Scarron's novels ... rendred into English, with some additions, by John Davies ... — Novels. English. Selections

Scarron's novels ... rendred into English, with some additions, by John Davies ... — Novels. English. Selections

Table of contents

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Title page

To the moſt ACCOMPLIS'D, THOMAS STANLEY Eſq

THE PREFACE, Giving an Accompt of the Author of theſe Novels, ſome of his other Works, and his Perſon.

TO THE READER, Who never ſaw me.

In Gallicam Scarronis Aeneidem ludicro carmine ſcriptam.

In Aeneida Mimicam & jocoſam Pauli Scarronis.

SCARRONI ex Patre Nepoti.

The Titles of the ſeveral Novels.

SCARRON's NOVELS.

THE FRUITLESS PRECAUTION. The Firſt Novel.

THE HYPOCRITES. The Second Novel.

THE INNOCENT ADULTERY. The Third Novel.

SCARRON's NOVELS. The Judge in his own Cauſe. The Fourth Novel.

SCARRON's NOVELS. The Rival-Brothers. The Fifth Novel.

SCARRON's NOVELS. The Inviſible Miſtreſs. The Sixth Novel.

SCARRON's NOVELS. The Chaſtiſement of Avarice. The Seventh Novel.

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Ille ego Sum Vates rabido data proeda dolori,

Qui Supero Sanos Lusibus atque jocis,

Zenonis Soboles, vultu mala ferre ſereno,

Et potuit Cynici libera turba Sophi,

Qui medios inter potuit luſiſſe dolores

Me proeter toto nullus in orbe fuit▪

Egid Menagius

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SCARRON's NOVELS.

Viz.

The FRUITLESS PRECAUTION.

The HYPOCRITES.

The INNOCENT ADULTERY.

The JUDGE IN HIS OVVN CAUSE.

The RIVAL-BROTHERS.

The INVISIBLE MISTRESS.

The CHASTISEMENT OF AVARICE.

Rendred into Engliſh, with ſome Additions, by JOHN DAVIES of Kidwelly.

LONDON, Printed for Thomas Dring, at the George in Fleet-street near Cliffords-Inn. 1665.

To the moſt ACCOMPLIS'D, THOMAS STANLEY Eſq

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AT the firſt coming abroad of the three former of theſe Novels in Engliſh, they were addreſs'd to you, partly upon this accompt, that they were rendred into that Language at Cumberlow, it being but juſt you ſhould have the Patronage, of what had its birth under your roof. The lightneſs of the Subject might indeed have deterr'd me, from preſixing before it, a Name, which will challenge veneration, [Page] till that of Philoſophy have loſt the reſpect due to it, and the world be re-involv'd in Ignorance and Barbariſm: but my preſumption on the kindneſſes you were pleas'd to have for me, and the earneſtneſs I had to make ſome publick acknowledgment of my extraordinary obligations to you, overcame that difficulty.

When the Books of the former Edition were nigh ſpent, and that I was call'd upon, to provide for another, it was again my fortune, after almoſt two years retirement in Wales, to come to your Houſe, where I had the opportunity, to review what was printed, and make what additions I could thereto, out of the ſame Author's works. So that the ſame reaſon, which I had, at firſt, to make, obliges me to continue, the Dedication of theſe Pieces to you; but with this advantage now, that I am the leſs ſollicitous of their fate, ſince the entertainment, ſome of them have already found, is ſuch, as hath encourag'd the Book-ſeller to venture at a Second Impreſſion.

But if theſe were not ſufficient, I have ſeveral other motives, which would not [Page] ſuffer me to decline the doing of what I am now upon, but particularly one, whence I derive the greateſt ſatisfaction imaginable, which is, that, by this Addreſs, all thoſe who love, that is, all who know you, will be aſſur'd, of your having o'rcome a Sickneſs, which begat a general report of your death.

And this reflection, me-thinks, may well diſpence a little, with my retreat into the ſtyle of the antient Dedicatories, which were commonly concluded with wiſhes and prayers. Mine are, at the preſent, that, for ſome time yet, we may not have the occaſion to bemoan the loſs of ſo precious a life as yours; That the Health you have ſo happily recover'd may have an uninterrupted continuance for many years; And when you are cloy'd with the enjoyments and happineſs of this world, (which, as you are wont to expreſs it, conſiſt in theſe three words, Wife, Children, Friends) you may, by the attendance of thoſe Learned men, whoſe Labours all ſubſequent Ages will be oblig'd to, be convey'd into the joys and bliſs of another. And I doubt not of my having, after ſo long acquaintance, ſo much [Page] credit with you, as that, when I am devour, you will believe me ſincere, and, conſequently, that theſe are the hearty wiſhes of,

HONOURED SIR,

Your moſt humble and moſt obliged Servant, J. DAVIES.

THE PREFACE, Giving an Accompt of the Author of theſe Novels, ſome of his other Works, and his Perſon.

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THE three former of theſe Novels were printed here ſome four or five years ſince, and ſo well receiv'd, that the ſcarcity of them ſ [...]on call'd upon the Book-ſeller for a ſecond Impreſſion. This kind entertainment thereof put me upon an enquiry, what there might be more, [Page] of the ſame kind, written by the ſame Author, and I have made a ſhift to pick up four, out of ſeveral parts of his Works, printed together, ſince his Death, in ſix ſmall Volumes in 12 [...]. of which I have onely this ſhort accompt to give.

Of the Six, there are onely two Volumes in Proſe, whereof one, he entitles Le Roman Comique, or, The Comical Romance. It is a deſcription of the Lives of certain Country-Comedians, and other people, of ſeveral Conditions; but done, with ſuch a natural ſmartneſs, as very few Authors have been ſo happy as to arrive to, and he does not bring any upon the Stage, to whom there happen not ſome very pleaſant adventures. To this it may be added, that it is written in a ſtile particular to this Author, whoſe inclination to raillery is ſo much the more remarkable, in that he could not forbear it, even in thoſe rela [...]ions, wherein he was himſelf concern'd.

I am inform'd, that, ſome years ſince, a Perſon of Quality made it his recreation, to render part of that divertive Romance into Engliſh, tranſlating not onely the Work, but alſo the Scene, out of France into England: and no doubt but the deſign would have taken [Page] infinitely well, had it been proſecuted. But ere he had compleated his Work, the Scene of our Engliſh Affairs was miraculouſly chang'd, from Anarchy to Monarchy, and that Perſon being highly engag'd in the Tranſactions happening upon his Majesty's happy Reſtauration, there was ſuch a stop put to what he had done therein, that it hath remain'd imperfect ever ſince: whence it may well be gheſs'd, there is ſomewhat in it ſo far tranſcending ordinary Tranſlation, that no other Hand durſt attempt it.

Out of this Romance, whereof there are now two parts extant in French, I have taken three of the Newly-printed Novels; to wit,

The Judge in his own Cauſe;

The Rival-Brothers; and

The Inviſible Miſtreſs.

'Tis a thouſand pitties, that the Author hath, prevented by Death, left the Work imperfect; ſo that we are, and ever ſhall be, at a loſs, to know, what period he might bring ſo many noble Adventures to. Had he compleated it, we ſhould have found, whether he could have given his principal Heroe a more honourable Exit, than to make it, on a Gibbet, [Page] at Pontoiſe, as he was wont to ſay himſelf, and may be ſeen in a Dedicatory of his to the Abbot Menagius, and Monſieur Sarrazin, before a little Piece in Verſe, entituled, A true Relation of what happened between the Poets and the Deſtinies, upon the Death of Monſieur de Voiture.

His other Works, in Proſe, are onely theſe NOVELS, and ſome LETTERS, which being but few, and thoſe ſo particular about his own occaſions and neceſſities, there will not be much worth the Tranſlation into Engliſh. Among theſe was found the laſt Novel; to wit,

The Chaſtiſement of Avarice.

All the rest of his Works are Poetry, in four Volumes; two, of Plays, Fragments of Plays, Epistles, &c. One, of Poems, upon ſeveral occaſions; and the last, containing eight Books of the Aeneids, in Burleſque, under the title of, Le Virgile Traveſty; in which kind of Writing lay his chiefeſt excellency: but all together may juſtly ſecure him the title of the ſmarteſt, and moſt pleaſant Writer of this laſt Age.

[Page]As to his Perſon, the accompt we have to give of it, is deriv'd, partly from what he hath deliver'd himſelf, and partly from the Character given him by his Friends. What we have from himſelf happen'd upon this occaſion. The fore-mentioned Piece dedicated to Menagius and Sarrazin, being in the Preſs, there chanc'd to be ſome vacant Pages, whereupon the Book-ſeller intreating Monſieur Scarron, to bethink himſelf of ſome thing to fill them up, (for the humour of doing it with Catalogues of other Books, it ſeems, was not much in vogue in France) he gave him the enſuing Deſcription of himſelf, at the beginning whereof, there was a Braſs-cut, wherein he was repreſented ſitting in a great Chair; with his back towards the Beholders, and five Women on the one ſide, and four on the other, as it were to repreſent the nine Muſes. I ſhall here give the ſaid Deſcription, just as if I had the ſame occaſion to do it as my Author had.

TO THE READER, Who never ſaw me.

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REader, who never ſaw'ſt me, and haply are not much troubled at it, out of conceit, that there is little to be gotten by the ſight of ſuch a perſon as I am, know, that, for my part, I ſhould have been as indifferent, as thou art, whether I were ſeen by thee or not, if I had not been inform'd, that ſome, very ingenious Perſons, make my miſery their ſport, and give a d [...]ſcription of me quite different from what I am. Some ſay, that, if I could be capable of any motion, it would not be much unlike that of thoſe exemplary Cripples, who go on their Hands and Britch; others affirm I have no Thighs, and that, being ſet on the Table in a Box, purpoſely made for me, I there fall a prating like an one-ey'd Parrat: And others y [...]t are ſo pleaſant, as to ſay, that, my Hat being ty'd to the end of a Cord, which runs [Page] through a Pully faſten'd to the Roof of my Chamber, I, having the other end of the ſaid Cord in my hands (which it ſeems I must not be able to lift up to my head) make a ſhift, to raiſe up, and let it fall, to ſalute thoſe who come to viſit me.

I conceive my ſelf therefore oblig'd in conſcience, to give a check to theſe calumnies, that the World may at length be undeceiv'd, and to that end, have I caus'd the Plate, which thou maist ſee at the beginning of this Preface, to be graven. I doubt not, Reader, but thou wilt grumble, (for grumbling is very natural to all Readers, and I am inclin'd to it my ſelf, as well as others, when I am a Reader) thou wilt grumble, I ſay, and quarrel at me, that thou hast not a ſight of my fore-part. To ſatisfie thee, know, that it is not out of any irreverence, or want of civility, that I turn my back-ſide to the Company, but for this reaſon, that the convexity of my Back is fitter to receive an inſcription, than the concavity of my Breaſt, which is over-ſhadow'd by the pendency of my Head, and that by that ſide, as well as the other, a Man may take a ſurvey of the Site, or rather, the irregular platform of my Perſon. Without any imagination, that the [Page] world ſhould think it ſelf oblig'd by ſuch a Preſent (for, by the Nine Gentle-Laſſes that ſtand about me, I never hop'd my Head would ever become the Original of a Medal) I would have had my Picture drawn, if any Painter durst have attempted it. For want of that, take this account of my Perſon.

I am ſomewhat above thirty years of age, as thou maist ſee by the back of my chair. If I live to forty, I ſhall make a great addition of miſeries, to thoſe I have already ſuffer'd, within theſe eight or nine years. I was of a paſſable stature, though ſomewhat below the middle ſize; but my diſeaſes have ſhortned it by a foot and better. My head is ſomewhat of the biggeſt, conſidering my stature. My face is pretty full, and plump, compar'd to the Skeleton I am thence downwards. I am ſo well furniſh'd with hair, that I need wear no Periwig, and much of it is turn'd grey, in ſpight of the Proverb. My ſight is good enough, though my eyes ſomewhat larger than they ſhould be: they are blew, and one of them more ſunk into my head than the other. My noſe ſtands well enough. My teeth, ſometimes ſo many pearls, are [Page] now of a colour between black and blew. I have loſt one and a half on the left ſide, and two and a half on the right, and I have two a little broken. My legs and thighs made at firſt an obtuſe, then an equal, and at laſt, an acute angle. My thighs and my body making another, and my head hanging down over my breaſt, I am a certain repreſentative or Hieroglyphick of the Letter Z. My arms are contracted as well as my legs, and my fingers as well as my arms. In a word, I am a certain contraction or Epitome of humane miſery.

Thus much as to my figure; and ſince I am ſo far in my way, I will give thee a ſlight touch of my humour. 'Tis more than I promis'd; but, to deal freely with thee, Reader, take notice, that this Preface is deſign'd onely to ſwell the Book, upon the importunity of the Seller, whoſe fear it was, he ſhould not ſave himſelf by the Impreſſion. Were it not for that, it would be to as little purpoſe as many others are. But this is not the firſt time, that ſome people ſhew themſelves fools, out of compliance with others, beſides the fooleries they are guilty of upon their own account.

[Page]As to my humour then; I am to confeſs, that I am ſomewhat cholerick, a lover of good meat, and inclin'd to ſloath. I often call my Man fool or coxcomb, and preſently after, Sir, and Monſieur. I ha [...]e no body, God grant others have the ſame kindneſs for me. I am very glad when I have mony, and would be much more, if I had my health. I am merry enough in company, and not much unſatisfi'd, when I am alone. I endure my miſeries patiently enough. And now I think my Preface is long enough, and that it is time I ſhould make an [...]nd of it.

So far the Author's deſcription of himſelf, upon the occaſion before mentioned. What we have from his friends is before his Virgil Traveſty, conſiſting of certain Papers of Verſes before that Piece, whereof ſome being in French, ſome in Latine, we ſhall cull out onely the Latine Copies, as more particularly deſcribing his Perſon and Indiſpoſitions.

In Gallicam Scarronis Aeneidem ludicro carmine ſcriptam.

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DEbile Scarronis corpus, contracta (que) membra,

Indomitus vexat nocte diéque dolor.

Hinc caput obliquâ pronum cervice fatiſcit,

Nec licet obtutus tollere ad aſtra ſuos.

Utque manus premit innocuas cruciatque chiragra,

Sicſecat immeritos ſaeva podagra pedes.

Et malè nodoſos macies depaſcitur artus,

Tabidáque areſcens vix tegit oſſa cutis.

Torqueris leviùs volvendo, Siſyphe, ſaxo;

Quique renaſcenti pectore paſcis avem.

Et tamen in mediis ridere doloribus audet,

Nec miſerum laeti deſeruêre joci.

Riciculum Aeneam, Troas, Danaóſ (que) facetus,

Inſolitâ Gallis arte, Poëta facit.

Oblectant animos, non jam naufragia terrent,

Itala que finxit, Vate Marone, Clio.

[Page]Feſtivè ventique ruunt, at (que) aequora verſant,

Jucundè Phrygias & quatit unda rates.

Et ſupplex precibus ſuperos dicacibus orat

Naufragus, & grato cum ſale nauta perit.

Nec flenda ingentis modo ſunt incendia Trojae;

Haec poſſint Priamo ſic placuiſſe ſeni.

Ipſa quoque in Teucros joculares concipit iras

Altiſoni conjux, Juno, ſororque Jovis.

Tam benè qui ludit, dum toto corpore, languens,

Deficit, innumeris obruiturque malis:

Vel certè humanâ Deus eſt ſub imagine Scarro,

Ingenio pollet vel propiore Dei.

C. FERAMUS.

In Aeneida Mimicam & jocoſam Pauli Scarronis.

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COrpore Scarro aeger, ſed cui ridere decorum,

Phoebus, Amor, Charites, & Venus ipſa dedit.

Gratum opus urbanis, Urbanae Aeneidos Autor,

Tranſtulit in lepidos Arma Virumque jocos.

ATTICUS SECUNDUS.

SCARRONI ex Patre Nepoti.

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SI punctum omne tulit, qui miſcuit utile dulci,

Ludendo ſcribens ſeria quid meruit?

Virgilii miranda legens ridere jubetur;

Hoc debet, Scarro, Gallica Muſa, tibi.

Urb. Scarron Patruus.

The Titles of the ſeveral Novels.

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NOV. I. The Fruitleſs Precaution.

NOV. II. The Hypocrites.

NOV. III. The Innocent Adultery.

NOV. IV. The Judge in his own Cauſe.

NOV. V. The Rival-Brothers.

NOV. VI. The Inviſible Miſtreſs.

NOV. VII. The Chaſtiſement of Avarice.

SCARRON's NOVELS.

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THE FRUITLESS PRECAUTION.
The Firſt Novel.

A Gentleman of Granada, whoſe true name I ſhall forbear to diſcover, and on whom I will beſtow that of Don Pedro of Caſteel, Aragon, and Toledo, or what you pleaſe, ſince that a glorious name in a Romance coſts no more than another, (which is haply the reaſon that the Spaniards, not content with their own, ever give themſelves of the moſt illuſtrious, nay hardly [Page] ſit down with one:) this Gentleman, I ſay, (now Don Pedro) being arriv'd at the twentieth year of his age, loſt both Father and Mother, and by their death came to a very great eſtare: all which hapning to the ſame perſon contributes very much to his miſcarriage if he be born a fool; but, if nature hath been more indulgent to him, puts him int [...] capacity of improving himſelf to ſome eſteem in the world. During the year of his mourning, he very prudently wean'd himſelf from moſt part of the divertiſements, which perſons of his age are ordinarily addicted to, and buſied himſelf in looking into the poſture of his eſtate, and putting his affairs into a good order. He was a very graceful perſon, of an excellent wit, and behav'd himſelf, in his youth, with a prudence and conduct ſuch as might have become grey hairs. There was not in Granada any Lady who would not gladly have had him to her husband, nor any Father ſo prepoſſeſs'd with the deſerts of his daughter, as not to wiſh him his Son-in-law. Of the Beauties in Granada, which ſtood in competition for the Monarchy of hearts, one onely there was able to captivate that of Don Pedro. Her name was Seraphina, beautiful indeed as a Seraphin, young, rich, well deſcended, and, in a word, though of a fortune ſomewhat below that of Don Pedro's, yet a perſon as well accompliſh'd to make a wife, as he a husband. He made no queſtion, but that upon the firſt propoſal of marriage made to her Friends, he ſhould obtain their conſent to become her Servant: but he choſe rather to gain her by his own worth and deſert, than their compliance, and reſolv'd to court her with all the paſſion, ſubmiſſions, and ſervices imaginable, ſo to [Page] make a conqueſt of her heart, before he became poſſeſſor of her perſon.

His deſign was noble, and might accordingly have prov'd more ſucceſsful, if Fortune, who is, many times, maliciouſly pleas'd to diſturb things manag'd with the greateſt conduct and circumſpection, had not rais'd him a Rival, who was become Maſter of the place he would have taken, while he was but yet making his firſt approaches. His name we have here little to do with, he was much about the age of Don Pedro, perhaps as lovely as he, and without doubt much more belov'd.

It was not long ere Don Pedro perceiv'd he had a Competitor, and was not much troubled at it, as having the advantage of him in point of eſtate. He was at the charge of Muſick in the ſtreet where his Miſtreſs liv'd; his Rival had the pleaſure of it in her Chamber, and haply receiv'd more than ordinary kindneſſes from her, while poor Don Pedro's teeth ſhatter'd in his head. At laſt he grew weary of hunting the bats, I mean, of the charge and inconveniences of that kind of Courtſhip, without making any progreſs in his buſineſs: Yet ſo as this ill ſucceſs caus'd not any remiſſion of his Love, but onely made him quit the deſign he had to be too prodigal of his addreſſes to his Miſtreſs, before he had obtain'd her of her Friends. He therefore went and demanded her of them, and they very liberally g [...]ve their conſent he ſhould have her, without ever adviſing with, or communicating the buſineſs to, their daughter; out of an exceſs of joy, to be intreated, to do what they earneſtly deſir'd, and indeed durſt hardly hope. They ſoon after acquainted Seraphina with the good fortune that came to [Page] court her, and prepar'd her to entertain the addreſſes of Don Pedro, and; within a few days, to marry him. The news, which ſhe ſhould have receiv'd with joy, rais'd in her no ſmall diſturbance; inſomuch, that, not able to ſmother the loſs ſhe was at, ſhe hardly made a ſhift to conceal the occaſion thereof from them, by perſuading them it proceeded from the affliction, it would be to her, to part with thoſe, for whom ſhe had ſo dutiful an affection. She acted her part ſo handſomely, that, out of pure tenderneſs, the old people could not forbear tears, nor commending the good nature of their daughter. She us'd all the intreaties ſhe could to perſuade them to put off the marriage for four or five months, repreſenting to them, that the decay of her health was viſible in her countenance; and preſſing, that, if ever ſhe married, it might not be till ſhe had recover'd her perfect health, to the end ſhe might be in a better diſpoſition to pleaſe her husband, leſt he might take any occaſion to be diſſatisfi'd with her, in the dawning of their marriage, and repent of his choice.

Now whereas it was indeed true, that for ſome time before ſhe ſeem'd not to have her health as ſhe was wont, her Friends were well ſatisfi'd with what ſhe had ſaid to them, and gave an account of it to Don Pedro, who alſo had nothing to except againſt it, as conceiving it argu'd the diſcretion of his Miſtreſs. Nevertheleſs, they thought it not amiſs to put things in order, as to the contract of marriage, and the ſettlement to be made thereupon.

But though things were brought to this paſs, the amoro [...]s Don Pedro omitted not any of thoſe [Page] Expreſſions of Gallantry and Courtſhip, expect [...]d in the carrying on of a Match with conſent of all parties. He ſent his Miſtreſs many preſents, and writ to her every day. She on the other ſide return'd him ſuch anſwers as were at leaſt very civil, thouh they betrai'd much leſs of paſſion than was viſible in his Letters. But ſhe would not by any means be ſeen in the day time, excuſing her ſelf by reaſon of her indiſpoſition; nay in the evenings was ſeldom ſeen at her window, which rais'd in Don Pedro a great admiration of her reſerv'dneſs. He was better conceited of his own worth than any way to queſtion the ſucceſs of his applications, or doubt his being deeply in the favour of his Miſtreſs, when he ſhould be better known to her than he was, even though ſhe might have had an averſion for him before ſhe knew him.

His affairs hitherto went on ſmoothly without any rub; but, on a ſuddain, it happen'd that he could not get a ſight of his Miſtreſs in four or five days. He was extremely troubled at it, or at le [...]ſt pretended it; he writ verſes upon that occaſion, or, it may be, hired, or bought ſome, and caus'd them to be ſung under her window: but notwithſtanding theſe great attempts of a moſt paſſionate Love [...], all he could do was to ſpeak with one of the Chamber-maids, who told him, that his Miſtreſs was much ſicker than ſhe had been. His Poetick vein ſwell'd at this account of h [...]r, or, if not his, that of his mercenary Poet muſt breathe and bleed for it: for I could never be truly inform'd whether he himſelf had any gift in rhiming. Having got what he had, ſet to ſome doleful tune, and loaden, beſides his offenſive and defenſive arms, with a [Page] Guitarrhe, (which I am apt to believe was the beſt the City could afford) he took his way very boiſterouſly towards his Miſtreſs's, either to move her to compaſſion, or to ſet the dogs thereabouts a barking. 'Tis not unlikely he ſhould have done one of the two, or both together, and yet it ſo happen'd he did neither.

Being come within fifty paces ſhort of the bleſſed manſion of his Divinity, he perceives the door open, and a woman coming out, who ſeem'd much like his almoſt-inviſible Angel. He could not imagine what ſhould oblige a Woman, all alone, and at ſuch a time of the night, to enter, of ſet purpoſe, into a great deſolate building, deſtroy'd not long before by a fire that had happen'd. To find out what the matter ſhould be, he walk'd round about thoſe ruins, into which there were ſeveral ways to get in, ſo, with as much convenience as he could, to get near the perſon whom he had follow'd in thither. It came into his imagination, that it might be his Miſtreſs who had appointed his Rival a meeting in that ſtrange place, as not daring to be ſeen at her houſe, and haply unwilling to have any third perſon privy to an action, which it concern'd him ſo much to be kept ſecret; and if what he did as yet but onely ſuſpect, ſhould prove tru [...], his inviolable reſolution was to be the death of his Rival, and to be reveng'd of Seraphina, by loading her with the greateſt reproaches he could think on. He thereupon crawl'd along with as little noiſe as he could, till he came to a place whence he ſaw her (for it was ſhe) ſitting upon the ground, bemoaning her ſelf, as a perſon ready to give up the ghoſt, or what ſignifies little leſs (to give it you [Page] in a word) in Labour, and with inexpreſſible pain, upon the delivery of a little creature, in the making whereof ſhe had haply taken a great deal of pleaſure. She no ſooner ſaw her ſelf disburthen'd, but deriving ſtrength from her courage, ſhe return'd the ſame way ſhe came, without taking any further thought, what ſhould become of the Child ſhe had brought into the world.

I leave you to judge what aſtoniſhment Don Pedro was in at this ſtrange accident. Now was he ſatisfi'd what was the true cauſe of his Miſtreſs's ſickneſs: he was a little frighted at the danger he was likely to have fallen into, and made his acknowledgment to Heaven, that he had eſcap'd it. And being of a noble and generous diſpoſition, he would not be reveng'd of one that had put ſuch a treacherous trick upon him, to the diſhonour of an illuſtrious Family, nor in his juſt reſentment ſuffer the innocent little creature to periſh, which he ſaw at his feet expos'd to the mercy of the firſt dog or ſwine that had come that way. He took it up in his handkerchief, for want of ſomething elſe to wrap it in, and, with as much haſte as he could, went to a Midwife of his acquaintance, to whoſe care he recommended the Child he put into her hands, and gave her mony to buy all things neceſſary for it. The Midwife, well paid, did what might have been expected from her, inſomuch that the very next day, the Child was put out to nurſe, chriſtned, and (proving a girl) named Laura.

In the interim, Don Pedro went to ſee a certain Kinſwoman of his, one in whom he repos'd very much confidence: he told her that he had chang'd [Page] the deſign he had of marrying ſo young into that of travelling, entreated her to take upon her the management of his eſtate, and to entertain into her houſe a little Girl, whom he made her believe was his own, to be very liberal in what concern'd her education, and, for certain reaſons, which ſhe ſhould one day know, as ſoon as ſhe were three years old, to put her into a Nunnery, and above all things to take order that ſhe ſhould have no acquaintance with the things of this world. He gave his kinſwoman Letters of Atturney, and what elſe was neceſſary for her management of his eſtate, furniſh'd himſelf with mony and jewels; got a truſty ſervant; and, before he left Granada, writ a Letter to Seraphina. She receiv'd it much about the time that ſhe was acquainting her Friends, that her ſickneſs would not any longer delay her marriage: but Don Pedro's Letter, wherein he diſcover'd what he knew of her condition, fill'd her with other thoughts. And thoſe were wholly directed towards God, inſomuch that, not long after, ſhe went into a Nunnery, never to come out again, it being not in the power of her Friends, with all their entreaties and tears, to divert her from that reſolution, which they thought ſo much the more ſtrange, the more they were to ſeek what the motives of it ſhould be.

But we will leave them bewailing their daughter, now turn'd Nun: Her, on the other ſide, bewailing her own miſcarriage; the little Laura g [...]owing up, and blooming forth; and overtake Don Pedro upon his way to Sevil, not able to divert his thoughts from running upon the adventure that had happen'd to him, and thereupon entertaining a cruel [Page] averſion againſt marriage, after his having ſo great a deſire to taſte of it. All the women he meets he is frightned at, and without any reflection that, as well as men, there are ſome good, ſome bad among them, he concludes with himſelf, that a man muſt ever be diſtruſtful of them, and much more of thoſe who pretend to wit, than the ſimple; being apt enough to embrace their opinion, who hold that a woman knows more than ſhe ought, if ſhe knows any thing beyond what belongs to Houſe-keeping, and the bringing up of her Children.

Embracing theſe Hereſies with ſome perſuaſion, he enters Sevil, and went to the houſe of Don John— (His name is quite out of my head) a rich man, and a perſon of quality, who was not onely his Kinſman, but much his Friend, and ſo kind as that he would not ſuffer him to lodge any where elſe. The pleaſantneſs of Sevil raiſed in him an inclination to make a longer ſtay there than he thought to have done: which his Couſin Don John perceiving, and wiſhing his divertiſement yet greater than it was, ſpent ſome time in ſhewing him whatever that place afforded that were any thing rare or conſiderable.

One day, as they were riding through one of the principal Streets of the City, they ſaw, in a Coach that went into a great perſons houſe, a young Lady, habited like a Widow; but ſo handſome, ſo attractive, that Don Pedro was ſurprized at her beauty, and made Don John laugh to hear the exclamations and oaths he made, that he had never ſeen any thing comparable to her in his Life. This angelical Widow reconciled to his favour all thoſe of the female Sex, whom Seraphina had [Page] made abominable in his apprehenſion. He intreated Don John to ride once more through the ſame Street, and acknowledg'd to him, that ever ſo little more ſight of her had really wounded him. ‘'Tis more than needed, replied Don John; for, if I am not much miſtaken, you are ſo far wounded as requires ſome remedy. Ah, Couſin, ſays Don Pedro to him, I think I may confidently tell you, that I ſhould eſteem my ſelf very happy, might I paſs away my days with ſo excellent a perſon. Nay, if you take that courſe, replies Don John, and make ſuch haſte as you do, you may ſoon come to your journeys end, and be maſter of the happineſs you propoſe to your ſelf. Not but that ſuch an enterprize muſt needs be difficult, Elvira is a perſon of quality, and very rich, her beauty is ſuch as you have obſerved it, her virtue not inferiour, and for the ſpace of two years that ſhe hath been a Widow, the wealthieſt fortunes in Andaluzia have not raiſed in her any motions to change her condition. But a perſon of your endowments and excellencies may conquer that which others have not been able to ſtand againſt. She is a Kinſwoman of my Wives, and I ſometimes viſit her. I ſhall, if you pleaſe, acquaint her with your inclinations, and I am the more apt to hope my negotiation may prove effectual, in regard I have the honour to ſee her in her Balcony which is over againſt us, a favour not ordinary from a Lady ſo reſerv'd, ſince ſhe might as well ſhut up her own jealouſies and her windows together, and ſo make us be laugh'd at after all our gallantry.’

With which words both the Cavaliers made [Page] each of them an obeiſance to the Spaniſh Lady, which it coſt them no ſmall pains to acquit themſelves well of. But particularly Don Pedro did his with ſuch contorſion and violence to his whole body, that a little more he had injur'd his reins. The Lady in the Balcony return'd them one not much to be found fault with, which engag'd Don Pedro and his companion to revy it with two others;

But ſeeing the Sun from th' Balcony was gone,

They thought it full time to depart,

One went away well, and as ſound as a Bell,

But the other was ſtruck to the heart.

‘Ah! Couſin, ſays Don Pedro to Don John, what probability is there that a ſtranger ſhould ſtorm a heart that hath ſtood out the aſſaults of all the beſt and nobleſt Champions as to quality and deſert that Sevil affords? But, continued he, ſince the little hope I have of obtaining her favour is enough to occaſion my death, it will come but all to one, if I hazard my Life upon her denials and diſdains. Let me therefore, dear Couſin, intreat you to ſpeak to her, as ſoon as poſſibly you can, and preſs not to her ſo much the greatneſs of my quality or eſtate, as the violence of my paſſion.’

Don Pedro was ſo over head and ears in love, that he could not ſpeak of any thing elſe, in ſo much, that his Couſin perceiv'd the greateſt kindneſs he could do him, was, to ſpeak with the ſooneſt to Elvira. He did it, and that with good ſucceſs. The fair Widow entertain'd ſo kindly the Propoſition he made on the behalf of his Friend, that ſhe [Page] diſcover'd rather a ſatisfaction, than any diſpleaſure thereat. But, in Anſwer thereto, ſhe told him, that having made a vow ſhe would not hear of any addreſſes in order to a ſecond Marriage till three years were expired after her former Husband's death, no conſideration in the world ſhould prevail with her to break it. She added further, that out of an exact obſervance of what ſhe had promiſed the memory of her late Husband, ſhe had till then behaved her ſelf inflexibly towards all thoſe that had made their addreſſes to her; and that if Don Pedro had ſo much command of himſelf as to continue his devotions to her for the ſpace of one whole year, during which time they might become better acquainted one with another, ſhe would promiſe never to be any man's Wife but his.

Don John, upon his return, gave Don Pedro an account of his negotiation, and render'd him the moſt ſatisfied and moſt amorous man in the world. The long time he was to expect troubled him not at all, reſolving to employ it in all manner of courtſhips, worthy atchievments, and adventures, befitting a ſpruce Lover. He bought a Coach and Horſes, took a Houſe, and entertain'd Servants, ſet the Embroiderers and Tailors of Sevil a ſewing, and the Muſicians a ſinging. He would have preſented Elvira with ſome things; but ſhe would by no means permit it. Her Maids were much more eaſily intreated, and received his Preſents as willingly as he beſtow'd them. In a ſhort time, Elvira's Servants were more at his devotion than at hers, they cauſing her to ſhew her ſelf in the Balcony, though much againſt her humour, as [Page] often as Don Pedro was ſinging in the Street; in which employment, as I have been told, he was grown to be a Crafts-maſter, not making uſe of his lips and tongue to quaver out the notes as many good Singers do.

Six Moneths were already paſt ſince Don Pedro had laid a Siege to the affections of Elvira, yet had not the leaſt private Parley with her; which added daily more and more to the eſteem and devotion he had for her. At laſt, upon an importunity of Prayers and Preſents, one of her Gentlewomen, better ſtored with confidence than any of the reſt, or rather better brib'd, promiſed to bring him in the night-time to her Lady's Lodgings, and ſo to diſpoſe of him as that he ſhould ſee her put off her cloaths before ſhe went to bed, walking in her Smock about the chamber for coolneſs, and ſinging and playing upon the Lute, which ſhe did admirably well.

This took Don Pedro ſo highly, that he gave his Intelligencer much beyond what he had promiſed her; ſo that, night being come, the bold Granadine, according to the Gentlewoman's directions, comes into Elvira's houſe, ſlunk into her lodgings, and there, from a little aſcent, which was over againſt her chamber-door, he ſaw her ſitting on a couch, reading in a Prayer-book, how attentively I know not, while her women were undreſſing her. She had onely a thin looſe coat about her, and was upon getting into bed when Don Pedro's Penſion-Gentlewoman, deſirous to give him cauſe to be as much ſatisfied with her as ſhe with him, entreats her Miſtreſs to ſing. To her's, her Companions added their intreaties; yet Elvira put them off a [Page] long time, telling them, ſhe was melancholy, nay, aſſuring them ſhe had ſome reaſon to be ſo: but the Gentlewoman who was ſo much at the devotion of Don Pedro, having put a Lute into her Miſtreſs's hands, Elvira had the compliance to ſing, and did it with ſo much excellency and delight, that Don Pedro could hardly forbear caſting himſelf at her feet, there to act the part of the ecſtatick Lover. She ſung not long, but went to bed: her Women withdrew into their chambers, and Don Pedro, who would gladly have gotten into the Street, was at a cruel loſs what to do when he found the great Gate faſt. There was no other courſe to be taken, than to expect till it were day. He ſate down on the brink of a Well which was at one corner of the Court, in no ſmall diſturbance, by reaſon of the fear he was in of being diſcovered, and to incur the diſpleaſure of his Miſtreſs, for his preſumption.

While he was thus engaged, his thoughts running upon thouſands of deſigns, and thoſe attended by ſo many fruitleſs wiſhes, he perceives a Door opening that belonged to ſome part of Elvira's Lodgings. He turn'd toward that ſide on which he heard the noiſe, and was much at a loſs to ſee coming into the Court the fair Widow whom he thought faſt aſleep. By the light of a ſmall Wax-candle ſhe had in her hand, he perceiv'd her night-cloaths were very neat about her head; that ſhe was bare-neck'd, had an excellent Neck-lace of Pearl on, and that upon her Smock, about which was abundance of Lace, ſhe had onely a long rich Mantle. She had in her hand a Silver-plate cover'd with Jelly, Sweet-meats, and Conſerves; and [Page] in that ſtrange poſture ſhe was ſo full of charm and attraction, that Don Pedro was once in a mind to ſatisfie himſelf with the enjoyment of looking on her, though he ſhould thereby draw on himſelf all the diſpleaſure, which a preſumption ſo great might juſtly deſerve. But upon better thoughts he hid himſelf behind the Well, yet ſo as that he ſtill obſerv'd his Miſtreſs, flattering himſelf ſometimes with an imagination, that he was the perſon ſhe ſought after. She went on towards the Stable, whither Don Pedro, at a diſtance, follow'd her, and ſaw her go into a little Chamber. The firſt apprehenſion he had, was, that his Miſtreſs, out of an exceſs of pious charity, went to viſit ſome ſervant of the Houſe that was ſick, though, without any prejudice to her charitable inclinations, ſhe might have put that employment upon ſome one of her women. He hid himſelf behind a horſe, which ſtood not far from the door of the Chamber, and thence obſerving his dear Widow, he ſaw her ſet down, on a little Table, the Candleſtick, the Plate, and whatever elſe ſhe had brought that was burthenſome to her Ivory hands; and perceiv'd, in a bed which took up almoſt all the Chamber, a Blackamore that was ſick, who ſeem'd to be about thirty years of age, but ſo deformed, and of ſo dreadful a look, that he was in a manner frightned at the ſight of him. His meagre countenance, and the painful emiſſion of his breath argu'd him very ſick and much ſpent. Don Pedro could not but admire the unparallel'd goodneſs of the fair Elvira, who took up the Negro's coverlet, and having thruſt up his head, ſate down by the ſick perſon, and put her hand on his fore-head, all wet, haply with [Page] the ſweats and pains of approaching death. The Negro beheld, with a gaſtly look, the charitable Angel that came to comfort him, and who ſtill view'd him with tears in her eyes. Don Pedro knew not what he ſhould think of a charity ſo tranſcendent, and having for a while admir'd it, he began to think it exceſſive: but as yet he had not ſeen any thing.

At laſt, the fair Widow breaking forth into diſcourſe, yet weeping as if it had been at the taking of a final farewel, ſhe ask'd the Negro, How he did▪ ‘My dear Anthony, ſaid ſhe to him with a voice interrupted by ſobbs, Art thou then reſolv'd to dy, and, with thy own, to be my death too? Thou ſpeak'ſt not to me, my deareſt; take heart, my ſoul, take heart, if thou deſireſt I ſhould live, and eat a little of this jelly, for my ſake. Thou doſt not vouchſafe ſo much as to look on me, cruel man; not on me, who love thee, who adore thee; kiſs me, my Angel, kiſs me, and recover thy health, if thou wouldſt not have my company to Death, after I had ſo much lov'd thee whil'ſt thou hadſt any Life.’

To this effect were her expoſtulations, joyning her angelical face to the diabolical countenance of the Moor, which ſhe bedew'd with her tears. I am apt to imagine that who ever had ſeen ſuch a Viſion, would have taken it for an Angel embracing a Devil. As for our Don Pedro, he began to think his fair Elvira as ugly as her Negro, who at laſt caſting his eyes on his importunate Miſtreſs, whom he had not till then vouchſaf'd a look, and with his ſcraggy hand removing her face from his own, ſaid to her, with a hollow voice; ‘What would [Page] you have of me, Madam, and why will you not let me die in quiet? Do you not think it enough that you have reduc'd me to the condition I am in? or do you expect I ſhould, at the point of death, ſacrifice the few minutes I have left, to the ſatisfaction of your inſatiable inclinations? Take a Husband, Madam, take a Husband, and expect no more from me. I ſhall not ſee you any more, nor taſte of what you have brought me; all my buſineſs now is onely to die, ſince I am not good for any thing but the grave.’

Having ſo ſaid, he ſlunk down into the bed, ſo ſuddenly, that the unfortunate Elvira could not get a word from him by way of return, notwithſtanding all the kindneſſes both of words and geſtures ſhe us'd towards him; whether it were that he was already dead, or obſtinately reſolv'd, not to ſpeak to a perſon whom he thought the occaſion of his death. Elvira, melted into tears, and in a manner out of her ſelf, to ſee what a ſad condition ſhe left her dear Negro in, and moſt of all to conſider his inhumanity towards her, took up all ſhe had brought with her, and return'd to her chamber, with ſo much ſadneſs and affliction in her countenance, that it was much to her loſs, ſhe had not been ſeen in that poſture by her apoſtate Lover, Don Pedro.

He in the mean time lay cloſe and undiſcover'd, in the moſt obſcure part of the ſtable, ſo aſtoniſh'd as that he had not been half as much, when he was preſent at the happy delivery of Seraphina. He ſaw the counterfeit Matron returning to her chamber, diſconſolate as a Widow at the Funeral of a Husband ſhe dearly lov'd; and, not long after, finding the great gate open, he got into the [Page] ſtreet, not much ſollicitous whether he were ſeen or not, as not eſteeming the reputation of Elvira worthy the leaſt tenderneſs or reſpect. Yet even in that did he follow the dictates of his own vertue, ſo far as that he diſcover'd not what he had ſeen even to his Friend. He paſs'd by Elvira's door the next day juſt as the Moor was carried out to his burial. Her Woman told him, that ſhe was ſick, and for the ſpace of four or five days that he paſs'd to and fro that way, ſhe was not to be ſeen at her window, ſo incapable was ſhe of any conſolation upon the death of the African. Don Pedro was much deſirous to hear from her. One day as he was in diſcourſe with Don John, a ſlave of Elvira's brought him a Letter from her Miſtreſs. He open'd it with ſome impatience, and read in it what you are like to do, if you pleaſe.

A LETTER.

TWo perſons, between whom there is a mutual affection in order to marriage, need no third perſon to ſollicite the buſineſs between them. You would have me believe, that you think me not unhandſome, and I cannot but acknowledge I am ſo far taken with you, as that I am willing to grant you immediately, what I had not promis'd till a year were expir'd. My Perſon and Eſtate are at your diſpoſal, when you pleaſe to command them; and I am to deſire you to believe, that though I cannot be too circumſpect in a buſineſs of this nature, yet your merit[Page]and my own affection ſhall be my ſecurity, and enable me to overcome what difficulties ſoever I may meet with therein.

ELVIRA.

Don Pedro read over the Letter twice or thrice, ſo much ado had he to believe what he read. He conſider'd with himſelf that he had been twice in danger to have been as unfortunately married as any man in Spain, and ſent up his hearty thanks to Heaven which had enabled him to eſcape it, by diſcovering to him two ſecrets of ſo great importance. The reſolution of marrying ſuddenly, which the Negro's death had put Elvira upon, rais'd in Don Pedro a quite contrary, which was, that of getting from her as ſoon as he could. He therefore told Don John, that it concern'd both his life and honour, that he ſhould be out of Sevil within an hour, and that he would take along with him onely that ſervant whom he had brought from Granada. He intreated him to ſell his Coach and Horſes, and with the mony to diſcharge his Servants; but above all things he deſir'd him not to make any enquiry after the occaſion of ſo ſudden a change, and ſo unexpected a departure, promiſing to give him an account in writing from the firſt place he ſhould make any ſtay at. He writ to Elvira, while ſome were gone to take up two Mules for him; he deliver'd his Letter to the ſlave, and, the Mules being come, took his way towards Madrid, confirm'd, more than ever, in his former opinion, of being diſtruſtful of all women of more than ordinary wit, nay indeed to have a horrour of them. While he is [Page] ſpurring on his Mule, Elvira opens his Letter, and finds in it theſe words.

A LETTER.

HOw violent ſoever the affection I had for you might have been, yet have I ever preferr'd the deſire of preſerving your honour, before the pleaſure of enjoying your perſon. Thence you might have perceiv'd with what diſcretion all my Courtſhips and addreſſes were attended. I am naturally a perſon of a very nice conſcience, and therefore cannot without ſome remorſe anſwer your propoſal of marriage, you being a Widow but ſince yeſterday. You are much more oblig'd to the memory of the poor Negro, who hath lost his life in your ſervice, and can beſtow no leſs than a year in bewailing the miſcarriage of a perſon, whoſe performances you thought ſo extraordinary. In the interim, we ſhall both of us have time to conſider what we have to do.

DON PEDRO.

Elvira was almoſt out of her ſelf at the reading of this Letter; the affliction ſhe conceiv'd thereat made her more ſick, than ſhe had been upon the loſs of her Lover of Guinny. But bethinking her ſelf that Don Pedro had left Sevil, and another perſon, whom ſhe thought furniſh'd for her turn, making his addreſſes to her in order to marriage, ſhe took him at his word, and entertain'd him, to ſupply [Page] the place of the Negro. Not but that there were other Negroes choice enough; but ſhe had heard ſay that there were ſeveral ſorts of Negroes, and that they are not ſo far Devils as they ſeem black.

By this time was Don Pedro got to Madrid, where he alighted at an Uncle's of his, who entertain'd him very kindly. This Uncle was a Gentleman of a very great eſtate, had onely one ſon, deſtin'd in marriage for a Couſin of his, an Heireſs, one that being but ten years of age was kept in a Monaſtery, till ſuch time as ſhe were ripe for the enjoyments of her Couſin. This Couſin's name was Don Rodrigues, a perſon as lovely as could be look'd on, every way ſo accompliſh'd, that Don Pedro entred into a friendſhip with him much beyond what a man hath for a kinſman, whom yet he may love very well; for they are not always of his kindred that a man loves beſt.

Don Rodrigues had many times his thoughts ſo taken up with ſome reflections unknown to any but himſelf, that he minded not much what he did, or what company he was in, and theſe fits were often accompani'd with certain agitations and diſturbances. Don Pedro, having obſerv'd it, acquainted him with his adventures, to oblige him, by th [...]t confidence, to give him an account of his, and, in caſe there were any thing wherein he might ſerve him, to aſſure him of his being much more his Friend than his Kinſman. Whereupon he to [...]d him how he h [...]d taken notice of his ſadneſs and diſquiet, and intreated him to diſcover the occaſion of it; or otherwiſe, that he ſhould think his friendſhip not anſwerable to his own.

[Page] Don Rodrigues deſired nothing ſo much, hoping to be disburthen'd of his grief, when he had communicated it. He thereupon told Don Pedro, that he was paſſionately fallen in love with a Gentlewoman at Madrid, deſign'd in marriage to a Couſin of hers whom ſhe expected from the Indies, and whom ſhe had never ſeen, much after the ſame manner as he was made ſure to a Couſin of his whom he ſtaid for till ſhe were of age to be married, and whom he had but little acquaintance with.

But not unwilling to make a full diſcovery of himſelf; ‘This conformity of Adventures, ſaid he to Don Pedro, very much heightned the mutual love we had for one another, though it ſtill kept us both within the limits of civility and our duty, when ever our paſſion would have advis'd us to prefer our ſatisfaction before the engagements wherein we were involv'd upon the account of our Families. Hitherto had my love had the ſucceſs I could have wiſh'd my ſelf, I mean, ſo as not to obtain the final reward of it, which ſhe put off till after the arrival of her Husband, that is, when the cloak of Marriage might cover all the inconveniences likely to enſue upon an appointment which ſuppoſes ſomewhat more then a private converſation. I ſhall not tell you any thing of the beauty of Virginia, but onely that it is impoſſible to ſay too much of it, and that I could ſay as much of it as would haply puzzle your faith to believe. I ſhall forbear, till you have ſeen her, and her Couſin Violanta, who lives with her, which when you have, it will haply force an acknowledgment [Page] from you, that Spain can hardly afford any thing fairer than theſe two incomparable Couſins, and, when you come to diſcourſe with them, that you never met with any Women more witty.’

‘Ah! that's it makes me the more to pity you, replies Don Pedro. And why ſo, ſays Don Rodrigues? Becauſe a ſubtil Woman, replies Don Pedro, will be ſure, ſooner or later, to put a trick upon you. You know by the Relation I have given you of my adventures, how I had been like to be trapann'd by them; and I am to aſſure you that were I but in hopes to find a Woman as ſimple, as I know there are witty, I would court her in the higheſt manner imaginable, and prefer her before prudence it ſelf, if ſhe would entertain me to be her Servant. Sure, you do not ſpeak ſeriouſly, replies Don Rodrigues; for I never knew any underſtanding man, but thought it the moſt inſupportable thing in the world, nay, a certain torment, to be but a quarter of an hour in company with a Woman that's little better than a natural Fool. 'Twere moſt irrational, that, while our eyes, our hands, in a word, our whole body, finds ſomething of diverſion, our ſouls, our nobleſt part, ſhould be upon the rack of a tedious converſation, ſuch as muſt needs be that of perſons that have nothing in them. Let's have no more diſputing, ſays Don Pedro to him, ſince there is but too much to be ſaid upon this ſubject; be it your buſineſs to bring me as ſoon as you can to a ſight of this admirable Lady, as alſo of her Couſin, to the end, if ſhe ſuit with my humour, I may have ſomething to trifle away [Page] the time withal while I ſtay at Madrid. I believe you will find them much otherwiſe than you expect, when you do, ſays Don Rodrigues. And why, I pray, replies Don Pedro. Becauſe, ſays Don Rodrigues, the perſon you would ſee is at the greateſt diſtance with ſimplicity of any I know. I ſhall comply with time and circumſtances, replies Don Pedro. To be real with you, added Don Rodrigues, I know not well how Madam Virginia will entertain us, it's above eight days ſince th [...]t ſhe hath treated me with all poſſible rigour and averſion, return'd my Letters without ever opening them, and ſent me word ſhe would never ſee me, becauſe not long ſince ſhe found me in the Church, ſpeaking to a young Lady, with whom ſhe ſaw me the ſame day in a Coach, and upon this occaſion it was that you ſaw me ſo ſad and melancholy. It matters not, ſays Don Pedro, let's go and ſee them however, and take it from me, you will ſooner ſatisfie her by vindicating your ſelf in her preſence, than with all the Letters the whole Academy of Eloquence could furniſh you with.’

Hereupon the two men-Couſins went to ſee the two women-Couſins; and the fair Virginia permitted Don Rodrigues to vindicate himſelf, which he found it no hard matter to do. Don Pedro thought them both handſomer than any he had ſeen of the ſex before, not excepting the imprudent Seraphina, nor the counterfeit Matron Elvira. Violanta, who had dreſs'd her ſelf that day richer than ordinary, in order to have her Picture drawn, dazzled the eyes of Don Pedro ſo far, that he immediately broke the reſolution he had taken, never to love [Page] any Woman unleſs ſhe were a Fool. For his part, Violanta was no leſs taken with him, it being his fortune to ſpeak things ſo obliging upon her Picture, among which ſome infinitely witty and ſmart, that they wrought in her an admiration of his excellent parts, and no ſmall ſatisfaction at the firſt ſallies of his courtſhips.

But here I cannot avoid making a little digreſſion, though it be onely to tell thoſe who know not ſo much, that your ſet-ſpeeches to Gentlewomen, and your ſerious Students in the Academy of Complements, are a ſort of people that would be good at the putting off of whipp'd Cream and Syllibubs, and are charg'd with, nay, convicted of, an aery fl [...]tuous eloquence by perſons of good underſtanding and judgment. If this word of advertiſement be well conſider'd by the publick, ſome would find the conveniences of it equal to thoſe of a good receipt againſt the Flies in Summer, and ag [...]inſt ſtinking Breaths all the year long. Don Pedro, who had ſolemnly ſworn never to marry unleſs he met with a Woman the next degree remov'd from an Ideot, made it appear that the Oaths of Gameſters and Lovers are not obligatory, though the late Caſuiſts had not been ſo indulgent as to diſpenſe with them. He was ſo infinitely taken, as with the beauty, ſo with the wit of Violanta, that deſpairing to obtain any favour of her but what might be granted without any prejudice to her honour, he was reſolv'd to marry her, if ſhe had no averſion for that kind of life. He many times gave her occaſion to make ſome diſcovery of her thoughts, as to that particular; but either ſhe underſtood him not, or at leaſt would [Page] not, whether it were that ſhe lov'd her freedom, or could not entertain any thoughts of Marriage.

All went hitherto very proſperouſly on with theſe four Lovers; but misfortune comes ever when 'tis leaſt expected. One day it happened, that the two young Gentlemen having tyred their Tailors, Barbers, Millaners, Shoomakers, Sempſters, and all thoſe other Trades which young Gallants put upon the rack when they would dazle their eys whom they pretend to adore, or to ſay all in a word, made themſelves as fine as Caſtor and Pollux, and not making the leaſt doubt to become Maſters of the out-works at leaſt of the places they beſieg'd, there comes an unlucky Scrich-owl, I mean an old Servant-maid, to acquaint the two Couſins, that the Indian Spark, Husband to the fair Caſtilian, was come to Madrid, without ſo much as ſending a Letter before him from Sevil, where the Ship came in; that the two fair Couſins knew not what he meant by his ſurpriſing them in that manner, and intreated the Gallants to have patience till ſuch time as Virginia had made ſuch diſcovery of the humours of her Indian, as to know how to deal with him, and that they ſhould not onely forbear viſiting them, but even appearing before their Windows, till further order.

Thus was all the trimming, ſcouring and poudring of that day clearly loſt, nay, as if upon this account of their Miſtreſſes they had a remorſe for their vanity, for two days after, they had no more care of themſelves than if they had been irreprievable Malefactors. They underſtood from common report about the Town, that the Indian [Page] [...]nd Virginia had been privately married; that he [...]as naturally jealous, a perſon of experience, as being turn'd of forty years of age, and had taken ſuch order in his houſe, and was ſo vigilant over the actions of his Wife, that her Gallants, if ſhe had any, could not hope ſo much as a ſight of her at her Window. The further order they had been promiſed came not, and they thought long to expect it. They made their appearance in the Street where their Miſtreſſes liv'd, and rode up and down, as they were wont, before their doors, yet could never ſee, either going in or coming out, any face they knew, or meet with any Boy or Maid they had any acquaintance with. They one day ſaw the Huſband go in accompanied by his Brother, a perſon handſome enough, and ſo young that he was then a young Student in the Univerſity. All this did but add to their affliction, and heighten the trouble they were in. They went forth betimes in the morning, they came not home till 'twere very late, and ſpent both time and pains to no purpoſe. At laſt one Holiday, being upon the Sentry, they ſaw coming out, at the Break of Day, one of Violenta's Maids to go to Maſs. They made her ſtand at the Church-door, and through the perſuaſion of a many Preſents Don Rodrigues prevailed with her to carry a Letter to her Miſtreſs. The buſineſs of it was this.

[Page]

THE LETTER.

Madam,

I Find a greater unkindneſs in your oblivion of me, than I feel torment in my own jealouſie, ſince there is no remedy for this latter, now that you are at the diſpoſal of a Husband. However you are not to think your ſelf beyond the reach of my importunities, though you have diſcharged me your remembrance. I beg of you, as the last favour I am to expect, to let me know whether I have yet any ground to hope, or muſt reſolve not to live any longer,

Yours, &c. DON RODRIGUES.

They followed the Maid at a diſtance; ſhe delivered the Letter as ſhe had promiſed them, and having made a ſign to them to come near the houſe, ſhe dropped out at the Window the Anſwer you are like to read.

THE LETTER.

A Jealous man, that hath not been married long, is but little from his Wife, and cannot ſo ſoon think himſelf diſpenſed from the[Page]duty he conceives lies upon him, to expreſs his tenderneſs over her and obſerve her actions. There is ſome talk of taking a journey to Vailladolid, without my company, which if it happen, I ſhall vindicate my ſelf, ſatisfie my engagements, and pay my debts.

This Letter, which they both with a certain emulation kiſs'd a hundred and a hundred times, reviv'd their decaying hopes, and nouriſh'd them for ſome days: but at laſt, not hearing any thing from their forgetful Miſtreſſes, they renew'd their marches and countermarches before their windows, ſpent whole nights there; and could not ſee any going to and fro, no more than if the houſe had been haunted and no body liv'd in it.

But one day it happen'd, that, theſe two deſpairing Lovers being in the Church, comes in Miſtreſs Bride; Don Rodrigues went and kneel'd down cloſe by her, as t'were to outface an old Gentleman-Uſher that had brought her thither. He in few words made his complaints to her; ſhe in as few excus'd her ſelf, and at laſt ſhe told Don Rodrigues, that her husband was not yet gone to Vailladolid, though he talk'd of going every day: that her impatience to have a private meeting with him was no leſs than his; and that ſhe knew but one way to ſatisfie his deſires, which abſolutely depended on Don Pedro. ‘My husband, ſaid ſhe, is a man, whom, when once fallen aſleep, the ſhooting off of great Guns would hardly awake, and it is four or five days ſince we ſpoke one to another, by reaſon of a little difference that is happened [Page] between us, which is not yet ripened to a [...] overtures of reconciliation. I have been at m [...] Couſin Violanta to ſupply my place in the Bed but ſhe is not well, and in regard ſhe and D [...] Pedro are the onely perſons that are privy t [...] our Loves, and that I am unwilling there ſhoul [...] be any more, though it concern'd my life, w [...] muſt make uſe of him in her ſtead, and, if he loves you ſo well as to do it, prevail with him t [...] go into bed to my husband after he is fallen aſleep. There ſeems at firſt to be ſomething o [...] hazard in ſuch an enterpriſe; but it being conſider'd withall that my husband and I are at [...] diſtance, and that he is not eaſily awak'd, doub [...] not but all may prove well enough as I imagine to my ſelf; and this is the utmoſt I can do for you.’

This happy ſtratageme of Love, which Do [...] Rodrigues was ſo hot to underſtand, upon the firſt propoſal of it, prov'd a cooler to his deſires when he had heard it; for he was not onely in doubt whether his Couſin would act the dangerous part which was impos'd upon him in that extravagant adventure, but was in ſuſpence, whether he ſhould ſo much as propoſe it to him. His Miſtreſs continu'd firm to her reſolution, and, as ſhe parted with her diſſatisfy'd Gallant, aſſur'd him, that if the propoſition ſhe made to him were not well entertain'd and put in execution, as ſhe had directed, there were never any thing to be hoped from her, nay ſhe gave him leave to forget her, though a time had been ſhe would ſooner have ſign'd the ſentence of her own death.

The time and place broke off the diſcourſe between [Page] Don Rodrigues and his Lady; ſhe return'd home, he to his Camrade, who could not get a word from him, ſo much was he troubled that he muſt either make a requeſt to him which he thought ſo unreaſonable, or live without a happineſs which is ever much more valued before the enjoyment than afterwards. At laſt, being gotten together into a private Chamber, Don Rodrigues having done himſelf all poſſible violence, made the extravagant propoſition to Don Pedro, allaying it what he could with thoſe circumſtances which might render it the more entertainable. Don Pedro could not at firſt imagine but all was in jeſt, but his Couſin on the contrary proteſting he ſpoke ſeriouſly, ſo far as to confirm it with ſuch Oaths as convinc'd him he was in earneſt, he would needs make ſome ſport at it, telling him, he was very much oblig'd to his Miſtreſs, for providing him an entertainment with ſo ſweet a Gentlewoman, and that no doubt it was an expreſſion of Violanta's gratitude towards him, who being not, by reaſon of her indiſpoſition, in a capacity to requite the ſervices he had done her, and thinking her engagement a burthen, turn'd him over for the payment of it to her Couſin's husband, with whom he muſt expect a very pleaſant night's lodging.

Thus did he endeavour to divert both his Friend and himſelfe with witty deſcants on ſo odde an adventure, but Don Rodrigues was in ſuch a diſtraction of thought as that he minded them but little, and was ſo caſt down, that his Couſin could no leſs than pitty him, and was ſomewhat in fear how dangerous the conſequences of his deſpair might be. Don Pedro was a perſon naturally [Page] daring enough, one that had run through many adventures, and durſt undertake any thing thoug [...] never ſo extravagant; he had alſo a great love for Don Rodrigues, ſo that, all put together, he was content to ſupply the place of the fair Virginia, thoug [...] with the hazard of what miſchief he might receive from an exaſperated and jealous husband. Being therefore fixt in his reſolution, he embrac'd his Couſin, and rais'd him to Life again by telling him what hazard he would run, to procure him the enjoyment of his Miſtreſs. ‘You ſhall not be, ſaid he to him, ſo extreamly oblig'd to me as you imagine for what I ſhall do for you, I find my ſelf inclin'd to undertake it as an action of honour, wherein I pretend to as much reputation as if I had behav'd my ſelf ever ſo gallantly at the ſtorming of ſome ſtrong place.’

Things thus concluded, word was ſent to Virginia, that her propoſition was accepted; ſhe appointed the time that very night; the two Couſins came according to appointment, were conducted into the houſe with as little noiſe as might be; and Don Pedro was forc'd, in the preſence of the fair Lady, to put off his cloaths, as being deſirous her orders ſhould be obſerv'd with the greateſt exactneſs. Don Pedro being thus ſtript to his linnen, ſhe brought him, as ſoftly as if his way had been pav'd with eggs, and with the greateſt caution imaginable, to the dangerous bed-ſide, and, having drawn the curtains, and turn'd down the cloaths as eaſily as might be, held the daring Don Pedro by the arms, while he gingerly laid himſelf down in the bed, who haply now began to repent him of his confidence, and no doubt contented himſelf with ſuch [Page] a part of the bed as that he came not near the middle.

Having thus dispos'd of him, ſhe went her ways, lock'd the chamber door without ever minding the noiſe ſhe made in doing it, which Don Pedro was troubled moſt of all at. Her buſineſs now was to get to Don Rodrigues, whom I am apt to believe ſhe paid, like a gallant good natur'd woman, what ever ſhe was in his debt, at leaſt as much as he would take of it.

