CHAPTER SIX.
In a country house near Wanstead, in Essex, one of England's bravestadmirals,--Sir William Penn,--lay on a bed of sickness. By his sidestood a grave-looking gentleman in a scarlet cloak, and huge ruffles onhis wrists.
"Tell me honestly, Master Kennard, whether you deem this sickness untodeath?"
"Honestly, Sir William, as you ask me, I confess that you are in a worsestate than I have before known you. At all events, it behoves you tomake such preparations as you deem important, should you be summonedfrom the world."
"It is enough; I understand you, my friend," said the admiral, with asmile. "I would rather it were so. I am weary of the world, and amready to leave it; but there is one who seems but little able to watchover his own interests, and, I fear me much, will be subjected to manypersecutions in consequence of the opinions he has of late adopted. Iwould therefore ask you to indite a letter in my name to our graciousSovereign and his royal brother, that I may petition them to extend tohim those kind offices which they have ever shown to me. The Duke ofYork is his godfather, as you know; and, whatever may be his faults, heis an honest man, and will fulfil his promises. You will find paper andpen on yonder table. I pray thee perform this kind office for me."
Dr Kennard did as he was requested, and forthwith the letter wasdespatched by a trusty hand to London. Soon after it had been sent off,a servant announced that Master William Penn had just arrived, andcraved permission to see his father. Grief was depicted on thecountenance of the young man when he entered his father's chamber. Hehad just had an interview with his mother, and she had told him that allhopes of the admiral's recovery had been abandoned by his medicalattendants. He knew not how his father might receive him. Although,when they last parted, the admiral's feelings had been somewhat softenedtowards his son, yet he had not even then ceased to blame him for thecourse he had pursued. Sir William Penn had already received numerousrewards and honours for the services he had rendered to his sovereign,and he had every reason to believe that he would have been raised to thepeerage. His son William had, however, refused to accept any title, andhe had therefore declined the honour for himself. He was now, however,at the early age of forty-nine, struck by a mortal disease, and he hadbegun to estimate more truly than heretofore the real value of wealthand worldly honours.
When William entered, he put out his hand.
"I thank Heaven, son William, you have come back to see me ere I quitthis troubled scene of life," said the dying admiral. "I once wished toknow that my son was to become a peer of the realm, the founder of agreat family; but such thoughts have passed away from me. I nowconfess, William, that you have `chosen the better part.' Your honourand glory no man can take away from you. In truth, I am weary of thisworld, and, had I my choice, would not live my days over again, for thesnares of life are greater than the fears of death."
The affectionate son expressed his joy at hearing his father speak thus.The admiral smiled.
"Yes," he said, "our thoughts change when we see the portals of death soclose to us. With regard to you, William, I am satisfied; but for ourunhappy country I cannot cease to mourn. Alas! what fearful profligacydo we see in high places: vice and immorality rampant among all classes;the disrepute into which the monarchy and all connected with it havejustly fallen; and the discredit into which our national character hasbeen brought abroad."
William almost wept tears of joy when he described his father's state ofmind to his mother. They could now converse freely on importantmatters. One day, while his son was with the admiral, two letters werebrought him.
"Here," he said, "read them, son William, for my eyes are dim."
The young man took the letters.
"Indeed, father, they are such as should satisfy us," he said. "Thisone is from the king, who seldom puts pen to paper. He promises largelyto protect me from all foes, and to watch over my interests. Heexpresses great regret at hearing of your illness, and wishes for yourrecovery. The other, from the Duke of York, is to the same effect. Hespeaks of his friendship to you for many years; and his sincere desireis, to render you all the service in his power. Therefore, with muchsatisfaction he undertakes the office of my guardian and protector whenI am deprived of you. There is a kind tone throughout the epistle, forwhich I am duly grateful."
William then read both documents to his father, who desired to hearthem. Still the admiral's constitution was good, and hopes wereentertained that he might recover.
