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Outalissi; a Tale of Dutch Guiana (1826)

Outalissi; a Tale of Dutch Guiana

(1826)–Christopher Edward Lefroy–rechtenstatus Auteursrechtvrij

Vorige Volgende

Chapter XVI. The Conversion.

 
     ‘Beside the bed,
 
Where sorrow, pain, ad guilt, by turns dismay'd,
 
The reverend champion stood; at his controul,
 
Despair and anguish fled, the struggling soul,
 
Mercy came down the trembling wretch to raise,
 
And his last faultering accents whisper'd praise.’
 
     Goldsmith.

The morning after the execution, Edward Bentinck called at the apartments of Mr. Cotton in

the gaol, to acquaint him and his daughter with the proceedings of the preceding morning, and the result of his application to the governor in obedience to the wishes which had been conveyed to him in Miss Cotton's letter. On his entrance, Matilda was sitting by the side of the bed to which her father, from the rapid declension of his strength, was now almost entirely confined; and although the former was herself in a considerable fever from the agitation in which her spirits had

been kept since she came to Paramaribo, the expression of pensive melancholy in her beautiful countenance, lighted by a momentary flush of animation, and perhaps even indefinable hope and pleasure on the appearance of Edward, the perfect symmetry and graceful composure of her person, the elegant simplicity, chastity, and propriety of her dress, the exquisite cleanliness and beauty of her luxuriant hair, contrasted with the strong lines of self-corrosion and disquietude which prevailed in the masculine features of Mr. Cotton, inflamed by a high fever and the irritation of great bodily pain; as well as the grated window and dungeonlike appearance of the room, although furnished with as much comfort as wealth could contrive in such a place, made her look less like an inhabitant of the earth than heaven, and conveyed to the spectator's imagination the idea of the guardian angel of the sufferer, waiting for the tear of penitence which should open the gates of paradise to his reclaimed and rescued spirit.

‘Mr. Bentinck,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘although you see the state to which you have brought me, I should not have died in peace without an opportunity of thanking you for your exertions during the fire, in the rescue of a life compared with which, as you well know, (notwithstanding the

contrast of our minds upon some subjects,) I have ever lightly regarded my own; I mean, that of the dear child that now sits by me.’

‘My exertions on that occasion,’ said Edward, ‘were more than repaid to my own heart by their success, if you would allow them now so far to plead for me as to procure for me your attention, and it would not exhaust you to indulge me with it for a few minutes, whilst I explain the appearance of duplicity which I fear in your estimation must naturally have attended my instrumentality in your present situation, you would make me the only return I should ever presume to ask for them.’

‘I shall listen to you with pleasure,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘as I have ever thought too well of you not to rejoice in the vindication of your character from the injurious effect of any conduct that appeared unworthy of a man of honour. With regard to the slave trade, Matilda has put the guilt of it in such a light to me since my confinement to this place, that at all events I renounce it for ever , but still considering the footing you were upon with us at Anne's Grove, there seemed something of treachery in your denouncing us to the government without any intimation of your intention.’

The time having now expired during which Edward Bentinck had bound himself to secrecy, and

having received besides a message from his informant that morning, to say that he was now safe again on board his old favourite sloop, the Saucy Anne, and to release him consequently from his engagement of suppressing his name, of which he might therefore make whatever use he pleased; Edward had no longer any scruple of explaining the equivocal appearances which he confessed were rather against him, by a plain statement of the motives and circumstances by which he had been influenced; namely, that he had, inadvertently perhaps, committed himself to a solemn assurance of concealing the name of his informant (which of course rendered him obnoxious to the suspicion that the information originated with himself) before he knew that it implicated Mr. Cotton, or indeed any thing of its import; that he could not give Mr. Cotton any warning of his impeachment without the danger of his communicating it to Captain Légere, time enough to have enabled him to escape with his vessel. That the implacable unscrupulous vengeance with which such a man would have pursued the author of his information, if he had suspected it to have been a friendless British seaman in a foreign colony, was as well known to Mr. Cotton as to himself. That he (Mr. Bentinck) knew further, that the punishment of slave-

trading by the Dutch laws did not extend to life, but merely to a fine of five thousand guilders and five years' imprisonment;* the former of which he knew could not have occasioned to a man of Mr. Cotton's substance one hour's anxiety; and of the latter he had every reason to believe that his influence with the colonial authorities would ensure a mitigation, if not (after a little time) a total remission. At the same time he would not deny that the trade was so full of enormity in his opinion, so revolting to every sentiment of humanity, and in such daring defiance of the laws of God, written upon every man's natural conscience, as well as both the letter and spirit of revealed religion, that, before he received the deposition of the British sailor, he sometimes felt that he could not have deferred much longer acquainting government with what fell under his own observation, without contracting negatively a very considerable degree of guilt; that, in that case however he should certainly have previously expressed to Mr. Cotton the impossibility of his conniving at it in future, consistently with his sense of duty either to God or man, but which, in the present case, the promise exacted from him by his informant had prevented; that, at all events, when Mr. Cotton

