IN the year 1442, when the feudal system was prevalent in Europe, died John VI. Duke of Brittany. By his consort Joan, sister of Charles VII, King of France, he left three sons; Fran­cis, his successor; Peter, Count of Guingcamp; and Giles Lord of Chantocé, whom, in the course of this history, we shall call the Prince of Brittany. Their paternal uncle was the Consta­ble Arthur, Count of Richmond; an illustrious Nobleman, who could triumph at once over the English, the most formidable enemies of France, and over the courtiers of Charles; a conquest this last, which cost him, perhaps, greater efforts than the former.—Arthur had just quitted his beautiful retreat, at the Castle of Parthenay, with his new consort, Catharine of Luxenburgh, in order to be present at the approaching nupti­als of the Duke, his nephew.

Before we proceed further in this history, it will be proper to give some idea of the three Princes [Page 4] of Brittany.—Francis, whose passions hespoke a weakness and effeminacy of soul, was under the absolute guidance of his favourite, who, accord­ing to custom, gave an ill direction to his very best dispositions. From this defect in his charac­ter proceeded, in the sequel, that atrocious mis­conduct, which has forever obscured the lustre of all the good qualities he possessed.

Peter was not distinguished by a more manly understanding than his elder brother, A gloomy and petulant temper was rendered more disgust­ing still by a devotion tinctured with all the su­perstition of the times. Extremes of every kind, even the extremes of virtue, are to be avoided. Peter, although united to a most beautiful Prin­cess, lived in a state of absolute celibacy; and, towards the end of his life, submitted to all the austerities of the most rigid retirement.

The Prince of Brittany▪ on the contrary, was endued with an independent soul, which disdain­ed every appearance of obstruction. At the slightest impulse of inclination he was instantly decided. Wishes the most trifling in reality were ruling passions with this ungovernable mind. In­attentive to consequences, he would regard the present object only, seize it with transport, and to the acquisition of it sacrifice every considera­tion of the future. Even his generosity was cha­racterized by this excessive violence.—He scorned those political observances so necessary to all men, and especially to persons of his exalt­ed rank. Equally incapable of concealment and [Page 5] restraint, ever yielding to the first sallies of his impetuous temper, he was hurried from impru­dence to imprudence, and from misfortune to misfortune; thus exhibiting to all the great ne­cessity of endeavoring to acquire the habits of moderation and self-command. This indiscreet precipitancy of conduct, this dangerous vice (for we can hardly give it another name) rendered even his virtues useless and unproductive; vir­tues, that have only inspired a too late and un­availing pity, the poor recompense of injured in­nocence·

Francis was impatient to be invested with the ducal mantle, and, as his first consort was dead, to form a new alliance, that might flatter his am­bitious views. A daughter of James I, King of Scotland, in giving him her hand, added claims to her dowry, which some future contingencies might realize; it being settled, that if her father should die without issue male, Isabella should succeed to the throne, and share it with her hus­band.

The double ceremony of the marriage and co­ronation of Francis had brought to his Court the most illustrious of the French Nobility. The magnificent entertainments, given on this occa­sion, were scarcely terminated, when the Prince of Brittany requested a private audience of the Duke:—"My brother," said he "it is impossible to restrain my impatience. You have now attain­ed [Page 6] the summit of felicity. You possess the lovely wife who was once destined for me; ^* and one day, perhaps, I may see you on the throne of Scotland. My lot is yet uncertain; but it is in your power to render it completely happy. I love the most adorable of women. I shall become a prey to grief, if I delay any longer to lead the charming Alicia to the altar. Forgive me; my passion has hitherto been a secret to you. Unavoidable circumstances have obliged me to conceal it. Her parents, bound by some indis­creet promise, extorted from them in a moment of weakness, have been averse to this union. They are no more; and with them every obstacle has vanished. The family of Dinan, you are sensible, may aspire to an alliance with Sove­reigns. Nothing is wanting but your approba­tion. As your liege subject, I humbly solicit your favor: as your brother, I entreat it with all that ardour of affection which we owe to each o­ther. By either title. I hope to gain your con­sent. My happiness, my life itself is at stake. Let my nuptials now speedily follow yours."

Francis assures his brother that he would exert all his authority in his favor. He embraces him with faternal tenderness, and is as warmly inter­ested in his happiness as in his own. The enrap­tured Prince already imagines himself the husband of Alicia.—He hastens to throw himself at her [Page 7] feet: "No expressions," said he, "can des­cribe my joy. The Duke is informed of all. He knows, divine Alicia, he knows that I ido­lize you—that I am impatient to be yours. Ah! let the Duke reign over Brittany; let him allot me still no more than the paltry establishment I enjoy, unworthy as it is of my birth and right­ful claims: I will never more complain. Have I not obtained the supreme felicity of my life? O my adorable mistress, am not I superior to my brother—to the greatest Monarch in the world? Ah! speak it, repeat a thousand times, that the Prince of Brittany first inspired you with sensibil­ity. Can Virtue forbid the dear confession?"

He kissed one of her hands with transport. In the excess of emotion those expressive tears escaped him, which have such a powerful empire over a young and tender heart.—"Prince," answered Mademoiselle de Dinan, "what do you wish— what can you require? Yes! I do not hesitate to say, it is you that have taught me I have a soul, alas, but too susceptible. But do you forget that my parents still live in an uncle, who inherits their power over me? Has not the Marshal of Brittany an unconquerable aversion to you? Does he not compel me to endure the courtship, or ra­ther the persecution, of Arthur de Montauban? My cruel guardian exacts implicit obedience.— He urges the solemn engagement of my parents in favor of my persecutor. It is my duty, he says, to fulfil that promise—live—you shall be mine," eagerly resumed the Prince, "no power on earth shall prevent our union. I adore you: [Page 8] your parents are no more: you are free: you are mine: I have my brother's consent: I have yours. Will the presumptuous Arthur still con­tend with the brother of his Sovereign? But, my superior rank out of the question, who can boast a passion that can vie with mine?—Oh, my divine mistress, scatter those clouds: let us have no other prospect but the altar. Every thing be­speaks our approaching happiness—all is propiti­ous to an union which Heaven has already form­ed."

Such was the ardor, such was the impetuosity with which the Prince of Brittany loved and spoke. He could divine no obstruction to his views. His happiness, as it was exquisite in idea, was no less certain in expectation. He ran to communi­cate his transports in his friend Tanguy, the Bastard of Brittany; while the charming Alicia still refused to harbour the flattering illusion.

Her apprehensions, indeed, were not without foundation. The Prince was surrounded at court by implacable enemies, who were secretly con­triving his ruin, and who were actuated by every motive of revenge. Arthur de Montauban, hur­ried on by the effervescence of a passion, that heeded not the sanctity of laws, was impatient to be rid of a formidable rival. John de Hingant, Gentlemen of the Bed-Chamber, did not foster a less devouring flame; he had received some af­front from the Prince of Brittany; and offended Vanity is actuated by all the rage of jealous Love. With these two persons was associated [Page 9] James d'Espinay, Bishop of Rennes. They di­rected, at pleasure, the weak understanding of the Duke; and, being informed of the conver­sation which he had just had with his brother, they erected their batteries, in order to combat and destroy, if possible, the object of their hatred.

Tanguy was not more sanguine than Alicia. He was not flattered by the illusions of an ima­gination which Love had led astray.—"My brother," said he, addressing himself to the Prince, "if the laws have forbidden me to pro­nonce a name so dear, more indulgent Nature will permit it.—Yes, the most affectionate of brothers, the most zealous for your interest, speaks to you now, Will you never open your eyes to the representations of truth? Your pas­sions hurry you away. How can you hope that Bertrand de Dinan will consent to give you his niece, when he makes it a point of honor to fulfil the engagement of her parents—an engagement which they renewed in their dying moments— when Arthur de Montauban, in short, is named the happy"—"Proceed not, cruel man," inter­rupted the Prince; "Arthur dost thou say!— Arthur the husband of Alicia!—Alicia in the arms of another—Dreadful idea!—Thou know­est me not—thou knowest—let me not be compel­led to it—I will not call the English to my aid— Brittany shall first swim in blood—her towns shall he laid in ashes—Oh, my dear Tanguy, since the name of brother affects thee, I conjure the by the tender ties that unite us, not to wound Alicia? The Marshal must submit to the authori­ty [Page 10] of my brother. Once more Tanguy, do not deform with clouds the charming prospect before me. Thou delightest, my brother to torment me—Think how much I suffer"—"Ah! my brother I suffer still more than you. I contem­plate with grief the variety of woes that await you—You are sensible how much I love you. But I cannot conceal from you the depth of the abyss into which you are hastening to plunge. You have enemies"—"I despise them"—"I scorn the arts of a courtier; and I wish they may be perfectly sensible, that my contempt for them is even greater than my detestation."—"You are a Prince, my Lord."—"I am the lover of Alicia, and all my wishes are to be the husband. My dear Tanguy, forgive my transports. I am distracted when the least obstacle is presented to the most ardent love. I have opened my whole soul to you. But I am very far from having re­course to a vengeance which I myself abhor. So far from being instramental in bringing the cala­mities of war on my Prince and country, as I have rashly said, they shall never find a more zea­lous defender than your brother. You talk of [...]—have I deserved them? In one instance, indeed, I forgot myself: I affronted Hingant. But was not fault immediately followed by the ample confessions? Ah? my friend, I bear a too susceptible heart! Do not endeavor thus to deprive me at once of my hope—my life"—

The Prince could not utter this last affecting appeal to Friendship, without letting drop some natural tears; and Tanguy perceived, that [Page 11] it was in vain to combat the fervors of such a passion by expostulation, or to check the impetu­osity of such a temper, but by the language of soothing tenderness.

Nor was the charming Alicia less an object of compassion. Her irritated uncle, to whom her partiality for the Prince of Brittany was no se­cret, overwhelmed her with reproaches. He insisted with the haughty violence of authority, that she should sacrifice the inclinations of her heart, by a passive compliance with the dying engagement of her parents. "Our hearts," said he, "know no other principle than Honor, no other law, no other passion. Love we leave to the vulgar, who are at liberty to follow their ca­pricious inclinations. In being exalted above the rest of mankind, our duty is to combat, to subdue, to sacrifice our passions. Our prerog­ative is to mine an example to all around us. What are all the advantages of nobility, if we do not purchase them by the most exalted virtues? Go to the altar with Arthur de Montauban— let me never see thee again but as his wife.— What would I say—I would rather see thee in thy grave than—but thou knowest thy duty— I expect absolute obedience."

In vain did Alicia prostrate herself, all in tears, before the Marshal.—"Oh, my Lord! deign to hear me—you—you are now my father. You cannot doubt how much I loved my parents— how much I cherish and revere their memory. I am still impressed with the most respectful def­erence [Page 12] to their commands. But could they dis­pose of my hand without consulting this poor heart? Can my duty oblige me to render myself miserable for ever? Why did not the dear au­thors of my being remove me far from the pres­ence of the Prince of Brittany? Why did they permit his visits—his conversations? His prince­ly rank has no charms with me. Oh, did you but know him—did you but read his heart like me—Oh, my uncle! let me rather die a hund­red times than subscribe to this barbarous prom­ise. At least, let me be permitted, far from the court and the world, to bury my grief in some deep solitude. There left wholly to myself—" "To yourself!" resumed the furious Marshal, as he retired; "you are not your own—you belong to your country, to your family, to honor.—They claim their victim, and they shall have it."

The Duke sent a messenger to his brother, to desire him to repair to the palace. The Prince flew thither with an impatience, which bespoke a certainty, that the commencement of his happi­ness was approaching. "My brother," said the Duke, the moment he entered, "you know how much I have your happiness at heart. The zealous affection of friendship would add, if pos­ible, to the powerful claims of Nature. But your brother, before he can listen to these claims; must recollect that he is a sovereign. I have ob­ligations to my subjects—I have obligations to equity. I have seen the Marshal de Dinan—he is inflexible. Montauban has received his promise, and the solemn promise of dying parents. In [Page 13] spite of me, in spite of you, Montauban must the husband of Alicia. You must subdue yourse and imitate me."

The impetuous Prince clapped his hand to his sword. "I have no longer then," said he, "any support but this. It shall chastise the inso­lence of Arthur. Shall I yield Alicia to him? Cruel—you are not my brother—you are my ty­rant—my executioner!"—"Ah, my brother, my brother, I will forget the sovereign to whom these expressions are so unbecoming. I pity your distress. I weep with you. Shed your tears in my bosom. Lament the wretched fate, that has plunged you into a passion, which the Prince of Brittany must absolutely subdue. We must de­vote ourselves to our inferiors. So far from wish­ing to render the Marshal perjured, it is our duty▪ my brother, to support, to guarantee his promise. Let justice triumph, and leave the event to heav­en. I feel all the severity of this refusal. I suff­er in your sufferings. But place yourself in my situation—be the sovereign—and dictate to me my duty. I appeal to your own decision—I ap­peal to the Count of Richmond. I refer you to that wise and excellent friend. He loves you. He understands the laws of honor. I leave you to his advice, and to your own reflections."

