GALATEA, A PASTORAL …
[Page]
[Page]

GALATEA, A PASTORAL ROMANCE; IMITATED FROM CERVANTES, BY M. DE FLORIAN. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH. TO WHICH IS ADDED, AMELIA, OR THE FAITHLESS BRITON; AMELIA, OR MALEVOLENCE DEFEATED; AND, MISS SEWARD'S MONODY ON MAJOR ANDRE. EMBELLISHED WITH ENGRAVINGS.

BOSTON: PRINTED FOR AND SOLD BY W. SPOTSWOOD, AND C. P. WAYNE. 1798.

[Page]
[Page]

THE LIFE OF CERVANTES.

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAA­VEDRA, whose writings have thrown a lustre over Spain, amused Europe, and corrected his century, lived poor, unfortunate, and died almost forgotten; we were ignorant till with­in these few years, of the true place of his birth. Madrid, Seville, Lucene and Alcala, disputed this honour with each other; thus Cervantes, like Homer, Camoens and many other great men, found several countries after his death, and wanted necessaries during his life.

The Spanish academy under the protection [Page 2] of its sovereign, has at length rendered the memory of Cervantes that homage which Spain has owed him for too long a time; they have published a splendid edition of Don Quixotte. It seemed as if they had believed that the magnificence of this publication could repair the injuries that the nation had done its author. His life is at the head, written after the most exact researches, by a distinguished academician. I shall follow this authority, as far as regards facts, permitting myself to speak o [...] the works of Cervantes, according to the sentiments they have inspired me with.

Cervantes was a gentleman, son to Roderi­go Cervantes, and Leonora de Cortinas; he was born at Alcala de Henares, a city of new Castile, the 9th day of October 1547, under the reign of the emperor Charles the fifth. From his infancy he loved books; he studied in Madrid under a celebrated professor, where he very soon surpassed the most expert scholars. The grand science of that time was latin and theology; the parents of Cervantes [Page 3] intended to have made him an ecclesiastic or a physician, the only lucrative professions in Spain; but he had still this trait in common with many celebrated poets, of making verses in spight of his parents. An elegy on the death of Queen Isabella de Valois, a number of son­nets, and a little poem called "Filene," were his first essays; the small regard that they paid to these works appeared to him an injus­tice, he left Spain, and went to settle at Rome, where distress forced him to become valet de chambre to Cardinal Aquaviva.

Disgusted very soon with an employment so little fit for him, Cervantes became a sol­dier, and fought with distinguished valour in the famous battle of Lepanto, gained by Don John of Austria, in 1571: he received there a wound in his left hand from a musquet, of which he was lame all his life;—as a recom­pence for this wound he was put into the common hospital at Messina. Having left the hospital, the trade of an invalid soldier ap­peared to him preferable to that of a despised [Page 4] poet, he went and enrolled himself anew in the garrison of Naples, in which city he re­mained three years. As he was repassing in­to Spain on board a galley of Philip the Se­cond's, he was taken and brought into Algiers, by Arnaut Mami, the most renowned of all the corsairs.

Fortune, who exhausted her rigours upon the unfortunate Cervantes, could not wear out his courage;—slave to a cruel master, sure of dying in torments if he durst make the least attempt to recover his liberty, he concert­ed his escape with fourteen Spanish captives. They agreed to redeem one from among themselves who should go to his own country, and return with a bark to carry the others dur­ing the night; the execution of his project was not very easy: it was necessary at first to get as much money as should pay for the ran­som of one of the prisoners, afterwards to escape from the houses of their different masters, and be able to remain all together, without being discovered, till the very mo­ment that the bark should arrive to carry them [Page 5] away. So many difficulties appeared insur­mountable; the love of liberty brought it all about. A captive, a native of Navarre, em­ployed by his master in cultivating a large gar­den upon the borders of the sea, took on himself the task of hollowing out a cave in the most retired part of the garden, capable of containing the fifteen Spaniards; he spent two years in this work, during which time they gained, what with alms and hard work, the ransom of a Majorcan, named Viane, whose fidelity they were sure of, and who knew per­fectly well all the coast of Barbary. The money being ready, and the cave being finish­ed, it was necessary to wait yet six months be­fore every one was prepared to go there; then Viane ransomed himself, and parted from them, having sworn to return in a little time.

Cervantes had been the soul of the enter­prize; it was he who exposed himself every night in seeking food for his companions; as soon as day appeared, he retired into the cave [Page 6] with provisions enough for the day. The gardener, who was not obliged to conceal himself, had his eyes continually on the sea, to discover if the bark was yet come.

Viane kept his word; arrived at Majorea, he went to the viceroy, laid his commission before him, and demanded his assistance in favour of the enterprise; the viceroy gave him a brigatine. Viane, with his heart full of hope, flew to the deliverance of his brothers; he arrived on the coast of Algiers, the 28th day of September, of that same year 1577, one month from the day he had left it. Viane had observed every place so well, that he knew them again altho' it was night, he directs his little vessel towards the garden, where he was expected with so much impatience. The gardener, who was on the watch, perceived him, and ran to acquaint the captive Span­iards of it. All their misfortunes are forgot­ten at this happy news, they embrace each other, they press to get out of the cave, they view with tears of joy the bark of their deli­verer; [Page 7] —but alas! as the prow touched the shore, some Moors were passing that way, and knowing the Christians, cried out to arms! Viane trembling spreads his sails, gains the open sea and disappears; the unhappy cap­tives, fallen again into their chains, went to weep at the bottom of their cave.

Cervantes re-animates them, he made them hope, and flattered himself that Viane would return again; but Viane returned no more. Grief, and the dampness of their narrow and unhealthy abode, brought disorders on these unhappy people. Cervantes was no longer able to procure necessaries for some, to take care of others, and to encourage all: he got one of his companions to assist him, and gave him the charge of providing victuals in his place. The person he made choice of was a traitor, he went to the King of Algiers, turn­ed Mussulman, and led himself to the cave, a troop of soldiers, who put the thirteen Span­iards in irons, and dragged them before the King; that Prince promised them their lives, [Page 8] if they would declare who was the author of the enterprise;—It is I, said Cervantes to him, save my brothers, and put me to death. The King respects his intrepidity, he gave him back to his master Arnaut Mami, who would not put so brave a man to death.

The unhappy gardener, who had made the cave, was hung up by one leg, till his blood smothered him. Cervantes, deceived by for­tune, betrayed by his friend, and returned to his first chains, only became more ardent to break them; four times he failed in his at­tempts, and was on the point of being impaled. His last effort was to cause a revolt among all the slaves in Algiers, and to make himself mas­ter of it; they discovered this conspiracy, yet Cervantes was not put to death;—so certain it is, that true courage will make itself res­pected even among barbarians.

It is true, that Cervantes being willing to speak of himself, in the novel of the Captive, one of the most interesting in Don Quixotte, says,

[Page 9] ‘That the cruel Azan, King of Algiers was never merciful only to a Spanish soldier, named Saavedra; who exposed himself of­ten to the most frightful punishments, which will not for a long time be forgotten by the infidels.’

In the mean time, the King of Algiers, willing to be the master of so famous a cap­tive, purchased him from Arnaut Mami, and had him closely confined. A short time af­ter, this Prince being obliged to go to Con­stantinople, demanded from Spain the ransom of his prisoner. The mother of Cervantes, Leonora de Cortinas, a widow and poor, sold all that she had, and ran to Madrid, carrying with her three hundred ducats to the fathers of the Trinity, who were charged with the redemption of captives. This money, which was the intire and only fortune of the widow, was far from being sufficient. The King A­zan would have five hundred crowns of gold; the Trinitarians, touched with compassion, completed the sum, and Cervantes was ran­somed [Page 10] the 19th of September 1580, after a slavery of five years.

On his return to Spain, disgusted with a military life, and resolving to deliver himself up entirely to letters, he retired near his mo­ther, with the fond hope of supporting her by his works. Cervantes was then thirty three years old, he began with GALATEA, of which he gave but the first six books, and which he never completed. This work succeeded pret­ty well; the same year he married Donna Catherine de Palacios, she was descended from a good family, but she was poor, and this marriage did not enrich him. To main­tain his family, Cervantes wrote comedies; he assures us, that they were well received, but very soon after this, he quitted the theatre for a small employment which he obtained at Se­ville, where he went to settle. It was there he wrote those novels where he paints so well the vices of that great city.

Cervantes was near fifty years old, when he was obliged to take a journey into La Mancha. [Page 11] The inhabitants of a little village named Ar­gamazilla, picked a quarrel with him, threw him into prison, and left him in it a long time; it was there that he began Don Quixotte, he believed that he should revenge himself on those who had insulted him, by making their country the country of his hero. He affected in the mean time not to mention once in his romance, the town where he had been so bad­ly treated. He began by giving to the pub­lic no more than the first part of Don Quix­otte, which did not succeed. Cervantes knew mankind; he published a pamphlet called "The Squib,"—this work, which it would be impossible to find now, even in Spain, seems to be a criticism on Don Quixotte that covered his slanderers with ridicule;—every one read the satire, and Don Quixotte obtain­ed by this bagatelle, the reputation which since has been due only to itself.—Then all the enemies of good taste let themselves loose against Cervantes. Criticisms, satires, calum­nies, all were set to work. More unhappy [Page 12] by his success, than ever he had been by his disgraces, he durst not venture to give any thing to the public for several years, his silence added to his misery without appeasing envy. —Happily the Count de Lemos and the Car­dinal of Toledo lent him some succours; this protection, which Cervantes considered as so valuable, was continued to him almost to his death, but was never proportioned either to the merit of the protected, nor to the wealth of the protector. Cervantes, to show his gratitude to the Count de Lemos, dedicated his novels to him, which appeared eight years after the first part of Don Quixotte; the year following he gave his "Voyage to Parnassus," but these works brought him but little money, and the succours of the Count de Lemos were always very weak, since Cervantes to procure bread was obliged to print eight comedies, which the players had refused to perform; he seemed destined to misfortunes and humiliations of every kind▪

This same year, an Arragonian, who took [Page 13] the name of d'Avellaneda, wrote a continua­tion of Don Quixotte; a wretched continua­tion, without taste, without wit, and without gaiety, but in which he said many things in­jurious to Cervantes;—this sort of merit made the book be read. Cervantes replied to it as all the satires ought to have been replied to: —he published the second part of Don Quix­otte, superior still to the first, every one was convinced of his merit, but the more they were obliged to render him justice, the less sorry were they that a rival, even despicable, should insult him whom they were forced to admire.—Spain is not, perhaps, the only coun­try in the world, where malignity so severe on good works is always indulgent to their de­tractors. Whilst Cervantes lived, Avallaneda was read, as soon as he was dead, his enemy was forgotten.

The second part of Don Quixotte was the last work printed during his life;—he worked still at the romance of "Perfiles and Sigismun­da," when he was attacked by a complaint of [Page 14] which he died, it was a dropsy;—he felt very soon that he could not be cured, and fearing not to have time to finish his work, augment­ed his disorder by intense application. He was very soon at the extremity; tranquil and serene on the bed of death, as he had been patient under his misfortunes, his constancy and philosophy never forsook him a moment. Four days before his death he had his ro­mance of Persiles brought to him, and traced with a feeble hand, the epistle dedicatory, ad­dressed to the Count de Lemos, who just then arrived from Italy;—this letter deserves to be remembered— it is as follows:—

To DON PEDRO FERNANDEZ DE CASTRO, COUNT DE LEMOS, &c. &c.

We have an old Spanish ballad, which is but too applicable to me;—it begins with these words,

"Tho' Death impatient calls on me;
"Still do I wish to write to thee, &c."

[Page 15] Behold precisely the state I am in; they gave me yesterday extreme unction. I am dying, and I am very sorry that I have not the pow­er of telling you how much pleasure your ar­rival in Spain has given me. The joy which I feel at it, ought to save my life; but the will of God be done. Your excellency will know, at least, that my gratitude has last­ed all my days. I have much to regret in not being able to finish certain works which I had destined for you, as The Gardener's Ca­lendar,"—"Bernard the Great,"—and the last books of "Galatea;"—for whom I know you have a friendship. But it would be ne­cessary for this, to have a miracle from the Almighty; and I ask for nothing, but that he may have your Excellency under his pro­tection.—Madrid, April 19, 1616.

MICHAEL DE CERVANTES.

He died the 23d of the same month, aged sixty-eight years, six months, and some days.

[Page 16]The man who conducted himself among the Algerines as we have seen; who compos­ed Don Quixotte—and who wrote this let­ter when dying, was no ordinary man.

[Page]

OF THE WORKS OF CERVANTES.

THE first poetical works of Cervantes are not much known, nor do they deserve it;— his sonnets and elegies are written too much in the taste of his age—his best work, that which has immortalized his name, is the "Ro­mance of Don Quixotte;"—the judgment, the gaiety, the fine irony diffused through this work, the great truth of the portraits, the purity, the simplicity of the style, have rendered this work immortal: I know that it is not equally pleasing to all French readers who do not understand Spanish; this arises [Page 18] from the faults of the only translation which we have of it, it is very far from the elegance and the delicacy of the original. The trans­lator seems to have considered Don Quixotte as a common romance, whose sole merit was to be entertaining. He has translated the Spanish word by the French one, which he found in the dictionary, without comparing or without chusing; he forgot that in works of humour no word is synonimous to another; that one word alone is apt, and all others im­proper.

The manner in which he has translated the pieces of poetry, of which there are many in Don Quixotte, would persuade us that the Spanish verses are ridiculous; when, in fact, they are all agreeable—perhaps too abstruse.

But Cervantes wrote for his nation, whose taste is different from ours; and the transla­tor, who wrote for us, ought, whilst he pre­served the thoughts of Cervantes, to have weakened some comparisons, softened some of the images, and have, above all, given [Page 19] sweetness and harmony to the verses. He appears to have thought of nothing but being literal, and this among the French, is consi­dered as a fault. To us almost all foreign books seem too long; even Don Quixotte has prolixities and strokes of bad taste, which might be retrenched without the translator's meriting the reproach of not being exact; when a work of entertainment is to be transla­ted, the translation most agreeable, is, without doubt, the most faithful.

Notwithstanding these faults, the work is so excellent in itself, the episodes so interest­ing, the adventures so comic, that all the world knows it, all the world read it again and again;—our tapestry, our pictures and our prints, all represent Don Quixotte to us; and even the children laugh when they see Sancho Panza.

Cervantes's novels fall far short of Don Quixotte; he wrote twelve, and four alone are worthy of him,—"The Curious Imperti­nent," [Page 20] which is inserted in Don Quixotte; "Riconnet and Cortadille," a whimsical but true picture of the rogues of Seville:—"The Force of Blood," the most interesting and best conducted of the whole;—and "The Dia­logue of the Dog?." This last is a charming piece of criticism, abounding with philosophy and gaiety; the Spanish manners are there drawn with all the accuracy, simplicity, and spirit of Cervantes. We have had within those few years a French translation of these twelve novels, but they ought to be read in the original.

The "Journey to Parnassus," is a poetical work, divided into chapters. Cervantes feigns that Apollo threatened by legions of bad po­ets, sends Mercury into Spain, to assemble all his favourites, and conduct them to defend Parnassus. Mercury finds Cervantes, and shows him the list of those whom Apollo re­quires to assist him, and of their adversaries. It is evident what a fine opportunity this fic­tion gave a man of wit to be revenged on the [Page 21] dunces who had insulted him. This work is not very agreeable, nor can we relish it high­ly; I know not any translation of this, nor of his comedies; they are eight in number, and Cervantes says in his prologue, that he had written twenty or thirty; this uncertainty must appear wonderful to those who know how difficult it is to write even one comedy;—be that as it may, those which are preserved, di­minish our regret for those that are lost. I have read them all with attention, none of them are tolerable; uninteresting, badly con­ducted, often witty, always improbable; such is the characteristic of all his plays. In that called "The Happy Ruffian," the hero, who in the first act is the greatest villain in Seville, becomes a Jacobin at Mexico in the second: he is the pattern of the convent; he has fre­quent encounters with the devil, upon the stage, and always remains conqueror. Being called to attend a lady of the place, then on her death-bed, whose life had been very irreg­ular, Father Crux, for so he is called, presses her in vain, to confess her sins; the dying la­dy [Page 22] believes herself too culpable to hope for pardon:—At last Father Crux, anxious to prevent her reprobation, offers to take her sins on him, and give her his merits; the exchange is made, the bargain signed, the dying lady confesses, angels receive her soul, and devils seize upon the Jacobin; who sees his bo­dy covered with frightful ulcers. In the third act he dies, and works miracles. This is one of the comedies of the author of Don Quixotte, and perhaps, his best.

There are, besides, eight little pieces of Cer­vantes, which the Spaniards call Entremeses; these are better than his comedies; they are comic and natural, some of them rather too free, but two of them are charming above the rest; one called "The Cave of Salamanca," is exactly our Soldier Magician; the French comic opera is formed after the model of the Spanish; the other, called "The Miraculous Picture," has furnished Piron with the idea of an opera ballad, The False Prodigy, much in­ferior to Cervantes's work.

[Page 23]"Persiles and Sigismunda," of which we have two unfaithful translations, is a long ro­mance, loaded with episodes and adventures, almost always incredible. It seems as if Cer­vantes wished to imitate the old Greek ro­mances still esteemed and formerly admired. But all his imagination, which, perhaps, never was more brilliant than in Persiles, is insuffici­ent to render his heroes interesting; their use­less adventures, their improbable dangers, and the constant medley of love and devotion, have hindered this work from attaining the repu­tation of its author; but the elegance of the style, the great truth of some of the portraits, and the episode of "Ruperte" are sufficient to render it of great value.

It remains that I should speak of "GALA­TEA," his first performance. At the time he wrote it, Spain was the most gallant nation in the world, love was the sole occupation of the Spaniards, and the subject of all their books.

Montemayor, a celebrated poet, published the romance of "Diana," which has been [Page 24] translated into French. This work met with the greatest success, and merited it in some respects; a pure style, great wit, sweetness and sentiment, often an enchanting strain of poetry, and the affecting elegant simplicity which predominates in the novel of the moor Abindarraes, redeems in the eyes of con­noisseurs, the improbability of the story, the intervention of magic, and the want of ac­tion which have been the reproach of the Di­ana of Montemayor. Cervantes, who per­ceived all these defects, as may be seen from his scrutiny of Don Quixotte's library, has, in Galatea, avoided some of these faults; but not all. His adventures are more natural, his characters more interesting, but his style, and above all his poetry, place him below Mon­temayor.—Infected with the miserable scholastic taste which then prevailed, Cervan­tes has made his shepherds declaim as if in the school, they pronounce long dissertations for and against Love; they cite Minos, Ixion, Antony, Rodriguez and all the heroes of fa­ble and history: if Tircis wishes to console [Page 25] his friend who can obtain no mark of favour from his shepherdess, his speech is to this ef­fect:

‘It is allowed by all, that Galatea is still more beautiful than cruel; but they add, that above all, she is discreet. Now if this be true, as it ought to be, it follows that by her good sense she should know herself, and from this knowledge that she should esteem herself; from this esteem that she should wish not to be lost, and from this wish, that she will not yield to your desires.’

In another place, a lover separated from his mistress, says in verse, ‘Although I seem to see, to understand, and to feel, yet I am only a phantom formed by Love, and sus­tained by Hope.’ Through the whole work the sun only illuminates the world by the light which he receives from the eyes of Galatea. These specimens enable us to form an idea of the bad taste which formely pre­vailed, and from which even Cervantes was not free. But in the midst of these follies, [Page 26] we find beautiful ideas, true sentiment, ele­gantly expressed, interesting situations, the emotions and agitations of the heart. These were what induced me to give an imitation of his Galatea; it has never been translated, this romance is utterly unknown to the French.

As it is very possible my labours will be unsuccessful, I must, for the honour of Cer­vantes, enumerate here all the changes which I have made in his work. Galatea, in the original, consists of six books, and is not con­cluded: these I have comprised in three, and have finished it in a fourth. I have transla­ted hardly any part, the verses in particular, only resemble the Spanish ones in the places quoted. I have only taken the heads of the adventures, I have even changed circumstan­ces, where it has appeared necessary; I have added entire scenes, as the exchange of crooks in the first book; the country feast and the story of the doves in the second; and the farewell to Elicio's dog in the third; the fourth is entirely my own invention. I shall [Page 27] no doubt, be reproached with the great num­ber of episodes, and the few events in which Galatea is concerned. In Cervantes, there are twice as many episodes, and Galatea does still less. Montemayor has committed the same fault in Diana, which is in fact, nothing but a recital of different histories; such was the taste of the times. Such are our great French romances, so long the fashion, where the authors took the Spaniards for their models, as to battles and duels, which one will be perhaps astonished to find in a pasto­ral work; it is a tribute which Cervantes paid to his nation. I know no Spanish ro­mance or comedy without combats; this peo­ple, one of the most valiant in Europe, and without dispute, the most amorous, required in a book to please them, recitals of Love and War. Finally, we ought to pardon Cer­vantes, who himself met with adventures, the most extraordinary, for supposing that what had happened to himself would appear pro­bable in a romance.

I have but one word more to say on the [Page 28] judgement which I have presumed to pass on the works of Cervantes. Notwithstanding the particular study I made of his language, I rested not entirely on my own knowledge; but I have been guided by the information of a Spaniard, who is as much devoted to literature, as to his country, and who has this in common with Cervantes, that he is still more celebrated for his talents than for his misfortunes*.

[Page]
GALATEA.
[Page]

GALATEA. BOOK THE FIRST.

I.
B [...] [...] the sun has brighten'd o'er our plains▪
[...] stol'n the liquid dew-drops from the flowers;
Before the earliest birds have quit their bowers,
[...]less and struck with love's tormenting pains▪
I w [...]ke the echoes from the hollow ground;
And to my moans the rocks and woods and vales resound.
II.
The ring-dove joins his sad complaints to mine.
And thou sweet bird that sing'st the live-long night,
Thy plaintive notes no more my soul delight,
In vain to sooth me all your pow'rs combine;
The limpid brook my falling tears encrease,
Whose gentle murmurs oft have sooth'd my soul to peace.
[Page 2]
III
Nor echoes, woods nor streams assuage my woes;
Stretch'd on the flow'ry turf I hapless lie,
Beneath the shade that spreading oaks supply,
And mourn my fate and weep my lost repose;
In sighs and tears my wearied nights are past,
And each returning day's more wretched than the last!

Such were the complaints of Elicio, a shepherd on the banks of the Tagus. Nature had enriched him with her gifts, but Fortune and Love had not treated him with equal kindness.

Long had he loved Galatea, without being able as yet to flatter himself that he was beloved of her. Ga­latea was a simple shepherdess of the same village as Elicio; but she had been queen of the world, if the world had been given to the most beautiful, and most deserving.

'Tis Galatea and Elicio, whose adventures I am go­ing to relate. I shall join to these some others, of whose constancy love was willing to make trial; and I shall also describe the manners of a village. Oh! ye whose chief pleasures are centered in a country life; souls of sensibility! to whom the aspect of laughing fields, and the noise of falling waters afford delights equal almost to what are felt in doing of good actions; may you be able to find some pleasure in perusing me!

Of all the shepherds who were in love with Galatea, Elicio was the most tender, and least confident. Nor was his respect alone the sole cause of his timidity; Meoris the father of Galatea was the richest husband­man [Page 3] in the canton; while all the wealth of Elicio was his cottage, and a few goats.

Erastres his rival was less poor, without being more happy. Erastres, ever the most insensible of shep­herds, had not been able however to resist the charms of Galatea; but he did not flatter himself that he could be pleasing to her. Too simple to be amiable, he could feel, but he knew not how to express himself. Nature in forming him had been content with giving him a good heart.

One day as Elicio in a solitary dale was thinking of her whom he loved, he saw Erastres appear, preceded by his flock, which he left the conducting of to his dogs. These faithful animals seemed as if they guessed that their master was too much in love to mind his sheep. Their attention seemed to be doubled. They ran round them, pressed on the lazy ones, led back those that were rambling from their fellows; thus do­ing at the same time their own duty and that of the shepherd.

As soon as Erastres was near Elicio, I hope, said he to him, that you are not sad, because I am in love with Galatea. You know that it is impossible not to love her. May my lambs in the moment that I wean them find nothing in their pastures but poisonous herbs, if it be not true that a thousand times I have been tempted to forget my love. I have consulted all the doctors in the country, yet none of them have been able to cure me; and I come to ask your leave to retain my malady to my death. You will risque nothing in granting me this favour, since you who are the most engaging of [Page 4] all our shepherds, have not been able to move Gala­tea to pity, what have you to fear from a clown like me?

Elicio smiled at this discourse. My friend, said he, I have no right to be jealous. Our sorrows are the same, and they ought to endear us to each other. From this moment we will separate no more; we will talk unceasingly of Galatea, and friendship, without doubt, will help to assuage the pains that love causes us to suffer.

The two rivals now become friends, were preparing their pipes to play, when Galatea with her flock ap­peared upon the hill. A simple bodice, and a petticoat of plain stuff, composed the whole of her attire. Her shape alone rendered this habit charming. Her long light hair floated on her shoulders, and a straw hat guarded her face from the ardour of the sun. Un­adorned as the simple flowers of the field, she was beautiful and she knew it not.

Elicio advanced to speak to her, but the dogs of Galatea, who let no person approach the flock, ran growling towards the shepherd. Scarcely had they recollected him, when ashamed of their ill behaviour, they stooped down their necks, dropt their tails, and went to hide their heads under his caressing hands. The conducting ram with whom Elicio had often di­vided his bread, perceived him, and came up to him with his head erect, and bell ringing, all the sheep fol­lowed him. Elicio opened for them his scrip, he di­stributed to the dogs, and to the flock all that it con­tained, while tears of joy ran from his eyes. The shepherdess embarrassed thus, at seeing the sheep know [Page 5] her lover so well, blushed, and hasting to the ram, struck him with her crook, and obliged him to remove from Elicio.

The shepherd reproached her for this movement of anger; why, said he, punish your sheep when it is me that you wish to punish. These pastures are the best in the canton; you have power to fly me; but leave here your lambs, and I will neglect my goats to take care of them;—if this favour seems too great, choose the place where you would wish to pass the day, and I will remove myself, because it will be more agreeable to you: Elicio, said Galatea, it is not to a­void you that I turn my sheep another way I am lead­ing them to the brook of palm-trees, where I expect to meet my dear Florise;—I am grateful to you for your offers; and I prove it to you by dissipating your sus­picions. While she was still speaking, she pursued her way. Erastres cried out to her from far, May you yet fall in love with some one who will treat you with as little pity as you treat us; May you. . . . he would have said more if Galatea had not began to sing, as her custom was, whenever she moved with her flock. The most angry lover would rather listen to the voice of his mistress, than say injurious things to her; Erastres was silent, and Galatea sung these words:—

I.
In the care of my flocks, I place my delight,
Surrounded by them, I am chearful and blest,
My joy is to lead them to streams that are blight▪
If they are contented, my heart is at rest.
[Page 6]
II.
I sleep all the night, and when day-light appears,
Nor wishes, nor sorrows my bosom e'er move.
This quiet is sweet, it would waken my fears
To know that Old Child, which I hear them call Love.
III.
Be wolves, and this love, ever far from my bow'rs,
While dogs guard my sheep from beasts savage and wild;
My only defence is this crook, hung with flowers,
Yet sure 'tis enough for to combat a Child.

