THE ROYAL CAPTIVES.

TORN from the visions hope had been flatter­ing me with, I was plunged into this dreary abode. In the fourth room on my left, I saw, by the glim­mering of a lamp, the Marquis D****. He was reading; dejection had robbed his eyes of their brilliancy, his features were fixed by despair—I paused—One of the guards, I thought, looked sor­rowfully at the Marquis, who, raising his eyes to­wards heaven, exclaimed, "O merciful God! how long must I bear this thirst?"—A sigh broke from my bosom, but it availed not my friend, I was con­ducted to my cell, and left, in awful silence, to gloo­my meditation; yet pity, heavenly pity! had touch­ed the strongest fibre of my heart, and I forgot, for some moments, I came here to die. After a night of weariness, I arose; the sun had not gilded the grates of my prison, nor had the lark indulged her first rapture, when the groan of anguish left the bur­thened heart of some one near me—I listened— silence ensued, and after an interval of near ten [Page 2] minutes heard a door unlock—It was the door of the Marquis.

"Deadly draught! Bitter! Bitter to an extreme!" were his words. I felt agony not to be expressed, grew wild with horror, and knocked loudly on the inside of the door of my prison. It was opened by a soldier, in whose countenance were discernible the tumultuous traits of unfinished murder.

"What would you have, sir?—speak quickly— the commandant would reprove me did he know I obey unnecessary curiosity—"

"Surely thou couldst not do it; (said I, looking at him with amazement) if he is not yet dead, per­mit me to see him."

"Whom would you see?"

"That gentleman in the fourth room."

"He must die, sir. Nine days have elapsed since the lettre of death arrived.—He must drink"—

"Poison!" (interrupting him.)

"Yes, sir; the draught of sleep—he will feel little pain."

"How long has he been imprisoned here?"

"He was here before I came—I know not his offence—we only attend to guard-hours; prisoners must not converse with us, nor dare we make en­quiries; if we did, we could do no good, for our own lives are not worth much here."

"O Heaven! (I exclaimed,) is it possible those who boast the name of christian should thus revel in cruelty!—Lead me to the Marquis."

[Page]The soldier seemed irresolute; I slipped a purse into his hand; he was conquered, and left me near the bed of my friend; slumber, innocent as that of infancy, was gathering on his face, he raised his heavy eyes towards mine.

"From whence are you come"—

"Ah, my dear friend! do you not know me?"

"Is it, can it be my dear Henry?"

"Yes, it is that unfortunate victim of designing power."

"And come you here to seek a grave?"

"My dear Marquis, kings will be obeyed; how long have you lingered here?"

"You may remember the night when I attemp­ted your rescue: I found you noble, and without the tedious enquiries of who or what you were, disin­terestedly loved you, our intimacy was of short con­tinuance, I embarked for France the next morning, nor had I time to tell you my real name and quali­ty—my breath grows short—I long to sleep—take those papers, conceal them, do not forget me—I had a sister."—

He became lethargic, as he named his sister. I attempted at first to rouse him. Heavy sleep ren­dered him motionless, and I began to think my effort cruel, when the soldier who had listened at the entrance of a long and gloomy passage, return­ed; prudence whispering the danger of his seeing [Page 4] the papers of my friend, I concealed them in my bosom, and hurried to my apartment.

Wherefore are we virtuous! or why are the vo­taries of virtue not more numerous in the world? my friend, my lamented friend, was one of her sin­gular adorers: he lived beloved, he dies neglected! Give me, just heaven, the opportunity of avenging his fate, and take me to thy mercy! thus I feebly exclaimed, without reflecting that the doors of li­berty were for ever closed on me!

Throwing myself down, I endeavoured to collect my scattered ideas, and to reconcile my mind to the assemblage of mournful circumstances in which I found myself suddenly enveloped. Sullen are the rigid precepts of proud philosopy! we practice ap­pearances, we are stubborn in concealing our richest emotions, we assume above the vulgar, and we even bear with us to the grave the treasures of the soul! yet, nature freezes at dissolution, man is least train­ed in deception when he owns himself unwilling to undergo the great change—During the hour of sleep, fancy, in broken lineaments, brought the Marquis to my view, yielding to the power of death —Had not its terrors made sick my yielding spirit?

Awakened by some voices near me, I opened my eyes on two of the guards and a Cordelier.

"Leave me with your prisoner," said the latter, "I will confess him. Should his love of truth throw a light on the combinations of France; I have or­ders for some little indulgence from the King."

[Page 5]"Vive le Roi!" replied the guards, and respect­fully retired.

"God be with us, my son," said the good father.

"Eternally! reverend monk."

"Shrift, shrift!"

"I honour my king, love my country, and never conceal the emotions of my soul from my mistress or my friend."

"Know you that you are accused of conspiring against monarchy, of associating with the enemies of the king, and of concealing memorials which immediately concern the state?"

"Leave me to my fate!" I cried.

"Rash and ill advised youth! reflect on the value of existence, sport not wantonly with that power who willed thee into being."

"That power, Holy Father, now whispers here; I have given thee the energies of nature, pervert them not!" in pronouncing these words, I laid my hand on my heart, and Heaven is my witness, it beat firmly in unison; the Cordelier paused—I thought he appeared a little ashamed of his mission.

"The king will bless thy youth with luxury. and thy age with honour, so thou but yield his foes to justice."

"Bid him banish his ministers."

"Irreverend and disloyal!"

"Deceived old man!"

"Thou wilt undergo the torture."

[Page 6]"I expect it."

"Wilt thou not reveal thy friends?"

"Yes, tear my heart from its hold. Thou wilt find their impression there—away!"

The Cordelier looked full in my face, his eyes met mine, and I fancied a languid smile stealing across his features; but as he held his cloak over his mouth, I could not discern, nor was it of mo­ment to me, by what ideas he was animated.

But I soon blushed at the recollection of my rough manner, concluded it unworthly his resign­ed and sacred character, and began a more gentle apology when he abruptly withdrew.—My last mo­ment seemed now to approach—I pondered serious­ly on death, my anxions, my curious soul could pierce no further, I was incapable of wishing for immortality. Love drew me back to the world, while I vainly struggled to look forward to the grave. Lost in meditating on life's broken prospects, I stood, with folded arms, leaning against the wall, when my door was hastily unlocked, the guards en­tered, and I prepared to follow them to the place of execution.

"How happy you are!" said one of them.

"Trifle not with my feelings—lead on."

"The holy Cordelier has procured you the free­dom of the castle, but you must not pass the court gate."

They bowed, and left me astonished; here has [Page 7] comfort taken one step for me, said I to myself, who knows but she may take another.

Recovering, I flew to the door of the Marquis, and listening, heard him breathe—Joy revisited my bosom: love and gratitude arose for the Cordelier, and hope began busily to combine her images with­in my late desolated mind. Hope! thou dear, de­lusive power! how frequently dost thou charm and deceive, yet how eagerly art thou indulged by poor humanity! I now ranged through the awful pas­sages of this tremendous prison, my ears were salu­ted by varied sounds, but mostly by sounds of sor­row—the Marquis still breathed in the most pro­found sleep.

After having wandered back to my solitary cell, I cautiously took one of his unsealed papers from my bosom: it was a letter addressed to the duke of B****, from my late guardian the count de Marsan, a fragment of which ran thus:

"Your intriguing enemy, le chancellor de Tel­lier, not contented with persecuting you and the unfortunate Henry, has contrived to render many of the noblesse suspected. Three were accordingly arrested yesterday—remain where you are." Here were names mentioned which where most dear to [Page 8] me; but when the letter was written, or how it was to reach the duke of B**** I could not learn: ideas of past happiness now crowded on my me­mory, my imagination grew fervent, and the bars of my prison seemed to press upon my brain! "O my father! must I never see thee more! Where art thou, my long-loved Emily? Just heaven! for what mysterious purpose am I preserved!"—The hapless Marquis was not in a state for interrogation, all was a chaos within me, till burthened with wild and improbable conjectures, I yielded to repose.

Dawn no sooner appeared, than the dismal clank­ing of chains proclaimed the uprising of the gloomy inhabitants of the castle. I again waited at the door of the Marquis, in hope of hearing him breathe: I heard him not; the hour of the morning was yet but early, and I endeavored to console myself. Not knowing a spot within these walls that could afford me happiness, I was returning to my wretched apartment, when I met the soldier in the passage who had yesterday administered to the thirst of my friend. He held a cup full of a pale liquor, which seemed to congeal, as he stood, with its own som­niferous properties.

"Does the Marquis live?"

"He lives, and has called for more drink. My painful task was yesterday but half finished, and in this draught lies sleep eternal—Yet, go to him, [Page 9] Monsieur, persuade him to put off the last hour by refraining; for when he drinks he dies!"

Forgetful of my situation, I rudely seized the arm of the soldier, stared him wildly in the face, and saw his eyes swimming in tears—still I gazed with silent horror.

Ah, Monsieur! it is not the unhappy Malnor would destroy the Marquis! Deeply do I violate my feelings as a man; but should I refuse this exe­crable office, I must expire on the rack; nor would my death avail your friend. All here, who are sup­posed to be on the part of the state, are, from ne­cessity, executioners. Go, request him not to drink —and yet—if he should refuse, the little remnant of his life will be miserable—He must never drink more."

"'Tis too much," said I eagerly, and from sud­den impulse dashed the cup on the earth.

"What have you done! my life is gone!"

Brought to desperation, I panted with tumul­tuous and varied emotion.

"Give him water that he may revive—Fly, my good friend?"

"I must give him nothing—I have nothing to give, each victim is allowed but two draughts of powst. The commandant deals it out: I can pro­cure no more."

"Say thou hast given it him."

[Page 10]"And how will that serve?"

"Say he is dead."

"How bury him?"

I was foiled.—The poor soldier now appeared as one condemned by me: yet I secretly exulted in the effort of saving my beloved friend. After looking for some moments at each other, I recollected my­self so far as to desire him to be secret; again gave him gold, and he left me with a sigh that indicated more resignation than remorse. Instead of going to the Marquis, I staggered to my cell. Terror, amaze­ment, and pity conspired to raise an anarchy in my bosom—Where, at such a moment could my spirit find resource? I kneeled and implored the Ruler of the world. Lost in fervor, I was found by the generous Cordelier.

"May the Creator hear thee! was his saluta­tion.

I arose and accosted him with the purest affec­tion; his venerable beard concealed half his face, his cowl obscured his eyes, yet I heard his language with delight.

"O, my father! save my friend. He who rescu­ed me from death lies in yonder cell, doomed, in a few hours, to tremble in its last agonies!—Where shall I lose my memory, Cordelier? existence is becoming a burthen!"

My wild ravings shocked the Cordelier. He re­proved me gently, led my imagination through the [Page 11] universe, and dispassionately proved that nature being eternally at work, she must destroy equally as she renews; adding, "I know not thy friend— whoever he is, wilt thou for his sake give up the secret reformers of the nation?"

"No. I know no reformer; the few friends I have are noble."

"Then he must die."

"Die! unfeeling wretch! how darest thou, how dare thy king sport so easily with the life of man? Is this thy piety?"

"Be calm, my son; ungoverned passion makes virtue unamiable, and if thy stubbornness is to thee a virtue, preserve it in the inmost recesses of thy soul, but suffer it not to dwindle into childish im­patience, which can never profit mankind nor thee."

Strange force of deserved reproof! I blushed, my confusion owned the Cordelier just, veneration resumed its place, and I mournfully expostulated, "Ah, my father! to suffer my distraction, you must be acquainted with the mind of the dying Marquis D****."

"The Marquis D****!" said you? "where? O! where is he?"

"In the fourth cell on the left."

"Art thou in this dreadful habitation!"

Perceiving he was fainting, I caught him in my arms.

[Page 12]"O my brother!" said he, with a heavy sigh, as I placed him on a low bench, "is it possible after the troubles we have known I must meet thee here!"

I hastily informed him of the state of his bro­ther. And found him equally a stranger with my­self to the cause of his imprisonment. In few words, the Cordelier informed me, that had I been more flexible to his political solicitations, I should have been an object of his contempt.

"I officiate here in heavenly purposes, confess­ing those who are to die: in some future hour you will know me better—lead me to my brother!" I conducted him forward; to the guards he announ­ced the holy power of the church—they withdrew —and we found the Marquis in a heavy sleep. The Cordelier fell on his neck, the big tears dropped on the face of the unresisting sleeper, who once raised his eyes, met those of his brother and fell back from the fraternal embrace. Lethargy hung on his sen­ses: we could not rouze him, he looked around, rolling his eyes with a vacant glare. It was now the hour when the commandant of the castle came to visit the victims who were soon to die: He ap­proached, attended by the dejected Malnor.

Finely shaped, easy of deportment, and careless­ly polite, displaying a gold snuff-box in his hand, he directed his enquiries to Malnor.

"The gentleman is not quite gone, you say, [Page 13] Malnor?—Corderlier, I suppose you have prepared him?"

"His hands are cold—but his temples are yet warm."

"Well; let him lie undisturbed."

At the conclusion of this speech, the fellow took snuff with as much ease as he would have per­formed the same action at an opera; I stood silent­ly enraged. Happily the Cordelier's face was con­cealed, as he was kneeling at the side of the bed, holding his forehead with both hands, while his tears and sighs were mistaken by the gay comman­dant for devotion. Sanguinary power! by what infernal appellation art thou adorned who canst inure the heart to cruelty! Habit had frozen the feelings of this wretch; who after congratulating Malnor, on the little alteration produced by the draught in the placid countenance of the Marquis, gave orders for his interment at the midnight succeeding his departure, in the private burial ground.

Malnor, who was conscious of having but half compleated the work of death, trembled at the order, bowed, but made no reply to the obdurate superior; who by chance looked at me, expressed himself happy on seeing me at the castle, and retir­ed (singing an air of Voitures,) to visit other vic­tims who were under condemnation.

[Page 14]"Rise holy father! fruitless are thy tears! hea­vy despondency enervates thy spirit."

Without heeding me, the Cordelier gazed with agony on the Marquis, then turning to Malnor, feebly articulated,

"Hast thou a brother?"

The abrupt question discomposed Malnor— sympathy shone in the tear he endeavored to hide.

"I have a sister and an aged father," replied, he, "who bewail my loss, while I am confined here under an accusation of which I am guiltless; [...]he governor has thought proper to prolong my life, for the purpose of administering the fatal po­tion to those who are the victims of the state."

"Wilt thou be my friend?" cried the Corde­lier—"Art thou possessed of any means that will revive my brother?"

"To what purpose would you restore him," said Malnor, "heard you not the order of the Superior? Momentary restoration would but in­crease the pangs of struggling nature."

"Save him but for this night! to-morrow may be the season of mercy! I will hasten to the chan­cellor le Tellier, who is with his son Louvois, on the island, throw myself at his feet, and whatever be the crime of the Marquis, the chancellor will surely grant him life, on condition that he se­clude himself from the world for ever."

The Cordelier waited no reply, but left us hastily.

[Page 15]Malnor informed me, that the physician of the castle could furnish antidotes whose strong pow­er would expel the fumes of the chilling poison; "not," continued he, "that your friend can im­mediately recover, but the weight will gradually descend from the oppressed brain, as the stomach feels relief."

"Fly to the physician, my good Malnor, buy his silence with this gold, and let us force this vic­tim to taste the cordial of life!"

"I go," said Malnor, "but remember, if the Cordelier brings not his pardon, your friendship will be cruelty; man, naturally wishes to die with­out pain: when can the Marquis die with less?"

Reason and philosophy strengthened the max­ims of Malnor; yet, I bad him be swift and leave the event to Heaven. Thirty hours had the Mar­quis lain in a death-like stupor.—The soldier hast­ened to find the physician, and I waited, with pain­ful anxiety, the Cordelier's return. Too soon he ar­rived, with distraction in his countenance.

"Ah, my friend! I have been received with insolence, the Marquis is pronounced a traitor, and all the indulgence I can obtain is to inter him with his ancestors, in the chapel of St.*****. I kneeled, implored and exhorted the chancellor le Tellier, to beware of destroying the noble subjects of France; I did not confess the unfortunate Mar­quis was my brother, since the loss of my liberty [Page 16] could not alleviate his afflictions.—'Go,' said the proud minister, 'before you can arrive at the cas­tle, he will be no more, so trifling a sacrifice can­not secure the peace of my sovereign; more must expiate their disloyalty with their lives, when drawn from their hiding places; you have here an order for the interment of the Marquis, the favor is granted you. Bending myself, incapable of lan­guage to thank him for such a favor, I sorrowfully left his presence—Does my brother live?—I fear not—the commandant is apprised of the indul­gence granted me by the chancellor, and has him­self ordered a covered carriage to convey the body of the Marquis to the chapel: such is his fate. But for you, my dear friend, I have brought a habit exactly like my own: Put it on, conceal your face in the cowl, and follow the body of my brother through those fatal doors. The decep­tion will not be known. I can loiter in the cell, under pretence of devotion with the prisoners, till the guards are changed, and then pass unno­ticed."

Malnor returned at this moment, but no phy­sician.

"No, my good Cordelier," said I, "that brave soldier stands in danger of the rack: give him the habit, he may pass for a Cordelier in following the Marquis, and my anxious soul will stand acquit­ted of his fate."

[Page 17]"Preserve thy life at this hour, under the sanc­tion of my office; I may at some future period preserve Malnor."

But the intreaties of the Cordelier were una­vailing: I only requested him to conceal himself in my cell, that two Cordeliers might not at once be seen near the Marquis; he obeyed, and Mal­nor ventured the awful crisis; we could now dis­cern no pulse, life seemed to have retreated from the object of our cares, while we were contriving to secure it. Our tears, the last tribute of affec­tion, fell on his senseless bosom, and he was con­veyed through the eastern aisle to the carriage that waited for the solemn purpose, while Malnor fol­lowed with the certificate of interment in his hand; and fortunately passed the guards unques­tioned.

The fear, the danger of Malnor's departure, threw the Cordelier and myself into silent stupi­dity, we were nearly breathless with apprehen­sion—while every step, every little noise, sounded like thunder to our affrighted senses, the Cordelier sat himself down on my little bed, and found some relief for his troubled heart in a stood of tears; I attempted not to comfort him, a respectful silence better suited his excess of affliction.—The com­mandant's bell rang, the Cordelier was rouzed to a thought of safety. He embraced, and left me to fulfil his duty with those in the distant parts of the [Page 18] castle, who were penitent from terror, and wished for his consolation.

I had been five years a miserable wanderer in barbarous climes. Dragged from my friends, my father and the woman I adored; on my return could gain no information of those beloved objects, and while seeking them in every part of France, was arrested and thrown into this prison on the eighteenth of June, as I have above recorded. Though I had known so little of the Cordelier, and of his brother the Marquis, I felt a faint hope, from the letter I had already seen, that some in­formation might at a future period be gained from the former.

Eternal Creator! be thou the guardian of Emily! Whisper the danger of erring youth! bless her vi­sions with chaste delight, and breathe thy won­drous influence on her soul, gently as air wafts the dew of the morning!

Hourly struggling to forget that charming creature, I sank wearied with each day, and arose with the dawn to love and despair. Carried into the intellectual fields of the past by the power of memory, I sat on my little stone window seat till the clock at midnight struck one—one, and no more!—what a warning does it leave on the mind!—my meditations were broken, I prepared for repose, when I saw a paper lying on the floor, I eagerly carried my eye to the subscription, with­out [Page 19] glancing at the contents—It was EMILY, my dearest Emily?—Pressing her name to my lips with a rapture that in a moment bore me above the sense of my imprisonment, I hurried hastily round my cell, nor once recollected in my trans­port, that wherever my Emily was, I could not be!—I was too full of pleasure to sit down cooly to the enjoyment of it; my breath grew short, my heart fluttered, and I again opened the paper, as if fearful of increasing the wild emotions that had already so expanded my love-sick soul.—I, at last, with tears trembling in my eyes, read—

Here was distraction!—Ye who have felt the anguish of disastrous love! Ye whose sighs have been unpitied, while the hand of fate hath secret­ly torn your bosoms, mourn with me!

For Emily had my prayer arose! With Emily had I hoped to taste the joys of pure affection; where now is her heart? where her exalted senti­ments, where her gentle vows, where those soft [Page 20] endearments with which she once soothed me, till transport threw affliction from my bosom?— All is this vile Cordelier's—The dreadful work of seducing her once-spotless mind was reserved for him, while I, through every vicissitude, have been vainly nursing her image, till it is become incorporated with my being—Lovely, faithless maid! how bitter hast thou made my remaining hours!

I lamented the discovery—railed at the Corde­lier, resolved to hate Emily, or, which was more congenial to the violence that raged within me, resolved to make her mine at the expence of my honor; should chance ever afford me the revenge­ful opportunity. What fantastic ideas were these for a man in my situation! Yet, so does the hu­man mind often amuse itself with trifles, while labouring under great calamity; I ought to have delivered the papers belonging to the Marquis to his brother. It had been driven from my memory by the dismal events which had filled the preced­ing day. Little regret was now occasioned by this reflection. The friendship of the Cordelier no longer gave me pleasure. Love was banished from my soul, and vice seized the heart that had en­throned an angel!—I sickened with ingratitude, I grew impure:—Wonderful is the mechanism of nature, unsearchable the human mind. Love that gives birth to every virtue, to delicacy, sentiment, [Page 21] and the nameless graces that gild the world, left me a prey to the poisoned passions of evil, else how could I hate the Cordelier only because he was beloved by Emily?

Morning arose more joyless than I had ever known it, and a confusion of voices poured thro' the passage—I sat in my cell sullenly daring the worst, when I heard the name of Malnor hastily pronounced—Doors, which I had not heard sound since my confinement, were now thrown open, and I found, by the increasing din, that the guards were advancing towards the cell of the departed Marquis. The Governor's voice grew distinct; he mentioned me, and I fancied myself a devoted victim to the escape of Malnor. While I feigned a repose, my senses could not taste, the Governor found me reclined on the bed of wretchedness, ordered the guards to retire and accosted me po­litely,—

"Sir, can you command me in any thing that will oblige you?"

"Sir, I have a lively sense of the honor you do me, and thank you most sincerely," replied I, with a troubled look—He gazed attentively in my face —I felt as if Malnor could be seen through my eyes, and blushed at a deception so laudable in it­self. Had the Governor seized this moment of feel­ing, and boldly dared me with the question, I should firmly have confessed a conduct which gave me se­cret [Page 22] pleasure; but happily that moment passed on, and the blush left my cheek as my emotions sub­sided.

"You are distressed, Sir, said the Governor; I am equally so, but for very different reasons. You will be treated with lenity; I have orders for its being so. The cause of your confinement is per­haps unknown to you, for the intrigues of the cabinet are inexplicable, and it may afford you but little consolation to know your imprisonment will last for ever!"

I shuddered at the word.

"I know mankind, am acquainted, well ac­quainted with the passions, and since you may despair of ever returning to the world, I will, from that very despair, hope for the honour of your confidence; in return, I offer you mine."

What floods of thought came pouring on my soul at this declaration! I could form nothing clear—All my powers were enveloped by a gloom, through which I could not discern one ray of hope; enclosed for ever! cut off so suddenly from socie­ty, and no object to pursue, whose excellence could lead me progressively from the black temp­tations forming around! The Governor hoped much from my despair; he did suppose I had al­ready prepared myself for villainy, and that the banished Emily had drawn after her my whole train of virtues. His proposal came well-timed— It was seasonably abrupt, couched in language [Page 23] frank and easy, and I exchanged my faith with him, a faith that had no principle for its basis, a friendship uncemented by truth. The Governor bargained only with my despair.

After some little pause, he mentioned the escape of Malnor, adding, "the soldier was poor, I made him useful from his necessity, he was by nature too humane for my purposes, and if I only could be informed how he left the castle, I should not much regret his loss."

"What was his crime, sir?" said I with pertur­bation; "Of no magnitude—Almost nothing. He was only met conducting a royal fugitive through the woods, whose name and quality we believe him to be a stranger to, but fearing he should have discerned too much, we kept him a prisoner."

"Did he never own himself acquainted with his employer? or did you never put him to the question?"

"We strained him a little, but his honest sim­plicity convinced us he was ignorant of saving a man whose existence at this moment causes in­quietude in the bosom of our king—I shall use every means to detect him, though he deserves a better fate."

Politely wishing me a good morning, the Go­vernor withdrew, and left me to the motifying thought, that, Malnor alone could have informed me of my father; and, as if Providence meant [Page 24] to sport with me, I had been the instrument of his escape—My father! my injured father!—But what have I to do with tender ideas! Why should I indulge the soft affections? There exists not an object in the universe who will own itself in sym­pathy with me. No! I am forgot, despised, re­jected, I have been indulging only the vision of love. I have cherished only an image while ano­ther possesses the substance. I have cheated my­self; my force of soul is gone! and I am too en­ervated ever to look up the rugged heights of virtue.

Thus I raved awhile, and to those joyless mur­murs succeeded confused plans of vengeance. "Last night at the garden gate" did Emily wait, and not wait, for me! Where is the garden gate? Hastily opening the letter a second time, I read it over with care, but the silent messenger had gain­ed no new intelligence. The date was prior to my confinement; and how the letter came into my apartment was with me an undetermined point. It was probable the Cordelier had un­knowingly dropped it; but how could Emily form an assignation? Why did she not still love me? What had I done? I was only become unfortu­nate!—Yes—Heaven chose to render me unhap­py. Emily chose the Cordelier should make her faithless—Woman! Woman! why wert thou created! In the great journey of life, man fre­quently passes by the bliss he had long pursued; [Page 25] either he is insensible to its near approach, or, from some fatal timidity fears to seize it. There was a time I could have been as favored as this Cordelier, but that hour is gone—Here am I to remain for ever! These meditations availed me not, apathy was the sole comfort that offered.

From this period I was treated with respect by the guards, and with indulgence by the Governor; the latter, in confidence, conducted me into seve­ral apartments of the castle, hitherto concealed. Many noble and majestic forms, who seemed dig­nified by woe, appeared to my view; among others, a masculine figure caught my attention, his features and his attitude, as I looked at him, suffered no change, all were uniformly resolved.

We fixed our eyes on each other; our silence was interesting to the heart: bowing with that mournful reverence, which is ever due to digni­fied misery, I reluctantly followed the Governor. Some apartments, which were situated on the south side of the castle, I perceived he did not in­cline I should enter. Naturally, I wished to enter them, so prevalent is the mind to hunger after what it is denied; but, for this time, I was oblig­ed to forego my curiosity, and to be satisfied with [Page 26] what the Governor chose to afford. I quietly fol­lowed him, and he led me through a subterrane­ous passage, arched, and glittering [...], full of unwholesome droppings. The time was noon, yet so horribly dark was this passage, [...] a lamp was kept burning, and feeble was the lustre it gave.

We stopped at the end of this long vault, and my conductor made me observe a small door so finely contrived, and so shadowed by the artist, that it wore the resemblance of Gothic stone, and appeared but as an entire part of this antient struc­ture. I should have passed it unperceived, had not the Governor flipped back a private spring, and opened it to awaken my curiosity. We descended by a flight of steps. The air that met us was cold, damp, and of that sickly kind which bursts from a newly opened tomb. I began to think the Gover­nor had a design upon my life, and resolved, if so, he should buy it; my surmise was unjust. Find­ing we had at length reached the floor, and dis­cerning no glimpse of day, I enquired in what part of the castle we were, and for what purpose this horrid dungeon was designed. The Governor in­formed me it was an apartment seldom occupied, and never but by those who were under the neces­sity of taking an abrupt leave. While he was speaking, I fancied there was a rustling noise be­hind me, I started, the Governor smiled, asked me if I was afraid of rats; at the same moment, re­moving [Page 27] some massy bars, he threw back the shutter of a little window, or rather hole, which opened on the ocean. It was strongly grated with iron; the space from the sea, which was not above two [...]oises, was formed of solid rock, which served as a bulwark to the foundations of the castle, and against whose foot the billows continually wasted their force. Hence could no human voice ascend to society: the lamentations of death were but whispers here, and here might famine perform, unmolested, her slow and awful work.—When a brave man falls in battle, the glory of his deeds shine through his disastrous fate, and his friends feel a consolation in the retrospect of his conduct— But here oblivion fed in all her native darkness, and quietly prolonged the horrors of her victim.

Trembling with terror, I hastened towards the stone stairs by which we had descended, and left the Governor to replace the window-shutter by himself, as he best understood the work. In hur­rying up the stairs, I saw a small wire lying in the dust, I caught it up undiscovered by the Governor —it drew a miniature after it, which was rusted and disfigured, and which, caution, at this mo­ment, not suffering me to look at, I eagerly thrust into my pocket.

The Governor having made the window secure, I waited for him to lead me through further dis­coveries. As I stood on the last stair, a deep groan I was certain, stole upon my ear; I again descend­ed [Page 28] in haste, fearing the Governor might have hurt himself with the bar. I met him coming up quite unconcerned, and when I mentioned the circum­stance, was told, with the utmost sang froid, that groans would become more familiar to me as I became a more constant and peaceful inhabitant of the castle. Death is invisible in his labors, said I to myself; silence may benefit, complainings will not avail me.

"I can lounge no longer with you now," said the Governor. "Do me the favor of dining with me. If your taste for pleasure is adapted to mine, you may be happy; if not, you may, with little exertion, create misery for yourself. I leave you to your choice, for whatever be your pursuit, you shall not interrupt mine. I mean not to be im­polite, Monsieur, I only treat you with frankness, that I may, in the shortest manner, be understood."