The Prince of Brittany, distracted by the unex­pected refusal of his brother, flies to throw him­self at the feet of Alicia. The servants of the Marshal in vain oppose his entrance. He finds [Page 14] her alone, in her apartment, overwhelmed by the most poignant grief. He pours forth all the transports of a heart, distracted at the idea of losing all that was dear to him in life. Alicia avows her passion for the Prince, with the beau­tiful ingeniousness of virtuous love. But she urg­es the irresistible obstacles to their union, in the dying engagement of her parents, and the obli­gations to her family and honor, which the Mar­shal, her uncle, had been just enforcing.—"Alas! Prince," said she, "I must give my hand to an­other; but my heart is still—" "Go then, said the furious Prince; "let that heart instantly follow the present of the hand—I—I will shew you what it is to love."—Then seizing his sword, he was going to plunge it into his heart, not­withstanding all the cries and efforts of the ter­rified Alicia, when, in that instant, he heard an unexpected voice:—"Stop, stop, I come to re­cal you to life."—The Prince beheld Tanguy.— "Ah! my brother," said he, "you love me— and would you wish me to live? Do you know the horrors that surround me?"—"I know all; I know that the Marshal has secured the Duke in his interest. But the Constable, your uncle, has sent for you. He has had a long conversation with the Duke, and, I doubt not, was successful." "My brother! Is it possible? Shall Alicia yet be mine? And you, madam—you weep—divine mistress of my heart, forgive—forgive me if I have appeared to doubt your love." "Ah! Prince," said Mademoiselle de Dinan, "how cruel have you been! But go—claim the protec­tion of the Court of Richmond. Let him gain [Page 15] the Duke—let him prevail upon my uncle—and you will see whether Alicia can love."

The Prince of Brittany hastened to the Consta­ble. The seasonable interference of Tanguy had restored him in some measure from death to life; and he was now felicitating himself upon far different prospects. But the Constable, who re­ceived him with all the expressions of tenderness and esteem, appeared, however, to entertain the same ideas with the Duke, of the absolute sub­mission due to parental authority, and of cer­tain indispensable claims of family and honor. Sentiments, so fatal to the pleasing views which the Prince had once began to entertain, excited in his bosom the same transports of desperation, which we have seen so easily kindled. "I adore Alicia," said he; "the mere idea of beholding her in the arms of another, drives me to distrac­tion. If I should implore the King of En­gland—" "Prince, to the King of England I send you. I have importuned the Duke to en­trust you with a negociation, equally important and honorable. I have offered to be responsible for you. The King of England loves you. Brought up in his court, you possess peculiar means of conciliating him. The object of your embassy is to give peace to two nations, to whom a too long war is equally destructive. There cannot be a more glorious medi [...]tion; and it is to you that we confide the destiny of the most powerful kingdoms in Europe—to you who in­veigh against your brother, against me, against all Brittany, and transported by an extravagant [Page 16] passion, have just threated to have recourse to measures of violence and guilt. Judge, from this, whether I esteem you."—"Ah, my Lord," exclaimed the Prince, throwing himself into the arms of his uncle, and weeping with admiration, "you know me! Yes, I will strive to merit this excess of generosity. These tears speak how much I am affected by this exalted conduct. Yes, I will justify your choice. I will employ every expedient to reconcile two nations that are our allies—to convince you that the Prince of Brittany, distracted by an unfortunate passion, is yet incapable of a dishonorable action. I hasten to execute my commission; and, after I have ful­filled my duty, I return to claim my reward. Remember, I conjure you, I can have no other than Alicia." "Hold, Prince: do not imagine that I purchase your fidelity by flattering your hopes. I esteem you too well to apprehend any thing for your resentment. No; I do not at­tempt to deceive you. I go still farther; I de­clare that if your brother should have the weak­ness to consent to your wishes, I will be the first to oppose them. You see that I speak to you with a frankness, of which I am certain you will take no advantage. All that I can promise, and that honor will permit me to grant, with a view only to prepare you to conquer a passion incompatible with your duty, is to engage the Duke to postpone the marriage of Alicia till your return."

"What, my Lord—" "I have nothing more to say; I shall wait you at the palace, that we may confer with you on your embassy."

[Page 17]The Duke, and the whole Council, greatly disapproved the choice of the mediator. They represented to the Constable, that to entrust the Prince with a negociation of such a delicate na­ture, was to put arms in the hands of a madman, and to hazard the safety of Brittany. They did not doubt that he would solicit the King of En­gland to support him in his pretensions, and to take part in his resentment." "How little," answered Richmond, "do you understand man­kind! Nothing is so flattering to human pride as a noble confidence. It necessarily inspires self­esteem; and whoever can esteem himself, is ever cautious of descending to ignoble actions. Trea­son is the height of turpitude. My nephew is violent and impetuous, but incapable of forget­ting his honor. I will answer for success. The frankness of a soldier is sometimes a more certain resource than all the arts of a politician."

Francis confirmed to his brother the promise of their uncle, that the marriage of Alicia with Montaubon should be postponed till his re­turn, The Prince had made the necessary prepa­rations for his departure; but it was impossible for him to leave Brittany, without having seen Mademoiselle de Dinan. He should have en­countered all hazards to procure with her a mo­ment's interview. But a variety of obstacles were to be overcome. Alicia, kept like a pri­soner, at a castle some leagues from the court, had only the liberty of deploring her hard fate [Page 18] in secret. She waited for the fatal moment that was to subject her to an odious yoke. She would wander in an extensive park, which seemed cal­culated to cherish that gloomy melancholy, which is almost inseparable from an unfortunate love. Her languid steps imperceptably led her to a lit­tle solitary wood, into which the light of day could scarcely enter. It was divided by a trans­parent brook, whose gentle murmurs lulled the soul to musing; and, at some distance, was a seat of turf. There did Alicia go, to ruminate as it were, on the sentiments that oppressed her. The unfortunate, and lovers especially, experience an exquisite sweetness of sensation, in indulging their tears, and cherishing their griefs; and what­ever can deepen their sorrows, they meet even with an eagerness of anticipation. For them has nature created "the haunts of meditation," those solitary glooms, those torrents, those grottos, those romantic scenes, that speak not to the hap­py, but which address with such energy the souls, whose misfortunes exercise their sensibility.

Mademoiselle de Dinan held in her hand a let­ter from the Prince, which she repeatedly read, and bedewed with her tears. She spoke to it, as if it were capable of understanding and answering her affecting plaints. "Ah! too dangerous writ­ing," said she, "why cannot I have the resolu­tion to cast thee far from this impassioned bosom? Ah! what avails it thus to cherish a passion which it will soon become criminal to avow? And could a flame so pure be inspired only to become crimi­nal? Sole object of my affections, alas! how little [Page 19] is the unfortunate Alicia yet known to thee! Couldst thou ever imagine for a moment that my heart—thou art its only Lord. Thou wilt rule in it, I perceive too well, to my latest sigh. I will repeat it to the Marshal, to Montaubon, to the Duke. No, Arthur—barbarous man! I never will pronounce the fatal vows. I will swear, yes, I will swear to love none but the Prince of Brittany; and I will die, I will be the victim of my hapless love."—"You shall live to receive my unceasing homage. I would die a hundred times for you, divide Alicia. Oh! how dear are these sentiments—these expres­sions—how delicious to my soul!"

Alicia is startled; but her terror is soon dissipa­ted. She beholds at her feet the Prince of Britta­ny, who seizes one of her hands, and, in the transports of ecstacy, covers it with his kisses and his tears.—"Is it you, Prince! you have heard me?"—"Do you reproach yourself with having made me the happiest of men? Are you appre­hensive that I shall not merit a tenderness worthy of every sacrifice I can make? Be satisfied with yourself, dear mistress of a heart, that beats on­ly for the charming Alicia. My death is now post­poned: the Constable has passed his word: thy nuptials with a detested rival are deferred till my return, and then—thou never shalt be Arthur's. Promise me only to keep thy faith, thy heart, in­violate."—"Preserve my heart for you, Prince! Ah! is it for you to imagine I can ever give it to another? Can I take from you a single moment [Page 20] of my life? Go—go well assured that Alicia —Prince, you cannot too soon return."

They renew the solemn vow of everlasting love, in spite of every obstruction. Mademoiselle de Dinan takes one of her bracelets, interwoven with her hair, and presents it to her lover, who seizes it with rapture, and kisses it a thousand times, puts it into his bosom: "Never," said he, "shall it leave my heart. It is the seal of our engagement. Remember, divine Alicia, that I go far from you, assured that all I adore will con­tinue faithful.—Let us retire, my friend," said he to Tanguy, who was waiting at some dis­tance; "I am now at the summit of felicity; I am beloved."

The two lovers are obliged to separate. The Prince had contrived to gain over one of the ser­vants of the Marshal, who had introduced him privately into the park. This man runs to ac­quaint him that the Lord of Dinan is coming. The Prince hastily retires, accompanied by Tan­guy, who undertakes during his absence, to send him intelligence of whatever related to his mis­tress. The two friends, at length, embrace; they part; and the Prince of Brittany embarks for England.

The Prince of Brittany, as the Constable had foreseen, met with the most favorable reception from the King of England. He succeeded in eve­ry object of his embassy; and Henry, to evince his extreme satisfaction in a mediator for whom [Page 21] he had long entertained the greatest personal re­gard, conferred upon him a pension of 2000 no­bles.

Tanguy, in the mean time, corresponded con­stantly with his friend. The charming Alicia, it may be supposed, was the favorite object of his letters. But there was a subject less delightful, on which he found it necessary also to expatiate. He gave the Prince a minute account of the vari­ous artifices that were employed by his enemies, in order to ruin him in the estimation of his bro­ther. But the Prince, attentive to nothing but what related to Mademoiselle de Dinan, paid no regard to the machinations of Arthur and his fa­mily.

Montauban, supported in his pretensions by the Marshal, repaired one day to the apartmets of Mademoiselle de Dinan. At a visit so unex­pected she could not conceal some symptoms of perturbation. "Ah! Madam," said he, "can this agitation, so ill concealed, be propitious to my hopes?"—"Hold my lord; I will give you a convincing proof of confidence: I think you worthy of it. It is to assure you that you may be certain of my esteem, altho a tender sen­timent cannot.—"And what, Madam, can prevent you from rewarding with that tender sen­timent the ardent passion you have inspired? I impatiently long for the happy ties."—"They are not yet formed, my lord. I would fain re­gard you as an object of esteem, and as such, open my whole heart to you. I am incapable of [Page 22] dissimulation: I dread the injustice of deceiving you: I do not hesitate then to confess it to you. The Prince of Brittany only is"—"You have named the author of all my torments. My sus­picions then are but too well founded. But you forget, Madam, that I have in my hand the so­lemn promise of your parents and of your uncle; that I have the consent of your sovereign; that I have a right of your's. Yes, Madam, you must be mine. Heaven has destined you to be my wife."—"Heaven, my lord! Heaven inspires the inclinations; and for you I can only"— "Proceed, Madam," said Arthur, whose cha­racter was not less impetuous than that of his ri­val, proceed; tell me that you detest me, that I am the most odious of men—your enemy—your persecutor. Yes, I will be then the tyrant you detest. My sole object now shall be to justify an aversion I have so little deserved. Never, never more will I speak to you in the langauge of love. You shall witness now the furious transports of re­sentment. Your fate is decided. The Marshal and the Duke have ordered it. Ungrateful wo­man! I will enjoy the tears I make you shed; I will feast on the pleasing sight; and from this mo­ment—adorable Alicia, and is it you that com­pel me to such language? No, no; think not that I can entertain such sentiments. They never have approached—they never will approach my heart. From my mouth only have escaped expressions so extraordinary to every sentiment of my soul."—"It is useless, my lord, to repeat it: Mademoiselle de Dinan was never formed to encourage a passion by illusive hopes. Load me [Page 23] with reproaches; but you shall never accuse me of artifice and treachery. Be supported by the consent of my uncle, and of my whole family: have recourse too to the authority of your sove­reign: dispose, like a tyrant, of my hand: my tears are all I can oppose to you; but my heart, that heart which you would tear, which you would destroy—it never can be, it never shall be your's. The Prince of Brittany—it shall know no other lord, till death release me from my woes. After this declaration, drag me to the altar.'— "Yes, I will drag you to the altar, a victim de­voted to my just resentment. Yes, I shall know how to torture that heart which will not love— which my rival possesses. Henceforth will I lis­ten only to the dictates—to the suggestions of vengeance."