Galatea had finished her song just as she had arrived at the rivulet of palm-trees. Florise was already there, her best friend, the confident of her most secret thoughts. They sat down together upon the borders of the brook, and employed themselves in gathering the surrounding flowers; when they perceived a shep­herdess who was unknown to them. This stranger, young and beautiful, seemed overwhelmed with grief; from time to time she stopped, sighed, and [...]oked up [...]o heaven, with her eyes swimming in tears. Too much occupied with her sorrows, to perceive Galatea, she approached the brook, took up some of the water in her hands, and washed her eyes wearied with weep­ing: Alas! said she, there is no water able to extin­guish the fire that consumes me.

Galatea and Florise ran towards the stranger; If Heaven, said they to her, is as much touched with your tears as we are, you would very soon have no cause to shed them; we pity your misfortunes, even though [Page 7] we do not know them; how often are they assuaged by recounting them! a satisfaction of that sort you might feel, by pouring them into our bosoms; yet it would be cruel to demand a recital of what might be wound­ing to your heart. This recital, replied the stranger, will perhaps deprive me of the friendship which you seem to promise me; when you are informed that all my sorrows spring from love; may I hope that you will still pity me? The shepherdesses, after having assur­ed her in the tenderest manner of their freindship, con­ducted her into a neighbouring grove—they sat down in the shade, and after a pause of a few moments, the stranger began her history:

"I was born in a village, situated on the banks of the Henares, celebrated for the freshness, and the clear­ness of its waters; my father is a farmer, and my life was occupied solely in country employments; every morning I led my sheep to their pastures, frequently alone, yet solitude never weared me. In the woods I listened delighted to the birds, I sung with them; I gathered the red rose, the lilly without spot, and the pink of various dye; this amusement rendered the day happy, I loved nothing so well as my lambs, and I fought for nothing in the country, but flowers and the cool shade.

"How many times have I laughed at the sighs and tears of some of our sheperdesses, who have made me the confident of their loves? I remember that one day the young Lydia came, and throwing herself upon my neck, bathed me with her tears. Alarmed at her des­pair, I wiped her eyes, and embracing her, enquired [Page 8] with tenderness what frightful misfortune had cost her [...], cried [...] to her, is he de [...]? [...] Leolin­da, replied [...] me, he is gone! . . . . he is [...] this morning I have seen the shepherders Leolinda, with the rose coloured ribband, which I, the other day gave [...] ingrate. I declare to you, amiable shepherdesses, that I could not hinder myself from laughing at this recital, every word of which was cut short with sighs. Lydia was offend­ed, she looked at me, bowed her head, and went a­way. I would have detained her: Teolinda, said she to me, may you one day feel the sorrows that I now suffer, and experience in your confidents the same pi­ty that I find in you! Such was her wish, perhaps it is you, shepherdesses, who will accomplish it this day.

"Thus did I live, careless, free and happy; but I was not to be long so:—One day, it was the vigil of the patron saint of our village, I had gone with many other girls to get green boughs, and gather flowers to ornament our church; we found on our way, a troop of shepherds, sitting under the shade of myrtles; they were all our friends or relations, and had come out before us, six of them requested that they might go in our place, to get the green boughs and flowers, which we wanted, we accepted their offer, and remain­ed with the rest of their companions.

"Among these young people, was a stranger, whom I then saw for the first time. Scarcely had I beheld him, when I felt a fire run through my veins that was unknown to me before, I doubted what it could be, Lydia was there, I thought to have fallen at her feet, [Page 9] and asked forgiveness for not having compassionated in her, the pains that I already felt.

"It was easy to read in my face all that passed in my heart; but every one was occupied with the stranger. They begged of him to finish a song, which our arrival had interrupted; he agreed, and I trembled, lest love should be the subject; if he be in love, said I to myself, he will not think of any thing but love; happily he sung only the pleasures of a country life, and the means of preserving flocks, he said nothing of that, which causes the death of shepherdesses.

"Scarcely had he finished, when we saw those com­ing back, who had gone to cut the green branches; they were so loaden, that walking in a line, and linked closely together, one would have believed they saw a little hill approach, covered with its own trees. When they came near to us, they began a village round, to which we responded; soon after they laid down their burdens, and offered each shepherdess a garland of dif­ferent kinds of flowers. We accepted their presents, and began to prepare to return to the village; when the oldest amongst them, named Eleuco, stopped us: I think, said he, that each of you ought to recompence us for our pains, by giving her garland to him that she loves best; that is but just, said one of my companions, at the same time putting her garland on the head of her cousin; the others followed her example, and every one made choice of a relation. I remained for the last, and by good fortune, I had no cousin there.

"I appeared as if I was uncertain what to do, at length approaching the stranger, I give you this gar­land, said I, in the name of all my companions, as a [Page 10] tribute of thanks for the pleasure your song, has af­forded us. I pronounced these fe [...] words, out o [...] breath, and not daring to lift my eyes up to him that I was crowning, and I trembled so, that the garland was ready to drop from my hands.

"The stranger received my favours with gratitude and modesty; he seized the instant when no one could hear him, to say to me in a low voice, I have paid you very dear for the garland I have received: you have given me nothing but flowers; and I, I, . . . . . he could not finish, for my companions came up, and pressed me to depart. I answered nothing, but I kept my eyes on the stranger, as long as it was possible; he occupied my thoughs all the way, and when I go home, I could only think of him.

The next day which was the festival, after having paid our adorations to the Eternal Father of Mercie [...] all the inhabitants of the village and its neighbourhoo [...] assembled upon the public green, to exercise them­selves in different country sports. A troop of young men, vain of their youth, their strength and activity presented themselves to dispute the prize—of wrest­ling, leaping and the race. Each appeared as if con­fident of bearing it away; I was only interested for one person, and for him all my vows were exhausted. Ar­tidore, for this was the name of my stranger, was con­queror in all the sports, he was applauded by every one. Alanio, said one, ran swifter than Sylvanio Marcellus is stronger than Lysander; but Artidore car­ries it away from them all. I heard these praises, bu [...] durst not join in them; I pretended not to have heard them, however, that I might have them repeated th [...] oftener to me.

[Page 11]"Thus was our holiday ended. The next day, about dozen young girls [...], the most respectable of our village, assembled together, [...]g each other by the [...]and, and preceded by a tabor and pipe; we formed [...] dance, and in this manner, proceeded to a neigh­ [...]ouring meadow, where we found Artidore with all [...]ur young lads. As soon as they saw us, they ran [...]nd mixed in our dance, each shepherd separated two [...]hepherdesses, and broke our chain by doubling it; [...]hen the flutes and tamborines were joined to our mu­ [...]ic, the dance became more animated; my good for­ [...]ne would have it that my hand found itself in that of Artidore's. The gentle pressure of his hand, caused [...] sudden faintishness to come over me; my heart throb­ [...]ed violently, and I was sinking to the ground; when Artidore perceiving it, caught me suddenly in his arms [...]nd pressed me closely to his bosom. The remedy was worse than the disease.

"The dance being ended, we sat down upon the green turf; every one wished to hear Artidore sing, [...]hey entreated him and he complied. I have never forgot his song, and I am going to repeat it to you, in spight of the tears that I shall give perhaps to so sweet a rememberance.

I.
The brightest day we never could enjoy,
Sad gloomy cares would all our thoughts employ,
If love came not to make the prospect gay;
And strew his roses in life's rugged way.
No ills a favoured lover e'er can know,
A word, a smile, can happiness bestow,
[Page 12]Nor fate itself can render him unblest;
She says, I love you, and his heart's at rest▪
Love, we ought to bless thy chains,
If two lovers are in trouble,
They can feel but half their pains;
Whilst their pleasures you can double.
II.
The other day beneath a myrtle shade,
Two hapless lovers sad complainings made,
Their future union was their only care;
Th' uncertain future fill'd them with despair.
I heard them thus, in broken accents say,
Still as they dried their falling tears away:—
"Tis more relief to share each others woe,
"Than single happiness can ever know."
Love we ought to bless thy chains.
If two lovers are in trouble,
They can feel but half their pains;
Whilst their pleasures you can double

"It was time to return to the village; each shep­herd offered his arm to his shepherdess; whether it was chance or address, I was not sure; but Artidore gave me his. We walked on in silence, without daring to look at each other; but each of us seized the instant when the other was not observing, to steal a glance, and if by chance our eyes met, they were instantly bent to the ground. At length I said to him, Artidore the few days you have given us, must appear to you as so many years, if you have left in your village any one that is dear to you; I would give all that I possess, [Page 13] said he, if these happy days would but continue as long as my life. You love these sports then? Ah! 'tis not the sports, . . . he gave a deep sigh; I sighed also. he pressed my hand; nor am I very sure, but that I returned it.

"We were thus situated, when the old Eleuco, whose advice every one respected, proposed that we should sing a roundelay, in order, as he said, to enter the vil­lage as gaily as we had left it; I took it upon myself willingly, and laid hold of that occasion to give some advice to Artidore; I sung these words, keeping my eyes on him all the time;

I.
Would you a happy lover be?
Be guided still by mystery;
This maxim is the golden rule
Of all the learned in love's school;
Would you be lov'd, discreet then be,
The key of hearts is secrecy.
II.
Those who love's soft passion blame,
In vain malign his purest flame;
Love is the virtue of the soul,
When prudence regulates the whole.
Would you be lov'd, discreet then be;
The key of hearts is secrecy.
III.
Your pleasure learn to restrain,
Be secret, tho' it gives you pain;
[Page 14]A thoughtless word may oft destroy
The fairest hopes of promised joy.
Would you be lov'd, discreet then be;
The key of hearts is secrecy.
IV.
Your conquests then alone impart
To that best confident, your heart;
And tho' your glory may seem less,
'Twill be repaid in happiness.
Would you be loved, discreet then be;
The key of hearts is secrecy.

"I did not know whether my song was pleasing to Artidore; but he profited by it. During his stay with us, he used so much circumspection and prudence in the attentions he rendered me, that the most envi­ous observer could not find a word to say.

"I was certain of being beloved, nor had I been able to conceal from my lover that my heart was his. We had agreed that he should return to his village as he had given out; and that a few days after he should send a friend of his family to ask me in marriage of my father; we were both of us sure that our parents would consent, every thing seemed favourable to our wishes, when two days before the departure of Arti­dore, my ill fate brought back my twin sister from a neighbouring village where she had been for some time, to see an aunt of mine; this sister, by a fatality very rare, is my living picture, her face, her shape, her voice, all bear so exact a resemblance to mine, that our parents in order to know us from each other, [Page 15] were obliged to clothe us in different habits; but our characters are far from having this resemblance; had our hearts been twins I should not have shed so many tears.

"The day after her return, my sister drove the flocks [...]o their pasture before I was awake. I would have followed her, but my father detained me the whole day;—I was obliged to give up the hope of seeing Artidore. In the evening my sister returned, and told me with an air of mystery, that she had something to say to me of importance; my heart beat violently, already I had a foreboding of my misfortune, I went and shut myself up with her; judge what my thoughts were, when I heard her speak these words:—

"This morning, my dear sister. I was conducting the flocks to the banks of the Henares, when I saw a young shepherd approach me whom I had never seen before; he saluted me, and took my hand with a free­dom which both surprised and offended me, neither my silence, nor the alteration which he saw in my countenance, was capable of stopping his transports. Alas! said he to me, beautiful Teolinda, do you no longer remember him who loves you better than he does himself. I saw very clearly my sister, that I was taken for you, and not being willing that so forward a shepherd as he should have your reputation in his power, and so be capable of injuring you; I was re­solved to release you for ever, from this impertinent. I took care not to let him know that he deceived him­self; and assuming that style and manner that Teolinda ought always to have, I replied to his words with an [Page 16] haughtiness and disdain that did not fail to astonish and confound him; but all this was necessary for your jus­tification, my dear sister, and fortunately for you, my words made a proper impression on him, he looked wildly on me, upbraided me, called me perfidious and ungrateful;—and, as he left me, I think he said something . . . as if you were never to see him more!

"You may easily conceive, amiable shepherdesses, what I suffered during this recital; I would have given the half of my life that it was morning, that I might fly and undeceive my unhapy lover. Ah! what a night for me, how long did it appear!—The stars were yet glittering in the Heavens, when I was alrea­dy in the fields; never had my poor sheep walked so fast before; I hastened to the spot where I had been ac­customed to meet my Artidore; I seek him, I call him, I run over the fields, the woods, and the banks of the river; but I cannot find Artidore! Return, cried I, my beloved, come and behold the true Teo­linda, she who only lives for to love you. Echo re­peated my words, but Artidore came not. At length, wearied with the fruitless search, I sat down at the foot of a beech to wait for broad day light, that I might a­gain traverse every place where I had before sought him.

"Scarce had the morning's dawn given me the power of distinguishing objects clearly, when I per­ceived letters out upon the bark of a white poplar; I looked earnestly, it is the hand of Artidore, nor do I know how it was possible I could read without dying, the verses I now repeat to you—

[Page 17] O thou, unmatch'd in ev'ry charm and grace,
But false of heart, as beautiful of face;
Alike indifferent in thy eyes,
Thy broken vows, thy violated truth,
Or the sad fate of the unhappy youth
That breathes away his soul in sighs.
My liberty to you I gave,
My life you with me to resign,
Receive it from thy wretched slave;
Alas! my more than life is thine.
Yet, in the last sad moment of my fate,
I would to your unfeeling soul repeat
Once more my vows, and with my latest breath,
Still talk of love, tho' sinking into death.
On this smooth poplar rind, I've mark'd my doom,
More deep engrav'd, than in thy cruel heart
Mine still will love thee, even to the tomb;
Ah! must we then for ever, ever part!
Could but my fate thy breast with pity move,
More sweet than all my life, my death would prove.

"I read, without crying, these sad adieus, twice over; I should have still continued reading them, but tears prevented me, and surely, if these tears had not flowed, I must have died on the spot Grief took from me in this moment, the little reason that Love had left me; I resolved to forsake all and fly after Ar­tidore, I would that instant have done so; but I could tare myself from the tree where my sentence was writ­ten; I made fruitless efforts to get this bark off the pop­lar, I kissed it a thousand times, I bathed it with my tears; when, suddenly I ran across the country, repeat­ing the last words that I had read.

[Page 18]"I arrived upon these borders, they are not far from the country of my lover; but to this instant, no one has been able to give me any intelligence of him; I would yet seek him a few days—but if my searches are in vain—If my Artidore is no more, my fate is decided! I will follow him: yes, (said she, bursting into tears) I will follow thee, my Artidore to the grave:—it is my last hope."

Such was the recital of Teolinda. Galatea and her friend did all in their power to console her;—Re­main here, said Galatea to her, we will assist you in finding Artidore; and, in the mean time we will par­take your distress, and mingle our tears with yours. Teolinda, moved by these kind offers, embraced Gal­atea, and promised not to quit her for some days.

The sun was now set, and the shepherdesses collect­ed their scattered flocks, to lead them to the village; but scarcely had they got half way, when Galatea perceived that she had left her crook behind her, she begged of Florise and the stranger to take care of her sheep, while she returned alone to seek it; she soon saw through the trees an old shepherd, named Lenio, sitting in the place where she had been, and holding in his hands, the crook that she had come to look for.

At the same instant, Elicio returning to his cottage with his little flock of goats, passed that way, and knowing the crook of Galatea, he stopped and look­ed at Lenio, with an astonish [...]d air;—Galatea, atten­tive to the movements of Elicio, hid herself behind some large shrubs, anxious to hear what he was going to say.

Where did you get that crook? said Elicio, with a [Page 19] quick voice. I found it here, by chance, said the old shepherd, and I intend it for Belise, who will hardly refuse so handsome a present; I wish, said Elicio, that the heart of Belise may be softened to tenderness by the gift of that crook; but mine is still more beau­tiful; see how the bark, neatly raised, seems to form a branch of ivy that curls round it, I would be wil­ling, however, to change it for the one you hold; —you must then, said Lenio, give me also the best of your goats in exchange.—Ah! I agree, I have but six, you see them here, choose which of them that pleases you most. The old shepherd, had no great trouble in deciding of the six goats of Elicio; one only was near yeaning, and it was that which he chose. Elicio, transported with joy, gave him the goat, changed the crook, and embraced him with all his heart. The two shepherds, equally satisfied, sepa­rated, and Galatea, pensive and musing, flowly re­joined Florise and the stranger; they asked her, what news of her crook? some one has taken it, replied the shepherdess, but I do not regret it.

In the meantime, the shades of Night began to darken the mountains; the birds assembled together, under the thick foliage, disputed with a confused murmur, the branch where they were to spend the night. One heard on all sides, the pipes of the shep­herds, and the drowsy tinklings of the sheep-bells, as the flocks, approached the village. The shepherds, as they entered it, found great preparations making, the cause of which, they soon learned;— Daranio, one of the wealthiest farmers, was the next day to espouse Sylveria, whose only fortune was her blue eyes. The [Page 20] prodigal lover would celebrate his happiness by the most brilliant nuptials. He had invited all the shep­herds of the neighbouring villages to be witnesses of his happiness; and the famous Tircis, who had no equal in singing, or the art of playing on the flute, was also to be there; with his friend Damon. Teo­linda h [...]d a faint hope that Artidore might come to these nuptials; she resolved therefore to follow Ga­latea. All the shepherds were preparing themselves for the sports and rural games, that were to be ce­lebrated the next day.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
[Page]
GALATEA.
[Page]

GALATEA. BOOK THE SECOND.

WHEN shall I be able to live in a village—when shall I be the possessor of a cottage, encompassed by cherry trees! close by it, could there be a garden, an orchard, a meadow, some bee-hives, and a rivulet, bordered with filbert trees surrounding my Empire;— My desires should never pass beyond that stream. There should my happy days glide peaceably away; every moment of my time should be occupied in walk­ing, reading, or in rural employments.—I would have besides, something to live on, and also something to give away; for without this, riches are nothing; to have only for one's self, is having nothing. If I could enjoy all these blessings with a partner, prudent and amiable, and see our children sporting on the green [...], vieing with each other, who shall run swiftest to embrace their mother;—I believe, that I ought to excite the envy of all the Kings of the Uni­verse.

[Page 22]Such was the state of those shepherds, whose histo­ry I write. A happy marriage generally crowned a virtuous attachment. Daranio, the beloved of Syl­veria, was now to become her husband. At the first dawn of the morning, all the inhabitants of the village, and of the neighbouring hamlets, were already assem­bled on the public green. Some had made garlands to ornament the doors of the bride and bridegroom; others with flutes and tamborines ushered in the hap­py day, with joyful melody; here was heard the ru­ral pipe; there the harmonious violin; and farther off, the antique psaltery. One was employed in ty­ing ribbands to his castanets; another ornamenting his hat with bunches of flowers.—Every one was ea­ger to please his mistress; all were animated with Love and Joy.

The bride and bridegroom did not wait long. They were soon discovered, coming decked out in their gayest apparel; Galatea and the young girls conducted Sylveria;—and Elicio and the shepherds surrounded Daranio. The happy troop took their way to the church, amidst the sound of all the instruments.

After they had vowed an eternal fidelity, the new married couple returned to the village green, and all the young women ran to seek for the presents which they had destined for the bride;—One came and offer­ed to Sylveria, a basket of fruits; another carried in her hat, eggs that her pullets had newly laid—here one presented a pullet, another a young cock; every one without regret, and without vanity, made an offering proportionable to their riches.

Galatea approached in her turn; she carried two [Page 23] young turtles, which a servant of her father's had ta­ken in his nets. The shepherdess was fearful of doing the [...] an injury, and both her hands could scarce con­fine the two birds; with their white wings and their rose-coloured bills, they were every moment ready to escape; she hastened to Sylveria, and saluting her with a modest air, my dear friend, said she, here are two sweet doves that would wish to live with you: I pray you to receive them; every faithful spouse ought to give them an asylum. In saying these words, she pre­sented her turtles, Sylveria stretched out her hands to receive them, Galatea opened hers. The birds profit­ing of the moment, escaped, and as they shot sudden­ly into the air, brushed lightly with their wings, the faces of the shepherdesses. Sylveria was surprised and Galatea almost sorrowful; they followed them with their eyes till they had lost sight of them; they then looked at each other without saying a word, while ev­ery one laughed, except Galatea.

Elicio approached her, and said with a low voice, these birds have punished you for the little care you took in not keeping them; but they will soon wish to come back to you again; and I dare answer for it, that they will soon return to you. I do not, said Galatea, reckon much upon that; but I shall console myself if they are more happy by being free;—and immediate­ly she went to her sheep-fold, to seek a beautiful lamb, that replaced her doves.

Whilst they were thus offering their presents, a number of tables were laid out covered with all sorts of meats, under the thick foliage of the trees. Daranio [Page 24] who gave the treat, made the matrons, the old men, and the young women sit down; the young lads remained standing, that they might attend the rest.—At some distance from them, up [...]n a sort of a stage erected on casks, the musicians placed themselves; the sympho­nies began, and were often interrupted by the joyful shouts of the company. Pleasure and Gaiety shone on every face; some spoke, some listened, all laugh at once, every one is content, every one is happy?—One would have thought, that every shepherd had that day espoused his mistress.

That nothing might be wanting to this rural treat, no sooner was the repast ended, than Daranio propos­ed a pastoral contest. Sylveria took off her garland and declared that it should be the prize of whoever sung best the praises of his shepherdess. Then the in­struments ceased; all the young girls turned their eyes on their lovers. The shepherds prepared themselves to sing; Erastres even would have entered the lists▪ but the famous Tircis rose up, and Erastres sat down again—no person was hardy enough to contend with Tircis. Elicio alone presented himself; shepherd, said he, I do not pretend to dispute the garland with you; but I would wish to celebrate her whom I love. A deep silence reigned in the assembly, while the two rivals sung, alternately, these words:—

TIRCIS.
Love and fair Phyllis, now sustain my voice,
You know her swains, the object of my choice;
Phyllis, the lovely Phyllis, I adore
Her name I've told, what need I then say more?
ELICIO.
[Page 25]
Her name [...], who first my breast inspir'd
With new born flames, and all my senses fir'd,
To paint her charms, exceeds the pow'r of song▪
Where e'er she moves, the shepherds round her throng
TIRCIS.
The richest tints that ripening apples wear,
With Phyllis' glowing cheeks cannot compare.
Her dark arch'd brows, and eyes of soft desire
All hearts enslave, and all with love inspire.
ELICIO.
The rose of vermil dye, the dazz'ling snow,
Their mingl'd tints, my fair one's cheeks can sho [...].
Nor winter's winds can make this rose decay,
Nor ardent summer melt this snow away.
TIRCIS.
Two years have pass'd, since Phyllis first I kn [...]w
And saw her eyes, of pure celestial blue;
While Love lay lurking in her golden hair,
And of her nesses, wove the chains I wear.
ELICIO.
Long have I bent beneath Love's mighty power,
And pleas'd recall the happy day and hour,
When first I saw the maid, whom now I sing,
Love hover'd o'er her, sportive on the wing;
[Page 26]His laughing eyes express'd a treach'rous joy,
And in my heart I instant felt the boy.
TIRCIS.
A broken mirror shows our wond'ring eyes
One object that it often multiplies;
So with a sidelong glance that Phyllis gives,
In every heart, her lovely image lives.
ELICIO.
The bleating lamb, that seeks its dam around,
At her return, gives many a joyful bound;
So might you see our swains spring with delight,
Whene'er my shepherdess appears in sight.
TIRCIS.
For Phyllis' birth day, joyful I shall bear
Two speckl'd kids, that I have nurs'd with care,
An humble offering from a heart sincere,
And richly shall I deem myself repaid,
To gain the flow'ry wreath that crowns her head.
ELICIO.
So from my hand should lib'ral offerings flow,
But ah! what gifts can poverty bestow?
No gifts have I, to purchase happiness,
My heart and dog were all I did possess;
She whom I love, long since has had my heart,
My dog now follows her, as if my other part.

[Page 27]Here the shepherds ceased to sing, and Sylveria was uncertain to which of them she should give the prize. — Your talents, said she, are equal, and I durst not, neither indeed, am I able to tell which I prefer; let each receive a branch of laurel, and permit me to be­stow the garland on my best friend;—in saying these words, she presented to Tircis and Elicio two laurel branches, which she bent into equal crowns; and then turning to Galatea, she placed the garland upon her head.

Then the music struck up for the dance; all were ea­ger to join in it, Elicio begged of Galatea to dance with him; she blushed and consented,—would you have wished, said Elicio to her, with a trembling voice, that Tircis should have carried away the prize? No, replied Galatea, I should have been sorry, for the honour of our village, to see you vanquished by a stranger; after these few words, he durst not say any more to her.

Night came on, and every one was to have supped with Daranio, except Galatea, who conducted to her house her friend Florise, and the sad Teolinda; as soon as the three shepherdesses were gone, Elicio took the road to his cottage, with Erastres, Tircis and Damon. These two last had been, for a long time, the faithful friends of Elicio, and were well acquainted both with his loves and his sorrows.

They had not proceeded far on their way, when in passing by the foot of an ancient hermitage, situated on the top of a little hill, they heard the sound of an harp, [...] stop, said Erastres to them, that we may hear the [Page 28] voice of a young man, that came here about fifteen days ago in order to turn hermit. I have spoke to him many times, and from his discourse, I take him to be some great Lord, whose misfortunes have forced him to quit the world; and if Galatea continues to treat me ill, I have a strong notion to turn hermit along with him.

These words of Erastres inspired the shepherds with a desire of knowing the hermit; they ascended the hill, without making the least noise, and soon discovered a young man of about twenty-two years of age, sitting upon the fragment of a rock; he was clothed in dark coloured coarse cloth, a cord served him for a girdle, his legs and feet were bare; and he held between his [...]ands an harp, from which he drew the most plaintive [...]oses;—it was strung by Melancholy; and every chord went to the heart; his moist eyes were turned up to heaven, while tears hung upon his cheeks.