"Do with me as you please, I once revered the excellence of human nature, I now am ready to exclaim with Brutus,

Guilt is fashionable, beauty wears it, I can adapt my taste to hers.—

"To whose?" said the Governor, laughing at my vehemence.

"To—" I looked at him wildly for a mo­ment.

"Come, come, your whole soul has some time [Page 29] or other been dissolved by tenderness—You are jealous, I suppose, or angry with the beloved object—Come, we will dine as happily as we can; if I can procure you any blessing, (but that of liberty,) I will not with-hold it from you."

Thou art a master of the passions, the springs of the heart are thine, and knowledge, I fear, hath been bought by thee at an inestimable price!

Reflecting thus, I followed my conductor, who scated me at a splendid table, where luxurious viands and exhilerating wines conspired, for the hour, to chace sorrow from the soul. Ease and charming conviviality sat on the brow of the Go­vernor—At that moment, surrounded by fainting wretches who had no cause to waft his name to the gates of heaven, he talked of men and things. Observing he was in a communicative mood, I respectfully requested him to give me his history —Smiling, with the utmost good humour, he re­plied,

"You lay early exactions on my friendship, but you will find in Dormoud a mind that shrinks from nothing: a miser creeps cautiously through the circles of mankind, observes the variety of ac­tion performed by individuals, seeks only one gratification, dallies only with those from whom he may cull the golden harvest; and returns laden to his dark chamber, where he gives a loose to those transports his treasure excites; the rapture his own; the heap his universe—I am that miser."

[Page 30]"'Tis impossible!" said I, while my eyes roved o'er the splendor and magnificence of taste with which we were surrounded.

"I am that miser," continued he. "I have de­ceived and laughed at the world from which I have accumulated every hour. My nerve of intel­lect is strong. I have used it to one sole purpose."

"And to what purpose?"

"Pleasure—I am a cormorant in pleasure. I know no enjoyment in gold further than it has been exchanged for happy purposes. Truth, prin­ciple, virtue, all those sounds, of which the self­denying appear to be so fond, I consider as re­straints for which we need not design ourselves— To give happiness to our fellow creatures is all we ought to live for. I, therefore, lulled the artless, humoured the weak, soothed the languishment of lovely woman, and thought myself justified; with these feelings, Monsieur, I own I might have been blest, but the ambition of general conquest too soon mingled itself with my passions, and the mo­ment I raised my eyes from the humble valley of delight towards its dangerous summit, I became more and more restless through every gradation, and such must be the effect with all who early pursue pleasure. Too often I found exalted souls on which I could not act; beings who possessed a power repulsive to all my machinations; happy in themselves, I could not draw them from re­serve; they noticed me not, or heard me only [Page 31] with indications of contempt. Hating the mind that had power thus to raise itself above me, I scorned to adore it; consequently you may con­ceive me seeking pleasure from weaker objects. My passions were high, my form not disagreeable, my education had been fashionable, I was metho­dised into address, and every rule deemed polite was mine. With these advantages, I approached the court; here formed by nature for voluptuous­ness, I expanded my views: I looked on Louis as my equal in the field of gallantry. I observed the pageantry of the great, and pronounced it the gilding of hearts like my own. Profusion, humility with man, and attention to woman, soon procured me access to the circles of the highest fashion, and Larissa, the charming Larissa, ranked me in the suite of her admirers.

"Hid in elegant gardens, at a small distance from court, this beloved favourite of Louis was, on account of the factions gathering over France, too frequently neglected by the Monarch, yet her power was great, her fascination irresistible; at least I felt it so, and with my usual beneficence of temper, resolved to alleviate the tender dejec­tion Larissa might feel in the absence of the king. Gold she could not be in want of, and strange as my purpose may seem, I wished to gain her through the more gentle avenues of sen­timent. This prelude I soon found unnecessary; [Page 32] Larissa had long forsaken, or had never possessed the angelic delicacy which secures the mind of man. I rivalled Louis, and was a short time en­raptured with Larissa.

"The duke of B**** taking me one day aside, told me I had long engaged his notice.

"I have but one recommendation, my Lord duke," bowing as I recommended myself.

"What is that Monsieur Dormoud?"

"Affection for the duke of B****, I will lure his mistress to his arms, or kill his enemy, I wear a smile and I wear a sword."—

"Agreed, I will employ you, in return com­mand my interest with the king."

"On further intimacy, I found the duke had indulged himself more in the social virtues (I must use that word) than in capacious pleasure; he was tender, humane, unsuspecting, full of courage and as full of pity. Such a character the world deems amiable, for me it contained materi­als on which I resolved to erect my fabric of ambi­tion. We made long excursion over the country, and I was walking one day with him near Rochelle, in the forest of ****, a sigh stole from his heart, and he addressed me in a melancholy tone."

"Monsieur Dormoud, in the friendship I have for you, is lost the sense of inequality. I would repose my cares in your bosom: sated with splen­dor, fatigued with state, and disturbed by the [Page 33] growing commotions of France, I languish for softer enjoyments. My rank, my character, my firmest resolutions have proved insufficient to shield me from the impressions of beauty. I love! Dor­moud, I love without hope, and without strength to disengage myself."

"Name the fair enslaver, my lord duke, Dor­moud may assist you."

"Ah, my friend! I am not myself acquainted with her name; hunting in this forest of ****, my horse, in full spirit, carried me from my friends and retinue; I did not regret the incident, while I enjoyed the view of a fine country, I rode on till my horse again caught the sound of the horn, when gazing around at the romantic wildness of nature, I saw a lovely maid without sense or mo­tion lying on the turf; her steed had thrown her, and coursed it through the thickets, as if rejoiced to have left behind him his charming mistress; in­stantaneously alighting, I raised her from the earth; innocence pleaded in her languid features: I softy laid my lips to her cheek with all the adoration due to heavenly purity; and, holding her to my bosom, impatiently watched the dawn of light that should break from her eyes—She opened them, my soul drank their fires till my peace was lost! Abashed and blushing to find herself in the arms of a man, her senses had nearly once more [Page 34] forsook her. Respectfully loosing her from my throbbing heart, I stood motionless and incapable of an explanation. "Where am I," said she, draw­ing her hand cross her forehead, "can you, sir, say how come I here?"

"She hesitated as if endeavouring to rouze the powers of memory; I related the situation in which I found her; relieving her apprehension by most solemn assurances of honour—How lovely is woman when unartful! my friends were near, the hounds awakened echo from the hills to pro­claim their approach. I felt for the reputation of the lady; my friends were men of fashion and gal­lantry, who never took leisure to reflect, or draw from the blended snare of passion and habit that sublime veneration claimed by the unsullied mind. The delicacy of the gentle maid took the alarm; her horse had not appeared, nor could I quit her to seek him; hastily casting her eyes over the plain, as if wishing some other protector, she incoherently a­pologised—and, half breathless, concluded, "Yon­der, Sir, is a house, belonging to my father's ver­derer. I give you much uneasiness, I perceive you are as much confused as I am; will you be con­tent with my poor thanks? they are grateful—I will ever think of you with esteem."

"Unwilling to reveal my rank, I struggled with my emotions; caught her look of gratitude, hung on her voice as she bade me farewell, and setting [Page 35] spurs to my horse, rejoined my friends"—here the duke paused.

"You have power," said I, "and power alone is sufficient to accomplish every wish in France."

"The heart must be soothed, Dormoud. Love disdains the fetters of power: I would not rudely seize the blessing, which is only valuable when mutually exchanged."

"I laughed at his scruples, and resolved to be­hold the beauty, of which the duke gave me so in­flaming a picture.—He resumed.

"Can you procure me, or advise me how to gain an interview with my fair conqueror?"

"I will think of it, my lord, but am this even­ing engaged."

"With your politic mistress, Larissa, I suppose —beware Dormoud!—Should our jealous mo­narch surprise you, you will never please a king's favorite more; and, if proving to you, the ingra­titude, coarseness, and insensibility of Larissa, will timely secure you from so dangerous an amour, I will display those defects in that enchantress."

"My pride was wounded; to share her affec­tions with a king, was secretly my glory; to find her universal in her objects humbled me.

"The duke smiled, enjoyed my confusion, and, carelessly drawing from his pocket a billet-doux, read:

"Did you obey this summons, my lord?"

"Call it an invitation," said the duke, smiling at the abruptness of my question, "I perceive you do not wish for an affirmative; but would Dormoud have refused," continued he, with an air of triumph.

"Hate, jealousy, and revenge began to kindle within me; the duke diverted himself at my ex­pence, rallied, laughed, trifled with my sullenness, and with the utmost indifference went on;

"Imagining myself pointed at, I burned with rage, yet was obliged to be silent. I had entangled the duke in the web of confidence, but dared not oppose him; Larissa had ensnared the king, while she was raising me to a summit, from which I could look down on powerless virtue, and often was the [Page 37] honest pride of worth insulted by my contempt. But the duke was yet my superior—Politely wish­ing me a fair evening, he left me. I stole to Larissa. Reclined in her farthest apartment, adorned but with the loveliness of a dishabille, she arose and welcomed me after the manner of France. All was still, save soft music in an antichamber, the sounds of which were calculated to melt the soul to the latest ebb of languishment; and thus dissolved with unattended beauty, who could soar beyond the scene? Yet, my assurances and proofs of fidelity and love appeared inadequate to Larissa's affec­tion. I patiently heard her gentle reprovings, felt them just, but endeavored to remind her, that mu­tual happiness could only be born of mutual faith, that love alone was the source of constancy, and that various passions ran round the heart of man in such regular rotation, that he could not either love or hate, longer than the influence of the then reigning passion was dealt to him. Whether the opinion of Larissa varied from my theory; or, whether she wisely judged that love is not eternal, and that mutual faith dies away, we know not how—I was at a loss to determine. I was only cer­tain, that as I sat listening to her chidings, the sound of the music seemed to labour into harshness and discordance, not did Larissa herself appear so attractive as I thought she might, if dressed by the cooler hand of prudence.

[Page 38]"Ah, Larissa!" said I, "with an involuntary peevishness, if lovely woman would preserve her empire, she must be virtuous!"

"What malicious daemon could put such an aukward sentence into my mouth at such a mo­ment? Larissa was fired, she upbraided me with obligations; despised my mercenary passion, hated, smiled, wept, again soothed me by her softness, and was convinced I was her slave."

In spite of my cares I could not help smiling at Dormoud's pleasantry. He continued—

"Aye, aye, Monsieur, we may boast suprema­ey, rely on our strength, and endeavor to lessen woman, but we are her dupes, why?—because her powers are light, delicate, and exquisitely wrought; ours slow, obtuse, solid and considerate; while man is plodding how to creep after event, woman trifles with him, dazzles his judgment, skips over him, and seizes her point with agility— fools that we are!"

What stoic could confine his muscles of risibi­lity at this harangue of Dormoud, so full of na­ture, truth, and self-mortification? He proceed­ed.—

"Aurora now threw her blushes into the apart­ment of Larissa; they suddenly tinged the cheek of my fair mistress, mine caught the glow, and I retired. On passing through the garden where the flowers, unheedful of erring man, threw their [Page 39] odours to the sun, I was met by a page, who sur­veyed me with silent curiosity. Passing him with feigned composure, I hastened from a spot where danger was awake; on this single moment hung the fate of Larissa. But man was made to go for­ward, not one shall go back through his yesterday. Wise is he who makes use of the hour and resolves to be blest, I had left Larissa, convinced I had left her to new and ever-changing wishes, equally flex­ible with the ties that held me when near her. The tender vows I had breathed in her bosom were dissolved in the past moment; no trace remained of her late-bewildering power in a mind natural­ly prone to inconstancy. The duke of B**** was no advocate for Larissa or licentious pleasure; his power was great with the king, and with the think­ing part of France, and often would he impercep­tibly lead the Monarch from the fascinations of a mistress, who, on account of her mean extraction, hated the noblesse. Larissa had her intervals of conquest; her arts were those of circumvention, and she [...] [...]he duke while she blinded the the enamoured Monarch. I had early renounced moral obligation; my heart was unawed. I loved pleasure; my vices were but individually dangerous: I was not set up as an example for a nation, but kings seldom know how to value merit, when, like an angel, it stands warning their desires. The ma­chinations of Larissa against the duke did not pro­long [Page 40] her empire; her dye was cast. Louis re­turned; his illness had been slight, his cares retur­ned; he treated them, as all men should treat care, a proof of which I will give you in his gallant stile. This letter was written, on the eve of his arrival, to Larissa, who impatiently expected to see the king in a few hours, languishing at her feet; she favoured me with a copy. I will favour you with the lesson it may afford."

"I thank you, sir: your manner of instruction is new." —Great inconsistence I thought appeared in Dormoud.—He read—

[Page 41]"With this billet, the generous monarch sent presents to Larissa, worthly his magnificence, wishing her to seek an asylum far from the dan­gerous pleasures of royalty. Larissa depended on the charms of her person, looked forward to new victories, left the scene of past delight with in­difference, and, in a few years, sank pale and de­jected within the walls of poverty. Better had it been for Larissa, had she early sheltered her beau­ties and her virtue in the bosom of humble worth. Spotless would have been her morning, glorious her meridian, and she would have sank in the evening of life, like a sun whose warmth had cheered the world, and whose departing rays we mourn."

I could no longer conceal my astonishment. I applauded the language and fine comparisons of Dormoud, a man who had professed himself an unprincipled voluptuary!—Encouraged by his frankness, I interrupted him by remarking what I thought inconsistent, but he was truly paced in the ways of men, and proceeded:

"Mine is the language of the world; my the­ory is for others, my practice for myself; every human being is distinct, and it invariably is seen through the universe, that no two persons shall move in a parallel line. Single in feeling, diver­sified in idea, and totally opposite in mental pow­er, the train of one man's action shall not serve [Page 42] another.—I reason like a moralist. I have that pri­vilege. I am not a moralist further than precept serves my turn; such is every man, and he de­ceives when he persuades you he is attempting at more—No farther can human nature go, though many sacrifice more to the opinions of society than I do. For the reasons I have given, the fate of Larissa afforded no lesson for me, and I only mean to say, what Larissa might have been, had her train of action been what it was not. Infamy has planted her cannon against the reputation of woman; man is secured by the laws himself has made; yet, there is a wonderful fallacy in his sy­stem of virtue, when he pockets ten thousand pounds from a friend, merely for sharing in his wife's dishonour and his own."

Dormoud possessed every art of fascination, he lulled inquietude. I found relief in his sophistry. He helped to establish the late perversion of my principles. How feeble would a charming woman prove, while attending to him with sensibilty till her soul dissolved! Dangerous ability! He had in history related an incident concerning Emily— Emily was the lovely maid found by the duke in the forest; I knew it, and silently invoked heaven to protect her, though false to me.

"The mother of Larissa," continued he, "was a servant in the convent of St.***: the kitchen afforded her good living, filled her with good [Page 43] spirits, and good spirits led her after a well-mean­ing friar, to whom Louis, &c. &c. was indebted for Larissa."

"It may be difficult, (said I) to rufuse the offers of royalty, but mankind will ever prefer humble innocence to the sullied charms of a king's mis­tress."

"No, no, Sir you mistake—You speculate contrary to practice; innocence may sleep for ever in her humble vale. Who seeks her friendship? Who drinks the fragrance of her breath? Who wraps her miseries in the mantle of peace?

"The mistress of a king has power—Many dependencies hang on a tarnished link—Many would acquire riches, but few possess them, by an acquaintance with innocence. Yet a court mistress, disgraced, when met in the walk of pri­vate life, all will avoid. When Larissa fell from her summit, I fled from her endearments; un­willing to appear near the court where power was changing hands. New incidents and new troubles arose; the Fronde, an anti-ministerial party, daily gained strenth, the Minister disagreed with Tur­enne, and many brave men who had seemed list­less while their Sovereign was happy, now ga­thered round the helm to guide him through his troubles. Among the latter class was my quondam friend the duke. If I could have loved strong vir­tue under any shape, I should have admired [Page 44] and pitied his attachment to his king. I loved not his amiable qualities, though I resolved to love and to possess his mistress.

"Though I had been observed by the king's page in the garden of Larissa, his majesty never took notice of me as a rival. Perhaps he thought me too contemptible, or, not esteeming Larissa enough to depend on her for happiness, pleasant­ly left us to try how long we could love. After she had set off for less brilliant scenes, I returned, and continued to promote my interest at court, by flat­tering those I despised, and fawning on those who mistook servility for respect▪ But the duke had ir­ritated me. He had asserted that Dormoud was too far currupted ever to be reclaimed by friend­ship or example, and had for some time avoided me in public. Sensible that one of us must go down the wind of favour, I was not long hesitating; my actions wore deeper dye than those of the duke. He might have ruined me with truth. Virtue had rendered his soul too dignified to enter into a com­petition with Dormoud, whose mines were work­ing at the foundations of his perfection. In plung­ing him from his heights, truth was not on my side, cunning and chance gave me success.—Louis had secrets, the multitude had no right to search for them, they were the secrets of necessity; the duke knew this, was faithful to his monarch, concealed his faults, revered his virtues, and breathed his public fame.

[Page 45]"This noble conduct, trusted to itself, became the food of those who prey on garbage. The chan­celler le Tellier viewed him with a jealous eye. That wily politician had been entrusted by the queen-regent with a secret of the greatest impor­tance, and the handsome deportment, together with the abilities of the duke, made the statesman tremble lest the latter should supplant him.—I was employed to pry into the springs of action that were hourly moving, and particularly order­ed to render the duke unpopular. He had in some affairs managed part of the state revenues. The magnificence of Louis brought his coffers low; for the exhausted sums I blamed the duke, and for the late disgrace of ministers condemned him. Murmurs arose. Supported in secret by the chan­cellor, I grew bolder in my assertions, and loudly criminated a man to whose excellence I never could arrive. He saw my artifice, was too brave to soothe, contemned me too much to upbraid, and after treating me with silent, though ineffable scorn, left the field of princely favours to more greedy strugglers, and retired to the Netherlands, resolving to forget his hopeless passion and his king.

"Envy will follow for ever the character that has once gained an eminence over her horde. Ask her why a wise man leaves the noisy circle? Her [Page 46] answer will be "to indulge his pride, his discon­tent, his avarice, or his imbecility. He is, in brief, welcome to retire. He no longer adores or fears me." But ask the wise man why he leaves the world! and he will reply, "I have tasted joy, I have tasted sorrow; I have been despised and re­spected; loved, was beloved in return; and now, having lost th [...] objects I adored; see a futility in life to which I cannot descend."

"I do not," continued the governor, "mean to prove that these were exactly the sentiments of the duke; but, I can assure you, that his departure did not cure the chancellor; for his jealousy, his envy, with some other fears arising from state in­trigue, followed the duke; and should he now be found, his death alone, I believe, would hush the cares his existence causes in the bosoms of le Tel­lier and the king—but there are a few more who are equally burthensome, and that must be taken off—Your glass waits you, Monsieur, drink to the oblivion of care; a more commodious apartment is preparing for you in the fifth range towards the the east; and after giving you every assurance of my favor, consistent with my situation, I will, when you please, conduct you to repose."

Observing Dormoud made a full pause, as if hesitating whether he should conside further in his new acquaintance, I arose, thanked him for his candor, as he conducted me to my chamber, and [Page 47] was much consoled by his repeated asseverations of future friendship. Where is the man, whose fancy, grown sick with sorrow, will not exaggerate the image of comfort, and raise her pigmy joy too high for his attachment? It is ever so: imagination is too strong in her colouring. I was revived by Dormoud, and forgot the dreadful sentence of imprisonment for ever. Why, said I to myself, is this man a villain! Why should he boastingly violate those duties the self-denying struggle to fulfil!

Dear spirit of refinement, from wherever thou hast chosen thy pure celestial dwelling, descend, touch the coarser powers of Dormoud, and lead thy fair ideas through the corrupted region of his mind! From thee, bright form of innocence, fly the brutal shadows that darken the bosom of man. Thine are the grand, the energetic, the invisible! Thou art the soul of the world!

But what have I to do with refinement? Have I not lost Emily? A long fit of abstraction fell on my mind as this question, prompted by despair, suggested itself—I sat some moments gazing at the waning candle, and at last put my hand in my pocket, with an intent to reperuse the fatal note I had found, when, to my astonishment, I drew forth the picture of my mother! Saluting it—I felt it cold.—"Angel! thou art cold—lifeless as I one day must be!"—Strange as my description [Page 48] may appear, I thought the picture varied its looks as the emotions of my soul were impatient or resign­ed. The filth and rust it had accumulated in the steps of the dungeon I had visited with Dormoud, was in my pocket worn off, and the animated fea­tures spoke directly to my heart. "All is over," continued I, walking hastily, "a few months or weeks, and then!" (throwing myself down on a so­pha recently prepared for me in this elegant room.) "Here I am to remain for ever!—but how came my mother's dear resemblance to this dismal dwel­ling? Is this an abode for so much beauty? It is im­possible she can herself be here! I will not think it. And yet I heard a groan near that horrid dungeon! Good God defend her! Hold me from madness! Where shall I go!"—Imagination seemed to go out at this last idea, like an extinguished flame, and I fell into a sudden insensibility. How long I lay in this swoon or slumber, (I know not which) I could not recollect. When I recovered, a coldness had pervaded my whole frame—I was spiritless and feeble; all my unavailing though unruly passion had subsided, and I calmly reflected, that life could not in this dreadful scene be of long continuance. That strong sympathy, inherent in man, which makes him feel for others, works upon his own heart in a state of seclusion. He naturally wishes to lighten the burthen of his sorrows, and to share the pity he had lent the world. The idea of dying [Page 49] here unlamented and unknown, the more agoniz­ing thought that my mother might be somewhere near me, inclined me to devise some expedient, by which a knowledge of our fate might reach society. For this purpose, I resolved to throw together some transactions of my past life, and after en­closing the picture, which was encircled by the name of my mother, in the midst of my little his­tory, to throw the packet into the sea.

The days of my infancy were spent in the forest of —, near Rochelle, under the gentle tuition of an harmless peasant, who cheerfully saw his flocks grazing round the hills, while his wife, after feeding her poultry, and gathering in their eggs, taught me my primer, and progressively my bible. "Without reading good books," said this amiable rustic, "little master can never know the world." I fancied at last, my mistress improved herself as rapidly as she taught me. From this humble scene I was soon removed. A chariot, the first I had ever seen, came one morning to carry me from the humble cot of Jannette Froville, but I was not willing to go. I sat down, took my tame kid in my lap, and watched my nurse, as she wandered round the house to collect my cloaths. The tears rolled so swiftly through her eyes, she hardly could discern what she sought: nor did the coachman and servants appear to me half so manly in their [Page 50] taudry liveries, as my dear plebeian Froville, who had so often taken me on his knee, and warmed my infant hands in his bosom on a frosty morning, while he pressed his ruddy lips to my cheek. "No," said I, "the chariot shall go back till Jan­nette has done crying."

"We must not drive back without you," replied the coachman.

"I would fain stay here till the lambs are wean­ed; besides, my kid will pine to death."

All my childish objections were over-ruled. Farmer Froville and his wife Jannette wept and prayed over me, and I was at last, with much re­luctance, parted from all I then held dear, except my little tame kid, to whom I had given the name of Mayo, and who I earnestly requested should be my companion in the chariot. This was discussed elaborately by the servants; the coachman scorned to be the coachman of a kid, and the footman gave a supercilious smile at my idea of his riding behind one; but I resolved to be master in this case. I had no sense of blessings in future, my heart was pal­pitating with its present affections; I had enough to struggle with, without being troubled with the impertinence of these men, and conquered them only by (what they called) sullen obstinacy. The chariot rolled away—my eyes kept in view the house of Jannette, where health and innocence had fostered me; it gradually receded; she waved [Page 51] her handkerchief, I saw her no more. The tuft of trees that stood near our orchard, under which our sheep had gathered at noon, were rapidly pas­sed by, and Mayo, though he loved me best, gave a farewell cry to his fleecy companions. Happy! happy scene! Thy joys were many, and thy evils few.

Our journey was long, the servants were dull; I was melancholy, and my kid, I believe, would rather have been skipping from rock to rock, than shut up with a fellow-traveller, so inimical to his lively nature. Our conductors, however, grew cheerful on entering the capacious domains of their master, of whom they spoke with reverence and love, and whose name was count de Marsan. This nobleman was ready to receive me. He threw open the chariot door, caught me in his arms, and would have carried me into his house, but I was holding Mayo by a blue ribbon, which was twist­ed round my hand. Finding himself tacitly con­demned to carry us both, he applauded my tender­ness, and set me gently on my feet.

"Jannette Froville told me she was not my mo­ther. Are you my father, that you kiss me so?"

"I am not," said the gentleman, ‘but while I exist, you shall not want a father.’

"And will you provide for little Mayo?"

"I will love Mayo, because you love him—you must be educated; your kid shall be fed."

[Page 52]"I can read my bible, sir. Is not that education, is not that enough?"

"I will shew you our large parks, the deer, the great canal; with me you shall observe the rising and setting of the sun and moon; still you may read your bible."

I was contented.

After being led through the variegated scenes that presented themselves in succession to my dazzled imagination, taught to observe the opening buds of nature, tints of the flower, bark, and paintings in the gallery, I was carressed, treated with sweatmeats, and sent to the first school in Ro [...]helle. Here, after acquiring the love of some of my school-fellows by my gentleness, and the fear of the refractory by my severity, I sat down quietly to my studies, and dearly did I soon prize the hours of meditation!—Nineteen summer suns had glided away, when I returned to my guardian, full of vigour, and free from vice. This inestima­ble friend possessed every accomplishment. He was polite, but he was sincere. While he charmed by his manners, he enforced that probity which dig­nifies man. I loved him. He pointed my strong ideas. He watched over my mind as its powers expanded; from the fallacy of conjecture he led me to demonstration; from the heat of prejudice to serenity of judgment; from superstition to mo­rality; [Page 53] and while he held to my reason the volume of the world, taught me to pity the feeble.

"Life is short, the poor pittance of seventy years is not worth being a villain for: what mat­ters it if your neighbour lay interred in a splendid tomb. Sleep you with innocence: look behind you through the tracts of time, a vast desart of un­numbered ages lies open in the retrospect. Through this desart have your forefathers jour­neyed on, till wearied with years and sorrow, they sank from the walk of man. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go only a little fur­ther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may encounter between the cradle and the grave, be not dismayed. The universe is in endless motion, every moment big with innumerable events, which came not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence: should you be plunged into disagreeable circum­stances, from those very circumstances may ano­ther be at that moment rising to the summit of his good fortune; so may your neighbour's inconve­nience prove beneficial to you.

None can know the eternal purpose of exist­ence; but there is a grand equilibrium preserved by one mighty chain of dependencies. Look then at the universe; limit not the view of your soul to one hemisphere; and ask your reason, if, in such awful revolutions of worlds and their inha­bitants, [Page 54] pain or pleasure must not constitutionally affect you. Be ever fearless; yield reluctantly to the passions, increase the regions of the mind, and know that as you have no will to resist the power of death, death can be no evil further than it affects the imagination. To sleep, to go through various changes, or to wak [...] everlastingly, is equal­ly independent of your will. There [...]ore, chear­fully trust the future, only dread the act that may wound your established rectitude of thought!"

I bowed to my dear instructor, my youthful heart held his admonitions; they grew with my years—Hills, rocks, rivers, the waving of the woods, and fertility of the vales, yielded trans­port to my unsullied mind: and as I thus revel­led silently in the rich exuberance of nature, I felt myself capable of the wildest adoration. Blest is the mind that early feels the influence of in­struction! Soon, much too soon, came manhood with his hardy privileges. I panted to strike upon the world as a meritorious character. Rural imagery enchanted my fancy, while the voice of fame seemed to call me from afar. Divine is the origin of fame! she breathes the desire of immor­tality into the soul of man.

My Guardian had mentioned two amiable sons whom I never had the pleasure of knowing. They were educated at St. Omers, under the care of an affectionate uncle, who had adopted them as equal heirs to his vast fortune. A letter arrived, in [Page 55] which the youths requested the permission of their father to accompany the duke of B**** who was then going abroad. The count, with apparent regret, sacrificed his tenderness to the glory and improvement of his children, and received their acknowledgments. The dignity of language obser­ved by those young gentlemen warmed my atten­tive soul, as I listened [...]o their prayers, breathed for the preservation of their beloved parent. To Em­ [...]y, who was receiving her education in the con­vent of St. ***** they [...]t tokens of fraternal love. I blushed at the idea of spending life idly.

My guardian was a man of the first distinction in France, he disapproved much of the constitu­tion of his country, but he was brave, and firm to attachments he had once formed. Combinations, plots, and reiterated murmurs prevailed over the kingdom. Lettres de cachet were considered as the most odious mark of audacious tyranny, while the farming of land in the interior parts, occasion­ed, among the lower class of people, the most acute penury. My guardian, as an individual, had no power of [...]evoking the statutes, nor had he the wish of assassinating his king, merely because he was thrown as an hereditary and guiltless emblem of order into the lap of pre-eminence. Law is the cement of society. Law forms degrees of power, and by necessary gradation, power sinks to the cottage from the throne. Nor must power be suf­fered to sport wantonly on that dangerous summit; [Page 56] while she sits soberly, her influence is nourishing, and millions bask in her well-regulated favours. Without her, order, so beloved, so cherished by mankind, cannot exist; and a king, that thing so hated, so feared, so reverenced and so loved, is but by accident as a common watchman; and whe­ther society be awakened to its duties by many watchmen, or by one, is not worthy the discussion of the wise. The duke of B**** had taken the ministerial side from policy, and was now prepar­ing to leave it—He visited my guardian; I was in­troduced; the duke appeared struck by my figure. I was not less so with him: his gallant deportment, his persuasive eloquence, darted enthusiasm thro' my frame, and I secretly wished to share his glory; when he took leave, I followed him insensibly along the court. My hat fell from my hand, with­out perceiving it; I walked till an attendant deli­vered it to me, and received my thanks; when, at the sound of my voice, the duke looked back, my eyes were fixed on, he politely demanded if his power could serve me?