Nor were the threats of Arthur ineffectual. The ruin of the Prince of Brittany was now pur­sued with an inveteracy, if possible, still more determined. His enemies were even so sucessful, as to excite in the breast of his brother, all the jealousy and resentment of self-love. This senti­ment, which among all men is, perhaps, the most predominant, when it actuates the conduct of a sovereign, is the dreadful spring of the most ex­travagant excesses. Francis was persuaded to believe, that his brother had expressed himself concerning him in very disloyal terms, and that he only waited for an opportunity to excite a re­volt. Nor did they forget the friendship of the King of England, whom they represented as a foe impatient to fall upon Brittany, on the first [Page 24] intimation from the Prince. In a word, these detestable countries found means to stifle the voice of nature, and to dissolve its most tender recol­lections. Weakness now assumed all the atroci­ousness of guilt; and every day strengthened it in a character which was the sport of perfidy and malice.

The King of England continued to lavish upon the Prince a thousand marks of unbound­ed friendship. One day he surprized him mu­sing in a melancholy attitude over a letter he had just received. Henry, with the affectionate earnestness of a friend, insisted upon knowing the cause of a grief which was so visible in his countenance. The Prince, who could not resist the generous instances of his august friend, rela­ted the whole history of his passion for the beau­tiful Alicia, and the various obstacles to his hap­piness. The letter which he had just received, informed him that Arthur and his partisans, were exerting all their influence to hasten the solemni­zation of that marriage, which by an engage­ment, was not to take place till his return. It was added, that the Duke was on the point of yielding to their pressing solicitations, notwith­standing the Count of Richmond, who defended his absent nephew, and urged the inviolable sanctity of a promise. Henry, who immediately entered into the resentment of his friend, united perhaps some political views to those of personal esteem, in the offer which he made of support­ing his pretensions by force of arms. "I am sensible," said the noble youth, "of the gene­rous [Page 25] warmth with which you condescend to enter into my concerns. Yes! I adore Alicia; and she shall be mine, or my rival and all his partisans, I myself shall expire under a thousand wounds. But, my lord, can I forget the glorious commis­sion with which I am honored? Can I, the minis­ter of peace, whom the count of Richmond thought great enough to soar above humanity, can I carry war into my country? Shall a brother see me again, at the head of hostile foreigners, de­voting our fairest provinces to all the miseries of slaughter and desolation. Alicia—I should for­feit all her tenderness she would overwhelm me with her hatred—with contempt. And what must I appear in my own eyes? A monster of horror! You love me, Sire: [...] nothing to me that can tarnish my glory. [...] would sooner die."—"At least," interrupted Henry, "receive a slender proof of my esteem. I will give you the sword of Constable of England."—

I can only answer, Sire, by a new refusal. This high dignity would oblige me to draw the sword against the king of France, my uncle; and never, never shall he have to reproach me with such a violation of duty."

The intelligence which the Prince received from Brittany accelerated his return. He had scarcely left the English court when he learned that the Marshal De Dinan had departed this life His fortune seems now to assume a different aspect [Page 26] he indulges a thousand pleasing reveries: he an­ticipates a thousand scenes of exquisite delight and uninterrupted joy.

Proceeding towards Nantes, accompanied by his gentleman, he perceived a crowd of specta­tors, near a castle, a few leagues from that city. He discovers a splendid procession: he sees a young lady weeping, and encircled by many fe­male attendants, who were supporting her in their arms: he approaches, he recollects—it is the adorable Alicia, whom Montauban was con­ducting to the altar, with the consent of her fa­mily and of Francis, who had suffered himself to be overcome by the persecutions of his favorites. It is hardly possible to describe this scene: the Prince, followed by his attendants, hastens to Mademoiselle de Dinan, beholds her fainting, and forcing her from the arms of her women, places her, with the same precipitation, in those of two chevaliers that were devoted to him, and whom he ordered to commit her to the care of one of his female relations, whose residence was near the spot. And now the arms were glitter­ing: Arthur, enraged to see his prey thus forced from him, endeavored to repossess himself of it, and, at the head of his party, to wreak his ven­geance on the little troop that attended his rival. The latter exclaims, "Hold; suspend your rage: 'tis mine to combat for Alicia: Montauban is my only object. Approach, rash youth: I will de­rive no advantage from the respect which thou owest to the blood of thy sovereign. I love I adore Alicia, and thou darest to dispute her with [Page 27] me! Be my equal now, that thou may'st measure swords with the man who most detests thee. Let one of us tinge this ground with his blood, and Alicia shall be the conqueror's."

He instantly draws his sword, and, bidding Montauban to do the same, he commands his at­tendants to remain impartial spectators of the com­bat. It begins with mutual fury. The Prince receives a wound: the blood slows; and the at­tendants were going to interfere. "Forbear," said he, "I have still strength enough to pierce the bosom of my enemy."—Their rage rekin­dles: Montauban is overthrown; "I die," said he, with a faltering voice: his friends raise him from the ground, and carry off their vanquished lord; while the conqueror and his escort hasten to the castle to which Alicia had been conveyed.

Who can imagine the consternation of the beautiful Alicia, when she beheld her lover, now sinking under a wound, which, in his impati­ence to fly to her, he had utterly disregarded. In the severe illness that followed, he experien­ced all the affecting assiduity, that unbounded tenderness could inspire. To his the noble youth, perhaps, was indebted for his recovery: and, in proportion as the apprehensions of Alicia, when her lover was at the worst, had bordered upon despair, were her endearing ecstacies of expres­sion when he was pronounced to be out of dan­ger. "Divine Alicia," said the Prince, in one of these delicious moments, "I cannot yet be restored to life, till I am permitted to call you my [Page 28] wife. Let us prevent the return of a kind of in­cessant fatality that pursues me. If I have only a few days to live, let me at least die on the bo­som of all I love. Let it be read on my tomb, The husband of Alicia reposes here.

How weak must be the suggestions of prudence to the ardent solicitations of such a lover! In vain did Mademoiselle de Dinan represent to him the fatal consequences of an union, to which the duke, his brother, had not yet consented. The Prince would listen only to the violence of his love. He assembles some of his gentlemen to be witnesses of the ceremony, which was perform­ed by his chaplain. The Prince of Brittany is at last the happiest of men. He has wedded—he possesses the dearest, the most adorable of women; and Alicia, on her part, rejoices in a husband, or rather in a lover worthy of all her love.

Montauban had experienced a kind of resurrec­tion. The thirst of vengeance had restored him to life. He was distracted by all the emotions of rage, when he learned that his happy rival was united to Alicia by ties which death alone could dissolve. Every thought, every effort of his soul was now devoted to the destruction of the Prince.

The great object with Arthur and his partisans was to poison the weak mind of Francis with sus­picions of which it was too easily susceptible; and, so well did their artful insinuations succeed, that the duke no longer regarded his brother, but [Page 29] as a guilty subject, whose punishment it was ne­cessary to hasten.

It must be confessed that appearances were not very favorable to the prince. His marriage, ac­complished in some measure by violence, was re­presented as an outrageous defiance of the sove­reign authority of his brother. His absence from the court seemed also a tacit declaration, that he intended no more to appear there. The principal head of accusation, that was urged a­gainst him in all its forms, turned upon his un­bounded partiality for the English. He had been so imprudent as to send one of his gentle­men, Thomas de Lesquen, to London, to solicit the payment of his pension, which had been for some time in arrears. He even complained in his dispatches of the severity of his brother to him; and he more than once touched upon the scanty es­tablishment of his houshold. These letters, being intercepted, were so many demonstrative proofs to Francis, that his brother was courting the pro­tection of the King of England. This appre­hension gave reality to all the phantoms which it pleased the artful Montauban to present to his so­vereign. He continually imagined that he saw the English invading Brittany, and tearing the ducal coronet from him, to place it on the head of his brother.

The prince, however, so far from being occu­pied by a single object of ambition, was sensible [Page 30] to no other happiness [...] that of possessing Ali­cia. "No," would he often say to his charming wife, "there is no happiness equal to that of lov­ing and being beloved! One look from thee, my dear Alicia conveys ecstasy to the inmost recesses of my heart. My soul, my whole soul is thine."— "Ah! my lord." answered Alicia, "you know that it was not the prince of Brittany that could captivate me, but the most susceptible, the most amiable of men. Can you think it possible, how­ever, that my happiness is diminished by continu­al apprehensions? Your enemies are not disarm­ed. The vengeance of Arthur can never be ap­peased. I dread every thing."—"Dear mistress of my soul, my love is more servent than thine. I behold nothing that encircles me. Alicia, Ali­cia alone engages every thought. They have reason to envy me. 'Tis supreme felicity I enjoy. Banish then these anxious apprehensions. 'Tis bliss—'tis heaven to be with thee."

Thus did these happy lovers cherish the sweet intoxication and illusive security of the present hour. The Prince spent with Tanguy those mo­ments which he could not devote to his dear Ali­cia, This faithful friend was come to visit him in his retirement at Guildo, which was one of the estates that formed the dowry of Mademoiselle de Dinan. He endeavored in vain to inspire him with that discreet and necessary caution, which we are by no means to confound with dissimula­tion. The Prince openly expressed his discon­tent, and in his invectives against the favourites, he did not spare his brother. He had sent for [Page 31] some skilful English archers from Normandy, with whom he exercised the bow and arrow; a diversion of which he was very fond, and which was one of the causes of his ruin. His enemies represented these foreign archers to the Duke as so many secret emissaries, who kept up the spirit of dissention and revolt that actuated his brother. Stronger circumstances of irratation were added, upon no better foundation.

The Constable, to whom the Prince had giv­en an account of his embassy, in a very circum­stantial letter, had retired dissatisfied with the Duke his nephew. He could not forbear, however, to write a letter of expostulation to him on his unnatural conduct to his brother; and while he urged every argument with the dignity of the Constable and the Uncle, he forgot not the respect which was due from the subject to the Sovereign. This letter seemed to make a great impression on the Duke, but Montauban, Hin­gant, and d'Espinai, soon recovered their won­ted sway. They would not appear openly to con­tradict a nobleman in such high credit as the Count of Richmond, who could not but have a great ascendancy over his Sovereign. It being requisite, therefore, to employ all the arts of [...], they prevailed upon Francis to write to the Prince, and to command him to repair to court. At the same time, they contrived that a­nonymous intimations should be sent to him, re­presenting his ruin as inevitable if he complied with the invitation of his brother. The latter suffered himself to be governed by their sugges­tions. [Page 32] His letter, replete with insulting mena­ces, was confided to the care of Hingant, who undertook to deliver it himself at Guildo. They doubted not that all possibility of reconciliation was cut off from the unfortunate Prince; and that, on the perusal of such a letter, he would fly into the most ungarded invectives, which they would not fail to report. The plot succeeded beyond their most sanguine expectation. When Hingant arrived at Guildo, he found the Prince in the midst of his English archers. He present­ed the letter to him: scarce had the Prince read it, than the impetuosity of his character burst forth at once: "What! write to insult me to such a degree! Forget that I am of his blood— that I am a Prince! Yes, he shall see me again— I will fly to him—but with arms in my hand. My rightful revenue has been but too long with­held from me. The English"—"Ah my lord," exclaimed, his wife, "what are you say­ing? You mean no such thing."—"I swear to it, Madam: in the presence of these brave fel­lows, I swear that my brother shall not insult me with impunity. And thou," addressing himself to Hingant, "if I consulted my just resentment, I should make thee instantly repent of thy teme­rity. I know that thou hast the presumption to rank thyself in the number of my enemies. I know that I did affront thee; but I offered thee the most ample reparation. If thou wert not sa­tisfied with that, speak instantly: I am ready to regard thee as the private gentleman only, and will wave every advantage of the Prince."— Hingant answers with the most flattering expres­sion [Page 33] —"Vile courtier," proceeds the noble-minded, but ill-fated Prince, "do not add mean­ness to persidy. I have nothing more to say to thee. Be content with the character of informer. Let the Duke know in what manner I have re­ceived his message. Go—fail not to tell him that my resentment is unbounded."

Hingant left the apartment. Alicia runs after him: Believe not the Prince: his desperation dis­tracts him. I know his heart: assure the Duke that he can never forget his loyalty—his affec­tion."—She returns to her lord: she conceals not, she cannot conceal her excessive anguish. Tan­guy, Millon, and Brabr [...]ssu (these two last were attached to the Prince from his infancy) lay be­fore him, with tears in their eyes, all that faith­ful servants owe to their masters—the truth.— "Ah, my lord, to what a passion have you given way! You would then precipitate your own ru­in—the ruin of the Princess! Hingant, be asser­ed, has not suffered one of your expressions to es­cape him. He will report them to your brother, and paint them in the blackest colours. Alas! perhaps it was their wish (for of what are not the wicked capable) to involve you if possible in guilt. The Princess was right: you spoke not the sentiments of your heart. How often have you repeated, that the Duke and your country was dear to you: and that you would shed your blood for the good of your house and of the state. It was not you that spoke—and yet they will judge you from thee expression you have suffered to escape you. You weep"—"Yes, my friends, [Page 34] you see me weep. My dearest wife, forgive thy lover! That transport of rage could proceed on­ly from my tenderness for thee. Oh, my unhap­py temper! Why cannot I subdue it? Into what dangers it involves me! Oh, my friends—My dear Alicia. I reproach myself for it a thousand times more than you can do. But the Duke—do you know that he threatens to dissolve the ties— let them take my life before they tear me from Alicia. The miscreants, how they sport with my irritable temper! How well they know me! Bar­barians! they have deprived me of my brother's heart! They have given him their own ignoble and detested souls! I perceive it—I have lost him for ever—I foresee the event. But, Oh, my Alicia, love me still, and I will defy the utmost rigour of misfortune."—He runs to his wife—he folds her to his bosom—he bathes her with his tears: "Ah! how wretched am I! They have forced me to blush for myself."

