FAMILY PORTRAITS, &c. &c. CHAPTER I. "Unpractis'd he to fawn, or seek for pow'r. Goldsmith. WE forget to mark the lapse of time when on roseate wings it speeds away; but memory is a faithful historian, that will not fail to remind us of that page on which is written the volume of our lives; there if we find a leaf that is not sullied with a tear, let us reflect on that page, and consider it the happiest of our existence. Fifteen summer suns had blossomed with its sweets,-and fifteen hoary headed winters passed with all their sullen train, since that happy morn which waked to joy and to happiness transcendent, the lovely unreluctant bride of Tanjore Trelawney; and as Rebecca then, in her turn, began to arrange the bridal ornaments of her sister Rosa, she reminded her of the time when she had assisted her on the same happy occasion. "Do you remember, Rosa," uttered she, "how offended you were at my shedding tears because it was my bridal day? Did not old Doctor Bradbury laugh at me; and Mary Bradbury go so far as to tell me that it was downright affectation, on a day so joyous, so momentous? Tell me then my dear sister, this being your marriage day also, with Trelawney, why I behold you this? You love Trelawney, he is your heart's elected, and yet you weep, Rosa, like me." "Ah, Rebecca, it is because I feel at this moment what were the sensations of my beloved sister;" answered Rosa, smiling through her tears; "the serious impression of a marriage vow should not be considered lightly, it is not a transitory one, Rebecca, for it can only be absolved by” "Death!" uttered Rebecca, "and then it ascends to heaven; affection wafts it with a sigh,-sympathy embalms it with a tear,-and holy angels deign even to bless and consecrate the image of its virtues there." Reader! since the foregoing conversation took place between these lovely and beloved sisters, Rosa and Rebecca, fifteen revolving years had passed away;-still the village of Kenilworth remained in the peaceful security of its lovely, rural and retiring shades;-still the soft breeze whispered among the honeysuckles, and the fragrance of the violet still was there; the murmuring rivulet yet flowed pure and transparent;—the robin sung as usual on his favorite hawthorn, unmolested, and each returning spring a thousand little feathered warblers paid their visits there;-yes, Kenilworth, sweet village, thy charms were still the same; and all but the White Cottage retained an appearance of their primitive beauty. All but the White Cottage! and was not that the same? Yes, it stood in its former beautiful and sequestered situation; it reared its unassuming head amongst the clump of trees by which it was surrounded; you could still see the lovely little garden, cultured with care, and improved by industry; there were still some roses in it, that revived with summer's opening bloom. But where, oh! where was its possessor, our worthy, our excellent our inestimable pastor?—where was the rector of Kenilworth, Mr. Clarendale? Mark where the cypress weeps over a plain and undecorated tomb; it was of white marble, bearing on its fair surface the following inscription: SACRED TO THE MEMORY of WILLIAM HENRY CLARENDALE, LATE RECTOR OF THIS PARISH. He descended to the grave, calm and peaceful, in the A bright example to his parishioners, In whose hearts he has left a memoriol of his virtues, and a lasting MONUMENT OF HIS PRAISE. The tale was too true! it was Mr. Clarendale who had quitted his earthly tenement for ever;-it was our worthy pastor who had breathed his last-the kind friend, the liberal patron, the minister❤ ing angel of the poor-Mr. Clarendale, of Kenilworth! Ah! who did not look up to him as a protector?—The orphan children, the widow, the insolvent debtor, alike had their claims and never were those claims denied ;—yet it was this man of virtue who was lost to them for ever, of which a piece of cold and lifeless clay alone remained, to prove the frail and transitory existence of all earthly creatures; from which salutary lesson the heart that rests too strongly on the vain presuming glories of this world may take an early and impressive warning; the voluptuary to recoil at the throes of guilty conscience; the licentious betrayer of female honor to stop in his career of systematic vice; the merciless to be just; the cruel oppressor to relax in his severity; the haughty to be humble, and the unpitying to shed a tear, it will ascend to heaven more welcome than a thousand treasured virtues, for it will be the tear of penitence, recorded in that sacred page where the accusing spirit shall not blush to give it in, for the ministering angel, as he writes it down, will drop the pitying tear on human error and blot it out for ever. In less than six months from the demise of Mr. Clarendale, the remains of his beloved and amiable wife were placed beside him. She had not sunk beneath the blow by the loss which