"Take me with you," replied I eagerly, "let me fight for you, let me die when you die!"

"Gallant youth, have you reflected on the hor­rors of war: have you reconciled yourself to the shame of defeat, have you taught your heart to restrain the exultation of victory? All are dan­gerous to the untried soldier; the advantages of conquest are too often converted into cruelty, and [Page 57] defeat has many sorrows; among which, ill-timed shame is not the least: return, consult the count de Marsan, you shall hear from me, you deserve not neglect."

How noble was this frankness in one who was unversed in courtly ceremony, or, at least, had for­gotten it!—The duke departed.

"May I go to the wars?" said I to my guardian, on entering the parlour—"Will you grieve? Pro­mise me you will not, and I will immediately pre­pare for the field. But, my dear, my kind parent, for so I must call you, if my company or conversa­tion can soften your hours, I will not go—No, my heart is fully devoted to you, and claims no su­perior object—Ah! sir, where may I find your equal in this uneven world?" My guardian was affected: he could not resolve, at that moment, to part with me, but promised to inform my friends of my inclination, and requested me to be satisfied with his assiduities and his truth.

"I am not capable of doubting you, my excel­lent monitor; yet, tell me, O tell me, where I may find my father!"

"Be not precipitate; you may prove the de­struction of yourself and friends: beware of dan­gerous curiosity; you may one day know your father"—(here my guardian sighed deeply.) "He may press you to his bosom.—He cannot love you [Page 58] more than I do." Saying this, while a tear stole down his cheek, he retired.

Man must sacrifice hourly for his existence.— He must bid his wishes die as they arise: they grow by being fed, till, in the multiplicity, peace is lost, since not one in the three can, during his short period of time, be fulfilled. I was obliged to forego my thirst for military honour, together with the desire of knowing my father—I took my Sene­ca, and read my cares away.

Reading gently lulls the perturbed spirit, yet, we frequently feel an impatience arising from dis­appointment or despair, which too forcibly with­draws us from this best blessing. In conversing with the venerable sage, whose spirit whispers through every line, we become reconciled to un­pleasant circumstances. In running back we learn, that the brave and good have ever felt in common with mankind.

When evening approached, a carriage, driving hastily through the court, rouzed me from my meditations; my guardian ran to the door, and a beautiful girl sprang to his arms—It was Emily. —I had also advanced, but stepped back that I might lay no restraint on endearments so tender and sacred. Amidst broken expressions of joy and enquiries, which waited no reply, the father ushered his lovely daughter to an apartment adjoining that I had entered; her brothers became the subject [Page 59] of her first enquiries: my guardian gave her a brief account of their intended route with the duke of B****, when she replied, "I hoped to have found my brothers here, my dear father; my self-love perhaps blinded my reason—I could not improve them, I could not teach them the hard lessons of the world."

Finding myself under the necessity of over-hear­ing the conversation of Emily and her father, I immediately took my hat and strolled down the garden; not that I was uninterested in any delight my guardian could taste, but I thought it unmanly to remain within hearing of two persons, who were pouring out their sentiments, unconscious of my situation—delicacy is due to all. Chance directed my steps to a bower of woodbines.—I threw myself on the bank, and sighed for a father into whose bosom I might rush, as Emily did to my guardian's. The whole expanse was full of beauty, it waited for the melting touch of a Claude-Loraine, before whom nature ever lay in charming luxuriance. I was contrasting the lily with the rose, when my guardian, who had lightly ran over the turf, accosted me.—I enquired why his sons did not accompany his late illustrious vi­sitor, he told me the duke only came to see me.

"But come, my dear young friend, I have a guest to whom I must introduce you: she is wor­thy your protection, and to your honour I could for ever confide my Emily."

[Page 60]I congratulated this worthy man on the trea­sures he possessed in his children.—He introduced me; and I saluted Emily with an agitation never felt before. Her conversation was directed to her father; my ear hung on her accents, my eyes on her face, till she suddenly threw a glance that struck me to the soul. Abashed, I turned towards the window, while a significant silence heightened the confusion of my senses:—Yes, there are de­licious moments, when silence must be felt, and the heart swells with that fine delirium which arises from the hope of being secretly understood! —Yet—what did I wish Emily to understand?— I had never before seen her: my feelings had not progressively grown into love, nor had there been time for creating esteem in the bosom of the charming maid; what then were my wishes?—I had but one, it was that of for ever listening while she stole my peace.—Night summoned me to retire either to my books or rest—I chose the former. Hence hoary adviser! said I, throwing the vener­able Antoninus from my hand; thou art much too cold; my heart is burning! Happy had I been could my strength of mind have proved sufficient to oppose this languor ere it grew oppressive! My judgement, my understanding, and even my thirst for glory were weakened: So was I formed, and my internal conflicts I fear will end but with my life!

Ye who would surmount the pleasing melan­choly [Page 61] of the tender passion, seek not solitude! her shades are delusive! Peace is not within them! There will the image of your soul engross you; from thence will the world and its boisterous atten­dants be shutout, and you will feed on the delicious poisons of memory till you languish life away!—I was restless through the night, arose in the morn­ing before the family were moving, and roved over the adjacent hills: The dew lurked glisten­ing in the bosom of the cowslip, the birds broke not their song at my approach, my heart was grateful for its existence: the words of my guar­dian "to your honour I could for ever confide my Emily," were impressed deeply on my mind. Was there not a warning in the generous sentiment? Yes! He had suddenly appealed, he had made a league with my honour for the future security of his deserving child! His boundless confidence proved the estimate he had formed of my princi­ples, and ought to have given me delight. On the contrary, I saw difficulties rising from the noble candour of the father, to check my infant passion for the daughter; he had bequeathed her to my honour, not to my affection.

O, how industrious is the human mind in creat­ing self affliction, and refining on it by the force of imagination, till we no longer struggle with unutterable love, but willingly sing to rest! Un­der [Page 62] this sickness of the fancy does many a tender and delicate maid droop like a chilled flower!

Ruminating thus on the feebleness of nature, I had strayed—I had insensibly strayed to the brow of a declivity, down whose sloping verdure no hu­man foot had passed: I endeavoured to descend, but was obstructed in my wanderings by a huge rock, on whose rough and aged sides the goats played wantonly; conceiving it impassable, I paused a few moments, drinking the ecstasy of infant day, and was about to return, when I saw a pale smoke arise seemingly from the entrails of this tremendous precipice. All was still, save the melody of the groves; and my fancy was purified by the sweet salubrity around, nor was pity the weakest of my sensations: I imagined the smoke must ascend from the cabin of some miserable woodman, whose hard fate confined him to this sequestered dwelling; an amiable wife, perhaps unoffending children, suffer with him, said I to myself, and why must the harmless peasant sigh in vain for the necessaries of life? Impressed by the workings of compassion, I again attempted to find an oblique passage—the effort was unavail­ing, my way was cut off by the horrid projections of the rock, and the smoke gradually dying away, ceased to direct my curious eyes; I sat myself down, lamenting the calamities of innumerable beings, who, fixed by natural neces [...]ty, distant from the pale of society, pine unpitied and unseen [Page 63] in want even of frugal blessings. The languish­ments peculiar to the votaries of luxury are by the rustic villager unfelt, but, as a forfeit for his stronger joys, he often needs both food and rai­ment. I looked up to the sun.

Bright comforter! the feeble and the aged love thee! the wise and the foolish love thee! thy mighty master commands thee to bless the shep­herd and the king, the pomegranate and the acorn are welcome to thy rays!

I had not gazed long on the luminary of the world, when I saw a ladder rising slowly towards the summit of the rock; I arose hastily and con­cealed myself behind some shrubs, that I might not terrify, by my unexpected appearance, the solitary adventurer, who, I supposed, was ascend­ing. A tall majestic figure alighted on the turf, kneeled, and gave his morning orisons to the Fa­ther of ages. I could have thrown myself at his feet. Reverence with-held me—Where was the infidel who dared to intrude in a moment so sublime! From the place of my concealment, I traced him to a neighbouring rivulet, whose mur­murs were invitations to her thirsty visitor. He stopped, drank, filled a bottle hastily with the re­freshing element; and, after plucking a few wild berries from the humble bushes, returned to his ladder. Soon as he was below the surface of the earth, I ran in a bending attitude, s [...]ized the top of the ladder, and, how [...]ver rude the action might [Page 64] immediately appear, descended, before he had time to remove it from the rock. Amazement and displeasure darkened the features of the stranger; he boldly shook me by the breast, and declared his readiness to take my life or guard his own.

"Impertinent curiosity, Sir," said, I, "has no place in my bosom; I feel a nobler sentiment. I own I did not expect to meet a man of your de­meanour, but I expected to find affliction, and re­solved to soften it."

"Generous youth!" (loosing me from his manly grasp) "you have met affliction with all her attendant horrors!—but leave me!—take ad­vantage of the means by which you have descend­ed, or you may involve yourself with one long de­voted to destruction: leave me, young man, or you will be undone!"

These words were uttered with an emphasis, which, instead of daunting my resolves, interested my affections; I saw no danger, and if I had, no­thing but the positive command of this recluse should have forced me from him.

"The rules of honour and politeness oblige me to retire, Sir, if you so earnestly wish it.—Adieu! —My heart feels oppressed at leaving you thus: believe me I would rather embrace danger in as­sisting you."

The stranger paused; cast his eyes towards a cavern in the distant part of the rock, and was [Page 65] lost in hesitation.—Seizing the momentary silence, I continued—

"If the cause of your seclusion from mankind be of an atrocious nature, my bosom shall be the grave of human frailty; I will swear never to di­vulge your affairs, though the colour of them may oblige me immediately to forsake you."

"I am no villain," (returned he) I am only the victim of tyranny and misfortune. Such had fate designed me before my infant eyes were open to the light. I am sensible of your not having pow­er to injure me, and am only fearful of your shar­ing my hapless destiny.—Be not alarmed, I am an exile from the social joys of man, but let us not anticipate evil—You afford me a faint delight, a delight which I may never taste again; we will not therefore embitter transient happiness by poor distrust." Endeavouring to appear self-collected, he took me by the hand.—

"Come with me, you shall behold the accom­modations of a prince: you shall learn that royalty is the trapping of fools, given by adulation and worn in vain by mortal beings; yes, you shall be convinced that a prince, stripped of his gaudy ap­pendages, is but the sport of misery."

An obedience, which owed nothing to my will, influenced my motions. I followed involuntarily, without once replying to my unknown monitor. We entered the cave; his little fire had not en­tirely spent itself; the embers gathered brightness [Page 66] from the contrasting gloom, but not sufficient to direct my eye to the end of this cavern. Looking round with pensive curiosity, I saw no royal ac­commodations, except a small picture of the king of France in a niche, rudely formed by nature in the rock. Perceiving it had arrested my attention, he was much agitated, and wildly exclaimed, "Ah, sir! kings should have no brothers!"

Seating himself on the damp gravel, of which the floor of this lonely habitation was composed, he was for some minutes, silent and forgetful of my presence, nor could I obtrude a single enquiry on a subject which affected him so deeply. I at length made some incoherent remarks on the dif­ficulty he must experience in procuring food.—

"Yonder," pointing down an eminence, "lives my provider."—I did not comprehend him; but, leading me from the entrance of the cave to a more eligible spot, he made me discern a little hut near the sea-shore, and resumed his story—

"There dwells a simple fisherman, who, seek­ing a strayed lamb, his children had tamely bred up in his cottage, met me by chance as I was wildly roving through the wood, my sword was in my hand, despair and horror in my whole deport­ment; his timidity brought me to a recollection, that man is only amiable when impressed by the influence of social love. I banished his dismay, and he procured me food."

[Page 67]"What great occurrence brought you to this scene of misery, why not fly from a solitude, in­compatible with an exalted mind?"

"You know me not; my hours were early marked, and every step I take is not in the com­mon path of man. The scene before me is sorrow­fully distinguished, but I have reason to suppose it will be short."

I now conjectured this stranger must have been convicted of treason, and that a price was set on his head: I never conceived what we politically term treason to be a sin against the Deity, and was still resolved secretly to bear him in the arms of friendship to every comfort heaven had allotted me.

"For reasons of state have I been a prisoner from my birth. I was born in the year 1638.

"Through my days of childhood, I knew no affliction but that kind of restraint which seems more watchful than severe. I was not even sensi­ble of my being a state prisoner, as it was impossi­ble for me to be guilty of a crime. I believed my tutor to be my real father; my education was equal to that of the dauphin. I was not sensible of rough ambition, but I became the prey of gene­rous love: my tutor had a friend of the house of B****, who visited, and brought with him a sister. Noble sentiments, elegance of manner, and beau­ty, were hers. The impression she was formed to make was mine; an impression only to be [Page 68] erased by death!—I for some months languished in silence for the lovely maid. I dared not hope. The vigilance of my tutor increased with my years, and I daily became sensible that I was held in fetters, though invisible to my comprehension was the power who ruled me. The walls of the garden, in which I was used to range, were raised to a terrific height, and so many precautions taken, that a gloom was thrown over the scene of my infant joys—I became melancholy—the beautiful Elea­nora perceived it, and endeavored to alleviate the sadness she could not cure. During her stay, (which was intended for some months) with my tutor, she charmed, while she increased the tu­mults of my soul. Unable to tear her from my heart, or suppress its emotions, I one day threw myself at her feet, and breathed the strain of love. The moment was precious—I could promise my­self but few, and passionately appealed to her pity; pity she bestowed, but female delicacy started ob­jections and fears in her inexperienced bosom. She offered me her esteem; nay, more, her invio­lable friendship, and my eager soul exulted in the testimonies she gave of both. But who shall set bounds to mutual attachment; Who quench the ever-burning flame of sympathy! We loved, ador­ed, and while my tutor was called to ***** on political affairs, I gave my parole of honour to his substitute, bribed him profusely, and the charm­ing [Page 69] Eleanora became mine by a private marriage. From this union sprang inexpressible delight, trans­port hoarded but in remembrance; for, oh! my real treasures are no more!—

A pause, in which memory, I feared, was too powerful, succeeded those complainings—I wil­lingly gave him a tear. When did tears relieve the sufferer for whom they fall?—He proceeded—

"The delicate state of my dear Eleanora soon made a removal necessary. I gloried in the ap­proaching event, but was distracted how to con­ceal it. My wife, with that magnanimity which ever supports virtue, was willing to dare the cen­sure of the world for the man she loved, in deny­ing her marriage; I could not yield to this idea. I could not so meanly stab refinement, and resolved to declare myself to her brother, when he should next visit my tutor.

"The duke of B**** was possessed of true grandeur. He stood aloof from the contagion of prejudice, while she led her blinded victims through the world. His soul, independent and alone, for­med her system of thought, and to him I revealed our marriage—"Generous virtue (said this noble friend, will ever be the basis of my sister's happi­ness. Dearly as I love her, she has increased her value, by giving me such a brother. I will share your cares, and you shall share my fortune."

[Page 70]"After embracing me with affection, he thank­ed me for my confidence, and swore never to abuse it. My wife returned to his seat in the coun­try, where my son was born. But, unhappily, a do­mestic had heard this last conversation, and flew with it to the ear of my tutor, whose terrors I thought quite unnecessary to the occasion. He questioned me on the subject: I questioned him in return; and as I found he had gained know­ledge of the affair, did not deny it. Almighty love gave me intrepidity. I would not have ex­changed the tender names of husband and of fa­ther for the crown of France! Ah, sir! short was my fond exultation! only a few months had passed on when the duke came hastily, spent with fatigue, and dissolved in tears, to inform me his sister was, with my infant son, conveyed from his mansion by an order of state, and the only con­solation afforded him, was the assurance that both should be provided for within the pales of nobili­ty, but must never more be mine. Snatching the sword of the duke, (whom I shall henceforth term my brother,) I ran to my tutor, and seizing him with all the madness of a man grown desperate by injuries, demanded an explanation of his mysteri­ous conduct—Opening his bosom, he stood before me, dauntles in his trust, and venerable in virtue, but silent!—Silent as the grave! nor could the fear of death, though I too rudely threatened him, [Page 71] extort the cause of my wrongs—I could not kill him! I had long loved him! and he appeared to me, at this moment, like something divine, though pre-eminently wretched!—Conquered by his looks, I threw myself down, and burst into tears! My tutor kneeled, wept over me, and echoed back my sighs, but stubbornly suppressed every other expression. While indulging this dreadful anguish, we were surrounded by the guards, who had entered the house purposely to convey us into strict confinement. I now grew obstinate with despair. Life had lost its value, and I felt only for this worthy man, who was to lan­guish in prison with me; his loyalty and truth a­vailed him not. After feebly struggling with age and fetters, he felt himself dying. My heart was torn with the mingled agony of impatience, sor­row, and indignation, as I beheld him sinking from me. Nightly did I hang over him, watch his broken slumbers, and indulged some little comfort when he opened his eyes. He was sensi­ble of my affection—I had been formed by him, and he prized the heart himself had rendered in­capable of disguise. As I bathed his pillow with my tears, he addressed me in a faint voice:"

"Names and titles are sounds; I never made you acquainted with them: I swore never to do it whilst I lived, but I have made you acquainted with yourself; I have taught you to observe the [Page 72] futility of human action, and the feebleness of your nature. I now warn you to resist ambition; her snares are spreading for you. Yield her domi­nion to others—You are too good to be her slave. —I must leave you, and the only regret I feel at this awful moment is, that I must leave you here; but your life, I have reason to think, will he held sacred during the life of Louis XIV. Should he die childless, forget not my warnings. Numberless joys spring from the bosom of the world for those who can enjoy them in obscurity. Adieu! my dear Henry! Should you in time know the secret of your birth, keep that knowledge to yourself; by appearing ignorant, you may be most safe. Do not practise deceit; but every man has a right to be silent on his own affairs. Tranquility, that hath ever gilded my unimpassioned hours, now falls sweetly on my senses. When I awake to new existence, my Creator will not make me miser­able. Unheedful of human opinion, to him alone I am resigned—Once more! Once more! Farewell for ever!"

"Pressing my hand gently, he looked benignly in my face, and yielded to nature all she could claim from him.

"To describe the horrors that stared on my af­flicted spirit, at this dreadful separation, is impos­sible! My fancy became wild, and brought none but ugly images. Suicide seemed to offer itself as [Page 73] my sole conductor to everlasting rest—And where will my Eleanora find a comforter! said I, striking the candlestick suddenly on the floor. The noise I made, alarmed the centinel, who stood at the out­side of the door; he rushed in, and finding the chamber in darkness, called aloud to his compa­nions, who entering, saw me sitting near the corpse of my dear departed monitor.

"No indignity was offered me; two gentlemen were appointed to attend my person, and to ac­company me from that place of confinement, where he breathed his last, to a more eligible one, after a dismal chasm in my life of nineteen years.

"The vessel in which we embarked, was pursu­ed by heavy storms; and after struggling five days and nights with the tempestuous elements, grew crazed; her rudder being splintered, was entirely washed away; her main-mast went by the board; she had sprung a-leak; all hands were in turn sum­moned to the pumps; and, on heaving the lead, our soundings were only eight fathoms from land. Night came on, darkness increased our terrors. I was suffered freely to assist in the tremendous scene; but the roaring of the sea, the shrieks of the wind in the rigging, together with the prayers and blasphemies of the crew, struck me with such amazement, that (ignorant whose order to obey, or what rope to pull) I leaned on one of the hen­coops, [Page 74] and waited the moment that should plunge us in the deep. Before I left the cabin, I had se­cured a sword, and fixed it to my belt, in which I had concealed a small casket, given me by my tutor, a few hours before he departed. Except these articles, and this resemblance of Louis, I had nothing of value. Night passed away, and dawn presented to our view yon huge promontory, which you can with ease discern to the westward, and of which we hoped to gain some craggy part; but, from its foot runs out, beneath the waters, invisi­ble rocks, unknown to the most skilful mariner. There our vessel resigned her violent motion for some moments—there, she lay trembling on the waves like a dying bird, and beneath a rude swell of water, went down for ever! Clasping the hen-coop, I was beat against the rock—I knew no more! All was calm when I opened my eyes, as I lay on the beach; no vessel appeared, no compa­nion hailed me—I gazed around, my eyes felt hea­vily; I was not grateful for existence, but looked wishfully at the remorseless ocean, which had drank my friends. How vacant is the mind when the objects lately moving around us, are suddenly gone for ever! No prayer, no unavailing murmur escaped my lips; such is the stupidity of man when bewildered by great extremes. I had sat pensively on the beach for some hours, the billows left me, and my hen-coop; none of my ship-mates [Page 75] appeared; but my appetite for life, security, and food, gradually awakened, and at length grew acute. Not knowing where to find the latter, I was met by the fisherman, whose cabin is small, and family numerous; nor would a residence beneath his roof be compatible with my fortune or his safety. His head might answer for his friendship to me. My brother, the duke of B****, if still at Paris, will be secret and faithful. To him I have written a brief account of my situation. The fisher­man has ventured in his skiff to convey my letters. I have promised to reward him, and only wait his return, when I shall quit my native land for ever. I am now forty years old, and am a stranger to the world!"

I now concluded my unknown friend to be of distinguished rank: he wished to know my place of residence, and by what accident I had discover­ed his retreat.

I related my morning excursion, begged him to command me, if I could assist him; and added,

"I must leave you, amiable and unfortunate stranger. I am dear to the worthiest of men, and should feel regret in causing him one moment's pain: suffer me to see you once more! I will not prove obtrusive; but I would encounter many evils to prove myself deserving your confidence. Say I may again privately visit you in this comfortless asylum, so unworthy its inhabitant."

[Page 76]A melancholy smile spread itself over the face of this afflicted recluse; he replied:

"Go, generous youth! persevere in the path of virtue! you will prove a blessing to your parents! In three days I expect my honest fisherman, you may command the interval; I will expect you here."

Raising my hand respectfully to his lips, he bade me adieu. I ascended by his ladder, and hast­ened back to relieve my guardian, whose alarms at my absence, I knew, would be powerful.

Wearied and thoughtful with this day's adven­ture, I at last got home. Surprise at my early de­parture in the morning, mixed with joy at my ar­rival, were visible in the countenance and manner of my guardian. He questioned me mildly: I did not think myself at liberty to declare the concerns of an individual, who had, from true nobleness of soul, confided in me. Emily ran from the garden, where she had been selecting a bouquette, and with innocent frankness, declared herself happy at my return.

"Here" (said she, presenting me the flowers she had culled with taste) "I offer you the tribute of the day, friend of my father! they must one day die! and why not die with you?"

Endeavoring to assume tranquility of manner, specious, because my heart was not tranquil, I ac­cepted, and placed the fragrant gift in my bosom.

[Page 77]"I will wear your flowers, and only wish those emblems of beauty could live for ever."

"You are kind: my father informs me, your mind is noble, your principles pure, but why do you fly me? my brothers would not have left me so long; I must soon return to my convent, why did you not shew me the irregular charms of this romantic country?

As the pure orb of light draws the vapours from their parent earth, and converts them by his efful­gence into blessings; so did this charming girl in­corporate my soul with hers, till it became refin­ed even to anguish. Her eyes, full of innocence, were fixed on my face as she repeated those lines with enthusiasm; the eyes of her father shone with the tear of fond delight; and he happily relieved my unbecoming silence, by requesting Emily to favour him with the author she had quo­ted.

[Page 78]"The book is very old, my dear sir, the works of my author have been extant for ages; I sat on your bed of violets, I read him there; I gazed on the gaudy tulip, her lesson was mine; imagination carried me through the variegated mead. All nature taught me there! In a word, my dearest father, I have been from you so long, and am so lately returned to your bosom, that I could rise on the clouds, and diffuse the harmony I feel!"

"But the author, Emily, has not so particularly favoured me."

I fancied my guardian meant to be good-natur­edly severe on his cheerful daughter, but she re­plied with quickness.—"O yes, my lord, in various ways; solitude is the nurse of contemplation, and fancy is officious in the absence of our friends. Whilst I was composing those few lines in your garden, you, perhaps, were forming serious plans of future happiness, and as it is impossible for a generous man to exist merely for himself, you sat in awful solemnity, twirling one thumb over the other, looking stedfastly at the fire, and studying for the hour, what delicacy you should provide for my dinner, or what gown would best suit your dear Emily at a ball."

What fine touches affection wore in this reply! Her father, regarding her with complacency, said—

[Page 79]"My lively girl, your heart is now full, exhila­ted and unrestrained: but when you leave your convent for worldly scenes, you will, you must, unfortunately, be taught reserve: yet, I charge you, my Emily, never to pursue the worst methods of your sex; never practise reserve till it arrive at deceit, nor poison your blameless mind with affec­tation."

"Fear it not, my lord; artifice is not necessary as the world in general think it, nor is affectation lovely; good manners are due to society, artifice enslaves its possessor, and affectation is disgust­ing."

Emily had confused my ideas, or had given birth to new images in my labouring mind; I could not converse collectedly, I sat lost in thought; she was insensible of my infatuation and of her own power.

"Why are you studious, sir, why are you not like me; lively, happy, grateful for the happiness you receive, and resigned to transient affliction? All will pass away; my confessor has often enjoin­ed me never to repine at woe, nor exult in the rare visitation of coy felicity. My father will grieve if you grieve, nor can I be truly blest—I pray you be happy with us."

"Surely I need not solicit when Emily im­plores," added my guardian; "the language of [Page 80] nature excels the finished periods of rhetoric, and the sensible mind sets a value on simplicity."

"Think me not regardless of your care, my dear friend," said I; "nor fancy me obdurate to the gentle, yet keen remonstrance of your Emily —But

"Beware! Beware of indulging wishes, the gra­tification of which perhaps ought never to be at­tained; I ask not the cause of your inquietude. I am certain it will be regulated by, or sacrificed to virtue; so will you gain the peace you deserve. I do not wonder at your silent manner; it is mere­ly the effect of habit, habit of education, and edu­cation of natural necessity: you have the habits of reflection even externally, because you are the child of solitude: but certainly, when the soul ex­pands to taste the joys of sympathetic friendship, the clouds of secret anguish are shook off, as the moon from her pure cheek shakes unwholesome dews."

I apologised to this excellent man!

"We will not be pressingly impolite," rejoin­ed Emily, "but if you are not engaged, I will finish the piece of embroidery begun in my con­vent, and you shall read to us: my father has in­vited, for to-morrow, a large party of his most va­luable friends; we will try to chear you, and in [Page 81] return, you must promise to throw this sober sad­ness to those who are willing to accept it: for my part, I know not one who would think your gift an obligation."

I was ashamed of giving pain to minds so noble and attentive—We turned to lively topics, and my friends were happy. Resolving never to embit­ter their felicity by an ill-timed chagrin, which might be construed into haughty reserve, I with­drew for the night.

Honour!—What art thou? Who gave thee be­ing in the mind of man? And why, once wanting thee, is woman lost? On thy strong and everlast­ing base friendship may erect her noblest struc­ture! From thy altar may faultless love breathe its flame to Heaven! Sighs of mingled souls, by ab­sence torn, are ever heard in whispering echos from thy hallowed shrine! The sacrifice once of­fered thee, is incense purer in an angel's face than all the odours of the balmy east! Thou! mild spirit of the good! wilt forbid the charming Em­ily to love a man who knows not his parents; who is perhaps an orphan or foundling, and whose fortunes are undecided;—nor shalt thou be profane! I will not indulge those weak affections! I will not entangle her artless mind in the fasci­nations of blind unwarrantable love! Oh Emily! be happy! Mayst thou never be subdued but by the unequalled ecstasy of loving and of being be­loved; [Page 82] whilst honour holds its sanction o'er thy beauties. Give me, thou mighty Maker of the human heart, fortitude equal to these self-deny­ing torments! Conflicts like these bring anguish too acute for feeble man!

Thus did I reason and resolve; and quickly did I forget my reason and resolutions, when gazing on Emily.

On the following morn, devoted to festivity, the halls began to sound, the gates were thrown o­pen, the row of aged oaks, which shaded the great walk to my guardian's noble edifice, were plea­singly adorned with festoons of wild-flowers, and variegated lamps, intended to shed a coloured lustre on the coming night.

The equipages were brilliant, visitants numerous, and each appeared to vie with their generous host in polite hilarity.

Among the many, came a gentleman, announ­ced by the name of Rederique, son of a Spanish nobleman. I found, near the conclusion of the evening, he had not been invited, but had brought recommendations from some of my guardian's friends at *****. I saw him alight, as I stood at my window; his form was elegant, his dress superb, his deportment bold—How much more en­gaging, said I to myself, is thy lively air than this cold despondency that hangs on me!—Recollect­ing I should appear negligent in suffering my guardian to seek me, I left my apartment. The [Page 83] company had taken their seats when I entered; Roderique had chosen that next Emily; I sat op­posite to him. He surveyed me attentively; I heeded him not; my languishing soul was breath­ing its wishes towards the lovelier object near him: I forgot all around her. Roderique, during the day, endeavoured to engross the conversation of Emily. Who would not have felt the same de­sire? Good humour prevailing, and separation not thought of, our guests began to study amuse­ment.—Religion, politics, and impracticable the­ory employed the mental powers of the old, and the young sat down to music. Several ladies play­ed with that facility which harmonises the mind, and renders it yielding to any impression of the moment; but when Emily commanded the trembling strings! sympathetic softness enervated the soul: The doors of memory opened to her key, and the image, late forgotten, gently arose be­fore the object it had once adored! All yielded to the enchantment of Emily, who awakened reflection with its joys and sorrows. Roderique grew familiar, pronounced her performance di­vine; declared himself superlatively blest; and looking obliquely at me, pronounced the man a brute who could wear a joyless countenance while such beauty and skill united in consoling him—Emily did not hear, or did not regard him, when he requested her to play "The charms of [Page 84] woman-kind." Respect and despair kept me at a distance.