They take advantage of this ingenous sorrow. They prevail upon him to write a letter to his brother, pathetically expressive of sensibility and regret. His answer to Hingant he imputed to the violence of his love. He promised to go with his wife to throw himself at the feet of his Sovereign and Brother, whose forgiveness he earnestly implored, and whose affection he re­claimed.

This humiliating step did not disarm the anger of Francis whom the enemies of the Prince con­tinued incessantly to exasperate. He did not de­lay [Page 35] to repair to the Court of Charles at Chinan. He indisposed that Monarch towards the Prince, by representing him as the most zealous friend of the King of England, and an unnatural brother, who was on the point of revolting. He men­tioned the offer which Henry had made him of the sword of Constable of England; and, at length, he prevailed upon Charles to send a troop of horse to arrest him. The Duke and his base accomplices had contrived, that this stretch of authority should be exerted by the King of France in order that the prisoner might be regarded, as a state-criminal.

The Duke of Brittany had left the Court of France: the Count of Richmond, displeased with his conduct towards his brother, had not been reserved in his expressions of dissatisfaction, and had even forborne to visit him. He is in­formed that a conspiracy has been formed against his nephew, the author of which had found means to interest in their plan the King of France. He forthwith repairs to that Monarch: "Am I rightly informed, Sire? The ruin of an unfortu­nate Prince is in agitation. A brother lifts up his hand against his brother, and meditates his ruin; and shall the protector of persecuted innocence, shall a King of France, countenance such odious proceedings with his sacred support?"

The King loved the Constable; far from be­ing offended at the freedom with which that great man addressed him, he was much affected by his manly, yet pathetic representation. "Noble [Page 36] cousin," said he, you must hasten to countermand my orders. I have sent 400 troopers into Britta­ny, under the conduct of Admiral Coetivi, who has orders to arrest the Prince at Guildo. They have represented him to me as a seditious spirit, that panted for nothing more ardently than for an opportunity of inviting the English into his country; that, moreover, he detested the French and their Sovereign."—The King added, that this last circumstance had particularly affected him.—"Sire," answered the Count, astonish­ed at what he heard, "you have been deceived. I know that my nephew loves and reveres you. That he might not be obliged to bear arms a­gainst your Majesty, he refused the sword of Con­stable of England which Henry offered him. What dreadful strokes of calumny are these! I fly to his succour. I will lay him and his con­fort at your feet. Sire, you will behold their tears—they shall speak—they assure you them­selves how much they are devoted to you."

The Count, profiting of the King's permission, loses not a moment. He repairs with all expedi­tion to the Duke of Brittany, at Dinan. He per­ceives an air of affliction in the countenance of those, whom he had been accustomed to respect. In the Duke's favorites he beholds the insolence of exultation, and in the Duke himself an evi­dent embarrassment at his appearance. In a word, he learns that the unfortunate Prince is ar­rested.

[Page 37]Nothing was more certain than this dreadful news. The Prince, as if lulled into the most perfect security, continued to hope that time and his inoffensive conduct, would procure a reconci­liation with his brother, engaged in a variety of the most innocent diversions. He was playing at tennis win his Esquires, when intelligence was brought to him that a body of horse were at the Castle gates. As soon as he was informed that these troops came from the King of France, he ordered the gates to be instantly opened. "Wel­come, gentleman," said he, while they were yet at a distance; "what news from my dear uncle?"—What was the answer he received? What did they desire him to peruse —his Majes­ty's order to arrest him—"Ah!" exclaimed the Prince, with a deep sigh, "I did not expect this stroke from the dearest relation I have." The Admiral takes possession of the keys of the cas­tle, and of all the gold and silver plate, and seiz­es the person of the Prince. His distracted con­sort, all in tears, with Tanguy and his faithful attendants, follow him with a fixed resolution to be the companions of his captivity.

With what indignation it the Constable transported!—"Can a Sovereign, said he to the Duke, "so ill employ his power▪ as to oppress an innocent victim, abandoned to the malignant fury of ignoble courtiers? Can a bro­ther forgetting the sacred claims of nature▪ thus plunge a brother into misery and a prison? Duke, [Page 38] I do not accuse you. I persuade myself that na­ture will yet prevail in your bosom. She speaks to you; but they will not suffer you to hear her voice. 'Tis you I question—you have so fatally led astray your Sovereign—you, who thus cover your own private animosities, your latent treache­ry, and your infernal plots, with the specious pretence of reasons of state. Arthur, Hingant. d'Espinay, answer me if you dare—of what crimes do you accuse the Prince of Brittany? He has complained of the slenderness of his establish­ment; he has expressed a grateful predilection for the English, among whom he has been brought up. I do not pretend to conceal his faults. Mon­tauban, I do not wonder you are his enemy; he is the happy possessor of the woman you loved; but do not add injustice to hatred. Be great enough to confess to your Sovereign, that this is the sole motive of your conduct, and that you pant only for the destruction of a rival. And you, ignoble Hingant, since you still foster a re­sentment, which the most manly reparation could not disarm, go, and with your sword demand sa­tisfaction of my nephew. He will not insist up­on the privileges or his rank: he will obey you without hesitation. Barbarians, plunge your daggers into his breast; but do not assassinate him by shameful calumnies; do not ruin him in the affec­tion of his brother and his Sovereign. And you d'Espinay, the minister of the altar, so little worthy of that sacred employment, blush at the part they make you act, and resume the charac­ter of your function. Does Heaven command you to arm a brother against a brother? Ah! [Page 39] Duke, do not listen, do not listen to them. At­tend to the voice which you stifle, Pursue your natural inclination. Your own heart, I am cer­tain, solicits you in his favor. His impetuosity may have hurried him into faults, but of crimes he is incapable. I know you: they take advan­tage of your weakness. You will triumph over it; you will hear the sentiments of nature. Come, Prince, come with me to open the prison of a brother. Hasten to pardon and embrace him."

At this instant a beautiful women, with dishe­velled hair, her eyes swimming in tears, and an­guish in her face, rushes into the circle, and pros­trates herself at the feet of the Duke. He per­ceives the consort of the Price of Brittany: he would raise her; "No my Lord, I will not rise —I will die here if you refuse to grant my re­quest. Alas! my husband, your brother, is drag­ged into prison like a crimnal! My Lord, I alone ought to be punished for the only fault they can impute to him. I have inspired him with an unfortunate love—which I could not feel for Montauban. The Prince has formed, without your consent, those sacred and endearing ties that must attach me to misfortunes. It is I—I who now languish in all the horrors of captivity. Alas! are they not sufficiently revenged, since they have deprived him of your affection? Oh, my Lord, he pities, loves you, notwithstanding all the injustice he endures. Indeed, it is not my husband that can forget a moment you are his bro­ther!"

[Page 40]The Count of Richmond interrupted his niece: "Thy tears shall not flow in vain. Come, Duke, resist not these tears. Give me your hand; let us instantly go; and you will be indebted to me for an act of beneficence and justice."—The Duke suffered himself to be led by the Constable, but not without reluctance; and he looked at his cour­tiers, as if he endeavored to read in their eyes whe­ther they approved his conduct.

The Prince thus cruelly deprived of liberty, is doubtful for a while, whether he is not the sport of some idle dream. He hears a noise at the door of his prison. It is opened. He be­holds the Constable, leading the Duke by the hand, and followed by Alicia and Peter of Brit­tany. They were accompanied by many Lords. —"I see you again, my dearest Alicia," ex­claimed the Prince. She flings herself, weeping, in his arms.—"Nephew," said the Constable, "I bring your brother to you: ask his pardon, and he will restore you to liberty."—"Ask his pardon! And wherefore should I reduce myself to that abject state! What can they reproach me with?"—"Crimes," answered the Duke, all whose hatred was now rekindled, "perfidy, rape, ingratitude; you have courted the protection of the English; you have garrisoned your castle with them; you maintain a constant correspon­dence with Henry. You have torn from the arms of Montauban a wife that ought not to have been your's. In open defiance of all laws you have married her. And to fill up the measure of your crimes, you hate me and my faithful ser­vants; [Page 41] you would deprive me of the sovereign power, and perhaps of my life."—"Ah! my brother," interrupted the Prince, "and can you think that your life is not as dear to me as my own? No one can accuse me of such horrible crimes. I have ever respected, I have ever lov­ed you. It is true that I am partial to the En­glish: I have been bred up amongst them from my infancy: I have imbibed in their society, that spirit of frankness and liberty which is unknown in this country. Their taste, their amusements are mine. Their monarch is my zealous friend. But I appeal to him whether I have yet forgot­ten that I was your brother, your subject, the nephew of the King of France, and that Britta­ny is my country. Let Henry, let all England speak, and my accusers must be confounded. I will not conceal the excess of my passion for Ali­cia. I forced her from her ravisher. We loved each other—and did not you yourself engage your word that her marriage with Arthur should be de­layed till my return from England? I regarded this promise as an inviolable oath; and I learned that they were dragging Alicia to the altar▪ I perceived her in the arms of the perfidious man who has deprived me of your heart. Then, I confess it, I listened only to that passion, which can never be extinguished but with my life. Ah, my brother, have you never loved? Love, love is capable of all."

[Page 42]Francis seemed to listen more favorably to the Prince: "Ah, my lord," said Alicia, "I have already assured you that I alone am guilty. If a victim be necessary, go no further. Let me here fill the place of my husband. Let me be loaded with chains, let me end a wretched existence here, provided the Prince be free. Let this sa­crifice disarm the malice that is bent with such inveteracy on his ruin; let it restore to my dear husband the lost affection of his brother—I shall carry to the grave the sweetest satisfaction if my death can be useful to him."—

The Prince will not permit this angel-wife to finish: he hastens to her: he bedews her with his tears.—"Throw yourself," said she in a whisper, "at your brother's feet."—The Prince, in silent action, expresses his reluctance. Alicia utters only these words; "Do you love me?" and the Prince instantly prostrates himself before the Duke:—"What more can you require? Your brother, my Lord, is at your feet. Can you be inexorable?"

The Duke is very sensibly affected: he cannot conceal his emotion. On a sudden, Alicia, the Count of Richmond, and Peter of Brittany, em­brace his knees.—"Can you yet hesitate to par­don him?" exclaims the Count: "We do not blush to humble ourselves: your uncle, the Con­stable of France, implores the pardon of your bro­ther on his knees."

[Page 43]The Duke, at last, opens his arms to the pri­soner. He promises to forget all that has past. Nature triumphs over that aversion, the unhappy result of so many odious machinations.

The happy moment when the prince was to leave the prison was now impatiently expected. The Duke had scarce retired, when the Prince thus addressed his wife, who had been left alone with him: "Judge, my dear Alicia, of the em­pire you have over me. I have obeyed you: I have annihilated myself, as it were, at your com­mand, to submit to the most humiliating posture. And before whom did I prostrate myself? Before my brother—before my tyrant! Did you observe him? It was evident that he only acquiesced in that ascendency which the constable has obtained over us. With what regret, it was apparent, he permitted me to embrace him! No, I never shall regain his friendship. He will not long preserve that sensibility which you and the Count of Rich­mond could only inspire!—"What cruel mistrust, Prince, do you thus permit to embitter a happi­ness, of the certainty of which every thing as­sures us! Why do you impute such inhumanity to the Duke? Ah! who would not have been melt­ed by your situation? No heart could have been so obdurate as to resist such affecting prayers. The Duke, I doubt not, has been apprehensive of shewing you how much he was affected. A consciousness of wounded superiority only could have prevented him from mingling his tears with your's. My dear Prince, your good fortune is begining. Your enemies will now be confounded [Page 44] They will be witnesses of this reconciliation. It is now the blessed moment to pardon them. I know the greatness of your soul; and on the day of our happiness every one should be happy."

Such a wife must easily persuade. The Prince banishes his suspicions, and indulges himself in that sweet intoxication of joy, with which his wife is inspired. They resolve to retire far from the court, and to find their whole happiness in love and rural pleasures. "What is grandeur," said they, "compared to that pure and permanent tenderness which adds a sweeter charm to every moment we enjoy!"

Several persons are heard approaching.— "They are coming to release you," said Alicia: "dear Prince, do not forget to fly once more into your brother's arms."