reflected that the step he had taken was at the imminent risk of an irreparable rupture with him, and of the consequent sacrifice of all further intercourse with his family, for one member of which he would no longer affect to conceal the devotion of heart which he had cherished, and the hopes (which, in spite of his frequent challenge to himself of their presumption and unattainableness) he had irresistibly indulged, he felt confident that he would at least admit that he had acted in obedience to a stern sense of disinterested duty, and in denial of every personal inclination, however mistaken or extravagant he might think his views of duty upon the particular practice in question.

‘Well, Mr. Bentinck,’ said Mr. Cotton, (the expression of severe pain on his features relaxing for a moment into a smile of half playful benignity; for he had not been blind to the mutual impressions made upon each other by Edward and Matilda, and independently of what he had hitherto considered as Edward's abuse of hospitality in originating an information against him for what he had observed during his visits to the plantation, did not feel any insurmountable objection to their indulgence,) ‘I confess you have placed the disinterestedness of your motives in so strong a point of view as to incline me at any rate to acquit your

honour; but perhaps, if I acquit your honour, it must be at the expense of your gallantry; for in defending yourself, you seem to expose one of my own most confidential subjects to the charge of a sort of misprision of treason, or at least a concealment of something upon which it would have been both her wisdom and duty to consult me. - What do you think, Matilda? Did Mr. Bentinck ever make such a confession to you before as that which is comprised in the latter part of what you have just heard from him?’

‘Yes, papa,’ said Matilda, with the unembarrassed gracefulness and simplicity of truth and conscious integrity; ‘he did before we left the country, but I charged him never to recur to the subject, and would not but in your presence, or with your knowledge, even have received from him any explanation of that part of his conduct from which we have all so much suffered.’

There was a little something of reproach in the expression accompanying this reply of Matilda, which excited in Edward a considerable doubt whether his vindication had been as satisfactory to her as it appeared to her father; or whether it arose (which is more probable, as young ladies are very tenacious of their prerogatives in such points) from a dislike of being taken by surprise rather, in

such a confession on his part, which was necessarily calculated to extort from her a more unreserved and irrevocable disclosure of her own heart than she might otherwise perhaps have so soon chosen to confide to him.

‘If,’ said Edward, ‘the declaration of ardent admiration of Miss Cotton, which I have just made, appears a little too abrupt, I beg to disclaim the slightest intention or desire of drawing through you any reply from her unless she is perfectly prepared to bestow one. I earnestly trust you will neither of you so misinterpret me as to suppose me capable of such a design. You cannot, I think, but see that I had scarcely an alternative of avowing it, as it was a fact of indispensable importance to my exculpation, or at least to the demonstration of the disinterestedness and purity of my motives in those steps by which I have had the misfortune to incur a forfeiture, or rather, as I would still earnestly hope, a suspension of your good opinion and confidence.’

‘Mr. Bentinck,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘to a question of such extreme moment to my daughter's happiness as that implied in your candid explanation of this morning, I will take upon myself at once to answer for her, as I think I am sufficiently in possession of her sentiments, although she has never

formally communicated them to me, and I know that I am sufficiently sensible of her inestimable worth and goodness to justify and require me to exercise one of the most important and responsible duties of parental authority. That the effects of your philanthropy have in one particular extended farther than you contemplated, I will not for a moment dispute; for I have little doubt that I shall be the victim of it. There is something within me that convinces me that I shall never leave this prison, at the same time I begin to fear that most of my principles, and the personal conduct which has been the necessary fruit of them in other respects, besides the practice of the slave trade, are very indefensible; and if my forebodings are true I have but a short time to attempt any atonement, let me at least by one act of magnanimity before I die redeem my character from utter obloquy. Matilda! my dear, give me your hand! Mr. Bentinck! the good opinion with which I have always regarded you is now completely confirmed. I am satisfied that you are a man of truth, honour, and courage; and if I did not think it would be a profanation of religion in a man of my habits to presume to judge of it, I would add conscientious Christianity, and I know my daughter entertains the same opinion of you. Take, this hand - Ma-

tilda, my dear, do not now for the first time in your life refuse me your obedience - I confidently commit its owner to your protection and constancy, but remember it is upon one condition, viz. that you relinquish your profession. You will find yourself amply provided for without it.’

