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IN FOUR VOLUMES.

BY MRS. HUNTER, OF NORWICH,

AND SOLD BY W. EARLE, NO. 47, ALBEMARLE STREET; GEORGE ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER ROW; B. CROSBY AND CO. STATIONER'S COURT; THO. OSTELL, AVE MARIA LANE; AND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS.

INTRODUCTION.

It is, however, indispensably necessary, that I should prepare the way for her appearance as a candidate for public notice; and with as much of brevity as of fidelity, do I intend to make my first chapter useful to this purpose, by detailing such particulars of her family, birth, and circumstances of fortune, as are requisite for the better knowledge and illustration of those occurrences which engaged her time and attention, and furnished the principal subjects for her pen.

LADY MACLAIRN,

THE

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."

"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.

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.

"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."

Mrs. Hardcastle's death appeared for a time to have overwhelmed the family with all the force of a sudden and unexpected blow; every one wanted consolation, but none was found who could administer it. Mr. Hardcastle was the first who was capable of exertions; he recollected Lucy, and the feelings of the husband awakened those of the father. Religion sheds its balm on its true votaries: domestic comfort succeeded; and Mr. Hardcastle in contemplating the child before him, blessed Heaven for the solace it gave to his sorrow.

Miss Hardcastle, fully convinced that nothing could be gained in favour of prudence and circumspection during the influence of hopes so sanguine in favour of love, suffered her friend's earnestness to abate, without opposing her fond belief by producing those difficulties which she foresaw would arise to baffle her intentions and to disturb her brother's happiness. She soon quitted the room, in order to consider those steps necessary to its security, and the conduct she had to pursue. But Lucy Hardcastle had been taught to consider a positive duty as liable to no appeal from inclination. She knew, that, in order to prevent Miss Cowley's growing attachment to her brother, her parents had yielded up a point, on which depended their highest satisfactions. Her mother had frequently mentioned losing sight of her son, as one of those privations which had exercised her fortitude in a peculiar degree; and that she could never have supported his absence from his father's tuition, and her own love, but from the considerations of the duty she owed to Mr. Hardcastle, and the reverence she felt for his judgment. With this example before her, Lucy hastily repaired to her father and ingenuously imparted to him her own suspicions. "Disposed as I am," continued she smiling, "to favour those lovers, I think it my duty, my dear Sir, to refer myself to you. I shall soon be Rachel's confidant, and governed as I shall be, by my affection for her and for my brother, I may be led to oppose your will, and frustrate your plans of wisdom and prudence. I am certain that their early attachment is confirmed and strengthened by their respectively discovering the improvements which time has produced in both."

On reassuming his composure, he proceeded to inform his daughter, that he had, for nearly a week, been hesitating in what manner to answer an application, which Mr. Freeman, her uncle, had transmitted to his consideration, relative to Horace. "You have, my dear girl, been useful to your father; by your information," added he, "I shall no longer want resolution. In regard to Miss Cowley, remember that I wish not to interrupt the confidence which subsists between you, nor will I tempt your honesty by a single question. You know the reasons which force me to refuse to your brother an object so worthy of his admiration, and my tender regard. I leave to your prudence to point out the conduct you ought to pursue with your friend; and after you have perused your uncle's letter, you will be prepared to mention to her Horace's removal from England."

Poor Lucy felt that virtue had its conflicts in her bosom; and hastily retiring, gave herself up to the regret of having, by her interference, doomed her brother to an undetermined course of banishment.

Kind as this letter was, it alarmed Miss Cowley. She once more renewed her entreaties on the subject of her father's leaving Jamaica; and in the most unequivocal terms declared her repugnance to any matrimonial overtures. "Let me conjure you, my dear Sir," urged the apprehensive pleader, "to return to England, and to renew with me those endearing ties of an undivided duty and the purest gratitude. I seek to emulate my mother, but it shall be in first shewing that I am your child, and not as a wife. Oh, let me for a time be your own Rachel Cowley!"

Mr. Cowley finishes this letter by mentioning the steps he had taken preparatory to quitting the island; and, with much satisfaction, informs his daughter that he has retained Mr. Flamall as his agent: he enlarges on this gentleman's talents and capacity for business, and concludes with the highest eulogium on his manners and agreeable qualities.

It appears that the honourable veteran in the service of Neptune and Bacchus, delivered, as was usual, this packet and his sweetmeats, in person, at Heathcot, where he passed a few days with a young creature, who, from her birth, had shared in his warm heart an affection which he had carried to idolatry for her mother.