What a deplorable revolution! Some guards appeared—"Madam, we have orders to sepa­rate you."—What is not my husband at liberty?" —"We obey, Madam, the commands of our So­vereign. We are to hold no conversation with you. Be so good only to retire."—"I fly to the Duke: it is impossible that he can so soon have changed his sentiments."—She embraces her hus­band; she presses him to her heart with a silence all expressive of terror and suspense; she leaves him. The Prince remains motionless; he is thunderstruck. Fetters are brought to him.— "Fetters? Fetters to me!—The guards, in fasten­ing them on, can hardly refrain from expressing [Page 45] the emotions they feel.—"There is nothing then in nature unfeeling but my brother! Tell me, I conjure you, what can have drawn upon me this excess of injustice and barbarity? Whither do you lead me? To death? Ah, dear Alicia! I shall never see thee more."

The guards answer only by some expressions of compassion, which seem to escape reluctantly from them. They remove their prisoner from Dinan to Rennes; thence to Chaetau Briant, and many other places▪ and finally to the fortress of Har­douinaye.

The motive of this barbarous inconsistency in the Duke's conduct may easily be divined. His return to nature had not been sufficiently decided, to overcome the representations of his brother's persecutors. Every thing he had said, in the mo­ments of passion, was repeated to the Duke with all possible aggravations; or rather, the most ab­surd calumnies were invented; and even witnes­ses were suborned to prove, that this victim of human malignity had formed the project of in­troducing the English into his country. In a word, they so far succeeded, that a persecution was commenced against the Prince and it was determined at all events to find him guilty.

The Attorney-general Du Breil received orders to prosecute him. This respectable magistrate hastens to his Sovereign's feet, paints to him all the horrors of the proceedings in which he was about to engage, and refuses to give his sanction [Page 46] to this iniquitous plot. The inflexible Duke ur­ges him to obey, and adds menaces to entreaty. Du Breil, at length, accepts the dreadful com­mission, but with the laudable design to divert the storm, or at least, to weaken its effects.

Alicia had hastened to throw herself at the feet of Francis:—"Ah, my Lord by what unexpect­ed fatality have your sentiments changed in so short a time? You permitted my husband to weep in your bosom; you even seemed to be affected with his tears; you were so gracious at last, to grant us his pardon; and now—now, Sire, they have loaded him with chains; he is dragged from prison to prison. He is accused of a thousand ex­cesses of which he could never be guilty even in idea. Have you determined, my Lord, to take his life? I am come to offer mine. Let me die rather than support the dreadful sight. My Lord, have my nuptial▪ drawn down your anger on my hus­band's head? Well then! shall I speak it? I con­sent—let the ties that unite us, the ties so dear to me, be dissolved: my heart will still be mine —my heart will never cease to adore him. I re­gard not myself: let him—let him be free. If his persecutors are apprehensive he may escape from their hands, (for you, alas, have abandoned them to their implacable hatred) I offer them a second victim. You have in me an hostage who will be responsible for my husband."—"I accept your proposal, Madam. You are my security of the fidelity of a brother whom I no longer re­gard by that title. My eyes are now opened. I see to what a degree the spirit of enmity and re­bellion [Page 47] may laid him."—"The Prince rebellious! He, my Lord! Alas, how much have they misled you! He hates you not. I will remain here: I will expect every punishment if the slightest ac­cusations against my husband have a shadow of truth. Alas, his only crime has been to love me too much. Once more, I alone am guilty. On me only ought to be wreaked the vengeance of exasperated jealousy. Let Arthur de Montauban come and pierce my bosom—but let my husband, my poor injured husband, be released."

In vain had the princess thus sacrificed her liber­ty, to secure that of her husband. This heroic action did not mitigate his sate. His prosecution was continued; and the heads of accusation were transmitted to the Seneschal of Rennes, in order to be laid before the States of Brittany.

Before this august assembly the Count of Rich­mond appeared, like a tutelary god that would hasten to the protection of a mortal. He addres­sed the States in a speech replete with the manly, unaffected, and pathetic eloquence of a soldier. He entered into a full vindication of the charac­ter and conduct of his nephew; and he demon­strated that the accusations against him had no other source than the implacable hatred of his enemies. Then addressing himself to the Duke, he urged all the considerations of justice, and all the claims of nature. His speech produced the most sensible effect on the whole assembly; and the Constable retired, not doubting of their ef­fectual interposition in favor of his nephew. The [Page 48] moment he had left the hall, the Viscount of R [...] ­han went to the Duke: "My Lord, said he, "may I presume to hope that my voice will be heard after the Count of Richmond's? You must be sensible, that as the relation of Arthur, I might be permitted to take part in his quarrel; but I am the first to disapprove of his proceedings against the Prince. From this moment I declare myself his avowed enemy, if he does not pros­trate himself before you, and solicit the return of your fraternal tenderness. Yes, Sire, I conjure you, I entreat you to forgive the Prince. I for­get the affront he has offered to the house of Mon­tauban; and I am sensible only to those emotions of pity and tenderness which the situation of the Prince your brother must excite."—The Viscount now throws himself at the feet of Francis, and seems still more to influence the whole assembly in favor of the unfortunate Prince.

The Count of Richmond did not doubt that his speech would produce the happy effects that might be expected from it. He received a letter from the king of France, who ordered him to repair to his court immediately; as the English were making new efforts to retake the places we had captured from them. The Constable, who prid­ed himself in a rigid attention to his millitary du­ty, obeyed the summons without delay; after having left in Britanny some trusty friends; to carry on the good he had begun, and which he considered as nearly finished.

[Page 49]But this great and good man was mastaken. The States of Brittany refused to decide on this important affair. The Prince continued still to groan in prison; nor was his wife much less a captive than himself. The heart of Francis be­came more obdurate than ever. The favorites, by their infamous intrigues, pre [...]ented the slight­est appearances of any return to sensibility.

The Duke caused memorials to be published in the Court of France, in which his brother was painted in the blackest colors. He was desirous of infusing in the breast of Charles the too unre­lenting hatred by which he himself was actuated. Dissatisfied with the conduct of the States, he pretended to establish the prosecution upon new informations; the first having afforded insuffici­ent proofs. He saw with regret that the assist­ance of the Attorney-general was indispensable. He sent therefore for Du Breil. When this res­pectable magistrate appeared, he loaded them with compliments and carresses. He then endeavored to color his proceedings against the Prince with the appearances of justice; and at the same time he promised, what such atrocious characters are apt to think irresistible, all the honors and emo­luments which ambition and avarice could desire, in order to persuade Du Breil to enter into his views—"Ah! Sire, said this virtuous magistrate, "you have been pleased to applaud me for my love of justice: but can I deserve that applause, if I consent to adopt your present views? Shall [Page 50] I be worthy of the high office which you have already honored me? Sovereigns, Sire, are supe­rior to other men; but the laws are superior to them. I am ready to devote my life to your ser­vice, as the best expression of my duty. But the rights of justice I dare not violate. And what, my Lord, can you require of me? It is justice? My whole conduct has been actuated by its mo­tives. Your brother cannot long be detained in prison. It is not my province, who am to ac­knowledge only the inflexible power of the laws; it is not my province to become the organ of compassion; to plead the birth and youth of the Prince your brother; nor to enforce the tender and inviolable claims of nature. I contemplate neither rank nor age; I listen to no voice but the voice of truth, whose minister you have appoint­ed me. It is my duty, therefore, to declare, that the charges brought against the Prince are insufficient to convict him."—"What!" inter­rupted the Duke, "dare you resist my authori­ty?" "I obey, my Lord, the voice of my con­science. No human authority can silence that voice, to which all men, whatever be their rank and condition, must attend."—"What contum­acy is this! But I know how to punish it."— "Here, my Lord, is my head; a head grown grey in the exercise of my functions. Strike— let it fall at your feet. I am seventy-eight years of age. I will not dishonor the few days I have yet to live. You cannot wish that the last moments of a faithful subject should be blasted with eternal infamy. My life I abandon to you; but my honor, my honor is my only real existence, and [Page 51] no power on earth shall deprive me of it."— "Away, rebellious subject!"—"Rather say, my Lord, a subject who would give his life to recall you to yourself."—"I want not either your coun­sels or your assistance; I shall find sufficient means to satisfy my just resentment."—"Ah, my Lord, dread the terrors of remorse: it is more power­ful than Kings."—"Dread the effects of my in­dignation—Retire."

Du Breil, at these words, left the exaspe­rated Duke. There were moments when the latter meditated the ruin of the venerable man; but he soon adopted different thoughts. The bad man, in spite of himself, feels a certain respect for virtue; and this, indeed, is not one of the slightest torments that distract him. Francis despairing of success by legal methods, dropped the persecution he had commenced, and, in con­cert with his base corrupters, formed some projects to effect the ruin of his brother.

In the mean time the unfortunate Prince was exposed to all the sufferings which ingenious cru­elty could devise; and these sufferings were aug­mented by the dreadful reflection that his Alicia, his adorable Alicia was subject to the same unre­lenting inhumanity. One day he received a let­ter from a centinel, which this man, in a whisper, desired him not to open till he was alone. He is impatient to read it: the gaolers retire: trem­bling and precipitately, notwithstanding his fet­ters, he opens it. From his beloved Alicia! He lavishes a thousand kisses upon it. He reads all [Page 52] the affecting effusions of tenderness and grief. He learns that this angelic wife, who had given herself as an hostage for her husband, is herself in captivity; she deplores her fate, in not being per­mitted to share, in his prison, the sufferings of her much injured Lord. She assures him of that invariable love, which, even this accumulation of calamity, is still the delight of her life; and she implores him by all his tenderness for her, to write to the King of France, to entreat his in­tercession with his brother; and for her sake too to forget himself as it were, and to endeavor by every mode of submission, to disarm the anger of that unnatural brother, and by repeated letters, if possible, to conciliate his affection.—How of­ten did the Prince read again and again this pa­thetic letter! How often kiss it, and bedew it with his tears. The soldier, who brought it, fur­nished him with the means of writing. His slackened fetters permit him to use his hands; and he writes to the charming partner of his soul all that augmented tenderness, and admiration, and sensibility could inspire. For her he promises to live; for her to forget the proud feelings of his heart; and her injunctions in every instance to fulfil.

The hatred of Francis increase with every day; and as disappointed love is inexorable, Arthur de Montauban, on his part, continued to flatter himself, that the death of the Prince would again put Alicia into his power. Impatient with this hope, he flies to the Duke who had sent for him. He finds him attended by Hingant and Oliver du [Page 53] Meel, a gentleman devoted to the house of Mon­tauban, and one of his favorites in whom the Duke placed implicit confidence. They were de­clared enemies to the Prince of Brittany. "My friends," said Francis, burning with ungoverna­ble rage, "the laws, you see, refuse to serve me." The high credit of my uncle has prevented the states from coming to a decision, and has even silenced my Attorney-general. Arthur, this wretch has cruelly injured you—he has robbed you of your wife—could not you undertake to re­venge?"—"How, my Lord?"—"You may easily understand me. Cannot you imagine what ought to be the fate of an enemy, who is abso­lutely in our power?"—The countenance of Ar­thur flashes with indignation. There is a grada­tion in profligacy, at which the most abandoned may shudder.—"My Lord▪" said Arthur, "I have reason to detest the Prince; but my hatred would never suggest to me such a step. I wish him torments equal to those with which he has distracted me. As a state criminal, impatient to betray his country and his Sovereign into the hands of the English, doubtless merits death. But I! 'shall I be his executioner! Shall Arthur de Montauban degrade himself to such a degree? Sire, you have not a subject more devoted to your service: But I dare disobey my sovereign, when he commands an action, that would cover me with eternal infamy.' Permit me to retire."

[Page 54]The Duke appears astonished. He cannont conceive the motives of this refusal; that a rival should hesitate a moment to get rid of a rival, when he is put into his power. From extreme weakness results a cruelty as extreme; which was absolutely what rendered Francis more barbarous than Montauban. The Duke persists in his dread­ful project, and addresses himself next to Hin­gant, who seems to consent to gratify the inhuman wishes of his master.

It is with regret, we confess, that we draw the picture of such horrors; a sovereign, a brother, permitting himself to be hurried into such dread­ful excesses! but it is the voice of history herself, which is here faithfully recorded; and we cannot too often repeat to men, to what a degree their passions, or rather their weaknesses, may mislead them. Francis, who, surrounded by other cour­tiers, might have displayed the virtues of Anto­ninus, is become the execration of posterity.