‘My dear papa!’ cried Matilda, as she extended her hand across the bed to Edward Bentinck, at the same time hiding her face in her father's bosom, and bursting into tears, ‘you have always been too good to me.’

As for our hero, quite unprepared by the commencement of Mr. Cotton's speech for the benevolence of its conclusion, and overpowered by the conflicting emotions of regret for the state into which he felt that he had (however innocently) brought him, gratitude for his inestimable benefaction, admiration of his magnanimity, the deepest devotion of attachment, amounting almost to adoration of Matilda, soldier as he was, he must either have sunk upon the ground or given way to a flood of tears, if he had not rushed out of the room; he could only press to his heart and lips the hand which had been given him, and stammer out, ‘this is too much sir,’ as he relinquished it, but not till a single tear had fallen on the back of it,

which its lovely owner did not disdain to leave unreproved in its possession.

Nothing could be more distressing or embarrassing than the situation of Matilda, in regard to the duty of impressing upon her father's attention the subject of religion. The crisis of tropical fevers may often be fatally determined by agitation of mind. The physicians, therefore, are always enjoining the patient and his friends to avoid every topic which has the least tendency to produce discomposure. Hitherto, therefore, satisfied with the repeated promise which she had exacted of the medical attendants that they would inform her the moment they apprehended any danger, Matilda had cautiously abstained from adverting to Mr. Cotton's infidelity; but she was too good a nurse not to know that a presentiment in the patient himself of a fatal issue to such a fever was the most unequivocal symptom of danger, and indeed sure almost (if there was none otherwise) to realize itself. Knowing also how unscrupulously medical men often practise deception with regard to danger where they apprehend any prejudicial consequences from its disclosure, both upon the patient and his family, she determined not to delay another moment in the discharge of what she con-

sidered a duty paramount to all. As soon, therefore, as Mr. Bentinck was withdrawn, - ‘My dear papa,’ said she, ‘for my sake you must not indulge such desponding opinions of your situation as you just now expressed. The doctors assure me there is no danger: now, therefore, whilst you cannot suppose it to proceed from any such apprehension on my part, I have a request to prefer, your compliance with which will contribute more to the promotion of my peace and happiness than all your former bounties, even than that anticipation of my heart's inmost wishes (as I will now confess it to be) that you have made this morning; it is that you would allow me to send for Mr. Austin,* and hear how far he can satisfy your objections to the truth of Christianity. He is a clergyman of the church of England, and you know some traits in his character, which your own disdain of sycophancy has always inclined you to appreciate.’

‘O! my dear child,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘do not press me upon that point; my objections can never be satisfied. If any one could convince me of the truth of Christianity, you would: the sweet consistency and purity of such a life as yours has

more weight with me than folios of written argument; were all nominal Christians like you, the influence of its principles upon the happiness of society would be so benign as to comprise in itself an overbearing evidence of its divine origin.’

‘But all people have some moral belief, papa,’ said Matilda; ‘some standard of moral responsibility to which they but partially conform their conduct? Why should the inconsistencies of Christians be a greater evidence against the truth of their creed, than the inconsistencies of infidels against the truth of theirs?’

‘Not greater,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘but it is an evidence against all, therefore I believe none, or at least doubt all.’

‘O! papa,’ said Matilda, ‘don't do yourself so much injustice. I know you believe in the value of some of the noblest principles of social morality - the sanctity of confidence, the obligation of pecuniary punctuality, the meanness of deceit, subterfuge, and sycophancy, the dignity and nobleness of truth; but to make it obvious that the inconsistency of its professors is no argument against the truth of any faith, does it, for example, afford the slightest evidence to the conscience of any one that murder is not a crime of the deepest dye, and obnoxious to the vengeance of heaven, that indi-

viduals frequently commit it notwithstanding their intimate conviction of its guilt?’

Matilda did not mean by this illustration to excite any train of personal reflections in her father in reference to the wholesale murder practised in the slave trade, (although she had before endeavoured to make him see it in that light,) as he probably had never considered the unhappy Africans as fellow creatures, - or to the case of her broken-hearted mother, or any other case of indirect instrumentality in the destruction of life; but conscience is very quick and faithful in her exemplifications, and after a momentary struggle with himself, which appeared to give him great pain and a transient expression of anger, Mr. Cotton said, ‘You are right, Matilda! that vengeance has now overtaken your unhappy father - send for a clergyman.’