"I will play," said Emily, "a little piece writ­ten by a friend of mine, who is now in the con­vent, to whom I must soon return."—"Heaven forbid," replied Roderique, with more quickness than good manners—"I beg pardon, Miss! let me not interrupt you, or deprive the company of pleasure only in your power to bestow."

"The lady I mention," continued Emily, ad­dressing herself to me, after silently bending to Roderique, is one of the loveliest creatures nature ever formed; but she is full of secret sorrow— pensive, like you, my worthy friend."

"With feigned composure, I replied; "This gentleman wishes you to play; on me, the harp of Jesse could not have half your power."

"Then I will play, and you shall reward me with a smile, so seldom worn, and so highly prized by my father and me."

She sang and played—

Slowly flowed those pathetic lines, while sym­pathy melted the hearts of the hearers. A tear glided from the eye of Emily as she sang. I had the audacity silently to wipe it away; but, sud­denly remembering how much I had resolved, stepped back to my seat.

When the music ceased, Roderique attempted to lead the conversation on splendor, fashion, plea­sure, and beauty. He dully expatiated; his lan­guage boasted not that condensed keenness which could denote him capable of enjoying happiness of any kind in an exquisite degree. Emily entertained us with many little anecdotes, and described the innocent employments invented by the nuns, to alleviate a life of seclusion, with so much native eloquence, that trifles were made to charm.

"Yet, do all they can," said she, "the incessant gloom habitually forms the mind to views of death, till cheerfulness almost appears unnatural: indeed, it is a question, whether sadness, through every state, is not most predominant. Cheerfulness is not born so soon, it seldom visits us uninvited; every little art in society is used to prolong its stay; and at last, it leaves us to sit down, with memory, and mourn the past. For my part, I would rather be innocently cheerful, than sublimely grave."

"None but prudes will contradict you," I re­plied.

[Page 86]"But my ungoverned vivacity, a short time since, had like to have taught me a lesson—No­thing would serve but a ride in the morning—my abbess expostulated, raised her shoulders, and shook her head, to convince me she detested [...] liveliness. I promised much in the name of my dear father; and I positively, sir, must [...] back some pretty present; for after wasting half my own good humour in awakening that of the lady abbess, she suffered me to ride in the forest, attended by her own footman. We had not rode above an hour, my horse in spirits, and myself as happy as the birds around, when we were crossed by a pack of hounds.

"My horse ran away with me, I lost the ser­vant, and lost myself in the woods, where I was thrown on the turf; the fright was too much at the moment, I could not recover myself, and how long I lay is of no consequence now; if it was, I could not tell you; but I remember to have awak­ened, unhurt, in the arms of an elderly gentleman, whom I could have loved as a father, because he treated me with respectful tenderness. The blun­dering footman, instead of traversing the forest, rode home, merely to say I was lost. On this dole­ful adventure, my abbess has for ever set her great seal, so that if I remain twenty years in the convent, I shall never get another ride in the forest."

From Emily's description of her gallant pre­server, the count, her father, knew him to be the [Page 87] duke of B****, who had lately visited us incog. and who had not seen her since her infancy: he rallied his daughter, who lamented the feeble returns she had made her illustrious friend.

Roderique was possessed of a large share of ef­frontery, over which he wore the semblance of placidity: this coolness of manner, which affects perpetual complacence, is well adapted to the ce­remonious circles of polished society, in which no p [...]re emotion of the soul is suffered to appear. From behind this mask, supercilious vanity often hurls her shaft at the modest mind, who receives it, and struggles to conceal the pang, while the laugh goes round at the expence of sensibility. But here Roderique should have chosen a more noble manner of cherishing the tender blossom of friend­ship, which spontaneously sought a place in his bo­som. He sat, though night was far advanced, as if resolved I should leave him master of the social field. The respect I owed Emily and her father, forced me to obey. I was slowly taking leave, when this witty gentleman enquired, sneeringly, "if I was not afraid of spirits?"—

"Not if they happen to be gaily dressed," re­plied I with sang froid.

"Suppose you should meet one dressed like me, Monsieur?"

"I could not surely fear so delicate a form!"

"I am happy to hear you have so much cour [...]ge; [Page 88] I only meant civilly to inform you, that I walk in my sleep—Hah, hah, hah!"

"It should be the care of some loving friend, sir, to cure you of that troublesome trick."—

Roderique frowned—I continued—

"Were you to be led only once into our horse­pond, think you would ever after lie quiet in a warmer place."

"And who," said he fiercely, would have the bravery to lead me there?"

"Your nurse."—

Roderique looked down, played with his watch­chain, and Emily politely wished us a good night.

In spite of my resolves, and all the self-denying rules I had prescribed to my heart, I felt a pleasure in not leaving her with our new guest.

My guardian commended me to repose. I went to seek it; but love, and the inhabitant of the rock, alternately struggled with my senses. I arose with the sun, turned to my books, and lingered out the moments, in perusing the following manuscript, which I found by chance.

My reader may skip it over if he pleases, it hav­ing no connection with the story of my life.

At the bottom of this piece, in which energy wooes simplicity, was a prose inscription, nearly obliterated by time, or carelessness, I know not which.

"This elegy was written by the poetess of the mountain, who was mad enough to think for her­self in the year **** Gloria Patri! She commends [Page 96] her body to the virgin of St. Nicholas, in whose chapel she wishes to be laid."

Poor poetess! said I, laying down the book, thy heart is no longer torn by contending passions, it ceases to beat; Love and friendship have quitted it for ever.

Meditating on man, I considered him as mak­ing a progress towards perfection, only in those intervals, when he feels harmony within, arising from the gentler passions of his nature, and that rude and violent ideas occasionally throw him back: and concluded, he is at all times a being more entitled to pity than reproach.

Our family were not yet risen, except Emily, who had left her apartment, and tripped into her father's park. I observed she took a friendly peep at my poor Mayo, who was now indolent from age, and for whose repose a little cot was erected near the park gate.

Unnoticed, I followed the lively maid, saw her stoop, and admire the humid flowerets, and heard her congratulate the lark as the Heaven-loving songstress ascended from her downy chamber.

The sun had scarcely drawn up the grey aether from the vallies; and the shepherd, who was slow­ly winding the distant hill, appeared through a mist. His hands were folded athwart his bosom, his long hair fell on his shoulders, and his faith­full dog crept humbly behind him. Happy clown! [Page 97] Who would not give their grandeur for thy vacant ease? He kept his path, approached Emily with rustic diffidence, and bowed as he passed, but the amiable girl would not suffer him to go unwel­comed by her morning offering; she opened her purse, requested him to partake of its contents, and curtified as she left him. For "his eyes lack'd lustre, and his locks were grey."

Giving her time to advance before me, I ques­tioned the venerable peasant; the man that could claim Emily's attention was worthy mine.

He told me his son was a soldier at ******, that he now lay ill in an hospital there, and if he could but get him cleared, Anna, he was certain, would recover with gladness at her brother's return.— "What ails your Anna? will money or advice relieve her?"

"No, no, sir, she does not much mind money. And, as for advice, she does not care to take it. I I have said to her, that reading the Bible can hurt no one, but she reads about things I don't under­stand."—

Why, in a lituation where labour is so necessary, does your daughter waste her hours?"

This ill-natured question disagreed with my understanding and taste. I was not illiberal enough to confine spirit to situation; nature often exalts one above the other, but I was willing to [Page 98] hear how he would defend his Anna—He re­plied:

"O, sir, she labours as much as I do, through the day, in spinning, and what not, and reads when she should take her natural rest—What is night for, sir, but to sleep?"

"Hem!—to meditate—and mourn!"—said I.

"But there!"—softening his voice, "Anna can­not sleep!—there must be something wrong in it. Poor Anna, I hope, will find a better world!"

He drew his hand over his eyes; the suffusion could not be concealed—I turned myself round—. When a man wishes to hide his emotions, it is at least unrefined to stare at his struggling features. Emily had set me an example of generosity, I fol­lowed it, the peasant was grateful in the warm lan­guage of nature, and went on.

The charming girl, with all her enthusiasm for the beauties of nature, was fearful of rang­ing too far to contemplate them—she turned back, was a little surprised at seeing me so near; but, soon recovering that irresistible ease, which graced her every movement, she addressed me with a smile—

"I lament the violence you have done your­self, sir, in rising before nine o'clock. Your late ramble should have insured you repose, especially, as we were up last night.

"And why did Emily leave her tranquil pil­low, while the silken bands of slumber are allow­ed to hold the sense of the happy? To rove unno­ticed, to drink alone the fragrance of the spring, is the privilege of a mind careless of the world. But Emily has brighter scenes before her; Emily should taste every guiltless pleasure, while protect­ed and prized by a generous father."—

"I do: my youthful hours glide smoothly; sheltered by his paternal love, I know no richer blessing."—

"A blessing I have never known!"

"My father would think your reflection un­kind—He has taught me candor. To his noble and manly sentiments, I owe my ideas of sterling vir­tue, and my contempt of hypocrisy; whose banc­ful web not only ensnares the innocent, but too often entangles her own practitioners.—What great business is doing in the world, sir! or what mighty good will mankind attain by insincerity with each other?"

"Our passions, Emily, are often dangerous; we are obliged to conceal them, fearing their ef­fects may prove fatal to the cause of virtue; and, even in this laudable concealment, we may appear insincere."

"Right—there I will allow a virtuous mind to prescribe for itself!"

[Page 100]"And while the wounded heart is thus strug­gling and prescribing for itself, does it not deserve the consolation, rather than the contempt of socie­ty? No great good can be attained worthy the sa­crifice of truth, but truth is so fine, so exquisite and rare, she will not sometimes obtrude on the coarser part of mankind; the wise, through mo­desty, often conceal her."

"According to your theory, truth may not al­ways appear—But, according to my resolutions, my actions shall arise from no other spring."

"You need no other—Where passion is not acting nor conspiring against internal peace or general order, truth may and will appear. Inno­cence gives now a lustre to your sentiments, which truth calls her own."

"Well, sir, you say the passions are dangerous, I believe they are useful, and only rebellious when we would give them false meanings, or render them subservient to poor convenience. The passions are the wings of spirit. Cold tranquility the grave of thought. Turn your eyes to my convent! Even there the passions reign; but they rove through the mind like murmuring winds through barren and gloomy regions."

"I only mean, Emily, that the chain of reason should be thrown on the desires of the heart."

"Reason! What is reason? By what criterion is it established? Reason is cheap, vague; offering [Page 101] itself to you on all occasions. If a man does right according to received custom, he is said to act with reason; but should his conduct, though fault­less, oppose custom, he is still moving in contact with his own reason; and he will be astonished when he finds it is the reason of some other man and not his own that he is expected to obey. For you, sir, there is no necessity of torturing or concealing truth, your heart is not capable of a sentiment that can disgrace you!"

We now perceived my guardian and Roderique strolling round the park; they soon joined us, on an eminence from which the eye wandered over the ocean till it was stayed by the horizon.

The father of Emily, taking her hand, inform­ed us, he had prevailed on his accomplished guest (meaning Roderique) to remain a week with him. —"Rural beauties cannot invite an imagination long softened by luxurious scenes, and made rest­less by varied delights, in which the poisons of the heart are concealed. Nor does our new friend come under that description; but I will promise him attention, and innocent pleasure; and, to your politeness, my dear Henry, I commend this gentleman."—

I bowed—Roderique slightly returned my congee.

The perspective my guardian had brought for the purpose of assisting Roderique's view of the [Page 102] ocean, was in the hand of the latter: I requested the favor of it, and raising it to my eye, immedi­ately discerned a little skiff or sloop, but thinly manned, labouring through the billows—My heart fluttered. I concluded the wanderer of the main to be the faithful fisherman, so impatiently expect­ed by the fugitive in the rock.

It is impossible to describe the gentle thrillings of the blood which we so powerfully feel when collateral incident strikes on the image of our treasured joys. I felt a transport sacred to friend­ship; I concealed that transport, even from the friends I loved—Did I value truth the less?

I restored my guardian his perspective, and we hastened home to breakfast. Roderique was parti­cularly attentive to Emily, her father was kind to all; never did hospitality smile on a more benig­nant form.

My die was cast! My wishes were silent; but every progressive moment convinced me that Emily was necessary to my peace.

Roderique had been given to my attention: he expressed a desire of making an excursion round the country; I felt undelighted with the idea of accompanying him, and feigned myself indisposed. The splendor of the skies, notwithstanding my ex­cuse, tempted our family-party to take a turn through the meadows; and to the care of Emily and her father, did I, for good reasons, resign the [Page 103] envied Roderique. In passing the gate, he offered his arm to the amiable maid, she declined it, and accepted that of my guardian. My eyes pursued them, till they were lost in the shade of elm trees that grew round the adjacent enclosure; when, hastily ordering my horse, I resolved instantly to depart for the miserable cavity of my poor recluse. I rode threw a narrow lane, with the sole purpose of avoiding my friends; and at the end of a field, to the right, my horse's head turned suddenly upon them. They had crossed the meadow which di­rected to the same point. I was a little abashed; Emily smiled, and asked me, "which I had con­quered, my indisposition, or my love of truth?"

"My indisposition must be conquered by strong­er forces than mine, dear Emily; my love of truth remains; I will convince you of it in some happier moment; at present, do not condemn me un­heard."—Adding to this, the usual compliments of the day, and congratulations on the pleasure of their walk, I rode off.

The heat of the sun was forgot, while spurred on by impatient friendship; I soon arrived at the brink of the precipice, where I had first seen the interesting stranger. Slipping my horse's bridle on an oak branch, I roved along the jagged surface of the rock, but saw no guiding mark; and recollect­ed rather late, that I had appointed no hour of return to this solitary scene. Stung by disappoint­ment, [Page 104] I called aloud; the rock reverberated, but no human voice answered me; my vexation and my hallooing availed me nothing; I grew spirit­less, and was remourning, when a damsel appear­ed at a great distance; she seemed suddenly to have arisen from beneath the shrubbery which cloathed the slanting hills: her hat was in her hand; I observed she shook it at me, as one of my feet was in the stirrup, the other on the earth; I left my aukward position, again fastened my bridle to the tree, and received her with that delicacy due to the female character. She smiled, curt­sied, and I wished her fair weather on her journey.

"I thank you, sir," said she; "but my journey I believe must end here, for unless you be the gen­tleman, I am come to seek one I cannot find, and talk of one I do not know."

Chance may do much for you, my good girl— from whence or from whom are you sent?"—

"From the Fisherman's hut below the moun­tain—My father has crossed the ocean, and a gen­tleman waits his return, who has sent me hither: —"Not," said he, "(as I was putting on my yellow mittens), that I can positively direct you, Lydia; you are better acquainted with those un­frequented wilds than I am. But should you meet a gentleman wandering near that high rock which seems to touch the skies, conduct him, I pray you, [Page 105] to this habitation of your father." "So, sir, I came here yesterday, and am come again to day."—

"I am the man; lead me quickly to my friend"—

Without hesitation, the damsel directed me down the declivity, with which she was well ac­quainted. At some moments she kindly obliged me to rest on her arm, while she first descended the rugged steep; alternately she trusted herself to my superior strength. Holding her in my arms, I once involuntarily pressed her to my bosom; silence reigned around, the skies themselves were full of beneficence, and creative power! But— virtue, in the form of Emily, suddenly filled my soul; she checked the dangerous sensation, and it died away.

"If honour consists of self-restraint, then am I honourable," whispered my spirit to the watchful angels—Lydia is young, unartful, and wake to the touch of tenderness. Shame on the man who would steal from her cheek the crimson of inno­cence.—"

Meditations of this kind officiously operated in my bosom as the gentle maid conducted me to her father's hut—and meditations of this kind only serve to prove that man can forego one bles­sing, while in pursuit of a better.

[Page 106]On entering the fisherman's dwelling, the first object that presented itself, was my incognito, leaning on his hand. Some letters lay before him, which I imagined he had been reading, and Lydia twice announced me before he rouzed from his reflective posture. A gleam of unaffected joy en­livened him as he welcomed me to his embrace.

The fisherman made his appearance; his garb was mean, his habitation homely; yet on his brow sat that dignity, which honesty dares to wear in the presence of princes. He introduced his chil­dren—I sincerely wished them happier days, and they respectfully left me with their more-wretched guest.

"I am now on the eve of departure," said my solitary friend, "a short delay, even in this unin­habited scene, might ruin me and my hospitable host. On his arrival at Paris, he found means to reach the duke of B****, who informed him, on his producing my letters, tha [...] the supposition of our being wrecked, had prevailed secretly at court; and many private enquiries had been made con­cerning me."

"Fly! (says he, in this second letter) nor de­spairingly yield your valuable life; the time may come when I shall be able to assist you. The mi­nister is enraged against me, on account of his po­litical manoeuvres, to which I would not assent, [Page 107] and my safety lies in leaving France for a time.— I go to the Austrian Netherlands, and will wait for you at the abbe Dorvontes.—Come to me, if possible, in the course of a month. B****."

"And how will you depart?" replied I.—

"Here are jewels to a large amount," (said he,) "in this casket, which I had concealed in my belt a few hours before we were surprised by the storm: I have also some cash: with this poor fisherman and his family, have I sworn to divide my fortune; and I have promised to send for them, when once I am in a place of safety—His children shall be mine."

I began to suspect the charming Lydia had made an impression on the heart of this gentleman; for superlative gratitude generally springs from secret love—I was forming false ideas.

"Yes, sir, continued he, "I will study to cheer his creeping hours of age; and my friendship shall bless him, when his strength is no more."

I stooped, under the pretence of fastening my buckle, but in reality to hide my emotion— "Why," (my melting heart would have said,) "must I never find a father to relieve, when his health and strength are no more?"

In stooping forward, the miniature I had worn for years round my neck, broke its chain, and fell to the ground. The stranger first perceived it, [Page 108] caught it up, and was politely offering it me, when I jocularly questioned him, "If so much beauty excited not his attention?"

He gazed—In a moment his soul was lost in silent contemplation!—Pressing the lovely image to his lips, he burst into tears, and could only ar­ticulate—

"It is she!—my long, long lost angel!"

Confused as I was, prudence at the moment restrained me from calling assistance. He raised his eyes, and exclaimed, with a mournful look, "Where is she? Why have you torn her from me! Speak!—Tell me she will again be mine!"

I could promise nothing—I knew not the ori­ginal.

Suddenly starting from his seat, where I had supported his reclining head, he walked hastily the extent of the room for some minutes. It was a short traverse, but he was more agitated than the traveller, who is setting out on a long journey, poorly provided.

Assuming composure, he at length addressed me:

"How dare you wear this picture?"

"I value it highly, sir; it was given me by the man I most love."

"Perhaps the lady loved him too—but this is not a moment for expostulation."

His increasing rage blinded his reason; in a strong paroxysm he pointed his sword at me—

[Page 109]"Beware, sir! or you will prove how fallacious are your ideas of honour."

Stung by the salutary hint, he rested the point of his sword on the ground, and stood lost in silent despair.

"O heaven! is this thy care of man?—Was I not yesterday sufficiently wretched? I did not think it in the power of fate further to heap the measure of my woes!—This day, what am I!— It is impossible—She never could love another!— No matter—Pardon me, sir, I am wrong—I am distracted—Where will you arm?—I must keep this picture."

"If our host can provide me a sword, I will do myself the justice of defending a heart as worthy as your own; but not unless you first restore the prize we fight for."

"It is mine,"—said he fiercely—

"Not without you own it as a theft; and such an avowal will for ever throw you beneath my no­tice. I will contend with you as a gentleman, not as a robber."

"You are right," (replied he with a melancho­ly air,) "it must be your's till I have won it.— Go! (after pressing it to his lips) "inestimable jewel! Dear resemblance of all I adore! Why, ah! why art thou in possession of any but the man [Page 110] who dies for thee?—Take this beauty, sir—yet be warned by one much older, and more experienced in affliction than you are—If her unequalled per­fections have enslaved you, forget them. I charge you this hour to tear her from your heart!"

Pronouncing these words in a resolute tone, he bowed, and restored me the picture; I placed it in my bosom, and firmly waited that tremendous trial which is formed on savage principles, and deser­vedly despised when the passions have subsided.

I was well aware that the fatal victory we had mutually resolved to gain, must, in future, give birth to remose in the mind of the survivor: but pusillanimity would have rendered me unworthy the friendship of this exalted unknown; and so strangely was my heart attached to him, that death from his hand would be in my opinion less painful than life with the loss of his esteem.

My antagonist had, at my request, left the apart­ment we were in, to enquire for some kind of arms. He returned without effecting his purpose: the unwealthful habitation of our host needed no military prowess to defend it; for over his little all, did quiet Poverty spread her sable wing.

Disappointed, yet highly raging, the stranger of­fered me his sword, on condition I should restore him the picture.

"You have too much generosity to refuse my [Page 111] prayer. You are unarmed, I cannot fight you; but give me that gem! Let me, in dying, call it mine! Pierce this heart so tenacious of its right! When it has ceased to beat, her irresistible beau­ties may be your's—But tell her!—Oh! tell her, in her fondest moments, that my soul flew out bearing her image to eternal bliss!

Never had my heart sustained such a moment of softened anguish. Tearing open his bosom, this too-powerful opponent kneeled, and offered me his sword. Pity mixed with my stronger feelings. I lamented the laws of honour which obliged me never to resign the gift he sued for; and, while I made him understand me on this cruel point, I raised his compassion, for he seemed well acquain­ted with mental conflict.

"Come with me, my unfortunate friend," (said I, offering him my hand) come with me to my home; we may there find an explanation of this mystery; you shall, you must be convinced, that I have never wronged you."

"I will go!"—(replied he with wild impa­tience) "Conjecture is the child of uncertainty; the man who yields to it is sometimes heedlessly undone. I will go with you; I fear you not; it is not in the power of the world now to deprive me of any thing worthy my esteem. What gives you happiness has ended mine."

[Page 112]In vain I strove to remove those opinions kin­dled by jealousy in the bosom of this man; deaf as the storm to the traveller, he beat down my defen­sive plea, and imperiously commanded me to guide him to my friends, if I had any—I obeyed this brave but desperate stranger; who, in the moment of passion trusted himself to me, he deemed his ri­val, and, who might, from the confidence so lately reposed in him, prove a foe. The fisherman heard our loud altercation, but intruded not; we threw open the door in haste to depart, and met him weeping with his trembling Lydia.

"Suffer me to direct you to the top of the mountain," (said he to his impassioned guest,) "though I fear you are returning to perfidy and death; why will you not pursue your first purpose of going to the duke?—May heaven protect you!"

"Peace, old man! Am I not pursuing an object dearer than the life thou hast preserved?"

I secretly slipped a purse into the hand of Lydia, whose eyes were full of that softened sentiment, so amiable in the sex, and so powerful with mankind.

We departed, in company with her honest fa­ther. My horse (whom I had forgot) was feeding heartily on the brow of the hill. My long absence made him impatient and hungry; he had broke his bridle, and hunger, not gratitude, detained him [Page 113] near the spot where he was left by a thoughtless master. Here the fisherman took leave of us, and returned to his cabin and his children.

That gloomy silence which hangs on two objects deeply interested, when neither can collect lan­guage equal to his feelings, prevailed with me and my companion, from the moment we left the fisherman till we arrived at the gate of my guar­dian. Emily received us with restrained astonish­ment, the habit of the stranger made an apology necessary. He did apologize, and with such a grace as convinced us he thought ornament wanting more for our sakes than his own. "To you, the ut­most respect should be ever paid: for me, wretched appearances, Madam, suit well."

He did not know how far the soul of Emily soared above the gaudy seemings of the world. Compliments, the frivolity of which, the good sense of Emily soon annihilated, were at an end, when my guardian and Roderique entered. I in­troduced my unknown gentleman as well as I could, and a very incoherent introduction I made of it. My guardian looked at the stranger with sur­prise. Roderique rudely surveyed him with con­tempt, and the new guest sternly returned his ill-timed gaze. Turning away with manly indifference from the supercilious Roderique, he frankly ad­dressed himself to the former; "You seem agi­tated, [Page 114] sir, I beg you will compose yourself; I will not long obtrude; my business shall be brief. I feel myself injured; this young gentleman defies me▪ I came here to claim your justice, but, in the presence of this lady, dare not seize the moment of reparation."

"Emily," said her father, "may I request you to retire?"

"I know no reason, I must confess," replied Roderique, "why the company should separate— but, on second thought, I believe it may be as well, for this gentleman (walking round, as if he meant to inspire him with diffidence) can have little bu­siness with the ladies."

The other only returned—

"Your conceptions, sir, are of little importance to a man who despises trifles:"

Roderique tried to hum a lively air; Emily re­tired, in a manner, that convinced me she gladly left the spot where pointed ill-manners stung the unfortunate.

"You talk of injuries, sir," said my guardian, "if I have ever wronged you, boldly claim revenge."

"It is not you who are my object. I am led here to submit to your arbitration. Justice in you will dissipate my ideas of revenge; but, by heaven, I will not depart, till that gentleman restores the gem I have too long lost!"

[Page 115]"That gentleman, sir, is no robber! I will an­swer for his honour, and you wound mine when you doubt him; his heart must not be struck at till mine has ceased to beat."

"Command him, sir, to restore the picture now concealed in his bosom!"

"In vain; (replied my guardian furiously) the picture can never find a more noble bosom; it is his right, his highest privilege. I gave it him sixteen years ago, as a pledge—"

"A pledge!—Is it possible!—A pledge of what, sir, did she condescend?—But—I am not myself!—She never gave it you! it is falsehood deserving damnation, and you wrong her, sir.— This moment command him, if you have any in­fluence, to resign that picture, or the richest stream that revels near my heart shall be wasted on your pavement—A pledge!—A pledge!—Where am I?—"

Here the voice of the stranger faultered. I re­mained in silent and awful observation—Even Roderique seemed struck with reverence.

"Yes," said my guardian—"I avow, and will for ever repeat, that no man can have a dearer claim to the resemblance of that unfortunate beauty; it is her pledge of love, of pure unsullied love!

"Silence!—I will hear no more!—Leave un­ended [Page 116] your tale of infamy—Poltroons of your cast were meant to curse the fame of helpless woman —Slander her if you dare, sir; come, we will par­ly when we meet again—Draw, sir; and bid your boy assist you—I would willingly try both."

"No, sir," (replied my Guardian with a sereni­ty that gave an heavenly lustre to his features) "we are not assassins. I alone will encounter you. Henry," (turning to me as he was following the enraged stranger towards the door) "I have but one request to make, though this may be my last hour, protect my child; I am confident you will never be dastard enough to resign the picture of your MOTHER."

"His MOTHER!" (turning hastily back)— "My Henry—My son!—My dear Henry," ex­claimed the unknown.

In a moment my guardian was obliged to give way. I felt myself in the arms of my Father, and we together sank speechless on the floor.

The transports of filial love were new; new images opened on my mind as I held the object I had so long sought, in my strong embrace.

"Why, sir," (said I to my guardian hastily) "did you give me this picture, and charge me to preserve it, without informing me it was the re­semblance of my mother?"

"Ah! my dear Henry," replied he, with a sigh, "the clue that has led you to the knowledge of [Page 117] your father is yet in the hand of wayward fortune, and may break before you are completely blest."

Impossible, sir! Heaven designed me as an in­strument to promote his felicity. Oh, sir! had you seen him lost to comfort; had you found him so very wretched, you would have acted as I have done, and trusted the event to Heaven."

"I need not inform you, sir," said my Father to my guardian, "who I am; you never till this hour personally knew me; but you have protected my child; may God, from his store of blessing, pour your rewards! I am powerless, and can only offer you the language of a heart melted by your benevolence, and waiting from you its future peace. Where is my wife! Answer me that one question, and do with me as you please. Life, without her, is of no value."

"Could I give you that satisfaction, sir," repli­ed my guardian, "believe me, I would not linger in the tale; your wife, I have heard, must tread the paths of society no more. Where she is im­mured, I cannot inform you. On the second of April, which, I believe, according to the letter I received from the duke, was about a week before you and your tutor were committed to close con­finement, this youth, then an infant, was placed beneath my care. Not having accommodations suited to so tender a babe, my wife being dead, and my children receiving different educations, a distance from me, I resigned him to the care of one of my tenants. The man was nobly honest, [Page 118] the woman simple and uncorrupted. With them he grew; the miniature, which has caused so much altercation, was sent me by the duke of B****—I hung it round the neck of Henry; and not daring to reveal the secret of his birth, only charged him to preserve it even at the expence of life. How well he has obeyed my injunction you can determine."

"I will not arraign the mercy of Heaven," said my father; "my son is restored. Who shall set bounds to everlasting beneficence?—May I not yet behold her! May not some dark unfathoma­ble event throw the long-loved beauty into my faithful arms! How the imaginary phantom dances to my tender wishes!—but—I must be re­signed."

During this scene of unaffected joy, we had forgot Roderique—Nature had left no vacuum in our souls, and affection had closed every avenue, through which a mere object of polite civility could enter on our recollection. Whilst our glow­ing sentiments were thus undergoing a mutual interchange, Roderique had sat himself down to write, like one who was intent on taking minutes of some extraordinary occurrence.—And such the reader will ere long, perceive was the employ­ment of that gentleman at this interesting eclair­cissement.