Hingant, on the first appearances of consent that had escaped him, felt all the horrors of re­morse. As soon as he returned home, he sent at midnight to the Attorney-general, requesting him to come immediately, as he had an affair of the greatest moment to communicate. To this venerable magistrate, in the utmost disorder, and with a faltering voice, he explained his embar­rassing situation. The language of Du Breil, in return, was that of virtue herself when she endea­vors to preserve her wandering votaries from in­evitable ruin: "There is no room," said he, to [Page 55] hesitate. It is far preferable, at all events, to disobey the Duke, than to offend your conscience and humanity. It is the voice of conscience that now expostulates with you—that voice which would pursue you, were you seated on a throne. The favor of a Sovereign is not to be compared to that sweet peace, that sunshine of the soul, which attends the happy man, unsullied by reproach." —In a word, after a variety of other excellent observations, he exhorted the hesitating courtier to absent himself immediately from court, and to fly, in course, from guilt and infamy, and re­morse.

Hingant followed this advise: he absented him­self from court. Francis exasperated to find his cruelty thus disappointed, addressed himself next to Oliver du Meel, who, less scrupulous than Hin­gant, undertook every thing in concert with Ro­bert de Boussel, one of the guards of the Prince of Brittany.

The unfortunate Prince had found means to send to the King of France a very long letter, which contained all the particulars of his dreadful situa­tion. He informed that Monarch, that for three year past, he had been wasting away his life in fetters, without having once had the liberty of producing his defence. His approaching death, he said, was inevitable, unless some protector of suffering humanity would interpose in his favor. He concluded his letter (in which all he felt for his beloved Alicia was pathetically urged) by im­ploring the King to summon him to France, and [Page 56] to be himself his judge. "From your majesty only," said he, "I expect justice. If I am guil­ty, you will punish me: if innocent, I shall be jus­tified by equity itself."

This letter was blotted in many places by the Prince's tears. Nor could Charles read it without weeping. In this situation he is surprised by his Chamberlain. William de Kosnyvinen, a Cheva­lier of the highest probity:—You weep, Sire! This writing."—"Alas, it is a letter which I have just received from the Prince of Brittany; he is guilty no doubt, but his situation is truly deplorable!"—"Oh, Sire, do not stifle those compassionate emotion, which do so much honor to Majesty. Listen to the voice of pity in pre­ference to the suggestions of an ill-founded re­sentment." —The Chamberlain then entered into a full justification of the Prince: he refuted all the atrocious calumnies that had been invented to destroy. him:—"and can your Majesty," he pro­ceeded, "abandon this injured nephew? Is not a King of France the representative of God? Does he not extend his protecting hand to all the unfortunate that implore it? His throne is the al­tar of benificence: and the most pitiable of men, a prince, your nephew, solicits your compassion. The constable joins his entreaties to mine: he is at this moment at the head of your army: he has written to me to intercode in favor of this victim of an inexorable cabal. Sire, give your orders. Let the Prince come to prostrate himself before you; and you will pronounce, as he desires, his acquittal or condemnation. Do not demand the [Page 57] advice of courtiers▪ I know them: they are sel­dom the side of mercy and humanity. It is yourself, Sire, it is your own feeling heart, it is the King of France whom you ought to consult. Oh, my Sovereign, be the protector of innocence. To wipe one single tear from the wretched, is a glory preferable to all the splendor of conquest. Why is it in the power of Monarchs to enjoy more happiness than their subjects? It is because they have a greater power to do good; and un­fading pleasure follows but one single act of be­nificence. Sire, I will not quit your knees till you have granted my request. It is an old ser­vant prostrate before you, who is emboldened at this moment to demand some recompence for his services; but it is to your generosity only that he will be indebted for your favor to the Prince of Brittany."—"Rise, Chevalier, and embrace your friend. Yes, you are perfectly right. No circumstances of my life will ever afford me such unmingled satisfaction; I will consult my own heart: I will consult such a worthy subject as you. You assure me that the Prince is the victim of calumny: I should wound you too sensibly, if I suspected a moment that you have deceived me. Let my Admiral repair immediately to the Court of Brittany: let him speak to the Duke in my name: let liberty be restored to my nephew: I will send for him here: I myself will hear him.

[Page 58]The Chamberlain, delighted with the suc­cess of this conversation, had hastened im­mediately to the Admiral, who delayed not a moment to repair to the Duke at Vannes, and in the King's name, to desire the enlargement of the Prince. This interposition was too res­pectable to be opposed. Alicia in her retreat, or rather in her prison, received this intelligence, with transports of joy. Nor did the unfortu­nate Prince experience a revolution less satisfac­tory. He had been informed (but by what means is unknown) that the heart of the Duke, had re­lented, and that his imprisonment was soon to terminate. Who can speak his sensations—the exquisite joys of anticipation? The Constable, moreover, and the other friends of the Prince, the virtuous few that were still less in the court of Brittany: gave way to the most lively demonstra­tions of joy. In a word, the courier had alrea­dy departed from the Duke, with orders for the immediate release of the Prince his brother.

By what fatality have Malignity and Hatred resources, of which Benevolence can form no conception? the enemies of the Prince of Britta­ny were confounded: their prey was on the point of escaping from them; and they were ever to be witnesses of his triumph. This last idea aug­mented their rage: it suggested an expedient which one may call the master-piece of infernal machinations. They discover the execrable ta­lent of an old wretch, named Peter de la Rose, who could counterfeit any hand whatever. He had resided a long time in England, and studied [Page 59] with singular success the style of the dispatches of the court of London. To this detestable being the conspirators had recourse; and him they brib­ed to fabricate, in the name of Henry, a letter addressed to the Duke of Brittany, demanding the instant enlargement of the Prince, and threa­tening, in case of refusal, to pour a considerable army into his dominions. The Duke, highly exasperated at this letter, of the authenticity of which he had not a doubt, instantly revoked the order he had given to release the Prince; and, listening only the dictates of his rage; he vowed from that moment his destruction, which he said, he had but too long deferred. In a word, the Admiral of France was dismised, with­out that success in his negociation of which he had not once made a question. The cabal more­over, by their secret intrigues, had contrived to irritate the English, who actually declared war against the Duke, and demanded the enlargement of his brother; a circumstance which could not fail to augment a thirst of vengeance that was now become insatiable.

The unfortunate Prince was anticipating the happy moment of deliverance: he hears a noise: his heart dilates with the sweet suggestions of hope.—New attendants, more inhuman than the former, entered with Oliver du Meel at their head, in order to drag him from his chamber, and plunge him into a dungeon. The unfortu­nate Prince demands the reason of a revolution so contrary to what he had expected. Can it be imagined?—But History attests the fact—a vio­lent [Page 60] blow was the only answer that the Prince of Britany received, Then all his fortitude forsook him: he burst into a torrent of tears. "Great God! could I ever expect to be treated with such indignity? has my brother given such orders? Could he not be satisfied with the sufferings I have endured? Must he add infamy to them?"— But these monsters, so far from being disarmed by expostulation and complaint, repeated their ill treatment. They removed from him that kind attendant who had enabled him to write to his wife and to the king of France; and he was ut­terly deprived of the sweet satisfaction of hearing from Alicia, who was now more strictly guarded than ever.

The most abandoned men are incapable, some­times of resisting the impressions of pity; so much is that sentiment natural, as it were, to the hu­man heart. Ah! wretched mortals, why do you not oftener lend an ear to that affecting voice, which solicits you in favor of the unfortunate? Would you augment the number of your pleasures? Barbarity is an impression that is foreign to you: it fatigues the soul, and is ever productive of disgust and remorse. Du Meel, that inflexible monster, is overcome by the entreaties and tears of his prisoner. He furnishes him with the means of writing to the Duke, to whom the Prince ad­dresses the following letter:

How omnipotent is Love! Had he been affect­ed by his own suffering only, the Prince certain­ly would never have descended to such humilia­ting expressions: but the fate of his beloved Ali­cia was to be decided; and the heart that truly loves, is sensible to a kind of pride, in thus vo­luntarily humbling itself for the dear object of its affection. What sacrifices are there which cost [Page 64] more than that of life! Humiliation is the sad con­summation of misfortune; and, when pride is the victim, we have no other left to offer.

The unhappy prisoner counts the day, the hours, the moments: he receives no answer. In the anguish of despair, he writes another letter, if possible more humiliating and affecting still. He implores the speedy sentence of death as a relief from insupportable misery; he implores his inexorable brother not to extend the pursuit of vengeance beyond the grave; but to spare, at least, his memory; and to protect in her widow­hood the wretched and forlorn Alicia.—But instead of these letters, which, one would imagine, must have melted the most obdurate bosom, the Duke had received others full of reproaches and menaces. These were counterfeited by the exe­crible Peter de la Rose. Francis, exasperated by these letters, no longer affected moderation. It had been reported to him that the Prince, in a fit of despiration, had declared that he would put an end to his life. "He may dispose of it as he pleases," coldly answered the barbarian. The slightest expressions of a Sovereign are gathered with avidity; nor are Courtiers wanting to give them with ease an interpretation favorable to their Master's views. The words which the Duke had dropped, did not escape the enemies of the Prince, who instantly concerted the detestable project of getting rid of their prisoner. They prepared an order in the name of Francis, for the execution of the Prince. This order was carried to the keeper of the Great Seal for the necessary sanction. [Page 65] Eon de Baldwin, which was the name of this ex­cellent man, (and such names, for the honor of humanity, and the consolation of virtue, ought to be transmitted to posterity) Eon de Baldwin, peremptorily refused to put the seal to this act of imposture and iniquity. He lost his place, and, gained immortal honor. The order, at length received its legal form from a more complaisant hand, and Oliver du-Meel was charged to put it in execution.

The Constable, who was still obliged to be at the head of the army, could only conti­nue to importune the King of France by reiterat­ed dispatches. The enemies of the Prince want­ed not resources to prejudice Charles against his nephew, notwithstanding the incessant represen­tation of the virtuous Kosnyvinen. By what strange fatality has falshood thus almost ever an access to the great?

Du Meel was now given to understand, that he must hasten the unravelling of this abominable plot. He observed to hesitate, whether from the powerful influence of remorse, or from his appre­hensions that the Duke might afterwards repent, and punish him for a pliability so fatal. Promi­ses, rewards, governments, a variety of dazzling anvantages for himself and his accomplices, are all displayed, and are too powerful at last. The Prince is now thrown into a dungeon still deeper, and full of water. The grated window here o­verlooked [Page 66] the ditch that surrounded the fortress. It being now determined to starve their wretched victim, several days elapsed without supplying him with any kind of food.

The unfortunate Prince feels all the horror of his approaching fate. He utters the most lament­able crimes: he implores the assistance of all the passengers whom he can perceive on the other side of the ditch: he extends his suppliant hands through the bars. "It is the Prince of Britta­ny," he cried, "it is the Prince of Brittany, who beseeches you for God's sake, to bestow a little bread and water."—No one durst stop even to hear him; so much were all apprehensive of suf­fering the smallest indication of pity to escape. How few are the exalted minds that can venture to undertake the defence of humanity, at the ex­pense of personal interest▪ And how much easier is submission to the yoke of tyranny!

A poor woman, who was wont to solicit chari­ty near the Castle, was greatly affected by the de­plorable situation of the Prince. The name of this respectable creature is unknown; while the world is pestered with the names and surnames of so many illustrious villains, who in reality, should he the reproach and execration of mankind. Are ingratitude and cruelty then natural to the human heart? Or, are the unfortunate alone endeed with sensibility? This woman, who had scarce a morsel of bread herself to support a miserable ex­istence, had the resolution to descend by night into the ditch, and to convey to the prison [...] [Page 67] his window, or rather spiracle, that morsel of bread, and a small jug of water.—"My Lord," said she, "I give you all I have. I would die to serve you. Speak—what can I do for you? Alas! the great folks are then sometimes as much to be pitied as we are! Oh, my Lord, cannot I be yet more useful to you?"—The Prince is so af­fected by this generous action, that the tears, for some moments, interrupt his voice: at last, bro­ken by sobs, it finds a vent: It is you, excellent creature, that thus come to succour me, while every one else—my brother"—He cannot pro­ceed: he is choaked by tears.—"My Lord," resumed the good woman, "I am certain the Duke cannot know your situation: I am deeply affected with it. Believe me, I will go and beg my bread with greater earnestness than ever. I will bring every day whatever I can get. Oh, my Lord, it shall all be yours—a very little will suffice me."—The Prince now experienced some mitigation of misery. How consolatory is pity! He incessantly repeated: "This then is the only bosom I have been able to soften!"

This woman, the heroine of sentiment, wait­ed for the hour of darkness, to bring her noctur­nal tribute of bread and water to the Prince. He could not see her again without apprehensions for her safety: "If you should be discovered," said he, "your life is in danger."—"Ah, my Lord," she answered, "what is the risque of my life, compared to the satisfaction of prolonging yours"—The Prince asks her several questions: he would fain learn from her what was the situa­tion [Page 68] of his wife: she cannot give him the least in­formation on this interesting head.—"You endea­vor to prolong my life," said he to his benefac­tress; it is necessary to think also of the concerns of my soul. The barbarians have even denied me this succour. I conjure you to procure some charitable Friar to confess me; for I perceive my dissolution approaching, notwithstanding all your compassionate endeavors."