Don Pedro in the mean time was in a condition much different from that of his Couſin's, who no doubt was over head and ears in the embraces of a fair Lady that was a bed with him, while this overcharitable Kinſman lay in fear of nothing ſo much as of thoſe of a ſordid man, who, to his great misfortune, was a very troubleſome bed-fellow. Then did he begin to reflect, but too late, on his fooliſh preſumption, that being what he ſhould have done before he engag'd himſelf in ſuch a deſign; he blam'd himſelf, call'd himſelf fool, and acknowledg'd that the injury he did a husband was one of thoſe that are unpardonable, if he himſelf were to paſs his ſentence upon it.

But it was not long ere theſe ſad reflections were interrupted, and his juſt fears heightned by his Bed-fellow's turning to him, and caſting his burdenſome arm about his neck, as if he would have embrac'd his wife. Don Pedro ſomewhat frighten'd at thoſe unwelcome careſſes, the more haply becauſe accompani'd with certain words imperfectly uttered, made a ſhift to disburthen himſelf of the arm which he thought more weighty than a far heavier burthen, and ſlipp'd his neck from under it, [Page] taking great care not to do him any hurt; and having ſo done, he got to the bed-ſide, with his body ſo far over, that he had much ado to keep in the bed, wiſhing his life fairly at an end, and blaming onely himſelf for running ſo great a hazard to comply with the paſſion of two indiſcreet Lovers. He had hardly time to breathe, and recover his ſpirits ever ſo little, ere the unquiet Bed-fellow thruſt in his legs between his; which laſt action, added to the foregoing perſecutions, made him look pale as death it ſelf. At laſt, whil'ſt one came ſtill nearer, and the other remov'd, day comes on, very expectedly to Don Pedro, who was not able to ſtand out any longer againſt his Adverſary, who had thruſt him as far as he could go.

He got out of bed as gently as he could, and went to open the door, which he found very carefully double lock'd, a misfortune as indigeſtible as any of the precedent. As he was trying, to little purpoſe, to thruſt back the lock, it flew open of a ſudden, and the door had almoſt taken him over the face. Virginia comes into the room as it were in much haſte, and ask'd him loud enough, Whither he made ſuch haſte? Don Pedro entreating her with a low voice to ſpeak more gently, ask'd her whether ſhe were mad to hazard in that manner the waking of her husband, and deſir'd her ſhe would let him out. ‘How! go out? replies the Lady with a loud voice. No, I would have my husband ſee what bed-fellow he hath had to night, that he may ſee the fruits of his own jealouſie, and what I am able to do.’

Having ſo ſaid, bold as a Lioneſs ſhe took Don Pedro by the arm; then, in ſuch diſturbance as that [Page] he had not the ſtrength to get from her, open'd the ſhutters of the windows, without letting go her prize, and dragging him to the bed-ſide, drew the curtains, ſaying aloud, ‘See, Mr. Jealous-brains, whom you have had to your bed-fellow!’ Don Pedro was not ſo ſcared, but that he had the confidence to look into that dreadful bed, where, inſtead of the imagin'd Satyre, he found his amiable Violanta, who had lain with him, and not Virginia's husband, who was gone into the Country eight days before. The two fair Couſins jeer'd him moſt unmercifully, never had a witty man ſuch a task to vindicate himſelf, or betrai'd a greater confuſion. Violanta, who was extremely a lover of mirth, and ſpoke things handſomly and ingeniouſly, made her Couſin almoſt burſt with laughing when ſhe related what frights ſhe had put Don Pedro to, whenever, pretending to be between ſleeping and waking, ſhe got any t [...]ing near him.

This baiting put Don Pedro, who was ſtill in his ſhirt, almoſt out of countenance; ſo that it was a long time ere he could recover himſelf out of the confuſion he was in. At laſt Virginia took pity of him, and left him and her Couſin to themſelves, to make up the accounts that were between them, which were of ſome conſequence, for it took up their time from morning till it was noon. From that time, while the Husband was in the Country, the two he-Couſins and the two ſhe-Couſins had frequent meetings, and made their advantages of the opportunity. The Indian being return'd, onely Don Rodrigues far'd the worſe for it; for Don Pedro, by the aſſiſtance of the Servants whom his Preſents had brought to his Lure, made a ſhift, for two [Page] or three months, to ſpend moſt flights with Violanta, who was at her own diſpoſal, and, ſince her Couſin's marriage, lodg'd in a part of the houſe whereof ſhe had the command, and which had a back-door that opened into another ſtreet. He was ſo deeply in love with her, that he earneſtly wiſh'd himſelf married to her, but when he made any Propoſal of that nature to her, ſhe ſo handſomely put off the diſcourſe, that he knew not whether it were out of deſign, or that ſhe minded not much what he ſaid to her. At laſt, to confirm the general opinion, that this world is a Stage of perpetual changes, Violanta began to remit much of her paſſion, and by little and little grew to that coldneſs towards Don Pedro, that he could not forbear complaining of it, and, not knowing what to quarrel at, charg'd her with infidelity, reproaching her, that ſhe had entertain'd ſome other Gallant into her favour.

But inſtead of recovering himſelf by this means into that place in her affections which he had formerly poſſeſſed, it made him ſo inſupportable to Violanta, that ſhe did not onely forbear the kindneſſes ſhe did him in the night, but could not endure his company in the day time. Yet was he not a jot caſt down at it. He, by the charms of a many Preſents, prevail'd ſo far with one of the Gentlewomen, treacherous enough of her own inclination, as that ſhe diſcover'd to him, that her Miſtreſs was extremely taken with her Couſin's Brother-in-law, who was then juſt come from the Univerſity; that he was a very handſome young man, and no leſs in love with Violanta, than Violanta was with him. To act ſomething notorious for the perfidiouſneſs of it, this wicked Wench adviſed him to [Page] pretend himſelf ſick, to ſend his Miſtreſs notice of it, complaining as if ſhe were the cauſe of his indiſpoſition, which, by reaſon of the likelihood of it, might be credited; and, in a word, to pretend it ſo ſeriouſly, that her Miſtreſs might not be ſo vigilant, nor ſtand ſo much upon her guard, as ſhe had ever done, ſince ſhe broke off her correſpondence with him. Don Pedro plaid his part as well as if he had been an old Actor at it. Violanta perceiv'd not the Miſt that was caſt before her eyes, and the perfidious Author of the Plot, had no ſooner brought her Miſtreſs's new Adonis into that chamber, but ſhe went to open the gate to the jealous Don Pedro.

He comes all fury into Violanta's chamber, and ſurpriſes her already in bed, and her young Exerciſer putting off his cloaths to lay himſelf by her. He went with his ſword drawn ſtreight to his Rival, haply to frighten him a little. The young man had his wits about him, ſo that taking up one of his ſhoes, and holding it out as one would do a pocket-piſtol, aim'd at Don Pedro's face, ſo confidently, that Don Pedro, who miſtruſted no ſuch thing, and doubted not but that he would have ſhot at him, ſlunk down and turn'd of one ſide, in which interval the young man got out at the door. Violanta, who was reſolv'd to make an abſolute rupture with Don Pedro, broke out into a laughter, and jear'd at his fear of being piſtoll'd with a ſhoe. He took her abuſes ſo heinouſly, that he fell a boxing of her; ſhe had him by the hair; it came to a bloudy ſcuffle, inſomuch, that at laſt, the hard-hearted Granadin, having uſed her ſo unmercifully, that ſhe was forced to cry out [Page] Murder, made his eſcape into the ſtreet, juſt as Virginia, her husband, and all the ſervants, arm'd, as it were to engage an enemy, that had beat up their quarters, came into Violanta's chamber.

In the mean time Don Pedro gave Don Rodrigues an account of what had paſſed, and, not loſing any time, went and proffer'd his ſervice to the Duke of Oſſonne, who was to depart the next day to be Vice-Roy of Naples. Don Pedro expected him at the Port, where they were to embark, leaving his dear Couſin extremely troubled both at his departure and the occaſion of it. He continued ſix or ſeven years at Naples, much reſpected by the Vice-Roy, who allow'd him very conſiderable penſions. He receiv'd alſo no ſmall ſumms out of Spain, ſo that there was not any perſon in Naples liv'd at [...] higher rate than he did, which made him more conſiderable in Italy than moſt of your Spaniards, who go thither as much out of a deſign to grow rich, as the French do to ſpend their mony. He travell'd to Sicily, made ſome ſtay in the more eminent Cities, and, being return'd into Italy, ſpent two or three years at Rome, as many at Venice, viſited all the places he thought worth it; and, at laſt, having been fourteen or fifteen years out of Spain, ever in love, or, if you will, ever making it his main buſineſs to ſatisfie his luſt, ſtill engag'd in ſome adventure or other, and more and more confirm'd in his opinion, that a man could not be ſafely married to a witty woman, an humour took him to put a period to all his extravagant courſes, and to return to GRANADA, to ſee all the friends he had left there.

But the greateſt motive of his departure out of [Page] Italy, was, that his returns of mony fail'd him, through the diſappointment of his correſpondents; or, at leaſt, his Exchequer was grown ſo low, that he had hardly ſo much as carri'd him to Barcelona. There he ſold what cloaths he could ſpare, to buy him a Mule, and keeping onely the beſt he had for his journey, he took his way towards his dear Country, without any retinue at all, the ſervant whom he had brought with him out of Spain being, in all probability, dead of the Neapolitan diſeaſe, and his ſtock ſo ſmall, as would not haply defray the charges of another.

He left Barcelona at the break of day, to avoid the heat, and the importunity of the flies, which in Auguſt are very troubleſome, ſo that by nine of the clock he was gotten four or five leagues in his way. He rode through the middle of a pretty large country village, where a certain Duke of Cataloniae paſs'd away part of the Summer, as having in that place a fair Caſtle that ſtood upon the road. The Duke was an antient man, and had to his Lady a woman of an excellent humour, a great both lover and maker of ſport, and about twenty years of age. He was that day gone abroad upon ſome hunting-meeting, and was not to return till the next. The young Dutcheſs ſtanding in a Balcony of the Caſtle caſt her eye on our Adventurer of Granada. His goodly preſence and the ſtate of his riding rais'd in her a deſire to have a ſight of him nearer hand; beſides, that ſhe was of an inquiſitive nature, and ſuffer'd few ſtrangers to paſs through the Town without ſending for them. Though he had reſolv'd to bait ſome leagues off the place where he then was, yet could he not civilly anſwer a requeſt [Page] made to him from the Dutcheſs with a denial, amounting to no more than his waiting on her onely as long as the urgency of his occaſions would permit. She was beautiful as an Angel, and the Granadin was one that felt a certain warmth diffuſe it ſelf through his whole body, at the ſight of ſuch beauties, though they were not Dutcheſſes. He, on the other ſide, was a perſon every way graceful, and the Dutcheſs took much pleaſure to ſee men of his making; to redeem, in ſome meaſure, the time ſhe miſ-ſpent with her husband, who, to her great misfortune, thought her ſo handſome, and was ſo infinitely taken with the pleaſantneſs of her behaviour, that he imagin'd he never ſaw her enough, though ſhe were ſeldome out of his ſight.

Don Pedro, being a perſon of excellent parts and good judgment, found the Dutcheſs much diverſion by giving her a relation of his Travels, and ſoon obſerv'd her to be of a nature much inclin'd to mirth and a pleaſant paſſing away of the time. She inquir'd particularly concerning the Gallantry at Naples, would needs know whether the Women there have much freedom, and whether the Gallants of Italy were comparable to thoſe of Spain. In fine, Don Pedro was confirm'd by the queſtions ſhe put to him, that if ſhe were not very well read in the buſineſs of Courtſhip and Gallantry, it was not for want of good-will. She would needs entertain him at dinner to both their mutual ſatisfaction: ſoon after dinner he would have taken his leave of her, but ſhe would not by any means permit it telling him her Lord would not return that day, that he muſt needs be her gueſt, and very obligingly adoing, that perſons of his worth being very rare in [Page] Catalonia, they were not to be parted with till ſome extraordinary neceſſity forc'd them away, and conſequently the happineſs of their company was to be improv'd to the utmoſt.

She thereupon led him into a Cloſet, which by reaſon of its ſpaciouſneſs was very cool, adorn'd with Pictures, Porcelane, and other Rarities, and furniſh'd, beſides all things ſuitable to the greatneſs of the perſon, with a ſumptuous Couch, cover'd with a Satin quilt. Having ſeated him on it, he related to her his adventures at Granada, Sevil, and Madrid, as alſo thoſe he had met with in Italy, which are not come to my knowledge. The Dutcheſs heard him with much attention, and he told her at laſt, that he was reſolv'd to marry, if he could but meet with a woman ſimple enough to ſecure him, as to thoſe inconveniences which witty women run their husbands into. ‘An Eſtate I have, continu'd he, plentiful enough, and though ſhe I ſhall marry have no fortune at all, ſo ſhe be well brought up, and not over-deformed, I ſhall not ſcruple to marry her; though, to be ſincere with you, I ſhould rather make choice of one that were unhandſome, ſo ſhe were ſimple, than a handſome one that were not. Ah how ſtrangely do you miſapprehend things in my judgement, ſays the Dutcheſs to him, or, what do you mean, when you ſay, well brought up? I mean a virtuous woman and of good reputation, replies he. And how is it poſſible a woman that's little better than a natural fool can be virtuous, ſays the fair Lady, ſince ſhe knows not what Virtue is, nay is not in a capacity to learn? How do you imagine a fool can have any affection for you, [Page] having not the apprehenſion to know you? She will be wanting to her duty, yet not be ſenſible of it; whereas a woman of underſtanding, in caſe ſhe ſhould be diſtruſtful of her own virtue, will make a ſhift to avoid the occaſions which may endanger the loſs of it.’

Their conteſtation took up much longer time, th [...] Granadine maintaining, that a woman ſhould aſpire to no greater knowledg than that of loving her husband, being faithful to him, and careful of the government of her houſe and children; and the Dutcheſs on the other ſide deſirous to convince him, that a ſimple woman was not able to do any thing of all this; nay that, though ſhe were handſome, it would not be long e'r ſhe would be thought troubleſome▪ They were both ſatisfi'd of one another's wit and judgment, and the mutual good opinion they had conceiv'd one of another was ſoon heightned into an affection, nay, I may ſay, ſomething yet greater. There was not onely a difference between the Granadine and the Duke, as to age, underſtanding, and perſon, but the former was of ſuch an exact compoſure as the world haply afforded but few like him; and if he was thought ſuch by his Dutcheſs, he in requital thought her the handſomeſt woman he had ever ſeen. He was bold as a Lyon, and never had the opportunity to be alone with a woman, but he made proffer of his ſervice to her. If it were accepted, he did the beſt he could; if offence were taken, he caſt himſelf on his knees, and calling himſelf firſt the preſumptuous Ixion, he crav'd pardon ſo ingenuouſly and with ſuch exquiſite hypocriſie, that either his offence was pardon'd, or haply it would not have been taken amiſs if he offended [Page] again. ‘I never thought, ſaid he to the Magnetick Dutcheſs, to have met with a perſon able to force me out of an opinion wherein ſo many experiences had confirm'd me: but I muſt withall confeſs, I never was before oppos'd in it by a perſon extraordinary as you are, whoſe ſoul alone, without making any advantage of your beauty (which yet defies the world to parallel it) may exerciſe what juriſdiction it pleaſes over all thoſe who have apprehenſion enough to acknowledge, that your excellencies are greater than thoſe of all other women put together. You have cur'd me of one error, but ſuffer me to groan under ſomething elſe which is ſo much the more dangerous, and hard to be cur'd, by how much I take greater pleaſure in my ſickneſs, and ſatisfie, by enduring it, the nobleſt ambition man can be capable of.’

I have now forgot what other hyperboles he drew up together, to engage the Dutcheſs's virtuous inclinations; as alſo what reſerves of pathetical impertinences he was forc'd to make uſe of; for, he was upon a very hot and dangerous ſervice of Courtſhip. Nor could I ever learn with what countenance the Dutcheſs entertain'd a Forlorn of Love and Gallantry ſo confidently brought up; whether ſhe receiv'd the amorous charge ſuitably to the fierceneſs of it; or made the weaker reſiſtance out of hope of better quarter. Theſe particulars, though much deſirous of it, I could never have any account of, and onely have it from one of the Dutcheſs's Gentlewomen, ſince dead in France of the King's Evil, that the Cloſet-door was lock'd upon them at two of the Clock, and that they were there together till Supper-time; and beſides [Page] what the Gentlewoman ſaid, I know my ſelf by experience, that Opportunity makes the Thief. Night came on, the indulgent Deity of ſtollen Loves▪ but Don Pedro and the Dutcheſs were prejudic'd rather than oblig'd by it, for out of a regard to Civility, and to keep the Servants from talking, (whoſe jealouſies ever magnifie things to the great prejudice of Truth, a Virtue they are profeſs'd enemies to) they call'd for lights, which, being brought, were darkned by the two bright eyes Heaven had beſtow'd on the Dutcheſs, and which then out-vy'd the Stars with their lively ſparkling. Her complexion, which now had doubled the hue of its native carnation, appear'd brighter to Don Pedro than the Sun in a Summers day, and his face too had a little touch of the violent inclining to red.

But as they were beholding one another with much confidence and ſatisfaction, an alarm came to the Dutcheſs, that the Duke her husband was come into the Court. All ſhe could do upon ſo ſudden notice, was, to diſpoſe her much aſtoniſh'd Gallant into a Cloſet where ſhe kept her perfum'd waters, and, having lock'd him in, to caſt her ſelf on a Bed. The Duke, who was a man of threeſcore years of age at leaſt, comes into his Lady's Cloſet, and finds her freſh as a roſe upon the buſh. He told her, that a Letter he had receiv'd from the Vice-roy had occaſion'd his return ſooner than he expected. He was grown very hungry, ordered to be brought him into the Cloſet what there was ready, and the Dutcheſs, though ſhe had no great ſtomach to eat any thing with him, while her Gallant ſhook, or haply did ſomething elſe, for fear, [Page] yet took a Chair and ſat near the Table. She was of a diſpoſition extreamly inclin'd to make ſport, and ſo divertive, as that it, in a manner, retriv'd her old husband into youth again, ſo much was he pleas'd at every thing ſhe did. It was an ordinary thing between them to lay extravagant wagers, and that moſt commonly when ſhe had ſome occaſion or humour to get money out of him, which the ſimple man took great delight to looſe, as one that inexpreſſibly doted on ſo excellent a woman.

He never admir'd her ſo much as at this time; She, to heighten his admiration, told him a hundred pleaſant ſtories; at which the good Duke was ready to burſt with Laughing; for eating with a good ſtomack, and at the ſame time laughing very heartily, he was two or three times ſo near choaking, that they were forc'd to give him ſuch thumps in the back, as he would have taken very unkindly at another time: but through God's mercy, he got no hurt, onely a crum or two miſs'd their way down his throat. At laſt, the Dutcheſs, who had a malicious humour to make ſport at any thing, would needs divert her ſelf at the coſt of her impriſon'd Gallant. She told the Duke, that it ſeem'd a long time to her ſince they had laid any wager; and that ſhe would gladly lay a hundred Piſtols with him, upon ſuch a match and tearms as they ſhould agree upon. The Duke told her he was at her ſervice, and expected what ſhe would propoſe. The Dutcheſs made many propoſals to him, which ſhe was confident he would not accept; and at laſt ſhe ask'd him, whether he would lay any wager, that he nam'd all thoſe things, requiſite about a houſe, that were made of iron. The Duke [Page] took her up, though he thought the wager very extravagant, and having call'd for pen, ink, and paper, as ſoon as they had taken away, and his Almoner ſaid Grace (for the Duke was a man of good example) he writ down the names of all the Iron things he could think on; But ſuch was the Dutcheſs's good fortune, as that he forgot to ſet down Keys. She caus'd him divers times to read over what he had writ, and having ask'd him whether he had any thing to add, ſhe folded up the paper, and told him ſhe would take time to examine it, and in the interim acquaint him with an adventure had happened to her, one of the moſt pleaſant he had ever heard of.

‘I was gotten, continued ſhe, preſently after your departure, to one of the Balconies of the Caſtle which look towards the Road, where I had not been long, ere I ſpy'd paſſing by, mounted on a Mule, a man of a goodly and graceful preſence, who, by the rate of his riding, ſeem'd to be employ'd upon ſome buſineſs that requir'd more than ordinary expedition. I was very deſirous to know what might be the occaſion of his haſte, and thereupon ſent a Page after him to bring him to me. I muſt needs acknowledge, I never ſaw a handſomer Man, nor one more likely to make the graveſt Matron, or ſtricteſt Nun, break their vows of chaſtity. I ask'd him, Whence he travell'd and What he was? He gave me an account of himſelf with ſo much gallantry and ingenuity, that he enflam'd me with a deſire of more of his converſation. I prevail'd with him ſo far as that he was willing to ſtay the remainder of the day in the Caſtle, [Page] and give me a relation of his Adventures, which muſt needs have been very remarkable, and conſequently very pleaſant in the relation. He acquitted himſelf anſwerably to my expectation, and I muſt confeſs, I was never better pleas'd with any ſtory in my life; and I ſhall not think it much to let you participate of the pleaſantneſs of it.’

She thereupon acquainted the Duke what had happen'd to Don Pedro at Granada, Sevil, and Madrid, whereat the good man, who made as much ſport at a fooliſh ſtory as any Duke within a hundred miles of him, ſpent his ſpleen in ſuch violent and immoderate Laughters, as occaſion'd thoſe as well of the Dutcheſs, as the chiefeſt of the Duke's Menial Servants, with whom he innocently liv'd in great intimacy and familiarity. She afterwards acquainted him what had happen'd to her Gallant in Italy, which was alſo very pleaſant, as I have been told, but the particulars I could never learn. Onely this I know, that the Duke laughed ſo heartily thereat, that Don Pedro himſelf, lock'd up as he was, could hardly forbear. She told him what an ill opinion he had of all women that pretended to any thing of wit, the reaſons which he alledg'd to maintain it, and thoſe which ſhe had urg'd in oppoſition thereto.

At laſt, having found her husband, and all that were preſent, nay Don Pedro himſelf ſo much ſport that they were weary of it, ſhe told the Duke, that the Gallant of Granada, after the relation of his adventures, grew ſo preſumptuous as to make his applications to her, and had done it with ſo much [Page] addreſs, that, not knowing how to take it am [...] from a ſtranger, that he was ſo confident in [...] Courtſhip, as to aim at her enjoyments, ſhe [...] ſo taken with him that it was no hard matter w [...] him to perceive it. ‘To be ſhort, to what e [...] ſhould I detain you longer, continu'd the Dutcheſs, ſuch a perſon may attempt any thing, an [...] not be thought too confident. We ſpent mo [...] part of the day together, to our mutual ſatisfaction, and would have been together ſtill, had you not come upon us when I leaſt expected you▪ I ſhall not diſſemble with you, I was both troubled and ſurpriz'd at your return. My lovely ſtranger ſeem'd to be more aſtoniſh'd than I was; I with much precipitation got him into my Cloſet of perfum'd waters, whence he hea [...]s me if he be not dead out of fear: but confiden [...] in the influence I have over you, and being of my own nature, unwilling to diſſemble, even in thoſe things wherein the freedome of my humour might prove prejudicial to me, I would needs find you matter of d [...]erſion at the coſt of that poor Gentleman, whom I will ſet at liberty as ſoon as you are departed to your Chamber, and diſmiſs him that he may return to Granada, where, he ſays, he goes to find out a woman ſimple enough to be his wife.’

The Dutcheſs accompany'd her relation with ſo much ingenuity, freedome, and likelihood, that the Duke began to quit his mirth and to take things in good earneſt. He grew pale; was afraid his Lady had ſaid no more than what was true; nay, could not forbear asking her for the Key of the Cloſet, where ſhe ſaid the Granadine was lock'd [Page] up. She fell to ſome other diſcourſe, and thereby heightned both his jealouſies and his fear; he ask'd her a ſecond time for the key of the cloſet; ſhe deni'd to give it him. He would needs have it, and ſtarted out of his chair in a great fury. ‘Not ſo faſt, my Lord, not ſo faſt, ſays the Dutcheſs to him; before you ask for keys ſo haſtily, pray have the patience, leiſurely to read the Inventory you have given me; you have forgotten to ſet down, keys, you cannot deny they are uſually made of iron, and that you have loſt your hundred Piſtols, which I accordingly expect to be immediately paid me; and know withal, that it was onely to convince you that you had loſt, as alſo to put you into ſo good an humour as that you might part the more freely with your money, that I have entertain'd you with ſo pleaſant a ſtory. Take heed another time you be not ſo eaſie of belief, as to receive for true what is pure fiction and Romance. There's no probability, that ſo many extraordinary adventures ſhould happen to the ſame man, and much leſs, that I ſhould have related ſuch a ſtory, if it were true.’

The Dutcheſs ſpoke this with ſuch a confident indifference, that the Duke was more eaſily induc'd to believe all ſhe had ſaid was fabulous, than he had been to think it true. He laugh'd at all, as if he had been little better than out of his wits; he admir'd the miraculous ingenuity of his wife, and oblig'd all his domeſticks that were preſent to a like admiration, who were haply as credulous fools as their Maſter. ‘Do but ſee, for God's ſake, ſaid he, breaking forth into loud exclamations[Page]and laughter, do but ſee, with what artifices ſhe hath ſatisfi'd me that I had loſt my wager.’ The Dutcheſs was ready to burſt with laughing, her Gentlewomen were not much behind. Don Pedro in the cloſet was forc'd to adde to the Dutcheſs's perfum'd waters, the better to ſmother his joy. At laſt having given his Steward order to deliver his Lady the hundred Piſtols, he took his leave of her and went to his own lodgings, often telling her, one while, that ſhe was a female Devil, another, that ſhe had a wit and invention beyond the Devil. The ſervants repeated the ſame thing after their Maſter, ſo that till he was abed and aſleep, nothing was talk'd of about the houſe, but the damnable wit of the Dutcheſs.

In the mean time, the Dutcheſs being paid the hundred Piſtols by the Steward, caus'd the chamber-door to be lock'd; and having brought Don Pedro out of his impriſonment, not fully recover'd of the fear ſhe had put him into, ſhe preſs'd him to acknowledge, that a witty and diſcreet woman may, without prejudice to her honour, ſalve a misfortune, whereof the very thought would make a ſimple one die for fear. She would needs have him eat of what her Women had brought up for her ſelf. He intreated her to excuſe him, and to diſmiſs him as ſoon as might be. She gave him the hundred Piſtols ſhe had got of her Husband, with a Gold-chain, and her own Picture, which amounted to as much, and deſir'd him to remember her, and to give her an account of his further Adventures.

Having thereupon embrac'd him with much affection, [Page] ſhe recommended him to the conduct of her Women, who put him and his Mule ſecretly out at a back-door. He thought it no prudence to lodge in that place, but to ride forward two Leagues, to the Town where he thought to have din'd the day before, when the Dutcheſs retain'd him.

As he rid along, what had hapned to him with the amorous Dutcheſs was perpetually preſent to his thoughts. He could not ſufficiently admire, at leaſt as he then thought, the readineſs wherewith at firſt ſight ſhe entertain'd his affection, even before ſhe knew him; her confidence to make ſo ſtrange and pleaſant a ſtory to the Duke, which yet was but too true; and laſtly, her ſubtilty in ſalving all by applying it to the Wager. He could not alſo but admire the eaſie nature and ſimplicity of the Duke; he pitied him, and, after all accidents and circumſtances weigh'd, was confirm'd more than ever in the opinion, that a witty Woman was of a difficult keeping; and thence inferr'd, that, if the Dutcheſs had not been over-confident of her own wit, ſhe would not ſo eaſily have executed what ſhe had been ſo deſirous to do, nor have been guilty of a preſumption ſo incredible as to declare it to her Husband.

In fine, from all the Adventures he had run through, and all the experiences he had of mankind, he deriv'd a certain confidence, that he ſhould never run the hazard of being unfortunately married, either by not taking any Wife at all, or marrying one ſo ſimple, as knew no difference between love and averſion.

Amidſt theſe reflections he arriv'd at Madrid, [Page] where he found his Couſin Don Rodrigues poſſeſs'd of his Father's eſtate, and married to his Couſin. He underſtood from him, that Violanta was married; and that the fair Virginia was gone to the Indies with her Husband. From Madrid he took his journey for Granada. He alighted at his Aunt's, who entertain'd him with inexpreſſible kindneſs, and acquainted him that Seraphina led a Saint's life in the Nunnery, and that her beloved Servant was dead, out of pure grief and indignation that he had not prevail'd with her, to quit the holy life ſhe had oblig'd her ſelf to, and marry him.

The next day he went along with his Aunt to ſee young Laura, Seraphina's daughter, ſhe had been put into a Convent at four years of age, and might then be about ſixteen or ſeventeen. He thought her beautiful as all the Angels together, and withal ſimple beyond all the Nuns that came into the wo [...]ld without wit, and were taken out of it ere they got any. He view'd her very ſeriouſly, and w [...]s extremely taken with her beauty. He oblig'd her to ſpeak, and could not but admire her ſimplicity and her innocence. He doubted not but that he had found out what he ſought; and what made him have a greater inclination for Laura, was, that he had had a great love for Seraphina, and perceiv'd her daughter to be much like her, though incomparably more handſome. He acquainted his Aunt that ſhe was not his daughter, and how that he had ſome intentions to marry her: His Aunt encourag'd him in his deſign, and acquainted Laura therewith, who expreſſed not any either ſatisfaction or diſſatisfaction thereat. Don Pedro took order for the furniſhing of his [Page] houſe, hearkned out for ſuch Men-ſervants as were in ſome meaſure remarkable for their ſottiſhneſs, laid out for Maids as ſimple as the Miſtreſs that was to govern them, and had much ado to find any. He made her cloaths as rich and ſumptuous as any could be had in Granada. All the perſons of quality about the City were at the Wedding, and were no leſs ſatisfi'd with Laura's beauty, than diſſatisfi'd with her want of underſtanding. The ceremonies of the wedding were over in very good time, ſo that the new married couple were left alone. Don Pedro order'd his Servants to go to their beds, and having ſent away his wife's maids, after they had undreſs'd her, lock'd the chamber door.

Having thus order'd things, Don Pedro, out of a tranſcendency of prudence, which was the greateſt madneſs in the world, put in execution the moſt fantaſtick deſign that could fall into the imagination of a man, who had all his life been accounted a perſon of underſtanding. Being more fool than his wife was ſimple, he would needs try how far he might truſt her ſimplicity. He ſet himſelf in a chair, caus'd his wife to ſtand before him, and ſaid theſe words to her, or others haply no leſs impertinent; ‘You are now my wife, a happineſs for which I hope I ſhall have cauſe to bleſs God as long as we live together. Let it ſink very deeply into your mind, what I am going to tell you, and obſerve it exactly as long as you live, both for fear of offending God, and diſpleaſing me.’ At all theſe hony'd words, the innocent Laura made very low courtzies, whether ſeaſonably, or not, is no great matter, and [Page] look'd on her Husband as timerouſly as a Boy newly ſent to School would on an imperious Pedant. ‘Do you know, continu'd Don Pedro, what kind of life perſons that are married do lead? I know nothing of it, replies Laura, making a courtzie lower than any before; but if you will teach it me, I ſhall be as perfect in it as in my Ave-mary, and then another courtzie.’ Don Pedro was the moſt ſatisfi'd man in the world, to find his wife much more ſimple than he could well have expected. He drew out of a cloſet that was in the chamber a ſuit of Armour, very rich and very light, which he had ſometime worn at a magnificent reception, which the City had made for the King of Spain. He put his idiot-wife into them, he put on her head a little gilt Head-piece cover'd with a plume of feathers, girt a ſhort Sword to her ſide, and having put a Lance into her hand, told her, that the duty of ſuch married Women as would be accounted virtuous, was, to watch their Husbands while they ſlept, arm'd all over as ſhe then was. She made him no anſwer; but with her ordinary reverences, which had not haply been at an end a good while, if he had not commanded her to take two or three turns about the chamber▪ which ſhe did by chance with ſo much Majeſty, (her natural beauty, and Pallas-like accoutrements contributing much thereto) that the over-ſubtil Granadin was in a manner out of himſelf for joy to ſee it. He went to bed, and Laura continu'd in the poſture he had left her in, till five in the morning.

The moſt prudent and moſt circumſpect of all the Husbands that ever were, at leaſt who thought [Page] himſelf no leſs, got up, put on his cloaths, diſarm'd his wife, help'd her to put off her cloaths, and having diſpos'd her into the bed out of which he roſe, kiſs'd her over and over, and wept out of pure joy that he had found, as he thought, what he look'd for. He order'd her to lie a bed till it were very late, and having commanded the Maids not to diſturb her, he went to Maſs, and thence about his occaſions; for I had forgot to tell you, that he had bought an Office at Granada, ſuch as might be that of a perpetual Major or Sheriff.

The firſt night of the Nuptials was ſpent in the manner you heard, and the Husband was ſuch a Coxcomb as to make no better uſe of the ſecond. But Heaven puniſh'd him according to the uſe he made of his Talent. There happen'd a buſineſs, which oblig'd him, all excuſes laid aſide, to take poſt the ſame day, and make all the expedition he could to Court. He had no more time allow'd him than to ſhift himſelf, to put on other cloaths, and to take leave of his wife, whom he commanded, upon pain of God's diſpleaſure and his own, exactly to obſerve, in his abſence, the life that married women were to lead.

Thoſe who have any thing to do at Court, are uncertain how long it may be, ere they are diſpatch'd. Don Pedro thought not to have ſtaid abroad above five or ſix days, but his buſineſs kept him there like a Burre, now ſticking to one Courtier, anon to another, for four or five months; in the mean time, the ſimple Laura neglected not her duty, ſpent the nights according to her Husband's order, in armour, and the days that succeeded [Page] them in ſuch works as ſhe had learn'd among the Nuns.

Much about this time came a Gentleman of Corduba to proſecute a Law-ſuit at Granada. He was, as to his internals, no fool; as to his externals, handſome enough. He often ſaw Laura in her Balcony, and thought her very handſome: he often paſs'd and repaſs'd by her windows, a kind of Courtſhip ordinary in Spain: and Laura, on the other ſide, ſo let him go to and fro, without either knowing what it meant, or indeed having any deſire to know. A Citizen's wife, of mean quality, who liv'd over againſt Don Pedro's houſe, being of a nature extremely charitable, and concerning her ſelf much in the exigencies of any ſhe ſaw diſtreſs'd, ſoon took notice both of the affection of the Stranger, and the inſenſibility of her fair Neighbour thereof. She was a woman could manage a buſineſs with abundance of conduct and circumſpection, and the principal quality ſhe profeſs'd, was that of making Matches, and ſolliciting venereal cauſes, whether they were juſt or unjuſt it matter'd not, ſo they brought in ſomething to make the pot boil. And this employment Nature ſeem'd to have deſign'd her for, as having furniſh'd her with all the accompliſhments requiſite in ſuch as would be eminent therein; for ſhe had ſome skill in making of Periwigs, ſhe had a penſion from all Chamber-maids, and Waiting-Gentlewomen, to ſell their Lady's caſt cloaths and their own, and other things which your meaner ſort of Gentlewomen make a great ſhow with; ſhe diſtill'd ſeveral ſorts of Waters, ſhe had ſome ſecrets for the beautifying of the body, and above [Page] all, ſhe had confidence enough to pretend to ſome skil in Chiromancy and Aſtrology, and upon that account, lay under ſome ſuſpition of being a Witch. She ſo conſtantly ſaluted the Gentleman of Corduba every time he paſs'd by her Neighbour's door, that he could not but imagine it done out of ſome deſign. He return'd her Salutation, went to her, and with the fame labour became acquainted with her, and improv'd that acquaintance into Friendſhip; he made her privy to his Love, and promis'd her a very good reward if ſhe prov'd a ſucceſsful ſollicitreſs on his behalf to her Neighbour.

Upon this encouragement (inſtructions ſhe needed not any) the old piece of Brokery beſtirs her ſelf immediately; ſhe ſoon prevail'd with the ſimple Servants to let her in to the Miſtreſs, under pretence of ſhewing her ſome rarities which ſhe had to ſell; She commended her beauty, bemoan'd her being depriv'd ſo ſoon of her Husband's company; and, being left alone with her, brought in ſome diſcourſe of the gallant Gentleman who paſs'd by her doors ſo often. She told her that he lov'd her beyond his own life, and was p [...]ſſionately deſirous to become her ſervant, if ſo be ſhe would permit him. ‘Truly, truly, I am very much oblig'd to him, replies the innocent Laura, and ſhould gladly entertain him into my ſervice; but the houſe is now full of ſervants, and till ſome one of them be diſmiſs'd, I dare not entertain any in my husband's abſence. I will write to him about it, if this Gentleman be deſirous I ſhould, and doubt not but he will do any thing I ſhall preſs him to.’

[Page]The tempting Gipſie needed not ſo great a diſcovery to be ſatisfi'd, that Laura was little remov'd from ſimplicity it ſelf. She therfore made her apprehend, as well as ſhe could, after what manner the Gentleman was deſirous to ſerve her; told her he was a perſon of as great an eſtate as her husband, and that if ſhe were deſirous to make any trial of it, ſhe would bring her, as a preſent from him, Jewels of great value, and what elſe ſhe ſhould deſire. ‘Alas, Madam! ſays Laura, I have ſo much of what you ſpeak of, that I know not what to do with them. Nay, if it be ſo, repli'd the Satanical Ambaſſadreſs, and that you do not much care whether he make you any preſents, do him but the favour as that he may give you a viſit.’ ‘That he may do when he pleaſes, ſays Laura, there's no body hinders him. That will do very well, replies the Old one, but it were better, if none of your Servants knew of it. That's no hard matter, replies Laura, for my Women lye not in my own Chamber, and I go to Bed without their aſſiſtance, and that very late. Take this key, which opens any lock about the houſe, and, about eleaven at night, he may come in at the Garden-gate, where there is a little pair of ſtairs that lead to my Chamber.’

The old Crone upon that took her by the hands, and kiſs'd them over and over, telling her ſhe would go and revive that poor Gentleman, whom ſhe had left half dead. ‘How comes he to be in that condition, cries Laura not a little frightned? 'Tis you are the occaſion of his death, replies the old tremptreſs.’ Laura grew pale, as if ſhe had been convicted of a murther, and would [Page] have made proteſtations of her innocence, if the wicked Agent, who thought not fit to make any further trial of her ignorance, had not caſt her arms about her neck, and, aſſuring her the ſick party would not dye, taken leave of her.

It may be well imagin'd ſhe was not ſo neglectful as to leave behind her that miraculous Key, which open'd all doors. There may haply be ſome body, who▪ upon reading what is here ſaid of that Key, will think he hath play'd the Critick rarely, when he ſhall ſay, that it was enchanted, and that this paſſage betrays ſomething of fable: but whoever he be, let him know thus much from his moſt humble Servant, that the M [...]ſters of Families in Spain have ſuch Keys, which they call Miſtreſs-keys, and accordingly take heed another time, how he carps at what he underſtands not. But now I think on't, let him take what falls within his narrow apprehenſion which way he pleaſes: may I be thought as impertinent as he, if ever I trouble my head with it.

Nor ſhall I care a jot if he think this very digreſſion impertinent; let him make a Parentheſis of it if he will. I know he is impatient to know what the old woman does. She is juſt gone to the amorous Gentleman, who is at her houſe entertaining a Daughter of hers; one her Mother deſigns to be her ſucceſſor in the Diſcipline of advancing the enjoyments and accommodations of Mankind. Knocking as hard as ſhe could at the door, the Gentleman began to ſuſpect he might be betray'd; but the Daughter underſtood it to ſignifie the happy ſucceſs of her Mother's interceſſion, as having learnt from her, and ſhe from the common proverb, [Page] that, Who brings good news is not afraid to knock at the door. She comes into the room with an infernal ſmile in her countenance, and gave him that account of her furtherance of the buſineſs, as made him ready to leap out at the windows for joy. He rewarded her very liberally, and expected night with much impatience. It comes at l [...]ſt, though never the ſooner for his expectation. He gets into the Garden, and with as little noiſe as might be to Laura's Chamber-door, while ſhe was walking very ſeriouſly up and down the Chamber, all in Armour and a Lance in her hand, according to the wiſe inſtructions of her extravagant Husband▪ There was one ſmall light, and that plac'd in a remote corner of the Chamber, the Door being wide open to receive the Gallant ſhe expected; but he ſeeing the glimpſe of a perſon all in Armour, made no doubt but there was ſome treachery in the buſineſs. His fear at that time over-maſter'd his love, how violent ſoever it might be, ſo that h [...] made more haſte to be gone than he had to come thither, imagining he could hardly get ſoon enough into the Street. He went to his Proxey, and acquainted her what danger he had been in. She, to vindicate the ſincerity of her procedure, went the next day to Laura, who preſently ask'd her, Whether the Gentleman were ſtill ſick, and why he came not according to appointment? He is neither ſick, nor hath fail'd to come, repli'd Satan, but finding a man all in Armour walking up and down your Chamber, it frightned him away▪ Laura at this burſt out into a laughter, ſhe could not recover her ſelf out of for a good while, which the Old one knew not how to interpret. At laſt, [Page] not able to laugh any longer, and making a ſhift to ſpeak, ſhe told her Neighbour, that it muſt needs be the Gentleman was never married, and that it was ſhe her ſelf who walk'd up and down the Chamber in Armour.

The old woman was ſtill to ſeek what Laura ſhould mean by that, and for a good while could not believe ſhe was well in her wits; but after abundance of queſtions and anſwers, ſhe apprehended what ſhe could never have believ'd, as well, of the ſimplicity of a young Maid of ſixteen years of age, that ſhould know any thing almoſt; as the extravagant precaution her Husband had bethought him of to ſecure his Wives honour. She thought it her beſt courſe to let Laura continue in her error till ſhe were undeceiv'd by her expected Gallant, and ſo, in ſtead of betraying her ſurprize at the ſtrangeneſs of the thing, ſhe joyn'd with Laura in laughing at the fright ſhe had put the Gentleman into. Another appointment was made that he ſhould give his perſonal appearance at her Chamber that night. The old woman ſatisfied the Gallant, and both admir'd the ſottiſhneſs as well of the Husband as the Wife.

Night came on, he gets into the Garden, thence up the private ſtairs, and found his Lady all in Armour, upon duty, as ſhe us'd to be. He embrac'd her though all clad in Iron, and ſhe entertain'd him, as if ſhe had known him from the longeſt day ſhe could remember. At laſt he ask'd her, Why ſhe was all in Armour? She made anſwer, ſmiling, that ſhe might not put them off, nor paſs away the night in any other poſture, and told him, ſince he ſeem'd not to know ſo much, that it was the life of [Page] married women, and that to fail in the obſervance thereof was a very great ſin. The crafty Cordu [...]ſe had all the trouble in the world to undeceive her, and to perſuade her that ſhe was abus'd, and that the Life of married perſons was quite another thing.

At laſt he prevail'd with her ſo far as that ſhe was content he ſhould diſarm her, and to learn of him another way of exerciſing Marriage much more commodious and pleaſant than that which her Husband made her practiſe, which Laura acknowledg'd to be very inconvenient and weariſome. He was not ſloathful in diſarming her, he help'd alſo to undreſs her, as not finding her ready enough at it, and having ſoon put off his own Cloaths he laid himſelf by her, and made her confeſs there was a vaſt difference between his Precepts of Marriage and thoſe her Husband had given her; he read her all the Lectures he could upon that ſubject, and ſhe was ſo far apprehenſive of hi [...] inſtructions, as that ſhe grew not weary of learning, plying it very hard as long as her Husband continu'd at the Court. At laſt ſhe receiv'd a Letter from him, which acquainted her that he was upon his return, and that he had diſpatch'd his buſineſs at Court, and the Corduba-blade having alſo diſpatch'd his at Granada, the crafty Companion return'd home, without ſo much as taking his leave of Laura, and I think without the leaſt regret for the loſs of her company, nothing being ſo frail as the Love a Man hath for a Woman that's little better than a natural Fool.

Nor was Laura on the other ſide leſs indifferent, but receiv'd her Husband with ſo much ſatisfaction, [Page] and betray'd ſo little reſentment for the loſs of her Gallant, as if ſhe had never ſeen him. Don Pedro and his Wife ſupp'd together to the great ſatisfaction of both. Bed-time came on. Don Pedro went into Bed as he was wont to do, and was much aſtoniſh'd to ſee his Wife in her Smock coming to ly down by him. He ask'd her in a great fury, why ſhe was not in Armour? ‘So I ſhould indeed, ſaid ſhe to him, had not another Husband taught me a more pleaſant way for a Woman to paſs away the Night with her Huſband. It ſeems then you have another Husband, replies Don Pedro? Yea, that I have, ſays ſhe to him, ſo pretty a man, and ſo handſome, that you will be raviſh'd to ſee him; and yet I know nor when we ſhall ſee him, for ſince I receiv'd the laſt Letter you ſent, I could never ſet Eyes on him.’

Don Pedro, ſmothering the trouble of his thoughts, ask'd her, Who it was? She could not give any further account concerning him, but in requital proffer'd Don Pedro to ſhew him what the other Husband had taught her. The unhappy man pretended himſelf ſick, and it's not unlikely he was ſo, at leaſt in his mind. He thereupon turn'd from her, and bethinking himſelf that he had made choice of an Idiot to his Wife, who had not onely done what blemiſh'd his Reputation, but thought her ſelf not oblig'd to conceal it, he call'd to mind the wholeſome advice of the Dutcheſs, who no doubt would have been pleas'd with the account of this laſt Adventure of his. He thereupon deteſted his Error, and was ſatisfied, though too late; That a virtuous and diſcreet Woman knows how to obſerve [Page] the Laws of Honour; and if, out of frailty, ſhe chance to break them, that ſhe can conceal her miſcarriage.

At laſt, taking heart, he reſolv'd to ſubmit with patience to a misfortune that was not to be remedied. He continued for a time his pretence of being indiſpoſed, to ſee whether the Lectures of his Lieutenant had done any thing beſides reaching his Wife what he had done better to have taught her himſelf. They lived together ſome years afterwards; he had always an eye over her Actions, and, before he died, (having had no Children by her) he left her his whole Eſtate, upon condition ſhe would become a Nun, and go into the ſame Convent where Seraphina was, whom he acquainted that Laura was her Daughter. He writ to Madrid, to his Couſin Don Rodrigues, and ſent him the Hiſtory of his Life and Adventures, and acknowledged that his embracing of ſo erroneous an opinion had reduced him to that misfortune which he feared moſt of any, and againſt which he thought he had uſed the greateſt precaution.

He died; Laura was neither troubled at it, not glad of it; ſhe went into the Nunnery where her Mother was, who finding the Eſtate left by Don Pedro to her Daughter to be very great, founded a Convent, and became the firſt Abbeſs of it. The Hiſtory of Don Pedro was divulged after his death, and ſerved to ſatisfie thoſe that made any doubt of it. That, without wit, Virtue cannot be perfect; That a witty Woman may be Virtuous of her ſelf; And that a ſimple Woman cannot be ſuch, without the aſſistance and good directions of ſome other.

THE HYPOCRITES.
The Second Novel.

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THE moſt delightful ſeaſon of the year was putting the Fields and Trees into a verdant Livery, when a certain Woman came into Toledo; a City, which, as well for its antiquity, as its eminence, takes place of any in Spain. The woman was handſome, young, ſubtil, and ſuch a profeſs'd enemy to Truth, that for whole years together, that Vertue came not ſo much as once into her mouth, and what is yet much more to be admir'd, is, that Truth was never the worſe for't, at leaſt never complain'd of it. She had either the artifice, or the good fortune to be ever very ſucceſsful in her lies; and there is not any thing [Page] more certain, than that a fiction of her dreſſing hath ſometimes met with approbation of the ſevereſt enemies of Falſhood. This was a S [...]nce ſhe was ſo great a profeſſor in, as that her Dictates would have furniſh'd the beſt cuſtom'd Aſtrolog [...]rs, the Poets, and the Mountebanks: in a word, this natural endowment was ſuch in her, that the conjunction of it with the beauty of her countenance, in a ſhort time, got her pieces of Gold anſwerably to her inſinuations and the crafty deſigns ſhe carried on. Her eyes were black, ſweet, ſprightly, full of gallantry, and yet unmerciful Hectors, that had been convicted of four or five murthers, and ſtood charg'd with the ſuſpition of above fifty, which could not be fully prov'd againſt them; but as for the unfortunate wretches whom they had wounded, it is hard to gheſs, nay indeed to imagine, the number of them. For matter of dreſſing, ſhe had an excellency and happineſs in it beyond any of her ſex, inſomuch that the leaſt pin faſten'd by her hand wanted not its particular grace. For what eſpecially related to her head, ſhe never troubled any for either advice or aſſiſtance; as making her Looking-glaſs, at the ſame time, her Councel of State, her Councel of War, and her Exchequer. How fatal muſt it be for any man to ſee ſuch a Woman! ſince that if he ſaw her, he could not forbear falling in love with her, and if he lov'd her he could not do it long, and be withal long without trouble.

This Lady, accompliſh'd as I have deſcrib'd her, came into Toledo juſt in the cloſe of the evening, much about the time that all the young Gentlemen of quality in the City were preparing for a [Page] Mask to be repreſented at the Nuptial ſolemnity of a ſtrange Lord, who was to be married to a Lady of one of the beſt Families in the Country. The Windows were become a kind of Firmament, by reaſon of the Torches which were placed in them, but much more in reſpect of the Ladies who look'd out at them; the great number of lights having reſtor'd to the ſtreets that day which the night had depriv'd them of. The Ladies of meaner quality clad in their mantles, diſcover'd to thoſe who beheld them, no more than what they thought moſt worth the looking on. Many Bravoes, or rather (to uſe the modern word) Trapanners, Blades, and Hectors, were hunting after ſome prize, a ſort of people that great Cities ever were and will be peſter'd with, who trouble themſelves not much whether their good fortunes be real, provided they be thought ſuch, or at leaſt doubted of; who never ſet upon any, but in conſiderable numbers, and that with inſolence enough; and who, upon their good faces and a ſhort hanger within their breeches, aſſume to themſelves a juriſdiction over the lives of others, and think to make all the women die for love, and the men for fear. O what work would this day have found the ſoft-headed Complementers and Cajollers of Woman-kind, and what low and pitiful equivocations were there us'd!

But among the reſt, a young man, who, of a Schollar, was not long before turn'd Page, was ſo prodigal of his Rhetorical fooleries before our Lady errant, as if he had thought beyond all language to expreſs how highly he admir'd her. He had ſeen her alight out of the Hackney Coach that [Page] brought her, and was ſo dazled at the ſight of her, that, not content with that, he had follow'd her to the houſe where ſhe had taken a chamber, and thence up and down to all thoſe places whither ſhe went out of a deſire to ſee ſomething. At laſt the ſtrange Lady, having ſeated her ſelf in a place ſhe thought convenient to ſee the Maskers go by, the eloquent Page, dreſs'd that day all in linnen, much finer than ordinary, had ſoon faſtned on ſome diſcourſe with her, he being not the firſt man ſhe had ever ſeen. Of all the women in the world, ſhe had the beſt faculty to engage a young conceited fool upon many impertinencies, and that with the greateſt inſinuation and moſt unſuſpected malice that could be. Imagine then, if finding this Page a Talker beyond all confidence, whether ſhe engag'd him not to ſpeak much more than he knew. She beſotted him with flatteries and commendations, and afterwards did what ſhe would with him. She learn'd of him, that he ſerv'd an old Gentleman of Andaluzia, Uncle to him who was upon marriage, and upon whoſe account the whole City was in ſolemnity; that he was one of the wealthieſt men there of his quality; and that he h [...]d not any to make his heir but that Nephew, whom he had a great tenderneſs for, though he were one of the moſt diſſolute young men in all Spain, one that fell in love with all the women he ſaw, and, beſides the common Slugs, and ſuch as he could command upon the account of his Gallantry or his Preſents, had ſometimes exercis'd his ſatyrical violences upon Maids, without any regard of their qualities and conditions. To this he added, that his riots and extravagances had made [Page] him a dear Nephew to his Uncle, and out of that reflection was he the more inclin'd to ſee him married, to try, if upon a change of his condition there would enſue a change of manners.

While the Page was revealing all the ſecrets and concernments of his Maſter to her, ſhe ſtill by her ſoothing and admiring interruptions egg'd him on to further di [...]coveries, making her remarks to thoſe of her company, with what grace and pleaſingneſs he ſpoke handſome things: and, in fine, omitting nothing that might contribute ought to the undoing of a young man, who had already conceiv'd but too good an opinion of himſelf. Commendations and applauſes coming from a handſome woman that hath ſome deſign in it, are dangerous and much to be fear'd. The poor Page had no ſooner acquainted Helenilla that he was born at Vailladolid, but ſhe preſently breaks forth into praiſes of th [...]t City and the Inhabitants of it, inſomuch that having run her ſelf out of breath in the commendations of them, even to hyperboles, ſhe told the befool'd Page, that of all ſhe had known of that Country, ſhe had not ſeen any ſo handſome and accompliſh'd as himſelf. After this laſt touch of her flattery there needed no more to make an abſolute fool of him. She invited him to ſee her at her lodging, and it is not to be queſtion'd, whether ſhe gave him her hand rather than any other. He felt in himſelf ſuch agitations of joy, as made him ever and anon do ſuch thing [...] as ſome would have thought him a little crack-brain'd, and he was fully ſatisfi'd, that a man ſhould never deſpair of a good fortune how miſerable ſoever he were.

[Page]The Lady being come to her chamber caus'd the beſt Chair to be preſented to the Page. He was ſo beſotted with his imaginary happineſs, that going to ſit down before he had well look'd about him, he fell ſhort of the Chair, his britch took acquaintance with the ground, he ſcatter'd his cloak, hat, and gloves about the room, and had like to have fallen upon a dagger he had, which in his fall got out of the ſheath. Helenilla run to help him up, making as much ſtir as a Tygreſs robb'd of her young ones: She took up the dagger, and told him, that ſhe could not endure he ſhould wear it any more that day, after the miſchief it was like to have done him. The Page got up all he had let fall, and made many pitiful complements ſutable to the occaſion and the accident.

In the mean time, Helenilla made as if ſhe could not recover her ſelf out of the fright ſhe had been put into, and began to admire the neatneſs of the dagger. The Page told her it came from his old Maſter, who had ſometimes given it to his Nephew, together with a ſword and all things belonging thereto, and that he had made choice of it that day before many others that were in his Maſter's wardrobe, to wear upon ſome extraordinary occaſion. Helenilla propos'd to the Page whether ſhe might not go diſguis'd to ſee after what manner perſons of quality were married at Toledo. The Page told her, the ceremony would not be till midnight, and invited her to a Collation in the Steward's chamber, who was very much his friend. He thereupon took occaſion to curſe his misfortune, and that he was oblig'd to exchange the moſt pleaſant company in the world for that [Page] of his old Maſter, whom the indiſpoſition incident to age confin'd to his bed. He added that being extremely troubled with the Gout he would not be at the wedding, which was kept at a houſe in the City far from that of the Count of Fuen [...]alide where the old Marqueſs his Maſter liv'd. Being upon taking his leave, he was pumping for ſome handſome complement, when ſome body knock'd at the door in as much haſte as if they had come for a Midwife. Helenilla ſeem'd a little troubled thereat, and deſit'd the Page to go into a little cloſet, where ſhe lock'd him up for a longer time than he thought of. He who knock'd ſo confidently at the door was a Gallant of Helenilla's, who to blind the world ſhe made people believe was her Brother. He was privy to all her leudneſſes, and the ordinary inſtrument of her ſleighter pleaſures. She immediately gave him an account of the Page who was lock'd up in the cloſet, and the deſign ſhe had conceiv'd within her ſelf to ſqueeze ſome pieces of Gold out of his old Maſter, ſuch a deſign as whereof the execution requir'd no leſs diligence than ſubtilty.

Having reſolv'd how all things ſhould be carried, the Coach-man was call'd and order'd with all expedition to make ready his Coach, though the poor Beaſts which had brought them thither from Madrid were ſufficiently tir'd. All being in readineſs, Helenilla and her retinue (which conſiſted of the dreadful Montufar, an old woman called Mendez, venerable for a weighty pair of Beads, and a Matronlike carriage and countenance, and a little pigmey of a Lacquey) embark'd themſelves in that ſhatter'd Veſſel, and gave command [Page] to drive into the ſtreet, where live the Modern Chriſtians, whoſe Faith is of a newer faſhion than the cloaths they ſell. The Maskers were ſtill about the ſtreets, inſomuch that it happen'd the Bride-groom, diſguis'd as the reſt, met the Coach wherein Helenilla was, and ſaw that dangerous Stranger, who ſeem'd to him a Venus in triumph▪ or, to ſpeak a little more hyperbolically, the Sun it ſelf in a Progreſs. He had ſuch a temptation to her, that a ſmall matter would have put all thoughts of his wedding out of his head, to go and endeavour the conqueſt of that unknown Beauty; but for that time he had ſo much command of himſelf, as that he ſmoothe [...]'d a deſire violent enough though it were but juſt ſprung in him. He follow'd the Maskers, and the Hackney-Coach kept on its way towards the Brokery, where in a trice, and without two words to the bargain, Helenilla bought her a ſuit of Mourning from head to foot, and put the old woman Mendez, her Gallant Montufar, and her little Lacquey into the like, and taking Coach again alighted at the houſe of the Count of Fuenſalide. The little Lacquey went in, enquir'd out the lodgings of the Marqueſs of Villefagnan, and demanded audience of him for a ſtrange Lady come from the Mountains of Leon, who had ſome buſineſs with him of great conſequence. The good man was much ſurpriz'd at the viſit of ſuch a Lady, and at ſuch an unſeaſonable hour. He ſetled himſelf in the bed the beſt he could; order'd his rumpled band, and caus'd to be thruſt under his back two cuſhions more than he had before, to receive ſo important a viſit with greater ceremony.

[Page]This poſture was he in, having his Eyes faſtened on the Chamber-door, when he perceives, not without the great admitation of his eyes, nor leſs diſturbance of his heart, the diſconſolate Montufar, in Mourning down to the ground, accompanied by two Women in the ſame dreſs, whereof the younger, whom he led by the hand, and who had ſome part of her face covered by a thin Hood, ſeemed to be the moſt ſad, and the more conſiderable of the two. A Lacquey bore up her Train after her, which had ſo much ſtuff in it, as that being held out with advantage, it took up the beſt part of the Chamber. As ſoon as they were come within the Chamber-door, they ſaluted the old Marqueſs who lay ſick a-bed, and gave him a volley of three low reverences, not counting that of the little Lacquey, whoſe congey was not worth the remembring. Being come to the midſt of the Chamber they made three reverences more, all at the ſame time, and afterwards three more ere they took ſeats, which were brought them by a young Page, Camerade to him whom Helenilla had locked up in her Chamber: but theſe three laſt reverences were ſuch, as if the former had been forgotten. The ſofter, I mean the kinder, part of the old Man's ſoul was ſtrangely moved there it; the Ladies ſate down, and Montufar and the little Lacquey withdrew, bare-headed, to the Chamber-door.

The old Man all this while put himſelf to no ſmall torment to requite their complements, and was much troubled for their being in Mourning, before he knew the occaſion of it, which he intreated them to acquaint him with, as alſo upon [Page] what account they honoured him with a viſit at a time ſo unſeaſonable for perſons of their quality. Helenilla, who but too well knew, what compaſſion a weeping Beauty raiſes in the beholders, opens the ſluces of her fair eyes to let out the tears they ſeemed to be burdened with, and accompanied them with ſighs ſometimes loud, ſometimes low, as ſhe thought fit, taking occaſion ever and anon to put out her Ivory hand to wipe her face, which ſhe alſo thought it not amiſs to diſcover, to ſhew it was as troubled, as beautiful.

The old Man expected with much impatience that ſhe ſhould ſpeak, and began to conceive ſome hopes of it; for the torrent of tears which had broke forth at her eyes, was already ſo far fallen and dried up, that the Lillies and Roſes it had oreflown were to be ſeen, when the old Mendez, who thought it became her to go on with the doleful part where the other had left, beſet her ſelf to weep and ſob with ſo much earneſtneſs, that it was ſome ſhame to Helenilla to be out-done by a thing that ſeemed not to have ſo much moiſture in her as the tears ſhe ſpilt amounted to. Nay, the old Woman thought not that enough, but to have the advantage of Helenilla, beyond all diſpute, ſhe conceived a handful or two of hair might do well, and prevail much upon the Auditory. No ſooner thought than done; ſhe made a fearful devaſtation upon her head; but the troth on't is, ſhe ſpoiled nothing of her own, nor medled with ſo much as a hair that ever grew there.

Helenilla and Mendez were lamenting in this manner, as if it had been upon a wager, when Montufar and the Lacquey, upon a ſignal agreed [Page] betwixt them, were heard at the Chamber-door ſighing and weeping, though not ſo violently as thoſe by the Bed-ſide, who yet upon that new Conſort, took occaſion to renew their Lamentations. The old Marqueſs was out of himſelf to ſee ſo much weeping, and not know the occaſion of it. He wept too, as well as he could make a ſhift to do it; ſobb'd as vigorouſly as any in the company, and intreated the diſtreſſed Ladies, for Heaven's ſake, and all in it, to moderate their affliction, and to acquaint him with the occaſion thereof, aſſuring them his life ſhould be the leaſt thing he would hazard and ſacrifice to ſerve them, and regretting his paſt youth, as being now uncapable to give them effectual demonſtrations of the ſincerity of his good intentions.