I had ever prized myself on being an adept in scrutinizing the human heart, and never did my [Page 119] vanity so falsely support itself as now. I affected to be wonderfully penetrating, when I told Ro­derique, as he smiled at my father, with a kind of triumph, that the generosity of his mind shone strongly in his features. Roderique hastily squeez­ing the paper, on which he had wrote, thrust it into his pocket, and advanced towards us. I never, till now, had given him credit for goodness of heart; and was pleased in presenting him to my father as an accomplished nobleman, whom we ranked in the number of our friends.

We had acted inadvertently, but there was no recalling the past moment, and we suffered in the sequel for our imbecility.

Surely there are seasons of sweet delirium, when the soul feels herself unusually enlarged and boun­tiful. Then, if ever, we resemble our Creator; we would eagerly dispense delight, as we unexpected­ly receive it; while fancy increases the rapture by throwing agreeable tints on every object around us. My over-flowing heart was immerged in new-born transport; and my reader will not wonder that Roderique appeared through a pleasing me­dium—Had I not lately found a father? shame on the man, (said I to myself) who suspects a friend, and has not candor to reveal his sentiments. What harmony would animate the world, were mortals sincere! Thus I arraigned my rectitude, for having beheld Roderique with past dislike. I was at this moment so very generous as to ascribe that dislike to my love for Emily, and resolved in future to be [Page 120] more just in restraining my desires and expanding my friendship; nor did Roderique, in my opinion, retain his wonted manner; his hauteur was chang­ed to obsequiousness; I became subdued by his at­tention, and was fastened to his will; in a word, we were friends.

My father, though evidently pining after good unpossessed, was grateful to the kind civilities of my guardian, whose every effort was meant to please. In hunting, angling, and rural diversion we strove to lessen the weight of care; but fate had laden my father too heavily! my friend Roderique too seemed lately to have taken up his share of business; I never could tempt him from his em­ploy, which was continually writing and receiving letters. I was, therefore, allowed sufficient leisure to arrange my plans of future happiness. I had but one; and resolved, the first opportunity, to ask my father's consent, that I might marry Emily. Yet, I had not endeavored to engross the affections of that lovely object; I even sometimes avoided her, lest she should observe the anguish of my soul, pity, and secretly love me under inauspicious influences. Heavens! what would I not have resigned for the knowledge of this one truth!

Thou wilt find, my gentle reader, I am very inconsistent; but we are all so; love and virtue clashing in thy mind, will make thee feel with me.

Yes, I wished Emily's affection to keep pace with mine. I wished her to taste that pure, though visionary bliss of loving, without the dull certainty of possessing; of voluntarily yielding, with the choice [Page 121] of being free; of keeping the reins of her conduct in her own hands, without being assaulted by the wild passions of a man, who, at times, could not answer for himself.

Such was the great passion with which I longed to fill the heart of Emily; for this reason I resolved privately to gain the sanction of her father and mine, and to watch the dawning of her gentle wishes.

To aid this little plan, and throw wider my view of happiness, Roderique one day informed me, he should soon depart.—I know not why, but my heart fluttered strangely at this information.

"Are you not unwilling," said I, "to leave so fine a country. Is here no object, whose charms are powerful enough to detain you?"

What an awkwardness there was in this question; every word of it simply declares.

"None more powerful than your own," re­plied Roderique: "in your conversation, I have learned the lessons of honour, of truth, and of filial affection: accept my heart, and call me for ever your's."

Still I panted for an avowal of Roderique's sen­timents respecting Emily. I had no right to accuse or complain; I had beheld a treasure without at­tempting to secure it, and his privilege was fair as mine. I continued musing, as I spoke, on the in­sensible vivacity of Roderique, who was so soon to leave us; like a shadow we must behold no more.

"My guardian will regret your absence—even [Page 122] Emily—the charming Emily—" (an ill-timed sigh lengthened her name upon my lips)—"perhaps may mourn."

"Emily is lovely," replied Roderique, with wonderful carelessness, "but I leave her to you— pursue, possess, be happy, and grow old in all she is capable of communicating. For me, my dear friend, other pleasures wait. I will return to my former scene of gaiety, I will remember you and Emily, and I will flatter myself with the idea of not being always a stranger to your memory."

Selfish as I was, Roderique relieved me from the excrutiating pangs of jealousy. In return, I made him warm protestations of lasting regard. Feeble was my judgment, and officious in self-de­ception, when I fancied this man capable of disin­terested friendship. Yet, had Emily never existed, Roderique might have been less abandoned.

Our conversation was prolonged from the park gate, where it began, to the door of my guardian's mansion; in the window of which we espied the charming maid leaning on her hand. She had stu­diously avoided company for some days; had sel­dom left her own apartment; and her father in­formed us she complained of an oppression near her heart. "I will invite her to ride with me," said this indulgent man, "in hopes of dissipating a melancholy I cannot account for."

He accordingly accompanied her over the adja­cent plains; I implored the angel of health to re­store her native chearfulness, and retired to my study.

[Page 123]I had taken up the orations, said to have been delivered by the divine Plato, to his disciples on the promontory of Sunium, and had read a few pages, when I was disturbed by a gentle rap at my door—it was my father who entered; he saluted me affectionately, and began a conversation with a serious air.

"The obscurity of this peaceful spot, my dear son, suits my miserable fortunes; but how long may I, with honour, continue under the kind pro­tection of your guardian, whose life and property may be endangered by his hospitality to me? While I am a wanderer, and free from chains, Louis trembles for his crown. I am his twin-bro­ther, was born with him in the same hour, conse­quently, have been a state prisoner through life, and am now an exile. I seek not the diadem of France; my heart is not so heated by ambition, as by civil commotion, to shed the blood of thousands; nor would I wish you to be known through the realm, as the nephew of the king."

My blood seemed to make a full pause at this declaration; but it paused only to revisit my heart with treble force.

"What!—my noble father! are you content to creep round the world a victim to persecution, and an alien to society?"

"Content is with your mother; if I find her, the dominions of nature will be mine."

"May the Almighty power in restoring her to you, give me the blessing I have never known!— [Page 124] But do not expect to hear me whistle after the plough, or die undistinguished amidst the peaceful pleasures of these woodlands.—Bid me go and seek my mother! Bid me rush into the path of glory; I may learn her destiny—I may soften yours, I may snatch some laurels from the hand of war; at least, my life will not glide away without leaving a proof of my existence on the annals of fame."

He answered.—"Fame has affliction for her fa­vorite: she sets him up; he veers with her blast, and riots in her transient charms. Soon, much too soon, her minion falls from her finest height. En­vy receives him in her snaky bosom; he looks up, and owns with regret, that no summit was ever gained on which man can permanently rest."

"But my honour, sir, will oblige me at least to leave this scene; at once inactive, inglorious, and dangerous to you, to my guardian, to me, and to—"

Here my conscious heart arrested my tongue, before it wildly pronounced the name of her I loved; for, however cold I might appear to be, I too, certainly, at some moments, feared for Emily and myself. Besides, did not a suffering father stand before me, whose wrongs I was impatient to redress?—He did, and my whole soul became ex­panded with the grandeur of her own ideas.

My father calmly replied—"Your observations are just, my son; for your secret consolation pre­serve your honour and your virtue, and barter not either for public fame. Fame can never repay you. [Page 125] I am serious—If quitting this retreat will secure your rectitude, you shall with me immediately depart."

During this speech, I felt the power of my father darting to the inmost recesses of my troubled mind.

He continued—"Emily has informed me—"

I started.—"Why are you agitated? why do you turn pale? Be seated, my worthy Henry," politely drawing a chair, this generous fugitive proceeded:

"Yesterday you lamented the dejection of Emi­ly; you were surprized at her avoiding the pre­sence of yourself and Roderique; you know not the cause, nor do I; the motives of those who are all innocence and delicacy may not be imper­tinently scrutinized; but she is not happy."

"God forbid, sir!—who makes her otherwise? I will not tamely—pray inform me."—

My Father smiled; and, interrupting me, said, "I find you are no culprit, Henry, you hourly give me new proofs of exalted purity. Emily has informed me, that she wishes to cut short this visit to her Father, and requests me to use my influence with him, that she may, in three days, depart. In my convent, said the charming girl, I shall find the peace I have lost. Here I have met with inso­lence; but should I reveal the name of him who has offended me, his life would be the expiation; or my dear, my valuable father might fall in the contest! I therefore intreat you to forward my departure from a spot where my bosom suffers from more causes than one."

[Page 126]My Father, towards the conclusion of this speech, eyed me with fixed regard, while the mantling blood arose from my heart and spread an honest anger over my visage; particles of fire seemed to fly before me.

I only articulated, "what shall I do, sir!— What would you do? Chastise the disturber of my Emily!"

With a mournful look, he turned from me, and walked silently to the window, while my agitation became extreme. Willingly would I have fallen at his feet, and poured out the sentiments of my soul; I had not the power—by irresistible reve­rence I was chained to my seat.

My father, still gazing through the window, in a musing attitude, and without turning to look at me, said, in a low voice, "Would you destroy the peace of Emily?"

"Me, Sir!—I destroy the peace of Emily! O, thou Almighty Power! who hast formed me to thy will, be thou her strong defender!"

Endeavouring to calm my perturbed spirit, I stood silent; my father, at length, approaching me with quickness, said, affectionately, "Henry! —My dear Henry! Why will you in vain distress me? I ask not your confidence, because you ap­pear resolved that I never shall share it; but, is it impossible for us to meet on equal terms? I pro­mise to advise, not restrain you; and will lose the name of father in that of friend—Only try to for­get Emily!"

[Page 127]Pressing his hand to my lips, I exclaimed, "Yes, my father, I see too plainly you dare not trust your son; you will not permit me to be the guar­dian of that gentle maid; and yet, Sir, her father once told me, that, to my honour, he could con­fide his child."

"I could trust her with your honour, but not with your AFFECTION."

This was a stroke I was not aware of. I fell be­fore him, breathed my guiltless passion in fervent language; and assured him I had never influenced the mind of Emily by an avowal of my love.

My father was pleased; he strove to bring me back to tranquility; yet, whilst he talked of rea­son, of prudence, and of proud philosophy, his eyes were full of tears. I hoped to profit by the tenderness of the moment; I drew back his me­mory to the image of my mother. He was disturb­ed; his bosom heaved; and I exulted in the idea of having conquered his objections. To whom could I plead with more hope of success?—Had not my father known the joys and the sorrows of unconquerable love?

He was silent for some moments. I felt reliev­ed in having unburthened myself to him, and saw no reason he could oppose to my union, yet he appealed to my principles.

"You love Emily?"

"I do, Sir; nor can I blame myself for adoring an object that inspires me with virtues. Yes, my father! she hangs upon my memory, and vice can offer no temptation where her image is seen. I am [Page 128] ennobled by love, and will not sink unworthy of my Emily's perfection."

"You see before you, my dear Henry, in your unfortunate father, an example of selfish and un­generous passion."

"Ungenerous, Sir!"—

"You must not interrupt me: ungenerous and unjust: I studied my own happiness, without con­sidering the miseries I was preparing for another. I timely felt my arm too feeble to ward off the shafts my fate was preparing for an innocent ob­ject; yet, like you, I loved; pursued that love; won a valuable heart to my sentiments, and wed­ded it only to anguish: need I say that your destiny is equally uncertain? What can you do for Emi­ly! How will you shield her from the storm now impending over your head and mine? Will you not rather render her wretched, by alluring her from a fond father, who deems her his richest blessing; and who, without her, may sink com­fortless into the vale of time?—But, far be it from me to aggravate our mutual woes—If Emily loves you, brave all future accidents, and lead her to the altar."

My father waited my reply—I had none to make; the essential part was wanting. I was a stranger to the sentiments of Emily.—He wished me self-composure; and left to my judgment the picture of his experience, faithfully delineated. How warmly had I painted the hours in perspec­tive! My colouring was too high.

THE ROYAL CAPTIVES.

MY Guardian returned with his lovely daugh­ter. I saw them pass through the court, but sought them not. Hope was extinguished; I paused in silence on the future; misery alone was seen. Where could I find an asylum for afflicted beauty? How defend a wife!—Filial piety here forbad my indulgence of soft ideas. My exiled Father, my lost Mother, claimed my exertion, and I resolved to rise superior to the dear delirium. "Can I see him depart alone," said I, looking wildly at the horizon; "can I lie dreaming of unutterable worlds in the eyes of Emily, whilst he is roving joyless round the earth? No, I will imitate his virtue, and share his fate."

Full of my purpose, I rang for my dinner to be brought into my study, and sent back a line by the servant, in which I requested my father to hasten our departure on the morrow.

"All is now concluded," I exclaimed, with a sigh. "Woman, fascinating woman, shall enslave me no more! I will hurry from the indolence with which she impregnates the very air around [Page 4] her, and the sounds of war shall awaken me to energy. Yes! I will go to the Duke of B****, and, unknown to my father, will implore his assist­ance in asserting our privileges of sharing, at least, the common freedom of mankind. Must we for ever behold the sword of Death held over us, merely be­cause we are the relatives of a King! May we not breathe with liberty? Execrable state! My father shall be happy! Unerring Mover of eternal life! do thou so direct my youthful ardour as to make it pro­pitious to his clouded fortune: give me war and death, but suffer the gentle rays of peace to fall on his hours!"

Thus, indulging alternately the luxury of rea­ding, and of thought, I remained in my study till the approach of evening, when I saw Emily stray­ing negligently down the terrace-walk, towards the opening of the pleasure garden. She sometimes stooped to smell the hyacinth as it grew, and stood meditating on the rose without plucking it; as she loosed the beauteous bud from her hold, it seemed to fly back to its parent-branches, as if conscious of the death it had escaped, and pleased in remaining a little longer in the fragrant family. Again I saw her hesitate, with her hands folded, and her head reclined on one shoulder, to gaze on the jonquils which had been gathered at noon, and now lay dying, neglected, on the turf. Her white scarf waved on the officious wind as she turned the corner of the grove which secluded her from my sight. My eyes remained for a moment fixed to the point [Page 5] from whence she had disappeared. What had I now to do in my study; My resolves were formed: I had offered up the dearest wishes of my soul at the altar of my duty; it could be no crime to bid Emily a long farewel—No! No! My heart was too honest, and honestly did it ever obey the feelings of Nature, when those feelings were in unison with the pleasant duties it owed to my fellow-creatures.

I tripped lightly down the stairs, hastened through the hall, whispered an adieu to every well known tree, and threw a parting look on each va­riegated blossom.

"Tomorrow," said I, with a sigh, (as I touched a carnation Emily had planted,) "To morrow I leave thee, tender flower. Mayest thou long be cherished by the hand that placed thee here, whilst I am becoming roughly inured to savage valour, and a foe to peace!—Ah! what a contrast! Thou art not capable of destroying, thou art not MAN!"

As I cast a lingering eye athwart the embroidered parterre, memory ran back to the moment when Emily brought the bouquette, with this innocent apology: 'They must once die, and why not die with you?'

Dear Emily, "(replied my busy thought) "Henry must die! and why not die with you?"

Rapt with my own ideas, I fancied the Carnation began to shut her richly-tinted beauties.—"Thou art no niggard, sweet flower! Thou hast a right to mourn, while thy beloved sun is stealing to his [Page 6] western loves!—He will return—When will Henry return?

Here, the age-loving ivy crept round the venerable oak, as if enamoured of her hoary protector—There, the honey-suckle willingly entangled herself in the snares laid by the wily gardener round the bower to receive her encroachments; and above me, the blackbird hailed the dewfall with his love-lengthen­ed song.

Bounteous Creator! Are not all thy tribes in harmony? can Nature vary from herself? Is she not glowing with universal love? Are not the minutiae of things eternally moving in her behalf? Why then must man throw the freezing drops of self-denial on the warm transports of the heart.

Under this kind of reasoning, and full of ques­tions, for which I required answers from some pow­er stronger than myself, could my emotions be enough regulated to play with safety round my judgment, while in the presence of Emily? Ought I to have followed her? A gentleman would say— "Yes."; a lady would say—"Nothing."

Reclined on a bank, and perusing a paper, I saw Emily in an arbour of woodbines. She saw me not, as I stole like a thief round coveted trea­sure; and I sat myself down behind her. Flowers, and leaves of various kinds formed her only external shields from so ardent a lover; but had she not in­vincible innocence?

Often did I murmur at the shrubbery, whose green trappings waved themselves so busily as to conceal her speaking eyes; but as the moments were deli­cious ones, I waited happily the denouement.

[Page 7]After reading the paper she turned herself a little —I could observe her features—Judge my soul by thy own, when she sang with a tender air,

Love, which would have forced me to advise, inspired me at the same moment with the fear of offending.—Emily arose to be gone; for the evening star appeared, and the blackbird was sunk to repose.—

"My dear girl!" said I, rushing from my con­cealment—I could say no more—Emily shrieked, and I caught her in my arms. Pointed as lightning is the transport of an oppressed heart, when boun­ding towards the object of its care.—I held her to my bosom, unable to tell her why. Was not such a moment worth an age of trammeled love? Heaven should, at that moment, have called me from life.

Soon did the charming maid disengage herself and recover her native dignity. I could make no apology. True, I had not exceeded the bounds of [Page 8] virtue, but I had broken rudely on her reserve; and waited in silence that sentence which, I knew, must throw me on my fate.

'Was it well done, Sir,' (said she, with a faulter­ing voice) 'to intrude on my retirement? Do you feel an increase of pleasure by having acquired the knowledge of my self-delusion? You have acted ungenerously, and your conduct may prove destruc­tive to more than me.—'

Throwing myself at her feet, I loudly exclaimed —"Hold, incomparable Maid! Pronounce not my doom: here will I kneel till you are convinced how dearly your felicity is prized by my fond heart. I am not ungenerous, I will sacrifice my peace, my life, to the tranquility of your unblemished mind! —I will for ever remain at your disposal, but I ne­ver can cease to love you! O, Emily! I have long suffered, have long strove to banish you from my imagination; my strength of soul is not suffici­ent—Without you I am sick; without you I hate existence; and all the varied tints of creative Na­ture fade on my joyless sight. What must I do! Can you teach me not to adore you? Have you the power of tearing your image from my remembrance? No! I will hold you till every object is shut out by Death, and too surely I shall fall a victim to de­spair and love."

Still holding her hand, I found she shook with perturbation: the pauses of her breath grew short: She sighed, and with difficulty requested me to rise.

[Page 9]"Say you pardon me, generous Emily! suffer me at least to indulge the melancholy comfort of believing myself honoured with your friendship; think with what anguish I go—"

'Go!—whither would you go?—Can you leave my father?'—

"I have a father!—"

'True—I had forgot you have any father but mine.'

The artless maid put her hand to her forehead, as if endeavouring to reconcile her judgment to the circumstance of the moment: but she grew more embarrassed, and her hesitation increased the trans­port of my impassioned soul; all was forgot but Emily! I grew wild with love; rose from the earth, sealed a wournful adieu on her chaste lips; and, in that moment, could have fled with her to some un­known world!

How finely wrought is the mind of man!—Yet how seldom are his harmonic powers tuned by a skilful hand. Vulgar objects draw out vulgar tones; but, when touched by refinement, his thrillings are exquisite, and he melts the heart of another by that mysterious flame in which himself is dissolving!

That Emily had caught a portion of my fervour, I had reason to hope, but virtue was the master-key of her feelings.

We cast a melancholy look on the star that hung on the end of evening; it glided over our heads; we were soon to see it no more.

"So pass our joys!—"

[Page 10]'True; and so pass our sorrows,' replied the self-collected maid—

"Are they not wise who monopolize the few pleasures of life, and hoard them in remembrance from the thief of nature?—Time, my Emily, steals the moments of felicity: whilst we seize his trea­sures, the old traveller stands still!"

'Time cannot steal the pleasures I have been taught to prize—I feel them as emanations of some great power, to whom time itself is a slave; of course I shall never too eagerly seize felicity, but take my my little lot and be content.'

I was now sensible that I was out in my part, for I really did myself the credit to think I had assumed a designing character in my last speech, not at all natural to me.

Emily continued—'I had hoped you would have remained to comfort my father till the return of my brothers. That idea is banished—I am acquainted with your rank; and to prove your superiority am at the same moment surprized with an avowal of your love, and of your departure. This is the pre­sumption of a man whose affections are subservient to his ambition.'—

"Torture me not! You are above the snares employed by the artful of your sex to humble the slaves who adore them. Too good to rack my heart, merely because it is your own, and keep me in the horrors of suspence to feed an ill-timed vanity.— Adieu, Emily!—we may never meet more; but I [Page 11] could have wished, that though I should obey my father, you would not hate me!"

The thoughtful maid stood silent—her eyes were bent to the earth—My thoughts were breaking into wild disorder; and the only prospect which gave me temporary ease, was that of rushing into danger, when once I had left her, that I might shorten an existence no longer desirable.

"Cruel and unjust are you to yourself and me! Was it possible you could so lately breathe the name of Henry! could you so tenderly sing of love, while your heart was a stranger to the sacred flame?— You accuse me of ambition to throw me from you."

Roused from her meditative attitude she gave me her hand—I pressed it to my lips, and she generous­ly replied, 'What have I to do with foolish reserve! I have no guilt to conceal—My heart stands confest to the Father of All! Yes, exalted Henry! I dare to love you while you love virtue; and, among your many perfections, filial regard is in my estimation not the least.—Go! preserve your worthy father; yet leave me not I conjure you till—'

"Till when?"—said I, hastily interrupting her. "I cannot marry you, dear Emily; my fate is un­decided.—I must go!—never!—perhaps never to hold you thus; to hear you speak, to listen to your instructive converse: nor may I take you with me. I have no home. It is a father leads me on; can you forgive me? It is I that am unjust; I have in­stantaneously [Page 12] deceived you. You are wronged by the man who adores you."

'Be more calm' (replied Emily) 'think me not wedded to your person: lament not the necessity of the moment, but preserve your father.'

"Do I possess your soul, as you possess mine? I wish you to languish for me in whatever scene you may in future be engaged: I shall in absence sigh for you! I will adore the sun that cheers you! I will gaze on the moon, and fancy my Emily is at that moment whispering my name through the mid­night breeze—yet I cannot call you for ever mine."

'How little do you know me, Henry—Is mar­riage the only tie that can relieve your fears? Will you owe nothing to me? All institutions were in­vented by man; that in particular is necessary to his feeble judgment. Marriage is the only chain for two suspecting souls, mutually in fear of each other; invested with prerogative they are watchful and suspicious; apparently polite, they are in pri­vate cooly envenomed, and hourly becoming prac­tised in deliberate deceit: Life wears away in una­vailing murmurs—But can Henry know no other security?—Is he a stranger to that lambent, that eternal flame which ever encircles kindred minds? Go—absence will not make you less dear—love me if you can—continue free, and save a father!'

"How can I depart unblest! Ah, Emily! should no future world exist, where is the reward for our self-denying principles?"

[Page 13]'Presumptuous Henry! We are not capable but of transient happiness! The indulgence of our wishes could not render us permanently blest; all must fade away. Why we are ushered into exist­ence, or why, after wasting life, we die, never can be answered. But should the privation of facul­ty only precede some mighty change, it were well methinks to rise with conscious purity from those mortal particles of which we were recently compo­sed; and granting existence ends on the bed of death, surely my beloved friend will own that the remembrance of those pleasures, which passion may afford, will not at that hour bring consolation.'

I was all she chose to make me: passively virtuous, and obedient to her will; she threw the rein on my imagination, and though I felt the influence of the scene around, my feeble judgment was the friend of my dear instructress.

The moon now silvered the foliage of the bower; Emily directed her steps towards the house, and I reluctantly followed.

'Will you see me within the walls of my con­vent?' (said she, as we walked slowly on) 'I shall there be safe—perhaps for ever.'—

"For ever! Emily!—am I pursuing a shadow! Is it possible you can think of taking the veil?— Send me not from you with so dreadful an apprehen­sion!"

'I think not of the veil: I see no Heaven through the dreary passage of incessant mortification; un­meaning in itself because unworthy the Power [Page 14] for whom the fanatic supposes she suffers. My rea­son for hastening thither is more intimately con­nected with mortal objects; and, for the same reason I wish you to remain with my father till after the departure of Roderique.'

My father's conversation in the study came to my recollection; but as I knew Emily had the choice of speaking truth, or remaining silent, I had not much hope of gaining an explanation of these hints concerning Roderique; nor was I much agitated on the account, as our party were so soon to be broken up, and each severally to take his different path. I, however, asked her if she was in fear of Roderique; she told me he only met her contempt, and com­mended me to silence on so jarring a subject. We reached the house, with a tender pensiveness hanging on us like a hoar frost on the blossom; and found my Guardian, my Father, and Roderique discours­ing on the sports of the field. The latter, after we were seated, returned to the conversation, and wish­ed, as his stay was to be short, a hunting party could be formed before he left Rochelle. My Guardian willingly promoted his wish; and I have seen him rejoice at the escape of the hare, and mourn at her death; but as he began to make his little arrange­ment of friends and sportsmen, Emily respectfully interrupted him, by mentioning her desire, 'first to depart.'

Her Father, attentive to her happiness in every point, I believe sometimes sacrificed his own; and did not hesitate to enquire when she would resolve; [Page 15] adding, with a parental, smile, 'you must live in­dividually for yourself, my dear child; I can only be a secondary cause of pleasure to you; your mind is all your own, your conduct your own; and, when I am no more, you must continue on the theatre of life till your part is played. When the scene is closing, call not loudly on the world: society stands listening over dying worth, and voluntarily shields it; and Emily will deserve the plaudits of the wise. Name the day of your departure; your will is mine.'—

'To morrow, my honoured Father,' said Emi­ly.'—

'To-morrow let it be,' said Roderique hastily, and immediately rang for his servant.

'Then to morrow,' (rejoined my father) 'we will all conclude to separate; since, if I may speak for myself, either will think this noble mansion but a prison when bereft of those friends whose senti­ments endeared it. My son, since I have so happi­ly found him, claims my unabating care. To the protection of his uncle, in the Netherlands, I will leave him, and return. France yet holds my wife; and my search after her shall end but with my exist­ence.'

A smile, expressive I thought of triumph, shone on the face of Roderique, and sank into a settled stare at my father. Imagining him lost in some me­lancholy reflection, I touched his shoulder, and asked him,—"if my Father, myself, my Guardian, or Emily had most the interest of his heart at this moment of purposed separation?"

[Page 16]'Your Father, Sir'—(said he with an unusual bluntness) and immediately rose from his seat.

The attendant he had rang for entering, Rode­rique ordered him to prepare for departure immedi­ately, and ushering him to the farthest part of the room, gave him a letter, whispering some instruc­tions, and pronouncing others of little importance distinctly.

'I shall not,' added he, 'wait here for your re­turn, my horses will be got ready by your fellow-servant; let nothing retard you.'

To my Guardian he returned acknowledgements in the most refined language politeness could sug­gest; lamented the necessity that forced him away that very hour, and took leave of us all in a manner that endeared us to him. One look he gave to Emi­ly, as he passed towards the door, that sufficiently indicated a heart torn by various passions.

As his equipage and attendants rattled through the court-yard, I felt a kind of regret, and could not help mourning the nature of man. How much like shadows we [...]! said I, to-day blest in the bo­som of friendship, to-morrow gone!—The last dawn I expected to see at the Count de Marsans af­ter a sleepless night appeared: The sun ascended with effulgence, and the raptures of creation were heightened—Raising my eyes to that glorious orb, I breathed the strain of heavenly gratitude.—Mag­nificent source of unending comfort! Thou hast poured thy floods of light through ages! Thou shalt continue to invite the infant hours from the bosom [Page 17] of eternity! Thou shalt gild them as they pass for the felicity of Man! Yet Man! feeble Man! must mourn! Too rich in imagination, and too poor in judgment, his joys are incomplete; and he steals sorrowing through the world a victim to idea. Fancy brings her gaudy visions to dance round him in his morn of life; The cold hand of disappoint­ment prepares for him the bed of age; but thou shalt unwearied roll! In thy vivifying beams shall eternally sport the busy atoms of creative power which keep the universe for ever young.

Exquisitely blest in the confidence of her I loved I knew the dear moment of generous truth she had indulged me would be ever mine. To love and be beloved gives such hidden strength to the soul of man that he becomes dignified by the mutual influence, and feels as if invulnerable through every other cir­cumstance.

An officious attention prevailed through the house; doors were left open to shew unusual dis­patch; and servants stumbled down stairs with unnecessary noise to shew how highly interested they were in the departure of their young mistress, who stood in a reflective attitude in the great par­lour.

I saw her, and made an involuntary pause; but not daring to trust myself alone with her, at this mournful crisis, sighed, and passed on to find my Father.—He had been writing a letter to the faith­ful Fisherman who had preserved him, and employed a servant of my Guardian's to search out the hut, be­neath [Page 18] the covering of the rock, and to direct its honest master to follow us to *****, with Lydia and her little brothers.—Or, if the Fisherman re­tained a predilection to the peaceful lot in which he was placed, the domestic had orders to leave him a sum of money for the purpose of buying a vessel of larger size than that in which he used to scud through the ocean.