The good woman ran to throw herself at the feet of a Cordelier, who was her confessor. She related to him what she had done for the Prince of Brittany: she described the situation in which she had found him? and she soon prevailed upon the good Friar to repair to the prisoner. This man, worthy to fulfil the sacred functions of his ministry, and who was actuated by its benevolent spirits, exposes himself to the danger of being apprehended, and follows the woman, who con­ducting him in the dark, brings him to the grat­ed window. She calls the Prince, who can find no words sufficiently expressive of his grateful feelings: "My Lord," said the Cordelier, "I only fulfil my duty; and who ought to fly to the succour of misery, if not to the ministers of Re­ligion! Religion is the friend of the unfortunate: her bosom is open to their complaints; and she teaches us to sacrifice all, even life itself to her. The dictates of religion are more powerful than the common impressions of humanity. Command then my zeal and best services. Gracious God! what savages! Are they men, are they Christi­ans that treat you thus?"—The prisoner with an [Page 69] affecting air, extends an arm wasted away, to the Friar: "Alas, it is my brother!—I perceive," added he, "by these sentiments, the character of that true religion that inspires you. Yes, Re­ligion only could have rendered you so compas­sionate, so charitable! I am forsaken by all the world. There are none to whom I can express my sufferings but God; and from him alone can I hope for compassion. Believe me, generous souls," addressing himself to the Friar and the woman, "should Heaven restore me to the world, my whole existence shall be employed to convince you both how deeply I am penetrated by your heroic goodness. Ah! I have found then two friends before I die."—"Oh, my Lord," an­swered the woman, "we are the persons oblig­ed. Till now I never thought there were any pleasures on earth for poor folks. You have con­vinced me, that in the greatest distress, one may yet enjoy happiness: I am the happiest creature in the world: I have been able to save your life."

The prisoner now thought he could trust this worthy creature with a commission that required some address. It was to gain admittance to the Princess, and to engage her to come there to see her dying husband. "If her hand," said the Prince, "could close my eyes—if she could receive my last sigh—go, my worthy benefactress, exert every effort. May I once more enjoy the sight of my wife!"

[Page 70]The good woman leaves the Prince with the Cordelier, and hastens to find some means of gain­ing admittance to Alicia. The Friar is now en­gaged in administering, according to the custom of the Romish Church, the last consolations of Religion. His penitent gives an ingenious reca­pitulation of his faults, and deplores them with the most sincere contrition. He then adverts to the horror of his situation: "My Father, I am certainly guilty in the sight of God: you behold the contrition of my soul: but you assure me that my tears, my repentance, will obtain that par­don from Heaven, which men have the cruelty to refuse me. Alas! who has thus plunged me into such a gulf of misery? My brother—a bro­ther I loved—a brother"—At these words he bursts into tears. "My father," he resumes, "God commands it by your mouth: it is my du­ty then to pardon him."—The priest represents to him all that religion prescribes to us on this head.—"I forgive him: but since he obstinately refuses to hear the proofs of my innocence; since he rejects my cries, my tears, my last sigh; I ap­peal to the tribunal of the Supreme Judge, the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. I cite him to appear before the throne of God in forty days.^* Go, and tell him in my name, to what an aven­ger I have appealed. Tell him that you have seen his brother plunged in stagnant water, bath­ed with his tears, wasted by famine, on the point [Page 71] of exha [...]ing his wretched life, and—forgiving him, and even loving him still. Yes, my father, he is still dear to me. This augments my suffer­ings. I know that my enemies have taken ad­vantage of his weakness. They have forced him, I am convinced, to detest, to persecute his brother. Tell him also that I implore at least some compassion for my wife. They will not surely, extend to her this unmerited persecution. If Heaven, my father, should permit your voice to touch him; If I should be allowed to prostrate myself at his feet, to—but I shall soon be no more. Oh, my father, forget not in your prayers the most wretched of men. I leave to God the care of rewarding you. Take this ring, it is of small value; the only thing of which my executioners have not deprived me. Deign to preserve it in memory of an unfortunate man, who is deeply sensible of the invaluable service you have ren­dered him."

The good father had not the power to answer; he wept bitterly with the prisoner, who took his hand through the bars, and bedewed it with his tears: "Adieu, my dear benefactor, adieu once more. See the Duke, and forget not to say to what a tribunal I have cited him. But I have done with men: I now bid adieu to the world; I throw myself into the arms of God: he only can know the truth: he alone is the avenger of in­nocence."

The goaler and his attendants, who had hoped that hunger would rid them of their prisoner, are [Page 72] astonished to find him still alive. He had con­cealed, in a corner of his dungeon, some pieces of bread, and a jug of water. Alas! what suste­nance for the brother of a Sovereign!

Oliver du-Meel cannot divine by what kind of prodigy his hopes are thus defeated. The wretch­es who breathed nothing but the death of their victim, and who dreaded that a return of frater­nal tenderness, in the heart of Francis, might de­prive then of the fruit of their vengeance, gave du-Meel to understand, that he must hasten the end of his prisoner. It was resolved therefore to poison him. They affected therefore to compassionate his situation; and some soup was brot, which so far from reviving him, was to put a pe­riod to his existence. But the strength of his constitution overcame the effects which du-Meel expected from the poison; and the Prince strug­ged against death, which, as it were, invested him on every side.

He yields a moment to the violence of such complicated woes. That sleep which springs from the excess of sufferings, and which may be regarded as the bounty of nature, that tender mother ever intent to aid us; this overpowering sleep closed the eye-lids of the prisoner. He hears himself called by an affecting voice: he ha­stens to the window: "Is it true? By what mir­acle? It is you, dear Alicia, it is you! In what a dress! A faint light of the moon permitted him to destinguish objects. The Princess, (for it was indeed no illusive vision) the Princess could not [Page 73] forbear from uttering a piercing cry, when she beheld her husband in this deplorable situation. She sunk, clinging to the bars, which she be­dewed with her tears: "Dear Prince—dear hus­band—is it thus a barbarous brother treats you? Oh! I will hasten to demand death."—"Alas!" said the Prince retaining her hand, "every ef­fort is in vain. I have already done too much. Our humiliation has been too abject. My death is inevitable. But I have seen you, dearest, best of women. It was the favor I implored of God, my soul protector: he has granted it, and I now die content."

The good woman had found means to conquer every obstruction. She approached the Princess, as they were conducting her to church; and, un­der pretence of begging charity, she had found time to communicate her husband's wishes. Ali­cia, by means of a sheet cut into a proper disguise, had contrived to leave her apartment in the night; and having put on the dress of the poor woman, to whom she had left her own clothes, and been instructed in what manner she should cross the ditch; she had gained, under this concealment, the dreadful habitation of her lord! "No, dear­est Prince," said she, impressing her kisses and tears on one of his hands, "you shall not die: I will go and embrace the knees of the cruel author of our woes: I will either soften his obdurate heart, or he shall plunge the dagger in my bo­som. It is my husband—my husband who suffers [Page 74] all these torments, who eats the bread of poverty! —Oh, Heaven! Heaven! canst thou permit injus­tice to enjoy such a triumph?"

A sudden noise is heard: torches are perceiv­ed; and a number of guards are distinguished. In an instant, these savages rush through the ditch, and seize the Princess, who shrieking, clings to the bars, determined not to be torn from her husband: "Oh, merciless tigers, let us die at least together. Will you refuse us even this consolation?"—"Barbarians," exclaims the Prince, "come hither; plunge your weapons in my bosom; let not an innocent wife be the ob­ject of your rage. On me, on me only wreak your vengeance!"

The guards are deaf to both. The poor wo­man, in a dress so unsuitable to her condition, had been apprehended; but neither menaces, nor even more violent treatment had been able to ex­tort her secret. A child, who was accidentally near the spot, where Alicia had exchanged her dress, discovered all. The good woman was thrown into a dungeon; and the almost expiring Princess was conveyed back to her apartment, where she was treated with the utmost severity of confinement.

The Duke had just taken Avranches from the English: he was on the point of setting out to sleep at Mount St. Michael, when he was inform­ed that a Friar desired to speak with him in pri­vate. Already did his soul experience the tor­ments [Page 75] inseperable from guilt. In vain he remov­ed from place to place, the idea of his brother incessantly pursued him, [...] into his heart, and excited that anguish, that terror of himself, which nothing could dissipate. He heard or fan­cied that he heard, the most lamentable cries: it was, if one may so express it, an insurrection of all his senses; and every object, as it were, assumed a voice, to reproach him for his inhu­manity. Nature, then, cannot be offended with impunity. How sweet the reverse which Virtue knows: under the most calamitous trials, she preserves her wonted serenity, and, in the favor­able testimony of conscience, finds a consolation for every woe!

When the courtiers had retired, the Friar was introduced to the Duke, who thus addressed him: "My good father, what is your business with me?" —"To prevent, my Lord, the height of injus­tice and barbarity; to urge the rights of Nature and Religion. I am charged with an unpleasing commission; but my duty commands me to exe­cute it without reserve. The Prince your bro­ther, whose dissolution is fast approaching, sum­mons you to that inevitable, that irrevocable judgment, to which all mankind must submit— the jugdment of God: he cites you to his tribu­nal in the space of forty days."—"You dare"— "Every thing, my Lord, that may turn you from the brink of this dreadful precipice, that may open your eyes, and restore you to yourself. Pic­ture to yourself the Prince bending under the weight of his chains; buried, as it were, in a [Page 76] ditch full of water: and condemned, by the bar­barous instruments of your vengeance, to expire of hunger: he is now languishing under all its horrors. The charity of a poor woman only has hitherto prolonged his miserable existence. She has secretly given him the slender pittance she has been able to procure by begging—a morsel of bread, scarce sufficient for her own sustenance, which she has parted with for your brother, who is this moment moistening this little nourishment with his tears—who is extending to you his two arms wasted away by hunger. Oh! my Lord, it is your brother that is reduced to this extremity —he yet endeavors to justify you: he is persuad­ed that you have been deceived; that his enemies have employed your sacred name, to make him endure torments, that would not be inflicted on the most abandoned of mankind. Alas! what crime has merited such unparalleled sufferings? Yes, notwithstanding these sufferings, of which you are the author, he cannot hate you—you are still dear to him—his dying voice invokes you still. Oh, my Lord, my Lord, open your bo­som again to this unfortunate brother: recall, if possible, his last sigh. Has he offended you? Mercy, my Lord, is the most shining attribute of the Deity. And are not Sovereigns his august image on earth? In clemency, in benificence on­ly they are superior to other men. If you per­mit this last crime to be perpetrated—tremble. I am bound to forwarn you, that your bosom will be distracted by everlasting remorse; a terrify­ing spectre will ever haunt you; his plaintive ac­cents will instantly strike your ears. Nor rest, [Page 77] nor consolation, will ever be your's. You will perceive the emptiness of all your grandeur. The magnificence and pleasures of sovereignty can never restore serenity of soul. You will en­deavor to fly from yourself; but in every scene you will find yourself again—the most wretched —the most guilty of mankind. Yes a little while, and you may be rescued from the abyss of misery. Submit to Truth, to pity, to Religion; which all conjure you by my voice, by my tears, to put a period to the punishment of an unfortu­nate man—My Lord, sooner or later you must appear before God: and how can you stand in his tremendous presence, all covered with the tears, the blood of a brother!"—"Oh;" cried the Duke, bursting into tears, and sinking into the Friar's arms, "my father, my father, whatever you desire—give my orders—my brother—I am impatient to see him, to embrace him again—it is I who now implore my pardon from him—I will entreat you to obtain it for me."—He calls his attendants: "Come hither instantly: let du-Meel set the Prince at liberty. Make haste—make haste—let me fold him in my arms! And you, ve­nerable man, so worthy of your sacred function, you recall me to Religion, to Humanity, to Na­ture; you remove from my heart a burden that overwhelmed it. Ah! how much it costs to be inhuman! But how great the satisfaction in yield­ing to the suggestions of pity. How sweet is it to pardon, to love, to listen to Nature, whose soft suggestions we endeavor to stifle. A voice [Page 78] incessantly whispered within me to spare my bro­ther. My father, you must never leave me. Subjects who speak the truth, these are the faith­ful servants in whom a Sovereign should confide. For ever far from me be those infamous courtiers. My father, they have dug the abyss in which you see me plunged: they have rendered me odious to Brittany, to myself. Oh, my brother, my dear brother, I will repair all the injuries I have made thee suffer. I will dry up thy tears by un­ceasing proofs of tenderness. I shall enjoy a res­toration of happiness that—"

The Constable whom he imagined to be at the head of the French army, hastily enters the a­partment, trembling with rage: "Wretch," he cried, "thou hast now arrived at the consumma­tion of thy crimes!"—"My uncle, they will not be committed. I have sent this instant to release my brother."—"Release him! he is assassinated!" —"Go, run, see his dungeon overflowing with his blood; and 'tis by thy orders"—"Oh, Hea­vens! what do I hear"—"What thy barbarity might have foreseen, what thou hast doubtless commanded, what will draw down upon thy head the dreadful vengeance of Heaven. Yes, du-Meel perceiving that neither hunger nor poison could destroy my nephew, has caused him to be assassinated by wretches, worthy of executing thy abominable pleasure. Yes, all is over! Thy bro­ther is no more! The King has permitted me to fly to his succour; and I am come to behold his corpse, to weep over his sad remains! Prince, unworthy of thy rank and family, I renounce [Page 79] thee for ever. I will instantly repair to the King, who is now sensible how much he has been de­ceived; and I shall demand justice on thee and thy vile accomplices."