The silence of the night, the pale light of the moon, the holy horrors of the hermitage, seemed all to pre­pare the mind, and dispose it to receive the sad accents of the hermit;—after preluding for some little time, he sung these words:—

I.
Friendship, the only bliss the wretched prove,
To my sad soul no longer can give [...]
Unsteady Fortune▪ and thou God of Love,
Ye join your powers, and my peace d [...]stroy.
In vain I send to Heaven my ceaseless pray'r,
Heaven [...]rs no more the voice of my despair;
[Page 29]My fate is fixt, I must for ever grieve,
Luckless the hour, that ever gave me birth;
Hopeless I love, and yet alas! I live,
Nor knows my heart one comfort on this earth.
II.
Pure holy friendship, life's most healing balm,
My Love I immolated at thy shrine:
Soothe then my troubled soul into a calm,
And on me shed thy influence divine;
To aching hearts, 'tis said thou givest rest,
But ah! you fill with double grief my breast.
My fate is fixt, I must for ever grieve,
Luckless the hour that ever gave me birth;
Hopeless I love, and yet alas! I live,
Nor knows my heart one comfort on this earth.

Here the hermit ceased, his head dropt upon his shoulder, his hands quit the strings of the harp and fell motionless to his sides; the shepherds ran to his assistance; Erastres took him in his arms, and brought him to himself. The hermit viewed him for a long time, as one just awakened from a frightful dream— shepherd, said he to him, the cares you have bestow­ed on me, serve only to prolong my miseries, while a vain gratitude is all that I have to offer you in return. If it would not distress you too much, said Tircis to him, we would wish to hear a recital of your misfor­tunes, the tender friendship that we already feel for you, is worthy of this confidence. Friendship! said the hermit, ah! what a name have you pronounced; yet shall I do as you desire. I owe you more than one obligation;—'tis in your village, that I go to ask for [Page 30] [...]e few al [...]ments necessary to my sad existence, they [...]lways give me even more than I want; and since I [...] my life to you, it is but just, that you should be made acquainted with its sorrows. At these words, [...]he shepherds pressed closer to him, and the young her­ [...]t began his story thus:

"In the ancient and famous city of Xeres, that Min­ [...]rva and Mars have always protected, lived a young cavalier, named Timbrio, his high valour was the least of his qualities. Drawn by an invincible sympathy, I laid myself out in every generous way to obtain his friendship, and I succeeded insomuch, that the whole [...]y forg [...]t very soon the names of Timbrio and Fabi­ [...]n, which is mine, and they called us simply— The two friends."

"We merited this endearing surname; always to­gether, our happy years glided away, and appeared but as moments in our sight; our occupations were war­like;—our recreation was the chace;—our passion was Friendship.

"Thus happily did we live, till one day, the most un­fortunate of my life, that Timbrio had a quarrel with a cavalier, whose name was Pransil. The family of my friend advised him to withdraw for a while; but he wrote to Pransil, informing him, that he was gone to Naples, where he would find him, always ready to terminate their difference, as gentlemen ought.

"I was at that time ill, and in no condition to follow my friend; our parting was mixed with many tears: I promised to follow him, as soon as my health would permit me; but I soon found that the absence of my friend was more insupportable to me, even than my ill­ness; [Page 31] and learning that there were four gallies at Cadiz, ready to sail for Italy, I resolved to embark. Friend­ship gave me that strength which my slow recovery de­nied me. I went on board, the wind seconded my wishes, and in a few days, I arrived at Naples.

"It was night when I landed, and as I crossed a street, I heard the clashing of swords; I perceived a man with his back against the wall, defending him­self singly against four assailants. I flew to his assist­ance, and was soon followed by many people, who seconded me; this unexpected attack made the four villains take to flight. I ran to the unknown person, I spoke to him, I looked in his face; it was Timbrio!

"I held him in my arms, and shed tears of joy; how dear did I pay for this sweet re-union? my friend was wounded, and the emotion that the sight of me caused in him, exhausted his spirits—he fell into my arms, fainting and bloody.—I sent instantly for succour; a surgeon inspected his wounds, and gave me some hopes that they were not mortal. This in some de­gree consoled me, and Timbrio coming to himself, we made an arm chair of our hands, and thus carried to his house, my amiable friend.

"There it was, that I learned the cause of his assas­sination. Timbrio, on his coming to Naples, had de­livered letters from Spain, to one of the first citizens the [...]e▪ whose family was Spanish; received into his house▪ as an amiable companion, my friend was not [...] the charms of his eldest daughter Nisida, the most beautiful and accomplished of all the Neapo­ [...]itans.

"His respect and his timidity, restrained him from [Page 32] ever avowing his love; but an Italian prince, who was in love with Nisida, suspected he had a rival, and fear­ing the valour, as much as the merits of Timbrio, he was base and cowardly enough to attempt having him assassinated.

"This adventure soon spread through the city, and came to the ears of Nisida's father; he was enraged that the name of his daughter should be brought in question, and be made a public talk of—and forbad the Italian prince, and my unfortunate friend, ever to come to his house again.

"This denial was worse to Timbrio than his wounds. Devoured by a passion, that obstacles served only to encrease;—in despair, not to have declared it when it was in his power, he resolved to see Nisida again, at whatever price it was to be obtained; every means seemed easy to him, and in the end, was found to be impossible. He wrote a thousand letters, and tore them all again; one impracticable project succeeded to another with rapidity in his mind; so many in­quietudes and vexations, served only to inflame his wounds. My friend was very soon in danger; I was resolved, if possible, to save him, and to introduce myself into the house of his mistress.

"I dressed myself as a captive newly redeemed, and taking a guitar in my hand, I walked every evening in the street where Nisida dwelt, singing old romances. I passed for a Spaniard, redeemed from the hands of the Infidels.

"In a little time, there was nothing talked of in that quarter, but the captive musician, insomuch that Ni­sida's father wished to hear my romances; on which [Page 33] account, I was admitted into his house. It was there I beheld this Nisida, it was there that I lost the repose and the happiness of my life.—I had the temerity to view this celestial countenance, this charming shape, these eyes full or tenderness, whose brightness was tempered by a slight shade of Melancholy;—I felt in­stantly the poison of Love run in all my veins, it was necessary to fly, but I had not the power; and this single moment made me as bad as Timbrio.

"They entreated me to sing, and I was scarce able to speak; I however obeyed, and chose a romance that a Persian slave had taught me.

Here all the shepherds begged that he would let them hear this romance. He took his harp, and with a soft voice, sung these words:—

I.
Nelsir, the fair Semira lov'd,
And she, his tender vows approv'd;
Sweet converse all their hours employ,
Bright with the hopes of future joy.
II.
His life was found, by wondrous art,
Upon a rose leaf to depend;
Semira took the anxious part,
The rose-tree ever to attend.
III.
Long as the tree this leaf sustains,
No fear for Nelsir's life remains;
But should mischance the leaf remove,
Her Nelsir's death 'twould instant prove,
[Page 34]
IV.
Ah! who can hope for to possess
Of certain bliss, a day or hour?
We hang our hopes of happiness
On stems as weak as held this flower.
V.
One day, upon her mouth half-clos'd,
Young Nelsir a soft kiss impos'd,
"Give back the kiss," Love whisp'ring said,
She would, she wish'd, yet was afraid.
VI.
But to her rose the kiss she gave,
From lips that thousand sweets distill'd,
But ah! it shook away the leaf;
Semira has her lover kill'd!
VII.
Instant he droops his lovely head.
His bloom is now for ever fled:
He press'd her hand, in death they part,
And Love, reluctant, quits his heart.
VIII.
Distracted!—Pale!—Semira stands;
For Death, upon his lips she tries,
Press'd his mouth, and clasp'd his hands;
And on a kiss—Semira dies.

[Page 35]"Nisida had a younger sister, whose name was Blanche, almost as handsome as herself; she seemed to listen to my romance with more pleasure than any o­ther person. She praised my voice to a great degree, I thanked her, with my eyes fixt upon her sister.

"Their father entreated me to come again; I hesita­ted a long time; I debated with myself often, whe­ther I should avail myself of this permission. I was certain of adding strength to a disorder, that tore my heart in pieces; but anxious for my friend, and drawn on by my love, I returned to the house of Nisida; I saw her again, and all hope of a cure was removed from me for ever.

"Judge of the conflicts, that agonized my heart. I loved Timbrio more than my life, and I loved Nisi­da, perhaps, more than Timbrio; I saw her every day, and was incapable of flying from her, even for the in­terests of my friend. This dear friend, weak and slowly recovering from his illness, could not sustain himself, but for my tender cares and assiduities.

"But Time, far from assuaging my miseries, only added to my unhappiness;—every instant redoubled my passion, my remorse, and my torments; my health was no longer proof against these distresses, my face soon lost the freshness of youth; my sunk and languid eyes could scarce turn themselves on her, for whom I was thus dying. At length, the father of Nisida ex­pressed his inquietude about me;—she herself, and above all, her sister Blanche begged of me one day, with the most tender solicitude, to open my heart to them and disclose without reserve, all its sorrows and pains. What a moment for me! but I strengthened [Page 36] my soul, I recalled to my mind, all that I owed to my friend, and resolved to expire, rather than betray him, and I summoned up all my resolution to say these words:

"You will pity my sorrows still more, when I tell you, that they are caused by Friendship;—A young cavalier, my countryman, and bosom friend, is in love with the most beautiful, and most amiable of women; he respects her so much, that he fears ever to mention his passion to her, and this respect is, in fact, cutting short his life. It is him that I weep.—It is the most generous and the most accomplished of men, that Love is bringing to an early grave.

"At this place, Nisida interrupted me. Fabian, said she, I have never known Love, but it appears to me to be simplicity to die, rather than tell a woman, that one loves her; the first avowal of it would not be a­ble, I should think, to offend her; but even supposing that it wras badly received, there are always opportu­nities enough found for dying. Beautiful Nisida, said I, when one looks on love with the eyes of indifference, they see nothing in it, but the playfulness of children, which they laugh at, or at best but pity: but when the heart is wounded, the understanding, far from be­ing of use to us, is the first to lead us astray.—Such is the state of my friend; by dint of intreaties and prayers, I got him to write to the object of his affection; I am charged with this letter, and I carry it always about me, in hopes of being able to deliver it. Could not one see this letter, said Nisida, for I am, I confess, curious to know the style of a lover, who is truly smitten?

[Page 37]"I did not let so good an occasion as this escape me. I drew from my bosom the billet that Timbrio had given me, a few days before; it was conceived in these terms:—

‘I had determined, madam, never to have broken silence, happier in the thought of having in death deserved your pity, rather than live under your dis­pleasure: but it was too terrible to live, and not let you know that I adore you. If this avowal should not offend you, I feel that I shall still che­rish life, to consecrate it to you; but should my te­merity appear to you worthy of punishment, my death shall soon expiate my offence.’

"Nisida read this letter with great attention. I do not think, said she, that a declaration so respectful as this, can displease; and I advise you to deliver the billet, without being apprehensive that it will be badly received.—As yet I have had no opportunity, said I▪ but my friend, in the mean time, is dying, and I think, that you have it in your power to save his life;—How is it possible?—Do you reply to this bil­let, as if it was addressed to you; this innocent device will restore him to new life, and will give me time to find the occasion that I so ardently wish for. No, re­plied Nisida, I have never as yet returned answers to love-letters; and I would not wish to begin now by a deceit.—But said she, after a moment's pause, what is to hinder you from letting your friend know all that has now happened; substituting the name of her whom he loves, in the place of mine? You may tell him that she has read his letter, that she had pressed you to give it to her: that in fact you durst not tell [Page 38] her that the billet was for herself; but that you had, nevertheless, room to hope that she will yet hear of it, without anger. This stratagem will be of use to the health of your friend, and cannot be contradicted, un­til you have spoken to his real mistress.

"Surprised at this invention, I stammered out some expressions of thanks, and I ran to report every thing to Timbrio; the hopes which he conceived, his trans­ports and his gratitude, were so many links, that chain­ed me still more to my duty.

"I redoubled my attentions towards Nisida, and tho' the prey of a passion, which her sight could not fail but to encrease; I never spoke to her but of my friend. I employed for him the expressions which my heart furnished me with for myself; and thus I made subservient to the cause of Friendship, that very feeling, which might have destroyed it.

"At length, I took the resolution to acquaint her of every thing. I told her that the person who was so near dying for her, was Timbrio. I extolled his birth, dwelt on his good qualities, and his virtues; and in a word, I painted him as I saw him. Nisida had not forgotten him, she expressed a surprise, true or feign­ed, reproached me with my presumption, menacing me, to tell all to her father;—but across the anger that she forced herself to assume, I saw clearly that Tim­brio was beloved.

"This was the last stroke for me; a long time I had waited for it, yet it was not sensibly felt when it came. I resolved to let Timbrio know his good fortune, and then to fly immediately afterwards, and die in a desert.

"I reckoned, however, too much on my courage; [Page 39] the moment that I undertook to say to my rival that he was beloved, I lost the power of speech, my eyes filled with tears, vainly would I have hid my trouble; my sighs betrayed me, my strength failed, and I fell upon the bosom of my friend, and bathed him with my tears.

"Timbrio, surprised and terrified, supported me in his arms, embraced me with tenderness, nor would he be satisfied without knowing the cause of so keen an affliction. I was silent, he pressed me, unable to an­swer, I threw my eyes down on the ground. Ah! I understand you, said he, you love her! you love her! 'twas not possible but that you must have loved her; thy faithful heart groans under the sacrifice it would make to thy friendship. O my Fabian, I should be indeed unworthy, if I accepted of her. Continue to love Nisida, for I will never see her more; I shall, perhaps, be able to live without her, but I should be certain of dying, were I the cause of thy unhappiness. In saying these words, he turned away his face to hide his tears, while he pressed me against his bosom.

"Friendship inspired me in this moment, I felt as it were lift above myself. You are mistaken, replied I, it is not Nisida that I love, it is her sister, whose heart I have not been able to touch, and the violence of an unrequited love, is the sole cause of my despair. You deceive me, Fabian, said he, looking stedfastly in my face. No, my dear Timbrio, I adore Blanche, but she despises my vows, pardon me then, if the comparison of thy happy state with mine, draw some tears from me. I promise you, however, that I shall weep no [Page 40] more. Go, my friend, I feel, that while near you, my happiness does not depend upon Love.

"Timbrio, either did, or feigned to believe me; he was resolved, however, to assure himself of the truth of what I said, the first opportunity that he had, but I had determined myself, to make every sacrifice neces­sary to his quiet. It was not enough, that I should immolate my real passion; it was necessary that I should feign to feel another. The very next day I discover­ed to Blanche who I was, and spoke to her of Love.

"Blanche had loved me for a long time, without dar­ing to avow it, even to herself; but no sooner did she believe herself beloved, than she told it to her sister; this confidence became useful to Timbrio. Nisida had still opposed a sentiment that she dreaded, less a­fraid in finding a companion, she ventured to give way to it, she spoke of her love, and was penetrated the more with it. The two sisters, in expressing their fears, mutually strengthened each other; and the plea­sure that diffused itself over their souls, made them feel more sensibly the happiness of being beloved.

"By favour of my disguise, I preserved a free ac­cess into the house. I constantly carried the letters of my friend; and I procured him the pleasure of seeing his mistress. While thus I continued to re­double all my attentions to Blanche, Timbrio remark­ed, with joy, how well I was beloved, felicitated me, holding me in his arms, swore never to espouse Nisi­da, until that day that I should become the husband of her sister; I bowed my head, resigned to every thing that Friendship should ordain for me.

"We waited now for nothing but news from Spain, [Page 41] to demand the hands of Blanche and Nisida in form; when Pransil, the cavalier, who had the quarrel with Timbrio at Xeres, arrived at Naples, to fight with him.

"The nature of the quarrel was such, as to render a public reparation necessary. The Viceroy's permis­sion was to be obtained, and Judges appointed; in fine, all things were fixed, and this terrible combat was to take place in eight days from that time, in a large plain, at a little distance from the city.

"The news of this made a great noise, and spread it­self far and near; in spite of our utmost precautions, it reached the ear of Nisida. Her inquietude and grief was as keen as her love was ardent, a prey to si­lent sorrow, she passed in tears, and without nourish­ment, the eight days of delay, which seemed to her so long, and yet—so short; a frightful incertitude, more cruel even than the misfortune she so much dreaded, soon exhausted her strength, she fell ill; and her fa­ther, ignorant of the cause, resolved, in order to re-es­tablish her health, to bring her to his house in the country.

"The day of their departure, which was the eve of the combat, Nisida had me called to her; when I came near her bed, scarcely could I recollect her, I was shocked beyond the power of telling it; I saw her that my soul doated on, pale and worn away, her long dark eye-lashes moist with tears. Fabian! said she to me, with a weak and feeble voice, you must carry my last adieus to Timbrio, tell him, that my life is joined to his; and that to-morrow, he has my life to defend. As for you, next to me, his best [Page 42] friend, sure I am, that you will not quit him; should any mischance happen, you will be there to succour him. Ah! would to Heaven, that I had the power to be with you also—hold, added she, untying from her neck, a precious relique, which she wet with her tears, carry this to him, and tell him that it has ever preser­ved me from dangers of every kind; it is to-morrow, . . . that I expect it to preserve me indeed. I have still one service more from you. I am going to my father's country-house, which is but half a league from the fatal field;—promise me, to come there instant­ly, and let me know the event of the combat; if my Timbrio be the vanquisher, fasten this white scarf upon thy arm, I shall see it from far, it will save me some moments of torment.—Should he be overcome —I shall want thee no more!—

"You may easily conceive, my good friends, what I must have suffered during this interview, I promised her every thing she asked. I ran to Timbrio, it elevat­ed his hopes; it redoubled his ardor; he kissed it, laid it next to his heart, it raised him out of himself; sure of being invincible, he would have defied the universe.

"At length the moment arrived, the whole city of Naples were already upon the field of battle. Pransil and Timbrio presented themselves, they chose for weapons, the sword and poiguard. The barrier is opened, the trumpets sound, and the two enemies rush upon each other!

"The combat was furious, and for a long time equal. Pransil was active, skilful and valiant; he wounded Timbrio, and Victory hung wavering; eve­ry [Page 43] heart beat with anxiety. At length, Love had the advantage. Timbrio struck Pransil to the ground, no sooner was he down, than my generous friend flung a­way his sword, and ran to assist him; Pransil acknow­ledged himself vanquished, and the spectators rent the air with their applauses.

"The frightful uncertainty that I had been in for so long a time, the grief that I felt, when I saw Timbrio wounded, and the sudden joy that rushed upon my heart for his victory, disturbed my mind so much, that I forgot the white scarf, and I ran without it to an­nounce our good fortune to Nisida. Oh! hapless maiden, O beauteous Nisida, thy blest shade, has long ere this, pardoned my cruel inadvertency, and looks with divine compassion on the sorrows of an heart, that never more can feel the blessing of a moment's peace. As the moment of the combat approached, the fever burned with double violence in her veins; notwithstanding her weakness, she had herself carried up to the highest windows of the house; there, sup­ported by her women, her eyes fixt upon the road, she waited her life or her death; she perceived me; saw no white scarf, and fell motionless into the arms of her sister. At this moment, I arrived, all the house were in tears; I pressed thro' to Nisida, we were prodigal of useless succours, nothing could restore her! I saw her eyes fast shut, her mouth open, her lips pale;— then it was, I began to recollect that I was the cause of all this ruin, wild with despair, I rushed out of the house, I durst no more see my friend, to whom I was certain of giving his death. Desolate in mind, furi­ous and distracted, I took the first road that I found; [Page 44] I had not gone far, when I heard a loud voice calling after me to stop.—I turned round, it was Felix, the page of Timbrio, who told me to come quickly to his master; Felix, said I, thy master I shall never see again; Nisida is dead, and it is I who have killed her. In pronouncing these words, I redoubled my speed. I arrive at Gaietta, a vessel is pulling before the wind, for Spain; I embark, I arrive once more in my native country, where I have taken this habit, which I shall now never quit.

"You have had, my friends, a faithful recital of my misfortunes. I had hoped to find peace in this hermi­tage, alas! I have found nothing but solitude. In vain I force myself to turn my thoughts to that Great Being, that ought to occupy them intirely. The re­membrance of what I have lost, pursues me unceas­ingly. I say to myself every day, that I ought to for­get Nisida and Timbrio, and every day I weep their loss."

The shepherds were unable to console the hermit; but they joined in his sorrows. And now the night being far advanced, and the moon at the height of her course, the shepherds took their leaves of Fabian, and quitting the hermitage, soon arrived at the cottage of Elicio; where, after a frugal meal, they stretched themselves upon the soft skins of goats, to enjoy that rest which temperance and exercise never fail to be­stow.

When Elicio perceived that his companions were fast asleep, he rose up, and went softly out to execute a project which he had meditated all day.

Just before his door there was a beautiful cherry-tree, [Page 45] which he had himself reared, and which was covered with the finest fruit in the country, though yet very young, and the stem slender, it afforded delicacies to its possessor; two white doves had chosen it to build in, they had placed their nest near the top, in a forked part of the tree formed by four branches;—far from disturbing them, Elicio looked upon it as an happy omen, their coming to build so near his cottage; he of­ten carried under the cherry-tree, ears of corn and hemp-seed, and even wool for the doves to line the inside of their nests with, and that their little ones might lie more soft.

While Elicio was at the nuptials of Sylveria, a ser­vant of Meoris, came and spread his nets over the cherry-tree, took the turtles and carried them instant­ly to his master's daughter. They were the same that Galatea had let escape, and Elicio who knew them, had promised his shepherdess that they should return to her again.

He was willing to keep his word, he went out of his cottage to seize on the father and mother while they were asleep, and to put them into a cage with their young ones; by the help of a ladder which he laid against the chimney of his cottage, he mounted to the highest branch, stooped his body forward, removed softly the leaves, and saw by the light of the moon, the two turtles in the nest, the head under one wing, and the other wing spread out, the better to cover their little ones. They did not waken, and Elicio had no more to do than to take them, but he had not the cour­age; no, said he, dear charming birds, ye shall not be deprived of your liberty, you shall belong to Galatea [Page 46] without being slaves; you shall live near her, though free to live elsewhere. He descended quickly from the ladder, ran to seek a spade, and coming back to the cherry-tree, he dug a trench round about it, and when it was held only by its bottom roots, he cautiously and without the least violence, placed his spade horizon­tally, and cutting the roots, loosened it entirely from the ground; then, he took it in his arms, lifted it soft­ly out of the trench, and with a slow, but firm step, which scarcely agitated the branches, he gained the cottage of Galatea.

The chamber where she slept had a window, that looked into the fields, before this window he laid down his burden, with the utmost precaution; the tree stood firm and upright, supported by the ball of clay which was attached to its roots. Elicio, who had taken care to carry his spade with him, dug a hole, set his beloved cherry-tree in it, and placed it in such a manner as to have the nest opposite the window, and so near, that Galatea by stretching out her hand, might be able to caress the little turtles. Pleased with his work, he looked to see if he had not disturbed the doves, they had been just awakened, he could distin­guish their head, which they had stretched out now upon the moss of their nest. Pardon me, said he to them, pardon me, gentle birds, if I have disturbed your sleep; 'tis for your good, as well as my happiness, you are now Galatea's; as soon as she opens her window, fly upon her shoulder, peek at her beaute­ous hair, teach your little ones to love and caress your mistress, when I know that you are near her, I shall not regret you; but should a rival ever present him­self [Page 47] at this window, Oh! fly away, constant birds, come and find me again; when I hear thy melancho­ly murmurs on my cottage, I will soon join my sad complaints to thine.

The dawn now began to appear, and the swallows were already twittering upon the chimney of Galatea when Elicio, with his spade on his shoulder, took the way to his cottage. He had not gone far, when he heard some one walking after him, he looked back, it was Meoris, the father of Galatea. Elicio trembled when he saw him, as if had been conscious of doing a bad action; but Meoris soon set him at rest, for he did not even question him as to the reason of his hav­ing been so early in the village.—Elicio, said he to him, I was going to you; I have a secret to entrust you with, and I have a piece of service to demand from you, in which my daughter is nearly concered.—The shepherd, full of joy, kissed the old man's hands with transport.

They then retired into a little wood of myrtles, at some distance from the road.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
[Page]

GALATEA. BOOK THE THIRD.

WE are ever complaining of the numberless evils of this short life, and it is from ourselves that they gen­erally proceed. In the thirst of gold we may per­ceive the principle of all crimes, and of every misfor­tune; the Creator of the world foresaw this, he con­cealed the fatal metal in the bowels of the earth, and not content with filling up the chasin, he covered it with [...]ers, with fruits, and all that ought to suffice either [...] she wants or pleasures of man; but Avarice, insatiable Avarice, unsatisfied with so many blessings, by [...] toils and perils worked into the [...]p abysses, and te [...]ng the gold from hell, discovered to the hu­man race [...] sources of all their vices. Alas! who has suffered the [...] by this fatal discovery? Love. A heart of sen [...]bility, no longer confers the right of loving; if one would wish to obtain the object of his love, he must bring proofs of his riches rather than proofs of his constancy; the lover without fortune

[Page]
GALATEA.

[Page 49] may be amiable and deserving, but he will not be hap­py; the more faith [...]l he is, the more he has to la­ment; torments and despair are the companions of his life.—What then is necessary to be done, when Poverty is united to Sensibility? Not to love, ah! that is yet worse.

Elicio had not made all these reflexions when he be­came attached to Galatea, or perhaps he had made them; but of what service are reflexions in love; we foresee the evils, we expose ourselves to them; they [...]rrive, and yet are as keenly felt as if they had never been expected.

Erastres, Tircis and Damon were surprised when they awoke and missed Elicio.—But no sooner had the sun gained his middle course, than alarmed and in­quiet at not seeing their friend return, they went out to seek him, in the village.—As they crossed the little wood of myrtles, they heard his voice; attentive and curious, they stopped to listen, and heard him sing these words:—

I.
I loved a nymph in happier days,
Whose heart I fondly thought my own;
I deem'd her worth above all praise,
And thought her form'd for me alone.
In childhood first my passion grew,
Her infant grace my bosom warm'd,
No thought my mind could e'er pursue
But that I lov'd, and I was charm'd.
[Page 50]
II.
The hope that once sustained this breast,
No more, alas! my passion feeds:
Another lover now more blest,
To all my promised joy succeeds.
Unceasing then my tears shall flow,
My loss demands the constant tear;
Yet I've more comfort in my woe,
Far more than in forgetting her.

The shepherds, alarmed by these tender plaints, ran towards Elicio, they found him sitting beneath a beech, his face bathed in tears. Scarce had he perceived them, when rising up hastily, he ran and threw him­self on the neck of Erastres. My friend, said he, we are going to lose Galatea; alas! she quits us for­ever! listen, added he, looking on Tircis and Damon, to the sad secret that Meoris has this morning made me the confidant of; I am going to repeat it to you, in his own words.