The carriage [...]ow waited to convey the disturber of my peace to the gloomy recess of pious [...]anaticism; while a sufficie [...]t number of attendants waited to escort us on our different roads. I will not pre­tend to describe our mutual sorrow; or our many protestations of never-dying friendship; let it here suffice (my sympathising reader) that, as with a burthened heart I led Emily to the carriage, she took a valuable ring from her finger, and, slipping it on mine, emphatically said, 'While you 'love truth, remember Emily.—

Words were too weak; in silent ecstasy I tore the diamond cross from my bosom, closed her hand upon it and held her in my arms as a treasure never to be resigned. Ardent as this tender embrace was, it was not so significant as to discompose my innocent girl, or attract the discernment of surround­ing attendants. Her beauty invited me to love; her virtues commanded me to be respectful.—My Guardian stood by—and long inured to self-restraint through every trial, he checked his feelings. Even now he endeavoured to smile, but his heart forbad his features to play falsely.

[Page 19]'A short-time since, my dear Henry,' (said the worthy man) you wished to enter into a military life—I dissuaded you from it. I dared not give my consent even to your uncle the Duke of B****, who was the nobleman that visited me incog. and with whom you were so much delighted. You are now going to him—I have done but my duty in strictly adhering to the rights of friendship; and in preserving, inviolable, the secret of your birth. When I gave the picture of your amiable Mother to your bosom, I was proof against your eager enqui­ries; and you were polite enough ever after to de­cline them. I now leave you to the tender soli­citude of a Father—farewel, deserving youth! Con­tinue to be what you now are, and your friends will exult when Henry is named.

"May I in absence be dear to you. Sir! Preserve Emily—barter her not for wealth: Suffer her heart alone to direct her to the altar when I return.—But when, when shall I return—No; I never shall see you more!"

My words died incoherently away; my eyes were insensibly fixed on the earth as I uttered this last painful sentence on myself. The Father of Emily —took advantage of the pause, handed her hastily into the carriage, and they drove off.

"She is gone!" (said I, to poor Mayo, whom Emily had often fed, and who had tamely follow­ed us from his wooden cabin neglected and un­observed:) "She is gone! but whither canst thou go? Thou art old!" (The harmless creature look­ed [Page 20] up at me, and followed me back to the spot where our horses were waiting) "May the hand that shall stretch out to relieve thee, Mayo, never be blasted by the damps of poverty! Merciful must it be and amply should it be filled!"

After recommending the dumb companion of my infant hours to the care of my Guardian's honest steward, accompanied by my Father and attendants, I left the scene where I had indulged imagination, and thirsted after wisdom. Many a beautiful shrub, whose first blossom I had remarked with delight, seemed to nod mournfully as I passed them. With me they had grown, with me they had reached maturity. I left them with reluctance, and beheld them no more.

We rode for some hours over the waste; frequent intervals of silence, hesitations, and broken dis­courses, employed us gradually, while trees flocks, vallies, and hills flew behind like emblems of passing life.

The soul possesses a gloomy and despotic power: when her feelings may be moderate enough for lan­guage, language she calls in; but when she is la­bouring after triumph, glory, and immortal Fame, she forbids the tongue to move, stifles the rising pas­sions, and looks forward with awful majesty to the event she thinks worthy her sole exertion; then is human sound but as a shepherd's bell heard from afar and forgot.

[Page 21]Why did not my Father talk of the scene we had left? and why did I forbear to mention Emily? We admired the rivulets, were charmed with the music of the groves, conversed scientifically on the different strata, of different rocks, and admired earth as the bed of elements; but all this had nothing to do with our real feelings. It was only our artful manner of contriving to be silent on subjects that asked more than language could afford. The eve­ning soberly came on, when we entered a thick wood, through which were many paths in many directions. The sun was gone, the horizon became black, hollow winds blew suddenly through the thickets, and the bleating lambs intimated a coming storm. Man cannot be chearful amidst discourage­ments; but he does well when he endeavours to surmount them—We went on;

'Alberti,' (said my Father to o [...]e of our atten­dants, who was appointed the guide) 'where is your map?'

'It is in my portmanteau; I will shew it your Honour', replied Alberti.

'No matter, if you are certain we go right.'

'Right, my Lord, as a arrow from the string.

'And why not as an arrow to its mark, Al­berti?'

'When an arrow sets out, please ye, it always means to be right, but a wrong mark may pop in its way.'

'What was that noise?

[Page 22]'Thunder, My Lord; but I'll alight and look at the map.'

'You should have kept it in your pocket. I see some distant spires yonder, and we will halt for the night at the first village.'

Lightning, hail, and wind raged suddenly through the forest: earth caught a momentary ra­diance from the electric matter that darted a­thwart her bosom, while the unbending oak ap­peared as an emblem of unshaken fortitude. Stub­bornly it braved the storm; yet kindly did it af­ford shelter to us lonely travellers. What could the virtuous man do more?

In our journey through the forest, we had discerned but one little cabin; it was formed of branches of trees, which, being hewn into an equal thickness, were laid on each other, and plaistered with clay. The roof was flat, and of the same composition, a hole being left in the middle to carry off the smoke. Curiosity led us to take a peep within, where we saw only one man, who told us he was a miner; that in this hovel he lived all the week, because his mine lay near, in the depth of the forest; but that on Sundays he went eight miles to his home, where his wife and children made him happy. How few were the hours of comfort allotted this poor miner! Here we could not shelter; but he informed us that a house stood, within a mile, in the track towards the old church. Not knowing that track, we re­quested him to be our guide. He chearfully com­plied, awakened his dog that lay sleeping with his [Page 23] nose on his master's hat, and both accompanied us till we came in sight of the house, when we rewarded him, and he returned to his lodging, or rather to his tomb.—The house he had directed us to was built of slabs rough as they were drawn from their native quarries, and a quick-set hedge was planted round the garden. Near the wicker gate stood three cows feeding on dry leaves and hay, mixed with furze, while eleven sheep stood, with their lambs at the door of the fold, waiting to be taken in from the beating of the pitiless storm. Sensible that the soft movements of Nature are no where so pow­erful as in solitude, we, at first, hesitated whether we should disturb the inhabitants of this dwelling; but the tempest redoubling its impetuosity, it was resolved the embassy should be mine to ask a pro­tection till it was spent. I alighted, tapped gently at the door, and it was immediately opened by a female, whose advanced age, and cleanliness of per­son, struck me at once with reverence and delight. I told her my errand, and pleaded the inclemency of the weather.

'I will come again in a moment, Sir,' said she, throwing a book from her hand on a deal dresser, the shelves of which were laden with wooden trenchers, and bright pewter plates alternately. She hastened up the stairs, and left me to take care of the lower part of the house: no grate was to be seen, but a most comfortable fire blazed on the spacious hearth, while a large flitch of bacon hung on each side.

[Page 24]Lessons of cookery, I suppose, said I to myself, taking the book the good woman had left; I how­ever, was mistaking the subject, which was a trea­tise on resignation.

Resignation is idleness; I will read no more! Give me the noble exertion of the soul that enables us to turn from the evil of the hour, and renew the chace after distant good! Thus I reflected. My Father and attendants observing I was received with civility, ventured to lean over the gate; but as I had entered alone, and was waiting the second appear­ance of the mistress of the house, I gave them yet no invitation, and they observed a becoming distance. Through a series of untried incidents we were to pass; but, in my mighty wisdom, I could not see an inch before me; our best method, I thought, was, that as fast as we could get rid of one disagree­able circumstance we should stand prepared for ano­ther. The venerable matron at last descended, leading a lovely creature by the hand, who appear­ed to be the victim of sorrow. Rich in artless ring­lets, her hair fell heavily on her snowy neck, and her large blue eyes swam in the liquid brightness of sensibility; she accosted me with an easy air, but her voice was faint and tremulous.

'Whoever you are Sir,' said she, 'we are in some respects at your disposal; yet, as mutual ne­cessity is often the cause of reciprocal friendship, I offer you my protection, and ask yours.'

"Command me, Madam! From whom would you wish me to protect you?"

[Page 25]'From yourself, should you be the professed votary of licentiousness; I know my request may found inconsistently, but are we not so mysteriously wrought, that strong and forcible virtues burst from the mind, and bear down the petty vices of unguar­ded youth?'

The native sweetness of her accents tuned my soul to simple nature; her fears were awake, and she was no borrower of sentiment. She continued; 'In a word, Sir, you see before you two helpless women, whom you may insult, though you can ne­ver render vicious. I have a father, but he is gone to *****, where, we hear, my brother lies ill. When my father will return I know not; his daughter will never shut his door on the weary tra­veller.'

I bowed, and blessed her; for when woman is frank without indelicacy, and free without boldness, she makes a proselyte to her will.

Observing this young creature to be far advanced in that state which endears the sex to the generous mind, I entertained fears for her health, dissipated her alarming conjectures, and informing her, that my friends and myself would depart when the storm was subsided, requested her permission for them to enter. She bowed with a smile of approbation, whispered Nanelle, who instantly laid fresh fuel on the fire, and placed the frugal viands on the brown table. My thoughts were pure in the presence of this rural beauty: I fancied there was something too sacred about her to stand the gaze of our servants, [Page 26] and ventured to make one more request, which was, that she would return to her chamber. She retired, and my friends were invited by the hospitable Nan­nelle to recover their vital heat at her welcome fire. We gladly accepted her invitation, and seated our­selves on some long oak benches, which appeared to have been made some fifty years, and shone with solemn brilliancy beneath the hard brush of house-wifery.

'Will your Honours taste some of our cyder?' said Nanelle, 'surely it will do you good, since you must ride through the rain again—Be not bash­ful good gentlemen, you are wondrous welcome, I would not ask you if you were not.'

Reader hadst thou been with us in this faithful scene of nature, thou wouldst have owned with me, that the real necessities of man are but few. Pride has been accumulating imaginary wants through ages, and hourly forming destructive creations.

The spirit of the storm yet shook the woods, and passed, murmuring, over the unaspiring roof of the gentle Anna. (For that was the name Nannelle gave her mistress) We drank cyder out of the best cup, taken from the high shelf; and, perceiving the good woman looked at the cup as if she wished me to admire it, I praised the taste of the artist.

'It was bought by our squire; he gave it to mis­tress, and she put it up, saying, she would never drink out of it till he returned; but, I believe, he does not mean to come back; fine folks always have their figaries—'

[Page 27]'And what figary had your squire when he pre­sented this cup to so charming a woman as your mis­tress?—"

'I don't know.'

The night grew fine; my Father rewarded Nan­nelle, desired she would continue to love her mis­tress, and send us away with her prayers.—

'God bless ye, Gentlemen,' wiping her eyes with her blue apron—'but my dear mistress!—Ah! there, see what 'tis to sorrow for one's love!—I'll call [...]uzin, our cowherd; that steeps over the wheat floor, and he shall bring the lantern.—'

'No, no,' said my Father, 'only afford us your candle 'till we have distinguished our several bri­dles.'

We had now but two miles to ride before we were to reach the village of ***, that lay on the skirt of the forest, and we set forward with alacrity. The winds faintly whispered, and the moon looked pale on the brambles, which were silvered with the rain.—

'Hark! (said our guide) 'I hear a voice to the left.—'

We checked our horses, but could hear no human found. My father possessed that firm composure, so familiar with the noble mind, and so little under­stood by the million: he listened, in consequence of Alberti's exclamation, but hearing no alarm, imputed it to his watchful fancy, and we rode on.

[Page 28]'The Abbe Dorovontes,' said my Father, as I was musing, 'was a most singular character. He observed mankind in silence, pronounced human effort futile; took a comprehensive view of the known globe, and fairly confessed he knew no­thing.

'Set men in groupes,' said he, 'and watch them —A certain number till the earth, others beat the the sea; all love gold; a few catch diadems. What can all this mean? They weep, they dance, they sing and love, and towards what great end can those labours, and those gambols of mankind advance?' —'Murder—Help!'—we now heard distinctly through the forest, the last word was sent forth in a shriek; we all made a full stop. Pity and horror opened the way to every heart; but not one could conclude which path to pursue. In a few minutes were seen through the trees, at a distance, flaming torches or lights, which were accompanied by the noise of a carriage and of horses; we now could hear many voices, one in a peremptory tone was raised above the others: 'Stop the old fellow's mouth; suffer him to plead no more; he will make the most daring of you cowards!' said this person who seemed to be of chief authority. Fired by this barbarous command, we instantaneously spurred our horses, without speaking a syllable to each other, so unanimous were we in avenging the rights of viola­ted order. Neither winds nor lightnings could im­pede us, and we soon gained upon the wandering [Page 29] lights, which served to invite us after those who fled.

'Spare! ah spare my Father!' was in a suppli­cating tone breathed from the window of the carri­age. My Father called to the postillion, and or­dered him to stop; the latter did not obey. I rode round to the heads of the horses, and presented a pistol to the fellow's breast, whose ready submission saved his life. We were quickly surrounded by a troop of horsemen, who were wild, audacious, and only attentive to the orders of two well made men. These men I thought only worthy my wrestling with, their inferior crew I looked upon as a fry, not an atom of which was of consequence enough to be singled out. I held the bridles of the horses, burn­ing to resign them to some of our retinue. Alberti at length came up;—"stand here," said I, "keep the carriage from moving till you see me lie dead upon the earth."

'Secure that hardy blockhead,' said one of the superiors. His manner of articulation, I thought, had some time been familiar to me.

'Which of you dare secure him?' said my Fa­ther sternly, as he rode up behind with our atten­dants —'who are ye, base assassins! who may, with impunity, disgrace manhood, by causing the shriek of female woe to sound through the desart? Mon­sters must you be who can oppress unoffending wo­man!'

[Page 30]'Shoot the priest' (replied one of the two who commanded the group (his d—n—d clamours may in future make many a jovial buck unhappy.'

"Defend yourself, Sir," (said I to him who had given the order) advancing. I perceived his face was concealed by a black scarf. Without honourable ceremony he made a pass at me; fortunately my horse started as the moon emerged from a cloud, and threw her light on the sword of my antagonist; the lounge he made at me consequently was void, unless he stabbed the air. But as the force of his thrust caused him to bend forward from his saddle, his horse took a sympathetic fright with mine, and forcibly threw him to the earth. I alighted, full of the savage purpose of taking his life who had, unprovoked, sought mine. Stumbling on the sword that had fallen from his hand, mercy made that moment her own. Was he not disarmed? was not his passive situation a shield?—Yes. He who made us, stayed me from piercing his heart!

"Rise," said I, "and defend the cause you have espoused."—He gave me no answer; uproar drew my eyes and ears towards the safety of my Father. I turned like lightning, and saw him valiantly fight­ing against an odds of three to one; without once reflecting that to no purpose was my antagonist dis­mounted, if I neglected to take his life. I threw myself before my father; for the danger to which I saw him exposed bereaved me of every other reflec­tion but that of preserving him. Our opponents doubled us in number; the fray became terrible; [Page 31] to the clashing of swords succeeded dismal groans; darkness hindered us from disti [...]guishing objects, and fury forbad us to pity them. Whom we were fighting for we knew not, what was to be the con­clusion we knew not; we were only certain that a general appeal had been made to humanity, and we were the first who heard it. Struggling as we stood against unequal assassins, we felt no dismay: the door of the carriage was at length forced open, and a gentleman burst forth from its seat. His assistance soon gave the turn in our favour; but the torches being extinguished, and the moon having retired within her thickened sky, I could not discern who the stranger was that so valiantly fought by my side. —Rallying round the carriage, we perceived ex­traordinary efforts were made to seize my Father; dearly did they pay for the attempt—two of them fell. The second commander, who was taller than his associate, and whose face was also concealed by a black veil of some kind, rode furiously within reach of my sword, saying, with a hoarse voice, 'the day of revenge will come: for you, young champion, here is a pledge of my love!'—The con­tents of a pistol was immediately discharged at my head, which carried off part of my hat, and the skin of my right temple: rouzed to vengeance, I darted forward like an hungry lion, who admits no interval till his appetite is sated by the cause that ex­cited it, and fired in return. The ball missed my antagonist, but entered his horse's jaw; the poor beast, unable to bear the agony, reared his head in [Page 32] the air; again came down on his fore-feet; and, heedless of the reign, bore his master in a moment from our sight. His party hastily followed, and a dreadful pause ensued with us who remained on the field. The gentleman who had left the carriage, and bravely fought to defend it, eagerly flew to the door: the lady he left in it retained no signs of life. Uttering the bitterest lamentations, he seemed to be at once bereft of fortitude and judgment. He put the hilt of his sword to the earth, with the rash resolve of falling on its point. I prevented his de­spair by catching him in my arms.

"Live, Sir, I charge you live! and remember there are others wretched as yourself: to fly afflic­tion thus is cowardice."

'Oh my child!'—

It was my GUARDIAN! Sorrow softened his voice to its natural key, and made him known. My God! What horrors were mine!—"Dead! is she dead! Can it be possible?" said I with wild amazement— You shall not entangle me with heavy existence. Was she not the universe to me? Did she not sooth me with an angel's care? When was I sad, that Emily did not comfort me? it was but this morning we were highly prized, dearly loved! Blest with prosperity and friends; but she is gone!"

'I am poor, Sir! who will now value a forlorn old man!—Why do you weep?—You have no cause!—you have not lost an Emily.

I could not answer him—feeling myself growing stupid, his voice, and his mourning ceased to affect [Page 33] me. Father, friend and country were forgot: I wished for rest, and laid myself silently down, like one oppressed by slumber, without endeavouring to comfort him.

'Yes,' throwing himself down near me, 'we will sleep here.—Emily is not at home; we will never go home—Emily was very good!—I loved her— but we will wait till the morning.—'

I was raised from the earth by a number of our attendants, who supported me in their arms, and after some time my respiration became more free. My Father took me by the hand.—

'Henry! my dear Henry I fear is wounded'— (said he with tender solicitude) 'try to live!— Emily! your beloved Emily needs your assistance and mine; she is fainting in the carriage; we have all been trying to restore her, but I fear her father must be somewhere lost in the fray.—Dreadful catastrophe!—

"My Guardian lies dead by my side, Sir! I be­lieve I have slept long, my dreams were horrible! Emily is dead!—Did you know it, Sir?"

'I know she breathes; we have been chaffing her temples. Where is your Guardian!'

"There, Sir, down there! by that shrub." Leaving my Father and some of the servants to raise my Guardian, I flew to the carriage; and found my Emily recovering from her swoon by swift de­gree. Oh, how my fond heart swelled with hope; I trembled with love, and held her once more to my bosom: her senses were not quite returned, but [Page 34] where could she be safe if not in the arms of her Henry?

"Let us not lose a moment, my angel; we have very lately found welcome in a simple dwelling, where pity is upon the watch to receive the stranger; thither will we guide you; warmth and comfort will entirely rostore you; in tranquility the powers of life, now fluttering with terror, will regain their native energy,—"

'Where! Oh where is my father?' said Emily, without appearing to know me—'tell me not of comfort but with him; you can offer no asylum.'

"I am Henry."

'No—you cannot be my Henry.'

There was an awful sternness in her words; I was a little chagrined, but my Father, who had by his earnest attention recovered the Father of Emily, and convinced him she was living, now joined us, lead­ing his worthy friend; tears of joy mingled them­selves with congratulations on every side. We were once more happy, though totally at a loss to account for the cause of our strange meeting.

We summoned our attendants by name, found none were missing, and it was resolved unanimously that we should return to friendly Nannelle; beneath whose roof we should find repose till morning. Alberti rode before the carriage to direct the pos­tillion; my Father by the side—and my Guardian, with his inestimable daughter, within it.

I had not felt, during the heat of passion, the least pain or inconvenience from the grazing of the ball [Page 35] on my temple; but, in attempting to mount my horse, I thought the beast began to swim round me, and under that idea I stood still, that my horse might stand: consequently the carriage set off be­fore; my own three servants, who were the stoutest fellows in the group, however waited; and, after a little hesitation, occasioned by the smarting of my head, I was on horse back. Darkness had so effec­tually thrown itself over the moon, that we could barely distinguish objects; yet the pathetic nighten­gale sang, unambitious of applause, in the midst of drouzy solitude.

Sweet emblem of genius! thou art awake whilst many sleep: thy raptures are self possessed; they were meant by heaven to chear the midnight hour, whilst despair and love make hard the pillow of man!

We had only a few minutes left the scene of action when a deep groan was heard. My attention was arrested, I turned my horse to the left, from whence I thought the sound proceeded, and soon discerned a body lying on the turf; it was a youth; his face was covered, and turned to the earth; but life was struggling within him. I alighted, stooped and uncovered his face, and recollected him to be the person who had, at the commencement of the assault, ordered my father to be shot. Mercy forbad me to leave him exposed; the agonies of departing man, call, nay command the tender sympathy of nature; and we placed the stranger bleeding and senseless [Page 36] across the backs of two horses, having first fastened the two saddles as even as we could, and made a kind of bed on them with our great-coats. We slowly moved on foot, holding the bridles, towards the dwelling of gentle Anna, where we hoped to find our friends. We at length arrived; found our horses littered by Luzin the hind, in the out-house; and our party comfortably conversing with Nannelle in her clean kitchen. This good creature, I was pleased to hear, had prevailed on Emily to repose herself in one of the inner chambers till day should break; and Anna had followed the well-timed example.

My Father and Guardian had been uneasy; in few words we explained the cause of our delay, and both hastened to assist in conveying the wounded stranger into the house as we bore him in our arms, his head fell heavily on my bosom; I forgot his ferocious conduct, and beheld him only as the victim of thoughtless valor.

Poor nature is frail in her best productions; ever ceaseless in her labours, and eager in her formations, her most perfect works are left unfinished. Precept may do much, but charity will do more in cooling the hottest revenge.—O charity! when wert thou sportive with the miseries of mankind? Thy tongue, fair angel, continually proclaims through the universe —waste not life! extinguish not existence, lest thou affront the majesty of God!

Uncovering the face of the youth, for the purpose of bathing his temples with odoriferous spirits, I [Page 37] perceived a large and deep contusion on one side his head, and concluded he had fallen on some sharp stone in the forest, when he failed in the lounge made precipitately at me. His features were won­derfully fair, his fine brows appeared like thrones on which reflection and science might fit some future day unmolested by riotous habit.

We laid him on a mattress, dried the bloody stream that had mingled itself with his long hair, and wait­ed with the silent hope of his soon becoming reani­mated. My dear girl had been led to some inner apartment before we arrived, her Father and Nan­nelle having prevailed on her to seize a short repose. The charming mistress of this rural asylum had not been disturbed; the hind, Luzin, had been called up, but he only officiated in taking care of our hor­ses, leading some into the out house, and leaving others tied to the gate to brave the pitiless elements how they could. Nannelle, I perceived, looked with surprize and horror at the wounded stranger; sighed—caught the Treatise on Resignation off the dresser, opened it, endeavoured to read; but hap­pening to cast her eyes once more on the fainting youth, stamped with her foot, tore the yellow rib­band from her head, and immediately threw it with the Treatise on Resignation behind the fire.

"What do you ail Nannelle?" said I, "Shall I call your mistress?"

'No, no, Sir! my dear mistress will come too soon.'

[Page 38]The gentleman was now so far revived as to call faintly for water. We ran and supported him while Nannelle held the cup to his lips; he did not taste; his head drooped, and he turned distastefully away.

'Lay me down! Make haste! I cannot live! My head!—my head sounds horribly!'

Stooping to lay him easily on his pillow, I heard him whisper with a sigh: 'Anna!—My dear Anna you are now avenged!'

At that moment, the young creature who had welcomed us from the storm, and who, I suppose, had been at last disturbed by the noise we made, appeared. Her manner interested my Father, who approached her with respect; but, without heeding the company, she gazed for some moments wildly on the stranger, and throwing herself down near him, shrieked,

'Antonio!'

'Raise me, Nannelle,' said the feeble stranger; the good woman obeyed. He threw his weak arms round her mistress, and proceeded; 'Live! Oh! live, my dearest Anna! Do not send me to the grave laden with additional guilt. When the pow­ers of justice hold the records of my mispent years, let not thy death be found in the number of my crimes. I have wronged thee my unsuspecting An­na! deeply wronged thee! But my career of life is finished, and I have much to do while the prospect is closing. Heaven! who will in a few hours strike me from its ample work, can only, at this awful moment, witness my remorse. I die, my inestima­ble [Page 39] wife; and I die loving you! whom I have made ever, ever wretched!'—

He paused as his head lay on the bosom of his Anna, while her tears fell on his cheek; we stood round full of pity and attention; he sighed deeply, and continued;

'You are so indulgent, so alive to tender senti­ment, that you will forget my faults while you mourn my fate. Beware of that sweet delusion▪ let my villainy prove an antidote to your sorrow, and think the tear corrupted that falls for extinguished vice.'—For this gentleman, (pointing to me) 'there remains some little reparation. I am the second son of De Forbes * * *. What is more infamous, I am the brother of him you call Roderique; [...]e has imposed on you, the tale of his being the son of a Spanish nobleman was feigned. His commission came from the King himself, who gave the order that your Father should be sought through the realm until his existence or death could be ascertained. My brother set forward, escorted with splendor and expence. Two months had elapsed since his de­parture from court, when my father received a let­ter, dated * * * * *, from the Count de Marsan's estate, to the effect, that chance had brought the royal fugitive under the same roof with himself; that he was endeavouring to gain the confidence of the family with whom it was supposed the younger Henry had been educated; that he required some little time to learn the different plans of action which were forming round him; that the younger [Page 40] Henry was with his Father, and it would be easy to throw the net over them at any hour.

'This, I remember, was the purport of his let­ter, but he mentioned nothing of Emily, or his pas­sion for her, which was never meant to prove honourable. Though it has been the means of pre­serving thus far the lives of you, Sir, and your no­ble Father, for the sake of Emily he required delay, and waited for the crisis of her return to the convent, to strike his operations forcibly. In this part of the work, so far as related to his love, I rashly became his confident: he had perverted my principles re­specting woman, and, being the elder, always kept before me in the path of licentiousness. It is too late to make reflections, you see the end of my profligacy, but more danger remains, nor dare I suppose you can escape. Good God! must I lie here incapable of remedying the evils I have con­sented to bring on you! Raise me! I shall be well if I can save you—In vain—My head is heavy, I feel it swelling to a size that will make me horrid.'

After a short delirium, he became more compo­sed and rapidly weak; his voice shook frequently, but he continued—

'Pursue not your route—Halt at no village—The skirts of this forest are surrounded by armed troops —No opening is left, except that which leads to a convent. My brother, for selfish reasons, ordered the soldiers (except those who accompanied him and me in our purposed villainy) to keep clear of that pass to avoid a discovery which might do him no [Page 41] credit. From the moment my brother saw Emily, he formed the design of carrying her off—You may remember his abrupt departure from your Guardian, his sending the servant away first to me. That ser­vant, whose name is Cregney, is full of guile, the tool of my brother, but an arrant coward. We had, in consequence of former dispatches, arrived at the Elephant hotel, near the White Horse, behind the hill; there a select party waited: the larger body were stationed among the woods, but (through mis­take, I suppose) came not to our assistance. Let me intreat you, on the faith of a dying man, not to go forward. The dreadful scheme of my bro­ther is, at present, broken. I know not where he is. Emily, and her Father he will conclude to be flying towards their home. If living he will not give her up; but the disgrace awaiting him, on ac­count of his suffering the royal fugitive to escape, will drive him on to acts of desperation—Elude him, if you can, the chance is not in your favour.'

"What crime," said I, "has my Father been guilty of, that he is thus pursued through the world?"

'Accident, not guilt, is the cause of your Father's misfortunes: he is eldest twin-brother of Louis, and heir to the crown. Being born blind, his eldership was set aside, and his younger brother proclaimed Dauphin of France. Time gave him sight; the film, that had long shut out the rays of reflection, gradually broke away, and his eyes shone with un­common lustre.'

[Page 42]Here Antonio paused.—

'I would struggle with death a little longer! A few, only a few minutes more!'

We were attentive—he observed it, and, with difficulty, proceeded:

'State policy could not alter the register; and it was, after much anxious deliberation, concluded by the King his father, the Queen, and some of the Privy Council, with whom my father was, at that time, thought a Nestor, to educate the Prince libe­rally, but privately; never to make him acquainted with his birth, but to take every case of his health and understanding, so that he might be capable of reigning, should his brother die childless. My father is now very old, but being in the secret, my brother was commissioned, and there was a necessity for my being entrusted with a share of this business, which, having not justice for its principle, can throw no obligation of secresy on my departing spirit. Truth is for ever flying through the universe, many shut their eyes on her blaze of light, none can arrest her progress! I once adored that divinity of soul—Why did I forsake virtue! What a retros­pect!—Give me my yesterdays!—No!—All is fixed for me—A dreadful silence is within; my lawless passions have destroyed hope—I am aban­doned!'—

Breathless, and overpowered by his agitation, he closed his eyes; his pulse grew irregular; he made strong efforts, and seemed in a hurry, like one who is setting out on a journey of vast importance.

[Page 43]Good God, said I to myself, are these the pangs of repenting vice? how much stronger are they than those conflicts we feel between virtue and desire du­ring our passage through the world: I find it diffi­cult to love with purity; but experience, like this, is horrible.

'For my Anna,' continued Antonio, 'I have a dreadful explanation; it will make her still more wretched; yet, as it may serve to weaken the pangs she would otherwise feel for my loss, I will try to proceed—Had I been that perfect being this lovely creature once thought me, I should have deserved her lasting lamentations—As I am depra­ved, I would willingly check her anguish, and point her to the future, when, forgetting Antonio, she may be happy in the arms of some worthy man, who will justly value her spotless mind. Oh, my Anna! (raising his eyes towards her) 'while penitence and despair darkened their beams, I go! go out of life in expressless woe! The dear, the unborn pledge of your innocent love (I dare not mention mine) can­not be the heir of your perfidious Antonio; yet, what I can, I will.