They were a little appeaſed at theſe words, their countenances appear'd more pleaſant, and they thought they had wept enough, becauſe they could not, without ſome violence to themſelves, weep any more. Beſides, they were thrifty of their time, as knowing they had not any to loſe. So that the old Woman uncovering her Head, to the end her venerable and Matron-like countenance might give her all the credit ſhe ſtood in need of, began her declamation in this manner. ‘May it pleaſe God, out of his omnipotence, to preſerve the Right Honourable the Marqueſs of Ville-fagnan, and afford him all the Health he ſtands in need of; though, to ſay truth, what we come to acquaint him withal be ſuch news, as from which he will derive but little joy, which is indeed the flower of Health: but the misfortune of our misfortune is ſuch, that we muſt communicate it to [Page] others.’ The Marqueſs gave himſelf a thump on the breaſt with his fiſt, which at the ſame time diſcharged it ſelf of a deep ſigh: ‘May it be the pleaſure of Heaven that I am miſtaken, cries he, but I fear me, this is ſome new pranck, or rather ſome extravagance of my Nephew's, that I am like to hear of. Go on, Madam, go on, and pardon me for interrupting you.’ The old Woman, inſtead of making any anſwer began to weep afreſh, ſo that Helenilla was forced to go on with the diſcourſe. ‘Since you know by experience, ſaid ſhe, that your Nephew is a perſon, that, of any man, hath leaſt command of his paſſions, and that you have been often troubled to ſmother the reports of his violences, you will be the more eaſily induced to credit that which he hath done me. Being at Leon the laſt Spring, whither I conceive you had ſent him, he meets with me in a Church, and upon the firſt ſight told me ſuch things, as, had they been true, we ſhould both have continued ſtill in that Church to avoid the Hands of Juſtice, I as a Murdereſs, he as the dead man I had killed and made ready to be put into the ground. He told me a hundred times that my eyes had murder'd him, nay, he omitted not the leaſt of thoſe flatteries and inſinuations which are ordinary among Lovers, who would abuſe their ſimplicity upon whom they have ſome deſign. He follow'd me to my Lodging, rode every day up and down before my Windows, and every night importuned all the Neighbour-hood with the Muſick he intended onely for me. At laſt, perceiving that all his amorous addreſſes prevailed nothing, he with [Page] Preſents corrupted a Negro-ſlave that I had, and, through her treachery and advice, ſurprized me in a Garden we had in the Suburbs. I had no body with me but the perfidious ſlave; he had in company with him a man as lewd as himſelf, and had given money to the Gardener to go an Errand for him to the other end of the Town, upon pretence of ſome important buſineſs. What need I make many words, he ſet his Dagger to my Throat, and finding nevertheleſs that I had a greater value for my Honour than my Life, with the aſſiſtance of his Complice, he did that by violence, which all his courtſhip and importunities ſhould never have obtain'd. The Slave made no ſmall ſtir, and the better to diſguiſe her perdiouſneſs, got a ſleight wound in one of her hands, and preſently after fell into a feigned ſwound. The Gardener returns: Your Nephew frightned at the thought of his crime got away over the Garden-wall, with ſo much precipitation that he let fall his Dagger, which I took up. Yet needed not the inſolent young man have been in ſuch fear; for being not in a capacity to cauſe him to be ſtaid, I might have had that command of my ſelf as to put a good countenance on it, and diſſemble the horrid misfortune that had happened to me. I did what I could, not to appear more ſad than I was wont to do. The wicked ſlave not long after run quite away. I loſt my Mother, and I may ſay, I had with her loſt all, if my Aunt, who is here come along with me, had not had the goodneſs to give me entertainment, which ſhe does ſo nobly, as that I have the ſame treatment with her own two excellent [Page] Daughters. In her houſe it was that I heard, your Nephew is ſo far from thinking of any reparation for the wrong he hath done me, that he is upon Marriage in this City. I have made the greateſt haſte I could hither, to the end that before I go out of your Chamber, you ſhould give me in money or jewels two thouſand Crowns, to put my ſelf into a Nunnery: for knowing as much as I do by experience of the diſpoſition of your Nephew, I could never fancy to marry him, though he and all the Friends he hath ſhould uſe all the proffers and intreaties that may be to perſwade me to it. I know he is to be married this night, but I'l break off the match if I can, at leaſt make a diſturbance he ſhall hear of while he lives, if you do not take that courſe to prevent it which I propoſe to you. And that you may be ſatisfi'd, added ſhe, that there cannot be any thing more true, than what I tell you, of the violence your Nephew hath done me, behold the very Dagger he ſet to my Throat! I wiſh, God had ſo pleas'd he had done ſomewhat more than threatned me with it.’

Having given over ſpeaking, ſhe beſet her ſelf to weeping afreſh. Mendez kept ſtill a note above her, and the muſical conſort at the door, whereof the little Lacquey made the treble and Montufar the baſe, was no leſs ambitious to be heard.

The old Marqueſs, who had already given but too much credit to what had been ſaid to him, by the craftieſt of all Woman-kind, no ſooner caſt his Eye on the Dagger, but he immediately knew it to be the ſame he had ſometime given his Nephew. [Page] All therefore his thoughts ran upon was to prevent the diſturbance which might happen at his Nephew's wedding. He would gladly have ſent for him, but he was afraid ſome body might be ſo inquiſitive as to ask what ſhould be the occaſion of his ſo doing; and, as it happens our fears are extraordinary when our deſires are ſuch, he no ſooner perceiv'd the afflicted Ladies making as if they would go and break off the match, which it had coſt him abundance of trouble to bring to the poſture it was in, but he commands one of the Pages to bring a certain Cabinet, and to take out of it two thouſand Crowns in pieces of Gold of four Piſtols. Montufar receiv'd them, and told them very exactly one after another; whereupon the old Marqueſs, having made them promiſe to give him a viſit the next day, made a thouſand excuſes to the Ladies, that he was not in a condition to wait on them to their Coach. They got into it very well ſatisfi'd with their viſit, and made the Coach-man drive back again towards Madrid, bethinking themſelves that if they were purſu'd, it would be towards Leon. Their Hoſteſs in the mean time, ſeeing her gueſts were vaniſh'd, goes into the Chamber: She finds the Page in the Cloſet, who could not imagine what reaſon they had to lock him in there; ſhe ſuffer'd him to go his ways becauſe ſhe knew him, or rather becauſe ſhe found all things as ſhould be in the Chamber. Thoſe, who make it their profeſſion to ſteal, and think of no other way of livelihood, ſtand in little fear of God, and therefore are ſo much the more afraid of Men. They are of all Countries, and yet are not of any, and never have any ſetled habitation. As ſoon as they [Page] have ſet foot in a place, they make their advantages, and then ſhift into another. This unhappy profeſſion, which is learnt with ſo much pains and diligence is different from others: for people quit thoſe out of age, or for want of ſtrength; but a man ſeldome quits that of ſtelling unleſs it be in his youth, and for want of longer life. It muſt needs be that thoſe, who follow it ſo cloſely, find a ſtrange pleaſure in it, ſince, for that, they hazard a great number of years, which, ſooner or later, the Executioner cuts them ſhort of.

But alas! Helenilla, Mendez, and Montufar, were little troubled with ſuch reflections as theſe their thoughts were wholly ſet upon the cruel fear they were in of being purſu'd. They gave the Coach-man double the rate he demanded, that he might make the greater haſte; which he honeſtly did, anſwerably to his hire; ſo that it may be imagin'd that never did hackney Coach make ſuch ſpeed upon the Road to Madrid. They had no inclination to ſleep, though the night were far ſpent▪ Montufar was much troubled in mind, and, by his frequent ſighing, diſcover'd more remorſe than ſatisfaction. Helenilla, who ſaw into his very thoughts, would needs divert him with a relation of the particulars of her life, which till then ſhe had kept from him as a great ſecret. ‘Since I ſee thou art ſomewhat out of order, ſaid ſhe to him, I will now ſatisfie the deſire thou haſt ever had to know who I am, and to be inform'd of the Adventures that happen'd to me before our acquaintance. 'Twere eaſie for me to tell the [...] that I am well deſcended, and give my ſelf an illuſtrious name, as moſt do: but I will obſerve [Page] that ſincerity towards thee, as that I will diſcover to thee even the moſt inconſiderable imperfections of thoſe that brought me into the world.’

‘Thou art then to know, that my Father was born in Galicia, by profeſſion a Lacquey, or, to ſpeak more honourably of him, a Serving-man. He had a great veneration for the memory of the Patriarch Noah, for his excellent invention of the Vine, and indeed, abating the inclination he had to the juice of that noble Plant, it may be ſaid of him, that he car'd not much for the temporal goods of this world. My Mother was of Granada, by condition, (to be free with you) a Slave: but there's no conteſting with the Stars. She anſwer'd to the name of Mary, which her Maſters had given her, and it was indeed the name ſhe receiv'd at her Baptiſm, but ſhe would have taken it more kindly if one call'd her Zara, which was her name before ſhe was converted from the Turkiſh Religion; for (ſince I muſt tell you all) ſhe was a Chriſtian onely out of compliance, and conformity, but in heart a Moor. Yet would ſhe often go to Confeſſion, but rather to diſcover the ſins of her Maſters, than her own; and whereas ſhe entertain'd her Confeſſor much more with the hardſhips and inconveniences of her Services, than her own imperfections, and made him believe miracles of her patience; He, being a very holy man, and meaſuring others by himſelf, took all for true that ſhe ſaid, and, inſtead of reproving, commended her, ſo that who ſhould have been near my Mother at Confeſſion, would have [Page] heard nothing but commendations of all ſides. You are haply deſirous to know how I came to diſcover ſo great a ſecret, and you may well think, I have it not from my Mother; but I am naturally much inclin'd to pry into things, and young as I was, my Mother never went to Confeſſion but I got as near her as I could to overhear what ſhe ſaid. Though ſhe were ſwarthy, or rather black, yet was there in her countenance and making, ſomewhat that was not unhandſome, and above ſix Knights, Commanders of white and red Croſſes, have courted her favour. She was ſo charitable, that ſhe divided amongſt them all, what was ſo much deſir'd by every one in particular, and ſhe was of a nature ſo full of acknowledgment towards her Maſters, that, to requite, in ſome meaſure, the trouble they had been at in her education from her infancy, ſhe did all that lay in her power to bring them every year a little Slave male or female; but Heaven was not pleas'd to further her good intentions, for all the little half-Negroes died preſently after they were born. She was much more fortunate in bringing up the children of others. Her Maſters, who loſt all their own as ſoon as they came into the world, made her Nurſe to a Child given over by the Phyſicians, who yet in a ſhort time, through my Mother's tenderneſs of it, and the goodneſs of her Milk, diſcover'd ſigns of perfect health, and hopes of a long life. In requital of this ſervice, my Mother's Miſtreſs g [...]ve her her liberty when ſhe died. My Mother is now a free-woman; ſhe turns Laundreſs, and proves ſo excellent at it, that in a [Page] ſhort time, there was not a Courtier in Madrid who thought his Linnen well done unleſs it came from the Turkiſh Laundreſs. Now had ſhe leiſure and opportunities to put in practice the Lectures which her Mother had ſometime read to her, about a familiarity with the people of the other world. She had deſiſted from that tempting Profeſſion, more out of modeſty, and as wearied with the commendations people gave her of being excellent in her Art, than out of any fear of the Magiſtrate. But now ſhe made it her principal Employment, onely to oblige and pleaſure her Friends, and in a ſhort time, ſhe made ſuch conſiderable acquaintances, and rais'd her ſelf to ſuch credit in the Court of Darkneſs, that to be a Devil of any reputation there was a neceſſity of holding a correſpondence with her. I ſpeak not this out of any vanity, for I never tell a Lye, added Helenilla, and would not give my Mother the commendations of thoſe excellencies which were not in her; but indeed I could do no leſs than give this teſtimony to her virtue. The ſecrets ſhe ſold, thoſe ſhe reveal'd, and her Oracular faculty in anſwering queſtions (for all which ſhe was pointed at as ſhe went along the Streets) were but ordinary talents among thoſe of her Nation, in compariſon of her experience in the buſineſs of Maiden-heads. A crack'd Wench, after ſhe had been under her hands, went for a better Maid than ſhe was before the Miſcarriage, and her Maiden-head ſold at a higher rate the ſecond time than the firſt. She might be about forty years of age when ſhe was married to my Father, honeſt Rodrigues. [Page] 'Twas the wonder of the whole Quarter, that a Man who lov'd Wine ſo well would take a Woman that drunk not any, as obſerving the Law of Mahomet, and one that had her hands perpetually in the Water, as being a Laundreſs: but my Father made anſwer, There would be the more Wine for himſelf, and that Love made all things pleaſant. Not long after, he made a ſhift to get her with child, and, when the time came, ſhe was brought to bed of Me. This joy continu'd not long in our houſe. For when I was about ſix years old, a certain Prince would needs put a hundred Lacqueys into Liveries to run down a m [...]d Bull. My Father being one of thoſe that were made choice of, he drunk that day without any diſcretion, and going in the valour of his drink to oppoſe the paſſage of the furious Bull, he was by him toſs'd into ſeveral pieces. I remember there were Songs made of him, and that it was ſaid upon occaſion of my Father's death, that no body car'd for thoſe of his Profeſſion. It was a good while after ere I apprehended it to be a jear put upon him, as if he wore Horns as well as the Bull; but ill tongues will be wagging, nay, to forbid people to be abuſive would but make them the more ſuch. My Mother was griev'd at my Father's death, I alſo was griev'd at it; ſhe took heart and forgot it, I did the like. Not long after, my Beauty began to make people talk of me. There was no ſmall emulation at Madrid, who ſhould take me abroad in a Coach, c [...]rry me to Plays, and entertain me with Coll [...]tions upon the Banks of the Maſanares. My [Page] Mother was as watchful over me as an Argus, which I took very heinouſly; but it was not long, ere I was convinc'd it was for my advantage. Her ſeverity, and the high rate ſhe ſet on me, made the commodity the more valuable, and rais'd an emulation among thoſe whoſe teeth water'd at me. I was to be his that bid moſt; yet every one thought he had had me before his Rival; and every one imagin'd he found that which was gone long before. A rich Geneva Merchant, whoſe addreſſes were onely in private, dazled my prudent Mother's eyes with ſo much Gold, and diſcover'd ſo much ſincerity in his procedure, that ſhe anſwer'd his good intentions as he expected. He had the precedency of all others in my favour, but it coſt him dearly. There was a faithfulneſs obſerv'd towards him, as long as he was diſtruſtful of us; but as ſoon as he ſeem'd perſuaded of our faith, we immediately broke it. My Mother had too great a ſympathy for the ſufferings of others not to be mov'd at the continual complaints of my Gallants, all perſons of quality about the Court, and all very rich. 'Tis true, they ſquander'd not their Gold away as my Geneva man did; but my Mother knew how to eſteem gre [...]t gains, and yet ſlighted not the ſmall; beſides, ſhe was very obliging out of a principle rather of charity than intereſt. The Geneva Blade broke, I know not whether we were the cauſe of it. There happen'd to be ſome quarrels upon my account; the Magiſtrates viſited us, rather out of civility than otherwiſe: but my Mother indeed had an averſion [Page] for young Lawyers and Scholars, and hated no leſs the Hectors and ſelf-conceited Gallantillo's, who began to haunt us. She therefore thought it her beſt courſe to remove to Sevil, made money of all her Goods, and took a return'd Hackney Coach for her ſelf and me. We were baſely betray'd by the Coach-man, robb'd of all we had, and my Mother ſo unmercifully beaten, becauſe ſhe would not over-readily part with what ſhe had, but oppos'd the Villains as much as her ſtrength would permit, that before we could get to a wretched Inn ſhe fairly died at the foot of a Rock. I pluck'd up a good heart, though I were yet but very young. I felt all about the folds of my Mother's cloaths; but there was nothing to be expected after the exact Searchers that had been there before me. I left her to the mercy of thoſe that paſs'd by, not a doubting but that in a great Road, ſuch as that between Madrid and Sevil, there would come by, ſome people ſo charitable as to beſtow Burial on her. I return'd back again to Madrid; my Gallants heard of my misfortune, made a contribution to ſet me up again, ſo that in a ſhort time I was got into Cloaths, and a Houſe very well furniſh'd. About this time was it that I ſaw thee at a Friend's of mine of the ſame Profeſſion, and was immediately taken with thy good endowments. I need not give thee any further account of my Life, ſince that we have ever ſince liv'd together. We came to Toledo; we leave it all in haſte; and ſo well furniſh'd with Money, that if thou hadſt as much courage as I thought thou hadſt had, [Page] thou wouldſt be more chearful than thou art. And ſince the relation I have made to thee hath had the virtue to make thee ſleepy, as I perceive by thy reiterated yawnings and noddings of the head, lay it in my lap, and take thy reſt. But know, that what ever there may be good and profitable in Fear, before the committing of a crime, proves very baſe, and very dangerous when it is once committed. Fear ever diſtracts the mind of the guilty perſon; ſo that inſtead of avoiding his purſuer, he many times caſts himſelf into his hands.’

Montufar fell aſleep, and the morning broke forth ſo pleaſant and gay, that the birds, the flowers, and the fountains ſaluted her, each according to their mode; the birds in ſinging, the flowers in perfuming the air, and the fountains in laughing or making a noiſe, which you pleaſe; one's as good as the other.

In the mean time the Marqueſs of Villefagnan's Nephew, the ſenſual Don Sancho, was thinking to get up from his new Bride, much wearied, and haply already cloy'd with the enjoyments of marriage. His imagination was full of the beautiful ſtranger, the dangerous Helenilla, whom he had ſeen in the Hackney-coach; and repreſented her to him wholly admirable: doing thereby a very great injuſtice to his Wife who was a Lady ſo handſome and ſo accompliſh'd, that there were not a few in Toledo that ſigh'd for her, while ſhe ſigh'd to think on the unkindneſs of her Husband; and he, fickle Man as he was, wiſh'd himſelf in the embraces of an infamous Strumpet, who communicated her ſelf for a ſmall matter to any that had a mind to her. What a [Page] ſtrange irregularity is this of our Appetite! A man that hath a handſome wife of his own, hath a greater inclination to one of his maids. A Noble man, who hath his Table ordinarily furniſh'd with Biſques and Pheaſants, looks on them with diſdain, and calls for a meſs of Broath, and the plain Piece of Beef provided for the Servants. Moſt People are deprav'd in their taſte as to many things, and your great Lords more than any. For having greater Eſtates than they know what to do withall, and being inclin'd ſtill to ſeek after what they have not, they are drawn in, to do that which is evil, purely out of diverſion: and, to compaſs their enjoyments, they care not much what pains they are at, nor what time and money they ſpend, nor think it much to be guilty of baſe importunities to ſome ſcornful Wench to obtain that of her, which ſhe ſometimes beſtows on others without ſo much as being intreated to do it.

All this happens through the juſt permiſſion of Heaven, to puniſh Men's inclinations to evil by the very inconveniences of the evil. Ah unfortunate Don Sancho! Heaven hath been pleas'd to bleſs thee with thoſe two things, which, of ought this world affords, can moſt contribute to thy felicity, wealth in abundance, and a lovely perſon to thy wife; wealth, to ſupply thoſe who deſerve, yet have it not; and, becauſe they have it not, are many times engag'd in thoſe unworthy courſes to which poverty reduces the moſt generous ſpirits: and a wife, equal to thee as to quality and eſtate, accompliſh'd as to both mind and body, beautiful even in thy eyes, and much more in thoſe of others, who ſee more clearly in the affairs of other people than [Page] they do in their own, and, in a word, reſerv'd, modeſt, and virtuous. What doſt thou look for abroad? Haſt thou not in thy own houſe thy ſecond ſelf, a Woman, whoſe ingenious converſation will delight thee, whoſe body is abſolutely at thy devotion, who is tender of thy honour, careful in manageing thy houſe, prudent to improve thy eſtate, furniſhes thee with Children, who divert thee in their youth, and will relieve thee in thy age? What, I ſay, canſt thou look for abroad? I'l tell thee in few words, what will be thy fortune; thou wilt ruine thy ſelf, both as to eſtate and reputation, thou wilt loſe the reſpect of thy friends, and wilt raiſe thy ſelf many powerful enemies. Doſt thou think thy honour ſecure becauſe thou haſt a virtuous woman to thy wife? Alas! what little experience haſt thou of the things of this world, and how little reflect on humane frailty? The ſureſt horſe of his feet in the world, and the moſt at command, ſlips under an unskilful Rider, and haply gives him a fall. A woman may reſiſt ſuch and ſuch a temptation to do ſomething that's unhandſome; and haply tranſgreſs in the higheſt degree, when ſhe thinks her ſelf moſt ſecure. One miſcarriage is a trap-door to let in ſeveral others after it; and the diſtance which is between Vertue and Vice, is ſometimes but a ſhort day's journey.

But to what end are we troubled with all theſe moral truths, and of what benefit are they, will ſome body ſay? And why does that ſome body trouble his head ſo much? let him make uſe of them or let them alone, as his convenience ſhall adviſe him, however, he may think himſelf [Page] oblig'd to the perſon who gives them for nothing.

Don Sancho was thinking to get up from his wife, when his Uncle's ſteward brought him a Letter, giving him an account of the ſtrange Lady, who he could not but think had trapann'd him, becauſe ſhe was not to be heard of in any of the Inns about Toledo, where he had caus'd inquiry to be made after her, and in the ſame Letter intreating him to let him have one of his men to ſend after the Slut towards Madrid, which way he thought ſhe might be gone, for that he had ſent people to all the other great Roads that went to the Towns about Toledo, that onely to Madrid excepted. Don Sancho was out of all patience at this news: he found himſelf aſſaulted in that part of his ſoul which was leaſt able to reſiſt, and was elevated to a ſtrange heighth, to find himſelf unjuſtly charg'd with one weakneſs, though he had been convicted of many. The loſs of the mony, and the cheat put upon his Uncle, he was equally enraged at. He made a relation of the buſineſs to his wife, and ſome of his kindred, who were come to viſit him the next morning after his marriage; and perſiſting in the reſolution he had taken to do what he intended, notwithſtanding the intreaties of his wife and friends, he ſlips on his cloaths, eats ſomething, then runs to his Uncle's, and thence after he had learn'd of the Page who had brought the Ladies into the old Marqueſs's chamber, what kind of Coach they were in, how many in company, and by what marks they might be known, he took poſt for Madrid, attended by two ſervants, in whoſe courage he repos'd much confidence. [Page] He rode on four or five Stages with ſo much ſpeed, that he had not the leaſt thought of the beautiful ſtranger: but his choler being a little evaporated by ſo violent agitation of his body, Helenilla reaſſumed her former place in his imagination, ſo beautiful, and attractive, that he was ſeveral times in a mind to return to Toledo, to find her out. He was a hundred times angry with himſelf that he had been ſo far tranſported upon the trick put upon his Uncle, and often call'd himſelf an undiſcreet perſon, and an enemy to his own enjoyments, for bruiſing his body in that manner by riding poſte, inſtead of beſtowing his time better in ſeeking after a happineſs, the poſſeſſion whereof would, in his opinion, raiſe him to the higheſt pitch of felicity.

While he was in his amorous reflections, he often ſpoke to himſelf, as one diſtracted, and that ſo loud, that his ſervants, who were a pretty diſtance before him, making a ſudden ſtop, would turn about, and in much haſte ride back to know what he would have. ‘What reaſon is there, would he cry ſometimes, I ſhould leave the place where I ſaw her? Muſt I not be the moſt unhappy man in the world, if this Stranger have left Toledo before I get back again thither? 'Twere no more than my deſert, for offering to turn Conſtable, and running with a Hue and Cry after I know not whom. But if I return to Tol [...]do, continu'd he, without doing any thing, what will they ſay of me, who would have diverted me from ſuch an enterprize? Or muſt I let a ſort of trapanning Rogues go unpuniſh'd, after ſuch an unheard of affront put upon my [Page] Uncle, and my own reputation ſo treacherouſly wounded.’

The diſſolute young Spark was thus ballancing of things, when, coming near Xetaffa, his ſervants diſcover'd Helenilla's Coach by the marks that had been given thereof. They preſently cri'd out to their Maſter, that they had taken the Thieves, and not ſtaying till he came up to them, rode full ſpeed after the Coach with their ſwords drawn. The Coach-man ſtopp'd extremely frightned; Montufar was no leſs. Helenilla caus'd him to remove out of the Boot, and ſate there her ſelf, to ſee what might be done to remedy ſo great a misfortune. She ſaw Don Sancho coming towards her with his ſword drawn, and could perceive nothing in his countenance whence ſhe might promiſe her ſelf any favour: but the amorous Gentleman had no ſooner faſten'd his eyes on her who had already ſo deeply wounded him, but he was immediately perſuaded that his ſervants were miſtaken: For it is natural for a man to have a good opinion of what he loves, and thereupon, as if he had known Helenilla from his infancy for a Lady not to be charg'd with any thing unhandſome, he run upon his ſervants ſtriking at them as hard as he could with the flat of his ſword. ‘You Raſcals, ſaid he to them, have I not given you ſufficient warning to take heed you were not miſtaken? and do you not deſerve I ſhould break your arms and legs for ſo unmannerly ſtopping a Ladie's Coach whoſe very preſence might have forc'd you to more reſpect?’ The poor Slaves, who had not been ſo forward but upon the marks given them by the Page, and ſaw they [Page] had to do with a woman extremely handſome, an object that raiſes ſubmiſſions and reſpects in the moſt unciviliz'd ſouls, avoided, by getting out of the way, the fury of their Maſter, and thought he had reaſon to be angry, and that it was an exceſs of his kindneſs that he had not ſufficiently loaded them with blows.

Don Sancho, having thus diſengag'd his ſervants, crav'd pardon of Helenilla, and told her upon what ground his preſumptuous ſervants were like to have done her ſome violence, which ſhe knew as well as himſelf. He intreated her to conſider how apt a perſon blinded with choler is to be miſtaken. ‘Do but ſee, I beſeech you, ſaid he, into what inconveniences ſervants may engage their Maſters? Had I not been with theſe Villains that came along with me, they had upon very uncertain appearances put the whole Country into an Allarm, and having the power in their own hands, would have brought you to Toledo, as a Thief. Not indeed but that you are ſuch, added he, compoſing himſelf to mildneſs, but the Robberies you are guilty of are rather thoſe of hearts than any thing elſe.’ Helenilla acknowledg'd the indulgence of Heaven towards her, in beſtowing on her a face which pleaded her exemption from puniſhment, notwithſtanding the many leudneſſes ſhe was ordinarily guilty of, and aſſuming a confidence which baniſh'd the fear ſhe had been in, ſhe anſwer'd Don Sancho with much modeſty and in few words, as knowing that for one to be over-earneſt in diſclaiming a thing laid to his charge increaſes the ſuſpicion of his guilt. Don Sancho could not [Page] but admire he ſhould meet with what he ſought, after ſo ſtrange a manner; and, beſotted as he was, thought Heaven proſper'd his deſigns, ſince it had prevented him from returning to Toledo, as he had ſeveral times thought to have done: which no doubt had been to avoid that good which he ſought after with ſo much earneſtneſs. He ask'd Helenilla her name, and the place of her abode at Madrid, and intreated her not to take it amiſs if he waited on her thither, to confirm the proffers he had made her of his ſervices. Helenilla gave him ſuch an account of both as he was for the pr [...] ſent ſatisfi'd with, and told him ſhe ſhould think her ſelf very happy to receive his viſits. He proffer'd to wait on her all along the way, but ſhe would by no means permit it, repreſenting to him that ſhe was married, and that her Husband was to meet her in a Coach, and whiſper'd him in the ear, that ſhe was ſomewhat diſtruſtful of her own ſervants, but above all ſtood in fear of the diſpleaſure of her Husband.

This ſlight expreſſion of confidence rais'd in Don Sancho an imagination that ſhe had ſome kindneſs for him. He took leave of her, and, carryed more upon his own hopes than the Poſt-horſe he had under him, (if I may ſo ſay) he ſet forward towards Madrid. He was no ſooner arriv'd but he made enquiry after Helenilla and her habitation, according to the directions ſhe had given him. His ſervants were tir'd to find her out, and the endeavours of his friends were not ſpar'd, yet all to no purpoſe. Helenilla, Montufar, and the venerable Mendez, were no ſooner got to Madrid but they were thinking which [Page] way to get out of it. They were ſenſible they could not avoid the Cavalier of Toledo, if they ſtaid there, and that if they gave him a more particular account of their perſons and quality, they ſhould find him as dangerous an Enemy, as they thought him then their paſſionate Servant. Helenilla put all the goods ſhe had into a ſure hand, and the very next day after her arrival, putting her ſelf and her train into the habit of Pilgrims, ſhe took her way towards Burgos, the place where Mendez was born, and where ſhe had ſtill a ſiſter living, of the ſame profeſſion with her ſelf.

In the mean time, Don Sancho out of all hopes of meeting with Helenilla, returns to Toledo, with ſo much ſhame and confuſion, that from his departure out of Madrid till he came to his own houſe, he was not heard to ſpeak one word. After he had ſaluted his wife, who entertain'd him with thouſands of careſſes and kindneſſes, ſhe gave him ſome Letters from his Brother, wherein he found that he lay very ſick at one of the chiefeſt Cities of Spain, where he poſſeſs'd the greateſt dignities of the Cathedral Church, and was one of the richeſt Clergy-men in that Country. He ſtai'd but one night at Toledo, and the next morning took Poſte, to go and ſee his Brother recover'd, or poſſeſs himſelf of what he left if he di'd.

While Don Sancho is upon his way to his Brother, Helenilla is upon hers to Burgos, having conceiv'd a diſſatisfaction of Montufar greater than the love ſhe had ſometimes born him. He had expreſs'd ſo little reſolution, when Don Sancho and his ſervants ſtopp'd the Coach, that ſhe made [Page] no doubt but he was an arrant coward. Out of this reflection was he become ſo odious to her, that it was with ſome violence to her ſelf that ſhe could endure the ſight of him, inſomuch that her thoughts were wholly taken up to find out ſome way to be rid of this domeſtick Tyrant: and till it were done comforted her ſelf with the hope of ſeeing her ſelf ere long at liberty and her own diſpoſal. This advice was given her by Mendez, which prevail'd the more upon her, for that it was fortifi'd with all the reaſons which her prudence could ſuggeſt. She could not endure, that in a houſe, where ſhe was to live, there ſhould be any Montufar to command her, who ſhould have the Miſtreſs of it, at his devotion; and, not doing any thing towards it, ſpend what they both had much ado to get. She perpetually repreſented to Helenilla the wretchedneſs of her condition, comparing it to that of the Slaves emploi'd in the Mines, who to enrich their Maſters with the Gold which they take ſo much pains to force out of the earth, and inſtead of being better treated for their endeavours, are many times rewarded with blows. She would be always telling her, that Beauty is a flower, and conſequently of no long continuance, and that her Looking-glaſs, which then repreſented to her but what was moſt amiable, and ever ſpoke to her advantage, would ſoon, entertain her with objects ſhe ſhould be little ſatisfi'd with, and tell her ſuch news as ſhe ſhould not be well pleas'd at. ‘Aſſure your ſelf, Madam, ſaid ſhe to her, that a woman once turn'd of thirty, loſes ſomething particular of beauty every ſix months, and makes new diſcoveries every day, [Page] either in her body or face, of ſome ſpot, or ſome wrinckle. 'Tis the malice of Time to make young Women old, and to make old Women wrinkled. If a Woman that's grown rich, at the coſt of her modeſty and reputation, meets nevertheleſs with the contempt and reproaches of the world; what horrour muſt ſhe needs raiſe in people, who through want of conduct is reduc'd to both poverty and infamy? upon what ground can ſhe hope to be reliev'd in her miſery? If with the wealth you have made a ſhift to get, by ſuch courſes as are not approv'd of by all the world, you rais'd the fortunes of ſome deſerving virtuous perſon, who would in requital marry you, it were an action acceptable in the ſight of God and Men, and the end of your Life would expiate the beginning of it: but to caſt your ſelf away as you do, by being at the dipoſal of a Raskal, as lewd as cowardly, one whoſe great atchievements conſiſts in the trappanning of Women, who yet are never gain'd by him but with Threats, nor kept but by Tyranny, is, me-thinks, the direct way to bring your ſelf to the greateſt extremities imaginable, and to be the Author of your own ruine.’

With theſe and the like arguments did the judicious Mendez, who was much better at ſpeaking than doing, endeavour to exaſperate Helenilla againſt Montufar, whom ſhe ſtill lov'd, though rather becauſe ſhe was accuſtom'd to it than that ſhe could give any reaſon for it; as indeed having too long experience of his manners, not to have found out of her ſelf all the ſpecious inducements laid down to her by her old Remembrancer. Yet did [Page] they not prove ineffectual. Helenilla took them in very good part, and the more readily for that Mendez advis'd her to things which ſhe her ſelf would be not a little the better for, if ſhe ſhould put them in execution; ſo that perceiving Montufar coming up to them, being to go together to Guadarrama, where they were to dine that day, they put it off to another time to conſider of the courſe they ſhould take to be rid of him, ſo as never to have a ſight of him again.

All Dinner-time he ſeemed to be indiſpos'd, having no ſtomach at all to any thing, and as he roſe from table, he was taken with a ſhivering, and not long after with a violent feaver, which ſtuck cloſe to him the reſt of that day and all night; and the violence of it being augmented towards the morning, put Helenilla and Mendez into good hope [...] the feaver would do them a courteſie, though 'twere onely to free them from further trouble how to ſhake him off. Montufar finding himſelf ſo weak as that he was not able to ſtand, told the Ladies they muſt not ſtir from Guadarrama; that a Phyſitian muſt be had, what ever it coſt; and that all imaginable care ſhould be taken of him. This was ſaid with ſo much imperiouſneſs and authority, as if he had ſpoken to Slaves, and that their Lives and all things elſe were abſolutely at his diſpoſal. His Body in the mean time became more and more weak of the Feavour, which had reduc'd him to ſuch a condition, as that, had it not been for his often calling for drink, he might have been given over for a Dead man.

There was no ſmall ſtir about the Inn, that a Confeſſor was not all this while brought to him, [Page] that he might, as a good Chriſtian, diſcharge his Conſcience in this world, before he took his journey for the next. At laſt, while the Good man was gone for, Helenilla and Mendez, making no doubt but the Feavour would carry him away, came to him, and ſitting down on both ſides of his bed, Helenilla broke her mind to him in theſe tearms.

‘If thou haſt ſo much memory left, deareſt Montufar, as to remember after what manner thou haſt ever liv'd with me, that is, how thou haſt behav'd thy ſelf towards one who had lay'd the greateſt obligations imaginable upon thee, as alſo towards Mendez, a perſon venerable upon the account of her Sex, her Age, and her Virtue, thou wilt not be ſo fond as to imagine, I ſhould importune God Almighty for the recovery of thy health: but though I were as deſirous of it, as I have reaſon to wiſh thy deſtruction, yet is there a neceſſity we poor mortals ſhould comply with his holy diſpoſal of us and ours, and that I ſhould offer up, my ſelf, what ſometime I had moſt doated on, and had been moſt dear to me. But to deal freely with thee, we begin to be ſo weary of thy Tyranny, that our ſeparation was unavoidable, and, if God had not brought things to this paſs, we ſhould have had that conſideration of our own happineſs as to have endeavour'd it otherwiſe. Thou art going with all expedition to the other world, we envy thee not the good entertainment thou wilt find there: but, hadſt thou been ordain'd to make any longer ſtay here, we ſhould, to avoid thy inſupportable company and behaviour, [Page] have remov'd into ſome part of SPAIN, where we ſhould have thought no more of thee, than if there never had been any ſuch thing as thou art in the world. Thou think'ſt life ſweet, but if thou conſider well how thou haſt liv'd, thou haſt much reaſon to take thy death kindly, ſince Heaven, for reaſons unknown to men, ſends it thee in a more honourable way than thou haſt deſerv'd, permitting a Feaver to do that, which the Executioner does to pe [...]ſons leſs wicked than thou haſt been, or Fear to ſuch white-liver'd cowardly Raskals as thou art. But, my dear Montufar, before our final ſeparation, ſpeak to me ſincerely once in thy life. Is it true, that thou didſt really expect I ſhould ſtay here to look to thee and nurſe thee up? Alas, ſuffer not theſe vanities to come into thy mind, ſo near thy death. So little regard have I of thy welfare, that were it to reſtore thy whole Race, I would not ſtay a quarter of an hour here. Make friends, and get into the Hoſpital, if thy Diſeaſe do not diſpatch thee the ſooner; and ſince all the advice I ever gave thee hath been for thy good, do not ſlight the laſt I am like to give thee. 'Tis this, my poor Montufar; Not to trouble thy ſelf to ſend for any Phyſician, as knowing, he will forbid thee the drinking of Wine, which, without any Feaver, is enough to make an end of thee in four and twenty hours.’

While Helenilla was making this Funeral Sermon to her once much beloved Montufar, the charitable Mendez ever and anon felt his Pulſe, and laid her hand on his forehead; and perceiving [Page] her Miſtreſs had given over ſpeaking, ſhe would needs alſo give him a departing Lecture. ‘Your Lordſhip's head, ſaid ſhe to him, burns extremely, and I am much in fear this unhappy accident will be the occaſion of your marching off to ſee your friends in the other world, without affording you the time to come to your ſelf again. Take therefore this pair of Beads, added ſhe, and fall devoutly to your prayers till ſuch time as the Confeſſour comes. You will be ſo far in your way as to the diſcharge of your Conſcience. But if credit may be given to the Hiſtoriographers of the Priſon for Malefactors at Madrid, who have ſo often had occaſion to ſpend their Pens in ſetting down your atchievements, your Lordſhip's exemplary life may well exempt you from much Penance; beſides that, God, who is very merciful, will no doubt put to your account in Heaven, the glorious progreſs you made bare-ſhoulder'd through the principal Streets of Sevil, in the ſight of ſo many people, and guarded by Beadles, and other Officers of the Garriſon of common Rogues, Cut-purſes, and Houſe-breakers. You may alſo produce as an acquittance for your further diſcharge, the Voyage you made by Sea, during which, viz. for the ſpace of ſix years, you did many things not unpleaſing to God, taking much pains, eating little, and being ſtill in danger, and conſequently the more devout; but what is more conſiderable, is, that you were hardly twenty years of age, when, to the great edification of your Neighbour you began that holy Pilgrimage. Moreover, it is very probable you will [Page] be well recompens'd in the other world for another thing, which is, your care, that the Women who have had any dependance on you, ſhould not be idle or want ſomething to do, making them work, and live, not onely by the labour of their hands, but that of their whole body. To this I may add, that if you dye in your Bed, you will put a pleaſant trick upon the Judge of Murcia, who hath ſolemnly ſworn, he would ſentence you to dye upon the Wheel, who expects the ſatisfaction to ſee it; and who muſt needs be enrag'd when it ſhall be told him, that you dy'd of your ſelf, without the aſſiſtance of any third perſon. But I trifle away the day here in talking, and never think it is time to ſet forward on the journey we have a deſire to make. Farewell, dear Friend that hath been, receive this laſt Hugg as heartily as I beſtow it on you, for I think we ſhall never ſee one another again.’ With which words Mendez caſting her arms about his neck embrac'd him with ſo much kindneſs, as that, had ſhe us'd a little more, it had ſtifled him: Helenilla did the like, and with that Complement left the Chamber, and, without calling for any account, ſoon after, the Inn alſo.

Montufar, who was us'd to their Abuſes, who had alſo the faculty to return them as good as they brought, and who fondly imagin'd all they had ſaid to him, was onely for his diverſion, look'd on them as they departed from him, without the leaſt ſuſpition, more inclin'd to conceive they went to give order for his Broths. He ſoon after, out of pure ſecurity, fell into a little Drowſineſs, which held him ſo long as that the two Gentlewomen [Page] might well be gotten a League or better in their way, before he was perfectly awake. He ask'd the Hoſteſs for them, who told him they were gone abroad, and had given order he ſhould not be diſturb'd, for that he wanted ſleep very much, having not clos'd his Eyes all the night before.

Upon this account of them, Montufar began to believe, the Ladies had ſpoken to him in good earneſt. He ſwore at ſuch a rate as would have made ſome think the Earth might open and ſwallow down the Inn and all in it; he threatned even to the very way they travell'd on, and the Sun that lighted them. He would needs get up to put on his Cloaths, and had almoſt broke his Neck in attempting it, ſuch was his weakneſs. The Hoſteſs endeavour'd to excuſe the Ladies, and did it the beſt ſhe could, but with ſuch impertinent Reaſons that the ſick man was the more enrag'd, and fell out with her. He was ſo incens'd that for four and twenty hours nothing went down his throat, and that diet with abundance of rage and fury prov'd ſo effectual, that after the taking of a certain Broath, he found himſelf ſtrong enough to purſue his fugitive Slaves. They were got as far before him as they were able to travel in two days; but two Hackney Mules, he fortunately met with upon their return to Burgos, contributed as much to his deſign as it prov'd fatal to that of the two counterfeit Pilgrims. He overtook them within ſix or ſeven Leagues of Burgos. They grew pale, and then bluſh'd when they ſaw him, and excus'd themſelves, if any ſuch thing could be done. Montufar ſmother'd his anger, for very joy that [Page] he had found them, which he could not forbear expreſſing in his very countenance. He firſt broke forth into a Laughter at the trick they had put upon him, and rais'd them to ſuch ſecurity, that they thought him the verieſt Sot they had ever met with. He thereupon made them believe they were out of the way to Burgos, and having (to bring them into it) led them among Rocks and Precipices, ſuch places as he knew no man travell'd through, he drew a long Dagger, an Inſtrument for which they had ever had a great reſpect; and commanded them very imperiouſly to make preſent delivery of what Gold, Silver, and Jewels they had. They thought at firſt with their tears to have pacifi'd him ſo far as to bring the buſineſs to ſome compoſition. Helenilla was very prodigal of them for her part, caſting withall her arms about his Neck; but the unmerciful Hector grew ſo inſolent upon their ſubmiſſions, that he would not hear of any thing by way of treaty, and once more gave them the peremptory word of command, allowing them but half a quarter of an hour to reſolve whether they would deliver or no. There was no way but to ſacrifice their Purſes to the ſafety of their Perſons, ſo that with much regret they parted with what was dearer to them than their very entrails. Yet was not Montufar's revenge ſatisfi'd with that. He pull'd out of his Pocket a parcel of Whip-cord which he had bought on purpoſe for ſuch an execution, and having ty'd them to ſeveral Trees one againſt the other, he told them, with a treacherous ſmile, that, out of a certain knowledge he had of their negligence in doing Penance from time to time for their [Page] ſins, he would, for the good of their ſouls, give them a little diſcipline with his own hands, that they might remember him in their Prayers. The Sentence pronounc'd was immediately put in execution, with branches of green Broom that grew thereabouts in abundance, he having ſo much mercy in his juſtice as not to do it with the Whip-cord, whereof he had had himſelf experience both of the weight and ſmart, notwithſtanding the grave reproaches of Mendez not long before to that purpoſe.

Having diſciplin'd them till he grew weary, at the coſt of their poor skins, he ſate him down between the two Patients, and turning himſelf to Helenilla, entertain'd her ſomewhat to this effect. ‘My deareſt Helenilla, ſaid he, be not ſo much diſpleas'd with me, for what hath happen'd between us, till thou haſt conſidered my good intention in it, and thereupon reflected, that every one is oblig'd in conſcience to follow his vocation: it is thine to commit leud actions and to be miſchievous; it is mine (the world conſiſting of good and evil) to puniſh leudneſs and miſchief where I meet with them. Thou know'ſt better than any one, whether I diſcharge my duty as an honeſt man ſhould, and thou art to aſſure thy ſelf, ſince I chaſtiſe thee ſo heartily, that I love thee no leſs. Were it not that it is more pardonable in me to be tender of my duty, than inclin'd to compaſſion, I ſhould not leave a Gentlewoman ſo well deſcended, and ſo virtuous, ſtark nak'd ti'd to a Tree at the mercy of the firſt that paſſes by. Thy illuſtrious birth, which thou not long ſince gaveſt me an account [Page] of, deſerves another deſtiny; but be ingenuous, and acknowledge thou wouldſt do no leſs thy ſelf, if thou wert in my place. What will prove thy greateſt misfortune, is, that, having been ſo common as thou haſt, it will not be long ere thou art known, and then it is to be fear'd, that out of a Maxim of Policy, to the perpetual terrour of publick ſinners, order will be given for the burning of this miſchievous Tree, whereto thou art as it were incorporated, together with the wicked fruit that grows on it: but in recompence, if thou haſt onely a fear of all the evils thou bringeſt on thy ſelf, thou wilt one day make very pleaſant relations of thy adventures, and have this to adde, that, by the patient ſuffering of one hard night, thou ſhalt have acquir'd an excellency, which will be much talk'd of amongſt the many other thou art Miſtreſs of already; and that is, my dear quondam-acquaintance, the knack of being able to ſleep ſtanding.’

‘But the charitable Mendez might juſtly quarrel at my incivility, if I ſhould continue my diſcourſe any longer to thee, without ſo much as turning my face towards her, who was ſo free of her advice and aſſiſtance in my ſickneſs: and I ſhould be much wanting as to the duty I owe my Neighbour, if I ſhould not out of a like motive of charity give her ſome advice ſuitable to the preſent poſture of her affairs. They are indeed, added he, turning towards Mendez, in a much worſe condition than you haply imagine; recommend your ſelf therefore earneſtly to the goodneſs of God, though it be the firſt time [Page] you ever did it: let your many wrinkles be as many remembrancers of the decays of your Microcoſm, and your inability to overcome this days perſecution; were it the pleaſure of Heaven you might have a Confeſſor as eaſily as it is certain you ſtand in need of one. Not but that you may derive much quiet of thought and conſcience from the exemplary life you have led; ſince you have always been ſo exceſſively charitable, that, inſtead of repining at the imperfections and miſcarriages of others, you have repair'd thoſe of an infinite number of young Maids. Beſides, ſhall there be no account made for the pains you have taken in ſtudying the moſt occult Science [...]? 'Tis true, the Inquiſition lov'd you never the better for it, nay, beſtow'd on you ſome publick marks of its diſaffection; but you know, it conſiſts of knowing men, and that there is ever an envy and emulation between perſons of the ſame profeſſion. Nay, they do much more, that is, they are far from any confidence of your ſalvation; but it matters not, Cuſtom makes all things tolerable, even in Hell it ſelf, where it cannot be but that you muſt expect much kindneſs from the Inhabitants of the place, as having held a great correſpondence with them during your living here. I have but a word more to tell you, which is, that I might have chaſtis'd you much after another manner; but it came into my thoughts, that it is ordinary with old people to become children again; that you are old enough to be return'd to your firſt ſtate of innocence, and conſequently that a Rod was a more proper inſtrument to puniſh [Page] you for the raskally childiſh trick you put upon me, than any other: and ſo I take my leave, recommending the care of your perſons to your own dear ſelves.’

Having thus had the ſatisfaction to return their abuſes, he went his ways, and left them rather dead than living, not ſo much through the grievouſneſs of the chaſtiſement they had receiv'd, as that he had carried with him all they had, and left them alone, bound to their good behaviour in a place, where, for ought they knew, they might become food for the Wolves.

They were very mournfully looking one upon the other, without ſaying any thing, when there paſſes by between them a Hare, which had not gone far ere they perceiv'd a Dog in purſuit of her, and at ſome diſtance after the Dog, a Gentleman on Horſe-back, and that no other than Don Sancho of Villefagnan, who was come to Burgos, to ſee his Brother, whom he heard to have lien ſick, and with whom he then ſojourn'd at a Country houſe he had not far off thence, whither he was come to take the air. He thought it a ſtrange ſpectacle to ſee two Women bound in that manner to Trees, and was much ſurpriz'd when he finds in the countenance of one of them, that of the beautiful Stranger he had ſeen at Toledo, whom he had made ſo much enquiry after at Madrid, and who was perpetually preſent to his imagination. But whereas he had, upon the firſt ſight of her, conceiv'd a ſtrong impreſſion that ſhe was a Woman of quality and married, he continu'd for a while in ſome doubt whether it were ſhe, as finding it a hard matter to be convinc'd, that ſhe [Page] durſt preſume to come ſo far in ſo poor an equipage, as he might perceive by her cloaths: but the countenance of Helenilla, which, though caſt down and betraying a certain fright, had loſt nothing of its beauty, ſatisfi'd him at length that he had found what had coſt him ſo many deſires and diſturbances. He lifted himſelf up upon the ſtirrups, and look'd all about him to ſee if he were all alone, and he was ſimple enough to fear it was ſome diabolical illuſion (God ſo permitting it) ſent to puniſh him for his debauches and ſenſuality. Helenilla for her part had a reflection that was not much better, and was no leſs in fear, that Heaven had made choice of that day, to bring about her all thoſe who had any thing to call her to an account for. Don Sancho beheld Helenilla with much aſtoniſhment; ſhe him with much diſtraction, each of them expecting the other ſhould firſt ſpeak; and Don Sancho was at laſt going to fall into ſome diſcourſe with her, when he perceives one of the Pages coming in full ſpeed towards him, whereupon advancing to know what the matter was, the other told him, that the young Gentlemen, his Couſins, were together by the ears ready to kill one another. He made all the haſte he could, follow'd by the Page, to the place where he had left his company, and finds four or five of them in the heat of their drink railing one at another with their ſwords drawn, and, at ſome diſtance, employing their drunken valour in cuts and ſlaſhes, which coſt ſome of the adjacent Trees the loſs of many a fair and hopeful branch.

Don Sancho, enrag'd at his being depriv'd the [Page] pleaſant viſion he had loſt, upon ſo frivolous an occaſion, did what he could to appeaſe thoſe irreconcileable, yet not very dreadful, enemies; but his arguments, his intreaties, and his menaces had prevail'd but little with them, if the wearineſs they were in, and the wine which diſturb'd their brains had not laid them ſo often on the ground, as at laſt to faſten them to it, and ſet them a ſnoring as peaceably as they had at firſt with too much violence fallen out.

Leaving them ſo quieted of themſelves, Don Sancho took his way back again towards the happy Tree, unto which he had left the Idol of his heart in a manner metamorphos'd; but his aſtoniſhment not to find there what he ſought for, was greater than it had been upon the ſight of her before. He rode about it ſeveral times to ſee if with earneſt looking he might find what was not there; and not ſatisfi'd with that, look'd all about him, yet could diſcover nothing but a ſad Wilderneſs▪ he rode up and down to all the places thereabouts, and returns again to the Tree, which, dull Plant as it was, never ſtirr'd for all the trouble he put himſelf to.

Don Sancho, as I told you, had ſuch a devotion for the female ſex, that he could love any Woman at the firſt ſight: but to compaſs his deſires, if mony would not do, he would ſpare no courtſhip, no addreſſes, no ſubmiſſions, no ſervices, no importunity to do it. This you'l ſay was the onely way to make a man a Poet, if he were capable of it. Don Sancho indeed could do pretty well at it, and was very happy in the humouring of any accident good or bad: and whereas the odneſs of the ſubject [Page] given a Poet heightens his fancy, if he have it any thing ſtrong, he thought the adventure had happen'd to him ſo ſtrange, that it would have been inſenſibility in him, great as that of the Tree it ſelf, not to ſay ſomething to it. Having therefore alighted, he diſcover'd his Poetry to it in theſe words, if it be true at leaſt, that he was as great a Fool as I am told he was. ‘O moſt happy, and moſt to be envi'd Tree! ſince thou haſt been felicifi'd with the embraces of her whom I love, though I have no great knowledge of her, and whom I would not know but to love her, may thy leaves be mingled among the Stars, may the ſacrilegious Ax never offer the leaſt violence to thy ſacred and tender bark; may the Thunder bear a reſpect to thy [...]oughes, and the worms of the earth to thy roots; may the harſh Winter ſpare thee, the Spring enrich thee, may the loftieſt Pines envy thee; and, to conclude, may Heaven protect thee.’

While the vertuous Gentleman was exhauſting himſelf in fruitleſs regrets, or, if you will, in bemoaning Po [...]tical ejaculations, which are of greater impo [...]ance th [...]n any other, and which it is too violent [...] [...]ciſe for a man to make uſe of every day; his [...]nts, who knew not what was become of him, after a good while's ſearch, found him, and came about him. He return'd to his Brother's very melancholly, and, if I am not miſtaken in wh [...] I have been told, he went to bed ſuppe [...]leſs.

But 'tis not eaſily credible, how many irons one that tells a ſtory, or writes a Novel, may have in the fire at once. He that tells the ſtory, it being ſuppos'd [Page] he ſpeaks to more than one, is troubled many times to gheſs at what circumſtances of it the greateſt part of his Auditory ſticks, and is impatient to have it proſecuted: the other, though it may happen he hath to do but with one at a time (for, now the world grows more and more learned, people think it more edifying to read things of that nature themſelves) is ſubject to the ſame inconveniences, not knowing where the Reader would have the deſign proſecuted, where interrupted by ſome unthought-of accident. This brought into my thoughts, that the Reader I have now to do with, may think I leave him too long in ſuſpence, as being haply impatient to know, by what enchantment Helenilla and Mendez had been ſnatch'd away from the ſight of the amorous DON SANCHO. Let him have but ever ſo little patience; I am juſt going to tell him.

Montufar upon his departure from them was much pleas'd in himſelf at the piece of juſtice he had done; but as ſoon as the fury of his revenge began to admit remiſſion, his Love was proportionably re-inflam'd, and repreſented Helenilla to his imagination more beautiful than ever he had ſeen her. He concluded from her great patience in receiving ſo cruel a chaſtiſement (when ſhe ſaw there was no remedy but to endure it) that ſhe muſt needs be of an excellent and tractable diſpoſition, and much inclin'd to forget and forgive injuries. He conſider'd with himſelf, that what he had taken away from them would be ſoon ſpent, and that her Beauty was a ſetled and conſtant revenue to him, while he continu'd in her [Page] favour, the want of whoſe company he already thought inſupportable. Upon theſe conſiderations, he made all the haſte he could back, and the ſame barbarous hands which had with ſo little remorſe faſten'd to the Trees the two Fugitives, and had afterwards ſo unmercifully ſwept their back-ſides with good green Broom, knock'd off their Chains, I would ſay, cut aſunder, or unty'd their Cords, and ſe [...] them at liberty, while Don Sancho was Chriſtianly employ'd in reconciling thoſe of his Drunken company who were fallen out.

Montufar, Helenilla, and Mendez, became good Friends again as they went along, and having reciprocally promis'd to forget all diſſatisfactions and differences, embrac'd one another with as much tenderneſs for their reconciliation, as regret for what was paſt; doing juſt as the Great ones do, who neither love nor hate any thing, and who accommodate thoſe two contrary paſſions to their advantages, and the preſent ſtate of their affairs. They held a Council concerning the way they ſhould take. Their Politicks advis'd them to forbear going to Burgos, where they might be in danger to meet with the Gentleman of Toledo: They therefore made choice of Sevil for their retreat, and it ſeem'd to them that fortune ſeconded their deſign, ſince that, as they came into Madrid-Road, they met with a Mule-driver, who had three return'd Mules he could diſpoſe of, and which he was glad to let them have to carry them to Sevil, upon the firſt propoſition made by Montufar to that purpoſe. He treated the Ladies upon [Page] the way very civilly, to make them forget the ill treatment they had receiv'd from him. They at firſt were ſomewhat diſtruſtful of his inſinuations, and reſolv'd to be reveng'd on him upon the firſt opportunity: but at laſt, more out of policy than any conſideration of virtue, they became greater friends than ever. They bethought themſelves, that Diſcord had ruin'd the greateſt Empires, and were convinc'd, that, in all appearance, they were born one for another. They play'd not any trick of their Profeſſion in their journey to Sevil; for having their thoughts ſufficiently taken up with their removal out of a Country where enquiry might be made after them, they were afraid to run themſelves into new inconveniences, which might hinder their going to Sevil, where they had great deſigns to carry on.

They alighted a League ſhort of the City, and having ſatisfi'd the Mule-driver, made their entrance into it at the cloſe of the Evening, and took up their Lodging in the firſt Inn they came to. Montufar took a Houſe, furniſh'd it, but meanly enough, and put himſelf into a black Suit, a Caſſock, and a long Clo [...]k. Helenilla put her ſelf into the habit of a Religious woman, having her hair ſo cloſely impriſon'd, as there was not ought to be ſeen; and Mendez, clad like a devout Matron, got her a pair of Beads, of ſuch bigneſs as might well ſerve as Caſe-ſhot for a ſmall piece of Ordnance. For ſome days immediately after their arrival, Montufar walk'd up and down the Streets, habited, as I have deſcrib'd him, with his Arms a-croſs, and caſting down his Eyes when [Page] ever he met with any of the female Sex. He cry'd out ever and anon, with a voice that would break the very ſtones: Bleſſed be the moſt bleſſed Sacrament of the Altar, and the ever-happy Conception of the immaculate Virgin, with ſeveral other exclamations of the ſame kind. He caus'd the ſame things to be repeated by the Children he met with in the Streets▪ and got them together many times to make them ſing Hymns and godly Songs, and to teach them their Catechiſm. He often viſited the Priſons, preach'd to the Priſoners, comforted ſome, miniſtred to others, bringing them Victuals, and many times carrying from the Market a heavy Basket fill'd with ſuch things as he had either begg'd or provided for them. Oh deteſtable Rogue! it ſeems there wanted onely thy turring Hypocrite, to make thee the moſt accompliſh'd Villain the Earth ever groan'd under!

Theſe virtuous actions, done by the greateſt enemy to Virtue of all mankind, in a ſhort time rais'd him into the reputation of a Saint. Helenilla and Mendez, for their parts, did ſuch things as made people begin to talk of their Canonization. One pretended to be Mother, the other, Siſter of the bleſſed Brother Martin. They went every day to the Hoſpitals; waited on the ſick, made their beds, waſh'd their Linnen, and, if they wanted, accommodated them at their own charge.

Thus were the three moſt vicious Perſons in all Spain become the admiration of Sevil. Much about this time there happen'd to come thither a Gentleman of Madrid, about ſome occaſions of his own. He had been one of the acquaintances of [Page] Helenilla; for ſuch Women as turn common, ſupply many in their time: he knew Mendez to be no better than ſhe ſhould be, and had ſo much experience of Montufar, as to take him for no other th [...]n a dangerous cheat and a Pandar. One day, as they were coming all three together from Church, follow'd by a great number of perſons, who kiſs'd their Veſtments, and intreated them to be mindful of them in their Prayers, they were diſcover'd by the Gentleman I ſpoke of; who, upon ſight of them being enflam'd with a Chriſtian zeal, and not able to endure that three perſons ſo tranſcendently wicked ſhould abuſe the credulity of a whole City, broke through the multitude, and coming up to Montufar gave him a hearty blow over the face. Abhominable cheats! cries he to them! Do you neither fear God nor Man? He would have ſaid ſomething elſe: but his good intention met not with the ſucceſs it deſerv'd, it being not onely imprudent, but dangerous, to be over-precipitate in the diſcovery of any thing. All the people fell upon him, looking on him as one that h [...]d committed Sacriledge in his incivility towards their Saint. He was ſoon lay'd on the ground, loaden with blows and kicks, and no doubt had loſt his Life among them, if Montufar, through a miraculous readineſs of wit, had not taken him into his protection, covering him with his body, thruſting away the moſt earneſt to beat him, nay, expoſing himſelf to their fury and blows. ‘My deareſt Brethren, Crys he as loud as he could, let him alone for the holy Jeſus ſake; for the B. Virgin's ſake, be not ſo violent.’

[Page]Theſe few words lay'd that great Tempeſt; and the people, as eaſily quieted as they had been ſtirr'd up, made way for B. Martin, who came up to the unfortunate Gentleman, glad in his Soul to ſee him ſo treated, but diſcovering in his countenance a great trouble thereat. He rais'd him up from the ground where he tumbled over and over, embrac'd him, and kiſs'd him, though all blood and dirt, and reproved the people very ſharply for their rudeneſs. ‘I am indeed, the wicked wretch, ſaid he to thoſe who had any deſire to hear him, I am the Sinner, I am he that never did any thing pleaſing in the ſight of God. Do you imagine, continued he, becauſe you ſee me now clad like an honeſt Man, that I have not been all my Life a Thief? a ſcandal to others, and my own ruine? Let me be the object of your Injuries; 'tis at me you ought to caſt Dirt and Stones, it is my Blood your Swords thirſt after.’

Having ſaid theſe words with a perſonated mildneſs, and thereby abſolutely quieted the people, he went, with a zeal yet more counterfeit, and caſt himſelf at the feet of his Enemy, and kiſſing them, he not onely ask'd him pardon, but got him again his Sword, Cloak, and Hat, which had been loſt in the Tumult. He put them about him, and having led him by the hand to the end of the Street parted from him, after he had beſtow'd on him many embraces, and as many benedictions.

The poor Man was all this while as if he had been inchanted, ſo aſtoniſhed was he at what he h [...]d ſeen, and what had been done to him, and conceiv'd ſo much ſhame at the ſadneſs of the adventure, [Page] that he was never ſeen in the Streets afterwards, though his buſineſs detain'd him in the City ſome time longer.

In the mean time, Montufar, by this act of counterfeit humility had gain'd the hearts of the whole City. The people look'd on him with admiration, many came the oftner to Church purpoſely to ſee him, and the Children cry'd after him a Saint, a Saint, as they would a Fox, a Fox, had they met his Enemy in the Streets. From this time he began to live the happieſt Life of any Man alive. The great Lord, the Gentleman, the Magiſtrate, the Prelate courted him every day to their Tables, and, happy thought he himſelf, whom he honour'd with an acceptance of his entertainment. If any one ask'd his Name, he made anſwer, that he was the Animal, the Beaſt, fit onely to carry Burthens, the Common-ſhore of filthineſs, the Veſſel of iniquity, and ſuch other attributes as his ſtudied Devotion furniſh'd him withall. He ſpent the day in ſome publick places with the Ladies of the City, importuning them with perpetual complaints of his own luke-warmneſs: telling them that he was not ſufficiently annihilated in Spirit, that he was guilty of too much Self-centreity, and wanted thoſe recollections which ſhould confine his thoughts to celeſtial contemplations, and divert them from being diſorder'd by the vanities of this World; in a word, never entertaining them with any thing but what was wrapt up in this fuſtian Language: So great a Proficient had a ſhort time made him in Sycophancy and Hyprocriſie!