"My children," he said, calling his son and daughters to his bedside, "Ihave but a few days to live,--I know it. I leave you some worldlywealth, but that may be taken from you. I would leave you my counsel,of which no man can deprive you. There are three rules I would giveyou, which, if you follow them, will carry you with firmness and comfortthrough this inconstant world. Now listen to me. Let nothing in thisworld tempt you to wrong your conscience; so you will keep peace athome, which will be a feast to you in the day of trouble. Secondly,whatever you design to do, lay it justly, and time it seasonably, forthat gives security and despatch. Lastly, be not troubled atdisappointments, for if they may be recovered, do it; if they cannot,trouble is vain. If you could not have helped it, be content. There isoften peace and profit in submitting to Providence; for afflictions makewise. If you could have helped it, let not your trouble exceed yourinstruction, for another time."
These rules, the admiral's son laid to heart; and, as his after lifeshowed, they were never forgotten. William was greatly rewarded for allhe had gone through by hearing his father at length thoroughly approveof his conduct.
"My son, I confess I would rather have you as you are, than among thosefrivolous and heartless courtiers who beset our sovereign. Their fatemust be miserable. They are bringing reproach and ruin upon ourcountry; and albeit, though I wish to die as I have lived, a member ofthe Church of England, yet I am well-content that you, my son, should beguided by the principles you have adopted; and I feel sure that if youand your friends keep to your plain way of preaching, and also keep toyour plain way of living, you will make an end of priests to the end ofthe world." Almost the last words the admiral uttered were: "Bury menear my mother. Live all in love. Shun all manner of evil. I pray Godto bless you; and He will bless you."
The spirit in which the admiral died, greatly softened the poignancy ofthe grief felt by his wife and son. The funeral procession set forthtowards Bristol, where the admiral had desired to be buried, inRedcliffe Church, where a monument, still to be seen, was raised to hismemory. William Penn was now the possessor of a handsome fortuneinherited from his father. With youth, a fine appearance, fascinatingmanners, well acquainted with the world, numerous friends at court, androyal guardians pledged to advance his interests, he, notwithstanding,resisted all the allurements which these advantages offered to him, andset forth through the country, travelling from city to city, and villageto village, preaching the simple gospel of salvation.
In a picturesque village in Buckinghamshire, called Chalfont, a younggentleman on horseback might have been seen passing up the chief street.There were but few people moving about at that early time of themorning. At length he saw one advancing towards him, who, thoughdressed in sober costume, had the air of a gentleman.
"Friend," said the young horseman, "canst tell me the abode of MasterIsaac Pennington?"
"Ay! verily I can," answered the pedestrian; "and, if I mistake not, heto whom I speak is one who will be heartily welcome. His fame has gonebefore him in this region, remote as it is from the turmoils of theworld. Thou art William Penn; I am Thomas Elwood, a friend of thefamily. Their abode is the Grange, which they have rebuilt andbeautified. Further on, at the end of the street, is the dwelling ofone known to all lovers of literature,--John Milton. And here is mycottage, where thou wilt be always welcome."
"Thanks, friend Elwood," said William Penn, dismounting from his horse."If thou wilt show me the Grange, I will thank thee, and accept atanother time thy hospitality."
>
"I am bound thither myself," said Elwood, "and I shall enjoy thy societyon the way."
On reaching the Grange, William Penn found assembled in the breakfastparlour several guests. The lady of the house was Lady Springett, thewidow of a Parliamentary officer; she had some years before marriedIsaac Pennington, both having adopted the Quaker principles. But therewas one person present who seemed more especially to attract the youngQuaker's attention. She was the daughter of Lady Springett; her name,Gulielma Maria, though addressed always by her family as Guli. WilliamPenn had not been dreaming of love, but he at once felt himself drawntowards her; and before he left the Grange he acknowledged to himselfthat she had the power of adding greatly to his worldly happiness.Again, however, he went forth on his mission, but he frequently returnedto Chalfont, and at length the fair Guli promised to become his wife.