'The castle of * * * *, and its surrounding do­mains, are at my disposal. Three years since it was bequeathed me by an aunt, and my child, when born, shall, with its deserving mother, solely pos­sess it— Give me a pen—I must be brief—These gentlemen will witness how willingly I offer you so inadequate a recompence.'

[Page 44]Nannelle brought pen, ink, and paper, for Anna still sat with Antonio's head on her bosom, lost in a kind of stupefaction. He wrote a few lines expres­sive of his final resolution; he signed it with a trem­bling hand.

'Yet, my unfortunate dear girl! let me conjure you not to teach my innocent offspring to hate the memory of its Father—A Father!—Gracious Hea­ven! suffer me to remain a little longer; let me try to discharge the duties sacred to so dear a name!— No; it will not be, this is the hour of vengeance! To my brother do I owe these pangs of remorse. I informed him of my love, when, two years ago, we were hunting in this forest, and I had the happiness of conversing with you, my Anna, on the side of the hill. My brother laughed at the purity of my passion, ridiculed my constancy, re­presented the disparity of our fortunes, your unequal education, the lasting displeasure of my father, and the shame which would, in his idea, ensue, if I married so imprudently. But my soul was devoted to your attractions; I could not live without you, every splended scene palled on my imagination, and I resolved to return and call you for ever mine.—'

He hesitated here, as if doubtful whether he should say more, or observe an everlasting silence; his eyes seemed to gather a wild animation. We flattered ourselves that life was rekindling, and the gentle Anna gave a faint smile, like that of hope thrown on the features of despair; or perhaps, me­mory [Page 45] drew her back to their dawn of happiness when Antonio met her on the side of the hill. He looked round him with impatience, and, raising his voice, said, 'Yes—Heaven itself shall never recall the past! You are undone! My Brother, whom social duties never bind, disguised as a priest, performed our marriage-ceremony, and deceived you, whilst I endeavoured to deceive myself. With what in­ward horror did I behold you an inoffensive victim to artifice! and indulged the mental reservation of loving you too well to continue unjust, and hoped in some future moment, when distant from the vio­lent passions of my Brother, and the power of my Father, to make you lawfully my wife:—That hour is gone by? on this bed of death, I feel that he who listens not to the voice of virtue when she invites him, may wander neglected till he hears her no more.'

'My dear Antonio,' (exclaimed the agitated Anna) 'I cannot be deceived whilst you love me! Try to live! Heed not the contempt your infant, or your Anna may undergo, by being deprived of the sanction of the church. You are all to me! True, I insisted on marriage as a duty due to the world; but my dearer claims in you are those of disinterested love, too sublime to be enlarged, or les­sened by human ties; consequently superior to the clamours of slander—live my dearest Antonio! we may yet be happy.'

'I will not die!' (starting), 'I must not die now! till this moment never was life so valuable! Hold [Page 46] me Anna! hold me closer to your heart!—See how I am sinking down! can you stay without me?— Surely I would save you from every danger; but you are feeble and I am heavy, very heavily laden! Oh, what agonies are these! I want air, look down! —look down!—She loves me still, tear me not from her! How cold.—'

Pressing his lips to hers in the agony of separa­tion he tasted this last proof of tenderness—and ex­pired.

Anna did not weep—She continued to hold the lifeless Antonio to her bosom, insensible he had breathed his last, insensible that his lips would re­turn her salutations no more! For some moments she appeared to listen; we could not disturb her silence nor did she notice; but perceiving his con­versation was at a full period, she laid him gent­ly down; gazed on his face and played with his hair.

Dreading the effect of so fine an imagination when left to its woes, I approached her with diffi­dence and respect, conjured her to leave the room, and attempted to raise her. She submissively offered me her hand without speaking a word, but her looks were wild. I led her to the door of her chamber, desired Nannelle to follow, and left her in all that solemn majesty of wounded spirit, which is, at its first seizure of the human powers, so deaf to the condolence of an uninteresting world.

But Anna's sorrows were soon to cease!—Distrac­tion swiftly succeeded: Her frame became con­vulsed. [Page 47] To the pangs occasioned by the death of her husband were added those of a mother, and the moment she gave her infant to the world, her spirit flew after that of Antonio.

Let no man say he could have met the tragic in­cidents of this night with firmness: horror and dis­may took from us the power of expression. My Father, after poor Nannelle spent the first tumult of her soul in tears, enquired whether she had any friend near, whom we might summon on this mourn­ful occasion? She told him, Naurette, and her daughters lived only a stone's-throw in the Dell, beyond the tuft of Firfis; and she would go call them. We would not suffer her to leave the house, but by her direction sent two of our servants who soon returned with the good woman bathed in tears. Her daughters followed; their sorrowful deport­ment convinced us that the departed Anna was less envied than beloved. To their tenderest care we commended her orphan daughter, who was wel­comed to the light with tears, and now heedless of surrounding calamity slumbered unconscious in her nurse's arms. To the humanity of those sympathi­sing friends we also left the sacred remains of the unfortunate Antonio, and his injured Anna, request­ing they might be deposited in one grave, and a monument erected to their memory in the church whose venerable spires we had discerned in coming through the forest. To discharge these pious duties my father left bills (into which he had converted a part of his jewels) and promising to send Nannelle [Page 48] future remittances for the support of Anna's help­less babe, expressed a wish of departing before day­break, from this melancholly dwelling, where mi­sery in one night had poisoned every budding joy.

Innocent Anna! may thy calm spirit watch over thy child, and invisibly turn aside the arrow of af­fliction!

I had not beheld Emily since my second arrival at this house; she had been prevailed on to retire before we could possibly reach it with the fainting Antonio. He had resigned existence in the lower room, and Emily had flown to the suffering Anna. When the latter was no more, the affrighted maid ran wildly from the chamber; I met her as she de­scended the stairs, and received her breathless in my arms.—"Let me, O let me once more hold you to my heart!" said I precipitately, pressing my lips to hers, my soul was in unison, and mingled tumultu­ously with the touch; but Emily felt cold to my en­dearments. Surely she could not at that moment have been so self-restrained had she felt like me.

I now almost think her heart was never mine! if it had, could she have forgot me? Could she have made an assignation with this Cordelier?

My Guardian, who had stood near the door totally lost in reverie, turned round, and saw me support­ing his beloved daughter.—'Ah, my dear Henry,' said the afflicted parent, 'how do we meet!' Co­vering his eyes with his handkerchief, he was silent; and Emily's frequent sighs indicated returning life. [Page 49] For me, I solemnly protest, no selfish wish hung on my mind. I did not even feel the desire of pos­sessing this incomparable maid, so sublime and pure was the transport, so highly did her danger exalt my wishes. Command her not to dissolve, thou Father of eternal change!—Can spirit centre in a lovelier form?—Suffer that particle of intellectual fire which hath fallen from thee still to animate my Emily!

I prayed, and viewless forms, who catch the breathings of the heart, bore my supplication to Heaven.

As she sat trembling in the chair, her eyes wan­dered from me to her father. Full of astonishment, she gave nothing to love; she could not reconcile herself to this scene of affliction, nor did the pale Antonio contribute to lessen her amaze­ment.

'Speak to me, Henry!—or has guilt made you silent? Is it you who have attempted to tear me from my Father?—why am I here? why are you here? What could make you in one night so finish­ed in vice?'

Indignant in her manner, she looked with eager curiosity in my face, as if challenging my reply— I had none to make!

Oh! how painful is the first jar of suspicion, when it strikes that heavenly confidence which binds two mutual hearts!—Mine sent its thrillings through every vein: I shook with the force of Emily's in­jurious imagination, and I believe should have fallen had I not suddenly reclined on the low railing of the [Page 50] staircase: there I in my turn, gazed silently at my dear tormentor; I know not what my eyes express­ed. Perhaps they were bent a little accusingly, but hers soon lost their angry beams, and stole gent­ly from me towards the earth; while the fine blush, that suffused her features, proclaimed my secret triumph. She certainly looked conscious of having wronged me. What would I have given only to breathe this truth upon her lips!

I dared not: the sentiments of delicate desire are never to be breathed but to the midnight wind, and the object that inspires them. Here I was surrounded by my friends and officious attendants.—Emily grew comforted by her Father, who explained to her all he knew of the night's adventure, and I felt delici­ously avenged in her fascinating confusion, when she thanked me for her deliverance. How many refine­ments the heart of a lover forms for itself.

The intelligence given by the lamented Antonio, instead of pointing us to safety, served to convince us that safety was not to be easily found. We formed plans and departed from them; not one of us could give a final determination. My Guardian proposed our returning to his estate, for the present, and citing the son of De Forbes to the tribunal of civil law; but the precess would have been tedious, and at last the judgment corrupt. Added to this con­s [...]deration, my self [...]sh heart opposed him from an im­ [...], [...] away, the soul [Page 51] of Emily, in a convent, would be sacred to me. I know we deceive ourselves when we suffer imagin­ation to paint a beloved object as we would wish it to be, but what consolation could I in absence hope for, except the imaginary one of believing Emily mine?

After much deliberation, it was resolved, at Emily's request, she should return to her convent: my Father and myself, in spite of every remon­strance, determined to see her safe within the sacred walls, and to turn across the country by a diffe­rent track from that we had at first chosen. To me the world could wear but one appearance, I had poured out my soul to Emily in the garden, our se­paration had there been concluded on, and my mind prepared to meet folly, mirth and misery, with a stubborn tone of thought. We at last bad poor Nannelle farewell; we had brought sorrow to her humble dwelling, but could not take it away: deploring our want of power to repair her ills, we departed and left her to weep.

Oppression hangs on woman. Custom and law respecting her, are through the world unjust: Man forms a superiority on the grossness of vice; the laws he makes support him; and he insults, with impunity, the more delicate sex. Where can woman find a friend? Endued with tenderness, she often needs support, but should her afflicted spirit turn to man, she is undone; he is by nature false, and cus­tom makes him cruel; there is but one avenging effect in thus enslaving the female mind, which is, [Page 52] that along the path of time we shall not meet one suitable companion. We are short-sighted, sullen and restless; women, helpless and tender.

Reflections of this kind naturally prevailed in my mind, till we had lost sight of that late peaceful ha­bitation, where almighty Love might now mourn his victims. As I rode behind the carriage, which held the treasure of my soul, I endeavoured to calm my busy memory, and to forget the irretrievable miseries of the night, in the more pleasing images of my youthful progress, and the delicate gradations of my infant passion.

The first sight of Emily, her attention to my aged Mayo, the bouquette, her well-adapted song, every little incident came back to form a picture: and at this moment, it instantly occurred that the Hus­bandman I had met in my Guardian's park was the Father of Anna.—Hapless Father! Thou shalt no more behold the blessing of thy age! but—thou shalt follow her.

Not caring to indulge this seeming coincidence of circumstance, I tried to whistle a lively air, as we rode on through the forest—It would not do; I became insensibly mute, for my very soul was un­strung. We at length arrived at the gates of the convent; it was morning—Nature was awake. The pure had thanked their Creator: the children of guilt had blushingly stole from her snares, when one of our attendants alighted, rang the great bell of the convent, and Emily was announced. The self-deny­ing Abbess appeared, and with her many of the lay [Page 53] sisters who were the friends of Emily, and whose eyes, I observed, spite of my unalterable love, shone with surprise and pleasure on our goodly company. Why should they not? my Father was a handsome man, little more than forty, his form, modelled by the line of beauty; his complexion glowing with her full tints; his large eyes were of melting blue, their fringed curtains a dark-brown, and the animation himself possessed, imperceptibly and suddenly struck those who beheld him. My Guardian was full of manly grace, a little older than my Father; his countenance shining with the smile of philanthropy, his whole manner expressive of the mildness of virtue. Our attendants were gay, men of vivacity and unmeaning as vivacity generally is; for your humble servant Henry—but I care not what Henry is—this sly Cordelier—so blest—so beloved—so appointed—Whither am I going, these ravings serve me not!—On a group so inviting could an harmless maid gaze with aught but delight? —No—Cynics may rail, corrupted prudes con­demn, and the old murmuring visionary lay down his icy rule. Their labours amount to nothing. Generous Nature dips the spunge, and Sympathy wipes out the precepts of cowardly Reserve. True; the blaze of soul was on those innocent girls unusu­ally momentary, for here was Nature expiring in the grasp of Superstition.

The Abbess, from whose cheek insulted Nature had long withdrawn her rosy hue, deigned, unsmi­lingly, to direct us to a house on the south side of the [Page 54] convent, and detached from it, I supposed, for the charitable purpose of receiving the worldly visitor (but as my guessing never was of the frigid kind, my reader must not always trust it.) Around the window-casements, wandered the solitary jasmine hiding as much lead as glass; up the dark coloured wall crept the ivy, and over the arched door stood the stone figure of a saint; not cut with awe-inspi­ring workmanship to deceive us into veneration, like that in which our cold and ancient patriarchs are im­mortalized▪ but in health, strength, beauty and comeliness; like the young friar, who left the house on our entering it, and who, I was told by the por­ter, often confessed the good Lady Abbess. Re­solving not to guess at any thing, but to take things as they came, I sat down. My Father and my Guar­dian walked round the apartment, which was spa­cious, admired the paintings of the canonized, and read the inscriptions of the Popes and the Nuns. I could have sworn the Popes and the Nuns had ne­ver been fellow creatures:

• Pope Urban, born * * * *, died 1644.
• Pope Innocent, born * * * *, died 1655.
• Pope Alexander, born * * * *, died 1667.

Many Popes in succession were born, and died.

The blue-eyed Nun of St. Catharines, born * * * *, and died * * * *.

• St. Anne, born 1642, died * * * *.
• St. Lucillia, born 1653, died * * * *.
• St. Civillia, born * * * *, died * * * *.

[Page 55]What did these births and deaths amount to? said my Guardian.—

The painted ceiling attracted may attention; it was meant to be decorated by a winter scene, in which no beauteous bud was seen to blow. From the east, the effulgent god, peeping above the ho­rizon, strove to throw a ray of genial warmth on the snow-drop that early gilded the vale, and seem­ed to await his coming; while Winter from the north, sent forth a torpid breathing; and the snow­drop, at his blast, shut up her beauteous bosom. From those devices, so natural to the latitude into which we had entered, my attention was arrested by the slow-paced Lady Abbess, who came accompanied by a lady to whom Emily ran and expressed her sincere satisfaction at their meeting. My Father too, without the least apology, or even a love-sick exclamation, started from his place, over-turned the little carved table that stood before him, ran against me, threw me upon the floor; and there I quietly sat gazing, and endeavouring to account for my Father's vigo­rous exertion.

If he should salute the immaculate Lady Abbess, said I to myself, we are all undone! But my fear was changed into astonishment, when I saw him clasp the Lady in his arms, who had entered with her, and imprint on her lips the salutation of love. My eyes, instinctively I believe, raised themselves towards Emily, who was that moment gazing on me.

Nothing,' said my Father, turning to a Venus de Medicis.

[Page 56]It was too much!—the heart cannot long bear the forcible beam of an enraptured eye; and Emily in­stantly affected to admire the antique roof, where Winter was represented as blasting the opening year.

"May thy youth know a happier spring! dear maid!" said I, rising from the floor with apparent composure. By this time I fancied my Father might have whispered his business in the Lady's ear, who, without waiting my advances, threw her arms round me, and sunk on my bosom—

'MY SON!'—was all she could articulate, in a voice that made me shiver. Rapture such as angels might feel, absorbed my whole soul. No language could embody my ideas. I supported my Mother, looked at my Father—He was silent, but the big tear of affection rolled down his face.

'My Husband! my Son! my Henry! Oh what an age is gone, what hours have I known—but I have found you!—found you both! we will never more be separated.'

'Take me with you,' said my Mother, with all the incoherence of full delight; while the good Lady Abbess stood trowning.

'I will! I will, my love!, exclaimed my Fa­ther, 'one destiny surely awaits us, or indulgent heaven would not have given you so unexpectedly to me.'

'I thought you had formed resolves, madam, of a more pious nature,' said the Abbess.

'What resolves?' replied my Mother, casting [Page 57] her eyes pensively on the earth.

'Have we not laboured to extinguish your sense of worldly enjoyments?'—

'And what good did you promise yourself, had your labour succeeded?' replied my Father laconi­cally.

'The greatest good, Sir: that of teaching her soul to win its way to heaven. In short, that of breaking all social ties?'

'Yes—and of mistaking the grand beauties of order for the burning phantoms of imagination.'

The pious old lady, I supposed, made a stop only to summon her reasoning powers, which, every one knows, lie so deep in the mind's inexhaustible abyss, that we often cannot find them till the end of the argument, and my mother resumed; 'When I formed those resolves my spirit was made obedient to your wishes by despair. But I have found a Husband; I have found my beloved, my handsome Henry! and may not these obliterate my solitary resolve?'

'Ask your conscience?'

The tone with which this sentence was pronounced, proved that the Abbess fancied she had gained a point. 'Yes, Madam,' she repeated with a trium­phant smile, 'ask your conscience!'—

'Which is unsullied, if I know my Eleanora, nor shall your superstitious rites rob me of my claim, unless she willingly flies the husband who adores her. —Mistake me not, good Lady; so confused, so very inadequate is the code of all religious ceremo­nies, [Page 58] that like Aaron's rod, one swallows the other, and the last lies without efficacy. You practise wars with the feelings of Nature; you lose your tenderness▪ you are less than woman, because reli­gious pride would whisper you are more. You can be of no service to God, you will not bless mankind; victims drop between your walls; socie­ty hears not their hopeless sighs, nor do you pity expiring beauty. Your souls are rendered obdu­rate by the working of that misguided frenzy, which your Priests awaken in your ductile minds— If you will teach woman, I pray you encourage her to dare beyond the invention of man: bid her not trust his opinions further than the verge of the grave. He cannot even paint to you a Deity. Why then immure yourself here? Why hourly die for the poor satisfaction of being deemed unusefully virtuous? 'Tis a state, Lady Abbess, like that in which the moth spends her last moment.'

My mother waited the result of this harangue, made by my Father in a peremptory manner. The Abbess was offended—he perceived it and led her into an adjoining apartment. None of us, I believe, were quite easy under this short suspence. We knew superstition here wore every pontifical terror, and that we had nothing in the world about us but poor reason. After some delay, we were, however re­leased. For the lately-jarring couple returned to us much better pleased with each other. I tried to guess the cause of so necessary a reconcilement; but, what with the filial respect I owed my Father, [Page 59] and the frozen sanctity with which I beheld the ve­nerable virgin, I could not for my soul divine aright. Reader, do not thou guess—I will tell thee—My Father's purse was heavy, and he lightened it in that of the Lady's.

'We are ready to attend you my Eleanora,' said my Father. This Lady will obviate every objec­tion with the holy brotherhood, and we may de­part.'

This was not a time for any of us to be inquisitive; it was enough for my affectionate parents that once more they were reciprocally blessed; and the histo­ry of their long separation was mutually reserved for happier hours. My Mother, however, took an opportunity to inform us that she was not known in the convent; that such precaution had been taken to save the appearance of force in her seclusion, none supposed but that she came in voluntarily, and all expected she was to take the veil.

'The ministers of the King have lost me: I escaped from the convent in which I was first con­fined: I secreted myself by day, as much as possi­ble, for a considerable time; but fearing I should by chance be recognized, came here, and was wel­comed as one weary of the world. Long struggling with hopeless love, importuned and soothed alter­nately into cold and gloomy habits, I had lately given the Abbess reason to suppose that I would leave society for ever. You, my beloved husband, are a better guide; be you and my Henry my Guard­ing Angels.'

[Page 60]As my Mother was about to pour the sentiments of fond delight into our bosoms whilst we stood lis­tening with silent affection, her friends came to bid her adieu. The good Lady Abbess had gone to in­form them of her destined departure. Those who were probationers ran to us, full of unaffected con­cern, but those who were imprisoned by their vows, only waved their hands, and mourned my Mother's return to the temptations of the world.

Strange infatuation of solitary existence! Were they created for this single blessedness? Who can tell? We have invented virtue—We have carried sanctification to an extreme, and when extremes meet, 'chaos is come again.' Human ideas mingle in a vortex, and the man who is audacious enough to snatch an old thought from the mass, and dress it fashionably, hits the taste of the million lately born, and shall be pronounced 'Inspired'—Poor human Nature!

Notwithstanding we had bade farewell to these death-devoted maids, we were prevailed on to ac­cept of the invitation of the Lady Abbess, which was to sleep and refresh ourselves in this convenient and comfortable house till the morning. The arti­cles belonging to my Mother were not all collected, and we began to think the day too far spent to ad­vance. I am certain my reader (drowsy as he must be in reading my story) will swear there is no bles­sing in nature like sleep, I therefore will not apolo­gize, but own we concluded to stay with the Lady Abbess till the morrow.

[Page 61]My Father knew (as I have related) I loved Emily. He knew also that I had never, in a noble and candid mander, unbosomed myself to my Guar­dian. But he was too refined to suffer my mo­nopolizing the child, without the sanction of the father. Alas! he did not know how naturally and unerringly our souls had formed an invisible union. We had not waited for the secondary right of arbi­trary duty; we had seized the first claim of Nature, which was that of innocently mingling our senti­ments. Our persons were yet to be disposed of as Heaven would permit. My Father now drew me aside, told me he was sensible how much I must feel, and asked me if I really wished to marry Emily: I told him my existence depended on that hope.

Be it so: blessed with my Eleanora, my dreary prospects are changed, and my cares vanished. I have wealth enough to make us all happy in some peaceful retreat. Your Mother and myself will im­perceptibly grow old in the society of you and your family. Only promise you will never indulge des­tructive ambition.'—

"Never, my Lord, on my own account will I raise a tumult in France; but must you be for ever an exile? Should I not be justified in drawing my sword in the cause of filial duty?"

'Filial duty, my son, is considered by me as mere articulated sound, sinking as you breathe it indivisibly into air:—True, we have contrived em­blems by which it may be said we convey sound to the eye, these we call record. Characters, or what [Page 62] you will, and by those mute auxiliaries have law and duty been handed down, through ages, for the support of order formed on human plans. But shall the empty phrase of filial duty cause you to be a murderer! believe me Henry, that man has a false idea of relative duty, when he spreads a wide evil for the sake of giving his friend or father a partial good.'

What could I say? Did not this man deserve a crown? I really thought him worthy of reigning, but dared not own I wished it.—He continued—

'The thunders of duty too often break on the head of a trembling child, who stands a meek victim to the will of another, and gives all away! Oh, how many pangs would the guiltless heart be spared, did haughty parents forego their fruitless claims! Sons would become domestic, happy husbands; daugh­ters elude a broken spirit, and an early grave.— No, my generous boy; you must look on me as receding from the world, and as to your per­sonal happiness, may it ever depend on yourself.'

"But how will my uncle approve of your obscu­rity? He is brave, and if I my judge from his ap­pearance, when he visited my Guardian, possesses fire enough himself to put in motion the grand ma­chine of war.—And who shall guide it?"

I was neither devout nor profane enough to pro­mise my Father the assistance of a Deity, as a meek and pious priest would have done. The plough-share of war is generally followed by a crowd of pig­mies, who are in such a fury to guide it, that they [...]ample one over the other; whilst the ill-directed [Page 63] iron is harrowing up their peace.—

'My brother is not happier than I am unless he is more beloved, which I greatly doubt; for pre­eminence chills the heart that would, on an equal scale, adore. Reason well with life, my son. Na­ture has contrived it shall be short; man contrives it shall be wretched. He who rushes unfeelingly over his fellow creatures, to catch the bubble of public fame, feels the sting of a perturbed spirit; and shall not rest but in death. For you, and me, let love and the social blessings suffice to preserve us from inactivity; you shall be happy with your Emily, I with my Eleanora.'

No one man can be said to make a people blest; but surely a king, possessing a mind like that of my Father, could never add to the miseries of man­kind. I kissed his hand, in a transport of gratitude and admiration, and consented to renounce ambition. In a few words, he made my Guardian acquainted with my wishes, who unaffectedly gave his sanction only with this proviso, 'That the affections of his daughter should govern, never be made subservient to his approbation.'

'The last admonition of Antonio still hangs on my memory, said he—'I think it would be prudent not to pursue your journey to l'Abbee Dorovantes, but to seek a retreat in * * * * *, from thence you may inform the Duke of B * * * *, that your resolutions are changed, he may there meet us, and the union of our children be rendered lasting.'

We agreed.—I now beheld happiness rapidly ap­proaching [Page 64] to love. To be blest with the object of my wishes, and crowned with the kind opinion of those I revered, were advantages that certainly promised uninterrupted tranquillity; and to these my glowing imagination added her strongest tints to beautify the scene.

Emily had been pleasingly occupied in receiving the congratulation of her friends in the convent; she returned to give us her good night. Her Father whispered to her the conclusions we had formed, and I had the pleasure of once more seeing the traits of chearfulness on her lovely features as the modestly withdrew.

The holy Abbess took my Father by the hand and my Mother by the hand, looked up with hea­venly fervour, and wished them the peaceful slum­ber of happy minds.

Her prayer, for aught I can tell to the contrary, was well turned: we all stood in need of rest, though I much question if either slept the better for it.

'How happy I am,' continued the good Lady, 'in proving myself your disinterested friend! Gold is ever inadequate to the soul's best actions; they are beyond all earthly purchase! I am hourly con­vinced by what I think and what I feel, that the soul and the body are two things; but the body is, as it were differently formed, subject to the natural neces­sity which displays itself every where. It must be de­pendent on something; the appetites must be fed or the body dies; but the soul stands in a manner [Page 65] aloof! the soul silently scorns to partake of sordid gold! though gold is necessary, yes, the soul! the exalted soul is— as I may say—is like—Like nothing—except it be like my Eleanora, 'said my Father, as he led my Mother to repose.

Simple I, without saying a syllable, except good night, saw my friends retire one after the other, noticing, when unnoticed, till I found myself inad­vertently alone with the seraphic Lady Abbess— What was to be done?—Nothing; yet I resolved, with the utmost gentleness, to steal an holy kiss from her cold cheek—I did; and while I was shutting the door after me, saw her eyes filled with more despair than displeasure.

Do not think the worse of me, reader, for saluting the lily-coloured Lady—indeed I was only play­ful.

The moon, as I was reclining on my pillow, left the horizon. My candle had given her last friendly spark, and sleep and happy dreams nursed for awhile the wearied powers of my frame. I was once awakened by the sound of a bell from the con­vent; but concluding it to be that unwelcome sound which breaks the balmy slumber of the Nuns, and summons them to midnight vespers, I again lay down full of the image of Emily—O, how far at that mo­ment was destiny preparing to hurry me from the idol of my soul!

All was still—How long that stillness had lasted I know not; I awoke in a state of horror! My limbs were confined; on my throat lay a heavy [Page 66] pressure; my breath grew short, and suffocation began to arrest the current of life! Agony, I be­lieve, is stronger for being sudden: even the pains of death become comparatively weak by a long and slow gradation: I was young, healthful and had known no waste of strength. My powers of mind or body had received no shock; and Nature now was ardent in her exertions to avoid dissolution. For­cible in my struggling, I by some means relieved my throat, and could indistinctly hear human wis­pers; I attempted to speak, and my mouth was immediately gagged, whilst a hoarse voice comman­ded me to 'be passive, for my doom was fixed.' A bandage was tied over my eyes, a covering belon­ging to the bed closely girted round me, and I was by force conveyed, with horrid silence, to a [...]arriage. Convinced I was in the power of many ruffians, I steadily resigned myself to the will of my Creator, and lay still. Why I was not that night murdered, I am yet to learn, since had the contrivance been Roderique's, he was too far gone in vice to indulge humanity, and might have dispatched his rival If it had been the will of the King, he from policy more than cruelty might have destroyed a man whose pretensions to the crown would probably one day shake the peace of France.—That I am now breathing is to me a mystery.

The carriage, to the bottom of which I was bound for some hours, went furiously on. From its unea­sy motion, and the jingle of chains, I supposed it to be a kind of cart or waggon; the trampling of many [Page 67] horses accompanied it, and the voices of many men kept a continual jargon, the sense of which I did not understand, because my hearing was not suffici­ently clear. I heard them, at last, mention mor­ning—I could not see it, my eyes were still darken­ed. How tediously did the hours seem to creep, whilst I lay burning with indignation, and endea­vouring to despise death! Sometimes I heard the wheels rush against the hedges, in passing, as I sup­posed, through narrow lanes; again they would plunge into deep ruts, made apt for impression by the late rains; and the recovering jolt always made me sensible of the vehicle's coming out; at other moments the horses seemed slowly to labour through lengthened marshes, the heavy mire of which so enfeebled and retarded those noble animals, that the lashes of their cruel masters lost their effect.— During this dismal day, the longest I thought I had ever known, no refreshment was offered me—I real­ly began to think myself forgotten, even by my enemies. The horses at length stopped, and the order was given for lighted torches: I supposed now the time to be night, and that we were on some beaten road; I was not mistaken—some travellers saluted us as they passed by, civilly, bidding God to bless us; others enquired to what town we were going, and what commodities we had to sell? My guards gave different answers to successive questions, not one of which were true, whilst I lay panting beneath a pile of straw. The carriage soon left the high roads; the hoofs of the horses were not to be [Page 68] heard, and I concluded they were for many miles running over turf. The mind of man, when disturb­ed, is a chaos, 'without form and void.' His ideas take no shape, or the formation he tries at swiftly dies. Millions of chimeras floated on my imagina­tion; all were rejected in speedy succession ere they became old enough to take the colour of reason; yet fancy will be busy till we are no more.