"Elicio, said he to me, I owe you the utmost grati­tude for the attachment you have ever showed me, and you are the first to whom I confide the intended mar­riage of my daughter; I concluded all last night, she is to wed a rich Portuguese, whose numerous flocks cover the banks of the Lima; four shepherds sent by the future spouse, are now at my house, and to-morrow they depart with Galatea; I know you ever had the affection of a brother for her, and I have therefore made choice of thee, my dear Elicio, and do beseech you to accompany her to Portugal, to be present at her [Page 51] marriage, and to bring me back the certain intelligence of her happiness."

In spight of the sorrow that his discourse overwhelm­ed me with, I recovered my voice sufficiently to reply to him. How! said I, have you been able to con­sent to separate yourself now in your old age, from your only child? Have you had the heart to condemn her to live far from her father and her friends? Are you very certain that you will not be the cause of mis­ery to her, by thus exiling her into a strange land? Do you not think but she will regret . . . . ?—I have founded the heart of my daughter, said Meoris, interrupting me, I have made her acquainted with my intentions: she replied to me with her usual gentleness that she would be always ready to obey me. I discov­ered, even in her countenance a slight emotion, the certain mark of that joy, which the most sensible and modest girl feels when she is going to be married. Do not therefore be uneasy about her unhappiness, but go and prepare yourself for the journey; I expect it from your friendship.—Behold, my friends, what Meoris said to me, behold that event, which I dread­ed more than death.

Tircis, Damon, and above all, Erastres, afflicted themselves with Elicio.—But, said Damon to him, since Meoris esteems and loves you, how comes it that you have never been tempted to make an avowal of your passion, and demand Galatea in marriage of him? You do not, said Elicio, know him as well as I do, he has repeatedly declared that his son-in-law must have wealth equal to what he can give his daugh­ter. If I durst have spoken to him, he would have [Page 52] believed that it was her fortune I loved, and his friendship for me would have been changed into con­tempt. Meoris is too rich not to be mistrustful, and I am too poor to be confident.

My friend, said Tircis, do not lose all hope, let us go and find Galatea, let us know from herself if it be true she consents to marry this Portuguese, and if, as I sus­pect, that it will wound her deeply to obey her father, we will endeavour to break this unfortunate marriage. Love and Friendship will inspire us, singly they have worked miracles; what will they not do when united?

Elicio followed the counsel of Tircis; the four shep­herds took the road to the fountain of Ardoises, where Galatea retired in the extreme heat of the day; they hoped to find her there, nor was their expectation de­ceived; the shepherdess was sitting near the edge of the water, and in so profound a reverie, that she did not perceive the shepherds when they approached; her eyes, moist with tears, were fixed upon the fountain, her head reclined on one of her hands, with the other the caressed the dog of Elicio; this dog, that for a long time had been oftener with her than with his master. The faithful animal sat at the feet of Galatea, his head was laid upon her knees, his eyes fixed on hers, and his air seemed wistfully to demand of her, why he was this day caressed more than usual.

Elicio made his companions stop, that he might enjoy this pleasing sight; a soft satisfaction replaced already the grief that was painted upon his counte­nance.

Galatea, who believed herself alone with the dog, began to sing these words:—

[Page 53]
I.
Thou, who art ever at my feet,
Companion that I love so well:
Alas! I leave thee with regret,
And now in distant climes must dwell.
II.
Obedience leaves me now no choioe,
These fields again I ne'er shall see:
Where oft I've heard my shepherd's voice,
That kindly used to welcome me.
III.
Yet, gentle favourite, come with me,
Thou only witness of my pains;
For of my past felicity,
Thou art all that now remains.
IV.
Thy master quit, with me to dwell,
Yet do not learn of me to grieve:
Thy quick return shall sadly tell,
That far from him I could not live.

The tears that Galatea shed, prevented farther ut­terance; Elicio wept also, but his were tears of joy; he was no longer master of his transports, he ran to the shepherdess, fell upon his knees before her, and seizing one of her hands, pressed it to his lips; Gala­tea thus surprised, made ineffectual efforts to get away, she perceived that the other shepherds were [Page 54] looking at her, she would have appeared angry, but she could not, she would have fled, but the dog hin­dered her, jumping and running round her, and al­ternately caressing them both—one would have said, that he enjoyed the happiness which he was procuring to his master.

Tircis, Damon, and even Erastres, beheld this scene with tenderness, and durst not approach the two lovers.—Galatea called them to her, made Elicio rise, and endeavouring to dry up her tears; I can no longer pretend, said she to them, to hide a secret my imprudence has betrayed; yes, I regret my country, and I leave, perhaps, my heart in it, but I am not the less resolved to obey my father; the sacred duty that I owe him will support me in every trial. I conjure you not to double, by your sorrows, a grief that would be useless, and above all, not to disturb a solitude be­come necessary to me, after the avowal I have just made.—At these words, she bent her steps towards the village, leaving the four shepherds immoveable with surprise; the dog of Elicio alone durst follow her, she perceived him, and would have hindered him by threatening him with her crook, but the dog still fawned at her feet, and the poor Galatea could not bring herself either to beat him or drive him away.

The four friends staid together, holding council upon the most likely manner of breaking this fatal marriage;—Tircis advised to have all the shepherds of the country assembled together, to go in a body, and supplicate Meoris not to part with that treasure which was the pride of them all. Damon was for going to Portugal to menace the future spouse, and [Page 55] terrify him, so that he should of himself, renounce Galatea. Elicio inclined to this part; No, no, re­plied the good Erastres, who had been as yet silent, none of these expedients will serve any purpose but to irritate Meoris; I have a project which will not fail to render every one happy—except myself, I have resolved on it, and will go and instantly put it in practice. In saying these words, he embraced Elicio, and departed.

The shepherds, who did not reckon much on the invention of so simple a man as Erastres, proposed to go and consult the hermit Fabian.—They had already proceeded on their way, when they were met by a cavalier superbly clothed, and mounted on a noble horse; two ladies on jennets, were by his side, and the numerous troop of servants which followed, showed them to be persons of distinction;—The shep­herds saluted them as they passed, the cavalier re­turned their civility, and stopping Elicio—Have the goodness, shepherd, said he to him, to direct us to some convenient place in these forests, where we may pass a few hours; the ladies whom you see, are fa­tigued with the heat and the length of the journey, and would be willing to rest themselves here. Elicio, who always forgot his own concern in the wish to oblige others, conducted them to the fountain of Ardoises, which was only a few paces distant.

When they arrived there, the serv [...]nts spr [...]d a ta­ble, which they soon covered with refreshments. The two ladies sat down upon the green herbag [...] ▪ and lift­ing up their veils, surprised Tircis and Damon by the splendor of their beauty; the eldest seemed more beau­tiful [Page 56] of the two—but perhaps, she would not have had this advantage, but for the deep sorrow that cloud­ed the features of her younger sister.

Elicio now pressed his companions to depart for the hermitage, but the cavalier detaining them, said, let me enjoy a little longer the happiness I feel in meeting with you; it would be my wish to live with shepherds —What a difference between your happy condition, and that of the inhabitants of towns, Nature has given you for nothing those pleasures, of which we purchase the image. Indolence shortens our days; Labour prolongs yours. Deceit, Lassitude, and perpetual constraint is the round we live in. Freedom, Mirth, Content and Sincerity mark your happy lives;—this day I would turn a shepherd, if Nisida would become a shepherdess.

At the name of Nisida, Elicio looked at the two women with a countenance expressive of so much astonishment, that it was remarked by the cavalier. Pardon me, said Elicio, if the name of Nisida has made so visible an impression on me;—it is not long since one of our friends shed many tears, in talking to us of Nisida. Have you then, said the cavalier, any shepherdess who is thus called? No, replied Eli­cio, she that I mean is no shepherdess; she is not even of these parts, Naples is her country. How! do you then know? I will explain it to you said Elicio, but first tell me if your name be not Timbrio;—and if this young person be not Blanche, the sister of Nisida. You have indeed, said the cavalier, mentioned their names. Ah! Fabian, Fabian, what an happy day for you!—Is he then here, cried Blanche, and as she [Page 57] spoke, the paleness of her face was instantly effaced by a deep and brilliant red.

Yes, replied Elicio, he is here, and the misery of having lost you, was near putting an end to a life that he has now consecrated to penitence. Fabian is an hermit, and his hermitage is near this. Let us fly and embrace him, said Timbrio; Blanche, started up, and instantly set off without knowing the road she was to take. Nisida leaned on the arm of her lover; and Tircis, Damon and Elicio, guided them towards the hermitage.

It was almost night when they arrived at the foot of the hill. Timbrio, Nisida, and above all, young Blanche, mounted the hill by the winding path, with­out ever taking breath. When they came to the door of the hermitage, they found it open, they look­ed in, but could see no one in the cell; uneasy at not finding him there, they were going to call and to run and seek him over the hill. The prudent Tircis stopped them. Fabian, said he, is without doubt, near this place; but this unhappy friend, who has not even an hope of ever seeing you more;—who laments you without ceasing, would die with joy, should you suddenly present yourselves to his view, manage it so as to restrain your transports, and we will find the means to prepare his soul to receive a pleasure which it could not otherwise sustain.

Every one approved the advice of Tircis, they a­greed that it was necessary to send forward the shep­herds, that they might announce to Fabian with pre­caution, the arrival of those tender friends, that he was once more going to behold again.

[Page 58]Whilst they were thus consulting, Blanche was considering, by the light of the moon, the inside of the cell; a mat of rushes, a stool and a crucifix of box-wood, was all the furniture that Fabian had. Blanche examined them a long while, she then drew near the crucifix, and throwing herself on her knees before it, in a low voice, poured out her thanks to Heaven, for having conducted her to the hermitage.

Timbrio and the shepherds were regarding with looks of tenderness, this affecting sight; when deep sighs and the plaintive voice of sorrow gave them to understand that Fabian was not far off: they per­ceived the hermit under a wild olive, on his knees, upon the fragment of a rock, his arms spread to Hea­ven. At this sight, the two sisters and Timbrio would have thrown-themselves upon his neck; Tircis was unable to restrain them: but Fabian beginning to pray, they all stopped to listen. Nisida and Timbrio remained with their arms extended forward; Blanche scarcely respiring, raised her head over their shoul­ders, and endeavoured every instant to wipe away the tears which prevented her almost from seeing her lover.

God of all mercy, said Fabian, Being Supreme, whom only I ought to love, Thou who fillest this world, and should fill my heart, be not offended at my tears.—I have lost all—I do not murmur—Oh! my God, calm the agonies that I suffer, but do not re­move from me entirely the remembrance of my misfortunes.

When Fabian began his prayer, Blanche wept in [Page 59] silence; but at the last words, she cried aloud. Tir­cis, fearing that she would be heard, desired Damon to go with Elicio, and interrupt the hermit,—while he remained with Timbrio and the two sisters, to hinder them from showing themselves too suddenly.

The two shepherds obeyed, Fabian received them with kindness: you complain always, said Elicio, and your misfortunes perhaps draw to a conclusion. You are acquainted with them, replied the hermit, judge then if they can ever end; without doubt they might, said Elicio; you saw Nisida under the appear­ance of death, but you are not sure that she was real­ly dead.—What if she were alive? Ah! impossible. On the contrary, replied Elicio, I heard this day, that she and her sister, together with Timbrio, have been unceasingly occupied in searching all Spain, in hopes of finding you. What say you? are you very cer­tain that this is my friend? that these are the two sis­ters!—Ah! do not sport with an unfortunate, have pity on my sorrows, and do not come to agitate me, by abusing me with a false hope.

As he said these words, Tircis spoke to Nisida, and advised her if she could recollect any song, to sing it in the place where she then stood, without as yet, of­fering herself to the eyes of the hermit.

Nisida followed his counsel, and began the first couplet of a song that Fabian had formerly made.

Friendship, thy empire now regain,
O'er the blind god of lovers reign:
He pleases but while life's in prime,
But thou mak'st happy every time.
[Page 60]
He gives birth to ardent fires,
But gentle ties thy breath inspires:
He is the soul's delicious pleasure,
But thou its best, its surest treasure.

Fabian was yet speaking, when the voice of Nisida struck his ears; he stopped, he listened, he remains immoveable! his eyes are fixed and his mouth open, presently looking with a wild air, his reason abandons him; terror is painted on his face, he takes the shep­herds for phantoms, and views them with affright! In the mean time, the voice continued, it penetrated to the bottom of his soul. By little and little his fears are dissipated, his features regain their sweetness, his eyes recover their softness; he comes to himself, darts like an arrow to the place from whence the voice came, and fell motionless into the arms of his friend.

Nisida and Timbrio call out, the shepherds ran to them, they are all anxiously employed in endeavouring to bring him to life; Blanche had already flown to seek for water in his cell, she threw it on his face, she held his hands in hers, ‘And viewed him with all the mingled agonies of hopes and fears.’ At length he recovers his senses, he opens his eyes, but is still doubtful of his good fortune. Is it you then indeed? said he to Timbrio, is it you whom I have wept and sorrowed for so long? Yes▪ it is me, it is thy friend, who owes his life to thee. They em­brace each other, they mingle their tears together, and [Page 61] remain a long time locked in each other's arms. No more of grief, said Timbrio to him, we are all re-uni­ted: behold Nisida thy good friend, and Blanche, who would have died if we had not found thee.—What more could you desire? Ah! nothing, replied the hermit smiling, and weeping at the same time. Blanche and Nisida held out their arms to him; Fabi­an would have spoken, but he made vain efforts; he took the hands of the two sisters, and joining them both together on his breast, fell on his knees, and bathed their hands with his tears.

After this tender scene, Fabian led his friends into his cell, and there gave them a detail of all that hap­pened to him since their separation; the recital was short. The prudent Fabian, always the victim of friendship, spoke of his love for Blanche, as the sen­timent that had most occupied him during his solitude; the happy Blanche was unable to speak, but she em­braced her sister, and dropped the tears of glad­ness upon her bosom.

The hermit now entreated his friend to relate to them in his turn, all his adventures from the moment that he left him on the field of battle, to go and car­ry the news of his victory to Nisida. The shepherds all joined with him in the same request; and Timbrio willing to oblige, began thus:—

"After my combat with Pransil, impatient to see Fabian again, I sent my page to the country-house of Nisida; he came back with terror in his looks, and announced to me, the death of my mistress, and the flight of my friend, stunned as if by a stroke of thun­der, [Page 62] I instantly departed to inform myself of the full extent of my misfortunes. I arrived at the country, house, but neither intreaties, presents, nor supplica­tions, could gain me an entrance; while the dis­course and tears of the domestics, confirmed me in the belief of Nisida's being no more.

"It would be impossible for me to tell you what my thoughts were at that moment; surely one can­not die of grief, or I should have expired on the spot. —In the midst of my despair, I remembered that there still remained to me a friend, and all wounded as I was, I followed his tracks to Gaietta; when I ar­rived in that city, I was forced to wait the departure of a Catalonian vessel that was to return in a few days to Barcelona, the captain received me on board, and my affliction redoubled as we quit the shores of Italy, where I had lost the dearest object of my heart.

"The wind, which was at first favourable to us, fell all of a sudden, and our vessel but little removed from the shore, was almost motionless with the calm; I should have seen a tempest with more pleasure. Unceasingly occupied with my miseries, always weep­ing my lost Nisida, I besought Heaven that I might die or find my friend. Now my last resource, the only moments that I found less bitter, were those that I spent playing on a lute, belonging to one of the pas­sengers, and accompanying it with my voice.

"The second day of our departure, in the moment when the morn began to glow in the horizon, I was sitting upon the poop, viewing the vast sea, whose tranquil waves reflected the stars, now ready to disap­pear; all was hushed around me, the officers and sai­lors [Page 63] were buried in profound repose;—and even the pilot slept upon his helm. The sails were furled, one heard no noise but what the prow of the vessel made, as it moved softly through the water. This profound silence, this grand spectacle of the sea and the heavens; Aurora, that came gently on to revive the unfortu­nate, made me but more keenly feel my sorrows. I took the lute and sung these words:

I.
Hush'd are the waves, and silence reigns around,
No noise is heard but zephyr's flutt'ring wings;
The wearied seamen sleep in peace profound,
While I alone do wake to griefs afflictive stings.
II.
Now from her chariot of celestial light,
Aurora, to the world a new day shows,
All nature seems reviving at the sight,
But I alone that brood upon my woes.
III.
I sink beneath the weight, I feel my doom;
Nisida my love, my soul's best part,
Thou art no more.—The cold and silent tomb
Shuts up thy body and my faithful heart.

"I was in the last verse when I heard the noise of oars, which seemed to approach the ship; I listened, I looked, the first rays of the morn enabled me to distinguish a bark, she came right upon us, while the efforts of four rowers made her fly upon the se [...].

[Page 64]"When the bark approached us, a woman stood upon the deck, and addressed me. In the name of Heaven, cried she, have the goodness to tell me if your vessel be not the Catalan that sailed a few days since from Gaietta. Judge of my astonishment, it was the voice of Blanche, the sister of my Nisida. Ah! my sister! cried I, as by the help of a rope I descended like lightning into the bark, I flew to throw myself into the arms of Blanche, and I found myself in those of Nisida.

"I thought I should have died with joy; immove­able and mute, I had not the power to utter a word. Nisida spoke to me, encouraged me; I looked at her and trembled in the apprehension that this was but a dream, and that my happiness would disappear on my awaking.

"Recovered from my first transports of joy, my next care was to get the tender Nisida and her amiable sister into the ship; they were both in the habits of pilgrims, but the captain, instructed by me, received them with the respect that was due to their birth. It was then that I learned from Blanche, how Fabian's forgetting the scarf had thrown her sister, who was weakened down with illness, into so deep a swoon that every one believed her to be dead; she did not come to herself, till the end of eight hours, [...]arning then of my victory,—my error—my despair, and our flight, she resolved with her sister, to quit all and follow us. Neither her illness nor her weakness could detain her, she was determined to go, and Blanche disposed every thing for their departure. They had gold and jewels, they were prodigal of all [Page 65] that they might escape from their father's house. A domestic that had been gained over, brought them a [...]ter in the middle of the night. The two sisters, furnished with diamonds, and disguised as pilgrims, took the road to Gaietta, where they knew that I had gone. They arrived two days after the departure of the ship, by dint of money they procured rowers, who endeavoured to overtake us; the calm unex­pectedly seconded their efforts—and Love, who doubtless protected these amiable sisters, conducted them without any accident to our vessel.

"I found my Nisida, but you were wanting to us, my dear Fabian, and this was paying very dear for the favours that we received from Fortune. Blanche felt this as sensibly as I did, thy absence was all that we had to lament.

"After an happy voyage we arrived at Barcelona, we had hopes of learning something of you there, but our researches were vain. Blanche was the first to mention that we should travel over all Spain, and never rest till we had found thee, she was very sure that this advice would be followed; we resolved to go first to Toledo, where the relations of Nisida live, we wrote to her father, acquainting him with our adventures, and asking his permission for us to be married at To­ledo; he replied as we would have wished, and we were now on our way to that city, still inquiring with painful anxiety for our dear Fabian, when our good fortune conducted us here."

Such was the history of Timbrio. As soon as he had ceased to speak, the hermit took him by himself into a corner of his cell, and said to him with a timid [Page 66] voice, Is it necessary for me to go also to Toledo? Timbrio, surprised at his question, looked at him, Fabian threw down his eyes and let some tears escape him. His friend held him in his arms; yes said he, his very necessary that you should come to Toledo, to espouse thy dear Blanche, she adores thee; never has she been one instant without thinking of thee, You loved her always. Is it not true? More than my life, replied Fabian, but I love thee still more; come, added he smiling, I shall quit this habit of an hermit, and you must find me one more proper for a bridegroom; but if you will be advised by me, when we shall be united to these two charming sisters, we will come back here and live with these good shepherds, who love us, and who deserve that we should love them. I have already formed the project, replied Timbrio, I am tired of the parade of the world, and I would wish to finish my life in these sweet retreats, and enjoy what yet remains of it between my wife and my friend.

After this conversation they came back, and gave an account of it to the two sisters and the shepherds; every one seemed delighted, and applauded the design.

In the mean time the night advanced, Elicio advised them to hasten to the village; I have no house, such as would accommodate you, said he, to the four lovers, but I will conduct you to that of Galatea; Meoris her father, will feel himself honoured by re­ceiving you.

His advice is followed, they set out, they double their pace, they arrive; Meoris was going to sit [Page 67] down at table, with his daughter▪ Florise, Teolinda and the four shepherds from Portugal, who were the next day to carry Galatea along with them; they knock at the door, the dogs bark, Meoris went to open it himself; Elicio demands from him an hospitable reception for Nisida, Blanche and the two friends; the old [...]hepherd, honoured by such guests, received them with respect, he called his daughter, and made her add to the supper whatever was good in the house, and inviting them to sit down to table, made excuses for what they had; giving them to understand that better fare would have been provided, had they been expected.

During supper Galatea endeavoured all in her power to hide the grief that preyed on her heart. Elicio placed himself as far off from the Portuguese as he could, he viewed them with rage;—and some­times his eyes met those of Galatea. The repast being ended, they all rose from table, and went to enjoy the cooling freshness of the air, upon the stone benches which were at the door of the house. Old Meoris was willing to recount to his guests the brilliant marriage which he was making for his daughter; he dwelt upon the riches of his intended son-in-law, riches which the Portuguese did not fail to exaggerate. The two friends, and the two sisters, thought them­selves bound to felicitate Galatea, she made no reply; and the unhappy Elicio devoured his tears. Suddenly they were alarmed with the dismal sound of a trumpet, which was heard in the village.

Meoris, his guests, and all the inhabitants ran to the public green, from whence the sad sounds seemed [Page 68] to proceed, they perceived four men cloathed in mourn­ing, and crowned with cypress, two of them carried lighted flambeaus in their hands, the two others sounded the trumpets, in the midst of the four was a minister of the Eternal, cloathed in his sacerdotal robes.

This was the venerable Salvadore, the pastor of the shepherds, who consoled them under their misfor­tunes, and who returned thanks to Heaven for their happiness; all the village was his family, all the orphans his children; for forty years he had filled the sublime employment of praising God, and being serviceable to man.

Shepherds, said he to them, to-morrow is the day that I have chosen in this year, to honor the ashes of our brothers in the valley of tombs; think on this sacred duty, and at the earliest dawn assemble your­selves at this place, in the sad apparel suitable to this interesting occasion.

After having with a strong voice pronounced these words, Salvadore took the road to his own house. Every one agreed to meet there at the point of day, to fulfil so holy a duty; Meoris was not willing that his daughter should be absent. He prayed the Portu­guese that they would defer their departure. Elicio bounded with joy, and Galatea conceived something like Hope, to flutter in the bottom of her heart.

Nisida, Blanche, Teolinda, and the two friends, requested of the inhabitants of the village permission▪ to accompany them to the valley of tombs. They were flattered with their demand. The four Portu­guese then solicited the same favour; but they were [Page 69] refused with an unanimous voice, they were odious from the time it was known that they came to seek Galatea. They retired full of despight; and the night being far advanced, every one now went to deliver themselves up to steep.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.
[Page]

GALATEA. BOOK THE FOURTH.

MELANCHOLY, thou soothing power, I yield myself up to thy influence, come and shed over my last scenes thy soft and sombre gloom, so pleasing to to the heart of sensibility; fear not to awaken every tender emotion, the tears which you cause to flow, are to feeling souls what the dew is to flowers; where is the lover banished from his mistress, the friend deprived of his friend, the mother far distant from her beloved child, who does not consider thee as the dearest possession fate has left them. How delicious are those moments in which, separated from the world, alone with our hearts and remembrance only, we retire into ourselves, or rather fill our mind with the dear idea of the object of our affections; what a pleasure to recall the various aeras of progressive love; the first hour we have felt that passion, the first avowal we have made of it, the air with which that avowal was heard, the fears, the suspicions, and even

[Page]
GALATEA.

[Page 71] the quarrels all are present, all are traced with delight, we enjoy anew the pleasures we have experienced, we enjoy even the disquietudes we have suffered. If every hope be torn from the heart, if unpitying death has cut off in the hour of youth and beauty, the object of our love; the tears which we give to her memory have charms, the recollection of her still leaves upon our hearts an impression of happiness; we would perhaps be more deserving of pity if it were possible we could be consoled.

Thus thought the wise Salvadore; he consecrated one day in the year to tears of tender recollections of Friendship and of Love. This day was now come, Salvadore, cloathed in his sable vestment, appeared on the green; soon after him came the inhabitants of the village covered with crapes, crowned with cypress and carrying their crooks bound round with black ribbands. Salvadore regulated the order of the march, he separated the shepherds from the shep­herdesses, and ranged them in two files.

On the right moved Nisida, Blanche, Teolinda, Florise; and the young maidens moved under the conduct of Galatea. On the left side opposite these marched Timbrio, Fabian, Damon, Tircis, and all the young lads, having Elicio at their head, Erastres alone was absent. After these came the married women conducted by Sylveria, and their husbands led by Daranio; this happy troop were almost as handsome as the first, they were followed by a third, less brilliant indeed, but more respectable, these were the widows and the old men, they were guided by Meoris and the mother of Erastres; they wore no [Page 72] crowns, but their white hair gave them an interesting and affecting appearance, their trembling hands carried ebony sticks, with which they supported themselves. Alas! it was to these above all, that the ceremony was affecting; they went to weep upon the tomb of a child, a sister, a wife, or an husband.

Salvadore closed the march, he had chosen this place, to be near the most unhappy; at each side of him four beautiful children, clothed in linen robes and crowned with flowers, carried with respectful awe, the holy water, the incense and the fire: proud of this employment, which was the reward of a year's good behaviour, they advanced more gravely than the old people.

To arrive at the valley of tombs, it was necessary to go near a league upon the banks of the Tagus, and under a green canopy formed by a double row of poplars. The shepherds marched in silence through fields, upon the verdant turf, thick sown with flowers which were still moist with dew. The sun began to gild the tops of the mountains, and announced one of the finest days of summer, all the expanse of heaven was a deep azure, a soft breeze gently agitated the leaves, and lulled the little birds in their nests; the lark, already lost in the air, made himself be heard though he could not be perceived; the nightingale, fatigued with having warbled through the night, reanimated himself to hail the return of day; the turtle and her mate joined their responsive plaints to the melody of the linnet's voice; the flowers exhaled their sweets; the fishes sported upon the smooth waters of the river; all nature at the moment of its revival, seemed to thank [Page 73] the bountiful Creator for the new benefits which he bestowed.