[Page]Of the great Alms daily beſtow'd in Sevil, there paſt moſt through his hands, or through thoſe of Helenilla, and Mendez; who, as to what might be expected from them, acted their parts to the heighth, and whoſe names made no leſs haſte to get into the Calender, than did that of Montufar. A certain Widow, a Lady of quality, and inexpreſſibly beſotted with Devotion, ſent them every day two diſhes of Meat for their Dinner, and as many for their Supper, and thoſe ſuch as had been ordered by one of the beſt Cooks about the City. At laſt, the Houſe they liv'd in grew too little for the great number of preſents that were brought in from all parts, and to entertain the Ladies that came to viſit them. If a Woman was deſirous to be with Child, her onely way was to put her Petition into their hands, that they might preſent it at the Tribunal of God, and bring her a ſpeedy and ſatisfactory anſwer of it. She that had a Son in the Indies, took the ſame courſe; and ſo did ſhe alſo who had a Brother, Friend, or Couſin, in Slavery at Algiers. And the poor Widow, who had a cauſe depending before an ignorant Judge, againſt a powerful Adverſary, doubted not of its going with her, ſince ſhe had made them a preſent according to her ability. Some preſented them with Sweet-meats, others with Pictures and Ornaments for their Oratory. Sometimes there were ſent them in, all ſorts of clean Linnen and Cloaths for poor people that were aſham'd of their neceſſities, and often, conſiderable ſumms of Money, to be diſtributed as they ſhould think fitting. No body came empty handed [Page] to them, nor did any body doubt of their future Canonization. Nay it grew to that heighth, that ſome deſir'd their advice in things doubtful, and to come. Helenilla, who had a Diabolical wit, manag'd the buſineſs of Anſwers; and the cunning Gipſie would be ſure to deliver her Oracles, in few words, and in tearms ambiguous and capable of ſeveral interpretations. Their Beds, ſimple in appearance were all the day cover'd with Mats, but at night with good Down-beds and Quilts, and good Coverlets; the Houſe being full of all manner of Houſhold-ſtuff, ſent in by ſome or other, for a charitable ſupply of ſome Widow, whoſe Goods had been taken in Execution, or to furniſh the Houſe of a young Maid married without any Portion. Their doors, in Winter, were ſhut up at five of the clock, in Summer, at ſeven, as punctually as if their Houſe had been a well regulated Convent; and then the Spits went, the Houſe was perfum'd, the Fowls went to the fire, the Tables were neatly cover'd, and the Hypocritical Triumvirate, fed without any remorſe, and valiantly drank to their own good Healths, and ſometimes remembred theirs whom they made ſuch Fools. Montufar and Helenilla lay together, for fear of the Spirits; and their Man and their Maid, who were of the ſame Conſtitution, imitated them in their manner of paſſing away the night. But for the Matron Mendez, ſhe always lay alone, and was more contemplative than active, ever ſince ſhe had given her mind to the black Art.

Thus did they ſpend their time, when the beſotted [Page] Inhabitants of Sevil thought they were at their mental prayers, or diſciplining themſelves. It is not to be ask'd, whether they were in good caſe, as to the body, living at this rate. Every one bleſs'd God for it, and it was in a manner the general wonder, that a ſort of people who exercis'd ſo great auſterities, were of a better complexion, than thoſe who liv'd in the heighth of luxury and abundance. During the ſpace of three years that they led all the people of Sevil by the noſes, receiving preſents from all parts, and converting moſt of the alms that paſt through their hands to their own uſe, what a number of good yellow pieces they got together, will not eaſily be credited. What ever happen'd ſucceſsfully, was attributed to the effect of their prayers. They ſtood for all the Children that were chriſtned, they were the makers up of all Matches, and the adbitrators of all differences. At laſt, God grew weary of ſuffering their wicked kind of living. Montufar, who was much inclin'd to choler, us'd often to beat his man; he, on the other ſide, being high fed, and living at eaſe, receiv'd his chaſtiſement with a great deal of indignation, and would many times have left his ſervice upon it, if Helenilla, much more politick in that than her Gallant, h [...]d not ever and anon appeas'd him with kindneſſes and preſents. He one day corrected him a little too ſeverely for a trivial fault. The young fellow got out of doors, and, blinded by his paſſion, went and gave notice to the Magiſtrates of Sevil of the hypocriſie of theſe three bleſſed perſons. Some evil ſpirit ſuggeſted it into Helenilla, that the [Page] fellow would do the miſchief ſhe fear'd. She advis'd Montufar to take all the Gold, whereof they had a conſiderable quantity, and to avoid the tempeſt ſhe was afraid would fall upon them. No ſooner ſaid than done. They took about them what they had of greateſt value, and putting a good face on't in the ſtreets, went out at one of the City gates, and came in again at another, to blind thoſe that might follow them.

Montufar had inſinuated himſelf into the favour of a certain Widow, as leud, and as very a hypocrite, as himſelf; He had made Helenilla acquainted with all that paſs'd between them, who took not any thing amiſs, no more than Montufar would have done at her familiarity with a Gallant that had been profitable to the Community. To her houſe they made their retreat, and there they were ſecretly kept, and entertain'd to their own wiſhes; the Widow having an affection for Montufar, for his own ſake, and for Helenilla upon Montufar's account.

In the mean time, the Magiſtrate, conducted by Montufar's revengeful ſervant, was gotten into the houſe of our Hypocrites, and made ſearch for the bleſſed Children and their glorious Mother, and neither meeting with them nor any tidings of them, the ſervant-maid not knowing where they were nor whither they were gone, had c [...]us'd all the trunks to be ſealed up, and an Inventory to he taken of all that was in the houſe. The officers found in the Kitchin what to entertain themſelves withal for above one day, and left not in danger to be loſt any thing they could handſomely make [Page] their own. While things were in this poſture comes the old Mendez into the houſe, having not the leaſt imagination of what they were doing there. The Officers laid hold on her, and hurried her to priſon with a great concourſe of people at her heels. The man and the maid were ſent thither alſo to keep her company, and having ſpoke ſomewhat too much as well as ſhe, where condemn'd as ſhe was, to the embraces of the Whipping-poſt, and there to receive two hundred laſhes. Mendez dies of it within three days after, as being too old to overcome ſo rigorous a chaſtiſement, and the man and the maid were baniſh'd Sevil for their lives; ſo that the prudent Helenilla, by her foreſight, kept her dear Montufar and her ſelf out of the hands of the Magiſtrate, who ſought after them, but in vain, both within and without the City. The people were aſham'd they had been ſo abus'd; and the Ballad-ſingers, who were grown hoarſe in celebrating their commendations at all corners of the ſtreets, ſet their muddy Poets at work to write as much in diſpraiſe of the counterfeit Saints. Theſe Inſects of Parnaſſus, exhauſted, upon this occaſion, their ſatyrical vein; and the ſongs they made, to cry down thoſe whom not long before the people had made their Idols, are to this day ſung up and down at Sevil.

Montufar and Helenilla reflecting on the ſad Tragedy of Mendez, thought it their beſt courſe to take a counter-march to Madrid, which they did as ſoon as they durſt venture with ſafety, bringing thither with them much wealth, and being [Page] alſo married together. They immediately made enquiry after what news there might be of Don Sancho o [...] Villefagnan, and having underſtood that he was not at Madrid, they appear'd publickly; he, as well cloath'd as as any Gentleman about the Court, and ſhe, after the rate of a Lady of quality, and beautiful as an Angel. Before the treaty of marriage was concluded between them, there were certain Articles drawn up, with a mutual promiſe for the punctual obſervance thereof; among others, theſe; That Montufar as a husband of much diſcretion and great patience, ſhould not be any way troubled at ſuch viſits as upon the account of her beauty ſhould be made to her; ſhe on the other ſide being oblig'd not to entertain any but what were beneficial.

They had not been there long, ere thoſe Women, who between the ſexes of Mankind are much of the ſame predicament with Horſe-courſers in matter of Horſes, ſuch as many otherwiſe be called the Publick Intelligencers in the affairs of Pleaſure; otherwiſe, Haglers, and Caterers in human fleſh; in the vulgar language, Bauds; or, to ſpeak more honourably of them, Women of Deſigns, began to beat the market about Helenilla. They made her appear one day at a Play, another in the Park, and ſometimes in the great Street of Madrid, ſeated in the boot of a Coach, whence, looking on ſome, ſmiling on others, taking notice of all, ſhe could on a ſudden muſter ſuch a number of tranſported Lovers as might paſs for a conſiderable Regiment. Her dear husband very punctually [Page] obſerv'd the articles agreed on at the Contract; ſuch as were baſhful in their addreſſes he, by his inſinuating behaviour, incourag'd into greater confidence, and did in a manner lead them by the hand to his wife, being ſo full of compliance and ſo ready to further their enjoyment, as never to want ſome urgent occaſions, purpoſely to afford them the freedom of her company alone. He made acquaintances with none but ſuch as had money enough, and car'd as little how they ſpent it, and never came into his own houſe ere he had been aſſur'd by a ſignal that appear'd in the window, when the Miſtreſs of the houſe was buſie, that he might come in without hindring any ſport; and, if the ſignal were ſuch as for [...]ad him entrance, he went his way as well ſatisfi'd as a perſon whoſe buſineſs is done in his abſence, and paſs'd away an hour or two in ſome Gaming-houſe, where all were glad to entertain him for his wife's ſake.

Among thoſe whom Helenilla had made her tributary vaſſals, there was a certain Gentleman of Granada, who ſurpaſs'd all his competitors both in the exceſs of his love and his expence. He was deſcended out of ſo noble a Houſe, that the titles of his Nobility might be found among the Antiquities of the capital City of Judaea, and thoſe who had a particular knowledge of his race, affirm'd, that his Anceſtors had kept the Books for arraignment of Malefactors at Hieruſalem before and after the time of Caiaphas. The love he had to Helenilla made him in a ſhort time releaſe a great number of good Pieces which he had impriſon'd [Page] haply one by one. By this means came Helenilla's houſe to be one of the beſt furniſh'd about Madrid. A Coach, whereof ſhe knew neither the price, nor was at the charge of maintaining the Horſes that drew it, waited every morning at the door, to receive her commands, and roll'd up and down till night, as ſhe was pleas'd to order it. This prodigal Lover took a box for her at the Play-houſe by the year, and there hardly paſs'd a day but he entertain'd, with ſome magnificent Collation, her and ſome others of the ſex, in the houſes of recreation that are about the City. Theſe entertainments were a certain Paradiſe to Montufar, who accordingly ſatiated his natural gluttony thereat; and being cloath'd like a Prince, and as full of c [...]ſh as if he had been a Treaſurer, he fed every day like a French-wan, and drank like a German. He had very great compliances for the liberal Granadine, and was not ſparing of his acknowledgments to Fortune her ſelf.

But the wind turns of a ſudden, and brings with it a horrible ſtorm. Helenilla entertain'd the viſits of a certain young Hector, one of the Danger-fields of the City; who never durſt ſhew their faces in the field; who live at the charge of ſome wretched Curtezan whom they tyrannize over; who go every day to Plays to make tumults and defeat poor Citizens of hats and cloaks; and who every night beat their innocent ſwords againſt the walls, that they may have ſome colour to ſwear in the morning, that they had a furious encounter with ſome enemies. Montufar▪ had many [Page] times given Helenilla notice, that he was not pleas'd with that unprofitable acquaintance of hers. Notwithſtanding all his remonſtrances, ſhe ſtill kept him company. Montufar was incens'd thereat, inſomuch that, to ſatisfie himſelf, he gave Helenilla the ſame chaſtiſement, as the deceas'd Mendez, and ſhe, had ſometimes receiv'd from him in the mountains of Burgos. Helenilla pretended her ſelf reconcil'd to him upon the firſt acknowledgments of his paſſion [but was reſolv'd to be reveng'd.] The better to compaſs her deſign, ſhe for eight days together treated him with ſuch unuſual kindneſſes, that Montufar was abſolutely ſatisfi'd: ſhe was one of thoſe Women, who adore their Tyrants, and exerciſe their cruelty on their adorers. One day, the Gentleman of Granada had order'd an excellent Supper to be provided, intending to make the third perſon at it himſelf; but ſome buſineſs ſo fell out, that he could not come. Montufar and Helenilla drank hand to hand to the health of their Benefactor. Montufar, according to his ordinary courſe, made a ſhift to get drunk, and as they were taking away the cloth would needs taſte of a Bottle of perfum'd Hypocras, which the Granadine had ſent in, as a thing extraordinary. It was never diſcover'd, whether Helenilla, who had open'd it before ſupper, had put into the bottle a dram of ſomething more than ſhould be: This is certain, that not long after Montufar had taken it off, he felt a ſtrange heat in his intrails, and, preſently after, inſupportable pains and gripings. He had ſome ſuſpition of his being poiſon'd, and ran to [Page] get his ſword, which Helenilla perceiving, got in that interval out of the room to avoid his fury. Montufar went to her chamber whither he thought ſhe had been gone to hide her ſelf, and ſearching after her in the heighth of his fury, he diſcovers, as he took up a piece of Tapiſtry, Helenilla's young Gallant, who immediately run him with his ſword through the body. Montufar, though half-dead, made a ſhift to get him by the throa [...]. Upon the ſhrieks of the ſervants, who made a helliſh noiſe, the Magiſtrate comes into the houſe, juſt as the Murtherer was in hopes to make his eſcape, having put Montufar out of all pain with a ſharp dagger he had.

In the mean time Helenilla, who was got into the ſtreet, and knew not whether ſhe went, enters the firſt door ſhe met with open. She perceiv'd a light in a low room, and a Gentleman walking up and down in it. She went and caſt her ſelf at his feet imploring his aſſiſtance and protection, and was much aſtoniſh'd to find him to be Don Sancho, of Villefagnan, who was no leſs ſurpriz'd to meet with, in her, the Idol of his heart, which now appear'd to him the fourth time. Don Sancho had, ſome time before, had ſome differences with his wife, and thoſe were come to ſuch heighth, as that they were thereupon abſolutely parted, ſhe finding it impoſſible to live with him, by reaſon of his ill treatments of her, and his debauches. He had procur'd from the Court a Commiſſion to plant a new Colony in the Indies, and was within a ſhort time to take ſhipping at Sevil. While Helenilla entertains him with a thouſand [Page] forg'd ſtories, and that he is over-joy'd to find her willing to accompany him in his voyage; the Magiſtrate condemns the young Gallant to be hang'd for the murthering of Montufar, makes a ſearch after Helenilla all over Madrid, and ſeiz'd of all that was in the houſe. Don Sancho and Helenilla had a proſperous voiage to the Indies, where there have happen'd to them ſtranger adventures than any have been related yet. Some particulars have been brought over, but more are ſtill expected. Thoſe that are lately come out of thoſe parts give an account of Helenilla as being yet alive, in great proſperity, and Governeſs of a vaſt Country; She and Don Sancho living as happily and as lovingly as any couple in the world. She engag'd him to marry her ere he could have his deſires of her; which when he made ſome difficulty to do; ſhe ſatisfi'd him with this, that, in ſeveral worlds, it was lawful for a man to have ſeveral wives. There are ſeveral Bookſellers, who with the laſt Ship that went into thoſe parts, ſent over a young man to get the Copy of her and her Indian husband's adventure, before it comes to my peruſal; but though they do, I do hereby let them know, they muſt have my hand in it before it be printed, becauſe I have all the ſtories wherewith ſhe entertain'd Don Sancho at her ſo ſudden meeting with him at Madrid ready for the Preſs, which, conſidering the ſurprize and confuſion ſhe mu [...]t needs be in at ſo fatal an accident, and the preſence of ſpirit ſhe had to invent them, will accordingly be thought the greateſt miracle of female invention that ever was. I intend to put out all [Page] together, (not including what is already publiſh'd) under the Title of THE COMPLEAT CURTEZAN, or THE MODERN LAIS, In the mean time, forbidding all manner of perſons to trouble either Book-ſellers or Friends to ſend them Books under ſuch names, till they find theſe Titles at the beginning of the Book which they now meet with at the end, or hear further from their humble Servant.

THE INNOCENT ADULTERY.
The Third Novel.

[Page]

THE Court of Spain was at Vailladolid, and conſequently the inconveniences of thoſe that were oblig'd to attend it, were the greater, (it being a place as famous for the dirtineſs of it as Paris, if we may believe an eminent Spaniſh Poet, who hath given us that account thereof) when in one of the coldeſt Nights of a Winter that had been more ſharp than ordinary, [Page] and about the hour that moſt of the Monaſteries toll their Bell to Ma [...]ins, a young Gentleman, named Don Garcias, ſlip'd out of a Houſe where he had ſpent the day in ſome Company, or h [...]ply at Gaming, which, however we may be ſenſible of the other loſſes conſequent thereto, makes us little mind th [...]t of our Time, though haply the greateſt. Though the night were dark, yet had he not any light with him; whether his Lacquey had through ſleepineſs loſt his Link, or that his Maſter car'd not much whether he had any; and was juſt paſſing into the ſtreet where his lodging was, when, at a door, opened of a ſudden, a certain perſon was thruſt out with ſuch rudeneſs and violence, that the party fell at his feet, on the other ſide of the way, as he walk'd along.

He was much ſtartled at the ſtrangeneſs of the adventure; much more, when going to give his hand to the perſon he thought ſo unworthily treated, he perceiv'd, he was ſtrip't to the Shirt, and heard him ſighing and bemoaning himſelf, without endeavouring in the leaſt to get up. Thence he inferr'd, he had hurt himſelf in his fall, and thereupon, having, with the help of his Lacquey which was come up to him, ſet him on his feet, he ask'd him, Wherein he might do him any ſervice. ‘You may ſave my Life, and ſecure my Honour, replies the unknown Perſon, with a Voice interrupted with ſighs, and which convinc'd him of the mistake he had been in all the while, and that it was a Woman he had found ſo barbarouſly forc'd out of doors at ſo unſeaſonable a time. I beſeech you, added ſhe, by the ſame generoſity [Page] which makes you ſo ready to aſſiſt me in my misfortune, to diſpoſe of me into ſome place, where I may remain conceal'd, provided none know of it but your ſelf, and ſuch as you ſhall be confident of their fidelity.’

Don Garcias put his cloak about her, and commanding his Lacquey to hold her by the arm on one ſide as he did on the other, he ſoon brought her to his Lodging, where all were in their Beds, but one Maid, who opened the door, curſing and bitterly railing at thoſe who made her ſit up ſo late. The Lacquey, whether upon the directions of his Maſter, or the pleaſure thoſe of his quality take in the doing of miſchief, made her no other anſwer than that of blowing out her candle, and while ſhe was gone to light it again, calling him a hundred Rogues and Skip-kennels, Don Garcias, conducted, or indeed rather carried to his Chamber, (which was but one pair of Stairs) the diſtreſſed Lady, who with much ado kept on her feet.

The Lacquey having brought up a light, Don Garcias perceived he had met with a very extraordinary adventure, having brought into his Lodging one of the handſomeſt Women in all Spain, and one who immediately rais'd in him both Love and Compaſſion. Her hair was black, but withall of a brightneſs out-vying that of Jet; her Complexion, a miraculous mixture of Lillies and Roſes; her Eyes, to ſpeak mo [...]eſtly of them, ſo many Suns; her Breaſt lovely, beyond all compariſon; her Arms admirable; her Hands yet much more to be admired; and her Stature ſuch as a Man that were a great Monarch ſhould wiſh in her whom he [Page] call'd his Queen! But that delicate black Hair was all in diſorder; that attractive Complexion was pale and diſcolour'd; thoſe ſparkling Eyes were full of tears; that incomparable Breaſt all bruis'd; thoſe Arms and Hands were not in a much better condition; in a word, that lovely Body, of ſo graceful a proportion, was full of black and bloody places, as if the owner had been beaten with Stirrup-leathers, a Girdle, or ſomething elſe, no leſs unfit to be employed on ſo much tenderneſs and delicacy. If Don Garcias were infinitely pleas'd to look on ſo beautiful a perſon, the ſame beautiful perſon was no leſs troubled to ſee her ſelf reduc'd to the condition ſhe was in; at the diſpoſal of a Man, ſhe had not the leaſt knowledge of, and one that ſeem'd not to be five and twenty years of age. He took notice of her diſturbance, and did all he could to perſuade her, that ſhe ſhould be far from fearing any thing unhandſome from a Gentleman, who would think himſelf happy to ſerve her, though with the hazard of his Life.

In the mean time, his Lacquey kindled a little Char-coal fire; for in Spain there's but little other Fuel; but for that, all Countries muſt be content with what proviſion Nature hath been pleas'd to make them; though ſhe be ever ſo much a Stepmother, there's no repining at her diſpoſal of things. He alſo laid clean ſheets, or ſhould have done if he had any, on his Maſter's bed, who, having bidden the Lady good-night, left her in poſſeſſion of his Chamber, double-locking the door upon her, and went to Bed, I know not upon what pretence, to a Gentleman of his acquaintance that had a Chamber [Page] in the ſame Houſe. He ſlept in all likelihood better in his Friend's, than the Lady he had recommended to his own Bed did in his; he never drew bit, till the cries about the Streets awoke him; ſhe ceas'd not weeping and bewailing her ſelf all night long. Don Garcias got up, rubb'd and powder'd, and made himſelf as ſpruce and as youthful as he could. Being come to his own Chamber-door, he lay'd his Ear to the Key-hole, and having heard the poor Lady ſtill bemoaning her ſelf, he made no difficulty to go in to her. His preſence heightened the violence of her affliction, and not able to look on him with any command of her grief; ‘You ſee, ſaid ſhe to him, a woman, who was, no longer ſince than yeſterday, the moſt eſteem'd of any in Vailladolid, but at preſent the moſt deſpicable, and moſt infamous, and in a condition now much more likely to raiſe compaſſion, than ſhe hath ſometime been to cauſe envy. But how great ſoever the miſfortune may be whereto I am reduc'd, the ſeaſonable kindneſs I receiv'd from you, may yet in ſome meaſure remedy it, if after you have afforded me the Sanctuary of your Chamber till night, you get me convey'd thence, either in a Sedan or Coach, to a Convent which I ſhall name to you. But may I, added ſhe, after all the Obligations you have caſt on me, entreat you to be at the trouble to go to my Houſe, to enquire what is ſaid and done there; and, in fine, to inform your ſelf, what diſcourſe there is about the Court and City, concerning the unhappy Woman, whom you have ſo generouſly taken into your protection.’

[Page] Don Garcias proffer'd himſelf to go where ever ſhe pleas'd to deſire him, and receiv'd her commands, with that earneſtneſs and alacrity, as a perſon newly fallen in Love, would do thoſe of the Beauty he was become an adorer of. She gave him ſuch directions, as were neceſſary; he left her, upon engagement to make a ſpeedy return, and ſhe immediately fell to ſuch lamentations, as if ſhe had but newly begun. It was not an hour ere Don Garcias return'd; and upon his coming into the room, perceiv [...]ng his fair Gueſt much alarm'd, as if ſhe had had a preſentiment of the ill news he brought her; ‘Madam, ſaid he to her, if you are Eugenia, Wife of Don Sancho, I have ſomewhat to tell you which very much concerns you; Eugenia is not to be heard of, and Don Sancho in priſon, charg'd with the death of his Brother, Don Lewis. Don Sancho, is innocent, ſaid ſhe, I am the unfortunate Eugenia, and Don Lewis was the lewdeſt Man in the world.’

Her tears, which thereupon broke their way with too much violence, and her ſobbs admitting very little intermiſſion, ſuffer'd her not to ſpeak any more; and I think Don Garcias was not in the mean time a little troubled to compoſe himſelf to ſadneſs, and to expreſs how ſenſible he was of her affliction. At laſt, as we find that violent things are ſeldome of long continuance, Eugenias's grief admitted ſome moderation; ſhe wip'd her eyes and face, and went on with the diſcourſe, which, as I ſaid, her tears and ſighs had interrupted. ‘It amounts not to much, ſaid ſhe to him, that you know the name and quality of the unfortunate [Page] Wom [...]n, you have in ſo ſhort a time ſo highly oblig'd; you may well expect ſhe ſhould acquaint you with the particulars of her Life, and by that confidence repos'd in you, make ſome kind of acknowledgement of the extraordinary obligation you have caſt on her. I am come out of one of the beſt houſes in Vailladolid. I was born to a great fortune, and Nature hath been ſo indulgent to me, as to matter of Beauty, that, had I been proud of it, I needed not to have fear'd the checks and cenſures of any: The accompliſhments of my perſon brought me more Gallants than the greatneſs of my Eſtate; and the reputation of both together rais'd me Adorers in the moſt remote Cities of Spain. Among thoſe who propos'd to themſelves the felicity of my enjoyments, Don Sancho, and Don Lewis, two Brothers, equal both as to the goods of Fortune and Nature, were the moſt remarkable, as well for the violence of their paſſion, as the emulation they expreſs'd who ſhould do me the moſt, and moſt conſiderable ſervices. My Friends countenanc'd the pretenſions of Don Sancho, who was the elder of the two, and my Inclinations were conſonant to their choice, and diſpos'd me to a m [...]n turn'd of forty years of age, who, by the mildneſs and compliance of his diſpoſition, and the extraordinary care he took to pleaſe me, got a greater Intereſt in my ſoul, than would haply have done a perſon whoſe age had been more ſuitable to mine. The two Brothers, though they had been Rivals, had nevertheleſs liv'd ſo friendly together as never to have any difference; and [Page] Don Sancho, upon his gaining of me, loſt not the friendſhip of his Brother Don Lewis. Their Houſes joyn'd together, or rather were but one Houſe, ſince the common Wall that ſeparated them, had a Door in it, which, by joynt-conſent was not lock'd of either ſide. Don Lewis was not ſhie, even before his Brother, to make the ſame addreſſes to me as he was us'd to do whilſt he was his Rival; and Don Sancho, whoſe affection was heightened by his enjoyment, and who lov'd me beyond his own Life, look'd on his Courtſhips as the expreſſions of an innocent gayneſs and civility. He call'd me himſelf his Brother's Miſtreſs, who for his part palliated a real love with ſo much eluſion and artifice, that I was not the onely perſon deceived in it. In fine, having a while accuſtom'd himſelf to entertain me publickly with his paſſion, not minding who were preſent, he came at laſt to make ſome diſcoveries of it to me in private, with ſo much importunity, and ſo little reſpect, that I was no longer to doubt of his unworthy deſigns upon me. Though I was but very young, yet had I prudence enough to put him off with ſuch Retorts, as whence he might have taken occaſion to let all things paſs as if he ſtill onely perſonated the paſſionate Lover. I took in jeſt whatever he ſaid to me ſeriouſly, and though to my remembrance I never was more angry than at that time, yet I never did my ſelf greater violence, to forbear doing any thing inconſiſtent with the ordinary indifferency of my humour. This he was ſo far from making his advantage of, that [Page] it incens'd him; and giving me a frightful look, wherein his wicked intentions were but too viſible; No, no, Madam, ſaid he to me, I am not ſo much a counterfeit ſince I loſt you, as I was while I had yet hopes to gain you: and though your rigour be great enough ſoon to free you from a Love and Addreſſes which you think troubleſome, you have ſo accuſtomed me to ſuffer, that it will be much better done of you to — Forbear ever being alone with you, ſaid I, interrupting him. Upon which one of my Women, coming into my chamber, prevented him, from making further diſcoveries of his inſolence, and me, from expreſſing my reſentment thereof, as highly as the occaſion requir'd, and I found my ſelf inclin'd to do. I was very glad ſince, I had not done it, upon this account of my Husband, and was in hope that wicked Brother would have afforded me leſs of his love and more of his eſteem; but he ſtill continued both his prevarications before people, and his importunities in private. To elude his Tranſportations and ſerious Addreſſes, I put on the greateſt ſeverity I could, ſo far as to threaten to give his Brother notice of his behaviour towards me. I made uſe of all the ways I could think on, to make him ſenſible of his miſcarriage. I entreated, I wept, I promis'd to love him as a Brother; but he would needs have that place in my affection which Lovers onely pretend to. In fine, ſometimes born with, ſometimes ſharply treated, and ſtill no leſs amorous than abhorr'd, he would have made me the moſt unfortunate Woman in [Page] Spain, if my conſcience, which could not upbraid me with any thing, had not eſtabliſh'd and preſerv'd the tranquility of my mind. But at laſt my vertue, which had ſtood out the aſſaults of ſo dangerous an enemy, forſook me; and I became a prey to one I little thought of, becauſe I forſook it. The Court came to Vailladolid, and brought with it that gallantry which makes Ladies that are unaccuſtom'd to it, entertain other thoughts than they had before. There is ſomewhat more than ordinary pleaſing in all new things; our Ladies thought they ſaw ſomething in the Courtiers which they obſerv'd not in thoſe who amongſt us went for the greateſt Gallants; and the Courtiers on the other ſide endeavour'd to pleaſe our Ladies, and to inſinuate into their favou [...], though they thought them little better than certain Conqueſts. Among the Gallants that follow'd the Court, in hopes of ſome preferment in time for their attendance: a Portuguez, named Andrado, was much taken notice of, for the ſharpneſs of his wit, the gracefulneſs of his perſon and countenance, and more particularly for the greatneſs of his expences, a charm that h [...]th a ſtrange power upon unexperienc'd Ladies, who meaſure the excellency of the ſoul, by the magnificence of a man's retinue and his cloaths. Wealth he had not much, but Gaming brought that, which was haply ſuperfluous with others, to further his Accommodations; and the advantages he made of it were ſo conſiderable, that he liv'd at as high a rate as the richeſt and moſt ſumptuous about the Court. I was ſo unhappy [Page] as to be thought worth his liking, and when, through my own vanity and his courtſhip, I was perſuaded that he was taken with ſomething in me, I thought my ſelf the happieſt woman of my quality in the world. I ſhould find it no ſmall difficulty to expreſs what artifices he had to force himſelf into a woman's affections, and anſwerably thereto what an exceſſive love I had for him. That Husband, whom not long before I thought ſo kind, ſo dear, and ſo worthy my reſpects, was grown, in my apprehenſion, as deſpicable, as odious. For Don-Lewis I had a greater averſion than ever; nothing pleas'd me but Andrado; I could love no man but him, and whereever I came and had not the ſight of him, I aſtoniſh'd all people with my diſtractions and diſquiets. Nor was Andrado's affection to me leſs violent. His predominant paſſion of Gaming gave way to that of his Love; his preſents gain'd my Women, his Letters and Sonnets took me infinitely, and the Muſick he was ſomewhat over-prodigal of, gave all the Husbands that liv'd in my ſtreet occaſion to be thinking. In fine, he charg'd me ſo home, or I made ſuch weak reſiſtance, that I was wholly at his devotion. I promis'd him all he could deſire, inſomuch that all the trouble we were at, was about the place and the time. My Husband was to make one at a Hunting-match, which was to have kept him in the Country for ſeveral days together. I ſent notice of it to my dear Portuguez, and we appointed the execution of our amorous deſigns to be the very night after my Husband's going out [Page] of Town. I was, at a certain hour agreed on between us, to leave the back-door of our Garden open, and, under pretence of paſſing away ſome part of the night there, by reaſon of the extraordinary heat, to ſet up a field-bed in a little wainſcot Bower, open of all ſides, and ſurrounded with Orang-trees and Jeſſemine. In fine, my Husband left Vailladolid in the morning: but from that to night ſeem'd to me the longeſt day of my life. Night came at laſt, and my Women having ſet up a bed in the Garden, I pretended before them an extraordinary ſleepineſs, ſo that as ſoon as they had undreſs'd me, I bid them go to their beds, one onely excepted who was privy to my deſign. I was hardly got into bed, and the maid that ſt [...]id with me, whoſe name was Marina, had but lock'd that door of the Garden which came from the houſe, and open'd the back-door; when my Women came in all haſte to tell me that my Husband was return'd. I had but ſo much time as to get that door lock'd, which I had caus'd to be open'd to let in Andrado. My Husband came to me with his ordinary careſſes, and I leave it to you to imagine how I entertain'd them. He told me the occaſion of his ſo ſudden return, was, that the Gentleman who had invited him to Hunting, had been thrown by his Horſe and broke a Leg; and having added to that an account of what elſe had happened that day, he commended my ingenuity in making choice of a place to avoid the inconveniencies of the heat, and would needs paſs away the night with me. He immediately put off his cloaths and [Page] came into bed to me. All I could do was to put on the beſt countenance I could, and to ſmother the trouble I was in at his return, and to aſſure him, by ſome forc'd careſſes of mine, that I was not inſenſible of his. Andrado, in the mean time, came according to the appointment, and finding that door lock'd which he ſhould have found open, he with the aſſiſtance of his Lacquey made a ſhift to get over the Garden wall, with hopes, notwithſtanding that obſtacle, to paſs away the night with me. He hath avow'd to me ſince, that his engaging himſelf in ſo preſumptuous and dangerous a deſign proceeded meerly from a motive of jealouſie, as being in a manner confident, that ſome Rival, more in my favour than himſelf, was admitted to thoſe enjoyments which he had been put into hopes of. The imagination he had, that haply I had put a trick upon him, put him into ſuch a fury, that he was fully reſolv'd to be eaven with me, in caſe what he ſuſpected ſhould prove true, and to exerciſe the greateſt revenge he could think of, upon the Gallant he ſhould find poſſeſs'd of the place he had promis'd himſelf. He made his approaches to the Bower where we were a-bed, with as little noiſe as he could. 'Twas a clear Moon-ſhine night, ſo that I both perceiv'd him coming in, and knew him. He ſaw I was frighten'd, and obſerv'd the ſigns I made to him to withdraw. He could not of a ſudden diſcern whether the perſon who lay by me was my Husband or ſome other; but perceiving in my countenance no leſs aſtoniſhment, than confuſion [Page] and ſhame, and finding upon the Table the Cloaths and Plume of Feathers, which he had ſeen my Husband in, that morning, he was ſatisfi'd it could be no other than Don Sancho who was a-bed with me, and further confirm'd in that belief, by finding him ſleeping more ſecurely than a Gallant could have done, had any been in his place. However he would needs come to that ſide of the bed which I lay on, and give me a kiſs, which I durſt not deny him for fear of awaking my Husband. He forbore putting me into any further fright, but went away, lifting up his eyes, ſhrinking up his ſhoulders, and doing ſuch actions as betrai'd the regret he conceiv'd at his being ſo unhappily diſappointed, and immediately got out of the Garden with the ſame facility as he had got into it.’

‘The next morning betimes, I receiv'd a Letter from him, the moſt paſſionate I had ever read, and an excellent Paper of Verſes upon the tyranny of Husbands. He had ſpent in compoſing them the remainder of the night after he had left me; and for the whole day after I had receiv'd them, I did nothing almoſt but read them over and over, when I could do it without any bodie's obſerving it; nay, ſo far were we either of us from reflecting on the danger we had been in, that our thoughts were buſi'd to contrive how we might run into the ſame hazard again. And for my part, though I had not of my ſelf been ſufficiently enclin'd to grant him any thing he deſir'd of me, nor lov'd Andrado ſo much as I did, or had [...]ot yielded my ſelf up to the charms of his Letters; yet could [Page] I not have withſtood the perſuaſions of my Woman, who perpetually ſollicited me on his behalf. She reproach'd me, that, ſince I had ſo little confidence, it argu'd I had but little Love for Andrado, and entertain'd me with ſtories of the paſſion he had for me, with no leſs earneſtneſs than if ſhe had been to repreſent to ſome Gallant of her own what ſhe her ſelf had for him. I underſtood by that carriage of hers, that ſhe was as perfect as needed in the part ſhe was to act, and withall of what importance it was to be careful in the choice of ſuch perſons as are plac'd about thoſe of my age and quality. But I had reſolv'd to ruine my ſelf; and if ſhe had been more virtuous than ſhe was, I ſhould not have truſted her ſo far. In fine, ſhe got me to conſent, that ſhe ſhould receive Andrado into a Wardrobe adjoining to my Chamber where ſhe lay alone: and we had ordered things ſo, as that as ſoon as my Husband were fallen aſleep, ſhe ſhould go into my bed to ſupply my plac [...], while I paſs'd away the night with Andrado. He was accordingly hid in my Wardrobe, my Husband fell aſleep, and I was preparing my ſelf to go to him, with the earneſtneſs uſual in perſons who are violent in their deſires, yet have much to fear; when a horrid confuſion of Voices dolefully crying out fire, fire, ſtruck my ear, and awakened my Husband; and immediately my Chamber was full of ſmoak, and looking towards the Window, me-thought the Air was all in a flame. A Negro wench that belong'd to the Kitchin had in her [Page] drink ſet the Houſe on fire, and being fallen aſleep it was not perceiv'd, till that, having made its way to ſome dry Wood, and thence faſtening on certain Stables, it began to break through the floor of my Lodging. My Husband was a Man very much belov'd. Of a ſudden, the Houſe was full of Neighbours, who came to do what good they could. My Brother-in-law, Don Lewis, whom the common danger made more diligent than any other, came immediately in to our aſſiſtance with all his people, and, animated by his paſſion, makes a ſhift to come to my Chamber, even through the flames: which had already taken hold of the Stair-caſe. He had made ſuch haſte that he had nothing about him but his Night-gown, which having wrapped me in, he took me up in his arms, rather dead than living; but more out of a reflection on the danger Andrado was expos'd to, than what I was in my ſelf; carried me to his own Houſe through the door that was common between us, and having put me into his own Bed, left me with ſome of my Women to keep me company. In the mean time, my Husband, with their aſſiſtance, who concern'd themſelves in the accident happened to us, order'd things ſo well, that the fire was extinguiſh'd after it had done much miſchif. Andrado found it no hard matter to make his eſcape amidſt the confuſion and thronging of thoſe who were come either to help us, or to ſteal; and you may imagine to your ſelf, how joyfully I receiv'd that good news from Marina. He writ to me the [Page] next day ſome things that were infinitely ingenious and handſome, upon the ſtrangeneſs of our diſappointment, which I anſwered as I could, and ſo we alleviated, by mutual Lette [...]s, the trouble we both equally conceiv'd, not to ſee one another.’

‘The miſchief which the fire had done, being in ſome meaſure repair'd, ſo that it was thought fit I ſhould remove from Don Lewis's Lodgings to my own; it prov'd no hard matter for Andrado to gain my conſent to try the ſame way once more, as being confident it would then have taken its effect, if by ſo extraordinary an accident it had not been prevented. But it ſo happen'd, that that very night wherein we had appointed to recover what ſuch unfore-ſeen emergencies had depriv'd us of, a Gentleman of my Husband's acquaintance, being in ſome trouble about a Duel he had been engag'd in, and thinking himſelf not ſafe at an Ambaſſadour's where he had taken refuge, was forc'd to bethink him of ſome place where he might be in leſs danger of falling into the hands of Juſtice. My Husband brought him ſecretly to our Houſe, and commanded the Keys to be carried up to his own Chamber after he had caus'd the doors to be lock'd in his preſence, for fear ſome treache [...]ous or careleſs Servant might prove the occaſion of his Friend's diſcovery.’

‘This order, whereat I was both ſurpriz'd and extreamly troubled, was but juſt put in execution, when Andrado gave the ſignal agreed [Page] on between him and Marina, to let her know he waited in the ſtreet for admiſſion. She, much at a loſs what to do with him, made a ſhift to ſignifie to him that he ſhould ſtay a little. We conſulted together, ſhe and I, and not finding any poſſibility to get him into the houſe at the door, ſhe went to the window, and ſpeaking as low as that he could but hear her, acquainted him with the new obſtacle that had interven'd, and propos'd it to him, as the beſt expedient ſhe could think on, to expect till all were a-bed, and then to get in at a little window in the Kitchin, which ſhe would open for him. Andrado, to ſatisfie his love, thought nothing too hazardous to attempt. My Husband ſaw his Friend a-bed, and upon my perſuaſion went in very good time to his own; all the Servants did the like, and Marina, when ſhe thought all out of the way, ſet open the little window for Andrado, who immediately got half way in; but with ſo little care, and ſo unfortunately to himſelf, that after much ſtriving, which rather hindred than furthered his getting in, he was ſo lock'd in about the middle between the Iron barrs of the window, that he could get neither forwards nor backwards. His man, who ſtood all the while in the Street, could do him no ſervice; Marina from the place ſhe ſtood in, as little, without the help of ſome other perſon. She went and got out of her Bed one of the Maids whom ſhe was very intimate with, telling her, that being to receive a kindneſs that night from a Sweetheart [Page] of hers, one ſhe loved very well, and was ſhortly to be married to, ſhe had endeavour'd to get him in at the Kitchin window, and that he had faſten'd himſelf between two Barrs ſo ſtrangely, that it was impoſſible to get him out without either filing them off, or removing them out of their places. She deſired her to come and help her, which the other was ſoon perſuaded to; but wanting a Hammer or ſome other Iron-tool fit for ſuch a purpoſe, the aſſiſtance of thoſe two maids had done Andrado but little good, if he had not himſelf bethought him of his Dagger, which they made uſe of ſo effectually, that, after abundance of pains, the barrs were got looſe out of the wall, and the bold adventurer put out of the fear he was in of being found ſo ſhamefully faſten'd in a place; where, to eſcape beſt, he could have been look'd on no otherwiſe than as a Breaker of Houſes. This could not be done with ſo little noiſe, but that ſome of our Servants over-heard it, and thereupon were looking into the ſtreet▪ when Andrado, carrying along with him that piece of the G [...]ate into which his Body had entred with ſome violence, was running away as faſt as he could, follow'd by his man. The Neighbours, and our people cry'd out, Thieves, and it was taken for granted, that it was only ſome Rogues that would have broken into Don Sancho's Houſe where they perceiv'd the Grate broken. Andrado in the mean time being come to his Lodging, was forc'd to get the Iron grate which he had carried away [Page] about him, filed off; he and his man, with all their ſtriving and endeavours, being not able otherwiſe to ſhift him of that troubleſome girdle.’

‘This third accident put him out of humour extremely, as I have underſtood ſince: but for my part, I entertain'd it otherwiſe, and while Marina, almoſt frighted out of her little wits, gave me the relation of it, I thought I ſhould have burſt with Laughing. Yet upon ſecond thoughts could I not be leſs troubled than Andrado was, at the ill ſucceſs of our enterpriſes: but ſo far were our deſires from being cool'd thereby, that they grew the more violent, and permitted us not to delay the ſatisfaction thereof, any longer than to the next day after this pleaſant and unhappy adventure. My Husband was gone into the City, to compoſe the affairs of his Friend about the Duel, and, in all likelihood, to have been employ'd the remainder of that day. I ſent Marina to Andrado's Lodging; which was not far from my Houſe. She found him a-bed, having not yet orecome the wearineſs of his night-adventure, and ſo diſcourag'd at the diſappointments of his love, that Marina was not a little troubled to ſee, with what indifference he entertain'd my furtherance of his deſires, and the little impatience he expreſs'd to come to me; though ſhe ſufficiently repreſented to him the opportunity which then preſented it ſelf, and was not to be ſlighted. At laſt, after much perſuaſion and many remonſtrances he came to me, and I received him with [Page] that exceſs of joy and ſatisfaction, a perſon abſolutely at the command of her paſſion could be guilty of. I was ſo blinded therewith, that I obſerv'd not ſo much as Marina with what coldneſs he took my kindneſſes, though it were but too too remarkable. At laſt the importunity of my careſſes forc'd from him ſome diſcoveries of his. Our mutual joy was grown to that heighth, as not to be expreſs'd otherwiſe than by our ſilence; and the very thought of what we both deſir'd with equal earneſtneſs, had rais'd in me a baſhfulneſs which made me avoid the looks of Andrado, and might have given him a confidence to do what he pleaſed with me, when Marina, who was gone out of the room, as well to ſtand Sentinel without, as to leave us to the privacy of our enjoyments, comes in with a ſudden alarm that my Husband was in the Houſe. She dragged Andrado, rather dead than living, into my wardrobe, as being, upon a ſudden reflection on the precedent dangers he had ſo narrowly eſcaped, at a greater loſs than I was who had moſt reaſon to be frighted. My Husband had ſome buſineſs to put his Servants upon, before he came up into my chamber. The time that took him up below afforded me the leiſure to put my ſelf into order, while Marina was buſied in emptying a great trunk to make a lodging for Andrado. She had hardly lock'd it by that time my Husband was come into my Chamber, who, having onely kiſſed me at his coming in, without making any ſtay with me, [Page] went ſtraight into my wardrobe, and lighting on a Play-book there, ſate down and fell a reading. He pitch'd upon ſome paſſage he thought pleaſant, and conſequently would have kept him reading a long time (for he was very Bookiſh) if, by the advice of Marina, I had not gone into the wardrobe, and, obliging him to lay aſide his Book, brought him thence into my own Chamber. My miſfo [...]tune was not an end with this; Don Sancho taking notice of my being melancholy and troubled in mind, as indeed I had reaſon to be, endeavour'd to put me into a better humour by the moſt divertive diſcourſes he could think on. He never made it ſo earneſtly his buſineſs to pleaſe me, and never diſpleas'd me more, nor was more burthenſome to me. I entreated him to leave my Chamber, pretending an extraordinary inclination to ſleep: but he, on the other ſide, out of an exceſſive deſire to ſee me out of the ſadneſs he thought me burthen'd with, kept me company, much againſt my will, longer than I could have wiſhed; and though he were naturally a perſon the moſt complaiſant of any in the Wo [...]ld, I thought him ſo importunate then, that I was forc'd to hunt him out of the room. He would, out of his kindneſs, have return'd into my wardrobe, that he might be near me, but, upon ſome private reaſon I gave him why it was not convenient, he was perſuaded to go to his Chamber. As ſoon as I had lock'd my door, I ran to my Wardrobe to deliver Andrado out of his cloſe impriſonment. Marina [Page] made all the haſte ſhe could to open the trunk, and was little better than dead, as well as my ſelf; when we found him in a manner breathleſs, not diſcovering either by pulſe or ſtirring any ſign, whence we might think he was alive. Do but imagine what a terrible loſs I muſt be at, and what I could bethink my ſelf to do in ſuch an extremity! I did as women do in ſuch occurences; I wept, I tore my hair, I grew deſperate, and I think I ſhould not have wanted courage enough to run Andrado's dagger into my breaſt, if the greatneſs of my affliction had not reduc'd me to ſuch weakneſs as that I was forc'd to lay my ſelf down on Marina's bed. She for her part, though troubled as much as any could be, had a greater command of her judgment in our common misfortune, and endeavour'd to find out thoſe remedies, which, weak as I was, I ſhould never have made uſe of, though I ſhould have kept ſo much diſcretion about me as to do it. She told me, that Andrado might onely be in a ſound, and that a Chyrurgeon, either by letting him bloud, or ſome other way, might recover him into the life he ſeem'd to have loſt. I look'd on her without making any anſwer, my grief having reduc'd me to ſenſeleſſneſs and ſtupidity. Marina loſt no more time in conſulting me any further; ſhe went to put in execution wha [...] ſhe had propos'd to me; but as ſhe open'd the doo [...] to get out, who ſhould meet her but my Brother-in-Law Don Lewis, coming, after he had look'd for me in my chamber, to the Wardrobe, [Page] where he concluded I muſt be, having been told by my husband that I was in no good humour. This ſecond misfortune we thought more terrible than the former. Had not Andrado's body been expos'd to his ſight, as it unhappily was, there needed no more than the confuſion and aſtoniſhment which he might have obſerv'd in our countenances, to raiſe in him a ſuſpition that we were upon ſome ſtrange deſign, which no doubt but he would have diſcover'd, as one that concern'd himſelf much in my actions, not onely as a Brother-in-law, but alſo as a Lover. Unavoidable therefore it was that I ſhould caſt my ſelf at the feet of a perſon, whom I had ſo often ſeen proſtrate at my own; and that, deriving a confidence from the affection he had for me, and that generoſity which ought to be inſeparable from the quality of a Gentleman, recommend to his abſolute diſpoſal what was deareſt to me. He did what he could to raiſe me up; but I, on the other ſide, reſolv'd not to ſtir off my knees, with all ſincerity, as well as my tears and ſobs would give me leave, gave him an account of the cruel accident that had befallen me, whereat I doubt not but in his ſoul he conceiv'd an extraordinary ſatisfaction. Don Lewis, ſaid I to him, I do not implore thy generoſity to prolong my life for ſome few days; no, my misfortunes render it ſo contemptible to me, that I ſhould not want the courage to be my executioner, did I not fear my deſpair would caſt ſome blemiſh on my honour, from which that of [Page] Don Sancho, nay indeed, his life, are haply inſeparable. Thou maiſt haply think the diſdain [...] I have had for thee, were the effects of my averſion rather than my vertue; thou mai'ſt rejoice at my diſgrace, nay haply make it contribute to thy revenge: but wilt thou have the preſumption to impute the crime to me which thou wouldſt have taught me, or wilt thou be ſo ungrateful as not to expreſs ſome indulgence towards one that hath had ſo much for thee? Don Lewis not ſuffering me to proceed any further, You ſee, Madam ſaid he to me, how juſt Heaven is in puniſhing you, for having been ſo indiſcreet in the choice of what you ſhould have lov'd and what you ought to hate: but I have nothing to loſe, as being to make it appear, by my freeing you out of the preſent trouble you are in, that you have not a better friend in the world than Don Lewis. He thereupon left me, and returns preſently again, with two Porters, whom he had ſent one of his ſervants for. Marina and I in the interim had made a ſhift to get Andrado's body into the Trunk again: Don Lewis himſelf help'd the two fellows to get it on their ſhoulders between them, and caus'd it to be carried to a friend of his, whom he acquainted with the adventure, having already made him privy to the love he had for me.’

‘Having, as ſoon it was brought in, taken Andrado's body out of the Trunk, Don Lewis caus'd it to be laid all along upon a Table, and [Page] as they were pulling off his cloaths, feeling his pulſe, and laying his hand upon that part of the body where the beating of the heart is felt, he found him to be not quite dead. With all expedition a Chirurgeon was ſent for, while in the mean time they put him into bed, and us'd all the means they could think on to bring him to life. At laſt, he came to himſelf; he was let bloud; a Lacquey was left to wait on him; and the room was clear'd, that ſo nature and reſt might perfect what art and induſtry had begun.’

‘You may well imagine what aſtoniſhment Andrado was in, when, after this long Trance, he found himſelf in a bed, not able to call any thing to mind but the fear he had been in, and that he had been put into a Trunk, not knowing where he was, nor what he had either to hope or fear. He was in this terrible diſtraction when he heard the chamber door open, and after the curtains were drawn, by the light of the torches that had been brought in, perceiv'd Don Lewis, whom he knew to be my Brother-in-law, and who having taken a chair ſpoke to him in theſe tearms: Do you know me, Signior Andrado, ſaid he to him? And do you not withal know I am Brother [...]o Don Sancho? I do indeed know you, repli'd Andrado, and withal to be Brother to Don Sa [...]cho. And have you any remembrance, ſays Don Lewis, of what happen'd to you this day at his houſe? But whether you do or no continu'd he, aſſure your ſelf, that if ever I hea [...], [Page] of any further deſigns you have upon my Siſter, or are ſo much as ſeen in the ſtreet where ſhe lives, I ſhall be indebted to you a miſchief, and will be ſure to pay it, notwithſtanding all your caution; and know, you had been ere this among your acquaintances in the other World, had I not too much pity and compliance for an impudent and unfortunate woman, who hath repos'd this confidence in me; and were not aſſured, that the criminal deſigns you have laid together againſt my Brother's honour, had not their effect. I adviſe you therefore to change your lodging, and flatter not your ſelf with any hope you can elude my reſentment, if you perform not the promiſe I expect you ſhould make me to do it. Andrado would gladly have engag'd himſelf to much more. He made the moſt unworthy ſubmiſſions to him he could think on, and acknowledged he ought him a life which it was in his power to have taken away from him. His weakneſs was ſuch as might well confine him to his bed; but the cruel fear he had been in, ſtrengthned him to get up. He thereupon conceiv'd an averſion for me, greater than the love he had ſometimes born me, inſomuch, that it was a horrour to him but to hear me nam'd. I was in the mean time in no ſmall trouble, to know what was become of him, yet had not the confidence to make any enquiry after him of Don Lewis, nor indeed to look with any aſſurance upon him. I ſent Marina to Andrado's lodging, whither ſhe came, not long [Page] after he had got thither himſelf, and while he was packing up his things to be gone to a lodging he had taken in another quarter of the City. As ſoon as ever he ſaw her, he told her that if ſhe had any meſſage from me, ſhe might carry it to ſome body elſe, and having given her a ſhort account of what had paſs'd between him and Don Lewis, he clos'd his relation with this character of me, that I was the moſt ungrateful, and moſt perfidious woman in the world; that he look'd on me no otherwiſe than as one that had plotted his ruine, and that I ſhould no more think of him, than as if I had never ſeen him.’

‘With theſe words he diſmiſs'd Marina; but notwithſtanding the aſtoniſhment ſhe was in at ſuch a ſharp entertainment, ſhe had the wit to follow him at a diſtance, and to obſerve the place where his things were carried, and by that means diſcover'd the new lodging he had taken. The trouble it was to me to be charg'd with an act of malice I was no way guilty of, and to be hated by a perſon I lov'd ſo well, and for whoſe ſake I had hazarded my life and my honour, ſuffer'd me not to give way to all the joy which I ſhould have conceiv'd at his being out of danger. I fell into a deep melancholy, which ſoon turned to a ſickneſs, and that being ſuch as the Phyſicians could not well give any account of, my husband was extremely troubled thereat. To heighten my misfortune, Don Lewis began to preſs, and make his advantages of the [Page] extraordinary ſervice he had done me, inceſſantly importuning me to grant him that which I was content Andrado ſhould have had, and reproching me with the love I had for my Gallant, when ever I repreſented to him the duty I ought a Husband, and what he ought a Brother. Thus, hated by what I lov'd, lov'd by what I hated; depriv'd of the ſight of Andrado, too often troubled with that of Don Lewis, and tormented with perpetual reflections on my ingratitude to the beſt Husband in the world, who thought nothing too much to pleaſe me, and was more troubled at my indiſpoſition than I was my ſelf, when, had he known the truth, he might juſtly have taken away my life; inceſſantly baited with the inſupportable remonſtrances of my conſcience, and rack'd between the two moſt contrary paſſions, Love and Hatred; I kept my bed for two months, expecting death with gladneſs: but it was Heaven's pleaſure to reſerve me to greater misfortunes. The ſtrength of my age, much againſt my will, overcame and diſpell'd the ſadneſs which I thought onely death could have put a period to. I recover'd my health, and Don Lewis renew'd his proſecutions with greater inſolence than before. I had given my women order, and particularly Marina, that they ſhould never leave me alone with him. Being enrag'd at that obſtacle, and wearied out with my perpetual reſiſtances, he reſolv'd to obtain, by the moſt horrid piece of treachery, that ever came into the mind of a perſon conſummately [Page] wicked, what I had deni'd him with ſo much conſtancy.’

‘I have already told you that between his houſe and ours there was a door, ſeldom lock'd of either ſide. Having ſet a night wherein he though: to put his damnable deſign in execution, and ſtaying till all, as well at our houſe as his, were abed, he comes in at the door; open'd that of our houſe which was to the ſtreet, and going to our ſtable let looſe all the horſes, whereof there was a conſiderable number, and drove them into the court, whence they got into the ſtreet. The noiſe they made ſoon awaken'd thoſe who had the care of them, and their buſtling about the houſe awakened my husband. He was a great lover of Horſes; and had no ſooner heard that his own were gotten into the ſtreets, but putting on his night-gown, he runs out after them, very much incens'd at his Grooms, and the Porter, for being ſo careleſs as not to make faſt the great gate. Don Lewis, who had hid himſelf in the room next my chamber, and had ſeen my husband when he went out, ſlipp'd down into the court ſome time after him, and having made faſt the ſtreet door, and expected ſome little while to avoid my ſuſpition had he come immediately upon me, he came at laſt and laid himſelf down by me, acting the part of my husband in every thing ſo well, that it is not much to be wondred at, if I were miſtaken in him. His ſtanding ſo long in his ſh [...]rt, had made him very cold; ſo that as he came into bed: Good Lord, [Page] ſweet-heart, ſaid I to him, how cold you are! How can I be otherwiſe, repli'd he, counterfeiting his voice; 'tis cold ſtanding in the ſtreets. And for your horſes, ſaid I, are they taken? My people are gone after them, repli'd he. And thereupon coming cloſe to me, as it were to warm himſelf; amidſt his embraces and kindneſſes, he had his deſign upon me, and diſhonor'd his Brother. That Heaven was pleas'd to permit it, might haply be, that I ſhould be a future inſtrument to puniſh ſo enormous a crime, that my honour might be re-eſtabliſh'd by my ſelf, and my innocence publickly acknowledg'd.’

‘Having [...]one what he came for, he pretended to be much troubled about his horſes; he got up from me, went and open'd the ſtreet door, and with-drew to his own lodgings: not a little elevated at the crime he had committed, and hugging himſelf haply in the reflection of what was to prove the occaſion of his ruine. My husband comes in preſently after, and having caſt himſelf into bed, turn'd to me, frozen as he was, and oblig'd me by careſſes, which I thought extraordinary, to beg of him, that he would let me ſleep. He thought it very ſtrange; I wondred much he ſhould; and thereupon made no further doubt of my being betrai'd. The very thought of it would not ſuffer me to cloſe my eyes till it was day. I got up much earlier than I was us'd to do. I went to Maſs, and there met with Don Lewis dreſs'd as if he had been for ſome extraordinary entertainment, with a countenance as [Page] chearful as mine was ſad and dejected. He preſented me with holy Water; I receiv'd it with much indifference at his hands, which he obſerving, and looking on me with a malicious ſmile: Good Lord, Madam, ſaid he, how cold you are? At theſe words, being the ſame I had ſaid to him, and enough to ſatisfie me who was the Author of my misfortune, I grew pale, and immediately bluſh'd, upon thought that I had grown pale. He might have obſerv'd in my eyes, and by the diſorder into which thoſe words had put me, how highly I was offended at his inſolence. I went away without ſo much as looking on him. What diſtractions I was in all Maſs-time, you may eaſily imagine; as alſo how infinitely my husband muſt needs be troubled, when he obſerv'd that all dinner time, and all day after, I minded not what was ſaid or done, and could not forbear ſighing and diſcovering the diſturbance of my mind, though I endeavoured all I could to ſmother it. I withdrew to my chamber ſooner than I was us'd to do, pretending to be ſomewhat indiſpos'd. I bethought my ſelf of a hundred ſeveral ways to be reveng'd; but at laſt my fury ſuggeſted one to me which I fix'd upon. When bed-time was come I went to bed at the ſame time with my Husband. I pretended to be aſleep, to oblige him to do the like; and finding him faſt enough, and confident all the ſervants were no leſs, I got up, took his dagger, and (beſotted and blinded as I was by my paſſion) it prov'd nevertheleſs ſo ſure [Page] a guide to me, that through the ſame door, and by the ſame way that my enemy got into my bed; I got to the ſide of his. My fury, though violent, made me not do any thing precipitately; with the hand I had free I felt for his heart, and when by the beating thereof I had diſcover'd it, the fear of miſſing my blow made not that hand to tremble which held the Dagger; but, with all the circumſpection imaginable, I thruſt it twice into the heart of the deteſtable Don Lewis, and ſo puniſh'd him with a gentler death than he had deſerv'd. And doubting thoſe two might not do my work, I gave him five or ſix ſtabs more, and ſo return'd to my chamber, with a tranquillity; whence I inferr'd my ſelf, that I had never done any thing, from the doing whereof I ſhould derive greater ſatisfaction. I return'd my husband's Dagger, all bloudy as it was, into the ſheath; I put on my cloaths with as much haſte and as little noiſe as I could: I took along with me what Jewels and Mony I had: and, no leſs diſtracted by my love than troubled at what I had done, I left a husband who lov'd me beyond his own life, to caſt my ſelf upon the courteſie of a young man, who not long before had ſent me word that he had not the leaſt reſpect for me. The fearfulneſs incident to my ſex, was ſo ſtrangely fortifi'd by the impetuous paſſions I was hurried withal: that, all alone, and in the night time, I walked from my own houſe to Andrado's lodgings, with as much confidence, as if I had done a good action, [Page] at noon day. I knock'd at the door, and was anſwered, that Andrado was not within, being engag'd at a Play at a friend's not far off▪ His ſervants who knew me, and were not a little ſurpriz'd to ſee me, entertain'd me with much reſpect, and got me a fire in their Maſter's chamber. It was not long ere he came in himſelf, and I believe it was the leaſt of his thoughts to find me waiting for him in his chamber. He no ſooner caſt his eye on me, but betraying his aſtoniſhment in the wildneſs of his looks: Madam Eugenia, ſaith he, what buſineſs hath brought you hither? What can you expect more from a perſon, you would have ſacrific'd to the jealouſie of a Brother-in-law you are deſperately in love with? Ah Andrado! repli'd I, do you make that conſtruction of an unavoidable accident, which forc'd me to make ſubmiſſions to that man whom of all the world I was moſt afraid of being oblig'd to? And ſhould you paſs ſo diſadvantageous a judgment on a perſon that hath given you ſuch extraordinary demonſtrations of her affection? I expected ſomething elſe than reproaches at your hands. If I am guilty of any crime, it is not againſt you that I have committed it, but againſt a Husband that ſhould have been dear to me; proving ungrateful to him becauſe I would not be ſo to you, and forſaking him to come to a cruel man whoſe entertainment of me is as unworthy as my kindneſſes to him are great. When your death, which I thought really ſo, had put me into that [Page] deſpair, wherein a woman, perpetually expecting the minute of being ſurpriz'd by her husband, might be; and when thereupon Don Lewis came upon me in that deplorable condition, what could I do leſs than truſt my ſelf to his generoſity and the love he had for me? He hath treacherouſly made his advantages of the confidence, to the loſs of my honour; but 'tis my ſatisfaction, that he hath bought his enjoyments with the price of his life, which I have now taken away from him; and that, my dear Andrado, is the occaſion of my coming hither. I muſt keep out of the hands of Juſtice, till ſuch time as it be known, what crime Don Lewis is guilty of, and what misfortune hath befallen me. I have mony and Jewels good ſtore, upon which you may live handſomely in any part of Spain, whither you ſhall think fit to accompany my misfortune; while Time ſhall make all the world ſenſible, that I am much more to be pitied than blam'd, and my future carriage ſatisfie you in particular, that it was not without reaſon I did what I have done. Very likely, interrupted he, you have great Apologies to make for your ſelf, and I ſhall ſupply the place of Don Lewis, till thou art weary of me, and then be kill'd, as he was, to make way for another. Ah Woman inſatiably luſtful! continu'd he: What could I expect more than this laſt wickedneſs of thine to be confirm'd in the perſuaſion I had, that it was thy deſign to ſacrifice me to thy Gallant? But thou muſt not think to eſcape with bare reproaches; no, I will [Page] rather be the Executioner to puniſh thy crime, than be thy Complice in it.’