she had sustained in her excellent husband; he had taught her differently to appreciate the blessings, or receive the visitation of Almighty Providence, than to murmur at its decrees;-Mrs. Clarendale died as she had lived, an exemplary wife and mother, surrounded by her affectionate children and lovely grand-children, whose tears long moistened her remains, -in the assured hope, that she should shortly rejoin that kindred spirit from whom on earth she had never been divided. Lovely had they been in their lives, even as twin roses on one stalk,-they had bloomed, blossomed and faded together. At the demise of Mr. and Mrs. Clarendale, Mr. Trelawney, who had long been the husband of the happy Rosa, purchased the White Cottage and occasionally inhabited it in the summer season, when they paid their annual visit, either at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Bradbury, or at the residence of Henry Clareudale, and hither of ten would Rosa and Rebecca repair to the favorite seat of their belov ed father, and converse without reserve of old times and old friends; and, Here my father used to sit,-and, Here was my mother's favorite spot, was ejaculated by the fond sisters till they were frequently dissolved in tears; when suddenly the sight of the lovely children would disperse the shades of melancholy which were drawn around them, and in the pleasing reflection that they were mothers too, they soon recovered their cheerfulness. One only child had blessed the marriage of Rebecca, which was a daughter, and called Emma; Henry Clarendale had a son and daughter presented to him by his beloved Mary, the names of whom were, Sedley and Lucy; but the Decendents of Trelawney were more numerous, and consisted of five lovely children, two sons, and three daughters; the names of whom were the following : William Henry, the first-born child of Trelawney, so called in compliment to the father of his Rosa, the late Mr. Clarendale; but at the birth of his second child, which was a daughter, Rosa submitted it to the choice of her husband; and often having heard him say, that al. though Alexina had never been a favorite name with him, (having had too much reason to remember it,) yet it had been the name of his father's sister,-that sister whom he had so passionately loved, and to whom in early infancy Trelawney had been so dear, and Rosa plac ing her sweet smiling cherub in the arms of her husband, archly en quired, in a tone of the most fascinating sweetness, what he was going to call his daughter. To which Trelawney replied, "Alexina, if you have no objection, my dear love,-it was the name of my beloved aunt, whose memory I revere, and if you have no dislike, why "Ah! Trelawney," interrupted the lovely Rosa, "do not suppose me to indulge in such weakness; I can dislike nothing which you make choice of, we will therefore call our daughter Alexina, if you please." But the following year produced a son, and his mother called him Tanjore, in preference to any other. The ensuing twelvemonth another little stranger came into court, and her father named her Ellen Rosa, without any objection being made. And in two years after this period Mrs. Trelawney again produced an increase to her charming family, which soon made its appear ance in a little girl, whose peculiar arch turn of features, the moment that Trelawney had beheld her, made him exclaim, "Why this little saucy minx is the picture of Mary Bradbury; there is actually Mary's pouting lip." To which Mrs. Trelawney smilingly replied, "But you will be pleased to recollect my, love, that Mary Bradbury had one of the prettiest mouths in the world." Mrs. Philip Bradbury (who was also present,) taking her little niece out of the arms of her father, exclaimed,— "And so has this little moppet. I protest, Rosa, I think this will be the prettiest of all your children." "Not if she resembles Mary Bradbury," cried Trelawney; "I never thought Mary pretty." 66 "And yet I think, that Lucy Clarendale is an uncommon lovely girl," uttered Rebecca; "to be sure she is an astonishing resemblance of my brother Henry; she has his fine complextion, and his beauti ful auburn hair and dark blue eyes; but Sedley is like his mother." "I protest, that I will not hear my dear Mary so commented upon, by you two unmerciful creatures," uttered Mrs. Trelawney; "and as, to my little brown gipsy here, if you do not disprove of it, Trelaw. ney, I shall certainly call her Mary, because, as you say, she so strongly resembles Mrs. Henry Clarendale." The reply was,-"Call her what you please ;" and the youngest daughter of Mr. Trelawney, was after the above conversation, the very ensuing morning, baptized by the names of Mary Rebecca Frances; the two latter being in compliment to her mother and sister, and the former as a testimony of her affection for her faithful friend Mary Bradbury, who had been the earliest companion of her youthful days. |