His account of his patron, Mr. Cowley, by no means tallied with the apparent ease and gaiety contained in the letters he brought; and Mr. Hardcastle was told that Mr. Cowley had been seized with a fit whilst at Mr. Flint's table, which dreadfully alarmed all present: happily a medical gentleman was one of the guests, and immediate relief was given. "It has shaken him," added the captain; "but we hope he will rally again. I saw him the day I embarked; he made me promise not to say a word of this business to you; but I did not like his looks, and I thought he walked but poorly: God grant I may see him in my next trip! It should be the last labour of the Charlotte. She was launched to carry him and his angel wife to Jamaica; and if she swims safely till he is with his daughter, she will have been a lucky vessel to me." He passed his hand over his eyes, and whistled away an emotion that he could not otherwise conquer.

The captain's apprehensions were but too well founded. Mr. Cowley lived not to reach England. A second and third attack of the palsy proved fatal; and poor Vernon found at his return many mourners to sympathize with him in a sorrow legitimately founded on his knowledge of the man, and on gratitude to his benefactor. We will pass over in silence the effects which this melancholy intelligence produced at Heathcot-Farm. Miss Cowley was roused from the deepest dejection of spirits by the events which succeeded to the first shock. Mr. Steadman summoned her and Mr. Hardcastle to London; and with precautions, which he judged necessary, placed before the orphan a copy of her late father's will, which, with all its requisite documents, had been formerly sent to him by the executor, Mr. Flamall.

The contents were, indeed, calculated to astonish and afflict his daughter. She was named as the successor to his fortune in the usual terms. His property stood answerable, however, for the provision of his two natural children and their mother. These children were boys, the eldest not yet ten years old. To each was bequeathed five thousand pounds; to the mother three hundred pounds per annum. To the survivor of the boys this property devolved, unless the mother lived till the children had both reached twenty-one, in which case her annuity was to be divided between them. To Mrs. Allen two thousand pounds; bequests to some domestics, and hundred-pounds rings to several friends; amongst these Counsellor Steadman, Mr. Hardcastle, and Mr. Oliver Flint were named. Mr. Flamall, with a thousand pounds legacy, was named as the guardian of his two sons, and appointed agent for the trust of superintending his concerns in Jamaica. An income of five hundred pounds per annum was annexed to this trust; and provision was made for Mr. Flamall's residence at whichever of the plantations he chose for his abode. The important clause next follows, and in these words nearly: "Having had the most unequivocal proofs of the integrity of those trustees named by Mrs. Dawson, for the security of her property in favour of Rachel Cowley, he still leaves to their wisdom the entire management of the trust in their hands; but it behoved him to shew to the world, and to his daughter, that he had neither relinquished his rights as a parent, nor been unmindful of the duties annexed to the name of a father; and, not doubting his child's ready obedience to his commands, he had, with the concurrence of the parties most nearly concerned, chosen her a husband in the person of Philip Flint, &c." On the celebration of this marriage Mr. Flamall's jurisdiction terminated, as far as it related to Miss Cowley. She was immediately to enter into the full and unconditional enjoyment of her fortune when she became Mr. Philip Flint's wife.

Miss Cowley assented to this advice, and determined to be governed by her zealous friend; secretly hoping, that the restrictions of her father's will, to which she appeared disposed to submit, would at least secure her from the solicitations of lovers; and thus silence Mr. Hardcastle's scruples in regard to his son.

Before she left Mr. Steadman, she saw her formal rejection of Mr. Philip Flint dispatched to her new guardian. Counsellor Steadman wrote this letter, and Miss Cowley's attestation of its being dictated by her, satisfied her, that she had crushed the hopes of the insolent pretender to her hand. Her natural cheerfulness returned, and Lucy found her friend the better for the little journey. But this season of tranquillity lasted not many months; a letter from Mr. Flamall, which it is necessary to transcribe here, will assign the cause of new anxieties at Heathcot-Farm. Mr. Flamall, who seemed to consider Mr. Steadman as the only friend of Miss Cowley, and, as a professional man, the proper medium through which his authority was to be announced to the heiress, thus writes to him:

Soon after, the following letter was in his hands; its contents will evince to the reader, the solicitude of Miss Cowley's friends at once to ascertain the safety of her removal from them.

"Bishops-Auckland, Durham.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,

"My short residence in this part of the world, will unavoidably subject the intelligence you require to errors, notwithstanding my zeal and diligence. The truth is, that, as I have only the voice of the parish of Tarefield and its environs for my authorities, I am forced to place before you the history of a family at once peculiarly marked as the object of a fond partiality, and of inveterate hatred. I leave to you to sift and resift the documents thus obtained: for my history includes a number of years and facts which are still the topics of conversation in this neighbourhood.