With thoſe words he violently tore off my cloaths, and, with a cruelty, which rais'd horrour even in his own ſervants, gave me a hundred blows, naked as I was, and having ſatiated his rage, till that he was grown weary, he thruſt me out into the ſtreet, where if you had not fortunately lighted upon me, I ſhould either have been dead, or in their hands who haply are ſearching after me.

Having given over ſpeaking, ſhe ſhew'd Don Garcias her arms all black and blew, as alſo her breaſt, and what other parts of her body civility permitted her to diſcover, which were in the ſame condition. Whereupon re-aſſuming her diſcourſe: ‘Thus have you heard, generous Don Garcias, ſaid ſhe to him, the deplorable Hiſtory of the unfortunate Eugenia. Let me beg your advice; if ſo there be any for an inexpreſſibly-unhappy woman, that hath been the occaſion of ſo many fatal accidents. Ah Ma [...]am, replies Don Garcias, were it but as eaſie for me to adviſe you what is to be done, as it will be to puniſh. Andrado, if you give me leave! Deny me not the honour to be the Revenger of your quarrel; and be not ſhie in employing upon any deſign you would have to be undertaken, a perſon who is no leſs ſenſible of your misfortune, than of the injury hath been done you.’

Don Garcias ſaid this to her, with an earneſtneſs, which ſatisfi'd Eugenia, that the Compaſſion was not ſo great as the Love he ſeem'd to have for [Page] her. She made the moſt obliging acknowledgements of his kindneſſes which her civility and gratitude could inſpire her with: and further intreated him to take the pains to go once more to her houſe to be more particularly inform'd of what was ſaid concerning her departure and the death of Don Lewis.

He got thither, as they were carrying to priſon Don Sancho, his ſervants, and thoſe of Don Lewis, who had taken their oaths that their Maſter had been in love with Eugenia. The common door, which was found open, and Don Sancho's dagger ſtill bloudy, gave much ſuſpition of his being guilty of his brother's death, whereof he was no leſs innocent than troubled at it. The ſudden departure of his wife, and her taking away her Jewels and mony, put him into ſuch an amazement, as out of which he could not recover himſelf, and troubled him more than his impriſonment and the proceedings of Juſtice againſt him. Don Garcias was in much impatience to give Eugenia an account of theſe things: but it ſo happened he could not do it ſo ſoon as he wiſh'd. Meeting in the ſtreet with a friend who had ſome buſineſs with him, he kept him a good while in diſcourſe not far from his own lodging: and, as unlucky fortune would have it, over againſt that of Andrado, whence he ſaw coming out a ſervant, booted, carrying a Portmantue. He follow'd him at a diſtance accompani'd by his friend; and having obſerv'd his going to the Poſt-houſe, he went in after him, and found him taking up three horſes, to be made ready within half an hour. Don Garcias ſuffer'd him to go [Page] his ways, and beſpoke the ſame number of horſes to be ready at the ſame time. His friend ask'd him what he meant to do with them? he promis'd to tell him if he would go along with him: whereto the other conſented, without troubling himſelf any further what his deſign might be. Don Garcias entreated him to go and put on his Boots, and expect him at the Poſt-houſe, while he took a turn to his lodging.

They thereupon parted, and Don Garcias went to Eugenia, to acquaint her with what he knew of her affairs, and to give his Landlady, a woman that might ſafely be truſted with a ſecret of that importance, order to get Eugenia cloaths and all things neceſſary, that ſhe might be convey'd that very night into a Convent, whereof the Abbeſs was her kinſwoman and very much her friend. Having ſo done, he whiſper'd his Lacquey in the ear, and bid him carry to that friend's lodging whom he a little before parted with, his riding ſuit and boots: and having entreated his Landlady to be very careful of Eugenia, and to keep her from the ſight of all people, he went to his friend, and ſoon after along with him to the Poſt-houſe, where they had not been long ere Andrado came alſo. Don Garcias ask'd him which way he travell'd? he made anſwer, to Sevil. Then one Poſt-boy will ſerve us both, ſays Don Garcias to him. Andrado was content, and haply look'd on Don Garcias and his friend, no otherwiſe th [...]n as two ſimple Cullies, whoſe mony he thought ſo far due to him, as that he would not have given much to enſure it. They [Page] left Vailladolid all together, and ro [...]e on a good while not thinking of any thing but riding, there being indeed but little converſation between people that ride Poſt. At laſt coming into a Champian far from any Houſes, Don Garcias thought it a place fit for his Deſign. He rid a little before, and turning about of a ſudden, he bid Andrado ſtand. Andrado asked him his meaning. ‘My intentions are, replied Don Garcias, to fight with you, to revenge, if I can, the quarrel of Eugenia, whom you have injur'd beyond all hope of forgiveneſs, in treating her after the baſeſt and moſt unworthy manner, that could poſſibly fall into the imagination of a perſon of quality. I am not ſorry for what I have done, replies Andrado with much confidence, not ſeeming to be in the least ſurpriz'd at the accident; but you may haply repent your forwardneſs to do what you are now engag'd in.’ He was a perſon that had Valour; he alighted at the ſame time with Don Garcias, there having no more words paſs'd between them; and they had their Swords ready to fall on: when Don Garcias's Friend tells them, they ſhould not fight without him, and profer'd to meaſure his Weapon with Andrado's man, who was a fellow whom his countenance and proportion would not have betray'd for a Coward. Andrado proteſted, that though he had to his Second the greateſt Gladiator in all Spain, he would not fight otherwiſe than ſingly one to one. His man not much minding the proteſtation of his Maſter, proteſted for his own part, that he would not fight [Page] with any man upon any tearms at all. So that Don Garcia's Friend was forc'd to be onely a Spectator, or God-father to the Combatants, which is no new thing in Spain. The Duel laſted not long: Heaven was pleas'd to favour the juſt Cauſe Don Garcias was engag'd in, ſo far, as that his Adverſary making at him with greater violence than skill, run upon his Weapon, and fell at his feet with loſs of blood and life. Andrado's man, and the Poſt-boy, as fearful one as the other, caſt themſelves at Don Garcias's feet, who intended them not any hurt. He commanded Andrado's man to open the Portmantue, and to take out of it all his Maſter had taken from Eugenia. He immediately obey'd, and deliver'd to Don Garcias, a Mantle, a Gown, and Coat, all very rich, and a little Cabinet, whereof, the weight diſcover'd it was not empty. The fellow found the Key of it in his Maſter's Pocket, and gave it Don Garcias, who thereupon diſmiſſing him, told him he might diſpoſe of his Maſter's body as he pleas'd, and threatened he would be the death of him, if ever he were ſeen at Vailladolid. He commanded the Poſt-boy not to come into the City till after night, and promis'd him he ſhould find at the Poſt-houſe the two Horſes he and his Friend had taken up. I am apt to believe he was punctually obey'd by theſe two perſons: who thought themſelves very much oblig'd to him, that he had not kill'd them as he had done Andrado. It was never heard what his man did with his body; and for his cloaths, and what elſe he had, there is but too much probability, [Page] he became Maſter thereof. Nor was it ever known how the Poſt-boy behav'd himſelf in the buſineſs.

Don Garcias and his Friend made all the ſpeed they could to Vailladolid. They alighted at an Embaſſadours of the Emperour, where they had Friends, and continued there till after night. Don Garcias ſent for his man, who told him that Eugenia was much troubled ſhe could not ſee him. The Horſes were ſent to the Poſt-houſe by an unknown perſon, who having deliver'd them to one that belong'd to the Stable, immediately ſlunk away. There was no more talk in Vailladolid of the death of Andr [...]do than as of a thing which it was uncertain whether it were ſo or not; or if any ſpoke of him, 'twas onely as of a Gentleman kill'd by ſome ſecret Enemy, or by High-way-men. Don Garcias went to his Lodging, where he found Eugenia put into ſuch cloaths as his Landlady had provided for her; ſuch I believe as were taken up at the Brokers; for in Spain perſons of very good quality think it no diſparagement to take up cloaths, and to furniſh their Houſes that way, no more than other people of leſs account. He ſecretly return'd Eugenia her own Cloaths and Jewels, and gave her an account after what manner he was reveng'd of Andrado. The Relation he made to her wrought in her a compaſſion for the unfortunate end of a perſon whom ſhe had dearly lov'd; and, the thought of her being the occaſion of ſo many Tragical accidents, cauſing in her no leſs affliction than the remembrance of her own misfortunes, [Page] ſhe fell a weeping as bitterly as at any time before.

But what added not a little to her affliction, was, that Proclamation had been made that day all over Vailladolid, prohibiting all perſons to entertain Eugenia, and that whoever brought tidings of her ſhould have two hundred Crowns. This made her reſolve to get into a Convent ſo ſoon as ſhe could. She paſs'd away that night in Don Garcia's Chamber with as little tranquillity as the precedent. The next morning at break of day he went to that Superiour of the Covenant, who was a Kinſwoman of Eugenia's: who, notwithſtanding the Proclamation, promis'd to receive her, and to keep her undiſcover'd as much as lay in her power. Having left her, he went and took up a Coach, and order'd it to wait for him at a place not much frequented near his Lodging, whither he conducted Eugenia, accompanied by his Landlady. The Coach brought them to a place they had appointed the Coach-man to ſtop at, where they alighted, that he might have no knowledge of the Convent, whither Eugenia was to retire. She was kindly entertain'd by the Kinſwoman; Don Garcias's Landlady took leave of her, and went to inform her ſelf what poſture the affairs of Don Sancho were in. She underſtood it went hard with him, and that there was ſome talk of putting him to the Rack. Don Garcias gave an account of all paſſages to Eugenia, who was ſo troubled to ſee her Husband in danger to ſuffer for a crime he had not committed, that ſhe took a reſolution to caſt [Page] her ſelf into the hands of Juſtice. Don Garcias perſuaded her to forbear a while, and advis'd her rather to write to the Judge, to acquaint him that ſhe onely could give an account of the murther of Don Lewis. The Judge, by good fortune chanc'd to be of ſome Kin to her, came to ſpeak with her, together with others that were to be his Aſſiſtants in the trial of Don Sancho. Eugenia confeſs'd that ſhe had kill'd Don Lewis: gave them a particular relation of the juſt motive ſhe had to engage her ſelf in an action that ſeem'd ſo violent in a Woman, omitting nothing of what had paſs'd between Don Lewis and her ſelf; what concern'd the love of Andrado, onely excepted. Her confeſſion was written down, and a report thereof was made to his Catholick Majeſty; who, taking into conſideration the greatneſs of Don Lewis's crime, the juſt reſentment of Eugenia, her courage and procedure thereupon, the innocence of Don Sancho and his Servants, ſet them at liberty; and, upon the intreaties of the whole Court mediating on her behalf, granted Eugenia her pardon. Her Husband was not diſpleas'd at her for the death of his Brother, and, it may be, lov'd her the better for what ſhe had done. He went to ſee her as ſoon as he got out of Priſon, and us'd all the entreaties and perſuaſions he could to get her home again; but all prov'd ineffectual. She doubted not but that he had conceiv'd ſuch a reſentment for the death of Don Lewis as he ought to have done; that he had made ſome diſcoveries of what had paſt between her and the Portugueze; and thence concluded, [Page] that the leaſt ſuſpition a Woman gives in point of honour may ſoon be heightened into a jealouſie in the apprehenſions of a Husband, and will ſooner or later diſſolve the ſtricteſt ties of conjugal Love.

While things ſtood thus, poor Don Sancho viſited her often: and, by the tendereſt demonſtrations of an exceſſive Love, endeavour'd to get her out of the Convent, to be once more the abſolute Miſtreſs of his eſtate and himſelf. But ſhe on the other ſide continu'd conſtant to her reſolution. She got him to allow her a Penſion proportionable to her quality, and the fortune ſhe brought; and, abating onely her obſtinacy in denying to live with him, ſhe behav'd her ſelf ſo obl [...]gingly towards that kind Husband, that he had all the reaſon in the world to be ſatisfi'd with her.

But all ſhe did in the Convent to pleaſe and humour him, heightned the regret he conceiv'd that he could not get her thence. He at laſt took it ſo much to heart that it brought him into a Sickneſs, and that ſickneſs prov'd ſuch, as more than threatened the ſhortning of his days. He ſent to Eugenia, begging the ſatisfaction to ſee her once at his Houſe before he took his final leave of her. She could not deny that fatal kindneſs to a Husband that had been ſo dear to her, and whoſe affection towards her was then no leſs violent than it had ever been. She went to ſee him expire, and had almoſt, out of very grief, died with him, ſeeing him diſcover no leſs ſatisfaction that he had had but a ſight of her, than if ſhe had reſtor'd him [Page] the Life he was upon the point to quit: Nor did this goodneſs of Eugenia go unrewarded; he left her his whole Eſtate, and conſequently, one of the moſt beautiful and richeſt Widdows in Spain, after her ſo near being one of the moſt unfortunate Women in the World. The affliction ſhe conceiv'd at the death of her Husband, was great, and not perſonated: She gave order for his Funeral Solemnities, poſſeſs'd her ſelf of his Eſtate, and return'd to her Convent, reſolv'd to ſpend the remainder of her Life there. Her Friends propos'd to her the beſt matches in all Spain: She preferr'd her own quiet before their ambition, and troubled no leſs at their importunate remonſtrances than perſecuted with the addreſſes of no ſmall number of Pretenders, which her Beauty and Wealth drew daily to the outer-room of the Convent where ſhe was; She at laſt would not be ſeen, nor ſpeak with any but Don Garcias. This young Gentleman had done her ſo ſeaſonable a ſervice, in an emergency ſo important, and with ſuch earneſtneſs, that ſhe could not ſee him, without bethinking her ſelf, that ſhe ought him ſomewhat beyond civilities and acknowledgements. She had obſerv'd by his Retinue and Equipage, that he was not rich, and ſhe was generous enough to proffer him the aſſiſtances which a neceſſitous perſon may without ſhame receive from another that is more wealthy: but in that ſmall time ſhe had ſpent in his Lodging, and by the frequent diſcourſes he had with her, he had diſcovered a Noble ſoul elevated above the common, and abſolutely diſ-engag'd from all [Page] manner of Intereſts, thoſe only of honour excepted. This rais'd a fear in her he might take it unkindly, if ſhe made him a Preſent not ſuitable to the greatneſs of her eſtate and mind; and ſhe was afraid, on the other ſide, he ſhould think her wanting in point of gratitude, if ſhe made not ſome diſcoveries of her liberality.

But if her thoughts were in this diſtraction for Don Garcias, his were in no leſs, as to what concern'd her. He was inſenſibly fallen in love with her; but though the reſpect he had for her, and the lowneſs of his Fortunes ſhould not have deterr'd him from making any ſuch propoſal; what preſumption would it have been in him to ſpeak of love to a Woman, whom onely Love had expos'd to ſo great misfortunes? and that while the ſadneſs of her countenance, and her frequent weeping, argu'd her ſoul too full of grief to be capable of any other paſſion.

Among thoſe who viſited Eugenia, as her moſt humble Slaves, with deſign to become afterwards her Maſters, and thoſe not eaſie to pleaſe, among thoſe, I mean, who made their addreſſes to her, and whom ſhe ſhook off with abſolute denial, one Don Diego was remarkable for his obſtinacy, as having not any thing elſe in him worth notice. He was as arrant a Coxcomb, as it was poſſible a young man could be; and, what is conſequent to that, fantaſtick, and, what to that, inſufferably humourſome. Beſides all this, the imperfections of his body were ſuitable to thoſe of his mind; and as to the goods of fortune, he was as poor, as [Page] greedy of them: but deſcending out of one of the beſt Houſes in Spain, and being of near Kin to one of the principal Miniſters of State, which onely made him ſo much the more inſolent, there was a certain compliance had for him where ever he came, upon the account of his quality, though it had not the leaſt recommendation of any thing of worth.

This ſame Don Diego, ſuch as I have deſcribed him, thought he had found in Eugenia, all he could have wiſhed in a Wife, and imagin'd it no hard matter to obtain her, by the aſſiſtances of his Friends at Court, whoſe encouragements put him into great hopes of it. But Eugenia was not ſo eaſily perſuaded to a buſineſs of that importance, as they had flattered themſelves ſhe would have been, and the Court would not, to favour a private perſon, do a violence that ſhould be of ill example to the publick. Eugenia's retiring into a Convent, her reſolution to continue there, her avoiding of all viſits, and the backwardneſs of thoſe who had encourag'd Don Diego in his applications to her, blaſted the hopes he had conceiv'd of obtaining her without trouble. He therefore reſolv'd to force the Convent, and to carry her away, an attempt the moſt highly criminal in Spain, and ſuch as wherein onely an extravagant fool, ſuch as he was, would engage himſelf in. He found, for money, people as mad as himſelf; he gave order for the laying of Horſes at ſeveral places, between Vailladolid and a certain Sea-port, where a Veſſel was to expect him ready to ſet Sail. [Page] He forc'd the Convent; carried away Eugenia; and that unfortunate Lady was to become the prey of the moſt worthleſs perſon in the World, if Heaven had not ſtrangely reliev'd her, when ſhe l [...]aſt look'd for it. One ſingle perſon, who, upon the cries of Eugenia, met the Raviſhers, forc'd them to a ſudden halt, and charg'd with ſo much valour, that, upon the firſt meeting, he wounded Don Diego and divers of his Complices, and kept them in [...]otion till the Citizens making head, and ſeconded by the Officers of publick Juſtice, had reduc'd Don Diego and his party to thoſe extremities, that they muſt either be kill'd or taken.

Thus was Eugenia reſcu'd; but before ſhe would be conducted back to her Convent, ſhe would needs know who that gallant Perſon was, who had ſo generouſly expos'd his Life to ſerve her. He was found, wounded in ſeveral places, and, through loſs of abundance of blood, in a manner Dead. Eugenia deſir'd to ſee him, and had no ſooner caſt her eyes on his countenance, but ſhe knew him to be Don Garcias. Her compaſſion was great as her aſtoniſhment, and ſhe made ſuch paſſionate diſcoveries thereof as might have been interpreted to her diſadvantage, if there had not been otherwiſe a juſt ground of her affliction. She prevail'd ſo far, with much intreaty, as that they would n [...] carry to Priſon her generous Reliever, whom Don Diego expiring, and his complices, acknowledg'd not to be of their party, but the perſon who had oppos'd their deſign. He was carried to the next Houſe, which by good fortune happen'd [Page] to be that which had ſome time been Don Sancho's was now Eugenia's, and where ſhe had left all her Houſhold-ſtuff and ſome Servants. He was recommended to the care of the beſt Surgeons of both Court and City. Eugenia return'd into the Convent, and the next day was forc'd to leave it; and come to her own Houſe, upon the publiſhing of a Proclamation, that no ſecular perſons ſhould be entertain'd into Nunneries. The next day Don Diego dyes, and his Friends had much ado to hinder a Trial to paſs upon him, though Dead▪ but his Complices were puniſh'd according to their deſerts. Eugenia in the mean time was almoſt out of her ſelf to ſee ſo little hopes of Don Garcias's recovery; ſhe implor'd the aſſiſtances of Heaven; She profer'd the Surgeons to reward them beyond what they would have ask'd her; but their Art was at a loſs, and all their hope was in God and the Youthful conſtitution of the ſick perſon. Eugenia ſtirr'd not from his Bed-ſide, and her attendances on him day and night were ſo aſſiduous, that they might at laſt have reduc'd her to a neceſſity of having others beſides her ſelf. She often heard him pronounce her name in the tranſportations of his Feaver, and among things incoherent, which his diſtracted imagination made him ſpeak, he was often heard talking of Love, and diſcourſing with himſelf, as one that were fighting or quarrelling. At laſt, Nature, fortifi'd by remedies, overcame the violence of his diſeaſe; his Feaver remitted; his wounds appeared in a better condition; and the Surgeons aſ [...]r'd [Page] Eugenia of his recovery, provided no other accident happen'd to him. She made them very great preſents, and cauſed him to be pray'd for, in all the Churches of Vailladolid. Then was it that Don Garcias underſtood from Eugenia, that it was ſhe whom he had reſcu'd, and ſhe was told by him how it came to paſs, that he happened to relieve her ſo ſeaſonably, being upon his return into the City after he had been to ſee a friend of his out of Town. She could not, even in his preſence, forbear acknowledging how highly ſhe thought her ſelf oblig'd to him; and he could as little ſmother the extraordinary ſatisfaction he conceiv'd to have done her ſo conſiderable a ſervice: but there was yet another thing of greater importance he had to acquaint her withal.

One day, ſhe being alone with him, and intreating him not to ſuffer her to be any longer ungrateful, but to make uſe of her in ſomething of conſequence, he took that opportunity to diſcover to her the true ſentiments he had for her. The very thought of what he was about to do, made him ſign; he grew pale; and the diſturbance of his mind was ſo viſible in his countenance, that Eugenia was afraid he was in ſome great torment. She ask'd him what poſture his Wounds were in. ‘Ah Madam! repli'd he, my wounds are not my greateſt affliction. What is it then that troubles you, ſaid ſhe to him much frightned. A misfortune, ſays he, incapable of any remedy. It was indeed, replies Eugenia, a great misfortune to be ſo dangerouſly Wounded for a perſon you [Page] neither knew, nor deſerv'd you ſhould hazard your Life for her; but this is not beyond remedy, ſince your Surgeons doubt not but you will ſoon recover it. And that is it I am to complain of, cries Don Garcias: Had I loſt my Life in your ſervice, continued he, I had brought it to a glorious period, whereas I muſt now live againſt my will, and be a long time the moſt unfortunate man in the world. Being a perſon ſo excellently qualifi'd as you are, I think you not ſo unfortunate as you would make your ſelf, replies Eugenia. How Madam, ſaid he, do you not account that man unfortunate, who being ſatisfi'd of your worth, having a greater eſteem for you than any other whatever, loving you beyond his own Life, muſt nevertheleſs come ſhort of deſerving you, though Fortune ſhould prove as indulgent to him as ſhe hath ever been malicious? You ſtrangely ſurprize me, ſaid ſhe bluſhing: but the obligations you have caſt upon me, give you a priviledge, which, in the condition I am in, I ſhould not grant any other. I pray you above all things endeavour your own recovery, and aſſure your ſelf, your misfortunes ſhall not continue long, when it ſhall come into the power of Eugenia to put a period thereto.’

She ſtai'd not to hear what Reply he would make, and by that means ſpared him abundance of complements, which haply he would but poorly have acquitted himſelf of, becauſe he would have overſtrain'd himſelf to make them very good ones. [Page] She call'd thoſe Servants of hers who were to attend him, and went out of the room juſt as the Surgeons were coming in to viſit him. The ſatisfaction of the mind is the ſoveraign remedy to recover a ſick body. Don Garcias deriv'd ſuch hopes of the advancement of his Love, from what Eugenia had ſaid to him, that his ſoul, which before, as that of a Lover without hope, was orepreſs'd with ſadneſs, dilated it ſelf for the entertainment of joy, and that joy contributed more to his recovery than all the remedies of Chirurgery. He came to perfect health. He out of civility went from Eugenia's houſe, but carried with him, and continu'd, the pretenſions he had to her affection. She had promis'd to love him, provided he made no publick diſcoveries thereof, and it may be ſhe lov'd him no leſs than he lov'd her: but having ſo lately loſt a Husband, and been engag'd in adventures, which had made her the Table-talk of all Companies in Court and City, ſhe thought it no prudence ſo ſoon to expoſe her ſelf to raſh cenſures, by running upon a marriage with too much precipitation. At laſt Don Garcias, by the exceſs of his merit and conſtancy, overcame all theſe difficulties. He was, as to his perſon, ſo accompliſh'd, as might make a Rival run mad to think on't. He was a younger Brother of one of the beſt Houſes of Arragon, and though he had done no great things in the Wars, he might juſtly, from the long ſervices his Father had done Spain, derive ſome hopes of a recompence from the Court, as advantageous as honourable. Eugenia [Page] could no longer hold out againſt ſo many excellent qualities, nor be longer oblig'd to him for all he had done and ſuffered upon her account. She was married to him. Court and City approved her choice; and that ſhe might not have the leaſt occaſion to repent her of it, it happened, that, not long after their marriage, the King of Spain beſtowed on Don Garcias one of the Commanderies of St. James. Another thing which had already happened, was, that he had ſatisfied his dear Eugenia the very firſt night of their marriage, that he was much another Bed-fellow than Don Sancho, and that ſhe had found in him, what ſhe would not have met with in the Portuguez Andrado. Children they had many, becauſe they took more than ordinary pains to get them; and the Hiſtory of their Loves and Adventures is to this day related at Vailladolid, not only among thoſe that knew them, but to Strangers who occaſionally Travel that way. For my part, I travelled not thither for it, but finding it Printed, made no doubt of the Truth of it, and expect the ſame confidence in thoſe who ſhall receive it from me.

FINIS.

SCARRON's NOVELS.
The Judge in his own Cauſe.
The Fourth Novel.

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PRince Mulei, ſon to the King of Morocco, having loſt the company with whom he had ſpent the day in hunting, was got alone, and that in the night-time, among certain rocks on the Sea-ſide, not above an hours gentle walking from the City of Fez. The sky was not over-caſt with the leaſt cloud; the Sea glaz'd up [Page] in an undiſturbed calm, and ſo might ſerve for a Mirrour to the Moon and Stars, which [...] to ſparkle no leſs there, than in their proper Elem [...]nt: in fine, it was one of the pleaſanteſt nights of thoſe warmer Countries, which exceed the faireſt days of our colder Regions. The Prince galloping gently along the River ſide, diverted himſelf in conſidering the emulation between the Conſtellations above in the Firmament, and thoſe which ſeem'd to be on the ſurface of the Water, when the ſad accents of ſome doleful ſhrieking piercing his ears, rais'd in him a curioſity to go to the place whence he conceiv'd it might proceed. After a little riding, he found, among the rocks, a woman, who, as much as her ſtrength would permit, made her party good againſt a man, who violently endeavour'd to bind her hands, while another woman was emploi'd to ſtop her mouth with a linnen cloath.

The arrival of the young Prince prevented the Actors of that violence to proceed any further therein, and gave her a little reſpit, whom they intended to treat ſo unworthily. Mulei ask'd her, what might occaſion her crying out, and the others, what they would have done to her? But inſtead of any reply, the man comes up to him with his Cimitar drawn, and would have dangerouſly wounded him, had he not, by the nimbleneſs of his [...]orſe, avoided the blow. How now, impious [...]retch, ſays Mulei to him, dareſt thou offer vio [...]nce to the Prince of Fez? I knew thee very well to be my Prince, replies the Moor: nay it is becauſe thou art my Prince, and that it is in thy power to puniſh me, that I muſt either have thy life, or loſe my own.

[Page]With thoſe words he made at Mulei with ſuch a deſperate fury, that the Prince, though much fam'd for his valour, was reduc'd to a neceſſity not ſo much of aſſaulting, as ſecuring himſelf againſt ſo dangerous an enemy. The two women in the mean time were very ſeriouſly engag'd, and ſhe who a little before gave her ſelf over for loſt, kept the other from running away, as if ſhe doubted not but her Champion would obtain the victory. Deſpair ſometimes heightens a man's courage, nay ſometimes derives it to thoſe who have leaſt of it. Though the Prince's valour was incomparably beyond that of his Adverſary, and maintain'd by a more than ordinary skill and vigour; yet the puniſhment, which the Moor's crime deſerv'd, made him hazard all, and gave him ſo much courage and force, that the victory was a great while in ſuſpence between the Prince and him: but Heaven, which commonly protects thoſe it raiſes above others, fortunately directed the Prince's retinue, which he had loſt the evening before, to paſs ſo near the place, as to hear the noiſe of the Combatants, and the cries of the women. They make all the ſpeed they could thither, and came in juſt as their Maſter having worſted his bold Adverſary, had laid him on the ground, where he would not kill him, but reſerve him for a more exemplary puniſhment. He thereupon order'd ſome of his people to bind him to a horſe-tail, ſo as that he might not attempt ought againſt himſelf or any other. Two Gentlemen took up the two women behind them, and ſo Mulei and his retinue got to Fez, juſt with the break of day. This young Prince gover [...]'d as abſolutely in Fez, as if he had been already King [Page] of it. He order'd the Moor to be brought before him, his name was Amet, and he was ſon to one of the wealthieſt Inhabitants of Fez. The two women were not known by any, in regard the Moors, the moſt jealous of all mankind, are extremely careful in keeping their wives and ſlaves from the ſight of all others.

The woman, whom the Prince had reliev'd, ſurpriz'd both him and all his Court with the tranſcendency of her beauty, which was ſuch as had not been ſeen before in Africk, and alſo with a Majeſtick air, which the wretched habit of a ſlave could not hide from their eyes who admir'd her. The other was clad as thoſe women of the country are, whoſe quality is ſomewhat above the ordinary rate, and might paſs for handſome, though much leſs than the former. But though ſhe might enter into competition with her as to beauty, yet the paleneſs which through a certain Fear had ſetled in her countenance depriv'd it of ſo much of its luſtre, as that of the former receiv'd advantage from that lively redneſs, which a modeſt bluſh had gently ſpread over it. The Moor appear'd before Mulei with the countenance and deportment of a Criminal, having his eyes continually faſten'd on the ground. Mulei commanded him to acknowledge his crime, or expect to die in the greateſt torments. ‘I know well enough what is prepar'd for me, and what I have deſerv'd, replies the undaunted Moor, and as it will be of little advantage to me to confeſs any thing, ſo are there not any torments that ſhall make me do it. I cannot avoid death, ſince I would have given it thee, I would have thee know, that the [Page] rage I am in, that I could not diſpatch thee, torments me beyond all that can be inflicted on me by the moſt inventive executioners. Theſe women, Spaniards by deſcent, were my Slaves; one of them hath done as I wiſh'd her, and compli'd with her fortune, by marrying my Brother Zaides; the other would never change her Religion, nor make the leaſt kind return to the love I had for her.’

This was all could be gotten out of him. Mulei order'd him to be put into a Dungeon loaden with chains; The Renegado wife of Zaides was diſpos'd into another priſon, and the beautiful Slave was conducted to a Moor's houſe named Zulema, a perſon of quality, originally a Spaniard, who had left Spain, becauſe he could not find in his conſcience to embrace the Chriſtian Religion. He was deſcended of the illuſtrious Houſe of Zegris, heretofore ſo famous in Granada, and his wife Zoraida, who was of the ſame Houſe, had the reputation to be the faireſt, and withal, the wittieſt woman in Fez. She was immediately taken with the beauty of the Chriſtian Slave, and, upon the firſt converſation they had together, was no leſs with her ingenuity. Had this fair Chriſtian been capable of conſolation, ſhe would have found it in the careſſes of Zoraida; but as if ſhe purpoſely avoided whatever might alleviate her grief, ſhe endeavour'd as much as ſhe could to be alone, that ſhe might afflict her ſelf the more, inſomuch that, when ſhe was in company with Zoraida, ſhe did her ſelf no ſmall violence, to ſmother her ſighs, and keep in her tears before her.

Prince Mulie in the mean time was extremely [Page] deſirous to have an account of her adventures. He had diſcover'd ſo much to Zulema, who being a perſon he much confided in, he withal acknowledg'd, that he had ſome inclinations for that fair Chriſtian, and that he had made a diſcovery thereof to her, had he not inferr'd, from her extraordinary affliction, that he might have an unknown Rival in Spain, who, though at a great diſtance, might prevent his being happy, even in that Country where he was an abſolute Prince. Zulema thereupon gave his wife order to enquire of the Chriſtian the particulars of her life, and by what accident ſhe came to be Slave to Amet. Zoraida was as deſirous to do it as the Prince, and found it no hard matter to induce the Spaniſh Slave to ſatisfie her; the other not knowing how to refuſe any thing to a perſon, from whom ſhe had receiv'd ſo many aſſurances of tenderneſs and friendſhip. She told Zoraida, that ſhe would ſatisfie her curioſity when ſhe pleas'd, but that, having onely misfortunes to acquaint her with, ſhe fear'd the account thereof would be very tedious to her. ‘You will find it otherwiſe, replies Zoraida, by the attention I ſhall give you, and my concerns therein will ſatisfie you, that you may ſafely entruſt the ſecret thereof to a perſon who infinitely loves you.’ Embracing her with theſe words, ſhe entreated her not to put off any longer the ſatisfaction ſhe deſir'd of her. They were all alone, and the fair Slave, having wip'd off the tears which the memory of her misfortunes drew into her eyes, ſhe thus beg [...]n [...]he relation thereof.

‘My name is Sophia, ſaid ſhe, I am a Spaniard, born at Valentia, and brought up with all the [Page] care and tenderneſs which perſons of quality, ſuch as were my Father and Mother, could expreſs towards a Daughter who was the firſt fruits of their marriage, and ſoon appear'd worthy of their affection. I had a Brother, younger than my ſelf by a year, as lovely a child as could be ſeen; he lov'd me as much as I lov'd him, and our mutual friendſhip grew up to ſuch a height, that when we were not together, there might be obſerv'd in our countenances, ſuch a ſadneſs and diſquiet, as the moſt pleaſant divertiſements of perſons of our age were not able to diſperſe. Order was thereupon taken that we ſhould not be aſunder: we learn'd together whatever is commonly taught children, well deſcended, of both ſexes, [...]nd ſo it happen'd, to the great aſtoniſhment of all, that I came to be as skilful and dextrous as he, in all the violent exerciſes of a Cavalier, and he as ingenious in whatever is performed by young Gentlewomen. This extraordinary kind of education took ſo much with a Gentleman, an intimate acquaintance of my Father's, that he deſir'd his children might be brought up with us. The buſineſs was propos'd to my Friends, who approved thereof, and the nearneſs of their houſes promoted the deſign of both parties. That Gentleman was not inferiour to my Father, either as to quality or wealth. He had alſo onely a Son and a Daughter, much about my Brother's age and mine, inſomuch that it was not doubted, but the two Houſes would be united one day by a double marriage. Don Carlos and Lucia (ſo were the Brother and Siſter call'd) were equally amiable: my Brother [Page] lov'd Lucia, and ſhe him; Don Carlos lov'd me; I, him, as much. Our Parents knew it, and were ſo far from being diſpleas'd thereat, that had we not been too young, they would then have ſeen us married together.’

‘But the happy ſtate of our innocent Loves was diſturb'd by the death of my lovely Brother; a violent Feaver ſnatch'd him from hence in eight days, and this was the firſt of my misfortunes. Lucia was ſo troubled thereat, that no perſuaſions could keep her from embracing a Religious life. I was ſick to death, and Don Carlos was ſo far given over, as that his Father began to fear he ſhould ſee himſelf without iſſue, ſo great a grief did he conceive, at the loſs of my Brother, whom he lov'd, the danger I was in, and his Siſter's reſolution. Don Carlos's Father di'd ſoon after, leaving his Son a vaſt eſtate. Now was he in a condition to diſcover the nobleneſs of his nature; the gallantries he invented to pleaſe me prevail'd on my vanity, made his love more publick, and added much to mine. Don Carlos often addre [...]s'd himſelf to my Parents, deſiring them to conſummate his happineſs by beſtowing their Daughter on him. He in the mean time continu'd his extraordinary expences, which my Father perceiving, and conſidering his eſtate could not hold out long at that rate, reſolv'd we ſhould be married. He therefore put Don Carlos in hope, that he ſhould ere long be his Son-in-law, at which News he diſcover'd ſuch an extraordinary joy, as would have perſuaded me that he lov'd me above his own life, though I had not been ſo fully aſſur'd of [Page] it as I was. He appointed a Ball for me, and invited all the Gallantry of the City to it: but to his misfortune and mine, there happen'd to be at it a Neapolitan Count, whom ſome affairs of importance had brought into Spain. He thought me handſome enough to fall in love with, and having enquired what quality my Father was of, he went, and, without any other ceremony, demanded me of him in marriage. My Father, dazled at the wealth and quality of this Stranger, promis'd him what he deſir'd, and that very day ſent Don Carlos word, that he might forbear all further addreſſes to his Daughter, forbad me to receive his viſits, and commanded me to look on the Italian Count, as the perſon I ſhould be married to, as ſoon as he we [...]e return'd from Madrid. I diſſembled my affliction before my Father; but as ſoon as I was got alone, Don Carlos preſented himſelf to my imagination, as the moſt aimable perſon in the world. I reflected on all could be quarrel'd at in the Italian Count; I conceiv'd an implacable averſion againſt him, and I felt my ſelf ſo poſſeſs'd with the love of Don Carlos, that it was equally impoſſible for me to live without him, and to be happy with his Rival. My recourſe was to my tears, but what remedy were they in ſo great a misfortune.’

‘While I was in this diſtraction, Don Carlos comes into my chamber, without firſt demanding my permiſſion, as he was wont to do. He found me as it were diſſolv'd into tears, nor could he forbear his, though he ſeem'd willing to conceal what lay heavy on his ſoul, till he had [Page] diſcovered the true ſentiments of mine. He caſt himſelf at my feet, and taking me by the hands, which he bedew'd with his tears, I muſt then looſe you Sophia! and a ſtranger, whom you hardly know, ſhall be happier than I, becauſe he is ſomewhat richer. He will be poſſeſs'd of you, Sophia! and you conſent thereto; you, whom I have ſo infinitely lov'd; you, who would perſuade me that you lov'd me, and were promis'd me by a Father, but alas! an unjuſt Father, an intereſs'd Father, and one that hath baſely recoyl'd from his word! If you are, continu'd he, a Jewel that may be ſet at any price, 'tis onely my fidelity that can purchaſe you, and it is upon the account of that, you ſhould be yet mine rather than any Man's; if you have not forgotten that you have promiſed me the like. But, cries he, do you imagine that a perſon who had the courage to raiſe his deſires to you, wants it to be reveng'd of one you prefer before him; or will you think it ſtrange, that a Wretch who hath loſt all ſhould not undertake any thing? If you are content that I alone ſhould periſh, this fortunate Rival ſhall live, ſince he is ſo happy as to pleaſe you, and you think him worthy your protection: but Don Carlos, who is now become odious to you, and whom you have given over to his deſpair, will dye of a Death cruel enough, to ſatiate the hatred you have for him.’

‘Don Carlos, reply'd I, do you joyn forces with an unjuſt Father, and a perſon whom I never could fancy, to perſecute me, and impute [...]o me, as a particular crime, a misfortune [Page] which is common to us both? You may rather bemoan than accuſe me, and bethink your ſelf of the means to preſerve me yours, than pierce my ſoul with undeſerv'd reproaches. I could make more juſt ones to you, and force you to acknowledge, that you never ſufficiently lov'd me, ſince you never ſufficiently knew me. But we have no time to looſe in fruitleſs remonſtances. Carry me where you pleaſe, I'l follow you, and therefore I give you leave to attempt any thing, and promiſe to ſecond you in it, ſo that I may ever be yours.’

‘Don Carlos was ſo reviv'd at theſe words, that he was as much tranſported with joy, as he had been before with grief. He begg'd a thouſand pardons for his having charg'd me with the injuſtice he thought done him, and having ſatisfy'd me, that unleſs I were remov'd thence, it was impoſſible I ſhould avoid complying with my Father's will, I referr'd my ſelf wholly to his diſpoſal, and promis'd him, that the ſecond night after, I would be ready to go along with him. Don Carlos ſpent the next day in ſetting his affairs in order, made proviſion of Money, and a Bark, which was to ſet ſail, whenever he ſent orders to that purpoſe. In the mean time I made up all my Jewels, and what Money I had, and, being a perſon ſo young as I was, ſo well diſſembled my deſign, that no body had the leaſt ſuſpition of it. I was not obſerv'd by any, ſo that I might ſafely take my way out at the Garden-door, where I found Claudio, a Page, whom Don Carlos had a kind of fondneſs for, upon the account of his skill in Singing, [Page] which was as excellent as his Voice, and that in his manner of ſpeaking, and all his actions, he diſcover'd a greater pitch of ingenuity, underſtanding, and gentileneſs of carriage, than the condition of a Page is commonly obſerv'd to have. He told me, that his Maſter had ſent him before, to conduct me to the Bark, and that he could not come himſelf, for ſome reaſons I ſhould know when I ſaw him. A Slave of Don Carlos, whom I alſo knew very well, ſoon after came to us. We got out of the City without any trouble, and were not gone far from it ere we perceiv'd a Veſſel in the Road, and ſoon after a Shallop that waited for us at the Waterſide. They told me, that my dear Don Carlos would come very ſuddenly, and that in the mean time, I ſhould go to the Veſſel. The Slave carry'd me into the Shallop, and ſeveral Men, whom I had obſerv'd on the ſhore, and took for Mariners, forc'd Claudio alſo to get into the Shallop, who ſeem'd to make ſome reſiſtance, to avoid coming into it. This added to the trouble I was already in, for the abſence of Don Carlos. I ask'd the Slave where he was; he roundly anſwer'd, I was not to expect any Don Carlos there.’

‘In the mean time, I could hear Claudio crying out as loud as he could, and burſting forth into tears, ſaying to the Slave, Treacherous Amet! is it thus thou keep'ſt thy promiſe with me, and, by removing my Rival out of the way, leav'ſt me with my Lover? Imprudent Claudio! replies the Slave, is a Man oblig'd to keep his word with a perfidious perſon, or could I expect, [Page] that one that hath betray'd his own Maſter, ſhould not ſerve me the like trick, by giving notice to thoſe who have the over-ſight of the Coaſts, to make out after me, and deprive me of Sophia, whom I love beyond my own Life?’

‘Theſe words ſpoken to a Woman, whom I took all the while to be a Man, and whereof I could not underſtand the meaning, caus'd me ſo great an affliction, that, I fell down in a manner dead in the arms of the perfidious Moor, who had not ſtirr'd from me. I continu'd a good while in the ſwound, which, when I had recover'd, I found my ſelf in one of the Cabbins of the Veſſel, which was now got a good way to Sea. Imagine to your ſelf what deſpair I muſt be in, finding my ſelf without my Don Carlos, and among the profeſſed enemies of my Religion, for I ſoon perceiv'd that I was in the power of the Moors; that the Slave Amet had abſolute power over them, and that his Brother Zaides was Maſter of the Veſſel. The inſolent Villain no ſooner ſaw me in a condition to hear what he might ſay, but, in few words he told me, that he had a long time had an affection for me, and that his paſſion forc'd him to carry me thus away by violence, and to bring me to Fez, where it ſhould be my own fault, if I were not as happy as I might be in Spain, as it ſhould be his, if I there had any occaſion to regret the loſs of Don Carlos. I made a ſhift to cloſe with him, notwithſtanding the weakneſs I was in by reaſon of my former ſwounding, and, by a vigorous attempt, which he thought not off, and which, as I told you before, I had learnt when I [Page] was a child, I drew out his Cymitar, and had puniſh'd him for his perfidiouſneſs, if his Brother Zaides had not ſeaſonably laid hold on my arm, and ſo ſav'd his Life. It was no hard matter to diſarm me, for, having miſs'd my blow, I forbore making any further vain attempts, againſt ſo great a number of enemies. Amet, who had been frightned at my reſolution, order'd all to withdraw out of the room where he had diſpos'd me, and left me in an affliction not eaſily to be imagined, after the cruel change which had happened in my fortunes. I ſpent the whoſe night in bemoaning my ſelf, nor did the next day bring any remiſſion of my grief. Time, which m [...]ny times alleviates ſuch troubles, could do nothing on mine, inſomuch that the ſecond day after our ſetting out to Sea, I was in a greater diſtraction, than I had been that unlucky night, when, with my liberty, I loſt the hope of ever ſeeing Don Carlos again, and ever having a minute of enjoyment while I liv'd. Amet had found me ſo terrible, when ever he preſum'd to appear before me, that he came no more into my ſight. At certain times, ſomewhat w [...]s brought me to eat, but I ſo obſtinately refus'd it, that the barbarous Moor began to fear he had brought me away to no purpoſe.’

‘In the interim, the Veſſel had paſs'd the Streight, and was not far from the Coaſt of Fez when Claudio comes into my Cabbin. As ſoon as I perceiv'd him, unhappy miſcreant, who haſt thus betray'd me, ſaid I to him, what had I done to thee, that thou ſhould'ſt make me the moſt wretched perſon in the world, and deprive [Page] me of Don Carlos? You were too much belov'd of him, replies he, and ſince I lov'd him as well as you did, I have committed no great crime, in endeavouring to remove a Rival, as far as I could from him: but if I have betray'd you, Amet hath alſo betray'd me, and I ſhould haply be no leſs troubled than you are, did I not find ſome comfort in this conſideration, that I am not miſerable alone. Prethee, let me underſtand theſe riddles, ſaid I to him, and know who thou art, and, conſequently, whether I have, in thee, a Friend or an Enemy.’

‘Know then, Sophia, ſaid he to me, that I am of the ſame Sex as your ſelf, and, as well as you, I have alſo been in love with Don Carlos; but if we have ſuffer'd by the ſame flame, it hath not been with the ſame ſucceſs. Don Carlos hath ever lov'd you, and hath ever believ'd, that you lov'd him; whereas, on the contrary, he never lov'd me, nor could ever imagine that I ſhould love him, as having not known me to be what I truly was. I am of Valentia, as you are, and my quality and fortunes are ſuch, that if Don Carlos had married me, he needed not to have fear'd the reproaches made to thoſe who under-ally themſelves. But the affection he had for you wholly took him up, and it ſeems he had eyes onely for you. Not but that mine did what they could, to ſave my mouth the labour of making a ſhameful diſcovery of my weakneſs. I went to all places where I thought to meet him; I plac'd my ſelf where he might ſee me, and I did all things for [Page] him, which he ſhould have done for me, had he lov'd me, as I lov'd him. I had the diſpoſal of my ſelf and eſtate, as having been left an Orphan while I was yet very young; and there were often propos'd to me matches equal to my condition, but the hope I ſtill cheriſh'd, that I might at length engage Don Carlos to love me, hindred me from complying with any. Inſtead of being diſcourag'd by the unhappy fate of my love, as any other would, who, as I, had ſufficient perfections not to be ſlighted, I was the rather excited to the Love of Don Carlos, by the difficulty I found to inſinuate my ſelf into his affections. In fine, to avoid the ſelf-reproach, that I ſhould neglect any thing which might promote my deſign, I caus'd my hair to be cut, and having diſguis'd my ſelf in Man's cloaths, I got my ſelf preſented to Don Carlos by an old menial Servant of my own, who went under the name of my Father, a poor Gentleman of the Mountains of Toledo. My countenance and Meen your Lover lik'd ſo well, that he was ſoon induc'd to take me into his ſervice. He knew me not again, though he had ſeen me ſo many times, and he was as ſoon ſatisfy'd with my ingenuity as taken with my voice, and my skil in ſinging, and playing on all thoſe inſtruments, on which perſons of Quality may, without diſparagement, divert themſelves. He ſoon found in me thoſe endowments which are not commonly ſeen in Pages, and I gave him ſo many demonſtrations of my fidelity and diſcretion, that he treated me rather as a Confident, than a Domeſtick ſervant. You know [Page] beſt of any, whether I am to be credited in what I ſay. You have a hundred times commended me to Don Carlos, even in my preſence, and done many good offices, but what vex'd me to the heart, was, that I receiv'd them from a Rival, and while they made me more acceptable to Don Carlos, they render'd you the more hateful to the unhappy Claudia, (for ſo I am called.) In the mean time, the treaty of your marriage went forward, my hopes backward; that was concluded, theſe were loſt. The Italian Count, who, about that time, fell in love with you, and whoſe Titles and Eſtate as much dazled your Father's eyes, as his warp'd countenance and his imperfections gave you occaſion to ſlight him, procur'd me at leaſt the pleaſure, to ſee you a little travers'd in your loves, and my ſoul began to flatter it ſelf with thoſe fond hopes, which the unfortunate are over-apt to derive from viciſſitude. In fine, your Father preferr'd the Stranger, whom you fanci'd not, before Don Carlos whom you did. So I ſaw her, who caus'd my unhappineſs, in her turn, unhappy her ſelf, and a Rival whom I hated, more unfortunate than my ſelf, ſince I loſt nothing in a man, who had never been mine, whereas you loſt Don Carlos, who was wholly yours, and yet that loſs, how great ſoever it might be, was haply to you a leſſer misfortune, than to have, for your perpetual Tyrant, a man, whom you could not love.’

‘But my proſperity, or, to ſay better, my hope, prov'd not long-liv'd. I underſtood from Don Carlos, that you were reſolv'd to follow him, and I was employ'd to ſet things in order to [Page] the deſign he had to carry you to Barcelona, and thence to croſs over into ſome part of France or Italy. All the force I had had till then to endure my croſs fortune, left me upon this ſo ſharp an aſſault, it being a reſolution I was the more ſurpriz'd with, the leſs I had apprehended [...]ny ſuch misfortune. The trouble I conceiv'd thereat caſt me into a ſickneſs, and that confin'd me to my bed. One day, as I was bemoaning my ſad deſtiny, and that my preſumption of not being overheard by any made me break forth into as loud expoſtulations, as if I had ſpoken to ſome Confident, who knew the ſecret of my loves, I perceiv'd ſtanding before me the Moor, Amet, who had heard me. Having recover'd the trouble his unexpected preſence had put me into, head-dreſs'd himſelf to me in theſe words.’

‘I know thee very well, Claudia, and that even before thou hadſt diſguis'd thy ſex, to become a Page to Don Carlos; and that I never diſcover'd this my knowledge of thee, proceeded hence, that I had a deſign as well as thou hadſt. I have heard what deſperate reſolutions thou art ready to take; thou wilt diſcover thy ſelf to thy Maſter to be young Maid deeply in love with him, and yet hopeſt not any from him, and then thou wilt kill thy ſelf in his preſence, ſo to deſerve the regrets of him, whoſe love thou couldſt not gain. Wretched Laſs! what will be the effect of thy own ſelf-murther, but to give Sophia a further aſſurance of her Don Carlos? I have a better advice for thee, if thou art able to to take it. Deprive thy Rival of her Servant; it may eaſily be done, if thou credit me, and though [Page] it requires much reſolution, yet no more than thou haſt already expreſs'd, in putting on man's habit, and hazarding thy honour, to ſatisfie thy love. Hear me then attentively, continu'd the Moor, I will acquaint thee with a ſecret, which I never diſcover'd to any, and if thou likeſt not what I ſhall propoſe to thee, it will be at thy own choice, whether thou follow it or not. I am of Fez, a perſon of quality in my Country; my misfortune made me ſlave to Don Carlos, and Sophia's beauty, hers. I have told thee much in few words. Thou think'ſt thy miſery remedileſs, becauſe thy Lover carries away his Miſtreſs, and is bound for Barcelona. 'Tis both thy happineſs and mine, if thou canſt make thy advantage of the opportunity. I have treated about my ranſome, and paid it. A Galeot of Africk waits for me in the road, not far from the place where Don Carlos hath one ready for the execution of his deſign. He hath put it off for one day; let us prevent him with as much diligence as ſubtilty. Go and tell Sophia from thy Maſter, that ſhe ſhould make ready to come away this night, at the time thou ſhalt come for her; conduct her to my Veſſel; I will carry her into Africk, and thou ſhalt continue alone at Valentia, to enjoy thy Lover, who haply would have lov'd thee as ſoon as Sophia, had he but known that thou hadſt lov'd him.’

‘At theſe laſt words of Claudia, I was ſo overcome with grief, that with a deep ſigh, I fell into another ſwound, without any ſigns of life. The out-cries of Claudia, who haply then began to repent her that ſhe had made me ſo unfortunate, [Page] yet was nevertheleſs ſuch, brought Amet and his Brother into the room where I was. They appli'd all the remedies they could, till at laſt I recover'd, and might hear Claudia ſtill reproaching the Moor with his perfidiouſneſs. Infidel Dog! ſaid ſhe to him, why haſt thou advis'd me to reduce this Beauty to the deplorable condition thou ſee'ſt her in, if thou hadſt no mind to leave me with the perſon I lov'd? And why haſt thou caus'd me to commit againſt a perſon ſo dear to me, a treachery which proves as hurtful to me as to him? How dar'ſt thou ſay thou art of noble birth in thy Country, when thou art the moſt perfidious and baſeſt of all men? Hold thy peace, ſimple Maid, replies Amet, reproach me not with a crime, wherein thou art my Complice. I have already told thee, that he, who could betray a Maſter as thou haſt done, very well deſerv'd to be betrai'd, and that taking thee along with me, I onely ſecure my own life, and haply Sophia's, ſince ſhe might have di'd of pure grief, upon the knowledge of thy ſtaying behind with Don Carlos.’

‘At theſe words, the noiſe made by the Marriners, who were ready to enter into the Port of Salley, and the ſhooting off of ſome Guns, which were anſwered by the Artillery of the Port, interrupted the reproaches reciprocally made to one the other, by Amet and Claudia, and for a while eas'd me of the ſight of thoſe two odious perſons. We got a-ſhore; Claudia and I had veils put over our faces, and we were lodg'd with the perfidious Amet, at a Moor's, one of his kindred. The next day, we were [Page] diſpos'd into a cloſe Chariot, and conducted to Fez, where, if Amet were receiv'd by his Father with much joy, I came in, the moſt afflicted and moſt deſperate perſon in the world. For Claudia, ſhe ſoon provided for her ſelf, renouncing Chriſtianity, and marrying Zaides, brother to the treacherous Amet. The wicked woman us'd all the artifices imaginable to induce me to change my Religion, and to marry Amet, as ſhe had done Zaides, and ſo ſhe became the moſt cruel of my Tyrants, even while, after they had in vain tri'd to draw me in by kindneſs, fair promiſes, and treatments, Amet and all his people exercis'd on me all the barbariſm they could. My conſtancy was ſufficiently exercis'd againſt ſo many enemies, and I was more able to endure my troubles than I could have wiſh'd my ſelf, when I began to imagine that Claudia repented her, that ſhe had been ſo wicked. Before others ſhe ſeem'd to perſecute me with greater animoſity than any, but privately ſhe did me ſome good offices, which made me look on her as a perſon who might have been virtuous, had her education been accordingly.’

‘For one day, while all the reſt of the women were gone to the publick Baths, as you Mahumetans are wont to do, ſhe came to me, and finding me very ſad, ſhe ſpoke to me to this purpoſe. Faireſt Sophia! I have heretofore thought I had ſome reaſon to hate you, but now that hatred is at an end, ſince I have loſt the hope of ever enjoying him, who lov'd not me enough, becauſe he lov'd you too much. It [Page] grieves me to the ſoul, that I have occaſion'd your misfortune, and forſaken my God, for fear of men. The leaſt of theſe ſtings were enough to make me undertake things beyond my ſex. I can no longer live at this diſtance from Spain, and all the Chriſtian part of the world, with theſe Infidels, among whom I know it is impoſſible I ſhould ever work out my ſalvation either here or hereafter. You may aſſure your ſelf of my repentance by the ſecret I ſhall acquaint you with, which putting my life at your diſpoſal, you may revenge your ſelf of all the miſchiefs I have been forc'd to do you. I have corrupted fifty Chriſtian Slaves, moſt Spaniards, and all perſons fit to undertake ſome great enterpriſe. With the mony I have ſecretly given them, they have ſecur'd a Bark ready to waft us over into Spain, if it pleaſe God to favour ſo ſo good a deſign. All you have to do is to joyn fortunes with me, and ſo eſcape if I do, or, periſhing with me, get out of the hands of your cruel enemies, and put a period to ſo unfortunate a life as yours is. Reſolve therefore, Sophia, and while we cannot be ſuſpected guilty of any deſign, let us, without loſs of any time, conſider of the moſt important action of your life and mine.’

‘I caſt my ſelf at Claudia's feet, and meaſuring her by my ſelf, I never queſtion'd her ſincerity. I was at a little loſs to give her ſufficient thanks, and aſſure her of the great reſentments I had of the favour which I conceiv'd ſhe would do me. We appointed a day for our eſcape, towards a place on the Sea-ſide, where [Page] ſhe told me that our Bark lay, under certain Rocks. The day, which I thought would prove ſo happy, came; we very happily got out of the houſe and City. I admir'd the goodneſs of Heaven in the eaſineſs we found in compaſſing our deſign, and I inceſſantly bleſs'd God for it. But the end of my misfortunes was not ſo near as I thought it. Claudia did all this by order from the perfidious Amet; nay, exceeding him in perfidiouſneſs, the end of her bringing me to ſuch a ſolitary place, and that in the night time, was onely to leave me to the violence of the Moor, who durſt not have attempted ought againſt my chaſtity in his Father's houſe, who, though a Mahometan, was yet a morally honeſt man. I innocently follow'd her, who led me to deſtruction, and I thought I ſhould never be ſufficiently thankful to her, for the liberty I was in hope ere long to obtain by her means. I could not be weary of giving her thanks, not yet of going a good pace, in rough ways encompaſs'd with rocks, where ſhe told me that her people expected her, when hearing a certain noiſe behind me, and turning my head, I perceiv'd Amet with his Cymitar drawn. You infamous Slaves, ſaid he, is it thus you run away from your Maſter? I had not the leiſure to anſwer him. Claudia held my hands faſt behind, and Amet letting fall his Cymitar, came up to the Renegado, and both of them together did what they could to bind my hands with cords, which they had provided for that purpoſe. Having a greater ſtrength and activity than women commonly have, I a good while reſiſted the attempts of thoſe two [Page] wicked perſons: but at length I grew weak, and my onely recourſe was to my cries, which might draw ſome paſſenger into that ſolitary place, where I rather hoped not for any relief, when Prince Mulei came in to my reſcue. You have heard how he ſav'd my honour, nay I may ſay my life, ſince I had aſſuredly died of grief, if the deteſtable Amet had had his deſires on me.’

Thus did Sophia conclude the relation of her adventures, and the amiable Zoraida encourag'd her to expect from the generoſity of the Prince, that ſome courſe would be taken for her return into Spain; whereupon ſhe acquainted her Husband with all ſhe had heard from Sophia, whereof he afterwards gave Prince Mulei an account. Though all that had been related to him of the fortunes of the fair Chriſtian, flatter'd not the paſſion he had for her, yet was he glad, being a perſon nobly inclin'd to vertue, to receive ſome knowledge thereof, and find that her affection was engag'd in her own Country, that ſo he might not attempt a cenſurable action out of a vain hope of finding it eaſily compaſs'd. He had an eſteem for the vertue of Sophia, and was inclin'd, by his own, to endeavour a remiſſion of her misfortune. He ſent her word by Zoraida, that he would give order for her return into Spain, when ſhe pleas'd, and, having once taken that reſolution, he forbore to viſit her, out of a diſtruſt of his own vertue, and the beauty of that amiable perſon. She was not a little troubled to find out a ſecure way for her return. 'Twas ſomewhat a tedious voiage into Spain, whoſe Merchants traded not to Fez, and though ſhe might have met with a Chriſtian veſſel, yet [Page] being fair and young, as ſhe was, ſhe might find, among thoſe of her own Religion, what ſhe had been afraid to meet with among the Moors. Honeſty is not often found aboard a Ship; ſincerity is as little obſerv'd there as in War, and whereever beauty and innocence are at the weakeſt, the inſolence of the wicked will not fail to take its advantage to thruſt them to the wall. Zaraida advis'd Sophia to put on Man's cloaths, ſince her advantageous Stature, beyond that of other Women much further'd her diſguiſe. She told her it was the advice of Prince Mulei, who knew not any perſon at Fez, to whom he might ſafely truſt her, and ſhe told her withall, that he had had the goodneſs to provide for the ſafety of her Sex, by aſſigning her a companion of the ſame, of her own faith, and diſguis'd as her ſelf, and that ſo ſhe might avoid the diſquiet it would be to her, to ſee her ſelf alone, aboard a Veſſel, among Souldiers and Mariners.