Timbrio, Blanche and Nisida, little accustomed to this spectacle, contemplated it with surprise; the entering into the valley of tombs filled them with fresh admiration.

Upon the bank of that beautiful river, whose waters roll over golden sands, is a space of a mile square, girt on all sides by a chain of hills, but one passage leads into it through a long defile, the sides of which are lined with rows of cypress that rise above each other like an amphitheatre, and so closely locked together, that their interlacing branches form a thick wall and high as the tops of the hills; roses and wild [...]ess [...]mine relieved with their red and yellow flowers, the dark green of those walls; no flocks had ever penetrated into this asylum; the wood-cutter never carried the axe into these sacred groves. A profound silence reigned every where, one only heard the gen­tle falling of cascades, which descending under the thick fol [...]age, united together in a bed of moss, and rolled their little silver floods into the Tagus.

At the extremity of this avenue is an antique fi [...] ­tree, which seems to shut up the valley, upon its bark are engraven these words:—

This dread asylum, passenger revere,
If vice corrupts thee tremble here to tread;
The good alone may boldly enter here,
And drop a tear upon the virtuous dead.

In the interior of the valley the cypress reigned all around, in the midst a fountain of water, ever [Page 74] moistened and refreshed the green turf; the tombs are scattered here and there, some are already covered with ivy, others still ornamented with garlands; but each of them enclosed what was mortal of a being that loved virtue.

The honour of being interred in this valley was not granted to all the dead; it was the recompence of an irreproachable life. The village, in assembly adjudged it; alas! the tombs were but few!

The shepherds being arrived at the fountain, stop­ped there; and Salvadore raising his voice, separate yourselves said he, you will assemble near me, when the trumpet sounds again. At these words every one disperses; each widow, each orphan, ran to the stone that covered the object of their tears.

Timbrio, Fabian and the two sisters lost sight of Elicio, they looked around the valley for him; they soon discovered him on his knees before the tomb of his mother, his hands were joined together, and his eyes, full of tears raised up to heaven—Oh! my mother, said he, you are surely happy, since you were always good; look down upon me from your dwell­ing above, watch over me, and so inspire my heart that I may love virtue as well as I have loved you. In pronouncing these words, he pressed his face upon the tomb, while his tears ran along upon the stone.

The four lovers listened to him in silence, they approached him, and Timbrio taking the hand of the shepherd, worthy son, said he to him, you fill my heart with tenderness and respect; promise to be my friend, and from this moment, I will renounce the world, become a shepherd, with Nisida, Blanche, [Page 75] and Fabian; —in your neighbourhood I will purchase a cottage and live contented. You would be too near an unfortunate, said Elicio; from the time that I lost my mother, one sentiment alone remained in my heart to make life d [...]si [...]ble, that sentiment was love; and to-morrow I lo [...]e the object of it forever. They pressed him to explain himself more fully; this, re­p [...]ied the shepherd, is not a place where I can speak to you of my misfortunes, when we have got out of the valley I shall relate them to you.

He was still speaking when the trumpet sounded. Explain to us said Timbrio, why Salvadore now recalls us;—to honour, replied Elicio, the ashes of the last shepherd whom we have lost,—we shall immediately hear the history of his life, which will be sung to us by the most discreet of our shep­herdesses.

Everyone was now assembled at the fountain; their venerable conductor guided them to a tomb, the stone was still white, and this simple inscription on it: HERE RESTS A GOOD SON.

Salvadore walked three times round the tomb, he pronounced the accustomed prayers, b [...]nt incense, [Page 76] and sprinkled round the holy water. He then took the hand of Galatea, and gave her the paper wherein was written the history of him whom they lamented; a modest blush overspread the face of Galatea, she stood close to the tomb, and all the shepherds listened to her in deep silence:

I.
Lists, the kind, the generous swain▪
Louisa long had lov'd;
And soon she felt the gentle flame,
And all his vow, approv'd.
II.
He ask'd her at her father's hand,
Who, ha [...]d of heart, replied;
"Be rich as her whom you demand,
"And she shall be your bride."
III.
Poor Lisis' cottage and his heart,
His only riches [...]ere:
The cot, he meant his mother's part,
His heart, Louisa's share.
IV.
All sad, he quits his native plains,
To seek the golden shore;
And there by industry and pains▪
Amass'd a little store.
[Page 77]
V.
Now full of hope, he comes from thence;
And finds Louisa true;
Her hand's to be the recompence,
To faithful love long due.
VI.
At length the bridal morn appears
To end the lover's sighs;
But fearful tidings reach his ears,
That ill his mother lies.
VII.
The trembling Lisis flies like thought,
He quits his lovely maid;
A skilful doctor instant sought,
Embrac'd his knees and said:—
VIII.
Oh! should she die, I'd ceaseless grieve,
Her life is joined to mine,
If by your skill she yet may live,
My treasure all is thine.
IX.
The doctor saves her by his art,
Poor Lisis yields his store;
The maid resigns—and grief of heart,
Must think of her no more.
[Page 78]
X
A richer shepherd weds the maid,
Wealth bears away the prize;
Yet Lisis no distress betrayed,
But smothered all his sighs.
XI.
He feign'd content with pious art,
His mother's peace to save;
But silent sorrow broke his heart,
And laid him in the grave.

Galatea resumed her place.

My friends, said Salvadore, your own hearts speak better to you than it is possible for me to do, you are all moved to tears at the relation of a virtuous action; think then, what must be the delight of doing one. After these few words, the venerable pastor led the shepherds out of the valley; he broke the order of their march, and all dispersed themselves among the beautiful meadows that were watered by the Ta­gus.

The two friends, and the two sisters, who had not forgotten the promise of Elicio, took the road to the fountain of Ardoises. The unhappy shepherd recount­ed to them his love, and the deep despair that he felt at the thoughts of Galatea's marriage. Fabian, Blanche and Nisida endeavoured to console him, while Timbrio was devising by what means he might have him united to his mistress.

Behind these at a little distance, Galatea, Florise, [Page 79] Teolinda, Tircis and Damon walked together with­out speaking. The daughter of Meoris reflected that the very next day was to be the day of her departure. Florise was forming the project of following her into Portugal; while the sad Teolinda envied the condi­tion of those who slept in the valley of tombs.

To reach the fountain of Ardoises, it was necessa­ry to quit the banks of the Tagus and cross some hills covered with wood. The dog of Elicio, who was not that day permitted to follow Galatea, remained in the village; he saw some of the shepherds coming home; but not perceiving either his master or his mistress he ran to seek them, and joined them just as they entered the wood.

After having frisked from one party to another, al­ternately caressing Elicio and Galatea, he ran about the mountain and started a wild kid, which he close­ly pursued; the kid fled and passed near to the shep­herdesses. Fear gave him strength, he gained, with­out being stopped, a cavern, which he entered bleat­ing, the dog followed him; Galatea cried out for some one to save the little goat; every one ran, they arrive at the mouth of the cave, and Elicio in a mo­ment, darts into it after the dog.

Tircis, Damon and the two friends, laughing, en­deavoured, to quiet the fears of the shepherdess, and waited at the mouth of the cave expecting to see the lover of Galatea appear with the young goat in his arms.—But suddenly a frightful noise assailed their ears from the bottom of the cavern; they soon saw Elicio come forth, struggling with a man whose aspect was terrifying; he was covered with tattered rags, a [Page 80] black and thick beard hid half of his face, his long hair floated in disorder on his shoulders, his arms naked and nervous, were employed in an endeavour to strangle Elicio; the shepherd, not [...]ess vigorous, held his left hand against the hairy breast of the wild man, his right hand fastened in his hair, pulled back the head of his enemy; they were silent, their eyes darting fire at each other, their limbs were twisted to­gether; while each with all his force, endeavoured to throw his adversary to the ground.

The dog of Elicio had not quit his master, and would have made efforts to succour him, but a wild goat gave him enough to do to defend himself; atten­tive that he should not get to her side, she pushed him before her, still menacing him with her horns, whilst the young kid now losing all fear, jumped round its mother, and seemed to brave him that he so lately dreaded.

Tircis, Damon and the two friends, flew to separate the combatants, and Timbrio seizing the savage, had need of all his force to hold him—but Teolinda faints, and every one ran to her assistance; the wild man throws his eyes upon her, he remains immoveable, gazing intently upon the pale face of the shepherdess. Suddenly starting from the arms of Timbrio, he caught up the young goat, the innocent cause of so many accidents, he fell on his knees to Teolinda, and presented it to her with a submissive air; scarcely had the shepherdess come to herself, when she fell on the neck of the wild man. Ah! is it you, cried she, Ar­tidore, my dear Artidore, you have not then forgotten your poor Teolinda. At the name of Teolinda, Ar­tidore [Page 81] changed colour, he springs up, and looking wildly on the shepherdess, Teolinda! said he, she has deceived me;—I remember her well; Is she here? —Yes, replied Teolinda, with a trembling voice, she is here, she only lives for you! Listen, said Arti­dore, speaking to her in a low voice, you must bring me to her, I wish to reproach her with her perfidy, I wish to tell her that I no longer love her. Afterwards we will return and dwell in my cave, you shall be my friend, and I will give you my little goat.

Teolinda saw by his discourse, that grief had unset­tled the reason of the unfortunate Artidore. She looked on him with earnestness, while the tears ran down her eyes, and pressing his hand with tenderness, I desire nothing more, said she, I will never quit you again, I will remain with you to the last hour of my life, I hope to prove to you that Teolinda was not to blame. In saying these words, she took the arm of Artidore, and led him with her into the road that con­ducted them to the fountain of Ardoises, the goat and her young one followed them, while the rest of the shepherds kept a few paces behind, impatient to see the end of this adventure.

As they went along, Teolinda used every effort to recall him to a recollection which she at once [...]ared and wished; attentive to say nothing that might be displeasing to her lover, she spoke with precaution of herself, brought with tenderness their loves to his memory, recounted the history of her twin sister, and all the tears she had cost her. She observed the effects of each word upon the counte­nance of Artidore, followed step by step the progress [Page 82] that she made on his reason, and strained every facul­ty of her soul to bring back the affections of her lever. Artidore listens to her like a man come out of a long sleep; he replies properly to some questions, makes her repeat others; by little and little, his memory and his ideas come to him; Love bereft him of reason, Love ought to give it back to him again; he stops, he considers Teolinda, recollects her, falls at her feet, holds her in his arms, and his tears proved to the shepherdess, that her lover was no longer insensible.

They arrived at the fountain, where every one joined them; Florise and Galatea had related as they went along, all that they knew of the loves of Arti­dore and Teolinda. After having felicitated the shepherdess, they begged of her to prevail on her lover to begin a recital of his adventures from the moment that the twin sister had so cruelly deceived him. Ar­tidore consented, and though a little ashamed of the situation in which he found himself, he continued thus his history:—

"The discourse of the false Teolinda threw me in­to the most dreadful despair, I resolved to fly for ever from her whom I believed so perfidious; I was will­ing, however, to let her know that I still loved her▪ and I engraved my eternal farewell upon the bark of a poplar; I do not even remember what I wrote. From that time my reason grew weak and abandoned me; I wandered without end in the fields, and I was four days without taking any nourishment; this absti­nence compl [...]ted my disorder; I can but confusedly recal what happened to me; two circumstances alone are engraven on my memory.

[Page 83]"I descended a little hill, which should not, I think, be far from this place, when I suddenly heard a noise in the thicket, and saw this little goat that is now lying at my feet, flying from a furious wolf, who pursued him with a distended throat; the first thing I did was to throw myself upon the wolf; I had no weapons;—obliged to struggle with the ferocious animal, we rolled together in the dust, madness, no doubt, added to my strength, and made me insensible to danger, I strangled the animal in my arms, and without regarding whether the little goat followed me, I pursued my way to the cavern where you found me.

"The obscurity and the total retirement of that habitation, made me chuse it for my tomb. I pene­trated into the deepest part of it, I sat down upon a stone, and then recalling to mind the perfidy of Teo­linda, my reason visited me for a moment to make me more sensible of all my miseries;—resolved never more to go out of this cavern, I rolled a great stone to shut up the entrance of it. Imprisoned in my tomb, I felt a kind of frightful joy. I extended my­self upon the earth, with the hope of never rising more.

"I was in this state of calm despair, neither fearing nor desiring that my sufferings should be long, when a plaintive bleating struck my ears. I listen, I hear it still, it seemed to come from the entrance of the cav­ern. In spight of myself I was affected, I rise up, I run to where the noise came from, and I perceived the little goat that I had saved, he had passed his white nose between the stone and the rock, and seemed to demand of me to open it to him.

[Page 84]"My eyes were filled with tears, I pushed the stone away gently, and as the entrance was wide enough, a large goat pushed in, followed by its young one, the dam was wounded and bleeding; scarce had she got in, when she lay down at my feet, panting with fatigue and pain, the little goat went round and round her, bleating mournfully, licked the wounds of her mo­ther, and then would caress me, as if beseeching me to assist her.

"I examined where she bled, I knew the marks of the wolf's teeth, I went to seek some water, I washed the wounds, staunched the blood, and I tied them up with a part of my clothes; after this operation, the goat seemed to regard me with tenderness, she lay softly down, showed her paps full of milk, and seem­ed to invite me to partake the nourishment of her little one, whom I restored to her.

"No human consolations would have been able to hinder me from dying; this goat and her young one attached me to life. Resolved to pass my days with them, I went to seek a provision of herbs and fruits, and I arranged the cavern for us three. The next day I dressed her wounds again, and in four days she was cured; she went out sometimes alone, sometimes with her young one, who followed us equally; I rambled on my side, in the neighbouring mountains, every even­ing we found each other again. When I met in my wanderings wild thyme or city [...]us, I brought it to my companion, she eat it out of my hands, I eat my wild fruits, and the little goat sucked its dam. After our repast I shut up the entrance of our dwelling with the stone, then lying down upon dried leaves and moss, we delivered ourselves up to sleep.

[Page 85]"To day, the excessive heat had hindered the goat and myself from going out of the cave, the little one was jumping and sporting for a long while before its entrance. I still believed her to be there, when I saw her run in, all trembling and pursued by a dog; very soon after a man appeared, I declare to you, that at this sight, I was no longer master of my fury, I ran upon him with the idea of strangling him, so much was I enraged that a man should come to take from me the only friends that I thought remained to me in the world. You have been witnesses of my combat, and its fortunate issue; this day is the happiest of my life, I have found my Teolinda, and I feel my reason restored to me again. I will pass my life with her whom I have long adored, and my goat and its young one shall never quit me."

In saying these words, he caressed them with one hand, and held out the other to Teolinda.

The recital of Artidore had filled them all with tenderness, and they thanked him with tears in their eyes. He begged Elicio, in a low voice, to procure him the means of cutting off his beard, and to furnish him with another habit;—come with me, said the shepherd, I have in my cottage, all that is necessary for you. Go then, added Timbrio, we will wait for you here, and in your absence, I shall consider of something to say to the father of .... he stopped himself there;—Galatea blushed—Artidore went with Elicio, Teolinda begged of him not to stay long, and the goat and her kid followed him.

Galatea had heard that Timbrio intended to speak to her father, she guessed that her presence would be [Page 86] a restraint; and seigning to be obliged to return to her house, she toook leave of Blanche, Nisida and Teolinda, and took the road to the village, accompa­nied by no one but her dear Florise.

They had gone but a little way, when four men started from behind a hedge, seised the two shepherd­esses, prevented them with their handkerchiefs, from crying out, and forced them upon two mules that they had there, ready prepared for the purpose; Galatea and Florise obeyed them trembling, the four men mounted on horseback, placed the mules in the centre, and set off in a full gallop towards the fron­tiers of Castile.

The ravishers were the four Portuguese, who had for some days been at the house of Meoris; they saw how coldly they were received by all the village, they remembered the manner that Elicio had looked at them, after supper, and the tenderness with which he viewed Galatea, had made them suspect the truth; the delay that Meoris had made to go to the valley of tombs, the refusal of the inhabitants to let them ac­company them to that valley, seemed to them to be a pretext and an insult; they feared besides, to return without Galatea, and they conceived that the carry­ing her off, would be pardoned when the daughter of Meoris was married to their master; every thing as yet had succeeded to their wishes, they fled with their prey—but Love watched over Galatea.

Artidore having changed his clothes in the cottage of Elicio, was returning with him to the fountain, they saw at a distance, the four cavaliers, and knew the shepherdesses; Elicio gave a great cry and flew to [Page 87] his mistress, with both his hands he stopped the mules. One of the Portuguese raised his arm to pierce Elicio with a lance; at the same instant Artidore ran to his assistance, and with the stroke of a stick he broke the arm of the barbarian;—the two shepherdesses seised the moment of confusion, slipped from their mules, and being well acquainted with the place, ran with all their speed to look for succour at the fountain. In the mean time Elicio had seised upon the lance of the wounded man, and standing close to Artidore, these two brave shepherds on foot, and armed only with a lance and a stick, made head against the three treach­erous cavaliers, who wished to avenge their compan­ion.

This unequal combat was long continued, but cou­rage was yielding to force. Elicio, wounded in the arm, could no longer defend himself—when Timbrio, sword in hand, fell like thunder upon the Portuguese, at the first stroke, he made the head fly from the shoulders of him that pressed hardest on Elicio. Tir­cis, Damon and Fabian were now arrived, when the two remaining Portuguese, putting spurs to their horses, fled with the utmost speed.

The wounds of Elicio were not dangerous, but he lost much blood; Galatea is terrified, she stops it with her handkerchief, she dressed the wound herself,— this alone, would have been sufficient to have cured Elicio; they led him to the village, his arm in a scarf, Galatea supporting him, and this favour more than paid him for the danger he ran in succouring her.

[Page 88]When they came to the house of Meoris, the old man, enraged at the attempt of the Portuguese, de­clared that he looked on himself as released from his promise. Behold, said Timbrio, presenting the wounded man to him, the deliverer of your daughter, Elicio deserves to possess her whom his valour has saved; his poverty alone could have made you hesitate to consent to his happiness;—but he is to day as rich as you yourself. I possess a large fortune, and I am willing . . . . . . as he said these words, they heard a great noise at the door of the house; they saw entering into the yard, a beautiful ram ornament­ed with ribbands of various colours, his enormous bell was distinguished amongst those of an hundred sheep that followed him—each with its lamb. Erastres came after them attended by two dogs, with whom he left the care of this beautiful flock, and with his crook in his hand, spoke thus to the father of Galatea:—

Meoris, said he, I was myself in love with your daughter, and I might have disputed her with the Portuguese, to whom you have given her: but I must be just, neither I nor the Portuguese merit Galatea; Elicio alone is worthy of her. You may believe this avowal, when it comes from the mouth of his rival; you required that your son-in-law should be rich, behold this flock, which is in itself a fortune, it is Elicio's, it is not I who have bestowed it; I have done no more than go among the neighbouring ham­lets, Elicio has so many friends, that each of them gave him a lamb and its mother; and in two days I have formed this flock.

[Page 89]He had scarcely done speaking, when Elicio bathed him with his tears. Ah! my friend, whatever be my fate, thy friendship will make me worthy of be­ing envied: I dare not hope for Galatea, but . . . . She is yours, said Meoris, with tears in his eyes, come my daughter, I will bestow you on your de­liverer; come and embrace thy husband. Galatea, blushing deeper than the rose, approached, yet feared to advance too quick; Elicio was on his knees, and held out to her with respect, the only hand he had at liberty;—Galatea looked at him, stopped, threw down her eyes, her face glowed with a deeper crim­son. Her father, who enjoyed this tender embar­rassment, took her by the hand, and conducted her to her happy lover, even then he was obliged gently to force her to join her mouth to Elicio's; and that kiss was the first that Galatea had received in all her life.

They then made Erastres acquainted with the vile attempt, that had been made to carry off Galatea and Florise. Timbrio came to him; shepherd, said he to him, you have wrested from me one of the sweetest moments of my life. I intended to divide my fortune with Elicio, that he might have espoused Galatea, but you have prevented me; you do not love him better however than I do, but as you have loved him longer, 'tis but just that you should be preferred. I hope, at least, added he raising his voice, that you will suffer me to accomplish another design; I will make four parts of my fortune, the first shall belong to my friend Fabian; I shall present the second to Teolinda and Artidore, to engage them to fix here; [Page 90] the third shall be put into the hands of Salvadore to be distributed among the poor of the village; and the fourth part shall be disposed of in purchasing an house, lands, and a flock for Nisida and me. Yes, my good friends, I will become a shepherd, I will end my days with you and Fabian; our cottages shall be near each other, our families shall be united, we will live an ex­ample for the village, and we will grow old together in peace, in happiness, and in love.

Every one admired the generosity of Timbrio; Artidore and Teolinda held him in a long and silent embrace. Meoris was willing that the contracts should be all settled that evening; he ran to spread in the village the news of so many happy events, and brought back with him the notary and the venerable Salvadore.

The contracts were soon finished, and it was agreed that Timbrio, the very next day, should send back all his suite to Toledo; with a confidential ser­vant, who should carry the news to the relations of Nisida, and bring back in ready money, the fortune of his master. In the mean time, Meoris was to pur­chase the flocks and farms for the new shepherds: and till all was got ready, Timbrio and Fabian, with their wives, were to remain at the house of Meoris; and Teolinda and Artidore at that of Erastres.

Nothing was now wanting but to fix the day of their four marriages; Elicio, notwithstanding his wounds, was decided that it should be the next day, nor could the wise Salvadore prevail on him to defer it. The rest, without saying any thing, were of opinion with Elicio.

[Page 91]At supper that evening, each lover was placed next to his mistress. As soon as their repast was over, they all assembled in the garden, they sat down on seats of green turf in a beautiful arbour of vines, the moon shed her purest light, all was still and peaceful. They wished to finish with songs this happy day; one took his flute, another his pipe, they made a circle, in the midst of which was placed Meoris and Salva­dore; and the lovers sung these words:—

TIMBRIO.
The crowd of mortals weak and vain,
That still on sordid wealth attends,
I oft despised the selfish train,
Who gold preferred to love or friends:
II.
My heart can pardon them from hence,
That they are right my feelings tell,
For wealth can happiness dispense;
But 'tis when we bestow it well.
FABIAN.
This day, my friends, we all can find,
From friendship's source what pleasures flow,
What soft sensations fill the mind,
That happiness can thus bestow.
From thee, dear Blanche, I griev'd to part;
But sure we here shall now find rest,
[Page 92]With Timbrio whose gen'rous heart,
Knows but one wi [...]h, to make all blest.
BLANCHE.
Long I doubted of thy truth,
Yet could never love thee less,
Sorrow prey'd upon my youth,
But lessened not my tenderness;
Such grief I could no longer bear,
Had'st thou not come to end my care.
II.
Here let us pass our ever tranquil days,
With all we love in this sweet village dwell:
Joyful I'll visit oft thy hermit cell,
And pour my grateful soul to Heav'n in praise.
ARTIDORE.
I once believ'd my shepherdess unkind,
This cruel error long disturbed my mind;
My reason shook and drove me to despair,
Just punishment I own, yet sure severe.
II.
But now I see the maid whom I adore,
I feel my reason perfect as before;
Yet love forbear, or make my transports less,
My mind's not equal to such happiness.
GALATEA.
[Page 93]
Do you remember well that happy day,
When first you strove my youthful heart to move,
You pleaded sweet, while army feet you lay,
That I should hear your vows of constant love.
II.
I felt my cheeks with modest blushes glow,
But pleasure soon my virgin heart possest,
Your happiness you ask'd me to bestow;
While all the time 'twas me you rend'red blest.
ELICIO.
Oh! sweet remembrance, ever happy hour,
Still was this balm to my despair apply'd;
That while I woo'd thee in this fragrant bow'r,
Thy eyes approv'd, tho' still thy words denied;
II.
'Till then with friendship pass'd my life away,
In love alone new comforts could I find,
I've found a maid that will my cares repay,
And in my friend a benefactor kind;
Unequall'd bliss! Ah! how shall I express
The tender sentiments I this day prove,
My poor heart feels content and happiness;
Thus blest in Friendship, and thus crown'd by Love.

[Page 94]It was now time to retire. Blanche, Nisida, and Teolinda remained with Galatea;—Timbrio, Fabian and Artidore went to the house of Salvadore. Before the dawn next day, the four lovers rapped at the door of Meoris. Timbrio and Fabian were already furnished with the scrip and the crook; all the inha­bitants, instructed the evening before, had prepared during the night, fetes more brilliant than when they celebrated the nuptials of Daranio. They waited some time, because the good Meoris was still asleep; but he soon appeared, followed by his daughter, Teolinda, Florise, and the two sisters dressed as shepherdesses.

The worthy Elicio gave his hand to Galatea, and led her to church in the midst of repeated acclama­tions. Salvadore united the four lovers, and Heaven blest their union. All their wishes were accomplished; they were happy, lived long, and loved each other always. Their memory is still honoured in the beautiful country in which they lived.

FINIS
…
[Page]
Amelia, or the faithless Briton
[Page]

AMELIA; OR, THE FAITHLESS BRITON. AN ORIGINAL AMERICAN NOVEL, FOUNDED UPON RECENT FACTS. TO WHICH IS ADDED, AMELIA, OR MALEVOLENCE DEFEATED; AND, MISS SEWARD'S MONODY ON MAJOR ANDRE.

BOSTON: PRINTED FOR AND SOLD BY W. SPOTSWOOD, AND C. P. WAYNE. 1798.

[Page]

AMELIA: OR THE FAITHLESS BRITON.

THE revolutions of government, and the subversions of empire, which have swelled the theme of national historians, have like­wise, in every age, furnished anecdote to the biographer, and incident to the novelist. The objects of policy or ambition are gene­rally, indeed, accomplished at the expence of private ease and prosperity; while the triumph of arms, like the funeral festivity of a savage tribe, serves to announce some recent calamity—the waste of property, or the fall of families.

Thus, the great events of the late war, which produced the separation of the British empire, and established the sovereignty of America, were chequered with scenes of pri­vate sorrow, and the success of the contend­ing forces was alternately fatal to the peace and order of domestic life. The lamentati­ons of the widow and the orphan, mingled [Page 2] with the song of victory; and the sable man­tle with which the hand of friendship cloathed the bier of the gallant MONTGOMERY, cast a momentary gloom upon the trophies his valour had atchieved.

Though the following tale then, does not exhibit the terrible magnificence of warlike operations, or scrutinize the principles of national politics, it recites an episode that too frequently occurs in the military drama, and contains a history of female affliction, that claims, from its authenticity, at least, an in­terest in the feeling heart. It is the first of a series of novels, drawn from the same source, and intended for public communication, but as the author's object is merely to glean those circumstances in the progress of the revolution, which the historian has neither leisure nor disposition to commemo­rate, and to produce, from the annals of pri­vate life, something to entertain, and some­thing to improve his readers, the occasion will yield little to hope from the applause of the public, and nothing to dread from its candor.

