasures of
Heathcot-Farm; and by the time the little group had reached the room
appointed for their recreation, the epithets of brother and sister were
become favourites. It may appear useless minutia to delineate the
characters of the children thus become our heroine’s playmates; but no
author is without opinions of his own: and in consequence of the
privileges which my own pen at this period of my history gives me, I
think it necessary to describe Mrs. Hardcastle’s pupils.
Lucy Hardcastle had nearly attained her eighth year, when her mother’s
duties were called upon in favour of Miss Cowley. Horace, her brother,
was not yet seven, and of a disposition so similar to that of the little
stranger, that he soon engrossed her favour and preference. Of Lucy it
might be said, that nature had cast her in a mould so perfect, that for
every proof of punctual care and tenderness, she paid “love—fair
looks—and true obedience.”
“Still thinking all too little payment for so great a debt,” the
judicious mother of these children had, from the first indications of
the difference which nature had marked in their characters, applied to
each the peculiar culture which each demanded; and though the bold and
vigorous shoots of her son’s ardent spirit were still unsubdued, yet she
had trained him to obedience and docility by the firmness and gentleness
of her guiding hand; and force could meet contradiction without
petulance. His activity, his gay and volatile spirits, endeared him to a
companion as fearless of danger and fatigue as himself, and whose
ingenuity rivalled his own in expedients to direct and enjoy every
interval of time allotted to play. In the first instance of Mrs.
Hardcastle’s exercise of her jurisdiction, she had found Horace a very
useful agent in her purposes of wisdom. Her new pupil, with infantile
fondness, was ambitious of learning all that Horace learnt, and she
became stationary at his elbow with her lesson whilst he studied his, in
order that she might run and frolic with him when his task was
accomplished. Without tracing the probable effects of these early
impressions on minds constituted to love and harmonize with each other,
it shall suffice, that it was frequently observed in the family, that
the habit of yielding up her will to Horace, was become so easy a lesson
to Rachel Cowley, that she practised compliance even with her
maid-servant. As she advanced in age, this preference became more useful
to her, and more noticed by those around her; and the obvious stimulus
to every exertion of her talents, was the wish to please her “brother
Horace.” Mrs. Hardcastle was gratified by the effects which had resulted
from the uniform principles of her pupil’s mind, and from which had
sprung the most promising of her hopes, as these fondly contemplated the
future excellencies and happiness of a young creature endeared to her
heart by time, and ties not less strong than those of the mother to a
favoured child. The good Mrs. Allen, engaged in her subordinate duties
of watching over the personal comforts of the children, saw with delight
the impetuosity of her darling’s temper gradually yielding to the mild
controul of the timid Lucy, and every angry passion bowing down to the
check of Horace’s eye. But Mr. Hardcastle, alive to every suggestion of
a mind scrupulously just, and whose acquaintance with the human heart
was founded on experience more than on the speculations of theorists and
philosophers, could without difficulty recal the period, at which, in
the elegant language of our poetress, he might himself have addressed
his wife when a girl of eleven or twelve years old with these harmonious
lines:
“When first upon your tender cheek
I saw the morn of beauty break
With mild and cheering beam,
I bow’d before your infant shrine,
The earliest sighs you had were mine,
And you my darling theme.
“I saw you in that opening morn,
For beauty’s boundless empire born,
And first confess’d your sway;
And e’er your thoughts, devoid of art,
Could learn the value of a heart,
I gave my heart away.”
The peculiar circumstances of fortune in which Miss Cowley had been left
by Mrs. Dawson’s will, her prospects in life, and above all, the
confidence which her father had placed in her principles, strengthened
his apprehensions for his son’s future conduct, and the consequences to
be expected from so apparent an attachment and sympathy in character, as
his vigilant eye detected in the mutual, though childish conversation of
a boy and a girl. He communicated his fears to his wife; and the
separation which followed, was the tribute which virtue and rectitude
exacted from the tender parents. Horace was sent to his maternal
uncle’s, to complete his education; and the same year Mrs. Hardcastle
commenced her annual visit to London, for three months, in order to give
her young charge, then in her twelfth year, the advantages of the
first-rate masters in those accomplishments which her fortune rendered
necessary. A circle of friends, who, like herself, conceived that no
girl beyond the age of infancy could be better placed than in the
drawing-room, in a society composed of both sexes, qualified and
disposed to be useful to their innocence and improvement, bounded Mrs.
Hardcastle’s town amusements, and spared her the lessons necessary to
the young candidate for notice, who at a certain age is emancipated from
the routine of a school, or a nursery in the attic; or in other words,
“brought out” for the gaze of idle curiosity, and to be disposed of to
the highest bidder.
Rachel Cowley’s introduction to the world was unmarked by any _eclat_ of
this kind; and whilst probably she and her friend Lucy were daily
acquiring good manners and knowledge, they neither suspected nor thought
of the extent of the obligations they were under to those who were
forming their minds, and determining their future taste for the
enjoyments of _rational_ and responsible beings.
During this period of Miss Cowley’s life, her father had gradually
recovered his health and spirits; urged by the remonstrances and
arguments of his friends, he had, on parting with his daughter, employed
his leisure, and diverted his mind by building a house on a newly
purchased plantation nearer to Kingston, and within the reach of a
friend to whom he was peculiarly attached. Amused by this object of
pursuit, he was led to other improvements of the spot; and in his new
abode he saw another Eden bloom, without the sad recollection which had
haunted his footsteps in the favourite retreat of his still regretted
wife and his beloved child. Mr. Cowley, in consequence of his multiplied
avocations, and the renewal of his social feelings, became satisfied
with mentioning from time to time his _intention_ of visiting England.