Prince Mulei had bought of a Pyrat a Prize which he had taken at Sea; 'twas a Veſſel belonging to the Governour of Oran, which had aboard her the whole family of a Spaniſh Gentleman, whom the Governour, upon ſome diſguſt, ſent over a Priſoner into Spain. Mulei had heard that the ſaid Gentleman was one of the beſt Huntſmen in the world, and Hunting being an exerciſe the Prince was moſt of any inclin'd to, he would needs have him to be his Slave, and to make the more ſure of him, would not have him ſeparated from his Wife, his Son, and Daughter. In the ſpace of two years that he liv'd at Fez, in the Prince's ſervice, he taught him how he might take any thing [Page] with a Gun, whether it were on the Earth, or in the Air, and ſhew'd him ſeveral other Games unknown to the Moors. By theſe ways, he had ſo inſinuated himſelf into the Prince's favour, and was become ſo neceſſary in his divertiſements, that he would not hear of any Ranſome for him, but endeavour'd by all the obligations he could lay on him, to make him forget his own Country. But the regret he conceiv'd, that he ſhould not once more ſee it, put him into a melancholy, which ſoon after ended in his Death, to which it was not long ere his Wife follow'd him. Mulei felt a certain remorſe, that he had not ſet him at Liberty, together with his relations, ſince they had by their Services deſerv'd it, and ſo reſolv'd to repair, towards their Children, the injury he thought he had done the Parents. The Daughter was named Dorotea, much about the ſame Age with Sophia, handſome and witty. Her Brother was not above fifteen years of Age, and his name Sancho. Mulei pitch'd on them to accompany Sophia, and took that opportunity to ſend them together into Spain. The buſineſs was kept very ſecret. Men's cloaths, according to the Spaniſh mode were made for the two Gentlewomen, and little Sancho. Mulei ſhew'd his magnificence in the great quantity of Jewels he beſtow'd on Sophia. He alſo beſtow'd very noble Preſents on Dorotea, which, added to thoſe her Father had receiv'd from the Prince's liberality, made her a very conſiderable fortune.

About this time, Charls the Fift was engag'd in a war in Africk, and had beſieg'd the City of Tunis. He had ſent an Ambaſſadour to Mulei to treat about the ranſome of certain Spaniards, perſons [Page] of Quality, who had been caſt away on the Coaſt of Morocco. To this Ambaſſadour did Mulei recommend Sophia, under the name of Don Fernand, a Gentleman of quality, who deſir'd not to be known by his own name; and Dorotea and her Brother were to be his retinue, one as a Gentleman waiting on him, the other as Page. Sophia and Zoraida could not part without regret, and many tears were ſhed on both ſides. Zoraida beſtow'd on the fair Chriſtian a Necklace of Pearl, ſo rich, that ſhe would not have receiv'd it, if the obliging Moor, and her Husband Zulema, who had as great a kindneſs for Sophia as his Wife, had not aſſur'd her, that ſhe could not diſoblige them in any thing ſo much, as the refuſal of that pledge of their friendſhip. Zoraida made Sophia promiſe, that ſhe ſhould hear from her, by the way of Tangiers, Oran, or ſome other places which the Emperour was poſſeſs'd of in Africk.

The Chriſtian Ambaſſadour took Shipping at Salley, having along with him Sophia, whom we muſt henceforth call Don Fernand. He came to the Emperour's Army, while it was yet before Tunis. Our diſguis'd Spaniſh Lady was preſented to him as a Gentleman of Andaluſia, who had ſome time been a Slave to the Prince of Fez. She had no great reaſon to be ſo fond of her Life, as to be afraid of engaging in the War, and being now to act the part of a Cavalier, ſhe could not, in honour, avoid the performance of duty, as other gallant Perſons did, whereof the Emperour's army was full. She thereupon liſted her ſelf among the Volunteers, miſs'd no deſign that was [Page] undertaken, and ſignaliz'd her ſelf upon all occaſions, ſo as the Emperour came to hear much of the counterfeit Don Fernand. Nay, ſuch was her good Fortune, that ſhe happen'd to be near him, when, in the heat of an engagement, wherein the diſadvantage was on the Chriſtian ſide, he fell into an ambuſcado of Moors, was forſaken by his party, and encompaſs'd by the Infidels, and in all probability he had been kill'd there, his Horſe having already receiv'd that fate under him, if our Amazon had not mounted him on hers, and, ſeconding his Valour with unexpreſſible efforts, given the Chriſtians time to ſee their error, and to come into the relief of the Valiant Emperour. So ſignal an action was not unrecompenſed; the Emperour beſtow'd on the unknown Don Fernand a Commandery of Saint James, of a vaſt Revenue, and the Regiment of Horſe of a certain Spaniſh Lord, who had been kill'd in the laſt engagement. He alſo beſtow'd on him the equipage of a perſon of Quality, and from thenceforward, there was not a Perſon in the whole Army more highly eſteem'd or more conſiderable than this Valiant Virago. All the actions of Man were ſo natural to her; her Countenance was ſo fair, and made her ſeem ſo young; her Valour was ſo admirable, conſidering her youth; and her Prudence and Conduct ſo remarkable, that there was not any Perſon of quality or command in the Army, but courted her Friendſhip. It is not therefore much to be admir'd, if, all pleading for her, but eſpecially her noble and heroick Actions, ſhe came in a ſhort time to be her Maſter's greateſt Favourite.

[Page]About this time, there came over ſome Recruits from Spain, in thoſe Veſſels which brought over Money and Ammunition for the Army. The Emperour would needs ſee them himſelf in their Arms, accompany'd by the chiefeſt Commanders, among whom was our Amazon. Looking very earneſtly on theſe Recruits, ſhe imagin'd that ſhe had ſeen Don Carlos, nor was ſhe miſtaken. She could not be at reſt all that day; ſhe ſent to find him out among the new Levies, but he could not be found, in regard he had chang'd his name. She ſlept not all night, got up with the Sun, to find out, her ſelf, that dear Lover which had coſt her ſo many tears. She found him, and was not known by him, ſhe being grown ſomewhat Taller, and the ſultry heat of Africk having a little chang'd the Complexion of her Countenance. She pretended to take him for another of her acquaintance, and ask'd him what news from Sevil, and how ſuch a perſon did, naming the firſt came into her mind. Don Carlos told her ſhe had miſtaken him, that he had never been at Sevil, and that he was of Valentia. ‘You are extremely like a perſon I lov'd very well, ſays Sophia, I would ſay Don Fernand, and for that reſemblance I will be your friend, if you find in your ſelf no averſion to become mine. The ſame reaſon, replies Don Carlos, which obliges you to proffer me your friendſhip, had already enſur'd mine to you, if it be worth your acceptance. You are ſomewhat like a perſon I have a long time been in love with; you have her Countenance and Voice, but you are not of the ſame Sex, and certainly, added he, with a deep ſigh, you are [Page] not of her Humour.’ Sophia could not forbear bluſhing at thoſe words of Don Carlos, which he took no notice of, haply by reaſon his eyes, which began to be moiſtened with tears, could not well perceive the alterations of Sophia's countenance. She was troubled, and not able at the preſent to diſſemble it, ſhe deſir'd Don Carlos to come to her Tent, where ſhe would expect him, and ſo left him, after he had deſcrib'd his Quarter, and told him that he was known in the Army by the name of Don Fernand, one of the

At the hearing of that, Don Carlos was afraid he had not render'd him the reſpect due to his Quality. He had already heard what eſteem he was in with the Emperour, and that he was as much in favour with him as any about the Court. He ſoon found out his Quarter and Tent, which any one could direct him to, and he was as well receiv'd by him, as a ſimple Cavalier could expect to be, by one of the chiefeſt Field-Officers. He again imagin'd he diſcover'd Sophia's countenance, in that of Don Fernand; was more aſtoniſh'd at it, than he had been before, and that much more at the ſound of his Voice, which entred into his very Soul, and there renew'd the remembrance of that perſon, for whom, of all the world, he had had the greateſt affection.

In the mean time, Sophia, undiſcover'd by her Lover, entertains him at dinner, which done, ſhe commands all the Servants to with-draw, and, having given order that none ſhould viſit her, was told a ſecond time, by that Gentleman, that he was of Valentia, and afterwards very patiently heard him relate what ſhe knew as well as himſelf [Page] of their common adventures, to the day that he intended to have carried her away. ‘Could you imagine, Sir, ſaid Don Carlos to her, that a Gentlewoman of ſuch Quality, who had receiv'd ſo many aſſurances of my Love, and had given me as many of hers, ſhould be wanting in point of fidelity and honour; ſhould have the ſubtilty to ſmother ſuch great failings, and be ſo blinded in her choice, as to prefer, before me, a young Page I had, who carried her away from me, the day before I ſhould have done it. But are you fully convinc'd it is ſo, ſays Sophia to him. All things are in the diſpoſal of Chance, which ſometimes is in an humour to confound our ratiocinations, by ſuch effects, as we leaſt expect. 'Tis poſſible, your Miſtreſs may have been forc'd to that ſeparation from you, and, it may be, is rather unfortunate, than chargeable with any miſcarriage. O that it were the pleaſure of the Gods, replies Don Carlos, I could make the leaſt queſtion of it, I ſhould comfortably endure all the loſſes and misfortunes it hath caus'd me; nay, I ſhould not think my ſelf unfortunate, could I but imagine that ſhe were ſtill faithful to me; but ſhe is onely ſuch to the perfidious Claudio, and never pretended love to the wretched Don Carlos, but to ruine him. Me-thinks, it may be inferr'd from what you ſay, replies Sophia, that you never had any great affection for her, when your charge againſt her is without your hearing what ſhe may have to alledge for her ſelf, and you repreſent her, not onely as an unconſtant, but alſo as a wicked perſon. And could any one have been [Page] more wicked than ſhe hath prov'd, cries Don Carlos, when, to elude the ſuſpition of having been carried away by the Page, ſhe left in her Chamber, the very night ſhe vaniſh'd from her Father's, a Letter, writ with the greateſt malice imaginable, which hath reduc'd me to more ſenſible miſeries, than that it ſhould ever get out of my memory. When you have heard it, you will haply be able to judge what Sycophancy ſo young a Thing could be guilty of.’

THE LETTER.

Sir,

YOu ſhould not have forbidden me to love Don Carlos, after you had once laid your commands on me to do it. A merit ſo great as his must needs have rais'd in me an affection for him proportionable thereto, and when the mind of a young Perſon is prepoſſeſs'd with ſuch a paſſion, it is ſo fill'd, that there is no place for interest. Know then, that I go hence with him, whom you were pleas'd I ſhould affect, even from my Infancy, and without whom it were as impoſſible for me to live, as it would be, not to dye a thouſand times a day, with a Stranger, whom I cannot any way fancy, even though he were much richer than he is. Our offence, if it be any, deſerves your pardon; which if you grant us, we will return[Page]to receive it, with greater ſpeed, then we are now forc'd to, to avoid the unjuſt violence you would do us.

SOPHIA.

‘You may eaſily imagine, continu'd Don Carlos, the extreme grief which Sophia's Parents conceiv'd at the reading of this Letter. They were in hopes I might be ſtill with their Daughter, either in Valentia, or not far from it. They diſcover'd not their loſs to any but the Vice-roy, who was their kinſman, and it was hardly light the next morning, when ſome Officers coming into my room found me aſleep. I was, as well I might, very much ſtartled at ſuch a viſit, and when, after they had ask'd me where Sophia was, I alſo made the ſame queſtion to them, my adverſaries were incens'd, and violently dragg'd me to priſon. I was examin'd, and could make no plea for my ſelf againſt Sophia's Letter. It was clear, that I had a deſign to have carried her away; but it appear'd withal, that my Page had vaniſh'd at the ſame time with her. Sophia's Parents ſent people to find her out, and my friends, on the other ſide, made diligent ſearch where the Page might diſpoſe of her. This was the onely means to clear me; but we never could hear any thing of theſe fugitive Lovers, whereupon my enemies charg'd me with the death of them both. At laſt, injuſtice, back'd with power, carri'd it againſt oppreſs'd innocence. Notice was given me that I ſhould ſoon receive my ſentence, and that it would be that of death. I hoped not that [Page] Heaven would do any miracles on my [...]ccount, and ſo I thought it my beſt way to endeavour the recovery of my liberty by an act of deſpair. I join'd my ſelf to certain Bandits, who were priſoners as well as my ſelf, and all perſons of reſolution. We forc'd the Priſon-doors, and, aſſiſted by our friends, got into the Mountains about Valentia, ere the Vice-roy had any notice of our eſcape. We continu'd a long time Maſters of the Field. Sophia's inconſtancy, the proſecution of her friends, the injuſtice I thought done me by the Vice-roy, and, in fine, the loſs of my eſtate, put me into ſuch deſpair, that I hazarded my life in all the engagements wherein my Camerades and my ſelf met with any reſiſtance, and by that means I got into ſuch reputation with them, that they made me their Chief. I behav'd my ſelf in that charge ſo ſucceſsfully, that our Party became dreadful to the Kingdoms of Arragon and Valentia, and we grew ſo inſolent, as to impoſe a Contribution on thoſe Countries. I here make a dangerous diſcovery to you, but the honour you do me, and my own inclination do ſo far enſlave me to you, that I am willing to put my life into your hands, by acquainting you with the greateſt ſecrets of it. At laſt, I grew weary of that leud courſe of life; I got away from my Camerades, when they leaſt ſuſpected I ſhould, and took my way to Barcelona, where I was entertain'd onely as a private Gentleman, in the Recruits ready to be tranſported into Africk, which have ſince joyn'd with the Army. I have no great reaſon to be in love with my life, and having been guilty of ſuch a miſexpence [Page] thereof, I cannot employ it better than againſt the enemies of my Religion, and to ſerve you, ſince the goodneſs you are pleas'd to expreſs towards me, hath given me the onely joy, my ſoul hath been capable of, ever ſince the moſt ungrateful woman in the world hath made me the moſt unhappy of all men.’

Sophia, undiſcover'd, took the part of Sophia unjuſtly accuſed, and omitted nothing that might induce her Lover to forbear judging his Miſtreſs ſo rigorouſly, till he were more fully ſatisfi'd of her offence. She told the unfortunate Cavalier, that ſhe concern'd her ſelf very much in his misfortunes; that ſhe wiſh'd it in her power to alleviate them, and to give greater expreſſions thereof than words; that ſhe deſir'd him to accept of a relation to her, and when occaſion ſerv'd, ſhe would employ all the credit ſhe had with the Emperour, and the intereſt of all her friends, to reſcue him from the proſecution of Sophia's, and the Vice-roy of Valentia.

Don Carlos would not admit of any thing urg'd by the counterfeit Don Fernand, in the vindication of Sophia, but accepted of the entertainment he proferr'd him. That very day, that conſtant Miſtreſs ſpoke to the Commander, under whom Don Carlos was, that, being a kinſman of hers, he might be under her command. Thus is our unfortunate Lover receiv'd into the ſervice of his Miſtreſs, whom he thought, either dead, or had forſaken him. He finds himſelf, as ſoon as entertain'd, very highly in his favour whom he thought his Maſter, and wonders how he comes, ſo ſuddenly, to be ſo much lov'd. He is immediately made his [Page] Treaſurer, Secretary, and Confident. The reſt of the ſervants reſpect him little leſs than Don Fernand himſelf, and no doubt he might be happy, in the love of a Maſter that ſeems ſo amiable to him, and whom a ſecret inſtinct forces him to love, if loſt Sophia, if unconſtant Sophia, did not perpetually preſent her ſelf to his imagination, and gave him a ſadneſs, which the careſſes of ſo dear a Maſter and his better'd fortune were not able to ſmother. Though Sophia had a tenderneſs for him, yet was ſhe not diſpleas'd to ſee him troubled, not doubting but ſhe was the cauſe of his affliction. She often diſcours'd with him concerning Sophia, and ſometimes with ſo much earneſtneſs, nay indignation and bitterneſs, vindicated her whom Don Carlos charg'd with no leſs a crime than a forfeiture of faith and honour, that at laſt he imagin'd, that Don Fernand, who would be ſtill harping on the ſame ſtring, had ſometime been a Servant to Sophia, and haply was ſtill.

The war in Africk came to the period mention'd in the Hiſtory thereof. The Emperour carri'd it on afterwards in Germany, Italy, Flanders, and other places. Our Female Warriour, under the name of Don Fernand, added to the reputation ſhe had before of a valiant and experienc'd Commander, by many gallant encounters, wherein ſhe ſhew'd no leſs valour than conduct, though the latter of thoſe qualities be ſeldom found in a perſon ſo young, as her ſex made her appear. The Emperour was oblig'd to go into Flanders, and, to that end, to deſire the King of France to give him paſſage through his Countries. The great Monarch who then reign'd, would needs, in generoſity and [Page] confidence, ſurpaſs a mortal enemy, who had ever ſurpaſs'd him in good fortune, whereof he had not at all times made good uſe. Charls the Fifth was receiv'd into Paris, as if he had been King of France. The fair Don Fernand w [...]s one of the ſmall number of perſons of quality, who accompani'd him; and if his Maſter had made a longer ſtay in that gallant Court, the beautiful Spaniſh Lady, taken for a man, had rais'd love in many of the French Ladies, and jealouſie in ſome of the moſt accompliſh'd Courtiers.

In the mean time, the Vice-roy of Valentia dies in Spain. Don Fernand, encourag'd by the affection his Maſter bore him, and the ſervices he had done, preſum'd to demand that important charge, and obtain'd it, without much envy. He ſoon acquainted Don Carlos with the good ſucceſs, and put him in hopes, that, as ſoon as he had taken poſſeſſion of the Government of Valentia, he would accommodate the difference between him and the Relations of Sophia; procure his pardon from the Emperour for having been chief Commander among the Bandits, and endeavour to put him into poſſeſſion of his Eſtate.

Don Carlos might have deriv'd ſome comfort from all theſe noble promiſes, had not the misfortune of his Love made him abſolutely diſconſolate. The Emperour came into Spain, and went ſtreight to Madrid, and Don Fernand went to take poſſeſſion of his Government. The next day after his arrival at Valentia, Sophia's Relations preſented a Petition againſt Don Carlos, who was Steward and Secretary to the Vice-Roy. The Vice-Roy promis'd them juſtice, and Don Carlos, [Page] that he would protect his innocence. A new Indictment was put in againſt him; the Witneſſes were examin'd a ſecond time, and, in fine, Sophia' Relations, exaſperated at the loſs of her, and out of a deſire of revenge, which they conceiv'd juſt, ſolicited the buſineſs ſo earneſtly, that, in five or ſix days, it was ready for judgment. They deſir'd that the perſon indicted might be ſent to priſon; the Vice-roy gave them his word, that he ſhould not ſtir out of his houſe, and ſet down a day to paſs judgment on him.

The eve of that fatal day, which held the whole City of Valentia in ſuſpence, Don Carlos deſir'd a private audience of the Vice-Roy, which was granted him. Caſting himſelf at his feet, ‘May it pleaſe your Highneſs, ſaid he to him, to morrow is the time, that you are to ſatisfie all the world of my innocency. Though the witneſſes I have produc'd abſolutely clear me of the crime laid to my charge, yet I now come to aſſure your Highneſs with as much ſincerity, as if I were in the preſence of God, that I had not onely no hand in the carrying away of Sophia, but withal, that, the day before ſhe was carried away, I did not ſo much as ſee her, nor ever heard of her ſince. True it is, that I ſhould have carried her away, but a misfortune, to me yet unknown, remov'd her hence, either to my ruine, or her own.’

‘No more, no more, Don Carlos, ſays the Vice-Roy to him, go thy ways, and take thy reſt ſecurely; I am thy Maſter and Friend, and better inform'd of thy innocence than thou doſt imagine; nay, though I might doubt of it, yet ſhould [Page] I not be oblig'd to be too exact to ſatisfie my ſelf, ſince thou art in my houſe, and of my houſe, and that thou cameſt not hither with me, but upon the promiſe I made to protect thee.’ Don Carlos rendred his thanks to ſo obliging a Maſter with all the eloquence he was maſter of. He went to bed, and the impatience he was in to ſee himſelf clear'd, would not ſuffer him to ſleep. He got up at the break of day, and having dreſs'd himſelf ſomewhat above his ordinary gath, waited at the riſing of his Maſter. But hold a little, I am miſtaken, he went not into his chamber till all his cloaths were on; for from the time that Sophia had diſguis'd her ſex, onely Dorotea, the confident of her diſguiſe, lay in her chamber, and did all thoſe ſervices, which done by another might have diſcover'd what ſhe would have kept conceal'd. Don Carlos therefore entred into the Vice-Roy's chamber, as ſoon as Dorotea had open'd it for all viſitants; and the Vice-Roy no ſooner ſaw him, but he reproach'd him with his early riſing, being a perſon accus'd, who would have himſelf thought innocent, and told him, that a perſon who could not ſleep betrai'd ſomething that lay heavy on his conſcience. Don Carlos a little troubled, made him anſwer, that it was not ſo much the fear of being found guilty, as the hope of defying the further proſecutions of his enemies, by the juſtice he expected from his Highneſs, that had hindred him from ſleeping. ‘But you are very nearly dreſs'd, and gallant, ſays the Vice-Roy to him, and I find you very calm, conſidering your life is in ſo great a hazard. I am now at a loſs what to think of the crime wherewith you ſtand [Page] charg'd. As often as we fall into diſcourſe concerning Sophia, you ſpeak of her with leſs earneſtneſs and more indifference than I do; and yet I am not charg'd, as you are, to have ever been lov'd by her, and to have murther'd her, and poſſibly young Claudio too, on whom you would caſt the charge of her conveyance away. You affirm'd that you have lov'd her, continu'd the Vice-Roy, and yet you live after you had loſt her, and you have omitted nothing that could be done in order to your diſcharge and quiet, you, who ſhould rather be weary of your life, and hate whatever might tend to the preſervation of it. Ah! unconſtant Don Carlos, it muſt needs be that ſome other Love hath induc'd you to forget the inclinations you had for loſt Sophia, if ſo be you ever truly lov'd her, when ſhe was wholly yours, and durſt do any thing for your ſ [...]ke.’

Don Carlos, half dead at theſe words of the Vice-Roy's, would have made ſome reply thereto, but he would by no means permit him, ‘Come, come, hold your peace, ſaid he to him, with a ſevere countenance, and reſerve your eloquence for your Judges; for my part, I ſhall not be ſurpriz'd therewith, nor, on the account of one of my menial ſervants, raiſe in the Emperour an ill opinion of my integrity. And therefore in the mean time, added the Vice-Roy, turning to the Captain of the Guard, let him be ſecur'd; he, who broke priſon, may much rather his promiſe, when he finds there are no other hopes of impunity, than what may be had by an eſcap [...].’

[Page]Immediately Don Carlos's Sword was taken from him, which rais'd a great compaſſion in all thoſe who ſaw him encompaſs'd by the Guards, caſt down and diſcourag'd, and having much ado to keep in his tears. While the poor Gentleman was repenting himſelf, that he had not been ſufficiently diſtruſtful of the unconſtant humour of Grandees: the Judges, before whom he was to be tried, entred the room, and took their places, after the Vice-roy had taken his. The Italian Count, who had continu'd all this time at Valentia, and the Father and Mother of Sophia appear'd, and produc'd their witneſſes againſt the Priſoner, who was now at ſuch a loſs, that he hardly had the courage to plead for himſelf. They ſhew'd him the Letters which he had ſometimes written to Sophia; the Neighbours were brought in, and the Domeſticks of Sophia's houſe, and at laſt there was produc'd againſt him the Letter ſhe had left in her Chamber, the day he had deſign'd to carry her away. The Priſoner brought in his Domeſticks, who depos'd, that they had ſeen their Maſter in Bed; but he might have got up after he had made them believe he was aſleep. For his own part, he ſwore very liberally, that he had not carried away Sophia, and repreſented it to the Judges, that it was the moſt improbable thing in the world, that he ſhould carry her away, ſoon after to be ſeparated from her: but a further charge againſt him was, that he had murther'd her, and alſo the Page, the confident of his Loves. There remain'd only to paſs the Sentence, and no doubt it would have been that of death, when the Vice-roy order'd him to approach, and ſpoke to him in theſe words.

[Page] ‘Unfortunate Don Carlos! Thou maiſt well conclude, after all the demonſtrations of affection thou haſt received from me, that, if I could have but ſuſpected thee guilty of the crime laid to thy charge, I ſhould not have brought thee to Valentia. There's no way for me but to condemn thee, unleſs I would begin the exerciſe of my charge by an Injuſtice, and thou maiſt judge how much I am troubled at thy misfortune, by the tears I ſhed for thee. 'Twere poſſible thy adverſaries might be ſatisfy'd, were they of a lower quality, or leſs reſolv'd upon thy deſtruction. In a word, if Sophia appears not her ſelf to vindicate thee, prepare thy ſelf for death.’

Don Carlos, at this, deſpairing of all ſafety, caſt himſelf at the Vice-roy's feet, and ſaid to him, ‘Your Highneſs may be pleas'd to remember, that, in Africk, even from the firſt time I had the honour to be entertain'd into your ſervice, and whenever your Highneſs engag'd me in the tedious relation of my misfortunes, I ever related them in the ſame manner, and you might preſume, that, in thoſe Countries, and all other places, I ſhould not have affirm'd to a Maſter, who ſo highly honour'd me with his affection, what I ſhould here deny before a Judge. I ever told your Highneſs the naked Truth, as ſincerely as to my God, and I tell you ſtill, that I lov'd, that I ador'd Sophia; How! ſay that thou ador'ſt her, ungrateful Man? ſays the Vice-roy to him, ſurpriſing all the Aſſembly by his Action. Yes, I do adore her, replies Don Carlos, very much astoniſh'd at what the Vice-roy had [Page]ſpoken. I promis'd to marry her, continu'd he, and we agreed together, that I ſhould carry her away to Barcelona. But if I did effectually convey her hence, if I know where ſhe is, let me be put to the moſt cruel death can be imagin'd. I cannot avoid it; but I ſhall dye innocently, unleſs it may be ſaid I have deſerv'd death, for loving, even beyond my own Life, an unconſtant and perfidious creature. But what is become of this perfidious Creature and thy Page, cries the Vice-roy, with a furious countenance? Are they gone up into Heaven? Are they ſunk down under the Earth? The Page was a Gallant; replies Don Carlos, ſhe was handſome; he was a Man, ſhe was a Woman. Ah Traitor! ſaid the Vice-roy to him, how haſt thou now diſcover'd thy baſe ſuſpitions, and the little eſteem thou hadſt for the unfortunate Sophia! Curſed be the Woman that ſuffers her ſelf to be cajoll'd by the promiſes of Men, and comes afterwards to be ſlighted for her credulity! Neither was Sophia a Woman of ordinary virtue, wicked Man! nor thy Page Claudio a Man. Sophia was conſtant to thee; and thy Page was a diſtracted Woman in love with thee, and robb'd thee of Sophia, whom ſhe betray'd as a Rival. I am Sophia, unworthy, ungrateful Lover! I am Sophia, who have ſuffer'd unimaginable miſeries, for a Man, that deſerv'd not to be lov'd, and one who thought me guilty of the greateſt infamy I could fall into.’

Sophia could ſay no more, her Father, who knew her, took her into his arms. Her Mother fell into a ſwound, on the one ſide; and Don Carlos [Page] on the other. Sophia diſ-engag'd her ſelf from her Father, to go to the relief of the two perſons who had ſwounded, but ſoon recover'd themſelves, while ſhe was in ſuſpence to whether of the two ſhe ſhould run. Her Mother wept over her, ſhe did the like over her Mother. She embrac'd, with all the tenderneſs imaginable, her dear Don Carlos, who had almoſt fallen into another ſwound. But with much [...]do he kept upon his feet, and not preſuming yet to kiſs Sophia's lips, as he could have wiſh'd, he reveng'd himſelf on her hands, which h [...] kiſs'd a thouſand times one after another. Sophia was hardly able to return all the embraces ſhe receiv'd, and all the complements that were made to her. The Italian Count, making his among the reſt, would have entertain'd her with the pretenſions he had to her, as having been promis'd him by her Father and Mother. Don Carlos, who heard him, quitted one of Sophia's hands, which he was then greedily kiſſing, and drawing his Sword, which had been deliver'd to him, ſet himſelf into ſuch a poſture, as put the whole aſſembly into a fright, and ſwearing after the rate of millions, made it appear, that no human force ſhould deprive him of Sophia, if ſhe her ſelf forbad him not to think of her. But ſhe declar'd, that ſhe would never have any other Husband than her dear Don Carlos, and entreated her Father and Mother to conſent thereto, or reſolve to ſee her ſhut up in a Monaſtery for the remainder of her Life. Her Parents gave her liberty to make her own choice, and the Italian Count took Poſt that very day, for Italy, or ſome other place where he had a mind to go.

[Page] Sophia diſmiſs'd not the Aſſembly, till ſhe had g [...] [...]hem a relation of her adventure [...], which w [...] [...]dmir'd by all. A perſon was diſpatch'd awa [...] expreſs to carry the news of this miracle to the [...]mperour, who continu'd to Don Carlos, after he [...] married. Sophia, the Vice-ro [...]alty and Government of Valentia, and all the kindneſſes which that Virago had deſerv'd under the name of Don Fernand, and beſtow'd on that happy Lover a Principality, which his Poſterity enjoys to this day. The ſolemnities of the Nuptials were extraordinary, diſcharg'd by the City of Valentia; and D [...]rotea, who put on Man's cloaths at the ſame time as Sophia, was alſo, at the ſame time, married, to a Cavalier, a near Kinſman to Don Carlos.

SCARRON's NOVELS.
The Rival-Brothers.
The Fifth Novel.

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DOrothea and Feliciana were the two moſt beautiful and moſt amiable Ladies of any about the famous City of Sevil; but though they had not been ſuch, their quality and great fortunes were ſo conſiderable as might well engage all thoſe, who were deſirous to be advantageouſly m [...]tch'd, to make their addreſſes to [Page] them. It is not then to be doubted, but that, of Sutors, there was a pretty Catalogue, yet had not Don Manuel, their Father, declar'd himſelf in favour of any man's pretenſions, and Dorothea, who, being the elder, ſhould, by the courſe of the Cards, be married firſt, had, as well as her ſiſter, been ſo reſerv'd in her demeanour and actions, that the moſt preſumptuous of her humble Servants were in ſome doubt, whether their ſervices were kindly or unkindly received. Theſe two Beauties never went publickly to Maſs, but they were attended by a number of the greateſt Gallants about the City, wherein the Miracle was, that ſo many different pretenſions ſhould agree ſo well, and that in a ſuperſtitious Country young Gentlemen ſhould be guilty of any devotion, beſides what they have for their Miſtreſſes. Before they could get off their gloves to take a little Holy-water, other hands, ſome fair, ſome otherwiſe, beſtow'd on them more than they needed. Their fair eyes were no ſooner off their Prayer-books, but they were the centre of I know not how many immodeſt looks: and every ſtep, as they went out of the Church, they had ſalutations to return.

But if they were thus importun'd with courtſhip in Churches, and publick places, where people conceive themſelves oblig'd to obſerve ſome reſerv'dneſs, they wanted it not at home. For, their Father's houſe being in the midſt of a ſpacious plain, there paſs'd not a day without ſome of thoſe divertiſements, whereby Lovers would inſinuate themſelves into the favour of their Miſtreſſes. And theſe our young Ladies took the more kindly, in that they made that reſtraint, which the tyrannical [Page] cuſtom of the Country impoſes on their ſex, the more ſupportable to them. In the day time, Cavalcades, Tilting, and ſuch exerciſes were their entertainment, every night ſeveral ſorts of Muſick. One d [...]y above the reſt, there came in an unknown Perſon who did ſuch things as aſtoniſh'd all the beholders, and had been particularly obſerv'd by the two fair Siſters, to be one ſo neatly made, as if nature had intended him for a pattern. Several Gentlemen of Sevil, who had known him in Flanders, where he had the command of a Regiment of Horſe, invited him to make one at their ſport of Tilting, which he did, habited as a Soldier.

Not long after, there happened to be at Sevil, the ceremony of the Conſecration of a Biſhop. The Stranger we ſpoke of before, who went under the name of Don Sancho de Sylva, came into that Church where it was to be performed, with ſeveral others the greateſt Gallants about the City, and the two fair Siſters Dorothea and Feliciana de Monſalvo were alſo there among divers Ladies, all diſguis'd, according to the mode of Sevil, with mantles of a thick ſtuff, and hats with plumes of feathers in them. It was Don Sancho's fortune to ſtand between the two Siſters, and another Lady, with whom he would have enter'd into ſome diſcourſe, but ſhe civilly intreated him, to forbear ſpeaking to her, and to reſign the place he was in, to a perſon ſhe expected, to meet her there. Don Sancho compli'd with her deſires, and thereupon turning about, he makes towards Dorothea d [...] Monſalvo▪ who ſtood nearer him than her Siſter; and had obſerv'd what complements had paſs'd [Page] between him and the other Lady. ‘I was in hopes, Madam, ſaid he, addreſſing himſelf to her, that, being a ſtranger in this place, the Lady to whom I would have ſpoken, would have vouchſaf'd me her converſation; but ſhe hath puniſh'd the confidence I had to think that mine was not to be ſlighted. I acknowledge my overſight, and I ſhall be more diſtruſtful of my ſelf another time. And therefore, be you pleaſed, Madam, to expreſs leſs rigour towards a Stranger, whom you have ſeen treated with ſo much diſreſpect, and, for the honour of the Sevillian Ladies, to give him occaſion to make ſome acknowledgment of their kindneſs. You rather give me occaſion to treat you with as much contempt as the other Lady did, replies Dorothea, ſince your applications to me are the effects of her refuſal of them: but that you may not have too great cauſe to complain of the Ladies of this Country, I am content to diſcourſe onely with you, as long as this Ceremony ſhall laſt, and thence, beſides the kindneſs you may conceive done to your ſelf, you may infer, that I have not appointed any one to meet me here. Being ſo excellent a perſon as I imagine you to be, ſays Don Sancho, I cannot forbear wondring at it, but muſt withal conclude, that you are much to be fear'd, or that the Gallants of this City are very timorous, or rather that he, whoſe place I have taken up, may be abſent. And do you think, Sir, ſays Dorothea to him, that I am ſo ignorant in the matter of loving, that, in the abſence of a Gallant, I could not forbea [...] going to an Aſſem [...]ly, where I ſhould not [...]ail meeting with [Page] ſome other? Take heed another time how you paſs ſo raſh a cenſure, of a perſon you know not. You would find, Madam, replies Don Sancho, that what you call my Cenſure is more to your advantage than you think, if you permit me to ſerve you anſwerably to the inclinations I have for you. Our firſt motions are violent, and therefore not always to be follow'd, ſays Dorothea to him; beſides there is a great difficulty in what you propoſe to me. Not any ſo great, replies Don Sancho, but I ſhall be able to overcome, when the reward of it is to become your Servant. 'Tis not a deſign to be compaſſed in few days, ſays Dorothea; I find you a perſon will be eaſily tranſported, in that you ſeem to have forgotten, that you onely take Sevil in your way to ſome other place, and perhaps are yet to learn, that I ſhould not take it kindly any man lov'd me, en paſſant, that is, by the way. Be you but pleaſed, Madam, ſaid he, to grant me what I deſire, and I promiſe you not to go any further than Sevil while I live. There is a great deal of ſpirit and gallantry in what you ſay, replies Dorothea, and thence I wonder much, that a perſon who is able to ſay ſuch things, hath not already made choice of a Lady, on whom he might beſtow his gallantries. Proceeds it hence that he thinks them not worth his trouble? No, but rather out of a diſtruſt of his own ſtrength, ſays Don Sancho. Anſwer me preciſely to what I ask you, ſays Dorothea, and confidently tell me, which of our Ladies is Miſtreſs of thoſe charms that might force your ſtay at Sevil. I have already told you, that it is in your power to do it [Page] if you pleaſe, replies Don Sancho. You never ſaw me, ſays Dorothea; it muſt needs be ſome one that you have ſeen, therefore name ſome other. Since you preſs ſo much upon me, ſays Don Sancho to her, I muſt acknowledge, Madam, that if the Lady Dorothea Monſalvo were as ingenious as you are, I ſhould account that man happy, whoſe merit ſhe might value, and whoſe ſervices ſhe might allow of. There are in Sevil many Ladies as handſome as ſhe is, nay many exceed her, ſays Dorothea, both in beauty and wit; but ſince you are pleas'd to pitch upon her, pray tell me ſeriouſly, did you never hear it reported, that ſhe favour'd any one of her Gallants particularly above all the reſt? Finding my ſelf at a great diſtance from deſerving her, ſays Don Sancho, I never made it my buſineſs to enquire. And why do you think you might not deſerve her as well as another, ſays Dorothea? I took you to be a perſon of greater courage than to betray ſo great a diſtruſt of your ſelf. Had you ſtudi'd Ladies as much as I imagin'd you might have done, you would have found them mighty humourſome and fantaſtick, and that many times the firſt onſet of a new comer makes a greater progreſs in their affections, than ſeveral years of ſervices rendred by thoſe Gallants, who are never out of their ſight. From the character you give thoſe Ladies, Madam, ſays Don Sancho, I may infer you would be loath to be included in the number, and ſo you take an ingenious way to rid your hands of me, by encouraging me to love ſome other Lady, and I clearly ſee, you would have but little regard for the ſervices of a [Page] freſh Gallant, to the prejudice of one to whom you had been long before engag'd, though 'twere out of no other reaſon than that you would not be thought humorous or fantaſtick. Take heed how you entertain any ſuch thing in your imagination, replies Dorothea, but rather perſuade your ſelf, that I am not ſo eaſily induc'd to receive a witty complement for an aſſurance of a growing inclination towards me, from a perſon who never ſaw me. If there wants onely that to make way for the amorous inclination I have for you, replies Don Sancho, conceal not your ſelf any longer, from a perſon, who, though a ſtranger to you, is already infinitely taken with your wit. It's poſſible you might not be ſo much with my countenance, ſays the Lady. Ah Madam, ſays Don Sancho, it's impoſſible you ſhould be otherwiſe than very beautiful, when you ſo ingeniouſly acknowledge that you are not; and now I am fully ſatisfi'd you would be rid of me, either, becauſe you think me troubleſome, or that your heart is already taken up. 'Twere therefore unjuſt, the goodneſs oblig'd you to bear with me thus far, ſhould be any longer preſs'd upon, onely be pleas'd to aſſure your ſelf, that what I have ſaid was not merely to paſs away the time with you, but to make a ſincere proffer of that of my whole life to ſerve you. To ſatisfie you, Sir, replies Dorothea, that I would not have that thought loſt which I have ſpent in diſcourſing with you, I ſhall be glad, ere we part, to know who you are. I can do no leſs than obey you, replies he; know then, Madam, whom I think ſo amiable, though I have not ſeen, that I am [Page] known by the name of Sylva; that my Father is Governour of Quitto in Peru; that by order from him I am come to Sevil; and that I have ſpent moſt part of my Life in Flanders, where I have, by my Services, attain'd to the higheſt Commands in the Army, and gotten a Commandery of Saint James. This is a ſhort account of what I now am, what I would be while I live, it lies on you, Madam, to give me leave, in ſome leſs publick place than this is, to aſſure you. That ſhall be as ſoon as I may conveniently do it, replies Dorothea; in the mean time, trouble not your ſelf to get any further knowledge of me, unleſs you will run the hazard of never knowing me for your friend: onely take this for your preſent ſatiſfaction, that I am a perſon of quality, and that my face is ſuch as will not frighten any body.’

Don Sancho was ſatisfy'd, and having, with a low Congee, taken his leave of her, he thruſt himſelf in among a great number of fine Gallants, who were very ſeriouſly diſcourſing together. There are a ſort of ſevere Ladies, who may be more particularly known by the character I ſhall here give of them, to wit, ſuch as extremely concern themſelves in the conduct and demeanour of others, and are very ſecure as to their own; who imagine themſelves the onely fit Judges of what is well or ill done, though there may be good wagers laid of their virtue, as a thing whereof there is no great certainty, and think that upon the diſcovery of a little brutiſh rudeneſs, they m [...]y pretend to ſupererogation in point of Honour, though the miſcarriages of their greener years gave more [Page] ſcandal, than their wrinkles will ever good example; theſe Ladies, I ſay, who are very ſhort-ſighted in the ordinary occurrences of humane Life, will take occaſion to quarrel at the Author, and affirm, that Madam Dorothea was guilty of a great want of reſerv'dneſs, and indiſcretion, not onely in being ſo over-free to favour a perſon whom ſhe onely knew by ſight, but alſo in permitting him to ſpeak to her of Love, and that if a young Gentlewoman, over whom they had any power, had done as much, ſhe ſhould make no long aboad in this world. But let theſe yet-to-be-taught Ladies learn from me, that every Country hath its particular cuſtoms, and that if in France, England, and ſome other parts, married Women and Maids, who are truſted to go any where upon the ſecurity of their own good behaviour, are offended, or at leaſt ſhould be ſo, at any the leaſt expreſſion of Love; in Spain, where they are kept in as Nuns, they take it not amiſs that any one ſhould tell them they love them, though the perſon that ſhould tell them ſo, had not any thing for which he might expect a return of his Love. Nay, they do much more, they are the Ladies commonly that make the firſt overtures, and are firſt taken, inaſmuch as they are the laſt ſeen, by their Gallants, whom they have the advantage to ſee daily, in Churches, and other publick places, and ſometimes from their Balconies and Chamber-windows.

Dorothea acquainted her Siſter Feliciana with the diſcourſe had paſs'd between her and Don Sancho, and made no difficulty to tell her, that ſhe was more taken with that Stranger, than with all [Page] the Gallants of Sevil, and her Siſter approv'd the deſign ſhe had upon her Liberty. Thereupon the two fair Siſters had a great deal of ſerious diſcourſe together, concerning the advantageous priviledges which the Men have above the Women, who were ſeldome married without the conſent of their Friends, which many times happen'd contrary to their liking, whereas the Men were at liberty to make choice, where they beſt fancied. ‘For my part, ſays Dorothea to her Sister, I am confident, Love ſhall never be able to make me do any thing contrary to my duty; but I am on the other ſide fully reſolv'd never to be married to a Man, who ſhall not alone be poſſeſs'd of whatever I could wiſh in ſeveral others, and I had rather ſpend my Life in a Monaſtery, than in the company of a Husband I could not affect.’ Feliciana told her Siſter, that ſhe had taken the ſame reſolution, and they confirm'd one the other therein, with all the fine arguments, which their ingenuity could furniſh them with, upon that occaſion. Dorothea found it ſome difficulty to make good the promiſe ſhe had made Don Sancho, of diſcovering her ſelf to him, and acquainted her Siſter how much ſhe was troubled thereat: but Feliciana, who was very fortunate in finding out expedients, put her Siſter in mind, that a certain Lady, a Kinſwoman of theirs, and one of their moſt intimate friends (for all of ones Kinred are not ſuch) would do her all the ſervice lay in her power, in a buſineſs wherein her quiet was ſo much concern'd. ‘You know, ſays this best-natur'd Siſter in the world, that Marina, who hath liv'd with us ſo ma [...] years, is now married [Page] to a Surgeon, who hath taken of our Kinſwoman a little Houſe adjoyning to her own, and that there is a common Entry between both. The place where they ſtand is a remote ſtreet not much frequented, and though it ſhould be obſerv'd, that we viſited our Kinſwoman oftener than we had been wont, there would be no notice taken of Don Sancho's going into a Surgeons, beſides that the buſineſs may be ſo contriv'd, that he may come thither onely in the night, and diſguis'd.’

While Dorothea, with the aſſiſtance of her Siſter, was contriving how to compaſs this amorous interview; while ſhe was diſpoſing her Kinſwoman to ſerve her, and preparing Inſtructions for Marina, Don Sancho's thoughts were wholly taken up with the unknown Lady. One while he is in ſuſpence whether the promiſe ſhe had made him, that he ſhould hear from her, were not an abuſe; another, he imagin'd, that there was ſomewhat in her laſt words which diſcover'd a certain kindneſs towards him. He ſaw her every day, though he knew her not, in the Churches or ſome other publick places, receiving the adorations of her Gallants, who were all his intimate acquaintance [...], and the greateſt friends he had in Sevil. He was one morning putting on his cloaths, his thoughts full of his unknown Miſtreſs, when a meſſ [...]ge was brought, that there was a woman deſir'd to ſpeak with him. Being conducted to his chamber, he receiv'd from her, this

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LETTER.

THat you heard not ſooner from me, attribute not to any remiſſion of that kindneſs I expreſs'd to you at our first meeting, but purely to want of convenience. If you still perſist in a deſire to be better known to me, receive directions from the Bearer, where you are to meet her in the evening, and ſhe will conduct you to the place, where I ſhall be ready to receive you.

It may be eaſily imagin'd how gladly he entertain'd this meſſage, His tranſportation was ſuch, that he could not forbear embracing that happy Ambaſſadreſs, and he preſented her with a Gold chain, which, after ſome ceremony, ſhe receiv'd from him. She appointed him to meet her at a certain place in the dusk of the Evening, leaving him the moſt ſatisfy'd, but withall the moſt impatient man in the world. At laſt night came; he went to the place where the morning Ambaſſadreſs expected him, trick'd up and perfum'd as if he had ſpent the whole day about it. He was conducted by her to a little obſcure Houſe, which look'd ſomewhat ſuſpitiouſly, and thence into a noble large Room, where he found three Ladies, all veil'd. He diſcover'd his unknown Miſtreſs by her Stature, and immediately broke forth into complaints, that ſhe would not vouchſafe to unveil her ſelf. She ſtaid not for any further intreaties, [Page] whereupon ſhe and her Siſter uncovering their faces, Don Sancho knew them to be the fair Siſters, Dorothea and Feliciana de Monſalvo. ‘You are now convinc'd, ſays the Elder to him, taking off her Veil, that I told you but truth, when I aſſur'd you, that a Stranger might ſometimes obtain that in a minute, which thoſe Gallants whom a Lady ſees every day ſhould not deſerve in many years: but I would have you withall conſider with your ſelf, that you will be the moſt ungrateful of all Men, if you do not highly eſteem the favour I ſhew you, or paſs any cenſure of it to my diſadvantage, though I told you ſuch things might be the effect of a fantaſtick humour. I ſhall ever value what I receive from you, as if it were ſent me from Heaven, ſays the paſſionate Don Sancho, and you ſhall find, by the care I ſhall take to preſerve the kindneſs you do me, that if I ever loſe it, it will not be my negligence, but my misfortune.’

This ſharp onſet was as eagerly purſu'd on both ſides, to the mutual ſatisfaction of the two Lovers; which the Miſtreſs of the houſe and Feliciana perceiving, took occaſion to ſtand at a conſiderable diſtance from them, and ſo they had all the convenience they could have wiſh'd, to counter-charge one the other with amorous complements, and heighten the flames they had already rais'd in each other; nay, though the Love there was between them, might be accounted, conſidering the little time of their acquaintance, very great, yet would they appoint another day, to make ſome additionals thereto, if any might be admitted. [Page] Dorothea promis'd Don Sancho that ſhe would endeavour to ſee him as often as ſhe could: he return'd her his moſt humble thanks, with all the Rhetorick he was maſter of.

Upon this ceſſation of diſcourſe, the two other Ladies came up to them, and they fell into it afreſh, and continu'd the kind engagement, ſo long, that Marina thought it time to mind them of their departure. Dorothea was troubled at that alarm, and Don Sancho grew pale and ſilent; but there was a neceſſity of parting. The tranſported Cavalier took occaſion the next day, to write a Letter to his Miſtreſs, and ſent it by the common Ambaſſadreſs Marina, and ſhe return'd him ſuch an Anſwer thereto, as he could have wiſh'd. I ſhall forbear inſerting their amorous Epiſtles here, becauſe there never came any of them to my hands, and I am loath to foiſt in any of my own dreſſing, out of a fear they might not prove as good as theirs. They had many interviews afterwards at the ſame place, and they ſpent the time, as they had done at the firſt, and ſo by a continu'd progreſs, their Loves came up to that fervency, that, abating their not ſhedding their blood as Pyramus and Thisbe are recorded to have done, they were not behind them▪ as to a violent tenderneſs one for another. 'Tis commonly ſaid, that Love, Fire, and Money cannot be long conceal'd. Dorothea, who was in a manner tranſported with continual thoughts of her lovely Stranger, could not ſpeak of him with any moderation, nay, ſhe commended him ſo highly beyond all the Gentlemen of Sevil, that ſome Ladies, who would have carried on their deſigns ſecretly as ſhe did, hearing [Page] her inceſſantly ſpeaking of Don Sancho, and preferring him ſo as to caſt a certain contempt on thoſe they fancied, took-notice of it, and were offended. Feliciana had often privately advis'd her, to ſpeak of him with more caution and reſerv'dneſs; nay, many times, in company, when ſhe ſaw her tranſported with the pleaſure ſhe took in diſcourſing of her Gallant, had trod on her foot ſo hard as to make her cry out, and find ſomewhat elſe to talk of.

Theſe diſcoveries were at laſt ſo obſerv'd, that a certain Cavalier, a Suitor of Dorothea's, had notice given him thereof, by a Lady he was intimately acquainted with. He was the more eaſily induc'd to believe, that Dorothea had a more than ordinary kindneſs for Don Sancho, when he conſider'd, that ever ſince the coming of that Stranger to the City, thoſe who accounted themſelves the Slaves of that fair Lady, of which number he thought himſelf the moſt heavily chain'd, had not receiv'd the leaſt favourable look from her. This Rival of Don Sancho's was a perſon of great wealth, deſcended of a noble Houſe, and much in favour with Don Manuel, who yet was the more backward to preſs his Daughter to m [...]rry him, in regard that when ever he ſpoke to her of it, her anſwer was, that ſhe wanted two or three years of being ripe for that ſtate.

This ſame young Gentleman (now his name comes into my head, Don Diego) before he engag'd himſelf in an action which might be charg'd with imprudence, thought it requiſite to be fully aſſur'd of a thing, which yet he did onely ſuſpect. He had a very ſpruce fellow that waited on him in [Page] his Chamber, one of thoſe inſolent attendants who think it is for their Maſter's credit that they wear as good Linnen as themſelves, or at leaſt wear theirs; and all, that they may be the more gracious in the eyes of the waiting women. This Servant's name was Guzman; he pretended much to ingenuity, out of a conceit that it had been deriv'd to him from that Country-man of his, whoſe adventures are ſo famous; but having, among other endowments, a ſmattering in Poetry, he employ'd his Talent in compoſing ſuch Romances as in other Countries are known by the name of Ballads. He ſung them playing on his Gitthar, but ſo wretchedly, that his wry mouths and the ſtretching out of his tongue, ſpoil'd the diſcord, at leaſt to thoſe that look'd on him. He had alſo the graceful knack of dancing a Saraband, and never went without his Caſtagnets. He had once ſome intentions to turn Comedian, but ſomewhat in his humour was not lik'd, for he was very much addicted to Vapouring and Hectorſhip, and to give you a true character of him, there was ſome ſuſpition of his nocturnal atchievements, as being one who would bid people ſtand with as much confidence as a Conſtable, but with this greater civility, that he would diſmiſs their perſons, and ſecure onely what he found about them.

All theſe excellent Talents, heighten'd by a little eloquence, which reach'd onely ſo far as he had read, and what he heard from his Maſter, made all the Waiting-women, even thoſe who pretended to ſomewhat of Beauty, look on him as the blank (if I may make that compariſon) of their amorous deſires. Don Diego gave him inſtructions to [Page] go and court Iſabella, a young Maid who waited on the two beautiful Siſters. He went, and inſinuated himſelf ſo far into Iſabella's favour, that ſhe thought her ſelf the happieſt creature in the world, to be lov'd by Guzman, nay, the kindneſs they had one for another grew to ſuch a degree, that he became very earneſt in the continuance of what he had begun onely to obey his Maſter. Iſabella had ſo well feather'd her Neſt in her ſervice, that ſhe might well be accounted a good fortune, for the proudeſt attendant of any in Spain. Her Miſtreſſes treated her very kindly, and were very liberal to her, beſides ſomewhat ſhe had to expect from her Father, who was an honeſt Tradeſman. In fine, Guzman thought it his beſt courſe to make ſure of her, by propoſing a match; ſhe was as willing as he was, and took him at his word; they made one another mutual promiſes of marriage, and ever after liv'd together as if the ceremonies had paſs'd between them.

Things ſtanding thus, Iſabella began to conceive an extream indignation againſt Marina, the Surgeon's wife, at whoſe houſe Don Sancho and Dorothea had their private meetings, and it troubled her much, that though ſhe had liv'd with her Miſtreſs before her, ſhe ſhould ſtill be her Confident in a buſineſs of that nature, wherein the liberality of a favour'd Lover is very conſiderable. She had heard of the Gold chain which Don Sancho had beſtow'd on Marina, as alſo of ſeveral other preſents he had made her, and imagin'd ſhe might have receiv'd many more, which ſhe knew nothing of. This rais'd a deadly hatred in her againſt Marina, which makes me think, that the [Page] pretty Gentlewoman was not a little troubled. It is not therefore to be wondred, if, upon the firſt Interrogatories which Guzman made to her, and particularly this, whether it were true that Dorothea was in love with any one, ſhe ſhould diſcover the ſecrets of her Miſtreſs, to a perſon, whom ſhe look'd on as part of her ſelf. She acquainted him with all ſhe knew of the deſigns of our young Lovers, Don Sancho's liberality to Marina, whom he enrich'd by his continual preſents, till at laſt ſhe broke forth into down-right railing at her, as one that made thoſe advantages, which ſhould rather have been receiv'd by a Servant that liv'd in the houſe. Guzman intreated her to give him notice of the next meeting they were to have there. She did ſo, and he fail'd not to give his Maſter an account of it, as alſo of all had been told him by the perfidious Iſabella.

Upon this intelligence Don Diego put himſelf into the habit of a Beggar, and laid himſelf down in the ſtreet not far from Marina's door, into which he ſaw his Rival enter, and not long after came a Coach, out of which alighted Dorothea and her Siſter, and went into the ſame Houſe, leaving Don Diego in a great rage, to ſee what he could not then remedy. He went home, and reſolv'd to rid himſelf of ſo formidable a Rival. Having hir'd ſome of thoſe, whoſe profeſſion it is to murther any they are ſet upon, (a ſort of people may be as eaſily procur'd in Spain, as Porters in other places) he expected Don Sancho ſeveral nights together, and at laſt meeting with him, he ſet upon him, ſeconded by two of thoſe mercenary Hectors, as well arm'd as himſelf. Don [Page]Sancho, on the other ſide, was reaſonably well provided for them, as having about him, beſides Sword and Poniard, a caſe of Piſtols charg'd. He defended himſelf at firſt as a Lion, and found that his enemies had this advantage of him, that they defi'd any thing he could do with his Sword. Don Diego preſs'd upon him more than the others, who, being hir'd men, behav'd themſelves accordingly. He retreated ſtill all he could, to remove the noiſe of the engagement farther from the houſe where his Dorothea was: but at laſt fearing to endanger himſelf too far, and finding Don Diego ſtill violently purſuing him, he diſcharg'd one of his Piſtols, upon which he fell down half dead, and call'd as loud as he could for a Confeſſor, and the two Hectors immediately vaniſh'd. Don Sancho got to his own lodging, and the neighbours came out into the ſtreet and found Don Diego, whom they knew, ready to depart this life, and charging Don Sancho with his death. He had ſoon notice of it by his friends, who told him, that though he might clear himſelf upon the judicial proceedings which might be brought againſt him, yet Don Diego's friends would be ſure to revenge his death, and find out ſome way or other to kill him. He retir'd into a Monaſtery, whence he gave his Miſtreſs an account how his affairs ſtood, and ſet all things in order to his departure from Sevil, as ſoon as he might do it ſafely. A ſtrict ſearch was made for Don Sancho, but he could not be found. The heat of it being over, and all perſuaded that he had made an eſcape, Dorothea and her Siſter, under pretence of ſome Devotion, were conducted by their Kinſwoman, at whoſe houſe they had met, to [Page] the Monaſtery, where Don Sancho was, and there, by the means of one of the Religious men, the two Lovers had an enterview in a private Chapel. After ſome diſcourſe, they made mutual promiſes one to the other of a conſtant fidelity, and parted with ſo much regret, and ſuch melting expreſſions, that her Siſter, her Kinſwoman, and the Religious man, who were witneſſes thereof, not onely wept then, but could never ſince think of it without tears.

Having deliver'd certain Letters to his Father's factor, to be ſent to him to the Indies, he left Sevil, in a diſguiſe. In thoſe Letters he acquainted him with the accident, which had occaſion'd his departure from Sevil, and that he intended for Naples. He got well thither, and was nobly entertain'd by the Vice-Roy, who, among the many favours he did him, honour'd him with a near relation to his perſon. But the main ſatisfaction was wanting, that of hearing from his dear Dorothea, ſo that within a year he grew weary of the kindneſs of his entertainment, and wiſh'd for ſome oppotunity to leave Naples. He expected not long; for the Vice-Roy being to ſend out a ſmall Squadron of ſix Gallies againſt the Turk, Don Sancho's courage would not let ſlip ſo fair an occaſion to exerciſe it ſelf. He was receiv'd, to the great ſatisfaction of the Commander, who was glad to have a perſon of his worth and quality abo [...]rd him. This Squadron of Naples met with eight Turkiſh G [...]llies, almoſt in ſight of Meſſina, and eng [...]g'd them. After a long ſight, the Chriſtian Gallies took three of the enemies, and ſunk two. The Admiral of the Chriſtian Gallies was engag'd againſt that of [Page] the Turks, which being better arm'd and mann'd t [...]an any of the reſt, had accordingly made the greater reſiſtance. In the mean time, the wind began [...]o riſe, and the ſea to grow rough, ſo that both Chriſtians and Turks thought it concern'd them more to ſecure themſelves againſt the Tempeſt, than any further to proſecute the Engagement. They jointly loos'd the Grapling-irons, whereby the two Gallies were faſtned together, and the Turk [...]ſh Admiral parted from the Chriſtian, j [...]ſt [...]s Don Sancho had caſt himſelf into it, no [...] follow'd by any body. Finding himſelf all alone amongſt his enemies, he thought death to be preferr'd before ſlavery, and, what ever might be the conſequence of it, caſt himſelf into the Sea, hoping to recover the Chriſtian Gallies by ſwimming. But the weather prov'd ſuch, that he could not be perceiv'd, though the Chriſtian General, who had been witneſs of Don Sancho's action, and was extremely enrag'd at his loſs, which he thought unavoidable, caus'd the Gallie to tack about towards the place where he had caſt himſelf overboard. In the mean time Don Sancho made his way through the waves, and having ſwum a good way towards the ſhore, aſſiſted by the wind and tide, he fortunately lighted on a plank of one of the Turkiſh Gallies, and with the help of it got to land on the co [...]ſt of Sicily. Having return'd God his humble thanks for ſo great a deliverance, he made towards a little hamlet inhabited by ſome poor Fiſher-men, who gave him the beſt entert [...]inment they could. The extraordinary actions he had done in the engagement, what he [...]ad ſuffer'd in the Sea, and the cold he endur'd, and his walking [Page] afterwards in his wet cloaths, brought him into a violent feaver, which forc'd him to keep his bed for many days; yet at laſt, without any trouble of Phyſicians he recover'd his former health. During his ſickneſs, he made a reſolution to continue the world in the perſuaſion of his death; as well that he might be in leſs fear of his enemies, the Relations of Don Diego, as make a further trial of the fidelity of his Dorothea.

During the time of his aboad in Flanders, he had contracted an intimate friendſhip with a Sicilian Marqueſs, of the houſe of Montalto, whoſe name was Fabiano. He ſent one of the Fiſhermen to Meſſina, where he liv'd, to enquire whether he were then in the Country; and anſwer being brought him, that he was there, he went thither, habited as a Fiſher-man, and, in the night, goes to the Marqueſs's houſe, who, with all others to whom he was known, bewail'd his death. The Marqueſs was over-joy'd to meet with a friend, whom he had given over for loſt. Don Sancho gave him an account how miraculouſly he had eſcaped, as alſo of his adventures at Sevil, and particularly the violent paſſion he had for the Lady Dorothea de Monſalvo. The Sicilian Marqueſs proffer'd to go along with him into Spain, and to bring away Dorothea, if ſhe would conſent, into Sicily. Don Sancho was extremely well pleaſed with the propoſal, yet would not receive from his friend ſo dangerous demonſtrations of his friendſhip, telling him, that he would be infinitely glad of his company into Spain, but for what might be the conſequence of it, he would remit all to fortune.

Don Sancho had a ſervant, of whoſe fidelity he [Page] [...]ad had many years experience. This fellow, whoſe name was Sanchez, took his Maſter's loſs ſo heavily, that when the Chriſtian Gallies, which had been in the former Engagement againſt the Turks, put in at Meſſina, to refreſh themſelves, he came aſho [...]e and got into a Monaſtery, with a reſolution to ſ [...]end the rem [...]inder of his days there. The Marque [...] Fabiano h [...]ving heard of the relation [...] [...]mes had to Don Sancho, ſent to the Superiour of the Monaſtery, (who indeed had entert [...]in'd him upon the recommendation of that Sicilian Lord) deſiring he might be diſmiſs'd, which was eaſily granted, in regard he had not yet put on the habit of the Religion▪ Sanchez not knowing what might be the occaſion of his diſmiſſion, made ſome difficulty to come out; but when he was brought into the preſence of his dear Maſter, his ſoul was too narrow for his joy, for having caſt himſelf at his feet, there was a neceſſity of ſome aſſiſtance to help him up again.