Overjoyed at having gained this great point with her father, Matilda could only say, ‘it is impossible, papa, that such constant goodness as yours to me should not draw down a blessing upon yourself,’ and once more kissing him amidst her tears, and inwardly offering to heaven a fervent deprecation of the vengeance of which he had expressed a fear, she left him to despatch a note to Mr. Austin, in which she requested his attendance

in the evening, and it was not many hours before the arrival of that gentleman (in willing obedience to the summons which he had received) was announced.

As the clergyman approached Mr. Cotton's bed the latter said to him, ‘I have sent for you, sir; perhaps only to increase the bitterness of death by inviting you to demonstrate the truth of a system by which I must be condemned. Still to shut his eyes to the light is the part of neither a brave man nor an honest one. I confess to you that I have been for many years an infidel in the truth of Christianity, and have acted in too much defiance of its restraints; but as I now believe myself to be dying, I will not disguise that I am not without considerable misgivings as to many both of my opinions and practices.

 
“Faults in the life breed errors in the brain,
 
And these reciprocally those again.”

I do not wish to go out of life under a false peace, or an impotent bravado, and as I think I have courage to look my condition fairly in the face, however desperate; will you state to me as shortly as you can the sources from which you derive the most satisfactory evidence to your own mind of the truth of that extraordinary dispensation

which, in some of its provisions, is just what a man in my situation stands in need of, if he could but convince himself of their reality.’

‘I derive my conviction,’ said Mr. Austin, ‘from within and from without, from the response of every honest heart to the anti-selfish and unearthly purity of the spirit, and the precepts of Christianity; had it been of earth, its doctrines, like those of all other religions, must have been more sensual; but all its tendencies being heavenward, from heaven it must have sprung. I derive it from the existence of evil; at every step, even of life's purest enjoyments, surgit aliquid amari; whence is this, unless as Christianity explains it, evil must be inherent in the Being who is the author of evil. To ascribe evil to the author of nature, therefore, is to ascribe to Him defect, for evil is defect, and defect is irreconcileable to the perfection manifested in his works, and to the limits which are evidently set to the irruptions of evil upon that perfection by some power superior to its author. The author of evil, therefore, must be the enemy of the author of nature, and have superinduced it upon his works; what solution, therefore of this great moral phenomenon can be offered to us more probable and agreeable to reason, more analogous to our own innate sense of justice,

than that which is presented by Christianity and Christianity alone: viz. that the struggle which man is involved in, between good and evil, is the result of his having lent himself to the designs of some enemy, both of his maker and himself, and thereby implicated himself in his guilt, and inextricably entangled himself (inextricably by his own powver) in his punishment, and in a state of perpetual collision with the will of God; that his present state is, therefore necessarily, one as well of moral penalty as moral discipline. But, blessed be God, there is for man a provision of moral recovery and mercy, of which every individual has, probably, the same freedom of availing himself as he would have had to stand or fall, had he stood in the place of our first progenitors. Free agency is indispensable to moral intelligence, without it man could not have heen a moral being, the next descending link of animated creation being that of instinct. The possibility of falling was essential to free agency, Satan fell irredeemably, because of his own inherent pravity - his own ungoverned lust of power and knowledge; man fell, but not solely by his own impatience of controul, but by the seduction of another. That some mystery on the origin and permission of evil, and the mode of countervailing it, as well as other points, still re-

mains unexplained by Christianity, is not because in themselves they do not admit of explanation, or because the divine founder and object of the Christian faith could not have explained them to a commensurate order of intelligence, but because an intelligence so finite as man's could not have comprehended the explanation, if given, or a language so finite have conveyed it; can any human science be explained to an individual of which the principles exceed his capacity? That there must be subjects which exceed all finite capacities, is self-evident, or the capacities would not be finite, but infinite. That some mystery, therefore, should remain unremoved in a religion professing to explain man's moral relationship to his maker; the connection of finite intelligences with an infinite intelligence, and of things finite with infinitude, so far from being a rational objection to its truth, seems essential to it, and rather a presumption in its favour, if the explanation, as far as it goes, is homogeneal to man's moral nature and the circumstances in which he actually stands. That man is a fallen creature, a moral ruin, that some great lapse has prostrated his rational dignity - some great change superseded his original moral conformation; - surely, surely,’ continued Mr. Austin, ‘is a fact, which acquires more and more

incontestability to every one's daily experience of himself and others, and the impression of which is co-progressive with the growth and expansion of the understanding, from childhood or barbarism to maturity and general knowledge, whence otherwise is our universal conception of ideals, of moral purity, and excellence, of which the present world supplies no realisation? A union of goodness and happiness, which the old often ascribe to the young, and the young to the old, which even bad men sometimes sigh for, and good men (although distantly) approach? Whence, I ask, these models of ideal excellence in every human bosom - this perception of moral beauty, unless from the outlines of a nobler original structure being still perspicuous to the melancholy spirit that now so painfully occupies its ruins? Surely then, what all the best men hope for, may be true; what none but bad men wish fallacious, must.’