HORATIO BLYFIELD was a respectable in­habitant of the state of New-York. Suc­cess had rewarded his industry in trade with [Page 3] an ample fortune; and his mind, unconta­minated by envy and ambition, freely indulg­ed itself in the delicious enjoyments of the father and the friend. In the former character he superintended the education of a son and a daughter, left to his sole care by the death of their excellent mother; and in the latter, his benevolence and council were uniformly exercised for the relief of the distressed, and the information of the illiterate.

His mercantile intercourse with Great Britain afforded an early opportunity of ob­serving the disposition of that kingdom with respect to her colonies; and his knowledge of the habits, tempers, and opinions of the American citizens, furnished him with a painful anticipation of anarchy and war. The texture of his mind, indeed, was natu­rally calm and passive, and the ordinary ef­fects of a life of sixty years duration, had to­tally eradicated all those passions which rouse men to opposition, and qualify them for enterprize. When, therefore, the gauntlet was thrown upon the theatre of the new world, and the spirit of discord began to rage, Horatio, like the Roman Atticus, withdrew from public clamour, to a seques­tered cottage, in the interior district of Long-Island; and consecrating the youthful [Page 4] ardour of his son, Honorius, to the service of his country, the fair Amelia was the only companion of his retreat.

Amelia had then attained her seventeenth year. The delicacy of her form was in unison with the mildness of her aspect, and the ex­quisite harmony of her soul, was respon­sive to the symmetry of her person. The pride of parental attachment had graced her with every accomplishment that depends upon tuition; and it was the singular fortune of Amelia, to be at once the admiration of our sex, and the favourite of her own. From such a daughter, Horatio could not but re­ceive every solace of which his generous feel­ings were susceptible in a season of national calamity; but the din of arms that frequent­ly interrupted the silence of the neighbour­ing forests, and the disastrous intelligence which his son occasionally transmitted from the standard of the union, superceded the cheerful avocations of the day, and dispelled the peaceful slumbers of the night.

After a retirement of many months, on a morning fatal to the happiness of Horatio's family, the sound of artillery announced a battle, and the horsemen who were observed gallopping across the grounds, proved that the scene of action could not be remote. As soon, therefore, as the tumult of hostility [Page 5] had subsided, Horatio advanced with his domestics, to administer comfort and assist­ance to the wounded, and to provide a de­cent interment for the mangled victims of the conflict. In traversing the deadly field, he perceived an officer, whose exhausted strength just served for the articulation of a groan, and his attention was immediately directed to the preservation of this interest­ing object, who alone, of the number that had fallen, yielded a hope that his compas­sionate exertions might be crowned with suc­cess. Having bathed, and bound up his wounds, the youthful soldier was borne to the cottage; where, in a short time, a stronger pu [...]se, and a freer respiration, afforded a flattering presage of returning life.

Amelia, who had anxiously waited the arrival of her father, beheld, with a mixed sensation of horror and pity, the spectacle which now accompanied him. She had ne­ver before seen the semblance of death, which therefore afflicted her with all the terrors of imagination; and, notwithstanding the pallid countenance of the wounded guest, he pos­sessed an elegance of person, which, accord­ing to the natural operations of female sen­sibility, added something perhaps, to her commiseration for his misfortunes. When, [Page 6] however, these first impressions had passed away, the tenderness of her nature expressed itself in the most assiduous actions for his ease and accommodation, and the increasing symptoms of his recovery, filled her mind with joy and exultation.

The day succeeding that on which he was introduced to the family of Horatio, his ser­vant, who had made an ineffectual search for his body among the slain, arrived at the cottage, and discovered him to be Doliscus, the only son and heir of a noble family in England.

When Doliscus had recovered from the senseless state to which he had been reduced (chiefly, indeed, by the great effusion of blood) the first exercise of his faculties was the acknowledgment of obligation, and the profession of gratitude. To Horatio he spoke in terms of reverence and respect; and to Amelia in the more animated language of admiration, which melted at length into the gentle tone of flattery and love. But Dolis­cus had been reared in the school of dissipa­tion! and, with all the qualifications which allure and captivate the female heart, he had learned to consider virtue only as an obstacle to pleasure, and beauty merely as an incen­tive to the gratification of passion. His ex­perience [Page 7] soon enabled him to discover some­thing in the solicitude of the artless Amelia beyond the dictates of compassion and hos­pitality; and even before his wounds were closed, he conceived the infamous project of violating the purity and tranquility of a family, to which he was indebted for the prolongation of his existence, and the res­toration of his health. From that very in­nocence, however, which betrayed her feel­ings, while she was herself ignorant of their source, he anticipated the extremest difficulty and danger. To improve the evident predi­lection of her mind into a fixed and ardent attachment, required not, indeed, a very strenuous display of his talents and address; but the sacrifice of her honour (which an in­surmountable antipathy to the matrimonial engagements made necessary to the accom­plishment of his purpose) was a task that he justly foresaw, could be only executed by the detestable agency of perfidy and fraud. With these views then he readily accepted the solicitations of his unsuspecting host, and even contrived to protract his cure, in order to furnish a plea for his continuance at the cottage.

Amelia, when, at length, the apprehen­sions for his safety were removed, employed [Page 8] all the charms of music and conversation to dissipate the languor, which his indisposition had produced, and to prevent the melan­choly, with which retirement is apt to affect a disposition accustomed to the gay and busy transactions of the world. She experienced an unusual pleasure, indeed, in the discharge of these benevolent offices; for in the com­pany of Doliscus she insensibly forgot the anxiety she was wont to feel for the fate of her absent brother; and the sympathy which she had hitherto extended to all the sufferers of the war, was now monopolized by a single object. Horatio's attachment to the solitude of his library, afforded frequent opportuni­ties for this infatuating intercourse, which the designing Doliscus gradually diverted from general to particular topics—from ob­servations upon public manners and events, to insinuations of personal esteem and partiality. Amelia was incapable of deceit, and unac­quainted with suspicion. The energy, but, at the same time, the respect, with which Doliscus addressed her, was grateful to her feelings; his rank and fortune entitled him to consideration, and the inestimable favours that had been conferred upon him, offered a specious security for his truth and fidelity. The acknowledgment of reciprocal regard [Page 9] was, therefore, an easy acquisition, and Do­liscus triumphed in the modest, but expli­cit avowal, before Amelia was apprized of its importance and extent. From that mo­ment, however, he assumed a pensive and dejected carriage. He occasionally affected to start from the terrors of a deep reverie▪ and the vivacity of his temper, which had never yielded to the anguish of his wounds, seemed suddenly to have expired under the weight of secret and intolerable affliction. Amelia, distressed and astonished, implored an explanation of so mysterious a change in his deportment; but his reiterated sighs, which were for a while, the only answers she received, tended equally to encrease her curiosity and her sorrow.

At length he undertook to disclose the source of his pretended wretchedness; and, having prefaced the hypocritical tale with the most solemn protestions of his love and constancy, he told the trembling Amelia that, were it even possible to disengage him­self from an alliance which had been early contracted for him with a noble heiress of London, still the pride of family, and the spirit of loyalty, which governed his father's actions, would oppose a union unaccompa­nied by the acclamations of dignity, and formed with one whose connections were [Page 10] zealous in the arduous resistence to the au­thority of Britain. "While he lives," added Doliscus, " it is not in my power to choose the means of happiness—and yet, as the time approaches when it will be inconsistent with the duty and honour of a soldier to enjoy any longer the society of Amelia, how can I reflect upon my situation without anguish and des­pair!" The delicate frame of Amelia was agitat­ed with the sensations which this picture had excited; and, for the first time, she became acquainted with the force of love, and the dread of separation from its object. Do­liscus traced the sentiments of her heart in the silent, but certain indications of her countenance, and when tears had melted the violence of her first emotion into a soft and sympathetic grief, the treacherous suitor thus prosecuted his scheme against her peace and innocence.

"But it is impossible to resolve upon per­petual misery! One thing may yet be done to change the scene without incurring a fa­ther's resentment and reproach:—can my Amelia consent to sacrifice a sentiment of delicacy, to ensure a life of happiness?" Her complexion brightened and her eye in­quisitively turned towards him. " The pa­rade of public marriage" he continued, [Page 11] "neither adds strength or energy to the ob­ligation: for, form is the superfluous off­spring of fashion, not the result of reason. The poor peasant whose nuptial contract is only witnessed by the hallowed minister that pronounces it, is as blest as the prince who weds in all the ostentation of a court, and furnishes an additional festival to a giddy nation. My Amelia has surely no vanity to gratify with idle pageantry; and as the pri­vacy of the marriage does not take from its sanctity, I will venture to propose—nay, look not with severity—at the neighbouring farm we may be met by the chaplain of my regiment, and love and honour shall record a union, which prudence fetters with a tempo­rary secrecy."

Hope, fear, the sense of decorum, and the incitements of a passion pure, but fervent, compleated the painful perturbation of Ame­lia's heart, and, in this critical moment of her fate, deprived her of speech and recol­lection.

An anxious interval of silence took place; but when, at length, the power of expression returned, Amelia urged the duty which she owed to a parent, the scandal which the world imputed to clandestine marriages, and the fatal consequences that might arise from [Page 12] the obscurity of the transaction. But Dolis­cus, steady to his purpose, again deprecated the folly of pursuing the shadow in prefer­ence to the substance, of preserving fame at the expence of happiness, and of relinquish­ing the blessings of connubial life, for the sake of its formalities. He spoke of Hora­tio's inflexible integrity, which could not brook even the appearance of deception, and of his punctilious honour, which could not submit even to the appearance of intrusion upon the domestic arrangements of another, as insurmountable arguments for denying him the knowledge of their union. Finally, he described, in the warmest colouring of passion and fancy, the effects of Amelia's re­fusal upon the future tenor of his life, and bathing her hand with his obedient tears, practised all the arts of flattery and frenzy. The influence of love supercedes every other obligation: Amelia acknowledged its do­minion, and yielded to the persuasion of the exulting Doliscus. The marriage ceremony was privately repeated—but how will it excite the indignation of the virtuous read­er when he understands, that the sacred character of the priest was personated by a soldier whom Doliscus had suborned for this iniquitous occasion! Ye spirits of seduction! [Page 13] whose means are the prostitution of faith, and whose end is the destruction of inno­cence, —tremble at impending judgment, for "there is no mercy in heaven for such unheard of crimes as these!"

But a short time had elapsed after this fa­tal step, when the mandate of the command­ing officer obliged Doliscus to prepare for joining his corps. A silent, but pungent sense of indiscretion, added to the anguish which Amelia felt in the hour of separation; and not all his strong assurances of inviolable truth and attachment, with the soothing prospect of an honourable avowal of their union, could efface the melancholy impressi­ons of her mind The farmer at whose house the fictitious marriage had been rehears­ed, was employed to manage their future correspondence; and Doliscus, finally, left the cottage with vows of love and gratitude at his lips; but schemes of fraud and per­jury in his heart. The small distance from New-York, where he was quartered, ren­dered it easy to maintain an epistolary inter­course; which became, during its continu­ance, the only employment, and the only gratification of Amelia's existence. Its con­tinuance, however, exceeded not a few weeks. Doliscus soon assumed a formal and [Page 14] dispassionate style, and the number of his letters gradually diminished, and every allu­sion to that marriage, which was the last hope and consolation of Amelia, he cautious­ly avoided.

But an event, that demanded the exercise of all her fortitude, now forced itself upon Amelia's thoughts. She was pregnant; yet could neither resort for council and comfort to the father whom she had deceived, or ob­tain it from the lover by whom she had been seduced. In the tenderest and most delicate terms she communicated her situation to Doliscus, emphatically called upon him to rescue her reputation from obloquy, and solicitously courted his return to the cottage, or, at least, that he would disclose to Hora­tio the secret of their union. To prevent any accident, the farmer was prevailed upon to be the bearer of the paper which contained these sentiments, and, on his return pro­duced the following epistle.

MADAM,

THE sudden death of my father will oc­casion my embarking for England to-mor­row. It is not therefore possible to visit the cottage before my departure; but you may be assured, that I still entertain the warmest gratitude for the favours which were there [Page 15] conferred upon me by the virtuous Horatio, and his amiable daughter.

Although I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of some expressions you have employed, I perceive that you stand in need of a confidential person, to whom you may reveal the consequence of an indiscreet at­tachment; and from my knowledge of his probity (of which you are likewise a judge) no man seems more conveniently situated, or better calculated for that office than the worthy farmer who has delivered your letter. To him, therefore, I have recommended you; and, lest any pecuniary assistance should be necessary on this occasion, I have entrusted him with a temporary supply, directing him in what manner he may, from time to time, ob­tain a sum adequate to your exigencies.

The hurry of package and adieus com­pels me abruptly to subscribe myself, Madam, Your most devoted, humble servant, DOLISCUS.

"Gracious God!" exclaimed Amelia, and fell senseless to the ground. For a while, a convulsive motion shook her frame, but gradually subsiding, the flame of life seemed to be extinct, and all her terrors at an end. The poor farmer, petrified with horror and [Page 16] amazement, stood gazing on the scene: but the exertions of his homely spouse, at length, restored Amelia to existence and despair.

It has often been observed, that despon­dency begets boldness and enterprize; and the female heart, which is susceptible of the gentlest sentiment, is, likewise, capable of the noblest fortitude. Amelia perceived all the baseness of the desertion meditated by Doliscus; she foresaw all its ruinous conse­quences upon Horatio's peace, her own character, and the fate of the innocent be­ing which she bore; and wiping the useless tears from her cheek, she resolved publicly to vindicate her honour, and assert her rights. Animated then, with the important purpose, supported by the presumption of her marriage, and hoping yet to find Dolis­cus in New-York, she immediately repaired to that city—but alas! he was gone! This disappointment, however, did not defeat, nor could any obstacle retard the prosecuti­on of her design: a ship that sailed the suc­ceeding day wasted her to Britain, friendless and forlorn.

Innumerable difficulties and inconvenien­ces were encountered by the inexperienced traveller, but they vanished before the object of her pursuit; and even her entrance into [Page 17] London, that chaos of clamour and dissipa­tion, produced no other sensations than those which naturally arose from her approach to the dwelling of Doliscus.

Amelia recollected that Doliscus had often described the family residence to be situated in Grosvenor-place; and the stage, in which she journeyed, stopping in the evening at a public house in Picadilly, she determined, without delay, to pay him her unexpected and unwelcome visit. The embarrassed and anxious manner with which she inquired for his house, exposed her to unjust surmise and senseless ribaldry; but her grief rendered her incapable of observation, and her purity was superior to insult.

Doliscus had arrived about a fortnight earlier than Amelia. The title, influence, and fortune, which devolved upon him in consequence of his father's death, had swelled his youthful vanity to excess, and supplied him with a numerous retinue of flatterers and dependants. At the moment that he was listening in extacy to that servile crew, the victim of his arts, the deluded daughter of the man to whom he was indebted for the preservation of his life, stood trembling at his door. A gentle rap, after an awful pause of some minutes, procured her admission. Her memory recognized the features of the [Page 18] servant that opened the door; but it was not the valet who had attended Doliscus at the cottage — she remembered not where or when she had seen him.

After considerable solicitation, the porter consented to call Doliscus from his compa­ny, and conducted Amelia into an anti­chamber to wait his arrival. A roar of laughter succeeded the delivery of her mes­sage, and the word assignation, which was repeated on all sides, seemed to renovate the wit and hilarity of the table. The gay and gallant host, inflamed with champagne, was not displeased at the imputation; but observed, that as a lady was in the case, it was unnecessary to apologize for a short de­sertion of his friends and wine.

At the sight of that lady, however, Dolis­cus started. Amelia's countenance was pale and haggard with fatigue and sorrow; her person was oppressed with the burthen which she now bore in its last stage, and her eye, fixed steadfastly upon him, as he entered the room, bespoke the complicated anguish and indignation of her feelings. Her aspect so changed, and her appearance so unexpected, added to the terrors of a guilty conscience, for a moment, Doliscus thought the visi­tation supernatural. But Amelia's wrongs having inspired her with courage, she boldly [Page 19] reproached him with his baseness and persidy, and demanded a public and unequivocal ac­knowledgment of their marriage. In vain he endeavoured to sooth and divert her from her purpose, in vain to persuade her to silence and delay,—his arts had lost their wonted influence, while the restoration of her in­jured fame and honour absorbed every facul­ty of her mind.

At length he assumed a different tone, a more authoritative manner. "Madam," ex­claimed he, "I am not to be thus duped or controuled. I have a sense of pity, indeed, for your indiscretion, but none for your passion: I would alleviate your afflictions, but I will not submit to your frenzy." "Wretch!" retorted Amelia, "but that I owe something to a father's peace, I should despise to call thee husband."—"Husband" cried Doliscus, with a sneer, "Husband! why truly, I remember a rural masquerade, at which an honest soldier, now my humble porter, played the parson, and you the blushing bride—but, pr'ythee, do not talk of husband."—

This discovery only was wanting for the consummation of Amelia's misery. It was sudden and fatal as the lightning's blast—she [...]unk beneath the stroke. A deadly stupor [Page 20] seized upon her senses, which was sometimes interrupted with a boisterous laugh, and sometimes with a nervous ejaculation.

Doliscus, unaffected by compassion or re­morse, was solicitous only to employ this opportunity for Amelia's removal, and hav­ing conveyed her into a coach, a servant was directed to procure lodgings for her, in some obscure quarter of the city. She spoke not a word during the transaction, but gazing with apparent indifference upon the objects that surrounded her, she submitted to be transported whither soever they pleased to conduct her. After winding through a dreary and dirty passage in the neighbourhood of St. Giles's, the carriage stopped at a hovel which belonged to a relation of the servant that accompanied her, and, he having com­municated in a short whisper the object of his visit, an old and decrepid beldame led Amelia into a damp and narrow room, whose scant and tattered furniture proved the wretchedness of its inhabitants.

A premature birth was the natural conse­quence of the conflict which had raged in Amelia's mind. She had entered the apart­ment but a few moments, when the ap­proach of that event gave a turn to her pas­sions, and called her drooping faculties once more into action. Without comfort, with­out [Page 21] assistance, in the hour of extreme dis­tress (save the officious services of her anti­quated host) she was delivered of a son; but the fond sensibility of the mother obtained an instantaneous superiority over every other consideration. Though, alas! this solitary gratification too, continued not long;—her infant expired after a languid existence of three days, serving only to increase the bit­terness of Amelia's portion.

Amelia cast her eye towards heaven as the breath deserted the body of her babe:—it was not a look of supplication, for what had she to hope, or what to dread?—neither did it indicate dissatisfaction or reproach, for she had early learned the duty of reverence and resignation—but it was an awful appeal to the throne of grace, for the vindication of the act by which she had resolved to termi­nate her woes. A phial of laudanum, left by a charitable apothecary, who had visited her in her sickness, presented the means, and she wanted not the fortitude to employ them. Deliberately, then, pouring the baneful draught into a glass, she looked wistfully for a while upon the infant corpse that lay extended on its bed, then bending on her knee, uttered, in a firm and solemn voice the melancholy effusions of her soul, [Page 22] —"Gracious Father! when thy justice shall pronounce upon the deed which ex­tricates me from the calamities of the world, let thy mercy contemplate the cause that urged me to the perpetration. I have been deluded into error; but am free from guilt: I have been solicitous to preserve my inno­cence and honour; but am exposed to infa­my and shame. The treachery of him to whom I entrusted my fate, has reduced me to despair—the declining day of him from whom I received my being, has been cloud­ed with my indiscretions, and there is no cure left for the sorrows that consume me, but the dark and silent grave. Visit me not then, in thy wrath, oh! Father, but let the excess of my sufferings in this world, ex­piate the crime which wafts me into the world to come—may thy mercy yield com­fort to Horatio's heart, and teach Doliscus the virtue of repentance!"

She rose and lifted the glass. At that in­stant, a noise on the stairs attracted her at­tention, and a voice anxiously pronouncing —"It must be so! —nay, I will see her—" arrested the dreadful potion in its passage to her lips. "It is my Amelia!" exclaimed Horatio, as he hastily entered the room.

Amelia started, and looked for some mo­ments [Page 23] intently on her father, then rushed in­to his arms, and anxiously concealed the shame and agony of her countenance, in that bosom, from which alone she now dreaded reproach, or hoped for consolation. He, too, beheld with horror the scene that was pre­sented to his view: he pressed his deluded, miserable daughter, to his heart, while a stream of tears ran freely down his cheeks; till, at length, his imagination, infected with the objects that surrounded him, con­ceived the dreadful purpose of the draught, which had fallen from Amelia's hand, and anticipated a sorrow, even beyond the extremity of his present feelings. When, however, he collected sufficient courage to resolve his fears, and it was ascertained, that the meditated act had not been perpetrated, a momentary sensation of joy illuminated his mind, like the transient appearance of the moon, amidst the gloomy horrors of a mid­night storm.

When the first impressions of this mourn­ful interview had passed away, Horatio spoke comfort to his daughter. "Come my child, the hand of Heaven, that afflicted us with worldly cares, has been stretched out to guard you from everlasting wretchedness: —that Providence which proves how vain [Page 24] are the pursuits of this life, has bestowed upon us the means of seeking the permanent happiness of that which is to come. Cheer up, my Amelia! The errors of our conduct may expose us to the scandal of the world, but it is guilt alone which can violate the inward tranquility of the mind." He then took her hand, and attempted to lead her to the door. "Let us withdraw from this me­lancholy scene, my love!"—"Look there!" said Amelia, pointing to the corpse. "Look there!" "Ah!" said Horatio, in a faultering accent-"but it is the will of Heaven!" "Then it is right," cried Amelia—"give the poor victim a little earth—sir! is it not sad to think of?—but I am reconciled." She now consent­ed to quit the room, and was conveyed in a carriage to the inn, at which Horatio (who immediately returned to superintend the in­terment of the child) had stopped on his arrival.

It is now proper to inform the reader, that after Amelia had left the Cottage, and the alarm of her elopement had spread around the neighbourhood, the Farmer hastened to communicate to Horatio the transactions which he had witnessed, and the suspicions which his wife had conceived of Amelia's situation. The wretched father sickened at the tale. But it was the senti­ment [Page 25] of compassion, and not of resentment, that oppressed his soul. There are men, in­deed, so abject in their subjection to the opinion of the world, that they can sacri­fice natural affection to artificial pride, and doom to perpetual infamy and wretched­ness, a child, who might be reclaimed from error by parental admonition, or raised from despair by the fostering hand of friendship. Horatio, however, entertained a different sense: he regarded not the weakness of hu­man virtue as an object of accusation, but liberally distinguished between the crimes and the errors of mankind; and, when he could not alleviate the afflicted, or correct the vicious, he continued to lament, but he forebore to reprobate, "My poor Amelia! how basely has her innocence been betrayed! —But I must follow her:—it may be her in­juries have distracted her, and she has fled, she knows not whither! Come! not a moment shall be lost: I will overtake my child, wherever her sorrows may lead her: for, if I cannot procure redress for her wrongs, I will, at least, administer comfort to her miseries." Such was the language of Horatio, as soon as he could exercise the power of utterance. A few days enabled him to arrange his affairs, and having learn­ed [Page 26] the route which Amelia had taken, he embarked in the first vessel for England. The peculiar object of his voyage, and the nature of his misfortunes, determined him to conceal himself from the knowledge of his friends and correspondents; and a lucky chance discovered the wretched abode of his Amelia, the very instant of his arrival in London.

"Can you tell me, ny good host, where Doliscus the lord—, resides?" said Ho­ratio as he entered the inn. "Marry, that I can," replied the landlord:" his servant is just now talking with my wife; and if you will step into the next room, perhaps he will show you the way to the house." Horatio ad­vanced towards the room door, and, upon looking through a glass pannel in the door, he beheld the identical servant that had at­tended Doliscus at the Cottage, in eager conversation with the hostess. He paused. "She is delivered; but the child is dead:" —said the servant. Horatio started; his imagination eagerly interpreted these words to have been spoken of Amelia, and he could scarcely restrain the anguish of his feelings from loud exclamation and com­plaint.—"My lord's conscience grows un­usually troublesome" continued the servant; [Page 27] "he has ordered me again to inquire after her health, and to provide for the funeral of the child—would she were safe in America! for, to be sure, her father is the best old man that ever lived!" "It's well!" cried Horatio. "Did you call, sir?" said the hostess, opening the door. The servant took this opportunity of withdrawing, and Horatio silently followed him, at a distance, till he arrived at the habitation of Amelia, in the critical moment which enabled him to save the life he had given, and to rescue his de­luded daughter from the desperate sin of suicide.

When Horatio returned to the inn, after discharging the last solemn duties to the de­parted infant, the landlord presented a let­ter to him, which a servant had just left at the bar, and asked if he was the person to whom it was addressed. As soon as Hora­tio had cast his eye upon the superscription, he exclaimed, "What mystery is this?—A letter left for my son Honorius at an inn in London." He eagerly seized the paper, and retiring into an adjoining chamber, he pe­rused its contents with increased amazement and agitation.

"SIR,

"I AM sensible that the injuries of which [Page 28] you complain, will neither admit of denial or expiation, A few minutes after, your note was delivered; some circumstances had been communicated to me respecting the un­happy Amelia, that awakened a sentiment of remorse, and prepared me for a ready com­pliance with your summons. To-morrow morning at five o'clock, I shall attend at the place which you have appointed.

DOLISCUS."

The voice of Honorius, inquiring for the letter, roused Horatio from the reverie into which its contents had plunged him. The honour of his son, the villainy of his anta­gonist, and Amelia's sufferings, contending with the feelings of the father, and the for­bearance of the christian, at last prevailed with him to suffer the hostile interview to which Doliscus had thus consented. When therefore Honorius entered the room, and the natural expressions of tenderness and surprize were mutually exchanged, they freely discoursed of the lamentable history of Amelia, and warmly execrated that treachery which had accomplished the ruin of her peace and fame. Nor had Doliscus confined his baseness to this object. The chance of war had thrown Honorius into his power shortly after his departure from the cottage, and discovering his affinity to Ame­lia, [Page 29] the persevering hypocrite artfully insi­nuated to the commander in chief, that Ho­norius meditated an escape, and obtained an order for his imprisonment on board a frigate, which sailing suddenly for England, he was lodged upon his arrival, in the common gaol, appropriated for the confinement of American prisoners. Here it was, howe­ver, that he acquired the information of Amelia's elopement, and heard the cause to which it was imputed from the captured master of an American vessel, who had for­merly been employed in the service of Ho­ratio, and had received the communication from the lips of his ancient patron, in the first moments of his grief. The fate which had unexpectedly led him to Britain, Ho­norius now regarded as the minister of his revenge. He frowned away the tear which started at the recital of his sister's wrongs, as if ashamed to pity 'till he had redressed them; and feeling, upon this occasion, an additional motive for soliciting his freedom, he employed the interest of Horatio's name, which notwithstanding the political feuds that prevailed, was sufficient, at length, to procure his discharge upon parol. Having easily learned the abode of Doliscus, he im­mediately addressed that note to him which [Page 30] produced the answer delivered to Horatio.