Some days after, he was ſent by Don Sancho into Spain, to make preparations for his coming thither, and particularly to give him an account of Doro [...]hea, who, in the mean time, was perſuaded, with all others, that Don Sancho was dead. Nay the report of his death ſoon flew into the Indies. Don Sancho's father di'd out of grief, not long after he had receiv'd that ſad news, and left another Son he had four hundred thouſand Crowns, conditionally, that his Brother ſhould have the one moiety of that ſumme, in caſe the news of his death ſhould prove falſe. This Brother of Don Sancho's was called Don Juhan de Peralto. He took ſhipping for Spain, with this vaſt ſum of [Page] mony, beſides abundance of rare Indian commodities, ſutable to the magnificence of a perſon, who had been Governour of a conſiderable place in thoſe parts, and arrived ſafely at Sevil, about a year after the accident, which had happened to Don Sancho. Going under a name much different from his Brother's, it was eaſie for him to conceal the relation he had to him, beſides the particula [...] concernment he had to keep it ſecret, by reaſon of the long ſtay his occaſions might oblige him to make in a City, where his Brother had ſo many enemies. He chanc'd to have a ſight of Dorothea, and fell in love with her, as his Brother had done, but with this difference, that ſhe made him no return of his love. That afflicted Beauty could fancy nothing after the loſs of her dear Don Sancho: whatever was done by Don Juhan de Peralto, inſtead of pleaſing, was the greateſt trouble in the wo [...]ld to her, nay ſhe daily refus'd the beſt Matches about Sevil, which were earneſtly propos'd to her by her Father Don Manuel.

Much about that time Sanchez comes to Sevil, and, according to the inſtructions he h [...]d receiv'd from his Maſter, ſecre [...]ly made the beſt enquiry he could, how the Lady Dorothea had behav'd her ſelf, ſince their departure thence. He was ſoon inform'd by common report, that a young Gentleman, of very great wealth, l [...]tely come from the Indies, was fallen in love with her, and made the moſt magnificent diſcoveries of his affection that a paſſionate Sutor could imagine. He writ to his Maſter, repreſenting things much worſe than they were, and his Maſter imagin'd them yet worſe than his Man had repreſented them. He [Page] communicated the whole buſineſs to the Marqueſs, expreſſing ſo great a diſtraction at the account he receiv'd of his Miſtreſs, that he was in ſome ſuſpence whether he ſhould ſee her any more. His friend comforted him the beſt he could, telling him, that it was not impoſſible but his man might be mis-inform'd, and that the affairs of his love might be in a much better poſture than he expected. The reaſons urg'd by the Marqueſs, together with his own reflections on the mutual promiſes of fidelity that had paſs'd between them, eſpecially the endearing expreſſions at their parting, diſpell'd thoſe clouds of ſuſpition, and repreſented his Dorothea as faithful and conſtant to him as ſhe had engag'd to be. They thereupon reſolv'd for Spain, and embark'd themſelves at Meſſina in ſome Spaniſh Gallies, and in a ſhort time happily arrived at St. Lucar's whence they took poſt for Sevil. They came into the City after night, and alighted at the houſe which Sanchez had taken for them. They ſtirr'd not out all the next day, but as ſoon as it was night, Don Sancho and the Marqueſs went their rounds, about the place where Don Manuel liv'd. They heard ſome people ſetting their Inſtruments in tune, under Dorothea's windows, and ſoon after very excellent Muſick, and that having ceas'd, a ſingle Voice join'd to a Theorboe, made heavy complaints of the cruelty of a Tygreſs diſguis'd into an Angel. Don Sancho felt ſome temptations within himſelf to ſpoil all the harmony of the Serenade, and to ſend away the Muſicians with fleas in their ears: but the Marqueſs prevail'd with him to forbear, repreſenting to him that he could have done no more, [Page] if his Miſtreſs had appear'd in the Balcony, to aſſure his Rival, that ſhe was not diſpleas'd with his Courtſhip; or the words of the Air, which had been ſung, were acknowledgments of kindneſſes receiv'd, rather than complaints of a dis-ſatisfi'd Lover. The Author of the Serenade, and his Company, went away, in all probability, not over-ſatisfi'd with what they had done, as having not ſo much as the ſtirring of a dog, to aſſure them that any body regarded their Muſick: and Don Sancho and the Marqueſs, finding the coaſt clear, return'd to their quarters, where they had a long debate what conſtruction they ſhould make of the pretenſions of this new Sutor. Don Sancho was inclin'd to a perſuaſion, that his Dorothea might have ſome ſecret kindneſs for him, though, for ſome reaſons which hindred her from making any ſhew of it at that time, ſhe ſeem'd to take no notice of his Courtſhip, eſpecially when he conſider'd, that ſhe might, with all the others, be aſſur'd of his death. On the contrary, the Marqueſs entreated him to ſuſpend his belief of her being engag'd to any other, till he had made ſome fuller diſcoveries thereof.

Don Sancho ſubmitted to the remonſtrances of his friend, and that the rather, when it came into his mind, that the greateſt expreſſions of cou [...]tſhip made by one, whoſe perſon is not affected, are ſo much the more importunate. And indeed ſo were thoſe of the Indian Cavalier, to the fair Dorothea, who was ſo far from giving him any encouragement by her acceptance, that he could not but perceive they were more and more troubleſome to her. Her Father Don Manuel was extremely deſirous [Page] to ſee her diſpoſed in marriage, and ſhe doubted not, but that if the Indian Cavalier, Don Juhan de Peralto, being a perſon ſo well deſcended, and ſo wealthy, ſhould proffer himſelf for a Son-in-law, he would be preferr'd before all others, and ſhe more earneſtly preſs'd by her Father to accept of him than ſhe had been.

The next day after the Serenade, whereof the Marqueſs Fabiano and Don Sancho had had their part, Dorothea took occaſion to confer notes with her Siſter, concerning Don Juhan, and his courtſhip, and told her, that ſhe could not brook the gallantries of that conceited Indian, and thought it the ſtrangeſt thing in the world, he ſhould make ſuch publick demonſtrations of his love to her, before he had made any overtures thereof of her Father. ‘'Tis ſuch a kind of procedure, ſays Feliciana to her, as I ſhould never approve of, and if your caſe were mine, I ſhould give him ſuch an entertainment, upon the firſt opportunity that preſented it ſelf, as might immediately daſh all the hopes, he had conceiv'd of ever pleaſing you. For my own part, continu'd ſhe, I could never fancy his perſon; he has not that delicacy, and inſinuation of carriage, which is acquirable onely at Court, and the vaſt expences he is at here in Sevil, argue not ſo much the nobleneſs of his diſpoſition, as the extravagant and ſalvage humour of that yet unciviliz'd part of the world whence he came. It is obſerv'd, that thoſe parts of the world which ſu [...]ply us with gold and ſilver, are moſt barren as to the other productions of nature; ſo thoſe people that inhabit them, think they need no other recommendation, than what [Page] they derive from the entrails of certain almoſt inacceſſible Mountains, created onely for the puniſhment of Slaves and Malefactors. All your Servant's actions ſmell ſo ſtrongly of the Indian, that he muſt be allow'd ſome years, to refine the barbariſm of the Climate he hath liv'd in ſo long, before he can be reduc'd to the civility of this, wherein we have had our education. If ever you grant him the favour to ſpeak to you, adviſe him to ſtudy the courting of a Lady after another manner then he hath been taught among the Topinambous, and then you may promiſe to hear what he ſhall have to ſay for himſelf.’

This was partly the character ſhe gave Don Juhan de Peralto, which ſhe deliver'd with ſuch bitterneſs and deriſion, that Dorothea could do no leſs than wonder at it. It ſeems the ſcornful young Lady had clearly forgotten, that upon his firſt appearance at Sevil, ſhe had confeſs'd to her Siſter, that ſhe lik'd him well enough, and when ever ſhe had occaſion to ſpeak of him, ſhe was as liberal of her commendations, as ſhe was now of her reproaches. Dorothea obſerving her Siſter ſo much chang'd, or at leaſt ſeeming to be, as to the ſentiments ſhe ſometimes had for the Indian Cavalier, immediately imagin'd, that her inclination towards him might be the greater, the more earneſt ſhe ſeem'd to have it thought, that ſhe had not any. To be more fully aſſur'd of it, ſhe told Feliciana, that ſhe was not diſpleas'd with the gallantries of Don Juhan, out of any averſion ſhe had for his perſon, nay, on the contrary, obſerving in his countenance ſomewhat of the air of Don Sancho's, ſhe might prefer him before any other [Page] Cavalier about Sevil; beſides ſhe doubted not, but that, having all the advantages of birth and fortune, he would eaſily get her Father's conſent. ‘But to what end, continu'd ſhe, ſhould I fancy to my ſelf theſe imaginary pleaſures? I have loſt Don Sancho, and ſince it was not my fortune to be his wife, I am reſolv'd never to be any other man's, and therefore, to avoid all future addreſſes, my onely courſe will be to ſpend the reſt of my days in ſome Monaſtery. Ah Siſter, ſays Feliciana, though you were not fully reſolv'd upon ſo ſtrange a deſign, yet could you not give me a ſtranger affliction than by telling me of it. That I am ſo reſolv'd, Siſter, you may be aſſur'd, replies Dorothea; but for your part, you have the leſs reaſon to be troubled at it, in regard it will be to your advantage, for, by that means, you will be the moſt conſiderable fortune about Sevil. Upon this account it was, that I had a deſire to ſee Don Juhan, that I might perſuade him, to addreſs that courtſhip to you, which he vainly beſtows on me, after I have convinc'd him of the impoſſibility there is, that we ſhould ever be married together. What may be the conſequences of his applications to you, Time onely can diſcover; Love is full of viciſſitudes, and there is not ſo great a diſtance between affection and averſion, but that one of them may tread on the heels of the other. Nay, to deal ſiſterly, that is, freely, with you, I am not a little troubled, to find you expreſs ſo much of the latter, towards a perſon, who is ſo far from deſerving it, that he might juſtly expect ſomewhat of kindneſs from you, both as a Stranger, and [Page] one that hath not run the the hazard of diſpleaſing you, by any preſumptuous demonſtration of his love. Think what you pleaſe of my judgment in this caſe, but this it is, that I do not ſee any perſon about Sevil, with whom you might he more advantageouſly match'd than with him. I muſt confeſs, I look on him, rather with a certain indifference than averſion, ſays Feliciana, and when I told you, that I could not fancy him, it was more out of complaiſance to you, than any real prejudice I had againſt him. Nay if it be ſo, Siſter, replies Dorothea, you are rather to acknowledge, that you deal not ingenuouſly with me, and that when you expreſs'd the little eſteem you had for Don Juhan, it was clearly out of your mind, that you had ſometime very highly commended him to me; or I am to conclude, that what you have ſaid ſince, betrai'd not ſo much your own diſlike of him, as your fear of his being too well lik'd by me.’

Feliciana bluſh'd at theſe laſt words of her Siſter, and was vex'd to the heart. Her thoughts were in ſuch a diſtraction, that ſhe ſpoke abundance of things, which rather betrai'd her guilt, then contributed ought to her vindication; ſo that at laſt ſhe was forc'd to confeſs, that ſhe had a more than ordinary kindneſs for Don Juhan. Dororothea encourag'd her to continue it, and promis'd to aſſiſt her all ſhe could in the proſecution of her love. Having thus brought her to acknowledge what ſhe before but ſuſpected, ſhe took compaſſion of her, and forbore all further reproaches.

That very day, Iſabella, who had diſcarded her beloved Guzman, ever ſince the unhappy accident [Page] that had happen'd to Don Sancho, receiv'd orders from her Miſtreſs Dorothea, to go to Don Juhan de Peralto, deliver him the key of one of the garden doors of Don Manuel, to tell him, that ſhe and her Siſter would expect him there, with a charge, that he ſhould not fail to be at the place appointed, at mid-night, before which time, it was likely their Father would be abed. Iſabella, who had been already corrupted by Don Juhan, and done all lay in her power, to bring him into her Miſtreſs's favour, but to no purpoſe, was extremely ſurpriz'd to ſee her humour ſo chang'd, and not a little glad, to be the meſſenger of ſuch good news to a perſon, of whom, though ſhe had not brought him any before, ſhe had yet receiv'd many great preſents. No doubt then but ſhe made all the haſte ſhe could to the lodgings of the amorous Cavalier, who had receiv'd ſo little encouragement before, that he could hardly have believ'd his own good fortune, had it not been for the convincing aſſurance of the key, which ſhe deliver'd him. That key open'd a place it was never intended it ſhould, I mean the breaſt of the amorous Gallant, who preſented his faithful Sollicitreſs with a perfum'd purſe lin'd with a hundred good yellow pieces, which glorious ſight rais'd in her as much fatisfaction as ſhe had brought him.

Were there a conſtant current of good fortune, that is, no viciſſitude in humane affairs, and that what ever were fortunately begun might, without any rub or diſaſter, be brought to its period of happineſs, there ſhould be much leſs work for thoſe who write Romances and Novels, and ſo the world would be depriv'd of a great deal of that [Page] pleaſure which is deriv'd from endeavors of that kind. But their delight wholly conſiſting in a certain conflict, and interfering of unexpected accidents, 'tis likely there will be a conſtant ſupply of ſuch things, as long as mortals ſhall walk on this Mole-hill, as on a Cheſs-board, perpetually contriving how to croſs the deſigns of one another.

Whoever ſhall ſeriouſly conſider this grave advertiſement, will not think it ſtrange, that, the very ſame night, Don Juhan was to come into Don Manuel's Garden, to meet with the two Siſters, Don Sancho, accompany'd by his friend, the Marqueſs, ſhould be walking their rounds about Dorothea's Lodgings, to be more fully ſatisfy'd of the deſigns of his Rival. It was no otherwiſe, and it will ever be a maxim, That one man's misfortune makes another man's ſport. About eleven that night, the Marqueſs and he being gotten into that ſtreet, where Dorothea liv'd, four men well arm'd came up and poſted themſelves cloſe by them. The jealous Don Sancho preſently imagin'd it was his Rival, whereupon coming nearer them, he told them that the Poſt they had taken up, was very convenient for him, in order to the compaſſing of a deſign he was then engag'd in, and ſo deſir'd them to quit it. ‘We ſhould do it, Sir, reply'd one of them, without much intreaty, if the ſ [...]me Poſt, you are ſo deſirous of, were not abſolu [...]ly neceſſary for the carrying on of a deſign th [...]t we alſo have, and will be ſo ſoon diſp [...]ch'd, that it will not much retard the execution of yours.’

Don Sancho was as much enrag'd at this, as if [Page] it had been the moſt uncivil anſwer that could have been given upon ſuch an occaſion: to draw therefore, and to charge perſons, whom he thought ſo diſobliging, was the ſame thing with him. That unexpected aſſault of Don Sancho's, ſurpris'd and put them into diſorder, and the Marqueſs behaving himſelf no leſs gallantly than his Friend had done, they defended themſelves ſo poorly, that they were in a trice beaten out of the ſtreet. Don Sancho receiv'd a ſlight wound in his arm, and run him who had given it him ſo heartily through the body, that it was a good while ere he could get out his Sword again, and doubted not but he had diſpatch'd him. The Marqueſs in the mean time was in purſuit of the others, who ran away as faſt as they could, as ſoon as they ſaw their Camerade laid on the ground.

Having rid themſelves of thoſe ſpies, Don Sancho look'd about him, and perceiv'd at one end of the ſtreet ſome people with a Light, coming up towards them, upon the noiſe of their engagement. He was afraid it might be the Magiſtrate with his Officers, and it was no other. He made all the haſte he could into the ſtreet, where they began to fight, and thence into another, in the midſt whereof he met full but with an old Gentleman, who had a Lantern with him, and had drawn his Sword upon the noiſe which Don Sancho made by running towards him. The old Gentleman was Don Manuel, who had been at a Neighbour's houſe at play, as he was wont to do every day, and was then going to his own, by the Garden-door, which was not far from the place where he met Don Sancho. He call'd out to the amorous Cavalier, [Page] Who goes there? ‘A man, replies Don Sancho, whom it concerns to make all the haſte he can away, and therefore deſires you would not hinder him. It may be, ſays Don Manuel, there is ſome accident happen'd, which obliges you to ſeek out for ſanctuary; fear nothing, my Houſe, which is here hard by, may ſerve your turn. 'Tis very true, replies Don Sancho, I am ſomewhat at a loſs how to avoid the purſuit of the Magiſtrate, who it may be is now making a ſearch for me; but ſince you are ſo generous as to proffer me, though a Stranger to you, a reception upon ſo dangerous a ſcore as this, I accept of your kindneſs, and entruſt you with my ſafety, with this promiſe, never to forget the favour you do me, and to preſs it no farther, than till ſuch time as thoſe who look after me are paſs'd by.’

They were by this time come to the Garden-door; Don Manuel open'd it with a Key he had about him, and having brought in Don Sancho, he diſpos'd him into a cloſe Arbour, while he went into the Houſe to take order for his more ſecret retirement, ſo as that none might know of his being there. Don Sancho had not been long in the Arbour, when he perceives coming towards him a Woman, who approaching ſpoke ſoftly to him, ‘O Sir, are you come, my Miſtreſs Dorothea ſtays for you.’ From that word Don Sancho imagin'd that he might be in the houſe of his Miſtreſs, and that the old Gentleman, who had brought him in thither, was her Father. He preſently ſuſpected that Dorothea had appointed his Rival to meet her there, and follow'd Iſabella, [Page] more tormented with jealouſie, than troubled about the purſuit of the Magiſtrate.

In the mean time Don Juhan came, according to his appointment, preciſely at the hour aſſign'd him, opened the Garden-door with the Key he had receiv'd from Iſabella, and went into the ſame Arbour, out of which Don Sancho was but newly gone. He had not been there long, ere he perceives a Man coming ſtreight towards him; he put himſelf into a poſture of defence, for fear he might be aſſaulted, and was not a little ſurpris'd, when he found that Man to be Don Manuel, who bid him follow him, aſſuring him he ſhould be ſo diſpos'd of, as that he need not fear being diſcover'd. Don Juhan concluded from Don Manuel's words, that he might poſſibly have receiv'd into his Garden ſome Gentleman purſu'd by the Officers of Juſtice. He could do no leſs than follow him, giving him thanks all along as they went for the favour he ſhew'd him: but it may be withall conjectur'd, that he was not ſo much troubled, at the hazard he was running into, as the obſtruction whereby his amorous deſign was diſappointed. Don Manuel brought him into his own Chamber, and, having left him there, went out, and ordered a Bed to be made for himſelf, in another room.

We will leave him lock'd up where he is, extremely troubled, yet not daring to make the leaſt diſcovery of it, and ſee, what is become of his Brother Don Sancho de Sylva. Iſabella brought him into a Ground-room, which look'd into the Garden, where the two Siſters Dorothea and Feliciana expected Don Juhan de Peralto; one, as a [Page] Lover, whom ſhe was very deſirous to pleaſe; the other, to aſſure him that ſhe could not have any kindneſs for him, and to perſuade him he would do better to make his applications to her Siſter. Don Sancho enters the room where the two fair Siſters were; they were frightned at his appearance. Dorothea ſtood like a ſtatue, as if ſhe had not been able to ſtir from the place; but her Siſter fearing ſhe could not continue long in that poſture, diſpos'd her into a Chair, leſt ſhe might have fallen down all along. Don Sancho after he had fix'd his Eyes on them, ſtuck to the place he was in: Iſabella was ready to ſink into the ground for fear, and imagin'd it might be the Ghoſt of Don Sancho, that appear'd to them, to revenge the injury his Miſtreſs did him. Feliciana, though much ſtartled to ſee him riſen from the dead, was yet more troubled at what had happened to her Siſter, who being come to her ſelf, Don Sancho took her by the hand, and made this diſcourſe to her.

‘Ungrateful Dorothea! if the Report which hath been ſpread of my death did not in ſome meaſure excuſe your inconſtancy, the affliction I conceive thereat would not allow me Life enough to make you the deſerv'd reproaches of it. I was willing the world ſhould be perſuaded that I was dead, that I might be forgotten by my enemies, not by you, who had engag'd your ſelf not to love any other beſides me. But how have you broken that promiſe! I ſee there needs onely but a common Report of ſome unfortunate accident, to make a Woman forget all engagements of fidelity, even to that perſon, [Page] whom, of all the world, ſhe onely pretended to fancy. I might eaſily be reveng'd, and make ſo great noiſe by my complaints and expoſtulations, as ſhould awake your Father, and give him directions how to find out the favour'd Gallant, whom you have diſpos'd into ſome ſecret place about his Houſe: but beſotted Man that I am! I feel in my ſelf ſtill a certain fear to diſpleaſe you, and am more troubled at the neceſſity you give me, not to love you any longer, than at the diſcovery I have made of your being in love with another. Make much of your dear Lover, O as falſe as fair Woman! make much of him I ſay, and fear no more diſturbances in your enjoyments, for you ſhall ere long be rid of a Man, who might, while you liv'd, have reproach'd your proving treacherous to him, even while he hazarded his Life to wait on you.’

With theſe words Don Sancho would have quitted the room: but Dorothea ſtays him, and was going to vindicate her ſelf, when Iſabella comes running in to tell her, that her Maſter, Don Manuel, was coming after her. Don Sancho had onely time enough to get behind the door, and, while the Old man was chiding his Daughters that they had not been a-bed, and had his back towards the Chamber-door, made a ſhift to get out, and going back the ſame way into the Garden, went into the ſame Arbour where he had been before, and were preparing himſelf for what ever might happen, he expected a favourable opportunity to make his eſcape thence.

There are, no doubt, thoſe, who think Love the [Page] pleaſanteſt thing in the world. But far is it from their imagination, that a Lover's conſtant courtſhips and adorations may at laſt be requited with contempt, ſcorns, frowns, and eluſions, which require an extraordinary meaſure of patience and good nature to endure them. Little do they apprehend, that a young Spark, after many years continu'd addreſſes, even when he thinks himſelf as it were within a barrs length of felicity, may, by ſome unexpected obſtructions and diſappointments, be tumbled into eternal diſgrace, and all this occaſion'd, not ſo much by any backwardneſs of his Miſtreſs, as his own unhappy miſapprehenſions.

Theſe were the reflections of the unfortunate Don Sancho, while Don Manuel was gone into his Daughter's chamber to fetch a Light, to bring in the Officers who were imperiouſly knocking at the Garden-door, upon the information they had receiv'd, that Don Manuel had entertain'd into his Houſe one of thoſe who had been fighting in the ſtreet. Don Manuel made no difficulty to let them in, to ſearch his Houſe, out of an aſſurance they would be ſo civil as not to look into his own Chamber, and that the Gentleman whom they expected to find, was ſafely lock'd in there. Don Sancho perceiving out of the Arbour, that it was impoſſible for him to eſcape the ſearch of ſo many Officers as were ſcatter'd up and down the Garden, comes out to Don Manuel, and whiſpers him in the ear, that a perſon of Honour would be more tender of his promiſe then to abandon one whom he had taken into his protection. Don Manuel, who was much ſurpris'd to find him there, entreated [Page] the chief Officer, to leave Don Sancho, in his cuſtody, till the next morning; which requeſt was ſoon granted him, as well out of a reſpect to his quality, as for that the party, whom Don Sancho imagin'd he had kill'd, was not very dangerouſly wounded.

The Officers, having receiv'd ſomewhat towards a morning's draught, took their leave, and departed; and Don Manuel, having diſcover'd by the ſame diſcourſe which had paſs'd between him and Don Sancho, when he firſt met him, that he muſt needs be the perſon whom he had receiv'd into his Garden, doubted not, but that the other was ſome Gallant, brought into the Houſe, either by Iſabella, or his Daughters. To be more fully ſatisfy'd of it, he conducted Don Sancho de Sylva into a room by himſelf, and deſir'd him to ſtay there till he return'd again. He went to that place where he had left Don Juhan de Peralto, to whom he told a feign'd ſtory, that his man was come into the Houſe along with the Officers, and waited below to ſpeak with him. Don Juhan knew that his man lay very ſick at that time, and not in a condition to come to him, though he had known where he was, which he did not. He was therefore ſomewhat troubled at what Don Manuel had ſaid to him, and ſo he had no other anſwer to make him, than that his m [...]n ſhould go and ſtay for him at his Lodging.

By this diſcourſe and ſome others Don Manuel found him to be that young Gentleman lately come from the Indies, who was ſo much talk'd of about Sevil, and, being ſufficiently inform'd as to his quality and eſtate, reſolv'd, he ſhould not go [Page] out of the Houſe ere he had married that Daughter of his, to whom he had ever ſo little addreſs'd himſelf. He ſpent ſome further time in diſcourſe with him, to be more fully ſatisfy'd as to ſome doubts, which then burthen'd his mind. Iſabella ſtood all the while at the door, and over-heard them, and gave an account of all to her Miſtreſſes. Don Manuel had a glimpſe of her, and imagin'd ſhe was come with ſome meſſage to Don Juhan, from one of his Daughters. He left him, to run after her, juſt as the Wax-light, which was in the room, being at an end, went out of it ſelf. While the Old man is groping to find out Iſabella, ſhe acquaints Dorothea and Feliciana, that Don Sancho was in their Father's chamber, and that ſhe had ſeen them talking together. The two Siſters ran thither upon her word, Dorothea being not afraid to find her dear Don Sancho with her Father, reſolv'd, as ſhe was, to acknowledge, that ſhe lov'd him, and that ſhe had been lov'd by him, and withall to tell him, upon what motives ſhe had appointed Don Juhan to come thither that night. She therefore goes into the room, which was without any light, and having met with Don Juhan, juſt as he was coming out, ſhe took him for Don Sancho, and having him faſt by the arm, ſhe thus expoſtulated with him. ‘Why doſt thou avoid me, tygre-hearted Don Sancho! and why wouldſt thou not what anſwer I ſhould make to the undeſerv'd reproaches thou haſt made me! I muſt confeſs, thou could'ſt not bethink thy ſelf of any too great for me, if I were as guilty as thou haſt ſome grounds to imagine: but thou art not to learn, that there [Page] are ſome falſe things, which have many times more likelihood of truth than truth it ſelf, and that this latter is ever diſcover'd by time. Allow me but ſo much, as may ſhew thee that which will recover thee out of the confuſion, in which thy own misfortune, and mine, and haply that of divers others, hath involv'd us both. Aſſiſt me to vindicate my ſelf, and run not the hazard of being unjuſt, by an over-haſtineſs to condemn me, before thou haſt found me really guilty. 'Tis poſſible thou maiſt have heard, that a certain Gentleman loves me; but haſt thou heard that I made any return to his love? Thou maiſt have met him here; for it is true, that his coming hither was by my appointment; but when thou ſhalt underſtand what deſign I had in it, I am confident thou wilt have a cruel remorſe, that thou ſhould'ſt injure me, while I give the greateſt aſſurance of fidelity I could. O that this importunate and troubleſome Servant of mine were here before thee! thou ſhouldſt find by the treatment I gave him, whether he ever had any ground to affirm, that I lov'd him, nay, whether he could ever ſo much as tell me that he lov'd me, or that I ever vouchſaf'd even the reading of any Letter that came from him. But that misfortune of mine, which always procur'd me the ſight of him, when it ſhould prejudice me, will not permit me to ſee him, when he might help to undeceive thee.’

Don Juhan had the patience to ſuffer Dorothea to ſpeak, without offering to interrupt her, that he might learn ſomewhat more than ſhe had yet [Page] diſcover'd to him. But perceiving ſhe had given over, and expected ſome return from him, he was going to give her a ſharp anſwer, when Don Sancho, who was looking for the way into the Garden, and heard Dorothea ſpeaking to Don Juhan, comes up cloſe to her, making the leaſt noiſe he could, yet not ſo as but that he was perceiv'd by Don Juhan and the two Siſters. They had not the time to ſpeak one to another, ere Don Manuel comes into the room with a Light, which ſome of his Servants carried before him. The two Rival-Brothers look'd one on the other, and were obſerv'd to be in a poſture ready to fall one upon the other, as having their hands on the hilts of their Swords. Don Manuel ſteps in between them, and commanded his Daughter to make choice of one of them for her Husband, that he might fight with the other. Don Juhan told him, that for his part he was ready to quit all manner of pretenſions, if he might have any, and ſubmitted himſelf to the Cavalier he ſaw before him. Don Sancho ſaid the ſame thing, with this addition, that ſince Don Juhan had been brought into Don Manuel's houſe by one of his Daughters, it was probable they had a mutual affection one for the other, and that for his part, he would rather dye a thouſand times, than enter into the ſtate of Matrimony with the leaſt ſcruple. Dorothea caſt her ſelf at her Father's feet, beſeeching him to give her audience, and he ſhould know how all things ſtood. She related to him all that paſt between her and Don Sancho de Sylva, before he had, in her quarrel, kill'd Don Diego. She acquainted him that Don Juhan de Peralto fell afterwards in love [Page] with her; as alſo with the deſign ſhe had engag'd her ſelf in, to undeceive him, and to adviſe him to demand her Siſter in marriage, and at laſt concluded her diſcourſe with this proteſtation, that if ſhe could not ſatisfie Don Sancho her innocency, and the continuance of her affection to him, ſhe would that very day enter into a Monaſtery, whence no perſuaſions in the world ſhould ever get her out again.

Don Sancho was ſoon ſatisfy'd with the account Dorothea had given of her fidelity towards him, and immediately demanded her in marriage of Don Manuel. By ſome paſſages of her diſcourſe concerning Don Juhan, particularly by the time of his firſt appearance at Sevil, the place whence he came in the Indies, and the Relations he had there, the two Rival-Brothers came to know one the other. Don Juhan finding alſo by ſome circumſtances of Dorothea's diſcourſe, the affection which her Siſter Feliciana had for him, humbly addreſs'd himſelf to her, aſſuring her that if ſhe ſtill perſiſted in the ſame ſentiments, he ſhould think himſelf the happieſt man in the world. He thereupon demanded her in marriage of Don Manuel, who receiv'd them both for his Sons-in-law, with a ſatisfaction that cannot well be expreſs'd.

As ſoon as it was day, Don Sancho ſent for the Marqueſs Fabiano, who came to participate of his friend's joy, after he had ſpent the night in diſtracted thoughts what ſhould have become of him. The whole buſineſs was kept ſecret, till Don Manuel and the Marqueſs had diſpos'd a Couſin of Don Diego, to whom his Eſtate, upon [Page] the other's Death, had faln, to forget his Kinſman's misfortune, and accommodate himſelf with Don Sancho. During this negotiation, the Marqueſs fell in love with a Siſter of that Gentleman's, and demanded her of him in marriage. He gladly entertain'd a propoſal ſo advantageous to his Siſter, and thereupon was content to accept of any thing they could offer on the behalf of Don Sancho. The three marriages were ſolemnized the ſame day, with ſo great content of all parties, as was not onely remarkable at that time, but continu'd many years after.

SCARRON's NOVELS.
The Inviſible Miſtreſs.
The Sixth Novel.

[Page]

DON Carlos of Arragon was a young Gentleman of an illuſtrious Family, well known in Spain under that name; his perſon ſuch, that a curious eye might have obſerv'd ſomewhat in him tranſcending all deſcriptions of the moſt elaborate Romances, yet not comparable to the noble accompliſhments of his mind. [Page] But what comes more particular to the character we have to give of him, is, that, at certain Showes, wherewith the Vice-Roy of Naples entertain'd the populace, upon accaſion of the Nuptial ſolemnities of Philip, the ſecond, third, or fourth, of Spain, (I cannot now well call to mind) he did things beyond their belief, who onely receiv'd them by relation. The next day after a famous Tilting, at which he had behav'd himſelf with ſuch gallantry, as rais'd no leſs aſtoniſhment in the beholders, than indignation and ſhame in thoſe who ventur'd at a trial of their addreſs in the ſame exerciſe, the Ladies obtain'd a permiſſion of the Vice-Roy, to go about the City diſguis'd, and mask'd after the French mode, for the convenience of ſuch Strangers as thoſe magnificencies had brought thither from all parts of the Kingdom. That day, Don Carlos put on the richeſt cloaths he had, and went, among many others, who, as ſo many Cockatrices, intended to murther all the Ladies they look'd on, to a Church, where moſt of the Gallantry were to meet. Where be it obſerv'd by the way, that Chriſtian Churches may be prophan'd, as well in thoſe Countries which profeſs moſt obedience to the holy See, as in others, and in ſtead of being us'd as the Temples of God, become a Rendezvous for thoſe who have not the opportunities ſo well to meet elſe-where. The onely remedy I can at preſent think of to prevent this ſcandal, is, that there be a new Officer created in every Pariſh, whoſe charge it ſhall be, to mark what perſons come to thoſe Sacred places upon Love-appointments, and if they will not depart the place by fair means, to drive them thence [Page] with as little regard, as they would do thoſe ſnarling creatures, which many times ſtick not to quarrel there, to the great diſtraction of people's devotion.

But ſome buſie-body will haply be ſo impertinent as to ask, why I ſhould trouble my head with theſe abuſes, as if I were ſome Maſter of a Pariſh, or Lay-Elder, that had a Maid who ſhould exerciſe his dog at home? I would have the fool that is ſcandaliz'd at it, know, that in this lower part of the world, all men are fools, as well as liars, ſome more, ſome leſs, and perhaps I who now ſpeak a greater fool than any, though it might abate ſomewhat of my folly, that I am ſo free to acknowledge it, and withal that this Book of mine, and all others of this kind, being but ſo many collections of fooleries, I hope, every fool in his quality and degree, will ſome-where or other light upon a little deſcription of himſelf, if he be not too much beſotted with ſelf-conceit.

But let the Reader take it as he will. Let me go on with my ſtory. Don Carlos, as I told you, was gotten into a Church, with divers other Gentlemen, Italians and Spaniards, who were ſtrutting up and down in their feathers, like ſo many Peacocks, and making reverences to more perſons than they were known to, (a vanity practis'd ſometimes in Churches as well as Hide-Parks) when three Ladies, all cloſe mask'd, ſingl'd him out from among the reſt, and having led him a little aſide, one of them addreſs'd her ſelf to him either in theſe words, or others to the ſame effect.

‘Signor Don Carlos, ſaid ſhe to him, I have a buſineſs to impart to you, whereof perhaps you [Page] little thought either before or at your devotions, which is, that there is in this City a Lady to whom you are extremely oblig'd. She was preſent at the Tilting, and all thoſe other exerciſes, wherein you have lately been engag'd, and always wiſh'd you might come off with honour, as you have done. She is not ſo vain to think your ſucceſs wholly the effect of her wiſhes, but leaves it to your ſelf to conſider, what degree of kindneſs you will allow her good wiſhes, and what a Ladie's concerning her ſelf ſo particularly in your good fortune may ſignifie; if it were expreſs'd in other tearms.’

The young Gallant was a little ſurpriz'd at the ſtrangeneſs of the adventure; but having recover'd himſelf, he made this Reply. ‘The greateſt advantage I can make to my ſelf of what you tell me, Madam, is, that I receive it from you, who ſeem to be a Lady of quality, and I am to aſſure you, that could I have imagin'd any Lady had had ſuch tender wiſhes for me, I ſhould have endeavour'd to do more than I have done to deſerve her approbation. And therefore, I am to account the obligation ſhe hath put on me the greater, in that it proceeds from a perſon, to whom I have not the honour to be known.’

The diſguis'd Lady told him, that he had not omitted any thing which might render him, even in the judgment of perſons leſs prejudic'd by kindneſs than that Lady, one of the moſt accompliſh'd men in the world. But another thing ſhe had taken particular notice of, was, that it might be preſum'd, by his Liveries of black and white, his affection was not any where engag'd. ‘I never [Page] underſtood, Madam, replies Don Carlos, what colours ſignifi'd in ſuch a caſe; but this I know, that it is not ſo much out of any inſenſibility, or indifference I have towards your fairer ſex, that I have not made my addreſſes to any one of it, as an apprehenſion of my own want of merit.’

There paſs'd abundance of other ingenuous complements between them, for their diſcourſe continu'd a long time; but I ſhall forbear the communication of them, not onely becauſe they never came to my knowledge, and that I am loath to make others out of a fear it might be to the diſadvantage of Don Carlos and the unknown Lady, who were infinitely more witty than I am, as I have been ſince inform'd by an honeſt Gentleman of Naples, who was intimately acquainted with them both. The reſult was this, that the mask'd Lady declar'd her ſelf thus far to Don Carlos, that ſhe her ſelf was the perſon who had that inclination for him. He deſir'd to ſee her; She deſir'd him to excuſe her for the preſent, telling him ſhe would endeavour to ſatisfie him ſome other time, and to aſſure him that ſhe was not afraid to give him a meeting, at which there ſhould be none but themſelves, ſhe would give him a pledge. With that ſhe diſcover'd to the gentile Spaniard, the faireſt hand he had ever ſeen, and preſented him with a Ring, which he made no difficulty to receive, but with ſuch diſtracted reflections on the odneſs of the accident, that he had almoſt forgotten to make her a congey, when ſhe took leave of him.

The other Gentlemen, who had, at a diſtance, obſerv'd what had paſs'd between Don Carlos and [Page] the Lady, though not over-heard their diſcourſe, ſeeing they were parted, came up to him, very deſirous to know what might occaſion ſo long a converſe in ſo publick a place. He freely told them what had happen'd, and ſhew'd them the Ring, wherein was a Diamond of very great price. Whereupon every one paſs'd his judgment on the adventure, and the reſult of the whole debate was, that Don Carlos found himſelf ſeiz'd by as violent a paſſion for the unknown Lady, as if he had ſeen her face, ſuch an inevitable influence hath Wit over thoſe that have any. Eight tedious days, and thoſe attended by ten times more tedious nights, paſs'd away ere he heard any further account of the Lady; which that he was extremely troubled at, I ſhould eaſily have believ'd, though I had never been told ſo much.

During that time, his divertiſement was to go every day to an acquaintance of his, a Captain of Foot, at whoſe houſe ſeveral perſons of quality met to ſpend ſome few hours and pieces at play. One night, that Don Carlos was not in an humour to venture any thing, but was going home much ſooner than he was wont, he was call'd by his name, from a ground-room belonging to a houſe, which ſeem'd to be ſome perſons of great quality. He comes up cloſe to the window, which had a grate before it, and preſently ſound by her voice, that ſhe was his inviſible Miſtreſs, who preſently ſaid to him; ‘Come as near as you can to the window, Don Carlos, I have been here a good while expecting you, that we may decide a difference there is between us. I have ſome apprehenſion of your impatience, and muſt permit [Page] you to expoſtulate, though you have not ſo great reaſon to complain, as you imagine to your ſelf. What conſtruction, Madam, replies Don Carlos, can I make of all theſe bravadoes of yours, when in the mean time you dare not truſt me with the ſight of your face, nay, after my ſo long expectation, think it a ſignal favour to me, to make your appearance at a grated window, and that in the night.’ No more of your cenſures, Don Carlos, ‘ſays ſhe him, be ſatisfi'd, that I think it not yet time we ſhould be fully known one to another, and imagine it not want of any confidence in me, that I have been ſo backward to meet you, but impute it to a curioſity I had to know you, before I ſuffer'd you to ſee me. I need not tell you, that in appointed combats there ſhould be an equality of arms: if your heart ſhould not be as free and dis-engag'd as mine, the advantage would be of your ſide; and thence it came, that I was deſirous to be inform'd concerning you. And what account have you receiv'd of me, ſays Don Carlos? The world, Madam, is full of flattery and calumny, it concerns you to examine well the credit of your ininformation. But may you communicate what you have found out by an enquiry which hath been ſo long a making as it is ſince I had the honour firſt to meet you? I have as much as I am ſatisfi'd with, replies the diſguis'd Lady, and it is onely this, that we are free enough to become one another's. No, Madam, ſays Don Carlos, there is a great inequality in the caſe; for you ſee me, and know who I am, nay you acknowledge your ſelf, that you have particularly enquir'd of me, [Page] whereas I never ſaw you, nor know who you are, nor where to be inform'd. What judgment do you conceive I ſhould make of this ſhineſs, and the earneſt care you take to keep your ſelf from my knowledge. Theſe myſterious proceedings are ſeldom us'd by thoſe, whoſe deſigns are juſt and generous; and it is no hard matter to deceive a perſon who miſtruſts no treachery; but he is not ſo eaſily deceiv'd twice. If you think to make uſe of me, to raiſe a jealouſie in ſome other, give me leave to tell you beforehand, that you will not find me for your purpoſe, and that I am not to be drawn into any other plot than that of being your moſt humble and moſt faithful Servant.’

The inviſible Lady ſuffer'd him to go on in his diſcourſe, out of an expectation, that, among the many things he ſaid, he might let fall ſomewhat, which might contribute to the further diſcovery ſhe was deſirous to make of him. But at laſt finding nothing to faſten on but his diſtruſt of her, ſhe made him this Reply; ‘Well, Don Carlos, have you been ſufficiently cenſorious, or am I yet to tell you, that your aſſurance of my ſincerity, muſt be the iſſue of your own belief of it, and that your haſtineſs will rather retard than haſten the accompliſhment of your deſires. Aſſure your ſelf therefore, without any further reflections on the grounds you have to ſuſpect me, that I am very real and ſincere, and that you ſhall find me no leſs in all that ſhall happen between us, and I expect you ſhould be the like to me. That were but juſt, replies Don Carlos, but it were requiſite I ſhould ſee you, and know who you [Page] are. It ſhall not be long ere you do, replies the Lady, and therefore, in the mean time, receive this Antidote againſt impatience, that onely by the trial I ſhall make of your conſtancy, you may attain what you pretend to from me, who now aſſure you, (to the end your courtſhip may not be without ſome encouragement and hope of requital) that I am equal to you as to Quality; that I have an Eſtate plentiful enough to maintain you in as much ſplendour as the greateſt Prince in the Kingdom; that I am young; that I may challenge ſomewhat of beauty; and for matter of wit, you are better ſtor'd your ſelf, then to be doubtful whether I have any or not.’

With theſe words ſhe ſhut to the window, leaving Don Carlos with his mouth open, ready to make her ſome Anſwer, ſo ſurpriz'd at the ſmartneſs of her expreſſions, ſo paſſionately in love with a perſon he had never ſeen, and ſo diſtracted at the ſtrangeneſs of the procedure, that, not able to ſtir from the place, he ſtood ſtill for a good quarter of an hour, making ſeveral reflections on ſo extraordinary an adventure. He knew there were many Princeſſes and Ladies of great quality then at Naples; but he knew withal, that there were many ſubtil Curtezans, eagerly bent to trapan Strangers, greet cajollers of ſuch as were ignorant of their impoſtures, and ſo much the more dangerous, by how much they were the more beautiful.

Having recover'd his aſtoniſhment, he went very diſconſolately to his lodging, but reſolv'd to proſecute the deſign wherein he was engag'd, with all the caution he could, out of a fear it might prove a cheat put upon him. I ſhall not tell you [Page] exactly whether he ſupp'd, or not, nor yet whether, in caſe he went to bed ſupperleſs, he ſlept, or not, and yet there might be much probability of the latter. Theſe conſiderable circumſtances of a Hero's life, I ſeldom trouble my ſelf or my Reader with, though it be very much practis'd by the Authors of much greater Romances, than the world is ever like to have from me. For thoſe Gentlemen give ſuch a punctual account of all their Hero's do, and regulate their employments according to the ſeveral parts of the day, appointing them to do ſuch a thing firſt, and then ſome other, as if they were ſhut up in ſome place of ſpiritual Retreat. For example, they muſt riſe betimes in the morning, and having met with ſome-body, though they had never ſeen the party before, entertain him or her, with the Hiſtory of their adventures, till they be call'd in to dinner: dine very lightly, and, as ſoon as they have din'd, retire into ſome arbour, to proceed in the continuation of it, or ſpend the afternoon in reading ſome Romance; when-ever they drink, take as many go-downs as there are letters in their Miſtreſs's names, in commemoration of them; and if the clock ſtrikes, make ſo many ejaculations for the good ſucceſs of their Loves. If the weather be inviting to go abroad, they are led into ſome Grove, where they are to acquaint the Trees and Stones with their misfortunes, till their ſupper-time calls them home, at which having, inſtead of eating, ſpent the time in ſighes and reveries, go and build Caſtles in the air upon ſome Turret, that looks towards the Sea, while ſome Squire or Servant diſcovers that his Maſter is ſuch a one, the Son of ſuch a King, and [Page] that there is not a better natur'd Prince in the world; and though he be then one of the handſomeſt men in the world, that he was quite another perſon, before Love had disfigur'd him. And thus they make thoſe whom they would repreſent for exemplars of all the great and heroick Vertues, in many things no better than ſo many Extravagant Shepherds and Don Quixots.

But to return to my Story. Don Carlos came the night following to the ſame poſt, where he found his inviſible Miſtreſs ready to entertain him. She ask'd him whether he had not been much troubled at the former converſe they had together, and whether it were not true, that he had entertain'd ſome diſtruſt of what ſhe had told him. Don Carlos, without anſwering her queſtion, entreated her to ſatisfie him, what danger or inconvenience there might be, in diſcovering her ſelf, ſince things were upon eaven terms on both ſides, and that they propos'd to themſelves no other ends in their gallantries, than ſuch as might be approv'd by all. ‘In that lies the whole danger of it, ſays the inviſible Lady, as you ſhall find in time; be you therefore aſſur'd, that I am real, and, in the relation I gave you of my ſelf, I have been ſo modeſt, that, without injury to truth, I might have told you much more.’ Their diſcourſe laſted a long time. They made ſome advance in the mutual love they had rais'd in one another, and at laſt parted, after a reciprocal promiſe to meet there every night, at the time they had agreed on.

The next day, there was to be an extraordinary Ball at the Vice-Roy's Palace. Don Carlos was in hopes to make a diſcovery there of the perſon, who [Page] would be inviſible to him in all other places. In the mean time he made enquiry, whoſe houſe that was, where he had receiv'd ſuch favourable audiences. He was told by the neighbours, that there liv'd in it an antient Lady, the Relict of a certain Spaniſh Captain, that ſhe liv'd very private, and had neither Daughters nor Nieces. He knock'd at the door, and deſir'd to ſee the old Lady; anſwer was brought him, that ſince the death of her Husband, ſhe admitted no viſits from any perſon whatſoever; which added not a little to the diſturbance of his thoughts.

Don Carlos went at night to the Vice-Roy's, where you may imagine there was a noble Aſſembly of Gallants. He very exactly obſerv'd all the Ladies, to find out her whom he ſo much deſir'd to know. He fell into diſcourſe with thoſe he met; but without any ſatisfaction. At laſt he ſingl'd out the Daughter of a certain Marqueſs, where his Title lay I know not, nor care much, eſpecially now we are come to an age wherein people are too forward to aſſume Titles of Honour to themſelves. The Lady was young and beautiful enough, and her voice came ſomewhat near hers whom he look'd for: but after much obſervation, he found ſuch a diſtance between her intellectu [...]ls and thoſe of his inviſible Deity, that it r [...]pented him he had in ſo ſhort a time made ſuch a progreſs in his courtſhip to that Beauty, as whence he might preſume that ſhe had a more than ceremonious kindneſs for him. They danc'd together ſeveral times, and the Ball being done, little to the ſatisfaction of Don Carlos, he took leave of his Captive, whom he left highly conceited of her ſelf, that ſhe alone, in [Page] ſo noble an Aſſembly, had receiv'd the gallantries of a Cavalier, who was no leſs eſteem'd by all the women, than envi'd by all the men.

From the Vice-Roy's, he immediately went to his lodging, and thence, having taken ſuch arms as he thought requiſite, to the fatal Grate, which was not far from it. The Lady, who was already got to her poſt, ask'd him what news he brought from the Ball, though ſhe had been there her ſelf. He ingenuouſly told her, that he had danc'd ſeveral times with a very beautiful perſon, and had entertain'd her with diſcourſe as long as the Ball laſted. This confeſſion gave her occaſion to put divers queſtions to him, whereby he might eaſily have perceiv'd that ſhe was jealous. Don Carlos on the other ſide diſcover'd the trouble of his mind, that ſhe had not been at the Ball, and that it gave him ſome cauſe to miſtruſt her quality. She ſoon obſerv'd what he would have been at, and to prevent the diſturbance ſuch a doubt might raiſe in him, ſhe us'd all the wit and Rhetorick ſhe had, and ſhew'd him all the kindneſs could be expected between two perſons ſeparated by an iron-grate, which concluded with a promiſe, that ſhe would be viſible within a very ſhort time. They thereupon took leave one of the other, he very doubtful whether he ſhould believe her, and ſhe a little jealous of the beautiful Lady, whom he had entertain'd all the time of the Ball.

The next day, Don Carlos going into a Church, to hear Maſs, and meeting juſt at the door with two Ladies mask'd, preſented them with holy water, to ſp [...]re them the trouble of taking it themſelves. The better clad of the two told him, that in requital of [Page] that civility ſhe had ſomewhat to acquaint him with, wherein he might be highly concern'd. ‘If you are not too much in haſte, Madam, ſays Don Carlos to her, you may immediately eaſe your ſelf of what you have to tell me. Follow me then into the next Chapel, replies the unknown Lady.’ She went in firſt, and Don Carlos follow'd her, much in doubt whether ſhe were his Miſtreſs, (though he was ſatisfi'd ſhe was about the ſame ſtature) in regard he found ſome difference in their voices, this Lady ſpeaking ſomewhat faſter than the other.

Having ſhut themſelves into the Chapel, ſhe made him this diſcourſe. ‘Signor Don Carlos, ſaid ſhe, the whole City of Naples is full of wonder, at the great reputation you have acquir'd, ſince the ſmall time of your reſidence in it, and you are look'd upon, by all, as the moſt accompliſh'd perſon in the world, Onely this occaſions a general aſtoniſhment, that, being what you are, you ſhould not have obſerv'd, there are in this City ſeveral Ladies of great quality and worth, who have a particular eſteem and kindneſs for you. They have expreſs'd ſo much, as far as modeſty and the reſerv'dneſs of their ſex would permit, and though they earneſtly wiſh you aſſur'd of it, yet would they rather it might be ſaid, you regarded it not out of a certain inſenſibility, than diſſembled your inadvertency, out of indifference. There is, among others, one, of my acquaintance, who, not regarding what may be ſaid of ſuch a diſcovery, gives you this eminent aſſurance of the eſteem ſhe hath for you, as to give you notice, That your mid-night adventures [Page] are obſerv'd; that you indiſcreetly engage your affection to what you have no knowledge of, and ſince the perſon you court as a Miſtreſs will not vouchſafe you a ſight of her, that it is either out of a fear ſhe is not amiable enough to gain your love, or aſham'd of her own. I doubt not but the object of your contemplative love is ſome Lady of high quality, and tranſcendent wit, and that you imagine to your ſelf a Miſtreſs who is, ſuch, of all the excellencies her ſex is capable of, and conſequently deſerving the adoration of ſuch a perſon as you are; But Signor Don Carlos, let me give you this advice, not to truſt your imagination, to the prejudice of your judgment, but rather miſtruſt a perſon, who diſguiſes her ſelf, and avoid all further engagement in theſe nocturnal converſations. To deal freely with you, 'tis I who am jealous of this fantaſm of yours, troubled you ſhould ſpeak of her, and, ſince I have expreſs'd my ſelf thus far, am reſolv'd to quaſh her deſigns, and defeat all her projects, ſo as to deprive her of a victory which I may juſtly diſpute with her; ſince I am not inferiour to her, either as to beauty, fortune, or quality, or indeed any thing that may render a woman amiable. Farewell, I leave you to make your advantage of the good counſel I have given you, which, if you are wiſe, I doubt not but you will.’

With theſe laſt words ſhe went out of the Chapel, not ſtaying for the Anſwer, which Don Carlos was ready to make her. He would have follow'd her, but he found at the Church-door a perſon of quality, who preſently fell into diſcourſe, [Page] with her, and continu'd it ſo long, that he grew weary of ſtaying to ſee her dis-engag'd. All the remainder of the day, his thoughts were wholly taken up with this adventure, and he ſuſpected, at firſt, that the Gentlewoman he had met with at the Ball, might be the laſt mask'd Lady, that had appear'd to him: but conſidering with himſelf, that ſhe ſeem'd to be much more ingenuous, than the other had diſcover'd her ſelf, he was at a loſs what to think of it, and began to wiſh he had not engag'd himſelf ſo far to his obſcure Miſtreſs, that he might have addreſs'd his devotions to her whom he had laſt parted with. But at laſt, reflecting that ſhe was no more known to him than his former inviſible Lady, whoſe wit had charm'd him in the converſation he had had with her, he reſolv'd what courſe he ſhould take, and little regarded the menaces which had been made him, as being a perſon not to be frighten'd with great words.

In purſuance of this reſolution, he went that very night to his iron-grate at the hour appointed. The two Lovers ſpent their time, much after the ſame rate as they had at their former meetings. But being come near the height of their amorous diſcourſe, it was unexpectedly interrupted by a ſtrange accident. Don Carlos was of a ſudden ſurpriz'd by four men in vizards, who having diſarm'd him, carri'd him away by main force into a Coach, which waited at the lower end of the ſtreet. I leave the Reader to imagine how heartily he rail'd on them, and the reproaches he made them, that they had taken him ſo much at their advantage. Nay, he tri'd what fair words and promiſes might do; but inſtead of prevailing ought [Page] upon them, it onely oblig'd them to look more narrowly to him, and deprive him of all hope to help himſelf either by his ſtrength or courage.

In the mean time, the Coach went forward as faſt as four good Horſes could draw it, and about an hour after they had left the City, he was brought into a magnificent Palace, the great Gate whereof ſtood open, as if it had been purpoſely for his reception. The four diſguis'd perſons receiv'd Don Carlos out of the Coach, holding him faſt under the arms, as if he had been ſome Ambaſſadour conducted to the Grand Signor, or the King of Perſia. He was brought up the firſt Story with the ſame ceremony, and there, two Gentlewomen mask'd receiv'd him, at the entrance of a ſpacious Hall, having each of them Torches in their hands. The diſguis'd men took leave of him, and withdrew, after they had made him a moſt low congey. 'Tis very probable, they left him neither Sword nor Piſtol, nor that he return'd them any thanks for the care they had of him, and their trouble to bring him thither. Not but that he was a perſon of as much civility as any man in the world, but one ſurpris'd may well be pardon'd the backwardneſs of expreſſing it ſo much as another.

I ſhall not tell you whether thoſe great Waxlights which the Gentlewoman held, were in Silver Candleſticks, but this I am ſure of, that they were carv'd and emboſs'd work, and the Hall was one of the moſt ſumptuous in the world, and, if you pleaſe, the furniture of it, without diſparagement, comparable to ſome Appartments of our late Romances, as for example Zelmana's Ship in Polexander, Ibrahim's Palace in the Illustrious [Page]Baſſa; or the Room, in which the King of Aſſyria entertain'd Mandana, in the Grand Cyrus, which, not to diſparage thoſe other I nam'd, is, one of the moſt magnificently furniſh'd Books of any in the world. Imagine then how much our cajoll'd Lover was aſtoniſh'd to find himſelf in ſo ſumptuous an appartment, attended onely by two Gentlewomen mask'd, who ſpoke not at all, and conducted him thence into another room, more nobly furniſh'd than the Hall, where they left him all alone. Had he been of the humour of Don Quixote, he would have been tranſported into ſome extravagance befitting ſo great an Adventurer, and he would have conceited himſelf at leaſt Esplandian or Amadis; but our grave Spaniard was no more troubled at it, than if he had been in ſome Inn, or Country-houſe of his own. True it is, he was much troubled for his Inviſible Miſtreſs, and having his thoughts continually fixt on her, he thought that room ſadder than any Priſon, which is neve [...] accounted handſome, but on the out-ſide. He was confident they intended him no hurt who had Lodg'd him ſo nobly, and wanted not much of being ſatisfy'd, that the Lady, who had ſpoken to him the day before in the Church, was the Sorcereſs, who had wrought all theſe enchantments. He admiſ'd in himſelf the fantaſtick humours of Women; and with what expedition they execute what they have once reſolv'd; and thereupon he concluded it his beſt courſe patiently to expect the period of the adventure, and to continue faithful to his Miſtreſs at the Grate, what promiſes or menaces whatſoever might be made to him.

[Page]Some time after, certain Officers belonging to the Houſe, all in Vizards, but very richly clad, came in to lay the cloath, which done, Supper was brought up. All was very magnificent; Muſick and Perfumes were not wanting, and our Don Carlos, beſides the ſenſes of Smelling, and Hearing, ſatisfy'd alſo that of the Taſte, much beyond what I ſhould have imagin'd, the condition he was in conſider'd; my meaning is, that he made a good Supper, for, as I told you, he could not live on the airy entertainments of ſighs, and amorous imaginations. I forgot to tell you, that I think he waſh'd his mouth before he ſate down, for I have heard, that he had an extraordinary care of his teeth. The Muſick continu'd playing a good while after Supper, and all having left him, Don Carlos walk'd up and down the room a good while, ruminating on all theſe enchantments, or ſomewhat elſe, it m [...]tters not much. At laſt two Gentlewomen mask'd, and a little Dwarf of a Page mask'd alſo, after they had laid a rich cloath on a Side-table, came to help him off with his cloaths, without any previous queſtion, whether he had any mind to go to Bed or not. He ſuffer'd them to do what they pleas'd; the Gentlewomen order'd his Bed, and march'd away; the Page help'd him off with his boots or ſhooes, and afterwards with his cloaths. Don Carlos got into Bed, and all this was done with as ſtrict an obſervation of ſilence of all ſides, as if he had been in ſome Monaſtery of Carthuſians. He reſted well enough for an amorous perſon; the Birds of an adjoyning aviary awak'd him at the break of Day; the mask'd Dwarf was ready to wait on him, and brought [Page] him the fineſt Linnen, the whiteſt, and beſt perfum'd that he had ever ſeen.

'Twere too hard a task to give an account how he paſs'd away the time from Morning till Noon, let thoſe who feel the gripings of a paſſionate love imagine it, as for other people, it matters not what they think. The ſilence, which had hitherto been exactly obſerv'd of all ſides, was broken at laſt, by another mask'd Gentlewoman, who came to ask him, whether he would be pleas'd to ſee the Princeſs of that enchanted Palace. He told her, it was his deſire, and that ſhe ſhould be very welcome. Not long after, ſhe comes into the room, attended by four Gentlewomen very richly clad, and with that luſtre and attraction, as if the Graces had beſtow'd the whole morning in dreſſing her. Never had our Spaniard ſeen a greater conjunction of Love and Majeſty in one countenance, than he now ſaw in that of this unmask'd Urganda. He was ſo raviſh'd and aſtoniſh'd together, that all the Congees he made, and the ſeveral poſtures he put himſelf into, while he led her by the hand into an adjoyning room, were little better than ſo many ſtumblings. What he had thought ſo ſumptuous in the Hall, and the other room, whereof I told you before, were nothing in compariſon of what he found in this, and yet as magnificent as all things were, they receiv'd ſome addition of luſtre from the mask'd Lady, who honour'd the place with her divine preſence. They ſate down on a ſumptuous Couch, the moſt ſumptuous that had ever been made, ſince the firſt invention of Couches. Having view'd him a while, to ſee how he kept his countenance, ſhe at laſt [Page] ſpoke to him, with a Voice as ſweet as a Virginal, diſcovering her mind in a diſcourſe, not much different from that I am now going to give you.

‘I doubt not, Signor Don Carlos, ſays ſhe to him, of your being ſurpris'd, at what hath happen'd to you in my Houſe ſince your coming into it laſt night; but if it have not had that effect on you which I imagine to my ſelf, I have however the ſatisfaction of aſſuring you that I am no worſe than my promiſe, and convincing you, by what I have already done, what I am further able to do. 'Tis poſſible, my Rival, your Inviſible Miſtreſs, may, by her artifices, and the good fortune of having engag'd you firſt, be abſolutely poſſeſs'd of that place in your heart, which I am to diſpute with her: but ſhe is no Woman that will be put off with one denial, and if my fortunes, which are not to be ſlighted, and all may be had with me be too weak a motive to induce you to love me, I ſhall yet have this ſelf-content, that I have choſen rather to run the hazard of being ſlighted for my imperfection, than obſcure my ſelf out of ſubtilty or ſhame.’

With thoſe words ſhe took off her mask, and gave Don Carlos a full diſcovery of Heaven, or, if you pleaſe, a ſmall draught of it, the lovelieſt Head in the world, ſuſtein'd by a Body of the nobleſt-ſtature he had ever admir'd, in a word, both together making up a perſon wholly divine. By the freſh complexion of her countenance, a Man would have gueſs'd her not to exceed ſixteen years of age; but a certain mixture, of majeſty and gallantry in the air of it, ſuch as young perſons [Page] are not arriv'd to, gave a greater aſſurance of her being four years elder.

Don Carlos ſtood mute a while, as being unreſolv'd what anſwer he ſhould make her, not a little incens'd againſt his inviſible Lady, who hindred him from making an abſolute diſpoſal of himſelf to the moſt beautiful perſon he had ever ſeen, and at a perfect loſs, both as to what he ſhould ſay, or what he ſhould do. At laſt, after an interiour conflict, which laſted long enough to raiſe ſome doubts in the Lady of the enchanted Palace, he took a firm reſolution, to make her a clear diſcovery of his ſoul, and it prov'd (ſuch is commonly the reward of ſincerity) one of the nobleſt and moſt advantageous actions he ever did. But you expect his anſwer. Many perſons, who have heard of it, have been of opinion he might have done better, and declar'd his mind a little more ſmartly, when he had once reſolv'd which game he would be at. But I am onely his Secretary, and think my ſelf concern'd in point of conſcience, to lay down the very words he deliver'd, which were theſe, as near as I can remember. ‘I muſt acknowledge, Madam, ſaid he, that it would have been too great a happineſs to pleaſe ſuch a perſon as you are, could I have been but ſo happy as that I might have lov'd you. I am ſufficiently ſenſible, that I refuſe the moſt beautiful perſon in the world, to court another who poſſibly may be ſuch onely in my imagination. But, Madam, would you think me worthy your affection, if you thought me capable of an unfaithfulneſs, towards a perſon, whom I had promis'd conſtancy? And is it conſiſtent mith my [Page] conſtancy that I ſhould addreſs my affection to you? But why do I ſay mine, when I have not had any to diſpoſe, ſince the engagement of fidelity I made to that Miſtreſs, who is yet pleas'd to be inviſible to me? You are therefore, Madam, not ſo much to blame me, as bewail my miſfortune; or rather let us jointly bemoan our ſelves, you, becauſe you cannot obtain your deſires, and I, that I cannot ſee what I love.’