‘You stagger me, sir,’ interrupted Mr. Cotton; ‘but, oh, if Christianity is the divine key for the solution of the moral phenomena of our nature, why are not its evidences written upon the sun and moon, that all doubt in all, might be overborne by sensible proof?’

‘Because, sir,’ said Mr. Austin, ‘a faith so compelled (id est, by miracle and sensible evidence

exclusively) would comprehend no such subduction of man's reasoning pride, no such discipline of his understanding or heart, as invariably results from the honest and patient exercise of both in the examination of the evidences as they now stand; if, indeed, the decalogue were inscribed upon the sun, men would scarcely deny its divine authority, but they would evade its design or excuse their disobedience of it, or by some commutation of its spirit for its letter, entirely defeat all its practical value, as the Jews invariably did. Besides, surely, it is more consistent that some portion at least of the evidences of a dispensation, designed for an intelligent being, should be of a nature (such as history and prophecy) to address themselves rather to his rational than his animal faculties. But that nothing might be wanting to satisfy an honest heart of the divine origin of Christianity, and meet any sincere doubt that might arise from consciousness of the limited periscope of the human reason, and a distrust in the sufficiency of its powers, upon historical and moral evidence alone, to decide so-much-involving a question, the miracles which accompanied its introduction to the world are abundant, and abundantly attested; - and one perpetual miracle (including at once the evidence of both miracle and prophecy) still continually

presses itself upon our attention in the actual state and condition of the Jews. But those who would urge as a plea for their infidelity a diffidence in the competence of their own power and learning, to appreciate the arguments in favour of Christianity, I would earnestly remind of the number of illustrious human witnesses that have lived and died in the profession of its faith to defer nothing to whose opinion is surely inconsistent in such infidels with the admission of their own subordinate capacity: not to go back into the early ages of the church and attempt to enumerate the noble army of martyrs, or even beyond our own protestant country, I would merely remind them of such names as Bacon, Boyle, Locke, Milton, Baxter, Hale, Newton, Jenyns, Jones, Johnson, Chillingworth, Watts, Doddridge, Warburton, Horseley, Porteus, and Paley.* Now, these men and a host of other Christian advocates, both conformists and nonconformists, with whose names I am less familiar, but perhaps equally entitled to deference, either disbelieved or did not disbelieve. If they disbelieved, they were the worst of hypocrites, in systematically upholding a faith which they believed to be a wild delusion and imposture, and lending their great names to the en-

slavement of men's reason and consciences, and the entanglement of their own lives in a system of restraints and observances which they saw clearly to he nothing more than vain superstitions. If, on the other hand, they did not disbelieve, then the concurrent testimony of so many men of such undeniable competence to the estimation of moral and historical evidence, affords a presumption in favour of those evidences; to deny the force and weight of which amounts in any inferior mind to a degree of arrogance and self-sufficiency, little short of absurdity. Or if the infidel chooses to take the other horn of the dilemma, and consider them as positive hypocrites; it seems to imply on his part a very offensive degree of pharisaism and want of candour; besides, the whole lives of some of them and the earnest style of their professions and publications on the subject of Christianity are in direct and decisive contradiction to such a supposition. I see but one plausible escape open to the infidel from this dilemma, he may possibly say that despairing of eradicating superstition altogether from the human breast, they thought it wise not to disturb its possession by the most benevolent or least harmless, or that the danger of unsettling established opinions amongst the vulgar was more than equivalent to any probable good, and that to

do so might, perhaps, be only displacing one error to be succeeded by another, and perhaps a worse. In reply, I contend, that such an hypothesis would scarcely vindicate the moral integrity of such men, who as philosophers and disciples of truth, were bound by all the best interests of man to expose falsehood wherever they had conclusively detected it; but, at all events, such a supposition would only explain their tacit acquiescence in the prevailing opinions - their negative concurrence; but to suppose that such men would enter into long painful expositions of Christianity and expend their valuable time and searching powers in the strenuous and solemn defence of it, when they know it to be false, does equal violence to common sense and common honesty.’

‘But how is it,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘that the progress of Christianity, during the long lapse of eighteen hundred years since its introduction, has been so very incommensurate with the omnipotence of its Author (if, indeed, its Author be Omnipotence), that it does not yet comprise even nominally a fourth part of the population of the world?’