'How near the shore is the vessel,' said some person, as the carriage hawled up, and made a full stand; 'not above forty feet; the wind is favoura­ble; we shall go seven knots.'

This dialogue ended;—as their voices died away, I could distinctly hear the roaring of the sea. Death throws horror on the imagination of man, from those lifeless forms he hourly beholds; the flitting breath departed, our lately smiling friends answer not to our lamentations, heed not our sighs, nor wipe away our tears. It is this eternal insensibility which pervades the dead—that shocks our mortal affections, and we tremble at the idea of sinking into the same state. What manner of death is least painful, I believe, has long been a question: for me, drown­ing appeared most awful.

In the season of childhood, I had accompanied a lad, whose father was tenant to my Guardian, in a walk on the bank of a river. It was in the month of July—Creation glowed with sultry exhalations, I panted at noon, reclined under the shadow of a willow, and my young friend sat by me till I fell into heavy sleep; the flocks were going to sold, and [Page 69] I found the cloaths of my companion placed under my head, when I awoke.—"Jacques," said I, rubbing my eyes, "we have staid here till I am cold"—Jacques was gone! I started from the earth, roved wildly along the shore, enquired of the shep­herds, and called through the woods. My terrors increased, imagination doubled them. I quicken­ed my step, and ran towards home; being almost spent with crying, I walked throngh a lane which I never thought gloomy till now, and, turning the corner of the hedge, met a boatman carrying Jacques wrapped up in his blue jacket.—"Tell him to awa­ken," said I, in a transport of joy, "tell him Henry is here."

'He is dead.'—

"Dead!"—

'Drowned.'—

"No! no!—Let me press my lips to his, and he will breathe again."

The man laid down my pale little friend. I lay down near him, but he was cold. I raised his head —he was no longer the kind, attentive boy, who had, a few hours since, placed the wild-rose in my bosom.—

"Where do you think his spirit is?"

Boatman. 'Gone to Heaven, 'tis to be hoped.'

"And is this all I must ever see of little Jacques —He was good! I will be good! Perhaps I may meet his spirit when I die."

'May be so,' replied the man with a sigh, 'it is always right to hope.'

[Page 70]My unfortunate companion was learning to swim, I was informed, and the current carried him away. —He was borne to the village church-yard, attend­ed by his mourning father. His image remained indelible with me, and now revived with more than usual strength. To drown! good Heaven! to sink into the vast deep, so full of the powers of life! bandaged! chained! not the least indulgence left for struggling nature! How long shall I be dying? (said I to myself.) What will be my feelings?— The work of dissolution will, I hope, be short! After the shudder of a moment I became more col­lected. Man wills not himself into being; he lives not by his own energy, or he would live for ever. I must die! Time, when past, is not mine; the fu­ture is not mine; what then are my claims? I have none. Reflection thus prepared me for my fate, and I scorned to plead with those I imagined to be my executioners. Through this dismal scene my mouth was gagged, and the first moment of ease I experienced was, when one of the men, who assist­ed in receiving me from the carriage, roughly drew the iron from my lips. My eyes were not yet un­covered, nor my limbs unbound.

'We leave him to your care; be you answerable for the completion of the work,' said some one at a trifling distance.

I immediately exclaimed, "Monsters, if you know me, dispatch me."

'Ah! malheureux, vous etes condamne—N'im­porte—bon soir.

[Page 71]From the beach I was conveyed in a boat to a vessel, and dawn up its side with difficulty. In so help­less a state I could not aid the efforts of the seamen, nor ward off personal anguish. Being laid on the deck stunned with nautical expressions of surprize and laughter, I was unswathed, the covering was taken from my eyes, and I enjoyed the unspeakable pleasure of sitting upright. After suflering so long in a passive state, my mouth was sore, my thirst in­tolerable; I feebly begged for water. A young tar, hastily brought me some, but my jaws had been strained so severely, that I felt much torture in drink­ing, yet the eager craving of Nature was too pow­erful to be denied, and my muscles soon recovered their usual elasticity. I have often reflected since on the strange tranquillity which hung on my mind and body, whilst sitting on the deck of the ship. I remembered but little. I cared for nothing around me. I felt no agonizing impatience on the account of those I had been torn from, but fell into a vacancy which could be neither pleasure nor pain. Being awakened from this listlessness, I grew peevish, but was soon laughed into quietude by a young tar, who came sauntering along the deck with a chain in his hand, singing,

There was a peculiar manner in this fellow that drew my attention. I perceived he had sudden starts of love and pity, but that the habitual hurry of a sea-faring life had drowned the softest emotions of his heart as they arose; his mother and sisters had an interest in his bosom. They were far asun­der, and rum was but the means of supporting him now, that he might provide for those dear relatives in future. He stood listening to the gurgling waves, while he sang the foregoing song on the side of the ship, not in a hurry to fasten his chain round my ancle. When I enquired who wrote his song—'my­self,' (said he, in a merry tone) 'Come, hoist! Damn me if I'd give a quid of tobacco for such a land tortoise—why, what trunk of a tree did you leave last?—Do you go the voyage with us?'

[Page 73]"I have my doubts: this chain seems to assure me I shall not."

'O! curse the chain; many a good lad has worn a brace of them, who, for all that, pulled up his buntlings afterwards and danced with the lasses.'

Whilst this hearty fellow was comforting me in his way, he, with all the ease of an Englishman, drew his tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and push­ing a large roll of the vivifying herb on one side his mouth, desired me to do the same. I refused and thanked him. He felt no concern; but, as he put his little pouch into his trowsers pocket, he mur­mured—

'I hate to see a man in chains though he never touched a topsail.'

"Were you never in this predicament, my friend?"

'Never but once, and the Devil may carry me if I would not run the gauntlet at any time for the same trick.'

"What was your offence?"—

'Why, I only stole a boiled chicken off my Captain's table, (not this Captain) and gave it to a young Negro-woman, who was near dying with her pour baby at her bosom, between decks. She ate it up, while I stood looking at her; and in an hour after I took the full compliment of a dozen.— Damn the dozen! and damn the Captain, who could see her starve, for starve she did after all, because she could not, or would not eat the slave's common provender; she often prayed for Jemmy, (that's me) and said, a little before she died, that [Page 74] 'her great father, sitting at the end of the sea, would take care of Jemmy.' But there! she is gone! her baby was launched after her while I was in irons.'

A stout man, who I supposed was the comman­der, came forward, and saluting Jemmy with his rope-end, the latter skipped up the shrouds like a squirrel. For my part, I believe despair made me audacious, and I, with little ceremony, demanded of this officer whither we were bound.

'To heaven or hell.'

Fancying he meant only that we must sink or swim, I resolved to suppress my curiosity; the more, as this fellow's ill-mannered abruptness tended to si­lence my question, by the fullest answer in the hu­man language.

'Bear a hand with this lubber down between decks,' said he, and whistled carlessly as he passed forward: I was helped down, chained to a ring-bolt, an old hammock thrown near me, and some biscuit left for my support. All this did not appear as a preparation for my immediate death, and I natural­ly began to awaken from the stupor in which I had for some hours indulged myself. My parents! so lately found; so deservedly beloved, wandered across my memory. Their images were followed by that of Emily, but I checked the dear illusions, and laid my weary head, resigned on the hammock. Three days passed over me whilst in this inactive state. Jemmy would often steal down and try to chear me. One mor­ning [Page 75] he came early, hugging his black-jack full of grog, and bade me drink deep and be merry.

'The world is but an ocean, mesmate, and though we all seem to be making different ports, we do but touch-and go. One port is made for all—I have rea­son to think you will get in before me; if so, look about you, see if you can see Tom Williams; if you can, tell him Jemmy Lee is beating into the channel. Come drink—one must follow another, we cannot make mankind drive a breast if it was to save our souls.'

This short oration of Jemmy boasted little elegance and much idea, (somewhat like a British harangue) but as life had lost greatly of its estimate with me, this honest youth continued uninterrupted.—

'Your sail will soon be taken in I am afraid. What do you think I heard last night?—Come, take a bit of a quid; it will serve to moisten your mouth bye and bye, for I must go up again; my watch will be called in an hour.'

"Excuse me, Jemmy, I am not in the habit of chewihg the leaf."

'Well then, I wont ask you any more—Here's health and happiness to him who steers out of his course to save a wreck!—Ah, my hearty! I don't know your name, but I wish you were safe on dry land! Why I heard a fine dialogue about you last night—The Captain mentioned you to our gentle­man passenger at supper; and, when I came out of the cabin, I listened at the door, for I wanted to know somewhat about you. The passenger said, [Page 76] Captain, I have an order to take him out to sea, and carry your certificate back to France of his being sunk!'

'Who is he, replied the Captain, or what has he done to deserve death?'

'He is an enemy to the King, and my master lives in dread of assassination from him.'

'When your master (whom I never thought like myself) ordered me to bring my vessel along-shore, he told me the prisoner was condemned by the law, and that I might make some money of him at one of the islands where I shall touch; that part of the bargain I shall keep to myself. After taking in my cargo at Carthagena, where we are to set you on shore, I shall pursue my voyage up the Streights— But as to the prisoner—why, I have already received money enough for his passage, if it were possible I could carry him into another planet—Come, take your glass, I'll give you a song Andrew the mate taught me—

'Aye, but Captain,' said the passenger, (for he would not let him sing the song out) 'here is my [Page 77] master's written order, which you must read.'

'Read—I can read nothing to night—hiccup— By Jove I am more than half seas over!'

'Here are five hundred louis-d'ors, Captain.'

'Five hundred louis d'ors!—

'Five hundred louis-d'ors!—'

'Damme, if that would not—hiccup—purchase my whole cargo!

'But you must perform my master's order.'

'Your master! why he is for all I know a knave on shore—I the sovereign of the sea.—

'Will you for this gold consent it shall be done to night?'

'The Devil himself will be offended if you make a murderer of a drunken man. It is a large sum —five hundred louis-d'ors. Hiccup, Sir, to hell I pitch your louis-d'ors, here have I been beating old Davy for these ten years—I am a Scotchman, my dear ship's name is the Highland-Queen; no man shall stretch out his hand at the day of judgment, and say to me, Captain Murray, you turned me, out of life; no, no, my—I say, Sir!—My vessel —my little Highland-Queen, shall not be followed up the Streights by a ghost.'

'A ghost! Captain Murray!—for God's sake is your vessel haunted? Lord have mercy upon me!'

'The Devil help you, hiccup!—you are a pret­ty fellow to drown a man, I tell you, you coward! the prisoner's spirit would sit all night shrieking [Page 78] in the rigging; nay, I should not wonder if he flew over the side with you in a flash of fire.'

'I was never at sea before!,

'Then you never saw our great water-serpents, who come up in the night and spit blue flame in our shrouds when we got a villain in the ship.—Blue, yellow, red, green, all the colours of the rainbow, burn round us till the crew kneel down, say the Lord's Prayer, and tumble the wretch plump into the deep—hiccup—give me the other glass and I shall be up to any rigg.'

'Sir! Sir!' (and the poor gentleman panted for breath) 'I'll give you the sum of money, if you will do the business without my knowledge of it.— To be sure I was sent on board to see it done, and was afterward to be put on shore at Carthagena, from whence I was to return to Marseilles—but you can do it without me.'

'But not without the five hundred louis-d'ors.'

'No, Captain—here they are.'

'Agreed,' said the Captain, and took up the money 'so that I am afraid you will lie-by sooner than you expected. I had a mind not to tell you all this, but, if any preparation can be made for a long voyage we seamen like to make it.'

Jemmy left me to reflection; I had no worldly riches to bequeath; my ideal form, I believed would long be preserved by Emily, and I lamented in sympathy with my unhappy parents—All partial formation must dissolve, though the great-system of [Page 79] Nature shall eternally renovate. Am I not, in the grave, the undoubted property of God?

Arrived at this height of resignation, I sup­ported a suspense of three weeks-rolling on the sea. The sight of land at last was proclaimed by one of the crew; and that night, when all was still, except the watch upon deck, the Captain came to me, accompanied only by Jemmy, and sternly orde­red me to be stripped. Poor Jemmy reluctantly obey­ed, without speaking, but the silent tear that fell on my cheek as he stooped to unbind me was full of pity.

'Wrap something round him, and stow him away,' said the Captain, let none of the crew know where he is while Monsieur Cregney is on board.'—

'God bless you, Sir?' replied Jemmy, in a trans­port of pleasure—'I was afraid, Sir, you were going to order me to throw him over-board.'

'And what difference to you if I had?—'

The Captain crept to his cabin: I was directed to lie closely behind a large coil of cable, and Jemmy covered me with some of the sails. My only fear now was of suffocation from foulness of air; however, my chance of life was much greater than it had been on the yesterday.

There is a pith, in some men, hard to be got at. It seems to peep upon us like a sudden light, and shut up again: The manner in which this Captain conducted himself was singular, and there is won­drous energy in natural eccentricity. I wished to be acquainted with the mind of this man; but cir­cumstances [Page 80] would not agree to it.—We were three days making land, during which Jemmy never brought me any refreshment but at midnight, when our anchor was cast. I was not relieved for the space of a week: the happy moment came! Monsieur Cregney, I was informed, had been shewn the bed-clothes in which I had been bound on the night when forcibly torn from the convent; had received a written certificate of my death, and was gone on shore in order to return to France. With a smiling countenance, Jemmy led me to the Captain's cabin; I bowed as I entered, he took me by the hand, his heart swelled: but he stubbornly broke the sigh in its utterance—'Cheerily lad! I had some work to save you, take this purse that was to have made a villain of Captain Murray, and never feel becalmed whilst the winds fill one honest man's sail.'

"Keep your purse, Captain, as the regard of humanity."

'No; you are but a smuggled commodity at best, I could not buy you into breathing, I would not purchase you as a non-entity, and the five hun­dred louis-d'ors may make you a valuable purchase to some bouny lassie.'

"Do you know who I am?—"

'No; nor do I care!'

"Will you, or can you, without violating your honour, inform me by whose contrivance I was sent: on board your vessel?"—

'By the contrivance of a young Lord, who has paid me fifty livres per diem for two weeks past, on [Page 81] condition of my laying off-shore to receive you. He told me that the King had given his sanction to your death, but that I might make money of you after passing the Streights. Monsieur Cregney, how­ever, has enlarged on my first compliance, and shewed me an order for your death.—Monsieur Cregney believes you are dead, and is upon return­ing to Marseilles full of that belief. Go;—be care­ful of yourself—I must pursue my voyage—and think sometimes of Captain Murray.'

To Jemmy I present one hundred of the louis-d'­ors, his civility had attached me to him; he swore they should all be bundled home to his mother and sisters; and if rough virtue has a charm, I sure­ly might be allowed to part reluctantly from this young man.

Captain Murray as we stood on the shore embra­ced me, and with honest warmth breathed a farwell. 'The billows of life,' (said he) 'you see, must be stubbornly braved: we are soon wrecked in a crazy bottom: A good heart is the best pilot in a storm; and if Monsieur Cregney has a heart like mine, he may call on Heaven for its care. If he has not, may he never find sounding even in harbour! —I may never meet you more!—but, were you to see me sinking, I know you would venture far to hold up Captain Murray.—'

His heart heaved—he shook me by the hand, pressed it between his own; and after looking in my face silently for a moment, broke away, say­ing—'God bless you!—

[Page 82]Captain Murray was older than me; he knew more of the world; and of the moments of sepa­ration. —I staggered speechless as he left me, fol­lowed him with my eyes. He looked back and waved his handkerchief towards an adjacent inn, wiped his cheek, and went on board.—I never saw him since.

And now was I left to look around me; no friend to whom I could unbosom my cares, though my heart was heavy. I however soon collected my scattered ideas; and, by the strength of my judg­ment, forced them to obey collateral circumstance. To the inn I withdrew, sat myself down in a private room, and strove to meditate on future plans. The most pleasing resolve I could form, was to return to France and seek those objects from whom I had been torn. I might go back—I could not look for­ward to happiness. Captain Murray had, on my being released from confinement, ordered me to be cloathed in one of his suits, consisting of a fine cotton shirt, red jacket, and white callico trowsers; so disinterested was this benevolent tar! I could of­fer him nothing—he had given me all. The only return I made was a note, which I unobserved slip­ped into his pocket, informing him of my name, quality and connections. I did not this from mo­tives of despicable vanity, but I thought if ever we met again I might claim his friendship from that rich source of obligation he opened on my grateful soul. At the inn, I enquired for a vessel bound for France, and was informed that an American brig was then [Page 83] waiting for freight and passengers, and that her Captain lived in the street of Saint Dennis, which was but a third street from the inn. I made no de­lay; hastened to the house, met with the Captain, and agreed to lodge with him till his vessel should sail. Thus did Heaven seem once more propitious to my fortunes. In reading, writing and diverting myself with the Captain's family (which consisted of a sensible mother and three lovely girls) I passed my hours. Domestic peace was here—placid manner, chearfulness flowing from a self-corrected mind, and a continued equanimity of temper in this charm­ing wife, taught her husband to adore her and made her children ashamed of imperfection. Such happiness, said I with a sigh, would Emily have diffused around her!—Sometimes I would stroll down to the vessel, throw my eyes over the sea, and chide the contrary winds: it was to no purpose; I could not command circumstances to obey my will. The Wednesday following was at last fixed on for the day of our departure, and the tedious hours had rolled on to the evening preceding that day, when I supped with the Captain in his cabin, toasted my dear girl, and drank a little too much. I felt not the effect of my conviviality till I came on shore, and had advanced a considerable way towards home; the houses were shut up; not an object to be seen, and the silence of the night caused me to quicken my step which was soon arrested by a young female, who very freely took hold of my arm—'Venez avec moi,' said she—and in a moment forgot the [Page 84] delicacy so amiable in her sex. Wine had exhili­rated my soul, my fancy was luxuriant—this daugh­ter of passion kindled warmth in my bosom, but her coarseness converted me. I looked in her face— she was beautiful.—"Take this, and return to vir­tue," said I—giving her a considerable share of my louis-d'ors, which I took loosely from my pocket, and throwing her from my arms.—She stood as if lost in gratitude, and I went on, somewhat proud of my superior excellence.

"What are the grand blessings of life?" said I to myself—"Love and social virtue, to be sure.—" answering my own question with much confidence.

This female out-cast was not an object of the one, but she called forth the other—My moral vanity was not gratified even by this forcible conclusion— "In correcting the senses," continued I, "we sure­ly enlarge the mind"—this reflection gave birth to more. I endeavoured to trace and retrace the origin of evil; went back, in idea, through the wilds of time—could find no beginning—came home to my starting post, and solemnly declared, "That a larger portion of pity than severity was due to er­ring woman."

All these sentiments, you will say, were very fine for a gentleman half-tipsey—They served me for the moment and that was enough. The clock of Saint Dennis had struck two, when I turned the corner of the street, and was near my lodging.

The young woman I had in part neglected, made her appearance again, through an alley—My rea­der [Page 85] will perceive, that I had spun out my thread of morality, and was melting into pity—pity fills the heart of man with all that is soft and languishing to­ward woman; and I was pausing to enquire sen­sibly into the miseries of this young creature, when she eagerly exclaimed, 'there he is—the gold is 'in his waistcoat'—A banditti immediately rushed forward with one intent of surrounding me. Happily I had what the sailors term an oaken-towel in my hand, which the boatswain had forcibly pleaded the use of, and swore it might, in going home, serve more occasions than one. Under his kind command I, on board, accepted it—and this was the hour when my oak was to prove its fashion and quality. Never had it boasted an owner of more wild resolu­tion; (true courage being out of the question)—I hotly defended myself, standing with my back against a wall for the space of three minutes, with as much agility as Agamemnon himself could have done: Swift in my revenge as my assassins were in their plunder, I struck the stiletto from the hand of one; and, meeting the temple of another, reel­ed him to the earth—What could this alertness have arisen to had not a gentleman came to my assistance? —The odds were now five to one—He saw the odds; and, as one of the bravoes attempted to stab me, plunged the sword in his heart.

'Dead!' (said one)—'Dead,'—replied his com­panions. —'Let us be off!

'What shall we do with Larrette?—

'Od—mn her, let her scout as we must.'

[Page 86]Death certainly puts many a good man, and many a good woman beside their best purposes; and Larrette, without trusting to my pity, which had so lately been operating in her favour; ran as courageously as the most vigorous of her friends—I looked after her, tis true, but I did not much regret losing the opportunity of doing a good action: for as pity left my heart to fly after Larret­te, gratitude filled the vacuum in behalf of my deli­verer. In fervent language I invited him to my home. He politely promised me a visit in the morn­ing —This was the morning fixed on for sailing, but the wind still continuing its contrary direction, afforded me the opportunity of receiving my new friend. I found he knew the affairs of France bet­ter than myself; that he possessed acute penetrati­on, much reserve, and more benevolence; yet he was a little older than myself.—

'Accident, more than design,' said he, 'has brought me to Carthagena, I am making a tour with a nobleman who has, upon oath, obliged me to conceal his name and my own. I never lamented the restraint till this moment; I cannot repose a confidence in you; in return I can expect none: but be assured, I am a branch of one of the first fa­milies in France; I travel in the character of a Marquis D****, with my illustrious friend; who retreats for a while from court cabal—and now, only say by what name I am simply to address you.'

"Henry"—replied I, "and a more luckless fellow you never drew a sword for."

[Page 87]After spending two days more in waiting for a gale, and soothed by the attentions of this gentle­man, whose mind was worthy my regard, we took an affectionate farewell. I left him on the shore, and sailed for France.

Thou wilt repine with me, my good reader, that we were not better known to each other, when I tell thee, this was the identical Marquis so lately found within these walls, a victim to despotic pow­er. In a few days I knew his worth, though I knew not his rank, nor am I yet acquainted with his real name and quality. He is gone! for ever gone! And the letter found amongst his papers convinces me, he was making a tour with my un­cle the Duke of B****.

Our vessel flew before the wind, the land fainted from the eye; noisy cheerfulness invigorated the crew, and my bosom was light. What a chasm it makes in the life of a man to be rolling through te­dious months on the ocean! cooped within a few boards, and limited to a few strides fore and aft. I had seldom patience to remain below with the pas­sengers, but would try to amuse myself by hang­ing my head over the vessel's bow, and pursuing, with my eyes, the nitrous particles that shone be­neath, like jewels of varied lustre—To what depth may the imagination descend when it labours to fa­thom the sea! I had not, however, the felicity of making many grand reflections on the fallacious element; for we had scarcely passed the Streigh [...]s of Gibraltar, when we were borne down upon by an Algerine corsair—All hands were ordered up; the [Page 88] deck was cleared, and every preparation made, not to conquer, but to die, stubbornly! For when we beheld the number of barbarians which swarmed on the deck of the Algerine, we could not hope, but resolved, they should buy us dearly. The conflict was dreadful!—In three quarters of an hour we had lost all our companions, except the boatswain, two gentlemen passengers, the captain and myself. Ad­vancing to the quarter-deck, we these made a full stand; embraced each other in silence. Neither mentioned peace or submission, because all were wound up to the strongest exertion we were capable of. The lantern in the steerage was still burning— The Captain, grasping us severally by the hands, recommended our souls to God with the utmost fer­vor, and hastening to the steerage, seized the candle —we saw him no more! By this time the Algerines had thrown an iron hook in our rigging and boarded our bow. Their superior number overwhelmed us. No sooner were we made prisoners, and secured in the corsair, than they loosed the hook from the rig­ging, probably watching the event—The sea was in smooth condition; the vessels merely drifted, the American brig was soon wasted at some distance from the corsair. I still gazed at her with anxiety, wish­ing to discern the captain; and the Algerines were as watchful as myself, but from different motives; as she drove gently, and no danger attending, a boat manned to bring her to—She blew up!—

"Thy little girls, and thy amiable wife will ex­pect thy return, "(said I, as I took a remnant of the captain's shirt from the main stay of the corsair [...] [Page 89] scorched as it was) "gallant, but unfortunate man!"

As the smoke cleared away, we found a lock of his hair, and one of his fingers, which had been blown through the air.

"Good God! Is it thus thy image is broken by accident?" (exclaim I, with more presumption than knowledge) ignorant as we are, we are pas­sive to thee!"

A blow on the left shoulder instantly caused me to think less of the mangled captain, than of myself, I lay down at command, and called my obedience resignation: such an effect will a great evil, when properly compared, cause upon a lesser one. What was the fate of two gentlemen passengers I know not; they accompanied me to Algiers, and were sold to one chief, whose horde lay far in the coun­try. I was sold to a wandering Arab, and drud­ged on, in complicated misery as a slave, for the space of five years. Those five years, I will at pre­sent pass over, that my reader may not be obliged to follow me, weeping, through Barbary, with a plaintive and mournful spirit.

Rest satisfied? thou, who art hanging over this narrative, when I inform thee, that slavery having no charms, I escaped from its horrors, and arrived in France on the ninth of August, 1684. Toward Rochelle I bent my eager steps, resolving to enquire at my Guardian's mansion, for my parents and Emily.—Heaven? how did my heart palpitate with troubled joy, when I saw the eastern chimney peep­ing [Page 90] through the long row of aged elms. Without hesitation, I ran through the first gate and knocked loudly at the door; my garb was not killingly gen­teel, but I had forgot it; I had also forgot, at this delicious moment, the afflictions I had known— Could the images of misery and murder find a place in my remembrance now!—No; all was transport, all exquisite delight and ardent expectation. I knocked a second time, louder than before; the door was opened, I stepped in without ceremony, and could only articulate—tell your master, Henry is here."—

The servant left me in the hall, with just as much ceremony as I had used in entering it; I watched every step he took, and cursed the slowness of his motion, as he stalked insensibly along. Another came of more polished manners, who civilly in­vited me up stairs, and shewed me into the little room which was once my study.—It was no study now?—my books were gone! The elegy of Laura was gone, all was changed; no kind memento of the refined pleasure I had here tasted remained 'to administer to my mind's disease,' and my raptures were subsiding swiftly, when my dear, my beloved Guardian appeared—He pressed me to a heart bro­ken by sorrow.—

'You return not to Emily—she—'tears and grief checked his words; I trembled, a sudden chillness thrilled through my veins, and I stood as one immoveable. Silent anguish absorbed us for some moments: my soul was tortured with suspense, [Page 91] but I revered this good man's struggle, and waited till his resignation should conquer his woe. He at length informed me, that his books and papers had been seized by royal authority, that his fortunes were entirely changed since that fatal night when I was borne from the convent, and that he knew no­thing of his Emily or my parents.

'I was conveyed back to this dwelling, (continu­ed the venerable mourner.) 'escorted by a party of soldiers, a seal was put on my papers, and myself given to understand that liberty was more a favour allowed than a privilege I had a right to demand. To whom can I camplain? Repeated solicitation, tears, and threats with the Abbess of the convent availed no more than to gain repeated avowals of her ignorance respecting my Emily's fate. Here I wait for death! Here I prepare for that state to which my child—and even you, Henry, must fol­low! I have wealth still, but whom have I to share it. My sons are abroad, and my daughter is for ever lost to me; I therefore shun parade; you are young, and may still look forward for brighter pros­pects than those already faded into disappointment; yet, while I exist, command my purse, and accept me as a father.'

This was no resting place for my impatient soul; I could not long together sit down and weep; dar­ing better suited me: to seek my friends and avenge their wrongs, was a consolation, in my judgment, more eligible than tears. For this purpose I resolv­ed to wander through France, not without money, [Page 92] but without attendants, that I might listen silently and unnoticed to the opinions of the nation. Whilst I remained with my Guardian, which was only a short time, I observed a deep and deadly melancholy growing on his mind. Such melancholy, I am con­vinced, often settles into black despair, which the poor sufferer, self-deceived, would willingly pro­nounce resignation. I tried to comfort him, and he strove to appear sensible of my attention.

Alas! we knew but too well the situation of each other's heart; and in endeavouring to disguise, we revealed our reciprocal anguish. Unable to support this mental conflict, I promised to write, and tore myself away.

Neatly dressed, but unattended, I repaired to eve­ry public place; strolled into every house of fa­shionable resort, mixed with people of every de­scription, and found national discontent gnawing at the root of national splendor.

Cardinal Mazarine was dead since the year 1661; Turenne died in 1678, and the Calvinists, left by the cruel excesses of the King's soldiery to secret cabals and feeble murmurs, quitted the kingdom in vast numbers. With these I was sometimes seen, hoping to hear of my persecuted Father, but find­ing that hope vain, sought the friendship of the Marquis Louvois, who stood in high favour with the King. Louvois I found intrepid; every species of boldness sunk beneath his daring spirit; and his will, supported by his cunning, seemed abso­lutely to command success. From this man I might [Page 93] have learned much; the springs of political intrigue were coerced in his hand, like the fasces in the hand of the Roman; but my whole soul revolted secretly from his instructions. As a stranger he at first politely conversed with me on common to­pics—On further intimacy he revealed a part of his plans. I had no right to betray his confidence, but finding him the acting-instrument of court-design, I had fully resolved to quit his society for ever, and travel on in search of objects more dear to my sick and languishing mind. He, however, had the fascinating address to persuade me to ac­company him to this island. Innocent pleasures, he said, were his only pursuit; having obtained leave of his sovereign to absent himself on account of the weak state of his health. Horrible delusion! Here was I arrested by his command; and here I expect soon to die. The fate of my friend, the Marquis, who rescued me at Carthagena, the groans and complainings I hear every hour within this dreadful prison; the picture of my unfortunate Mother, and the depraved heart of Dormoud, leave me little hope of prolonged existence; while I live, from time to time I will continue my story. Should my execution be sudden, I can only at this moment claim the confidence of a pitying-world * * * * * * * * * * * * * *