He deliver'd this with ſo ſad an accent, that the Lady might eaſily obſerve he made a ſincere diſcovery of his thoughts. She omitted nothing which ſhe conceiv'd might perſuade him, to fall off from his former love; he was deaf to all, her entreaties, nay was little mov'd at her tears, though the greateſt Rhetorick a Woman can uſe. She renew'd the charge ſeveral times; he as obſtinately kept his ground. At laſt ſhe fell to bitter railings and reproaches, and having vented on him all the injurious expreſſions, that could proceed from exaſperated rage, and that a woman's, ſhe left him, not ſo much to conſider what he had to do, as to curſe his miſfortune. A Gentlewoman came in a while after, to tell him, that, if he pleas'd, he might take a turn or two in the Garden. He went, not meeting with any body in his way, till he came to the bottom of the ſtairs, where he found ten men with vizards on, who waited at the door, arm'd with Partizans and Carbines. As he paſs'd through the Court, to go towards the Garden, which was in all things anſwerable to the Palace, one of thoſe men, who ſtood Centrie at the gate, comes up to him, and whiſpers him in the ear (as if he had been much [Page] afraid to be over-heard) That he had receiv'd from an antient Gentleman a Letter directed to him, and that he had promis'd the delivery of it into his own hands, though it might hazard his life, if it were diſcover'd: but a preſent of twenty pieces, and a promiſe of a like ſumme afterwards, had prevail'd with him to venture the doing of that dangerous kindneſs. Don Carlos promis'd ſecreſie, and made all the haſte he could into the Garden to read what he had receiv'd from him.

THE LETTER.

Signor Don Carlos,

YOu may eaſily imagine what trouble I have been in, ever ſince I loſt you, by that you are in your ſelf, if ſo your love be as violent as mine. My affliction was not capable of any abatement, till I had diſcover'd the place where you are, and that's the onely comfort I have. The Lady, who contriv'd your ſurprize and carrying away, from the place where we thought our ſelves ſecure from ſuch ambuſhes, is the Princeſs Porcia. To ſatisfie her own humour, ſhe ſlights all other conſiderations, and you are not the firſt Reynaldo that hath fall'n into the hands of that dangerous Armida. But I ſhall break all her enchantments, and it ſhall not be long ere I force you, out of her embraces, into my own, a happineſs you will deſerve, if you are as conſtant as I wiſh you ſhould be, to

Your invisible Miſtreſs.

[Page] Don Carlos was raviſh'd to receive this account of his Lady, for whom he had a real and violent affection. He kiſs'd the Letter till he grew weary of that divertiſement, and return'd to the gate, to find out him from whom he had receiv'd it, and to require his kindneſs with a rich Diamond-ring, off his finger. He walk'd a good while longer in the Garden, wondring extremely at the ſtrange humour of that Princeſs Porcia, of whom he had heard much, as of a young Lady of a very great fortune, and deſcended of one of the nobleſt Houſes in the Kingdom; and being a perſon of great vertue, he conceiv'd ſuch an averſion for her, that he reſolv'd, though with the hazard of his life, to do all he could to get out of that reſtraint wherein ſhe kept him.

As he was coming out of the Garden, he met with a young Gentlewoman, unmask'd (for upon the Ladie's diſcovery of her ſelf, orders were given there ſhould be no more masks ſeen about the Palace) who ask'd him, whether he would be pleas'd to admit of her Ladie's company, to dine with him that day. I leave you to judge, whether he return'd, She ſhould be welcome, or With all his heart, or, That it was an honour he could not have aſpir'd to. Soon after, dinner was brought in; the Princeſs appear'd fairer than the Day, and her converſation took the amorous Spaniard ſo highly, that it bred in him a ſecret trouble to ſee, in a perſon of ſo great quality, ſuch excellent endowments ſo ſtrangely miſemploi'd. He endeavour'd all he could to put himſelf into a pleaſant humour, though his thoughts were continually fix'd on his unknown Miſtreſs, whom he was impatiently deſirous [Page] to meet with once more at the grate.

As ſoon as they had taken away, and all the attendants had quitted the room, the Lady aſſaulted his conſtancy one more, in theſe words. ‘I know not, Signor Don Carlos, ſaid ſhe, whether I may, from the chearfulneſs, which me-thinks I have obſerv'd in your countenance, derive any hope of ſome change in your mind, or preſume that my face and carriage, have at leaſt rais'd in you a doubtfulneſs, whether the inviſible Beauty, you ſo much dote on, be more capable to force your love than I am. I have not diſguis'd what I would have beſtow'd on you, becauſe I was not willing you ſhould repent your having receiv'd it; and though a perſon accuſtomed to receive Petitions, may eaſily be offended at a denial, yet I ſhall forget all reſentment of that which I have receiv'd from you, on condition you repair it, by your future compliance, in giving me what I conceive my ſelf more worthy of than the inviſible and inacceſſible object of your adorations. Let me therefore know your final reſolution, that if it prove not to my advantage, I may endeavour to find a counter-battery of reaſons, ſtrong enough to beat down thoſe which I think I have had to love you, that I may no longer purſue a vain hope, which will deceive me at laſt.’

Don Carlos paus'd a while, to ſee whether ſhe would have gone on with the diſcourſe, but perceiving ſhe had given over, and that, with her eyes faſten'd on the ground, ſhe expected the ſentence he was to pronounce, he perſiſted in the reſolution he had taken to deal freely with her, and put her out of all hope that he could ever be her [Page] Servant, and ſo made her this cold and comfortleſs Anſwer. ‘Madam, before I ſatisfie you, as to what you are ſo deſirous to know, I am to beg a real diſcovery of your ſentiments concerning what I ſhall propoſe to you, with the ſame freedom and ſinceritie, as you expect I ſhould obſerve towards you. If your ſelf had oblig'd a perſon to offer up his affections to you, and by all the endearing favours, which a Ladie may grant, without injurie or prejudice to her virtue, you had engag'd this perſon to ſwear and vow an inviolable conſtancy to you, would you not account him the baſeſt and unworthieſt of men, if he ſhould not perform the promiſe he had made you? And ſhould not I be this verie baſe and and unworthie perſon, if, though to obtain one ſo infinitelie deſerving as you are, I ſhould forſake a woman, who hath ſome grounds to preſume that I love her?’

He would have proceeded with this and other formal arguments, to ſatisfie her, but ſhe gave him not the time. ‘I have enough, ſaid ſhe, I perceive what your Anſwer will amount to, and cannot forbear admiring your conſtancie, though it be ſo much contrarie to my ſatisfaction. I ſhall importune you no further, to a change of the reſolution you have taken; you ſhall be deliver'd out of your reſtraint, onelie this kindneſs I ſhall preſs you to, that you remain here till night, to be remov'd hence, in the ſame manner as you were brought hither, aſſuring my ſelf, that if you ever come to diſcover where you have been, you will be ſo generous as to conceal the deſign I had upon you, and be moderate in the [Page] triumph of your fidelity.’ She held a handkerchief before her eyes, while ſhe ſpoke thoſe laſt words, as it were to keep her tears from being ſeen by the Spaniard, who, if, on the one ſide, troubled at what ſhe had ſaid, was, on the other, ſo tranſported with joy at the recovery of his liberty, that he could not have conceal'd it, though he had been the greateſt hypocrite in the world: and 'tis to be imagin'd that if the Lady had obſerv'd, he could not have avoided her reproaches. I know not whether he thought it long ere night came, for, as I told you before, I trouble not my ſelf much about the preciſe obſervance of times and hours: you may be aſſur'd it came, and that, being diſpos'd into a Coach, he was brought back to his own lodgings, attended by the ſame perſons who had waited on him the night before.

Being one of the kindeſt Maſters in the world, his Servants were over-joy'd to ſee him again; but they enjoy'd him not long. He put on armour, and accompani'd by two of them, whoſe courage he had former experience of, he made all the haſte he could to the Grate, nay his haſte was ſuch, that thoſe who attended him, had much ado to follow him. He had no ſooner made the accuſtom'd ſignal, but the inviſible Deitie anſwer'd him. They had a long diſcourſe, and that ſo full of affectionate tenderneſs, on both ſides, that I never think on it, without tears. At laſt, ſhe told him, that, having receiv'd ſome affront in the houſe where ſhe then was, ſhe had ſent for her Coach, to remove thence; but in regard it would be long ere it came, and that his might be ſooner got ready, ſhe entreated him to ſend for it, to conduct her to a place, where [Page] he ſhould not any longer complain of her inviſibility. The amorous Gallant ſtaid not for a longer entreaty, he ran to his Servants, whom he had left at the end of the ſtreet, and ſent them for his Coach, which being come, the inviſible Lady kept her promiſe, and went along with him into it. She gave the Coach-man directions which way he ſhould go, and bid him ſtop at a great houſe, into which he drove, by the light of many torches, which met them at the gate. Don Carlos conducted the Lady as ſhe directed him, up a large pair of ſtairs, into a ſpatious Hall, where he continu'd ſomewhat troubled to find her ſtill mask'd. At laſt, ſeveral Gentlewomen richly apparrell'd, coming to receive them, every one with a great wax candle in her hand, the inviſible Lady diſcover'd her ſelf, and taking off her mask, ſatisfi'd Don Carlos, that the Lady at the grate and the Princeſs Porcia were but one and the ſame perſon.

It were no eaſie matter for me to tell you, how ſtrangely the Spaniard was ſurpriz'd. The beautiful Neapolitan told him, that ſhe had brought him away a ſecond time, to know his final reſolution; that what pretenſions ſoever the Lady at the grate had to him, were now become hers, with a thouſand other things highly amorous and witty. Don Carlos caſt himſelf at her feet, embrac'd her knees, and kiſs'd her hands, and ſo avoided the uttering of many impertinences, which people overjoy'd are apt to be guilty of. When theſe firſt tranſportations were over, he rallied together all his wit and gallantry, to celebrate the pleaſant humour of his Miſtreſs, and acquitted himſelf in expreſſions ſo advantageous to her, that ſhe was further aſſur'd [Page] of her not being miſtaken in her choice. She told him, that ſhe was unwilling to truſt any but her ſelf in a trial, without which, ſhe could never have lov'd him, and that ſhe would never have been any man's leſs conſtant than he had ſhewn himſelf.

Upon this, the Relations of the Princeſs Porcia being acquainted with her deſign, came in to them. She being one of the moſt conſiderable perſons in the Kingdom, and Don Carlos of great quality, it prov'd no hard matter to get a Diſpenſation from the Arch-biſhop, for their marriage. They were married that very night, by the Parſon of the Pariſh, who being an eminent Preacher, 'tis likely, there wanted not a very good Exhortation. Some reported, that it was very late ere they were ſtirring the next day, which I am apt enough to believe. The News was ſoon divulg'd, whereat the Vice-Roy, who was nearly related to Don Carlos, was ſo glad, that the publick divertiſements began afreſh in Naples, where they ſtill talk of the Loves of Don Carlos and his INVISIBLE MISTRESS.

SCARRON's NOVELS.
The Chaſtiſement of Avarice.
The Seventh Novel.

[Page]

NOT many years ſince, a young Lad, poor, to the very loweſt degree of poverty, yet of an ambition exceeding it, and infinitely more deſirous to be thought a Gentleman, than to be accounted, either a rational Creature or a Chriſtian, came along with his Father out [Page] of the Mountains of Navarr, with a reſolution (whether guided by inſtinct, or encourag'd by the directions of ſome others of his friends, I could never learn) to plant themſelves at Madrid. They had heard much of the gallantry of that place, and were put in hopes, that they ſhould meet with thoſe thing [...] there, which they could not find in their own Country, I mean the favours and indulgences of Fortune, which are to be had at the Court, rather than any where elſe, yet are ſeldom obtain'd, without much courtſhip, and exceſſive importunities. It was the young Lad's good luck, though I know not by what charms procur'd, to be entertain'd a Page by ſome Grandee, or rather Prince, (for they have the vanity to think themſelves ſuch) a condition, not thought very honourable in Spain, that is, much at the ſame rate as that of Lacqueys in France or England. He was put into the Livery about twelve years of age, and, no doubt, he look'd very prettily in it, ſuch an alteration is the firſt ſmile of good fortune able to make, in one who, till then, had liv'd no otherwiſe than as an unciviliz'd Highlander. 'Tis poſſible, ſome other perſon would have grown inſolent upon ſo ſtrange a Metamorphoſis; but he was of a quite different temper, and withal the moſt frugal Page that ever was, nay, what is the greateſt commendation of a perſon of his quality, the leaſt addicted to an Art call'd the Lightneſs of the Fingers, as haply having not yet been long enough in the City, to underſtand the advantages of his profeſſion.

Having ſold his former rags to the Brokers, he began to think himſelf a rich man; yet did not his wealth conſiſt ſo much in the gaudineſs of his accoutrements, [Page] as in the greatneſs of his hopes, and a wretched Bed, diſpos'd into a ſmall partition of a Garret, which he had taken, not far from his Maſter's houſe, and there he retir'd in the night, with his Father, rich in years, ſince he liv'd, and, upon that account, raiſing a compaſſion in all he met, ſome were ſo charitable as to relieve him. Thoſe charities were his daily revenue, but ſo ſmall, that, many times, he went to his Cell, not onely ſupperleſs, but hungry. At laſt the old Man dyes, and his Son was glad to ſee him ſo well provided for, out of this reflection, that being disburthen'd of that charge, he was in a fair way to become a rich man. From the hour of his Father's interrment, he impos'd upon himſelf ſo great a frugality, and enter'd into ſo ſtrict and auſtere a kind of Life, that he ſpent in a manner nothing, of that little, which was allow'd him every day for his ſubſiſtance. 'Tis true, it was not without the grumbling and barking of his Stomach, and to the coſt of all thoſe, with whom he could make any acquaintance.

Don Marcos (ſo was called this remarkable example of penury) was a perſon of a ſtature ſomewhat below the middle ſize, and, through pure want of ſeaſonable nouriſhment, he, in a ſhort time, became the ſlendereſt, and drieſt perſon in the world. When he waited on his Maſter at table (which, it ſeems, was not ſo often as he could have wiſh'd) he never chang'd his plate, but that, if there were any thing left on it, he had the admirable ſleight of conveying ſomewhat into his pocket, whether it were dry or liquid he matter'd not much. But finding by experience, that, when he ſecur'd any thing of the latter kind, it could not [Page] be done without offence, he found out an expedient to prevent that inconvenience, for having converted into mony the wax of a great number of Torches ends, which he had very carefully kept together, he bought him a pair of pockets of your Latten-ware, wherewith he afterwards did miracles, in order to the advancement of his fortune.

Moſt covetous perſons are commonly vigilant and careful, and theſe two qualities, heightned by the inſatiable paſſion, which Dom Marcos had, to become a rich Man, rais'd in his Maſter ſuch an extraordinary kindneſs towards him, that he would not, by any means in the world, have parted with ſo excellent a Page. He continu'd him in his Livery, from the twelfth, as I told you, to the thirtieth year of his Age, ſo that, upon the account of his Seniority, he might have taken place of all the Pages in Spain. But there happen'd an inconvenience, which prevail'd with his Maſter to change that reſolution, and that was, that this over-grown Page was oblig'd to ſhave himſelf every day; whereupon being transform'd from a Page into a Gentleman, he was made by his Maſter what Heaven would never have made him.

The advantage of this transformation was, that his allowance was advanc'd, by a daily addition of ſome few Ryals; but he, inſtead of adding any thing to his expence, rein'd his Purſe-ſtrings the more, not regarding how much his new employment oblig'd him to betray a proportionable liberality. He had heard indeed, that ſome of his Profeſſion, inſtead of a Boy, to wait them, in the morning, made uſe of ſuch as ſold Aquavitae, to make clean their rooms, into which they got them, [Page] pretending that they would have drunk of their Water, and ſometimes in the Winter-time, they call'd up thoſe that ſold Wafers and Jumbals (a ſort of people that walk as late as the Bak'd-pipin wenches do about London) to get off their Cloaths; but in regard this could not be done without a kind of violence, and that our Dom Marcos was of an humour, not to be unjuſt to any but himſelf, he conceiv'd it his beſt courſe not to be troubled with any Servant. Never was there a Candle's end burnt in his Chamber, but he came to it by ſlight of hand, and to make it laſt as long as might be, he began to undreſs himſelf in the ſtreet, from the very place where he had lighted it, ſo that by that time he was come to his Chamber, he was in a manner ready to get into his Bed. But conſidering with himſelf, that it was poſſible a Man might go to his reſt with leſs charge, his inventive imagination found out another expedient, which was, to make a little hole in the partition, which ſeparated his room from his next Neighbours, ſo as that, as ſoon as he had lighted his Candle, Dom Marcos opened the hole, and ſo had light enough to do any thing he had to do at that time of the Night.

That one ſide of his Body ſhould not laugh at the other, nor either of them at the middle of his haunches, he wore his Sword one day on the right ſide, the next day, on the left, the third hanging perpendicularly down his back, and all this, that his Cloaths might be equally worn out of all ſides, and that the D [...]mmage ſhould be the leſs, being equally divided. Upon the very break of Day, he ſtood at his door, with a little Earthen pitcher in his hand, begging a little water of all the Water-bearers [Page] that paſs'd by, and ſo he ſuppli'd himſelf with water for many days together. He went many times into a little Buttery, juſt at the time that the other Servants belonging to his Maſter, who had their Diet in the Houſe, were at Meals, and there he would take occaſion to commend what they had before them, that ſome body might invite him to taſte of it. He never bought any Wine, yet drunk of it every day, either by taſting what the publick Criers carri'd about, or ſtaying in the ſtreets thoſe, who had been buying at the Cabarets, of whom he begg'd a taſte, as if he intended to buy himſelf of the ſame. Coming to Madrid upon a Mule, he caſt ſuch a miſt before the eyes of his Hoſts, that he kept the poor Beaſt onely with pieces of the Bed-mats on which he lay, and what other remnants of old Mats he could meet with.

There happen'd a neceſſity, one time, that he muſt take a Servant along with him, upon a Journey he had to make; but growing weary of him the firſt day of his ſervice, he bethought himſelf of a pretty device to put him off. Pretending that he could not drink the Wine at the Inn where he then was, he ſent the poor fellow to another, a good League diſtant, where he ſaid there was much better. There was no way but to obey the commands of his new Maſter; but, before his return, he was gone away, and had left falſe directions, where to find him, and ſo the poor Boy was forc'd to get back again to Madrid with a weeping-croſs, as being reduc'd to play the Pilgrim, and beg all the way, for the Mony he had given him to buy the Wine prov'd naught. In fine, Dom [Page]Marcos became the living pourtraiture of baſe thrift and avarice, and was ſo well known to be the moſt covetous Man that ever Spain bred, that, in Madrid, they had no other name for a miſerable fellow, than Dom Marcos.

His Maſter, and all his Friends, told a thouſand pleaſant ſtories of him, and that even in his preſence, for he never troubled himſelf at their diſcourſe, as minding his own advantage more than their raillery, though he underſtood it well enough, and would put in ever and anon ſome grave ſaying or Apothegm. One of them was, that a Woman could never be handſome, if ſhe lov'd to receive; nor ever deformed if ſhe had any thing to give: And that a prudent and thrifty Man ſhould never go to Bed, till he had made ſome advantage or other. This excellent Theory, ſeconded by as exact a Practice, had brought him in, by that time he was arriv'd to forty years of Age, ten thouſand Crowns in ready mony, a vaſt ſum for a Gentleman, waiting on a Grandee, eſpecially one of Spain. But what will not a long proceſs of time bring a Man to, when he robs himſelf of all he can, as well as other people.

Dom Marcos having thus acquir'd the reputation of being rich, without that of following any evil courſe or gaming, was ſoon look'd upon as an advantageous Match, by ſeveral Women, who, above all things, and with all the artifices imaginable, proſecute their own concernments. Among the many who proffer'd him their enjoyments and liberty, (for Women in Spain are but a ſmall degree above Slaves) there was one Iſidora, a Woman that went for a Widdow, though [Page] ſhe had never been married, and that it was at leaſt forty years ſince ſhe had been a Maid. She ſeem'd to be much younger than ſhe was, ſo well was ſhe vers'd in the diſguiſes and artifices, which Women ſometimes uſe, to bely their Age and Wrinkles. Her fortune was meaſur'd according to her expence, which was very high for a Woman of her condition; inſomuch that the common report, which is ever raſh and apt to lye, gave her out to be worth, beſides what ſhe might have in Mony and Jewels, three hundred Pounds ſterling per ann. and at leaſt ten thouſand Crowns in Houſhold-ſtuff. He who propos'd the match between Dom Marcos and this Iſidora, was a famous Trapanner, one that traded in all ſorts of Commodities, and a Hole-ſale-Marchant in the common Druggs of the female Sex. He gave Dom Marcos ſuch an advantageous account of the Lady Iſidora, that it made his teeth water to be acquainted with her, a curioſity he had never had for any perſon before. Nay, he perſuaded him ſo far that ſhe was rich, and the Widdow of a Cavalier, of one of the beſt Houſes of Andaluſia, that, upon the firſt propoſals, he accounted himſelf as good as married to her. That very day, this ſubtle Sollicitor of Venereal Cauſes, whoſe name was Gamara, prevail'd with Dom Marcos to go along with him to viſit Iſidora at her houſe. The covetous wretch was raviſh'd at the neatneſs and magnificence of the Houſe, into which Gamara brought him, but much better pleas'd, when he conductor aſſur'd him, that both it, and all within it belong'd to Iſidora. He found therein ſuch Houſhold-ſtuff, ſuch Alcoves, Couches, and a profuſion of Perfumes, as might become a [Page] Lady of the greateſt quality, rather than the future Spouſe of a ſimple Gentleman, that waited on a Grand Signor of Spain; and for her own part, he thought her at leaſt a Goddeſs. Dom Marcos found her very buſie, about ſome extraordinary Works, ſitting between two of her Waiting-women, both ſo highly clad, and ſo handſome, that, notwithſtanding the natural averſion he had for expence, and eſpecially that occaſion'd by a ſuperfluous number of Domeſticks, he would have married Iſidora, though 'twere onely out of an ambition he then had, to have, at his command, ſuch beautiful young Maids, as he took them to be. Iſidora's diſcourſe was ſo excellent, that it not onely pleas'd, but in a manner enchanted, Dom Marcos; and what made an abſolute conqueſt of his heart, was a magnificent Collation, at which the fineneſs of the Linnen, and the ſumptuouſneſs of the Plate were anſwerable to the other rich Houſhold-ſtuff of the Lady, at whoſe charge it was. There was preſent at this Collation a proper young Lad, named Auguſtine, well cloath'd, whom Iſidora ſaid was her Nephew, and whom his good Aunt, to ſhew her fondneſs of him, diminutively called Auguſtinetto, though he were above twenty years of Age. Iſidora and Auguſtinetto out-vy'd one the other in their treatment of Dom Marcos, and were ever preſenting him with what they thought beſt in the Collation; and while our up-ſtart Gentleman ſatisfi'd his half-ſtarv'd Stomach with proviſions for at leaſt one week, at the charge of another, his ears were charm'd by the ſweet Voice of the Waiting-woman Marcella, who, to the ſound of a Virginal, ſung certain paſſionate Airs. Dom [Page]Marcos forgot his Gentility, and fed like a Farmer, and the Collation ended with the day, the light whereof growing deficient was ſuppli'd by that of four great wax-candles, in candleſticks of maſſie ſilver exquiſitely wrought, which Dom Marcos immediately reſolv'd within himſelf to reform into one ſingle Lamp, as ſoon as ever he were married to Iſidora. Auguſtinetto took a Gitthar, and plaid ſeveral Sarabands, which the crafty Marcella, and the other Waiting-gentlewoman Inez, danc'd admirably well, exactly anſwering the ſound of the Gitthar with their Caſtagnets. The diſcreet Gamara whiſper'd Dom Marcos in the ear, that the Lady Iſidora went to bed betimes. The civil Gentleman ſtaid not for a ſecond advertiſement, and thereupon addreſſing himſelf to Iſidora, with ſuch extraordinary complements, and ſo great proteſtations of love and ſervice, as he had never made to any before, he took leave both of her, and her Nephew Signor Auguſtinetto, leaving them at liberty to ſay what they thought of him.

Dom Marcos being thus deeply fallen in love with Iſidora, but much more with her mony, acknowledg'd to Gamara, who accompani'd him to his own lodging, that the beautiful Widow had ſmitten him in the more amorous part of his ſoul, and that he would have parted with a finger, on condition he were already marri'd to her; inaſmuch as he had never met with any woman that pleas'd his fancy better than ſhe did, telling him withall, that after their marriage, ſhe ſhould not live at ſuch an extravagant rate. ‘She lives rather like a Princeſs, than the wife of a private perſon, ſays the cautious Dom Marcos to the diſſembling [Page]companion Gamara, and conſiders not, that the houſhold-ſtuff and plate ſhe hath, being turn'd into mony, and that mony added to that which I have, might bring in a conſiderable yearly rent, which we may lay up for a reſerve, and, by the induſtry it hath pleas'd God to beſtow on me, raiſe a plentiful eſtate and fortunes for the children we may have between us. But if Heaven ſhall think fit, that we have no iſſue, ſince Iſidora hath a hopeful Nephew, we will ſettle all we ſhall gather together upon him, provided he anſwer the expectation I have of his well-doing.’

Dom Marcos entertain'd Gamara with theſe diſcourſes, or others to the ſame effect, walking ſtill on, till he found himſelf juſt at the door of his lodging. Gamara took his leave of him, after he had promiſed, that the next day he would conclude his marriage with Iſidora, and given him this reaſon for his expedition therein, That affairs of that nature, many times, miſcarried as much by delay as by the death of either of the parties. Dom Marcos kindly embrac'd the dear carrier on of his deſigns, and diſmiſs'd him. He went immediately back to Iſidora, to give her an account in what poſture he had left her humble Servant, and in the mean time our amorous Gentleman taking out of his pocket the end of a wax-candle, he faſten'd it to the point of his ſword, and having lighted it at a lamp, which burn'd before a publick Crucifix, in a place hard by, not without making a kind of ejaculatory prayer, for the good ſucceſs of his marriage, he open'd, with a Miſtreſs-key, the door of the houſe where he lay, and laid himſelf down in his wretched bed, rather to paſs away the night in reflecting on his Loves, than in ſleeping.

[Page]The next morning Gamara comes to him, and acquainted him with the good news of the concluſion of his marrirge with Iſidora, who referred it to Dom Marcos, to appoint the day, on which it ſhould be ſolemnized. The amorous Miſer told Gamara, that though he were married that very day, yet would it not be as ſoon as he wiſh'd it. Gamara repli'd, that it depended wholly on himſelf to conſummate his own happineſs: whereupon Dom Marcos, embracing him, deſir'd the contract might be drawn up that very day. He appointed Gamara to meet him in the afternoon, as ſoon as he pleas'd, after he had waited on his Maſter at dinner. They both punctually met at the time and place appointed. They went to Iſidora's houſe, where Dom Marcos was more nobly entertain'd than he had been the time before. Marcella ſung; Inez danc'd; Auguſtinetto plai'd on the Gitthar; and Iſidora, the principal Actreſs, gave her future husband an extraordinary Treatment, whereof ſhe knew who ſhould defray the charge at laſt. He devour'd all was preſented to him with as little remorſe as a Wolf half-ſtarv'd; and yet he could not forbear cenſuring the ſuperfluity of the expence in his ſoul. Gamara was ſent for a publick Notary; he brought one to act that part. The Articles of the Treaty of Marriage were ſoon ſet down, and as ſoon ſigned on both ſides.

There was a motion made to Dom Marcos, that he would play a game at Primero, to paſs away the time. ‘Heaven and all the Inhabitants of it forbid, ſays Dom Marcos, I play at any kind of game! No, no; I ſerve a Maſter, who would turn me out of his ſervice within a quarter of an [Page] hour, if he ſhould ever hear that I were a Gameſter; and for my own part, I am not ſo well skill'd, as to know the Cards. How infinitely am I pleas'd with what Signor Dom Marcos hath ſaid, replies Iſidora, I am every day preaching the ſame thing to my Nephew Auguſtinetto, but the world is come to that paſs now, that the younger ſort think themſelves too wiſe, to receive the good counſels and admonitions of their elders, much more to follow them. Go thy ways, unhappy boy, ſays ſhe to Auguſtinetto, go bid Marcella and Inez make an end of their dinner, and come and divert the company with their Caſtagnets.’

While Auguſtinetto was gone down to call up the Maids, Dom Marcos, addreſſing himſelf to Iſidora, acquainted her with his mind in theſe terms. ‘If Auguſtinetto will do as I would have him, there are two things he muſt abſtain from, as the moſt contrary to my nature of any thing in the world, and that is, Gaming, and being abroad late in the night. I am deſirous that all thoſe who lie within my doors ſhould be in their beds betimes, and that, as ſoon as it is dark, the houſe-doors ſhould be well bolted and lock'd. Not that I am of a diſtruſtful humour; nay, on the contrary, I do not think any thing more impertinent than to be ſo, eſpecially when a man hath an honeſt and careful wife, as I am more than in hopes to have: but thoſe houſes, where there is any thing to be taken, can never be too ſecure from Thieves, and Houſe-breakers, for if there be but a ſink-hole left open, they will make a ſhift to get in; and for my part, it would break my heart, if ſome idle raſcal of a Thief, without [Page] taking any other pains, than what it co [...]s him to carry away what he finds, ſhould, in an inſtant, convey away, what I had much ado [...]o get together in many years. For theſe rraſons therefore, continues Dom Marcos, I will abſolutely forbid him Gaming and Night-walking, or reſign him up to be dealt with according to the diſcretion of the Devil, for Dom Marcos ſhall be no longer his Tutor.’

The cholerick Signor ſpoke theſe laſt words with ſo much tranſportation, that it coſt Iſidora a great many intreaties and ſubmiſſions, to lay his great ſpirit, and reduce him to his ordinary tranquility. She did as good as fall on her knees, to deſire Dom Marcos, that he would be no longer angry, aſſuring him, that her Nephew ſhould give him all the ſatisfaction he could expect, for he was but young, and of the moſt docile and compliant nature of any ſhe had ever known.

They fell into ſome other diſcourſe, upon the coming in of Auguſtine and the Dancing-women, and they ſpent ſome part of the night in dancing and ſinging. Dom Marcos, to ſpare himſelf the trouble of returning to his own lodging, would have perſuaded Iſidora, to condeſcend, that they might, from that time, live together, as man and wife, or that at leaſt he might lie in her houſe, in regard it was grown later than he had imagin'd. But ſhe put on a ſevere countenance, and earneſtly proteſted, that ever ſince the unhappy day that had reduc'd her to the condition of Widdow-hood, never had any man ſet his foot into the chaſt bed which had ſometime been her dear Lord's, nor ſhould any, till the Church had interpos'd her authority, and [Page] that, while ſhe were a widow, no perſon ſhould ever lie under her roof, but her Nephew Auguſtine.

Dom Marcos was much pleas'd with her reſolution, notwithſtanding his amorous impatience. He bid her good-night, return'd to his lodging, accompani'd by Gamara, took out of his pocket the candle's end, ſtuck it to the point of his ſword, lighted it at the Lamp before the Crucifix, in a word, did all he had done the night before, ſo punctual was he in all things, unleſs it were that he ſaid not his prayers, as he had done, haply becauſe he thought his buſineſs effected, and that he ſtood not in any need of Heaven's further aſſiſtance. The Banes of Matrimony were ſoon ask'd out, for there happen'd to come two or three holy-days together. At laſt, the marriage, ſo much deſir'd on both ſides, was conſummated, and the ſolemnity thereof occaſion'd a greater expence then was expected from the penuriouſneſs of the Bride-groom, who, out of a fear of making any breach in his ten thouſand Crowns, borrow'd mony of his friends. The chiefeſt of his Maſter's ſervants were at the wedding, and took occaſion ever and anon to commend the good choice he had made. The cheer was extraordinary, though at the charge of Dom Marcos, who for that time was content to defray all, and, by a prodigy of affection, had caus'd very rich cloaths to be made for Iſidora and himſelf.

The Gueſts departed in good time, and, the coaſt being clear, Dom Marcos went himſelf and lock'd the doors, and ſhut to and barr'd the windows, not ſo much for the ſecurity of his wife, as that of the Trunks, wherein his mony lay, which he order'd to be brought into his own room and ſet cloſe by the [Page] nuptial bed. The young couple went to bed, and while Dom Marcos was groping for what he could not find, Marcella and Inez were grumbling in their own chamber, at the ſtrange humour of their Maſter, and blaming the forwardneſs of their Miſtreſs, in taking a husband. Inez burſt forth into down-right ſwearing, and ſaid ſhe had rather be a Lay-Siſter in a Monaſtery, than Servant in a houſe, whereof the doors were lock'd up at nine of the clock. ‘And what would you do were you in my condition? ſays Marcella to Inez; for your buſineſs is to go up and down, to provide for the houſe, but for my part, who am a Gentlewoman made up in haſte, I muſt le [...]d a retir'd life, with the chaſte ſpouſe of a jealous husband, and, of all the Serenades, which were given under our windows, I muſt hear no more talk, than of the pleaſures of the next world. And yet we are not ſo much to be bemoan'd as our friend Auguſtinetto, ſays Inez. He hath ſpent his youth in waiting as a Gentleman-uſher on her whom he call'd his Aunt, though ſhe were no more ſo than I am, and now that he is come to write Man, ſhe puts him under the tuition of a Paedagogue, who, no leſs than a hundred times a day, will reproach him with his diet and cloaths, and God onely knows and himſelf, whether he came honeſtly by them. Thou tell'ſt me in that ſomewhat I knew not before, replies Marcella, and I give over wondring at the ſeverity our Miſtreſs pretended to, when her Nephew ad honores grew a little more familiar with us than ſhe would have had him. Had I been any thing forward to believe his proteſtations, I ſhould ſoon have depriv'd the Aunt of [Page] the Nephew; but ſhe hath bred me up from a child, and it is a certain gratitude, for us to be faithful to thoſe, whoſe bread we eat. To tell thee the truth, continu'd Inez, I cannot find in my heart to have any av [...]rſion for that young fellow, and I muſt confeſs, that it rais'd a great compaſſion in me, when I ſaw him onely dis-ſatisfi'd, and out of humour, among ſo many others who enjoy'd themſelves and were merry.’

In theſe diſcourſes did the two Waiting-women ſpend the time, after they were got into bed, and ſuch were their comments on the marriage of their Maſter. Honeſt Inez fell aſleep, but Marcella had ſomewhat elſe to do. As ſoon as ſhe perceiv'd that her companion was aſleep, ſhe puts on her own cloaths, and made up a great bundle of thoſe of Iſidora's, and ſome of Dom Marcos's, which ſhe had ſlily got out of their chamber, before the over-cautious Signor had lock'd the door. Having diſpatch'd her buſineſs, ſhe went her ways, and, becauſe ſhe had no intention to return ag [...]n, ſhe left open the doors of that part of the houſe where Iſidora liv'd. A while after, Inez awakes, and not finding her companion a-bed with her, ſhe was very deſirous to know what ſhould become of her at that time of the night. She hearken'd a while at Auguſtine's chamber-door, not without ſome diſtruſt and jealouſie: but not hearing any noiſe within, ſhe went to ſearch for her in all thoſe places where ſhe conceiv'd ſhe might be, and found her not, but all the doors, through which ſhe had paſs'd, wide open. She went and knock'd at that of the new-married couple, and did it with ſo much noiſe as put them into a fright. She told them that Marcella was run [Page] away, that ſhe had left the doors open, and ſhe was afraid, that ſhe had carried ſomewhat with her, whereof ſhe intended not ever to make any reſtitution. Dom Marcos ſtarts out of bed, as a perſon out of his wits, ran to look for his cloaths, but could not find them, nor Iſidora's wedding-gown. But what compleated his diſtraction, was, that, after a light was brought into the room, he found, what he leaſt ſuſpected, his dear ſpouſe of a far different figure, from that, under which he had been ſo much taken with her; nay, ſo dreadful was the ſpectacle, that the narrow-hearted fellow was ready to ſwound. The poor Lady ſitting up half-aſleep, half-awake in her bed, never minded, that her periwig was fallen off. At laſt, ſhe ſees it on the ground, fallen down by the bed-ſide, and, taking it up, would have put it on; but a thing is never well, when it is done with too much precipitation. She put on the dreſs with that part before which ſhould have been behind, ſo that her face, which, ſo betimes in the morning, had not receiv'd all its diurnal ornaments, appear'd in a very odd poſture, and painted as it was, ſeem'd ſo dreadful to Dom Marcos, that he was afraid it might be ſome apparition. If he caſt his eyes on her, he ſaw an uncouth monſter, and if he look'd about the room, he could not ſee his cloaths. Iſidora, extremely at a loſs, made a ſhift to perceive that ſome of her counterfeit teeth were entangled in the long, bruſhy, and well-briſtled muſtachoes of her husband. She went to retrive them thence with much confuſion; but the poor man, whom ſhe had frighten'd almoſt out of himſelf, imagining ſhe had no reaſon to put her hands ſo near his face, out of any other deſign, than to take [Page] him by the throat, or ſcratch out his eyes, retreated, and ſhunn'd her approaches, with ſo much nimbleneſs, that ſhe, not admitted to cloſe with him, was at laſt forc'd to acknowledge, that his Muſtachoes had got away ſome of her teeth. Dom Marcos, upon that, began to ſtroak them up, and having met with his Wives teeth, which had ſometime been thoſe of an Elephant, an original Inhabitant of Africk, or the Eaſt-Indies, he flung them at her head with much indignation. She gather'd them together, as well thoſe ſcatter'd in the Bed, as thoſe about the Room, and made her eſcape into a little Cloſet, with that exquiſite treaſure, and ſome head-bruſhes, which ſhe took out of the Bag, where her Night-cloaths were.

In the mean time, Dom Marcos having ſufficiently renounc'd his Chriſtianity, ſet himſelf down in a chair, where he made moſt ſad reflections on the misfortune had befallen him, in marrying a woman, who, by the ſnows of at leaſt ſixty winters, that powder'd her ſhav'd pate, had diſcover'd her ſelf to be older than he was, by twenty years, yet not ſo well ſtricken in them, but that ſhe might ſpend the other ſcore in his company, nay, haply more. Auguſtinetto, who was awak'd by the noiſe, came into the room, with his cloaths half off, half on, and did all lay in his power to appeaſe the Husband of his Aunt by adoption: but all the Anſwer the poor Man could make to his remonſtrances, was, to ſigh, and ſometimes ſmite his thighs, ſometimes his face, with his bare hand. Then was it, that he bethought him of a noble Gold chain he had borrow'd, to adorn himſelf withal on his Wedding-day; but all he had left of it, was that ſad [Page] remembrance. Marcella had got it in the bundle of cloaths, which ſhe had carried away. He look'd up and down for it, with ſome patience and tranquility, very diligently ſearching every crany about the Chamber: but when he had wearied himſelf with ſearching, and was convinc'd, that it was loſt, together with all the pains he had taken to look for it, never was there ſuch a conflict of rage and affliction, as then diſtracted the poor Dom Marcos. His ſighs were ſo loud, that, if people had been awake, they might have been heard over the whole quarter. Upon thoſe doleful lamentations, Iſidora comes out of the cloſet, but ſo chang'd, and ſo beautiful, that he thought his Wife now the third time metamorphos'd. He look'd on her with a certain aſtoniſhment, and ſpoke not to her with any indignation. He took out of one of his Trunks the cloaths he wore every day, put them on, and, follow'd by Auguſtinetto, went out to weary himſelf in running up and down the ſtreets, after the miſchievous Marcella. They ſought, and ſearch'd, and enquir'd, but all to no purpoſe, till the clock ſtriking twelve minded them of their Dinner, which was made up of what had been left of the Wedding-feaſt. Dom Marcos and Iſidora fell a quarrelling, as people that were deſirous to eat, and fed as heartily as people inclining to quarrel. Yet would Iſidora now and then put in a word, to pacifie Dom Marcos, and to bring him into his former peaceable humour, ſpeaking to him with the greateſt humility and mildneſs imaginable, and Auguſtinetto did all he could to make an accommodation between them: but the loſs of the Chain of Gold was as great a torment to Dom [Page]Marcos, as if he had been run through the Body with a Dagger.

They were ready to riſe from the Table, and onely ſtaid for Auguſtinetto to make an end, who minded his belly more than their difference, when there came into the room two men, from the Admiral of Casteel's Steward, to entreat Madam Iſidora, that ſhe would return the Plate he had lent her for fifteen days, and which ſhe had now kept a month. Iſidora knew not any other Anſwer to make them, than that it ſhould be forth-coming. Dom Marcos told them that it was now his, and that he would keep it. One of the men ſtaid in the room, to be in ſight of what they made ſo much difficulty to reſtore, while the other went to the Steward, who immediately came, and reproach'd Iſidora with her unhandſome carriage, made little account of the oppoſition of Dom Marcos, and all he had to ſay for himſelf, carried away the Plate, and left the Man and Wife ready to quarrel, upon this new occaſion of quarreling. Their conteſt was almoſt brought to an accommodation, when a Broker, accompanied by his Servants, and ſome Porters, came into the room, and told Iſidora, that, ſince ſhe was richly match'd, he came for the Houſhold-ſtuff ſhe had taken upon hire, together with the Brokage-mony, unleſs ſhe had a mind to buy them out-right, and ſo ſpare him the trouble of taking them down.

This unexpected accident put Dom Marcos out of all patience; he would have beaten the Broker; the Broker made it appear that he was a man as able to return as to receive, and fell a railing at Iſidora, who return'd him as good as he brought. [Page] He beat her; ſhe reveng'd her ſelf as well as ſhe could, the conſequence whereof was, that, in a ſhort time, the floor was ſtrew'd with the teeth and hair of Iſidora, and the cloak, hat, and gloves of Dom Marcos, who, though he had little reaſon for it, would needs take his Wife's part.

While the Combatants gather up the broken pieces of their harneſs, and the Broker carries away the goods, and is paid for the uſe of them, as a Broker, and that all together make a noiſe as if Hell were broke looſe, the Landlord of the Houſe, who had Lodgings in ſome part of it, comes into Iſidora's room, and told her, that he would not have ſuch a ſtir kept in his Houſe, and that if they reſolv'd to continue it, they ſhould look out for another Lodging. ‘How now, you impertinent Coxcomb, ſays Dom Marcos, do you get out of mine, or I ſhall ſend you hence with more expedition than you came hither.’ The Landlord anſwer'd him with a box on the ear; he who had receiv'd it, being weary of that kind of engagement, look'd about for his Sword or Ponyard; but Marcella had carri'd them away. Iſidora and her pretended Nephew ſtep'd in between them, and appeas'd the Landlord, but could prevail little with Dom Marcos, who running his head againſt the walls, call'd Iſidora a thouſand damn'd-baſe-pilfering-impudent-cheating-and-trapanning-Whores. Iſidora made him Anſwer, weeping, that ſhe could not uſe too much ſubtilty, to draw in ſo deſerving a Dom Marcos as he was, and therefore he ſhould rather applaud her ingenuity, than beat her, as he had done, adding withal, that a Husband, even in point of honour, was blameable for beating his Wife. [Page] Dom Marcos, ſwearing very learnedly, proteſted, that he knew no other point of honour than his Mony, and that he would be unmarried. Iſidora, with an exceſſive humility, made a contrary proteſtation, that ſhe would never conſent thereto; ſwore to Dom Marcos, that it was not in his power to diſſolve the ſacred tye of a lawful Marriage, and advis'd him to patience.

He was once more appeas'd, and bethought himſelf, that a new Lodging muſt be taken, the old one being grown too hot for them. Dom Marcos and the Nephew went out to take one, and ſo Iſidora had a little relaxation. Theſe unexpected accidents rais'd a little commotion within her, but when ſhe look'd about the room, and ſaw, not the Hangings, for thoſe were gone, but the Trunks well lin'd with Silver, ſhe took heart, and bore the more patiently the teſty diſpoſition of the Husband which brought them thither.

Dom Marcos took ſome convenient Lodgings in the ſame Quarter, where his Maſter liv'd, and ſent back Auguſtinetto to dine with his Aunt, being himſelf, as he ſaid, too much preſs'd with grief, to eat out of the ſame Diſh with that tranſcendent Cheat. But in the evening he came to her, with all the day's vexation, and cruel as a Tygre; not ſo much out of kindneſs to the Woman, as to viſit his Trunks, and, by his preſence, to ſecure them. Iſidora entertain'd him with all the ſubmiſſions and complacency imaginable; inſomuch that they lay together, and paſs'd away the night without any alarms. In the morning, as ſoon as ſhe was dreſs'd, ſhe had the confidence to deſire him, to go to the new Lodgings, there to receive the Goods, which ſhe [Page] would order her Nephew and Inez to ſee brought thither in a Waggon. Dom Marcos went thither, and, while he was contriving how to diſpoſe of them into ſeveral rooms, the ungrateful Iſidora, the young Rogue Auguſtine, and the perfidious Inez plotted together, and pack'd up all the beſt things in a Wagon, got into it themſelves, leave Madrid, and take their way towards Barcelona. Dom Marcos grew weary of ſtaying for them, and went back to his old quarters, where he found the Doors lock'd, and was told by the Neighbours, that they were gone away with the Goods many hours ſince. He return'd to the place from whence he came, imagining he had miſs'd the Wagon by the way, but found no more than what he had left there. He immediately marches back again, miſtruſting what misfortune might have happened to him; he breaks open the Door, and found there, onely ſome old Bed-ſteeds, Stools, Tables, and Fire-irons, which it ſeems they thought either too troubleſome, or not worth the carrying away. There was no body to be reveng'd on but himſelf; his venerable Beard and Hair were the firſt ſufferers for his folly; then his Eyes; he bit his Fingers till the blood guſh'd out, and had a great temptation to make away with himſelf; but the hour was not yet come.

There are not any ſo unfortunate, but they flatter themſelves with ſome hope: he ran up and down to all the Inns about Madrid, to find out thoſe, who had left him ſo baſely in the lurch, but could not meet with any tidings of them. Iſidora had not been ſo ſimple as to hire a Wagon that ſhould return thither any more; ſhe had taken it up at a Village not far from Madrid, and, to avoid [Page] purſuit, had agreed with the Wagoner, that he ſhould make no longer ſtay in the City, than were requiſite to take in her ſelf, her company, and her goods. Wea [...]ier than a Dog, that had run all day after a Hare and miſt her, the poor Gentleman was returning from his ſearching the Inns about the City and Suburbs, when it was his chance, to meet Marcella full-but in the ſtreets. He laid hold of her, ‘Have I met with thee, O thou moſt miſchievous of all thy Sex, ſaid he, thou ſhalt now reſtore all thou haſt ſtollen from me. O my God, my dear Creator, replies the crafty Baggage, without the leaſt diſcovery of any trouble, how did it always run in my thoughts, that all the miſchief would fall upon my head! My deareſt Maſter, be pleas'd to hear me, for the Bleſſed Virgin's ſake: do but give me the hearing, before your diſhonour me. I am an honeſt Maid, and of good repute, and the leaſt ſcandal you ſhould force me to give my Neighbour, would be infinitely prejudicial to me, for I am upon the point of marriage. Be pleas'd to go along with me into the Entry of this Houſe, and afford me but your patient attention for a quarter of an hour, and I will tell you what is become of your Chain, and all you have loſt. I had been already inform'd, that I was charg'd with all that had paſs'd, and I told my Miſtreſs what it would come to, when ſhe commanded me to do what I accordingly did: but ſhe was Miſtreſs; I, her Servant. Wo is me! How miſerable are they whoſe dependance is upon others, and what pains they take, and what miſchief they muſt ſometimes do, to earn a piece of bread.’

[Page] Dom Marcos was a perſon guilty of as little malice as any other; the tears and eloquence of the crafty Marcella prevail'd with him, not onely to hearken to her, but alſo to believe what ſhe ſaid to him. He went therefore along with her into the entry of a great houſe, where ſhe told him, that Iſidora was an old decai'd Curtezan, who had ruin'd all thoſe who were ſo unh [...]ppy as to fall in love with her, yet had not much advantag'd her ſelf thereby, by reaſon of the vaſt expences ſhe was at. She further acquainted him with what ſhe had underſtood from her companion Inez, that Auguſtin [...]tto was not Iſidora's Nephew, but a kind Night-bird, the Baſtard of another Curtezan, of her acquaintance, and that ſhe maintain'd him, under the notion o [...] her Nephew, to gain her ſelf the greater authority among thoſe of her own profeſſion, and to revenge her quarrels. She told him, that ſhe had deliver'd th [...] gold-chain & the other things ſhe had carri'd away, to that young Hector, & that it was by his order, ſhe had gone away in the night, and without taking her leave, which was a pure trick put upon her, that ſhe onely might be thought guilty of ſo l [...]ud an action.

This plauſible ſtory Marcella told Dom Marcos, out of a hope it might procure her eſcape out of his hands, or at leaſt to obſerve the good cuſtom, which moſt Servants have, to be very apt to lie, and to tell of their Maſters, as well what they do not, as wh [...]t they do, know. She concluded her vindication, with a promiſe that all things ſhould [...]e return'd him when he leaſt expected it, exhorting him in the me [...]n time to exerciſe his patience. ‘You ſpeak very well, ſays Dom Marcos to h [...]r, but I think it as likely, that I ſhall never ſee a [...]y thi [...]g again; [Page] there being but little probability, that the perfidious Quean, who hath carried away all I have been gathering together theſe thirty years, ſhould ere come back again to make me any reſtitution.’ He thereupon told Marcella all that had happen'd at Iſidora's lodgings ſince her departure thence. ‘Is it poſſible, ſhe ſhould be at ſuch a loſs of all conſcience, ſays the leud Marcella to him. Ah! my dear Maſter, now I perceive, it was not without juſt grounds, that I pitied your condition; but I durſt not tell you ſo much, for the very night your t [...]ings were carried away, I was repreſenting it my Miſt [...]eſs, that it would be unworthily done, to meddle with your chain; but what bitter words, and blows it coſt my poor carcaſe, he above onely knows. I have told thee but the truth, how all things ſtand, ſays Dom Marcos to her, fetching a deep ſigh, and the worſt of it is, that I have not the leaſt apprehenſion of any remedy. I have then ſomewhat to propoſe to you in this extremity, repli'd Marcella. There is a certain perſon in this City, of my acquaintance, who, with God's permiſſion, will tell you where you may find theſe people, who have ſo highly injur'd you. He is a perſon admirable for his deep learning, and one that hath Legions of Devils at his devotion, and comm [...]nds them with ſuch an abſolute power, as if he were the Prince of darkneſs himſelf. And what makes mo [...]e for the attainment of your deſires, you are to know, that this excellent man hath ſo great a kindneſs for me, that I am in hopes ere long to be his wife.’

The credulous Dom Marcos entreated her, of all love, that ſhe would bring him to the ſight of [Page] this miracle of the Black Art; which Marcella promis'd ſhe would do, and appointed him to meet her, the next day, at the ſame place. Dom Marcos came, and had not been there long, ere Marcella came alſo, who immediately told the beſotted man, that the Magician, of whom ſhe had ſpoken to him the day before, had already taken ſome pains, in order to the finding out of what had been ſtollen from him, and that, to carry on his work, he wanted onely a certain quantity of Amber, Musk, and ſome other Perfumes, to entertain the Spirits he was to invoke, who were all of the firſt order, and of the beſt Houſes in Hell. Dom Marcos, without any deliberation, carri'd Marcella to the Drugſters, and bought what quantities thereof ſhe appointed him, ſo infinitely did he think himſelf oblig'd to her, that ſhe had found him out a Magician. She afterwards conducted him to an obſcure houſe, which look'd very ſuſpitiouſly, where, in a ground-room, or rather a Cellar, wretchedly matted about, he was receiv'd, by a man in a long Caſſock, with a huge buſhy beard, who ſpoke to him with a great deal of gravity.

After a little diſcourſe, the Student of the infernal Sciences, whom Dom Marcos look'd on with abundance of reſpect and fear, lighted two black wax-candles, and gave them the frighten'd fellow to hold, in each hand one; caus'd him to ſit down in a very low chair, and exhorted him, but too late, not to fear any thing. He put afterwards ſeveral queſtions to him, as to his age, courſe of l [...]fe, and the goods which had been taken away from him; and after he had look'd into a Gl [...]ſs that ſtood by, and read ſome time in a certain book, he told Dom [Page]Marcos, who was ready to▪— for fear, that he had found out where the things were, and thereupon deſcrib'd them, one after another, ſo exactly, according to the inſtructions he had receiv'd from Marcella, that Dom Marcos let the candles fall out of his hands, to go and embrace him about the neck. The grave Magician blam'd him very much for his impatience, and told him, that the operations of his infallible Art requir'd a ſerious and reſerv'd compoſure of the body, adding withal, that, for actions, of a lower degree of confidence & familiarity, the Spirits had ſometimes beaten, nay ſtrangled ſome men. Dom Marcos grew pale at thoſe words, and ſetled himſelf again in his chair, after he had taken up the candles.

The Magician ask'd for the perfumes, which Dom Marcos had bought, and the counterfeit Marcella deliver'd them to him. Till then, ſhe had been a de [...]out ſpectator of the Ceremonies; but, being now upon the point of Invocation, he order'd her to quit the room, pretending that the Spirits could not endure the company of woman-kind, eſpecially if there were any miſtruſt of the dilapidation of t [...]eir Virginity. Marcella, making a low curtzy, went out of the room, and the Magician taking a copper chaffing-diſh, full of coals, made as if he c [...]ſt on them the perfumes, which Dom Marcos had brought, but he had mix'd among them a good quantity of ſtinking ſulphur, which made ſuch a thick ſmo [...]k, that the Magician himſelf, who had unadv [...]ſ [...]dly bow'd down his head too near the co [...]ls, was almoſt choak'd by it. He cough'd as viol [...]n [...]ly as if he had had a burr in his throat, and ſo o [...]ten, that his buſhy beard, which was not of the [Page] growth of the Country where it was then planted, and it ſeems had not been well faſten'd, fell down, and diſcover'd the Magician, to be the ſame pernicious Gamara, who had trapann'd him into all his misfortunes.

Upon this diſcovery, Dom Marcos made no difficulty to fling away his magical candles and to take the Impoſtor by the throat, which he graſp'd as hard as he could, crying out, with a dreadful voice, Thieves, Thieves. The Magiſtrate, attended by ſome Officers, chanc'd to paſs by juſt at that time; They came into the houſe, where they imagin'd the noiſe was made, which was the greater, in regard Gamara, whom Dom Marcos ſtill had by the throat, cri'd out as loud as the other. The Officers, at their entrance into the houſe, met with Marcella, whom they ſecur'd, and, afterwards, having broke open the door of the Necromantical chamber, they found Dom Marcos and Gamara grapled together, and tumbling up and down the floor. The Magiſtrate knew Gamara for a perſon, he had look'd after a long time, and one he had order to apprehend as a notorious Night-walker, a Pandar, and a ſearcher of other mens houſes without any Commiſſion. He commanded them all three to priſon, and caus'd an inventory to be taken of all things found in the room. Dom Marcos was ſet at liberty the next day, upon his Maſter's engagement for him. He was brought in as a witneſs againſt Gamara and Marcella, who were found guilty of having ſtollen thoſe goods of his which were named in the Inventory. There were many other things found, ſome whereof they had ſtollen, ſome taken in, as Pawns, for Gamara was a Jew, and conſequently a Broker, and an Uſurer. When he was taken, he was upon the point of marriage with Marcella, who brought him, as a portion, beſides what [Page] ſhe had ſtoll'n from Dom Marcos, an inclination to ſteal, not inferiour to that of her future husband; an aptitude to learn any thing he would have taught her, nay to exceed her Tutor, and a body handſome, wholeſome, and young enough, to be often bought, often ſeal'd and deliver'd, and likely to weather out, a long time, all the ſervices and inconveniences of Curtezaniſm.

The juſtneſs of Dom Marcos's cauſe, ſupported by the mediation of his Maſter, procur'd him the reſtitution of all had been ſtollen from him. Gamara was condemn'd to the Gallies for the remainder of his life, unleſs he ſhould out-live ninety-nine years; and Marcella was order'd to be ſeverely whipp'd, and baniſh'd; and the common opinion was, that they were both very favourably dealt with. As for Dom Marcos, he was not ſo glad of having recover'd ſome of his things, and being reveng'd of Gamara and Marcella, as troubled, that the cheating Rogue was no real Magician. The loſs of his ten thouſand Crowns made him in a manner diſtracted. He went every day to viſit all the Inns about Madrid, till, at laſt, he met with certain Mule-drivers, who, returning from Barcelona, told him, that they had met, within four or five days journy of Madrid, a Wagon, loaden with houſhold-ſtuff, in which there were two women and a young man, and that they were forc'd to make ſome ſtay at an Inn, becauſe two of their Mules had di'd by the way, through over-driving. They deſcrib'd the man and the two women, ſo as that Dom Marcos preſum'd they could be no other than Iſidora, Inez, and Auguſtine. Upon this advertiſement, without any further deliberation, he put himſelf into a Pilgrim's habit, and having got Letters of recommendation from his Maſter, to the [Page] Vice-Roy of Catalonia, and a Decree out of the Court againſt his fugitive wife, he took his way towards Barcelona, ſometimes a foot, ſometimes on Mules, and got thither in a few days.

He went immediately to the Port, to take up his lodging, and the firſt thing he ſaw, as he came into it, was his own Trunks, carried by Porters into a Shallop, and Iſidora, Inez, and Auguſtine marching after them, as a Convoy, to be thence convey'd into a Veſſel that lay in the Haven, wherein they were to embark for Naples. Dom Marcos follow'd his enemies, and went along with them into the Shallop, as fierce as a Lion. They knew him not, by reaſon of his broad-brimm'd Pilgrim's hat, and took him for one going to our Lady's of Loretto, whereas the Mariners receiv'd him as one of the ſame company, becauſe he came in ſo confidently along with them.

Dom Marcos, being thus got into the Shallop, could not ſit ſtill, by reaſon of the diſtraction of his thoughts, not ſo much out of any reflection what ſhould become of himſelf, as what ſhould become of his Trunks. In the mean time, the Shallop made towards the Veſſel, and with ſuch ſpeed, or rather Dom Marcos was ſo taken up with what run in his mind, that he was got under the Veſſel, ere he thought himſelf near her. They began to get up the things; which action awaken'd Dom Marcos out of the Lethargy he was in, which yet was not ſuch, but that he ſtill had his eye on the deareſt of his Trunks wherein all his mony wa [...] ▪ One of the Marriner [...] came to faſten that Trunk, with [...]ome others, to the pully, to be drawn up into the Veſſel. Then it w [...]s, that Dom Marcos forgot him [...]elf; he ſaw [...]he Trunk faſten'd; though he ſate cloſe by, yet was not mov'd; but ſeeing it lifted up in [Page] the air, he laid hold on it with both hands, by the iron rings, whereby it was remov'd from one place to another, reſolv'd never to part with it any more. 'Tis poſſible, he might have had his deſire; for what will not a covetous perſon do, to preſerve his mony? But, as ill fortune would have it, that Trunk got looſe from the other two, which were faſten'd with it, and falling juſt upon the head of the unfortunate Miſer, who yet would not let go his hold, tumbled him into the Sea, and thence into another place ten times deeper than it. Iſidora, Inez, and Auguſtine knew him, juſt as he and the Trunk were falling into the water: but the loſs of the one put them into a greater trouble, than the revenge they fear'd from the other. Auguſtine, enrag'd to ſee ſuch a vaſt ſumme of mony loſt, and not able to ſmother the firſt eruptions of his fury, gave the Mariner, who had been ſo negligent in the faſtning of the Trunks, a hearty blow over the face. The Mrriner return'd it with intereſt, and proſecuted his revenge ſo far, till, at l [...]ſt, he turn'd him over-board. As he was falling into the water, he laid hold on the unfortunate Iſidora, who could not lay hold on any thing, and ſo was forc'd to accompany her dear Nephew, who, much againſt his will, went to ſee what was become of Dom Marcos. Inez made a ſhift to get up into the Veſſel, with what was remaining of the goods, which ſhe ſquander'd away in a ſhort time at Naples; and, after ſhe had traded, and liv'd many years, a Curtezan, ſhe at laſt di'd like a Curtezan, that is, in the Hoſpital.

FINIS.

[Page]

Information about this book

Title statement

Scarron's novels ... rendred into English, with some additions, by John Davies ...Novels. English. Selections

Scarron, Monsieur, 1610-1660.

Edition statement

1665

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

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Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2007-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A62314

ID [STC]

Wing S833

ID [STC]

ESTC R13139

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

12388960

ID [OCLC]

ocm 12388960

ID [VID]

60944

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Early English books online.

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(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A62314)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 60944)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 227:18)

Source

— Scarron's novels ... rendred into English, with some additions, by John Davies ..., Novels. English. Selections, Scarron, Monsieur, 1610-1660., Davies, John, 1625-1693..

Extent

[23], 336 p. : port.

Printed for Thomas Dring ...,. London :: 1665.. (Reproduction of original in Yale University Library.) ((from t.p.) The fruitless precaution -- The hypocrites -- The innocent adultery -- The judge in his own cause -- The rival-brothers -- The invisible mistress -- The chastisement of avarice.)

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