‘Numerically, certainly not,’ said Mr. Austin, ‘but if you make intelligence the measure of the Christian and infidel world, it is clear that nominal

Christendom contains by far the largest portion, and you must remember that it was indispensable to the accompaniment of such a dispensation by one of its most valuable and satisfactory evidences (viz. prophecy), that it should be both time-born and progressive.’

‘One word more,’ said Mr. Cotton; ‘Why, O, why, if those who profess and call themselves Christians, are really such, do not their doctrines and their lives coincident exhibit more lucid proof than they do of their sincerity?’

‘Christianity itself answers the question,’ said Mr. Austin; ‘perfect consistency of obedience, whilst the soul of man remains attached to a body of sin and death, is perhaps impossible. God gave a perfect law; what could he less? declaring at the same time, by the spirit of his own comments upon it, that he would estimate the character of his subjects, not even by the proximity of their conduct to a perfect conformity to so high a standard, but by the earnestness and perseverance of their efforts to approach it. For, one man, by complacency of natural constitution and favour of fortune, may be advanced higher on the scale to human eyes, by a much less effort than it has cost another, less propitiously composed or circum-

stanced to reach a lower grade; therefore, spiritual judgment is forbidden to Christians of each other, and the charity that hopeth all things is enjoined. Besides,’ continued Mr. Austin, ‘you, sir, no doubt, as well as every other man, have some moral belief; allow me to ask you, have you always acted up to your own belief of your duty? (whatever that belief may have been); because, if not, you see, the apparent discrepancy between the profession and practise of some Christians, is no more evidence of the falsehood of their belief, than the inconsistency of your conduct with your principles is of the falsehood of yours; indeed, if theirs is a higher, and more comprehensive, and difficult standard of moral duty than yours, not so much by whatever is the difference in those respects; insincerity, therefore not inconsistency, in a creature so full of weakness and moral gravitation (if I may be allowed such an expression) as man, is the only proof either of hypocrisy in him or falsehood in his principles, however defective his obedience to them.’

‘Sir, I Believe,’ said Mr. Cotton, after a pause of a minute. The reader, who has ever noticed the sudden burst of a sweet landscape from the deep and sombre gloom of a severe im-

pending shower into the bright beams of a summer sun, may imagine the effect of this exclamation of Mr. Cotton on the beautiful features of his daughter, the lines of which had been strained into an expression of intense and almost fixed anxiety, during the progress of this discussion, from the all absorbing importance of the point at issue. But occupied by the impression made by the external advocate, and unable to measure exactly the powerful co-operation of the still and silent, but strong and faithful advocate within, in her delightful surprise at the surrender of her father's prejudices so much sooner than she had dared to hope, and struck with admiration at the candour and magnanimity of such a confession, from the noble sacrifice of pride which it involved, after an opposition almost throughout his life; for she knew that not a particle of fear entered into the grounds of his conviction, and that if he suspected himself of yielding an iota to such an influence he would never have confessed his conviction, or

 
‘Mock'd God's Throne with prayer
 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;’

she could not help regarding him in a light with which, although always kind and affectionate to her,

her imagination had never been able to surround him before - a light of moral grandeur, and throwing herself upon her knees, ‘Now, papa,’ said she, ‘you have indeed rewarded me, this is what I have watched and wept for daily, nightly, and I may almost say hourly, since the loss of her whose place I now so ill supply by your bedside; but, perhaps, I do not supply it, perhaps her spirit now contemplates yours, and with the other angels of God, O, more than shares my joy at the great change now produced;’ then raising her irradiated eyes to heaven, ‘but Thou,’ she said, ‘Benignant Saviour; do'st all things well, Thou makest both the blind to see, the deaf to hear, and the dumb to praise Thee!!!’

‘Matilda, my love,’ said Mr. Cotton, struggling to controul some new emotions which her affectionate fervour had excited, ‘I dare not trust myself just yet to the hopes you have suggested, and if you pursue the subject, I fear you will unman me, which might hereafter lead me to suspect my present judgment, from the possibility of the integrity of my mind having been impaired by some delusion of the senses. In faith I am now a sincere Christian, the concurrence of the external with the internal evidence, the actual moral state

of the world, with the explanation of it afforded by Christianity, and Christianity alone; the arguments derived from history and prophecy, with the other points, so succinctly but perspicuously expressed by Mr. Austin, do seem to me to comprise at least a preponderance of evidence, which must overbear any reasonable and honest objections; my only astonishment is, how I could contrive so long to shut the light out of my own heart. My doubts are now all transferred to the possibility of the admission of so late and unworthy a disciple as myself to its unspeakable mercies. What, sir,’ addressing Mr. Austin, ‘is the disposition required of a convert like me to qualify him for partaking without presumption of the sacrament of the Lord's Supper?’