"It is no unpleasing nor unprofitable reflection, my good friend, to trace in my gleanings relative to this family, the pure and genuine love of justice with which the heart of man is endowed by his gracious Maker. Neither the wealth nor station of Miss Flint have been able to screen her from the odium of those about her. Percival Flint has more homage paid him than if lord of the manor-house; and with the stipend annexed to an invalid captain of marines, a wooden leg, and his niece Howard in his hand, confers an honour on every cottage he enters. The farmer, at whose house they live, has acquired an influence and authority in the parish beyond what his opulence would give him; 'for every thing has prospered with Mr. Wilson from the hour he sheltered Mr. and Mrs. Howard.' Such is the belief here.

"To conclude. It appears that Mr. Philip Flint has been carefully educated, and is a young man of spirit. The usual comments on him finish with, 'Aye he is too good for those to whom he belongs! they could not spoil him; but he will never be worthy to carry his brother Malcolm's shoes.' You will translate these expressions to this young man's advantage, for they bespeak his worth.

"Depend, however, on one thing as certain: Sir Murdock Maclairn is no fit instrument for cunning or baseness. His wife is an unoffending, depressed woman: I am told she is highly accomplished. Miss Howard is now I find with her aunt Miss Lucretia. The captain occasionally visits the hall. The baronet is regaining his health; and Malcolm is a second AEneas. Whatever be the result of your measures, recollect that Miss Cowley is within my reach; and prepare her to expect a steady and vigilant protector

"In your sincere friend,

"GEORGE WOODLEY."

Few of my readers will refuse their sympathy to the dejected and faithful guardian during this anxious period. With a father's apprehensions, Mr. Hardcastle saw youth and beauty torn from his protecting care; and with anguish of soul, did he now contemplate the traits of his pupil's mind, and the charms of her person; but of this person no more will be said, than applying to Rachel Cowley the poet's interrogation,

Having now brought my readers to the point in which my history may be said to commence, I hasten to place before them a correspondence, which will better serve my purpose than any talents I possess. I shall content myself in future with supplying the few breaks I find in the narrative; and leave the reader to judge of my discernment in thinking the unstudied language of truth and nature better than any I could substitute in their place. Miss Cowley shall speak for herself.

TAREFIELD, JUNE 24th.

TAREFIELD.

Your father's wisdom in hurrying you away to Barton-lodge, instead of permitting you to remain at Heathcot, like another Niobe, dissolving in tears, is so like him, that it neither surprises me nor Mrs. Allen; and if the cheerful mistress of the most cheerful mansion contentment ever found, cannot comfort you, I shall be angry and chide my Lucy.

At this moment my eyes encountered those of Sir Murdock's, and my heart smote me; for in language more touching than sounds of harmony could impart, they said, "Pity me, for I am the child of sorrow; respect me, for I am acquainted with grief." I blushed, and forgot Malvolio.

I find, however, many good-sized rooms within; and when we get acquainted with the five staircases, and as many thresholds, we shall, I believe, have seen all that is curious in the manor-house, commonly called Tarefield-hall. I must not, however, omit as its beauty, a noble avenue of elms and horse-chesnuts, the latter in full bloom, and which embellishes the dull scenery around. This avenue is flanked on each side by a rising plantation of some extent, and is devoted to modern improvement; the walks are neat and trim, and it is filled with shrubs.

Now mark me, Lucy: here I am at Tarefield; and here does my history finish, unless you are good and tractable. Horace was not even named in your last letter.--This will not do. You had better not provoke me: I have rich materials before me, but I will have my price for them. Take in the mean time the kiss of peace from your

RACHEL COWLEY.

She had no sooner finished her fluttered welcome, than she presented to me the Brobdingnagian, Miss Lucretia Flint, who, in a stiff green damask gown and petticoat, might have conveyed to a soberer imagination than mine the idea of a mountain clothed in the livery of spring; but on raising my eyes to measure its elevation, a stern countenance of "Burdoth's" sort intercepted my curiosity, and I caught only a glimpse of its snowy summit. She condescended to bend, and offered me her glowing cheek, which I approached with fear and trembling. In order to recover myself, I begged Sir Murdock to introduce me to his son, who had modestly kept at a distance. He made his bow; and we began to chat on the little occurrences of the journey. "You must have found it very tiresome," observed the stately Miss Flint, fixing her eyes on the contented baronet, "I am sure I have pitied you, Miss Cowley." "Pitied me!" repeated I, with an air of astonishment, "I wished our journey had been as long again! and could Sir Murdock have forgotten the road to Tarefield, I would have kidnapped him, and made the tour of England." The saver of links and torches was silenced, and I talked with Malcolm Maclairn of a country and a route which he appeared to know perfectly.

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