Mr. Hardcastle was no stranger to the real cause of his friend’s delay,
but his prudence concealed from his ward a subject of regret to himself,
and of concern to his wife and Mrs. Allen. The negro girl who had been
selected, for the sweetness of her temper and the graces of nature, as
the playmate in Miss Cowley’s nursery, had gained the notice of her
father, and had enjoyed Mrs. Allen’s attentions to her improvement in
useful learning. It had been debated whether Marian might not have been
serviceable to her young lady during the voyage: the proposal had been
rejected; for Mrs. Allen perfectly understood that the compliances of a
slave were not of that sort which her pupil needed. She therefore left
the girl to the care of the housekeeper, and in a condition of ease and
comfort under Mrs. Cowley’s roof. Poor Cowley was soothed in his first
depression of spirits on losing sight of his idol, by finding he had a
sharer in his sorrow; and he gratified his benevolence by being Marian’s
consoler. She in her turn solaced his lonely hours by talking of her
“dear missee,” and accompanying him in his walks. Habits of affection
and kindness were thus mutually formed, and gave rise to an attachment
incompatible with innocence and honour. At an early age Marian was
formally emancipated from her chains as a _negro slave_, in order to
bear the shackles of a mistress. But in this deviation from his hitherto
regular and moral conduct, Mr. Cowley forgot not _decorum_; his
favourite resided with privacy at the more remote plantation, which was
called the Creek Savannah, and he lived in the new house already
mentioned. His friends, who loved him, overlooked a frailty which
unfortunately was not particularly Mr. Cowley’s weakness: but they did
more; for they attributed his conduct to the steady purpose of remaining
unmarried for his daughter’s sake. Mr. Hardcastle’s opinions were not of
this pliant sort; but he well knew that his arguments would be lost on a
man who had silenced his own principles of religious observances:
certain that Miss Cowley had experienced no failure of her father’s
affection or generosity, he contented himself with performing his duty,
and providing against the consequences so unavoidably connected with Mr.
Cowley’s absence from his child. He well knew, that without the
reciprocal acts of love and duty, the ties of consanguinity would be
feeble. He had daily proofs that Miss Cowley was little affected by the
protracted promises contained in her father’s letters; that her
happiness was centered in the bosom of his family, and that the thought
of being separated from it, never occurred as within the line of
probability. Every means of prudence had been applied to obviate this
evil. Conversations had been purposely appointed, to keep up in her
memory “her dear father,” his affection for her, “his sacrifice of his
comforts for her benefit.” “His generosity and amiable temper” were
traced with minuteness; and her petitions to Heaven included mercies for
a parent, so justly entitled to her duty and love. These lessons of
wisdom had not been lost on the docile heart of the child. She listened
with pleasure to these tales of her “good papa,” and forgot him when
clinging to her “mamma Hardcastle.” As she advanced in age, Mr. and Mrs.
Hardcastle more assiduously attended to the views before them; and with
the entire persuasion of their own minds, that the time was rapidly
approaching, when Mr. Cowley would recal his daughter, they endeavoured
to prepare her for the summons. To this intent, Mrs. Hardcastle
sometimes read to her extracts from her mother’s letters, in which she
described the natural beauties of Jamaica; the society she had met with;
the estimation in which her husband was held; her own amusements and
happy life; and the activity and benevolent cares which supplied to her
husband an indemnification for the absence of his London friends.
Unacquainted with disguise, Miss Cowley left no doubt on Mrs.
Hardcastle’s mind as to the impressions which these letters and her
conversations produced. Anxious wishes for her father’s settling in
London, and a declared repugnance to living in Jamaica, were the
constant result of these attempts; and it was now become necessary to
call upon a reason sufficiently cultivated to yield an assent to every
argument of duty. Alarmed by an earnestness which she considered as
immediately springing from Mr. Hardcastle’s knowing her father’s
intention of recalling her home, she wrote to him a letter expressive of
her fears, and to implore him to leave a country in which _she_ should
be miserable. The reply to this letter is before me. Mr. Cowley assures
his daughter, that he has no intention of endangering her health and
safety in a voyage to him, nor any plans before him which will remove
her from the protecting arms of “her dear Mrs. Hardcastle.” He thus
proceeds: “The habits of many years have made my avocations pleasurable:
indecision and indolence stand in the way of your wishes and my own
views; yet I hope to be with you next year in your dear foggy island. Be
satisfied, my dear Rachel, with this assurance, and believe that my
procrastination proceeds from my regard for your happiness, not from any
abatement of my tenderness. You are, my child, under the eye of a
mother, qualified to render you worthy of the one who bore you. I am not
jealous of her ascendancy over you; tell her so; and that you have my
permission to love her as tenderly as you can. She will be too just and
too generous to monopolize your whole heart; but she will not forget to
decorate that corner of it which your father occupies, and which a
husband may share, with the ornament which passeth shew. Continue, as
you have done, to deserve her maternal cares, and remain the hope of
your truly affectionate father,
“HENRY COWLEY.”
“P. S. I write to Hardcastle, and Captain Vernon will inform you of my
good looks, tho’ not in the rapturous style in which he speaks of my
lovely girl, and his Heathcot holidays.”