‘Exactly what is required of all other communicants,’ replied Mr. Austin, ‘and which is so appositely expressed in the Church Catechism, (viz.) to examine yourself, whether you repent you truly of your former sins, stedfastly resolving to lead a new life. Whether you have a lively faith in God's mercy through Christ, with a thankful remembrance of his death, and are in perfect charity with all men. Is that, sir, your state of mind at present?’

‘Those are the prevailing impressions of my

mind at this moment,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘as nearly as I could myself describe them. Will you now administer the sacrament to me, as I wish to be left a little to my own reflections, or defer it till this time to-morrow?’

‘To-morrow, at this time, I will return again and administer the sacrament, if you continue to desire it,’ said Mr. Austin, ‘till then, therefore, I commend you to the grace of God, through Christ, and the teaching of his Holy Spirit.*’

On the return of Mr. Austin, the following morning, ‘Sir,’ said Mr. Cotton, after introducing him to Edward Bentinck, whom he had in the mean time appointed to meet him, ‘the best evidence a convert like myself can manifest of his sincerity (indeed, as it seems to me, an indispensable evidence) is to endeavour, wherever he has done wrong, and atonement is possible, but which alas!’ said he, sighing deeply, ‘'is but too seldom the case, to make four-fold reparation. I have long known the affection subsisting between the two young persons before you, and I have consented to their union; but it is upon one express condition, of which, as I feel my strength rapidly declining, I wish to make you the witness; it is merely this, that if it should please God to remove

me, without permitting my return to my plantations, that they would endeavour to make my slaves the only, but indeed an ample, compensation for any injustice of which I may have been either directly or indirectly the author to them, by instructing them systematically and steadily in that providential provision of spiritual peace and mercy, which I now feel to be of more value to me than the abundant wealth which I have derived from their exertions. That this may be done, I am quite satisfied, not only with facility, but with the greatest advantage, as well to the value of the property as the security of the colony; but then they must be contented to reside, till Charles is of age, or for a few years at any rate, upon the spot, and superintend the progress of the simple plan, which I will now propose to them. Let there be two lists made immediately of the Christian and Heathen slaves; let those negroes, in the instruction of whom Matilda, with the help of her late excellent Moravian friend, (who is now, no doubt, enjoying the crown of his fidelity,) has already made considerable progress, and every one of whom would scarcely hesitate more to lay down his life for her than to obey her lightest command, (and well they may almost adore her,) form the first list.

Let these always work together and apart from the others. And with these at once and immediately let all whippings and violence, and ensigns of violence be discontinued; if one of these perseveres in a fault after having been once reproved for it, let the reproof be repeated in the presence of two or three of the other Christian slaves, and if the fault is committed a third time, let him be solemnly admonished of its guilt and consequences by the minister in the face of the whole negro church, and if this does not restrain the offender, let him be transferred back to the list of and company of the heathen negroes, who must continue under the discipline of corporal punishment, till, by their improvement in the knowledge of Christianity, they show themselves qualified for baptism, and susceptible of moral controul and impulsion, when, after the ceremony of baptism, which must be made as impressive as possible, they may be transferred to the list and immunities of the Christian slaves, so that their promotion from one list to another may be constantly operating as a stimulant to their good behaviour. As an additional advantage to the Christian negroes, exact from their wives as little field work as possible, so that every facility may be given to them to make themselves, their children, and their little cabin houses attrac-

tive to their husbands, and 'the evening paradise of home,' the sacred endearments of wedded love, and the indulgence of parental affection may afford them, as it was meant they should, the best reward for the toil of the day: in addition to this, let the present cost of each negro in food and clothing be divided by the days of the year, and with a sufficient addition amply to cover any loss resulting from the difference between a wholesale and retail expenditure, be trusted to the most discreet and intelligent amongst them, to expend (like the wages of a European peasant) for themselves, if they prefer it in lieu of receiving their supply of food and clothing from their master; but this, like every other privilege for several years, must be conditioned upon their good behaviour, and revocable on its abuse.

‘By a perseverance in this simple scheme of moral discipline for only a few years, I am quite satisfied that the negroes might be brought into the habits of free labour, not only without loss, but with the greatest gain to the interests of all parties, especially the owners of the soil, the only thing to remain imperative upon them being an obligation to work for somebody at a rate of wages to be fixed by the law, in reference to the price of those things which are the actual necessaries of

life to them, and not either by themselves or their masters. But as for their unqualified emancipation in their present state, without any preparative course of religious instruction, we may as well talk of making atonement to a kidnapped infant by abandoning it in the midst of an ocean or a desert.’