When Honorius was informed that Ame­lia was, at that time, beneath the same roof, he expressed an eager desire immediately to embrace his afflicted sister; but Horatio strongly represented the impropriety of an interview 'till the event of the assignation with Doliscus was ascertained, and it was, therefore, agreed for the present, to con­ceal his arrival from her knowledge.

Absorbed in the melancholy of her thoughts, Amelia had not uttered a syllable since the removal from her dreary habitation, but suffered the busy attention of the ser­vants of the inn, with a listless indifference. The agitation of her mind, indeed, had hitherto rendered her insensible to the weak­ness of her frame; but exhausted nature, at length produced the symptoms of an ap­proaching fever, and compelled her, re­luctantly, to retire to her bed. When Ho­ratio entered the room, the fever had con­siderably increased, he therefore requested the assistance of a neighbouring physician, who pronounced her situation to be criti­cally dangerous. In the evening, the un­usual vivacity of her eyes, the incoherence of her speech, and repeated peals of loud and vacant laughter, proved the disordered [Page 31] state of her understanding, and increased the apprehensions of her attendants. "A few hours will decide her fate," said the Doctor, as he left the room. "My poor Amelia!" cried Horatio, raising her hand to his lips—she looked sternly at him for a moment, then relaxing the severity of her features, she again burst into a boisterous laugh, which terminated in a long and heavy sigh, as if her spirits were exhausted with the violence of her exertions.

The task which Horatio had now to per­form, was difficult indeed! The virtue and fortitude of his soul could hardly sustain a conflict against the grief and passion that consumed him; whilst on the one hand, he beheld the distraction of his daughter, and, on the other, anticipated the danger of his son. He resolved, however, to keep Ame­lia's indisposition a secret from Honorius, with whom he arranged the dreadful business of the morning, and, having fervently be­stowed his blessing there, he returned to pass the night in prayer and watching by Ame­lia's side.

Honorius retired to his chamber, but not to rest. It was not, however, the danger of the approaching combat, which occasi­oned a moment's anxiety or reflection; for [Page 32] his courage was superior to every considera­tion of personal safety. But that courage had hitherto been regulated by a sense of obligation consistent with the precepts of religion—he had often exerted it to deserve the glorious meed of a soldier, but he scorned to employ it for the contemptible re­putation of a duellist; it had taught him to serve his country, but not to offend his God. "If there is a cause which can justify the act, is it not mine? 'Tis not a punctilious honour, a visionary insult, or a petulant dis­position that influences my conduct:" said Honorius, as he mused upon the subject. "A sister basely tricked of her innocence and fame, a father ungratefully plundered of his peace and hopes, in the last stage of an honourable life, and myself (but that is little) treacherously transported to a remote and inhospitable land—these are my mo­tives; and Heaven, Doliscus, be the judge between us!"

As soon as the dawn appeared, Honorius repaired to the place of appointment, where a few minutes before the hour, Doliscus had likewise arrived. He was attended by a friend, but perceiving his antagonist alone, he requested his companion to withdraw to a distant spot, from which he might observe [Page 33] the event, and afford assistance to the van­quished party.

"Once more we meet, Sir," said Dolis­cus, "upon the business of death; but that fortune which failed you in your country's cause, maybe more propitious in your own." "What pity it is," exclaimed Honorius, ‘that thou should'st be a villain, for thou art brave!’ "Nay, I come to offer a more substantial revenge for the wrongs I have committed, than merely submitting to the im­putation of so gross an epithet—take it, Sir,— it is my life." They instantly engaged. Dolis­cus for awhile defended himself with superior address, but laying, himself suddenly open to the pass of his antagonist, he received his sword in the left breast, a little below the [...]eat of the heart!

"Nobly done," cried Doliscus as he fell, "it is the vengeance of Amelia; and oh! may it serve to expiate the crime of her be­trayer." His friend who had attentively viewed the scene, advanced, when he saw him on the ground: and assisted by Hono­rius, bore him to a carriage which had been directed to attend within call. He was then conveyed to the house of an eminent surge­on, who having ordered the necessary ac­commodations, examined the wound, and [Page 34] pronounced it to be mortal." "Fly, sir," said Doliscus, turning to Honorius, at this intelligence—"your country will afford you an asylum, and protect you from the consequences of my fate. I beseech you embitter not my last moments with the re­flection of your danger—but bear with you to the injured Amelia, the story of my repentance, and, if you dare, ask her to for­give me." The resentments of Honorius were subdued; he presented his hand to the dying Doliscus, in whose eye a gleam of joy was kindled at the thought, but it was quickly superceded by a cold and sudden tremour; he attempted, but in vain, to speak; he seized the offered hand; he pressed it eagerly to his lips, and in the mo­ment of that expressive action, he expired.

Honorius now hastened to inform Horatio of this fatal event, and to contrive the means of escape. But when he returned to the inn, confusion and distress were pictured on every face; a wild, but harmonious, voice, occasionally broke forth into melan­choly strains, and the name of Doliscus was repeatedly pronounced in accents of tender­ness and compassion.—"How is it my son?" cried Horatio eagerly. "Doliscus is no more!" replied Honorius. "Would he [Page 35] had lived another day! I wished not the ruin of his soul." "But he repented, sir." "Then heaven be merciful!" exclaimed Horatio.

Here their conversation was interrupted, by the melodious chauntings of Amelia.

I'll have none of your flow'rs tho' so blooming and sweet;
Their scent, it may poison, and false is their hue;
I tell you begone! for I ne'er shall forget,
That Doliscus was lovely and treacherous too.

Honorius listened attentively to the song; it vibrated in his ear, and swelled the aching artery of his heart. "Come on!" said Horatio leading him to Amelia's chamber. They found her sitting on the bed, with a pillow before her, over which she moved her fingers, as if playing on a harpsichord. Their entrance disturbed her for a moment, but she soon resumed her employment.

He said and he swore he lov'd me true:—was it a lover's part,
To ruin good Horatio's peace and break Amelia's heart?

A heavy sigh followed these lines, which were articulated in a wistful and sympathetic tone, and she sunk exhausted on her bed. —In a few minutes, however, she started [Page 36] from this still and silent state, and having gazed with a wild and aching eye around the room, she uttered a loud and piercing cry —it was the awful signal of her dissolution —and her injured spirit took its everlast­ing flight.

The reader will excuse a minute descrip­tion of the succeeding scenes. The alarm raised by the death of Doliscus compelled Honorius to quicken his departure, and he joined the standard of America a few hours before the battle of Monmouth, in which, for the service of his country, he sacrificed a life that misfortune had then taught him to consider of no other use or estimation.

As for the venerable Horatio—having carried with him to the cottage the remains of his darling child, in a melancholy soli­tude he consumes the time; his only busi­ness, meditation and prayer; his only re­creation a daily visit to the monument, which he has raised in commemoration of Ame­lia's fate; and all his consolation resting in this assurance, that whatever may be the sufferings of virtue HERE, its portion must be happiness HEREAFTER.

[Page]

HISTORY OF AMELIA, OR MALEVOLENCE DEFEATED.

MRS. Winifrid Wormwood was the daugh­ter of a rustic merchant, who, by the happy union of many lucrative trades, amassed an enormous fortune. His family consisted of three girls, and Winifrid was the eldest: Long before she was twenty, she was sur­rounded with lovers, some probably attract­ed by the splendid prospect of her expected portion, and others truly captivated by her personal graces; for her person was elegant, and her elegance was enlivened with peculiar vivacity. Mr. Wormwood was commonly called a kind parent, and an honest man; and he might deserve, indeed, those honor­able appellations, if it were not a profanation of language to apply them to a narrow and a selfish spirit. He indulged his daughters in many expensive amusements, because it flattered his pride; but his heart was engross­ed [Page 38] by the proffits of his extensive traffic: He turned, with the most repulsive asperity, from every proposal that could lead him to diminish his capital, and thought his daughters unreasonable, if they wished for any permanent satisfaction above that of see­ing their father increase in opulence and splendor. His two younger children, who inherited from their diseased mother a ten­der delicacy of frame, languished and died at an early period of life, and the death of one of them was imputed, with great pro­bability, to a severe disappointment in her first affection. The more sprightly Wini­frid, whose heart was a perfect stranger to genuine love, surmounted the mortification of seeing many suitors discarded; and by the insensate avarice of her father, she was na­turally led into habits of artifice and in­trigue. Possessing an uncommon share of ve­ry shrewd and piercing wit, with the most profound hypocrisy, she contrived to please, and to blind, her plodding old parent; who perpetually harangued on the discretion of his daughter, and believed her a miracle of reserve and prudence, at the very time when she was suspected of such conduct as would have disqualified her, had it ever been prov­ed, for the rank she now holds in this essay. [Page 39] She was said to have amused herself with a great variety of amorous adventures, which eluded the observation of her father; but of the many lovers who sighed to her in secret, not one could tempt her into marriage, and, to the surprise of the public, the rich heiress of Mr. Wormwood reached the age of thir­ty-seven, without changing her name. Just as she arrived at this mature season of life, the opulent old gentleman took his leave of a world, in which he had acted a busy part, pleased with the idea of leaving a large for­tune, as a monument of his industry, but wanting the superior satisfation, which a more generous parent would probably have derived from the happy establishment of a daughter. He gained, however, from the hypocrisy of Winifrid, what he could not claim from her affection, the honour of be­ing lamented with a profusion of tears. She di [...]tingui [...]hed herself by displaying all the delicate gradations of filial sorrow; but re­covered at a proper time, all the natural gaiety of her temper, which she now had the full opportunity of indulging, being mis­tress of a magnificent mansion, within a mile of a populous town, and enabled to enliven it with all the arts of luxury, by inheriting such accumulated [...]ealth, as would safely [Page 40] support the utmost efforts of provincial splen­dor. Miss Wormwood now expected to see every batchelor of figure and consequence a suppliant at her feet; she promised to herself no little entertainment in sporting with their addresses, without the fear of suffering from a tyrannical husband, as she had learned cau­tion from her father, and had privately re­solved not to trust any man with her money; a resolution the more discreet, as she had much to apprehend, and very little to learn, from so dangerous a master! The good-natured town, in whose environs the rich Winifrid resided, very kindly pointed out to her no less than twenry lively beaux for her choice; but, to the shame or the honour of those gentlemen, they were too timid, or, too honest, to make any advances. The re­port of her youthful frolics, and the dread of her sarcastic wit, had more power to re­pel, than her person and her wealth had to attract. Passing her fiftieth year, she ac­quired the serious name of mistress, without the dignity of a wife, and without receiving a single offer of marriage from the period in which she became the possessor of so opulent a fortune.

Whether this mortifying disappointment had given a peculiar asperity to her temper [Page 41] or whether malevolence was the earlier cha­racteristic of her mind, I will not pretend to determine; but it is certain, that from this autumnal or rather wintry season of her life, Mrs. Wormwood made it her chief occup [...] ­tion to amuse herself with the most subtle devices of malicious ingenuity, and to frus­trate every promising scheme of affection and delight, which she discovered in the wide circle of her acquaintance. She seemed to be tormented with an incessant dread, that youth and beauty might secure to themselves that happiness, which she found wit and for­tune were unable to bestow; hence she watch­ed, with the most piercing eye, all the lovely young women of her neighbourhood, and often insinuated herself into the confidence of many, that she might penetrate all the secrets of their love, and privately blast its success. She was enabled to render herself intimate with the young and the lovely, by the opulent splendor in which she lived, and by the bewitching vivacity of her conversati­on. Her talents of this kind were, indeed, extraordinary; her mind was never polished or enriched by literature, as Mr. Wormwood set little value on any books, excepting those of his counting-house; and the earlier years of his daughter were too much engaged by [Page 42] duplicity and intrigue, to leave her either leisure or inclination for a voluntary attach­ment to more improving studies. She read very little, and was acquainted with no lan­guage but her own; yet a brilliant under­standing, and an uncommon portion of ready wit, supplied her with a more alluring fund of conversation, than learning could bestow. She chiefly recommended herself to the young and inexperienced, by the insinuating charm of the most lively ridicule, and by the art of seasoning her discourse with want­ton inuendos of so subtle a nature, that gravity knew not how to object to them: She had the singular faculty of throwing such a soft and dubious twilight over the most li­centious images, that they captivated curio­sity and attention, without exciting either fear or disgust. Her malevolence was per­petually disguised under the mask of gaiety▪ and she completely possessed that plausibility of malice, so difficult to attain, and so for­cibly recommended in the words of lady Macbeth:

"Bear welcome in your eye,
"Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower,
"But be the serpent under it!"

With what success she practised this danger­ous [Page 43] lesson, the reader may learn from the following adventure.—

It was the c [...]stom of Mrs. Wormwood to profess the most friendly solicitude for female youth, and the highest admiration of beauty; she wished to be considered as their patroness, because such an idea afforded her the fairest opportunities of secretly mortifying their in­sufferable presumption. With a peculiar re­finement in malice, she first encouraged, and afterwards defeated, those amusing matri­monial projects, which the young and beau­tiful are so apt to entertain. The highest gratification, which her ingenious malignity could devise, consisted in torturing some lovely inexperienced girl, by playing upon the tender passions of an open and unsuspect­ing heart.

Accident threw within her reach a most tempting subject for such fiend-like diver­sion, in the person of Amelia Nevil, the daughter of a brave and accomplished offi­cer, who, closing a laborious and honourable life in very indigent circumstances, had left his unfortunate child to the care of his maiden sister. The aunt of Amelia was such an old maid as might alone suffice to rescue the sis­terhood from ridicule and contempt. She had been attached, in her early days to a [Page 44] gallant youth, who unhappily lost his own life in preserving that of his dear friend, her brother: she devoted herself to his memory with the most tender, unaffected, and in­variable attachment; refusing several advan­tageous offers of marriage, though her in­come was so narrow, that necessity obliged her to convert her whole fortune into an an­nuity, just before the calamitous event hap­pened, which made her the only guardian of poor Amelia. This lovely, but unfortunate girl, was turned of fourteen on the death of her father. She found, in the house of his sister, the most friendly asylum, and a rela­tion, whose heart and mind made her most able and willing to form the character of this engaging orphan, who appeared to be as highly favoured by nature, as she was persecuted by fortune. The beauty of Ame­lia was so striking, and the charms of her lively understanding began to display them­selves in so enchanting a manner, that her affectionate aunt could not bear the idea of placing her in any lower order of life: she gave her the education of a gentlewoman, in the flattering and generous hope, that her various attractions must supply the absolute want of fortune, and that she should enjoy [...]he delight of seeing her dear Amelia happi­ly [Page 45] settled in marriage, before her death ex­posed her lovely ward to that poverty, which was her only inheritance.—Heaven disposed it otherwise. This amiable woman, after having acted the part of a most affectionate parent to her indigent niece, died before Amelia attained the age of twenty. The poor girl was now apparently destitute of every resource; and exposed to penury, with a heart bleeding for the loss of a most indulgent protector. A widow lady of her acquaintance very kindly afforded her a re­fuge in the first moments of her distress, and proposed to two of her opulent friends, that Amelia should reside with them by turns, dividing the year between them, and pass­ing four months with each. As soon as Mrs. Wormwood was informed of this event, as she delighted in those ostentatious acts of ap­parent beneficence, which are falsely called charity, she desired to be admitted among the voluntary guardians of the poor Amelia. To this proposal all the parties assented, and it was settled, that Amelia should pass the last quarter of every year, as long as she re­mained single, under the roof of Mrs. Wormwood, This lovely orphan had a sen­sibility of heart, which rendered her extreme­ly grateful for the protection she received, [Page 46] but which made her severely feel all the mis­eries of dependance. Her beauty attracted a multitude of admirers, many of whom, presuming on her poverty, treated her with a licentious levity, which always wounded her ingenuous pride. Her person, her mind, her manners were universally commended by the men; but no one thought of making her his wife, "Amelia (they cried) is an enchanting creature; but who, in these times, can afford to marry a pretty, proud girl, supported by charity?" Though this prudential question was never uttered in the presence of Amelia, she began to per­ceive its influence, and suffered a painful dread of proving a perpetual burden to those friends, by whose generosity she subsisted; she wished, a thousand times, that her affec­tionate aunt, instead of cultivating her mind with such dangerous refinement, had placed her in any station of life, where she might have maintained herself by her own manual labour: she sometimes entertained a pro­ject of making some attempt for this pur­pose; and she once thought of changing her name, and of trying to support herself as an actress on one of the public theatres; but this idea, which her honest pride had sug­gested, [Page 47] was effectually suppressed by her modesty; and she continued to waste the most precious time of her youth, under the mortification of perpetualy wishing to change her mode of life, and of not knowing how to effect it. Almost two years had now elap­sed since the death of her aunt, and without any prospect of marriage, she was now in her second period of residence with Mrs. Wormwood. Amelia's understanding was by no means inferior to her other endow­ments: she began to penetrate all the art­ful disguise, and to gain a perfect and very painful insight into the real character of her present hostess. This lady had remarked, that when Miss Nevil resided with her, her house was much more frequented by gen­tlemen, than at any other season. This, in­deed, was true; and it unluckily happened, that these visitors often forgot to applaud the smart sayings of Mrs. Wormwood, in con­templating the sweet countenance of Amelia; a circumstance full sufficient to awaken, in the neglected wit, the most bitter envy, ha­tred and malice. In truth, Mrs. Worm­wood detested her lovely guest with the most implacable virulence; but she had the sin­gular art of disguising her detestation in the [Page 48] language of flattery: she understood the truth of Pope's maxim,

"He hurts me most who lavishly commends." and she therefore made use of lavish com­mendations, as an instrument of malevolence towards Amelia; she insulted the taste, and ridiculed the choice, of every new-married man, and declared herself convinced, that he was a fool, because he had not chosen that most lovely young woman. To more than one gentleman she said, you must mar­ry Amelia; and, as few men chuse to be driven into wedlock, some offers were possi­bly prevented, by the treacherous vehem­ence of her praise. Her malice, however, was not sufficiently gratified by observing that Amelia had no prospect of marriage. To indulge her malignity, she resolved to a­muse this unhappy girl with the hopes of such a joyous event, and then to turn, on a sudden, all these splendid hopes into mocke­ry and delusion. Accident led her to pitch on Mr. Nelson, as a person whose name she might with the greatest safety employ, as the instrument of her insidious design, and with the greater chance of success, as she ob­served that Amelia had conceived for him a particular regard. Mr. Nelson was a gen­tleman, who, having met with very singu­lar [Page 49] events, had contracted a great, but very amiable singularity of character:—he was placed early in life, in a very lucrative com­mercial situation, and was on the point of settling happily in marriage with a very beau­tiful young lady, when the house, in which she resided, was consumed by fire. Great part of her family, and among them the destined bride, was buried in the ruins. Mr. Nel­son, in loosing the object of his ardent af­fection by so sudden a calamity, lost for some time the use of his reason; and when his health and senses returned, he still con­tinued under the oppression of the profound­est melancholy, till his fond devotion to the memory of her, whom he had lost in so severe a manner, suggested to his fancy a singular plan of benevolence, in the prose­cution of which he recovered a great por­tion of his former spirits. This plan con­sisted in searching for female objects of charity, whose distresses had been occasion­ed by fire. As his fortune was very ample, and his own private expences very mode­rate, he was able to relieve many unfortu­nate persons in this condition; and his affectionate imagination delighted itself with the idea, that in these uncommon acts of beneficence he was guided by the influ­ence [Page 50] of that lovely angel, whose mortal beau­ty had perished in the flames. Mr. Nelson frequently visited a married sister, who was settled in the town where Mrs. Wormwood resided. There was also, in the same town, an amiable elderly widow, for whom he had a particular esteem. This lady, whose name was Melford, had been left in very scanty circumstances on the death of her husband, and resided at that time in London, where she had been involved in additional distress by that calamity, to which the attentive cha­rity of Mr. Nelson was forever directed: he more than repaired the loss which she sus­tained by fire, and assisted in settling her in the neighbourhood of his sister. Mrs. Mel­ford had been intimate with the aunt of Amelia, and was still the most valuable friend of that lovely orphan, who paid her frequent visits, though she never resided under her roof. Mr. Nelson had often seen Amelia at the house of Mrs. Melford, which led him to treat her with particular politeness, whenever he visited Mrs. Wormwood; a circumstance on which the latter founded her ungenerous project▪ She perfectly knew all the singular private history of Mr. Nelson, and firmly believed, like all the rest of his acquaintance, that no attractions could ever tempt him to marry; but she thought [Page 51] it possible to make Amelia conceive the hope that her beauty had melted his resolution; and nothing she supposed, could more effect­ually mortify her guest, than to find herself derided for so vain an expectation.

Mrs. Wormwood began, therefore, to insinuate, in the most artful manner, that Mr. Nelson was very particular in his civil­ities to Amelia, magnified all his amiable qualities, and expressed the greatest pleasure in the prospect of so delightful a match. These petty artifices, however, had no ef­fect on the natural modesty and diffidence of Amelia; she saw nothing that authorised such an idea in the usual politeness of a well-bred man of thirty-seven; she pitied the misfortune, she admired the elegant and engaging, though serious manners, and she revered the virtues of Mr. Nelson; but, supposed his mind to be entirely engrossed, as it really was, by his singularly charitable pursuits; she entertained not a thought of engaging his affection. Mrs. Wormwood was determined to play off her favourite en­gine of malignity, a counterfeited letter. She had acquired, in her youth, the very danger­rous talent of forging any hand that she pleased; and her passion for mischief had af­forded her much practice in this treacherous [Page 52] art. Having previously and secretly enga­ged Mr. Nelson to drink tea with her, she wrote a billet to Amelia, in the name of that gentleman, and with the most perfect imita­tion of his hand. The billet said, that he designed himself the pleasure of passing that afternoon at the house of Mrs. Wormwood, and requested the favour of a private confer­ence with Miss Nevil in the course of the evening, intimating, in the most delicate and doubtful terms, an ardent desire of be­coming her husband. Mrs. Wormwood contrived that Amelia should not receive this billet till just before dinner-time, that she might not show it to her friend and con­fidant, Mrs. Melford, and by her means, de­tect its fallacy before the hour of her intend­ed humiliation arrived.

Amelia blushed in reading the note, and, in the first surprise of unsuspecting innocence, gave it to the vigilant Mrs. Wormwood; who burst into vehement expressions of de­light; congratulated her blushing guest on the full success of her charms, and triumph­ed in her own prophetic discernment. They sat down to dinner, but poor Amelia could hardly swallow a morsel; her mind was in a tumultuous agitation of pleasure and a­mazement. The malicious imposter, en­joying her confusion, allowed her no time [Page 53] to compose her hurried spirits in the solitude of her chamber. Some female visitors ar­rived to tea; and, at length, Mr. Nelson entered the room. Amelia trembled and blushed as he approached her; but she was a little relieved from her embarrassment by the business of the tea-table, over which she presided. Amelia was naturally graceful in every thing she did, but the present agi­tation of her mind gave a temporary awk­wardness to all her motions: she committed many little blunders in the management of the tea-table; a cup fell from her trembling hand, and was broken; but the politeness of Mr. Nelson led him to say so many kind and graceful things to her on these petty in­cidents, that, instead of encreasing her dis­tress, they produced an opposite effect, and the tumult of her bosom gradually subsided into a calm and composed delight. She ventured to meet the eyes of Mr. Nelson, and thought them expressive of that tender­ness which promised a happy end to all her misfortunes. At the idea of exchanging misery and dependance for comfort and honor, as the wife of so amiable a man, her heart expanded with the most innocent and grateful joy. This appeared in her counte­nance, and gave such an exquisite radiance to [Page 54] all her features, that she looked a thou­sand times more beautiful than ever. Mrs. Wormwood saw this improvement of her charms, and, sickening at the sight, deter­mined to reduce the splendor of such insuf­ferable beauty, and hastily terminate the tri­umph of her deluded guest. She began with a few malicious and sarcastic remarks on the vanity of beautiful young women, and the hopes, which they frequently enter­tain of an imaginary lover; but finding these remarks produced not the effect she in­tended, she took an opportunity of whisper­ing in the ear of Amelia, and begged her not to harbour any vain expectations, for the billet she had received was a counter­feit, and a mere piece of pleasantry. Ame­lia shuddered, and turned pale: surprise, disappointment, and indignation, conspired to overwhelm her. She exerted her utmost power to conceal her emotions; but the conflict in her bosom was too violent to be disguised. The tears, which she vainly en­deavoured to suppress, burst forth, and she was obliged to quit the room in very visible disorder. Mr. Nelson expressed his con­cern; but he was checked in his benevolent inquiries by the caution of Mrs. Wormwood, who said; on the occasion, that Miss Nevil [Page 55] was a very amiable girl, but she had some peculiarities of temper and was apt to put a wrong construction on the innocent plea­santry of her friends. Mr. Nelson observing that Amelia did not return, and hoping that his departure might contribute to restore the interrupted harmony of the house, took an early leave of Mrs. Wormwood; who im­mediately flew to the chamber of Amelia, to exult, like a fiend, over that lovely vic­tim of her successful malignity. She found not the person whom she was so eager to in­sult. Amelia had, indeed, retired to her chamber, and passed there a very miserable half hour, much hurt by the treacherous cruelty of Mrs. Wormwood, and still more wounded by reflections on her own credulity, which she condemned with that excess of severity so natural to a delicate mind in ar­raigning itself. She would have flown for immediate consolation to her friend, Mrs. Melford, but she had reason to believe that lady engaged on a visit, and she therefore resolved to take a solitary walk for the pur­pose of composing her spirits; but neither solitude nor exercise could restore her tran­quillity; and, as it grew late in the evening, she hastened to Mrs. Melford's, in hopes of now finding her returned. Her worthy old [Page 56] confidant was, indeed, in her little parlour alone, when Amelia entered the room. The eyes of this lovely girl immediately betray­ed her distress; and the old lady, with her usual tenderness, exclaimed, "Good heav­en! my dear child, for what have you been crying?" "Because," replied Amelia, in a broken voice, and bursting into a fresh show­er of tears, "because I am a fool?"—Mrs. Melford began to be most seriously alarmed, and, expressing her maternal solicitude in the kindest manner. Amelia produced the fatal paper—"There," says she, "is a letter in the name of your excellent friend, Mr. Nelson; it is a forgery of Mrs. Wormwood's, and I have been such an idiot as to believe it real." The affectionate Mrs. Melford, who in her first alarm, had apprehended a much heavier calamity, was herself greatly com­forted in discovering the truth, and said many kind things to console her young friend. "Do not fancy," replied Amelia, "that I am foolishly in love with Mr. Nelson, though I think him the most pleasing as well as the most excellent, of men; and though I confess to you, that I should certainly think it a blessed lot to find a refuge from the mis [...]ry of my present dependance, in the arms of so benevolent and so generous [Page 57] a protector."—"Those arms are now open to receive you," said a voice that was heard before the speaker appeared. Amelia started at the sound, and her surprise was not a little encreased in seeing Mr. Nelson him­self, who entering the room from an adjoin­ing apartment, embraced the lovely orphan in a transport of tenderness and delight. Amelia, alive to all the feelings of genuine modesty, was for some minutes more pain­fully distressed by this surprise, than she had been by her past mortification: she was ready to sink into the earth, at the idea of having betrayed her secret to the man, from whom she would have laboured most to conceal it. In the first tumult of this delicate confusion, she sinks into a chair, and hides her face in her handkerchief. Nelson with a mixture of respect and love, being a­fraid of encreasing her distress, seizes one of her hands, and continues to kiss it without uttering a word. The good Mrs. Melford, almost as much astonished, but less painful­ly confused than Amelia, beholds this unex­pected scene with that kind of joy which is much more disposed to weep than to speak —And, while this little party is thus absorb­ed in silence, let me hasten to relate the in­cidents which produced their situation.