‘I agree with you entirely,’ said Mr. Austin, ‘in the principles you have expressed, the details of every plan for the elevation of large bodies of men from a state of almost brutal darkness, must be modified by the light which the experiment itself will produce in every stage of its progress.’

‘They must,’ said Mr. Cotton, ‘and to the direction of that light I must leave them, as I find I have not strength to pursue them farther. I now, sir, earnestly desire you to administer to me the symbols, (if I still scarcely dare say of God's pardon and mercy,) at least of that great atonement in which I place my only hope of them.’

Mr. Austin then immediately proceeded to distribute the sacred elements, (of which Mr. Bentinck and Matilda partook,) resting with solemn emphasis on the word you, in the short prayer accompanying the presentment of the bread and wine to each individual, and on the completion of the service, Mr. Cotton kissed his daughter with great affection, and taking Mr. Bentinck by the

hand, said, ‘Yes! I believe it, Matilda! even for me the devotion of a new life would be a poor return for such ill deserved, such unpurchased forgiveness, and I feel that I have not many hours to live; but you must both take upon you my debt of gratitude. Compose yourself, my dear Matilda! we shall meet again.’

‘O papa!’ said Matilda, ‘how can I live without you, how can I bear to think that you who knew no sacrifice, not even of your own opinions, your own pride, too great for your affection to me, are really about to leave me and be out of reach of my grateful attentions, and that too when a community of principles would have made you more than by nature's bond a parent, would have made you a spiritual father to me; I thought I could have borne even this, if I could but see you a Christian, but I find that I am still too, too selfish!’

‘Matilda!’ said Mr. Cotton, putting her hand into Mr. Bentinck's, ‘I feel confident that the Christian soldier, in whose care I leave you, will prove himself worthy of the great trust I repose in him, and be to you both parent and friend; but for my sake endeavour to preserve the cheerful confidence which has lately supported you through such severe trials, and which I never saw

fail you before, in the Almighty Parent, Friend, and Saviour of us all. And remember, my darling, and let it mitigate your sorrow when I am gone, that you have more than requited all my affection, that it was the sweet harmony of your life with your principles that has been chiefly the human means of my conviction, for I could not help sometimes reflecting, that principles so beautiful in their effect must be divine in their origin; but I am a good deal exhausted by this morning's exertion, and unequal to conversation.’

Mr. Bentinck having endeavoured in vain to prevail on Matilda to leave the room, by a strong effort she completely renewed her self-controul, and sat quietly by her father's bed without uttering a word or a sigh, till, after lying for several hours in a sort of dose, from which she had expected he would awake comparatively refreshed and animated, he distinctly pronounced the words, ‘Matilda! your mother!’ -- she stooped over him, a single tear was trickling down his cheeks, but she saw immediately that his lips were settled into imperturbable placidity, and would never move again. She could not speak, but kissed his forehead, and seizing convulsively the hand of Edward Bentinck, laid her head upon his shoulder, and at length relieved her long repressed and un-

utterable agony by a burst of tears and sighs, that in such a moment it would have been sacrilege to have interrupted or discouraged.

It only remains with me to acquaint my reader that our hero, in spite of the glory-panting (to use a military expression) with which he entered the service, some how or another, when it came to the point, found little difficulty in exchanging his ensign's commission for a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds sterling. That after a proper interval he was united in lawful wedlock to our sweet heroine, with whom he has since been conscientiously employed in carrying into execution Mr. Cotton's directions for the Christian instruction and civilization of his negroes, and what is more, employed with complete success; but there is a secret in the success of this plan (and it is the only secret) which I will now, at the earnest request of His Grace of Devonshire, Earl Fitzwilliam, and a few more of the great Irish planters, disclose. The secret consists in the constant presence and superintendance - watching, correcting, and controlling every disposition to the perversion of the sacred knowledge - of those who are most interested in its success. O yes! I forgot! there are two things more which the reader will perhaps like to be informed of, namely, that Captain

Légere was tried, convicted, and imprisoned, but afterwards, I am sorry to say, by connivance either of the fiscal or some of his police officers, * escaped; and that Mr. William Askens, being a British subject, was sent for trial to Barbadoes, where, no doubt, he was made a proper example of, as it was so highly important that he should, by the crown officers of those very high principled and pious claimants of all the Christian and philanthropic honours of the British name and character.


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