[Page 58]Mr. Nelson had observed the sarcastic manner of Mrs. Wormwood towards Ame­lia, and, as soon as he had ended his uncom­fortable visit, he hastened to the worthy Mrs. Melford, to give her some little account of what had passed, and to concert with her some happier plan for the support of this a­miable, insulted orphan. "I am acquaint­ed," said he, "with some brave and weal­thy officers, who have served with the father of Miss Nevil, and often speak of him with respect; I am sure I can raise among them a subscription for the maintenance of this tender unfortunate girl: we will procure for her an annuity, that shall enable her to escape from such malignant patronage, to have a little home of her own, and to sup­port a servant." Mrs. Melford was trans­ported at this idea; and, recollecting all her obligations to this benevolent man, wept, and extolled his generosity; and, see­ing Amelia at some distance, through a bow window, which commanded the street in which she lived, "thank Heaven," she cri­ed, "here comes my poor child, to hear and bless you for the extent of your goodness." Nelson, who delighted most in doing good by stealth, immediately extorted from the good old lady a promise of secrecy: it was the best part of his plan, that Amelia should [Page 59] never know the persons to whom she was to owe her independence. "I am still afraid of you, my worthy old friend," said Nelson "your countenance or manner will, I know betray me, if Miss Nevil sees me here to­night."—"Well," said the delighted old la­dy, "I will humour your delicacy; Amelia will, probably, not stay with me ten min­utes; you may amuse yourself, for that time, in my spacious garden; I will not say you are here; and, as soon as the good girl re­turns home I will come and impart to you the particulars of her recent vexation."— "Admirably settled," cried Nelson; and he immediately retreated into a little back room, which led into a long slip of ground, embellished with the sweetest and least ex­pensive flowers, which afforded a favourite occupation and amusement to Mrs. Mel­ford. Nelson, after taking a few turns in this diminutive garden, finding himself ra­ther chilled by the air of the evening, re­treated again into the little parlour he had passed, intending to wait there till Amelia departed; but the partition between the parlours being extremely slight, he over­heard the tender confessions of Amelia, and was hurried towards her by an irresistible impulse, in the manner already described.

[Page 60]Mrs. Melford was the first who recovered from the kind of trance into which our little party had been thrown by their general sur­prise; and she enabled the tender pair, in the prospect of whose union her warm heart exulted, to regain that easy and joyous pos­session of their faculties, which they lost for some little time in their embarrassment. The applause of her friend, and the adoration of her lover, soon taught the diffident Amelia to think less severely of herself. The warm­hearted Mrs. Melford declared that these oc­currences were the work of Heaven. "That," replied the affectionate Nelson, "I am most willing to allow; but you must grant, that Heaven has produced our happiness by the blind agency of a fiend; and, as our dear Amelia has too gentle a spirit to rejoice in beholding the malignity of a devil convert­ed into the torment of its possessor, I must beg, that she may not return, even for a sin­gle night, to the house of Mrs. Wormwood." Amelia pleaded her sense of past obligations, and wished to take a peaceful leave of her patroness; but she submitted to the urgent entreaties of Nelson, and remained for a few weeks under the roof of Mrs. Melford, when she was united to the man of her heart. Nelson had the double delight of rewarding [Page 61] the affection of an angel, and of punishing the malevolence of a fiend: he announced in person to Mrs. Wormwood, his intended marriage with Amelia, on the very night when the treacherous Old Maid had amused herself with the hope of deriding her guest; whose return she was eagerly expecting, in the very moment Nelson arrived to say, that Amelia would return no more.

The surprise and mortification of Mrs. Wormwood arose almost to frenzy; she racked her malicious and inventive brain for expedients to defeat the match, and cir­culated a report for that purpose, which de­cency will not allow me to explain. Her artifice was detected and despised. Amelia was not only married, but the most admir­ed, the most beloved, and the happiest of human beings; an event which preyed so incessantly on the spirit of Mrs- Wormwood, that she fell into a rapid decline, and ended, in a few months, her mischievous and un­happy life, a memorable example, that the most artful malignity may sometimes procure for the object of its envy, that very happi­ness which it labours to prevent!

THE END.
MONODY ON MAJOR ANDR …
[Page]

MONODY ON MAJOR ANDRE.

BY MISS SEWARD, FOURTH AMERICAN EDITION.

BOSTON: PRINTED FOR AND SOLD BY W. SPOTSWOOD, AND C. P. WAYNE. 1798.

[Page]

MONODY ON MAJOR ANDRE.

LOUD howls the storm! the vex'd Atlantic roars▪
Thy Genius, Britain, wanders on its shores!
Hears cries of horror wafted from afar,
And groans of Anguish, mid the shrieks of War!
Hears the deep curses of the Great and Brave,
Sigh in the wind, and murmur on the wave!
O'er his damp brow the sable crape he binds,
And throws his * victor garland to the winds;
Bids haggard Winter in the drear sojourn,
Tear the dim foliage from her drizzling urn;
With sickly yew unfragrant cypress twine,
And hang the dusky wreath round Honour's shrine,
[Page 4]Bids steel-clad Valour chase that dove-like Bride,
Enfeebling Mercy, from his awful side;
Where long she sat and check'd the ardent rein,
As whirl'd his chariot o'er th' embattled plain;
Gilded with sunny smile her April tear,
Rais'd her wh [...]e arm, and stay'd the uplifted spear;
Then, in her place, bids Vengeance mount the car,
And glut with gore th' insatiate Dogs of War!
With one pale hand the * bloody scroll he tears,
And bids his Nation blot it with their tears;
And one, extended o'er the Atlantic wave,
Points to his Andre's ignominious grave!
And shall the Muse, that marks the solemn scene,
"As busy Fancy lifts the veil between,"
Refuse to mingle in the awful train,
Nor breathe, with glowing zeal the votive strain!
From public fame shall admiration fire
The boldest numbers of her raptur'd lyre
To hymn a Stranger?—and with ardent lay
Lead the wild mourner round her Cook's morai;
While Andre fades upon his dreary bier,
And † Julia's only tribute is her tear?
Dear, lovely Youth! whose gentle virtues stole
Thro' Friendship's soft'ning medium on her soul!
[Page 5]Ah no!—with every strong resistless plea,
Rise the recorded days she past with thee,
While each dim shadow of o'er-whelming years,
With glance reverted Eagle-memory clears.
Belov'd Companion of the fairest hours
That rose for her in Joy's resplendent bowr's,
How gaily shone on thy bright morn of Youth!
The Star of Pleasure and the Sun of Truth!
Full from their source descended on thy mind
Each gen'rous virtue and each taste refin'd;
Young Genius led thee to his varied fame,
Ba [...] thee * ask all his gifts, nor ask in vain;
Hence novel thoughts, in ev'ry lustre drest
Of pointed Wit that diamond of the breast;
Hence glow'd thy fancy with poetic ray,
Hence music warbled in thy sprightly lay;
And hence thy pencil, with his colours warm,
Caught ev'ry grace, and copied ev'ry charm
Whose transient glories beam on Beauty's cheek,
And bid thy glowing Ivory breathe and speak.
Blest pencil! by kind Fate ordain'd to save
Honora's semblance from her † early grave.
[Page 6]Oh! while on * Julia's arm it sweetly smiles,
And each lorn thought, each long regret beguiles,
Fondly she weeps the hand which form'd the spell,
Now shroudless mould'ring in its earthly cell!
But sure the Youth, whose ill-star'd passion strove
With all the pangs of inauspicious Love,
Full oft' deplor'd the fatal art t [...] stole
The jocund freedom of its Master's soul!
While with nice hand he mark'd the living grace
And matchless sweetness of Honora's face,
Th' enamour'd Youth the faithful traces blest,
That barb'd the dart of Beauty in his breast,
Around his neck th' enchanting Portrait hung,
While a warm vow burst ardent from his tongue,
That from his bosom no succeeding day,
No chance should bear that talisman away.
'Twas thus † Apelles bask'd in Beauty's blaze,
And felt the mischief of the stedfast gaze;
[Page 7]Trac'd with disorder'd hand Campaspe's charms,
A [...]d [...] the kindling Canvas warms,
T [...] [...] with still superior art,
En [...] [...] on the Painter's heart.
[...] [...]er constant Youth!
[...] [...]qual'd truth!
[...] th' ensang [...]n' laurel on that brow
Where Love orda [...]n'd his brightest wreath to glow!
Then Peace had led thee to her softest bow'rs,
And Hymen strew'd thy path with all his flow'rs;
Drawn to the roof, by Friendship's silver cord,
Each social Joy had brighten'd at thy board;
Science and soft affection's blended rays
Had shone unclouded on thy lengthen'd days;
From hour, to hour, thy taste, with conscious pride,
Had mark'd new talents in thy lovely Bride;
Till thou hadst own'd the magic of her face
Thy fair Honora's least engaging grace.
Dear lost Honora! o'er thy early bier
The muse still sheds her ever sacred tear!—
The blushing rose-bud in its vernal bed,
By Zephyrs fann'd and murm'ring fountains fed,
In June's gay morn that scents the ambient air,
Was not more sweet, more innocent, or fair.
[Page 8]Oh! when such Pairs their kindred spirits find,
When Sense and Virtue deck eacn spotless mind,
Hard is the doom that shall the union break,
And Fate's dark pinion hovers o'er the wreck.
Now Prudence in her cold and thrifty care,
Frown'd on the Maid, and bade the Youth despair;
For Pow'r Parental sternly saw, and strove
T [...]eat the lilly-bands of plighted Love;
Not strove in vain; but while the fair one's sighs
D [...]perse, like April storms in sunny skies,
The f [...]rmer Lover, with unswerving truth,
To his first passion consecrates his youth;
Tho' four long years a night of a [...]sence prove,
Yet Hope's soft Star shone trembling on his love;
Till * busy R [...]mour chas'd each pleasing dream
And quench'd the radiance of the silver beam.
"Honora lost!—my happy Rival's Bride!
Swell ye full sails! and roll thou mighty tide!
O'er the dark waves forsaken Andre bear
Amid the vollying thunders of the War!
To win bright Glory from my Country's Foes,
Even in this ice of Love, my bosom glows.
Voluptuous LONDON! where thy turrets blaze,
Their hundred thrones the frolic Pleasures raise;
[Page 9]Bid proud Expence, Sabean odours bring,
Nor ask her roses of the tardy Spring;
Where Music floats the glitt'ring roofs among,
And with meand'ring cadence swells the song;
Where Painting burns the Grecian meed to claim,
From the high temple of immortal Fame,
Bears to the radiant goal, with ardent peace,
Her Kauffman's beauty, and her Reynolds' grace;
Where Sun-clad Poetry the strain inspires,
And foils the Grecian Harps, the Latian Lyres.
"Ye soft'ning Luxuries! ye polish'd Arts!
Bend your enseebling rays on tranquil hearts!
I quit the Song, the Pencil, and the Lyre,
White robes of Peace, and Pleasure's soft attire,
To seize the Sword, to mount the rapid Car,
In all the proud habiliments of War—
Honora lost! I woo a sterner Bride,
The arm'd Bellona calls me to her side;
Harsh is the music of our marriage strain!
It breathes in thunder from the western plain!
Wide o'er the watry world its echos roll,
And rouse each latent ardour of my soul.
And tho' unlike the soft melodious lay,
That ga [...]ly wak'd Honora's nuptial day,
Its deeper tones shall whisper, e'er they cease,
More genuine transport, and more lasting peace▪
"Resolv'd I go! nor from that fatal bourn
To these gay scenes shall Andre's steps return!
[Page 10]Set is the star of Love, that ought to guide
His refluent bark across the mighty Tide!—
But while my country's foes, with impious hand
Hurl [...]'er the subject plains the livid brand
Of dire Sedition!—Oh! let Heav'n ordain
While Andre lives, he may not live in vain!
"Yet without one kind farewell, cou'd I roam
Far from my weeping friends, my peaceful home,
The best affections of my heart must cease,
And gratitude be lost, with hope, and peace!
"My lovely Sisters! who were wont to twine
Your Souls soft feelings with each wish of mine,
Shall, when this breast beats high at Glory's call,
From your mild eyes the show'rs of Sorrow fall?—
The light of Excellence, that round you glows,
Decks with reflected beams your Brother's brows!
Oh may his Fame, in some distinguish'd day
Pour on that Excellence the brightest ray!
"Dim clouds of Woe! ye veil each sprightly grace
That us'd to sparkle in Maria's face.—
My * tuneful Anna to her lute complains,
But Grief's fond throbs arrest the parting strains.—
Fair, as the silver blossom on the thorn,
Soft as the spirit of the vernal morn,
Louisa, chase those trembling fears, that prove
[Page 11]Th' ungovern'd terrors of a Sister's love.
They bend thy sweet head, like yon lucid flow'r,
That shrinks and fades beneath the summer's show'r.
"Oh! smile my Sisters, on this destin'd day,
And with the radiant omen gild my way!
And thou, my Brother, gentle as the gale,
Whose breath perfumes anew the blossom'd vale,
Yet quick of Spirit, as th' electric beam,
When from the clouds its darting lightnings stream,
Soothe with incessant care our Mother's woes,
And hush her anxious sighs to soft repose.—
And be ye sure, when distant far I stray
[...]o share the dangers of the arduous day,
Your tender faithful amity shall rest
The * last dear record of my grateful breast.
"Oh! graceful Priestess at the sane of Truth,
Friend of my Soul! and guardian of my Youth!
Skill'd to convert the duty to the choice,
My gentle Mother in whose melting voice
The virtuous precept, that perpetual flow'd,
With Music warbled, and with Beauty glow'd,
[Page 12]Thy tears!—ah Heav'n!—not drops of molten lead,
Pour'd on thy hapless Son's devoted head,
With keeper [...]ma [...] had each sensation torn!
[...] nerve where agonies art born!
[...] not! thy tender strife,
What would it [...]ave? alas! thy Andre's life!
Oh! what a wea [...]y pilgrimage 'twill prove
Strew'd with the thorns of disappointed Love!
Ne'er can he break the charm, whose fond con­troul,
By habit rooted, lords it o'er the soul,
If here he languish in inglorious ease,
Where Science palls, and Pleasures cease to please.
'Tis Glory only, with her potent ray,
Can chase the clouds that darken all his way.
Then dry those pearly drops, that wildly flow,
Nor snatch the laurel from my youthful brow!—
The Rebel Standard blazes to the noon!
And Glory's path is bright before thy Son!
Then join thy voice! and thou with Heav'n ordain
While Andre lives, he may not live in vain!"
He says!—and sighing seeks the busy strand
Where anchor'd Navies wait the wish'd command.
To the full gale the nearer billows roar,
And proudly lash the circumscribing shore;
While furious on the craggy coast they rave,
All calm and lovely rolls the distant wave;
[Page 13]For onward, as the unbounded waters spread,
Deep sink the rocks in their capacious bed,
And all their pointed terror's utmost force,
But gently interrupts the billow's course.
So on his present hour rude passion preys!
To smooth the prospect of his future days!
Unconscious of the Storm, that grimly sleeps,
To wreck its fury on th' unshelter'd Deeps!
Now yielding waves divide before the prow
The white sails bend, the streaming pennants glow,
And swiftly waft him to the western plain,
Where fierce Bellona rages o'er the slain.
Firm in their strength opposing Legions stand,
Prepar'd to drench with blood the thirsty Land.
Now Carnage hurls her flaming bolts afar,
And Desolation groans amid the War.
As bleeds the Valiant, and the Mighty yield,
Death stalks the only Victor o'er the field.
Foremost in all the horrors of the day,
Impetuous 11 Andre leads the glorious way;
Till, rashly bold, by numbers forc'd to yield,
They drag him captive from the long-fought field.—
Around the Hero croud th' exulting Bands,
And seize the spoils of War with bloody hands▪
[Page 14]Snatch the dark plumage from his awful crest,
And tear the golden crescent from his breast;
The sword, the tube, that wings the death from far,
And all the fatal implements of War!
Silent, unmov'd the gallant Youth survey'd
The lavish spoils triumphant Ruffians made.
The idle ornament, the useless spear
He little recks, but oh! there is a fear
Pants with quick throb, while yearning sorrows dart
Thro' all his senses to his trembling heart.
"What tho' Honora's voice no more shall charm!
No more her beamy smile my bosom warm;
Yet from these eyes shall Force for ever tear
The sacred Image of that Form so dear?
Shade * of my Love tho' mute and cold thy charms,
Ne'er hast thou blest my happy Rival's arms!
"To my sad heart each Dawn has seen thee prest!
Each Night has laid thee pillow'd on my breast!
Force shall not tear thee from thy faithful shrine!
Thou ne'er wert his, and shalt be ever mine!
[Page 15]
"'Tis fix'd!—these lips shall resolute inclose
The precious Soother of my ceaseless woes.
And should relentless Violence invade
This last retreat, by frantic Fondness made,
One way remains!—Fate whispers to my Soul
Intrepid * Portia and her burning coal!
So shall the throbbing Inmate of my breast
From Love's sole gift meet everlasting rest!"
While these sad thoughts in swift succession fire
The smother'd embers of each fond desire,
Quick to his mouth his eager hand removes
The beauteous semblance of the Form he loves.
That darling treasure safe, resign'd he wears
The fordid robe, the scanty viand shares;
With cheerful fortitude content to wait
The barter'd ransom of a kinder fate.
Now many a Moon in her pale course had shed,
The pensive beam on Andre's captive head.
At length the Sun rose jocund to adorn
With all his splendor the enfranchis'd Morn.
[Page 16]Again the Hero joins the ardent Train
That pours its thousands on the tented plain;
And shines distinguish'd in the long Array,
Bright as the silver star that leads the Day
His modest temperance, his wakeful heed
His silent diligence, his ardent speed,
Each warrior duty to the Veteran taught,
Shaming the vain Experience Time had brought▪
Dependance scarcely feels his gentle sway,
He shares each want, and smiles each grief away;
And to the virtues of a noble Heart
Unites the talents of inventive Art.
Thus from his swift and faithful pencil flow
The Lines, the Camp, the Fortress of the Foe;
Serene to counteract each deep Design,
Points the dark Ambush, and the springing Mine;
Till, as a breathing Incense, Andre's name
Pervades the Host, and swells the loud acclaim.
The Chief no virtue views with cold regard,
Skill'd to discern, and generous to reward;
Each tow'ring hope his honour'd smiles impart,
As near his Person, and more near his heart
The graceful Youth he draws,—and round his brow
Bids Rank and Power their mingled brilliance throw.
[Page 17]
Oh hast thou seen a blooming Morn of May
In chrystal beauty shed the modest ray?
And with its balmy dews refreshing show'r
Swell the young grain, and ope the purple flow'r?
In bright'ning lustre reach its radiant Noon,
Rob'd in the gayest mantle of the Sun?
Then 'mid the splendors of its azure skies,
Oh! hast thou seen the cruel Storm arise?
In sable horror shroud each dazzling charm,
And dash their glories back with icy arm!
Thus lower'd the deathful cloud amid the blaze
Of Andre's Destiny,—and quench'd its rays!—
Ah fatal embassy!—thy hazards dire
His kindling Soul with every ardor fire;
Great Clinton gives it to the courage prov'd,
And the known wisdom of the Friend he lov'd.
As fair Euryalus to meet his Fate,
With Nysus rushes from the Dardan gate,
Relentless Fate! whose fury scorns to spare
The snowy breast, red lip, and shining hair,
So polish'd Andre launches on the waves,
Where * Hudson's tide its dreary confine laves.
With firm intrepid foot the Youth explores
Each dangerous pathway of the hostile shores▪
[Page 18]But no one Veteran Chief his steps attends,
As silent round the gloomy Wood he wends,
Alone he meets the brave repentant Foe,
Sustains his late resolve, receives his vow,
With ardent skill directs the doubtful course,
Seals the firm bond and ratifies its force.
'Tis thus AMERICA, thy Generals fly,
And wave new banners in their native sky!
Sick of the mischiefs artful Gallia pours,
In friendly semblance on thy ravag'd shores—
Unnatural compact!—shall a Race of Slaves
Sustain the ponderous standard Freedom waves?
No! while their feign'd Protection spreads the toils,
The Vult [...]res hover o'er the destin'd spoils!
How fade Provincial glories, while You run
To court far deeper bondage than you shun!
Is this the generous active rising Flame,
That boasted Liberty's immortal name!
Blaz'd for its rights infring'd, its trophies torn,
And taught the Wise the dire mistake to mourn,
When haughty Britain, in a luckless hour,
With rage inebriate, and the lust of pow'r,
To fruitless conquest, and to countless graves
Led her gay Legions o'er the western waves▪
The Fiend of Discord, cow'ring at the prow,
Sat darkly smiling at th' impending w [...]e!
[Page 19]Long did my soul the wretched strife survey,
And wept the horrors of the dreadful day;
Thro' rolling Years saw undecisive War
Draw bleeding Wisdom at his iron Car;
Exhaust ray country's treasure, pour her gore
In fruitless conflict on the distant shore;
Saw the firm Congress all her might oppose,
And while I mourn'd her fate, rever'd her Foes.
But when, repentant of her prouder aim,
She gently waves the long disputed claim;
Extends the charter with your rights restor'd,
And hides in olive wreaths the blood-stain'd sword.
Then to reject her peaceful wreaths, and throw
Your Country's Freedom to our mutual Foe!
Infatuate Land!—from that detested day
Distracted Councils, and the thirst of Sway,
Rapacious Avarice, Superstition vile,
And all the Frenchman dictates in his guile
Disgrace your Congress!—Justice drops her scale!
And radiant Liberty averts her fail!
They fly indignant the polluted plain,
Where Truth is scorn'd and Mercy pleads in vain.
That she does plead in vain, thy witness bear,
Accursed Hour!—Oh! darkest of the Year!
That with Misfortune's deadliest venom fraught
To Tappan's Wall the gallant Andre brought,
Snar'd in her fatal Maze, and borne away
Of fell Revenge, in all its guilt the Prey!
[Page 20]
Oh Washington! I thought thee great and good, *
Nor knew thy Nero-thirst of guiltless blood!
Severe to use the pow'r that fortune gave,
Thou cool determin'd Murderer of the Brave!
Lost to each fairer Virtue, that inspires
The genuine fervor of the Patriot fires!
And You, the base Abettors of the doom,
That sunk his blooming honours in the tomb,
Th' opprobrious tomb your hardened hearts de­creed,
While all he ask'd was as the Brave to bleed!
Nor other boon the glorious Youth implor'd
Save the cold Mercy of the Warrior-Sword!
O dark, and pitiless! your impious hate
O'er-whelm'd the Hero in the Ruffian's fate!
Stopt with the † Felon-cord the rosy breath!
And venom'd with disgrace the darts of Death!
Remorseless Washington! the day shall come
Of deep repentance for this barb'rous doom!
When injur'd Andre's memory shall inspire
A kindling Army, with resistless fire;
[Page 21]Each falchion sharpen that the Britons wield,
And lead their fiercest Lion to the field!
Then, when each hope of thine shall set in night,
When dubious dread and unavailing flight
Impel your Host, thy guilt-upbraided Soul
Shall wish untouch'd the sacred Life you stole!
And when thy Heart appall'd and vanquish'd Pride,
Shall vainly ask the mercy they deny'd,
With horror shalt thou meet the fate they gave
Nor Pity gild the darkness of thy grave!
For Infamy with livid hand shall shed
Eternal mildew on the ruthless head!
Less cruel far than thou, on Illion's plain
Achilles, raging for Patroclus slain!
When hapless Priam bends the aged knee
To deprecate the Victors dire decree,
The Nobler Greek, in melting pity spares
The lifeless Hector to his father's Pray'rs,
Fierce as he was;—'tis Cowards only know
Persisting vengeance o'er a Fallen Foe.
But no intreaty wakes the soft remorse
Oh murder'd Andre! for thy sacred Corse;
Vain were an Army's, vain its Leader's sighs!—
Damp in the Earth on Hudson's shore it lies!
Unshrouded welters in the wint'ry Storm!
And gluts the riot of the * Tappan-Worm!
[Page 22]But Oh! its dust, like Abel's blood, shall rise
And call for justice from the angry skies!
What tho' the Tyrants, with malignant pride,
To thy pase corse each decent rite deny'd!
Thy graceful limbs in no kind covert laid,
Nor with the Christian-Requiem sooth'd thy shade!
Yet on thy grass-green Bier soft April-Show'rs
Shall earliest wake the sweet spontaneous Flow'rs▪
Bid the blue Hair-bell, and the Snow-Drop there
Hang their cold cup, and drop the pearly tear!
And oft, at pensive Eve's ambiguous gloom,
Imperial Honour, bending o'er thy tomb,
With solemn strains shall lull thy deep repose,
And with his deathless Laurels shade thy brows!
Lamented Youth! while with inverted spear
The British Legions pour th' indignant tear!
Round the dropt arm the 18 funeral-scarf entwine
And in their hearts' deep core thy worth enshrine;
While my weak Muse, in fond attempt and vain,
But feebly pours a perishable strain,
Oh ye distinguish'd Few! whose glowing lays
Bright Phoebus kindles with his purest rays,
Snatch from its radiant source the living fire,
And light with 19 Vestal flame your ANDRE'S HALLOW'D PYRE!

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.