The Constable, without waiting for a reply, hastily retired. The Cordelier was going to follow him: "My father," cried the Duke, al­ready struck with the most dreadful terror, "stop; remain with me; support me under this excess of misery. The prediction is fulfilled: I hear—I see him—the dreadful spectre—he pur­sues me! Where shall I hide myself? Great God! is there now no hope for me? Canst thou pardon a wretch sullied by his brother's blood, polluted with every crime? Oh, my father, what suffer­ings! Hell, hell is in my bosom!"

In fact, remorse, and superstition united their dreadful force; and persecuted the Duke with unceasing terrors. Murmurs were heard in ev­ery part of Brittany: they augmented every day: the soldiery felt a degree of horror in marching under the banners of such a leader. The faults of the unhappy Prince were all forgotten: his misfortunes were the melancholy theme of every tongue. The detestable favorites of the Duke did not escape the vengeance of Heaven: most of them came to a violent death.^*—No ex­pressions can describe it. Francis perceiving his [Page 80] end approaching, sent for his brother Peter of Brittany, and declared to him his will, in pre­sence of the principal Lords and officers of his houshold. He expired soon after in the arms of the Cordelier, who had never quitted him. He often pronounced before he died the name of his brother, whose pale and bloody apparition he constantly imagined in his presence. Sometimes he conjured him to grant his pardon; and often he would cast the odium of his guilt on the wick­ed Courtiers that had misled him. By a codicil to his will, he ordered a foundation to be estab­lished for the repose of the soul of Giles of Brit­tany, at the Abbey of Boquien, where that Prince was interred. But ah! of what avail was this slender reparation, the deplorable resource of guilt, and terror, and superstition?

We may add, that however guilty Francis might be, his Courtiers were still more so. These are the great criminals whom humanity can never pardon, and whom posterity must hold in ever­lasting detestation.—Men of letters have been sometimes asked, "What moral can result from the relation of such an event?"—Were this ques­tion to be now proposed, I would answer; "Can any moral be more striking, awful, and irresistible, than that which this history contains?"

AT the age of twenty-two, Mrs. Falkland being left a widow, with an only daugh­ter, retired into the country, that she might de­vote her future life to the education of her Ma­tilda; an employ she was well qualified to under­take, as she joined to the accomplished lady a well improved mind, and an elegant understand­ing.

Under the tuition of such a mother, Matilda made a rapid progress in every branch of useful and ornamental knowledge; but unhappily for her, Mrs. Falkland was determined to raise the declining [...] of her family by a profitable marriage.

The beauty and accomplishments of Matilda, who had now reached her seventeenth year, were [Page 84] the topic of conversation among all the neigh­boring gentleman, and many offered themselves as canditates for her affection. In this number was Edward Stanley, the only son of a gentle­man who lived near the mother of Matilda. He possessed a fortune sufficiently above the reach of want; was handsome in figure, and elegant in ad­dress. These however, were his least important qualities—his temper was open and generous; his mind well stored with useful learning, and gifted with every virtue that dignifies the nature of man. He had long admired Matilda. There seemed to be, in her, a mind above "the level of the vulgar great." She had also been an at­tentive observer of Edward; and discovered in him, a disposition, and education, much superi­or to that of any other gentleman. Mr. Stanley was, what every country gentleman should be, a man of real sense and sound morals. He had be­stowed the greatest care in educating his son, and had the abundant satisfaction to see the blessing of Heaven attend his endeavor. He often admired the great understanding of Mrs. Falkland, and the amiable character of her daughter; as per­sons possessed of far more sense and accomplish­ments, than many to whom Providence had giv­en abundance of wealth, and bestowed greater means of improvement. He had commenced an acquaintance with Mrs. Falkland and it was at these little interviews the flam [...] [...] love caught the heart of Edward. He was [...] longer the same; the rose of health, which before bloomed in his countenance, forsook his cheek; he was never happy, but in the company of Matilda. [Page 85] She saw the anguish which distracted his heart, and often the tear of pity stole down her check when conversing with him. But she knew her mother's determination; and reflected that, by encouraging a hopeless attachment, she would only bring misery on both. She revealed to her mother the situation of Edward; and desired, as the only remedy, she might be sent to London, to try whether absence would not obliterate her from his mind.

The departure of Matilda was carefully con­cealed from Edward. After waiting three days, in hopes of seeing her, his anxiety could no lon­ger be sustained. He ventured to enquire whe­ther she was gone; and could ill conceal his agi­tation, at the information. "To London!" said he; "and when will she return?"—Not these two months," replied Mrs. Falkland. "Two months!" exclaimed Edward, and rushed out of the room.

He begged of his father to let him go to Lon­don for a few days. Mr. Stanley would have granted any thing else. "No, my dear Edward," said he; "I cannot consent you should mix in those scenes of riot and dissipation with which that city abounds, without a proper guide to steer your course. I intend shortly to go thither my­self, and you may accompany me." Edward thanked his father, with a heavy heart; who nev­er guessed the reason of his son's demand.

[Page 86]Matilda returned; and he embraced the earliest opportunity of paying his respects. She received him with such indifference, as shot a dagger thro his heart. He parted from her nearly in a state of madness; sleep fled his pillow, and he spent the night almost bordering on despair.

But the ensuing day fully explained the fatal cause of her behavior. An elegant carriage, with four horses appeared at Mrs. Falkland's door, accompanied with a proportionable number of at­tendants in splendid liveries. Lord Oglethorpe was ushered in, as the lover of Matilda.

Edward scarcely believed what he saw. He took particular care to review his lordship, as he entered his coach, and gave him a look of merit­ed contempt: his lordship was the very essence of a modern beau—too fine to be a man.

During a month, Lord Oglethorpe paid the greatest attention to Matilda; he then solicited her hand. Mrs. Falkland, elated to the very pinna­cle of imaginary bliss, would now hardly own acquaintance with Mr. Stanley; who foresaw, with infinite concern, the ruin of her daughter. But all his friendly cautions were treated with disdain.

At length, the day was fixed; [...] Matilda, by marrying a nobleman, would [...] the height of her mother's ambition.

[Page 87]Edward had been diligent to gain every infor­mation concerning Lord Oglethorpe; and the arrival of a gentleman from London, who came on a visit to his father, afforded an opportunity.

Mr. Melville was the son of an eminent mer­chant in the city; a youth of a virtuous mind, and liberal education: by him he learned, that his lordship possessed a plentiful portion of rich­es; and this was all, for he had neither under­standing or virtue. Edward perceived, in the mind of Melville, a congeniality of sentiments with his own, and determined to make him the friend of his youth. He related to him the whole of his love for Matilda, and her intended union with Lord Oglethorpe; then asked his advice con­cerning his future conduct.

Mr. Melville advised him to go some distance from home, during the nuptials, as the spectacle would be too painful for his feelings: but first to obtain an interview with Matilda, and know how far her inclinations were in unison with her in­tended marriage. If he should find it impossible to see her before he departed, to write a letter, which he would engage she should receive.

Edward used every means in his power to gain admission to Matilda. Finding all his efforts vain, he wrote the following letter—

He left this letter with his friend; who faith­fully delivered it to Matilda, the morning pre­ceding her nuptials. The unauspicious morn now arrived, when Matilda was to fall a victim to her mother's power. The ceremony was performed by his lordship's chaplain, at her mother's house; after which, they departed to a house belonging to a relation of Lord Oglethorpe's, some miles farther in the country.

Three weeks passed, with all apparent happi­ness; when, one morning, his lordship, promis­ing a speedy return. A week had elapsed, in the greatest anxiety, when Matilda received the fol­lowing letter—

"O! what a wretch!" said she, after reading the letter; and sunk almost lifeless on the floor. At this moment a servant entered the room, to inform her that a gentleman wished to see her. The notice was scarcely delivered, when Edward appeared. At the sight of him, she shrieked vi­olently—"Merciful Father!" cried Edward, "what disaster is this!" She could make no re­ply, but gave him the letter. Infamous villain! his life shall pay the debt of justice, and revenge! —Take particular care of that lady," said he, to the servants; "I will reward you."

In a few hours she recovered, sufficiently to proceed to her mother's; but waited at Mr Stan­ley's, while Edward unfolded the dreadful scene to Mrs. Falkland. "Good God!" exclaimed her mother, "Matilda ruined! The crime is mine. It was my miserable pride that has caused this; and the remaining days of life will now be "few and evil!" But where is my unhappy daughter?"—"Be comforted," replied Edward; "she is at my father's. I will bring her imme­diately."

[Page 90]The interview was too affecting for words to describe. "Generous youth," said Matilda, your services I never can repay: if I had loved you as much as your merit demanded, I had never seen this day!"—"You must forget," said Edward, "that there is such a wretch as your seducer in being; he will meet his punish­ment."

When he returned home, he wrote as follows to Lord Oglethorpe—

Lord Oglethorpe returned the following an­swer:

[Page 91]Edward communicated his design to no one till the challenge was accepted; then he inform­ed Mr. Melville, that he should soon need an un­equivocal proof of his friendship.

Mr. Melville sincerely regretted the step he had taken; but, as it was now past recalling, he consented to accompany him.

The Wednesday preceding the duel was spent in the company of his father and Melville; and the tear started from his eye, probably, from the reflection, that he might never see another day in the house of a father whom he tenderly loved, but dared not acquaint with the impend­ing danger.

On the Thursday morning he rose at five and remained adjusting his little affairs till seven; about eight, he breakfasted with Matilda and her mother. He appeared serene and chearful in con­versation; said he was going on a shooting par­ty into the country; and added, clasping the hand of Matilda—"I will bring you the laurels my skill may obtain." He took his farewel.

It was then that his conntenance assumed a mournful aspect. "I fear," said Matilda, some accident should happen!"—"If it be for your good," said Edward, embracing her; "I shall not repine. This life is uncertain!" At these words he parted; and proceded, with Melville, to the place agreed on.

[Page 92]They arrived a little before Lord Oglethorpe, who was attended by a gentleman, as his second, and two domestics. The ground being measur­ed, it was agreed that Edward should fire first. He advanced with a firm step, and serene coun­tenance. Lord Oglethorpe seemed much agita­ted. Edward discharged his pistol without any effect; but the ball of his antagonist entered his body, and he fell. His lordship mounted his horse; and fled, with his attendants, to the con­tinent.

It was some time before Mr. Melville could procure assistance, to remove the body of his friend, whose father he dreaded to meet.

The intelligence of his son's death had, howe­ver, reached his ear, before the arrival of Mr. Melville; for Matilda had followed, soon after their departure, and met the servants of Lord Oglethorpe, who informed her of Edward's un­happy fate. She had just strength to arrive at her mother's, and relate the event to her and Mr. Stanley, who endeavored to repress his grief at at the loss of Edward. "These," said he, "are the mysterious dealings of Omnipotence towards his creatures, and I must submit to his pleasure!— Edward, in thee have I lost a son, who was the ornament and delight of my years; but it is e­nough! such is the will of God."

Mr. Melville arrived with the corpse of Ed­ward. "Sir," said Mr. Stanley, "why did you [Page 93] not inform me of my son's resolution? I shall never forget, though I may forgive you."

In his room were found three letters; one to his father, begging forgiveness for not acquaint­ing him with the circumstance—"And I hope," added he, "my errors will be buried in my grave:"—a second to his friend Melville, thank­ing him for his kind assistance;—and a third to Matilda, as follows—

[Page 94]The pressure of so many calamities was too great for the delicate frame of Matilda. She is now lunatic, but not so as to occasion confine­ment. A beautiful melancholy is seen in her countenance, and not an evening passes, but she visits his tomb, and sheds the tear of love on his turf; but chiefly by the pensive light of the moon, she will spend hours at his grave! sometimes singing extemporaneous verses in the sweetest notes of wildness!

To see her at such a time, you would think her more than mortal. A deep consumption has seized her mother; to which, it is thought, she must soon fall a prey.

Mr. Stanley, with a resignation truly admira­ble, never repines at the dispensations of Heaven, but is thankful for the mercies he has left. His house is now the home of Matilda and her mo­ther, and his time is employed in procuring them every comfort in his power. As for the wretch, Oglethorpe, he has at last fallen a victim to his licentiousness. A letter lately received by Mr. Stanley, from a friend in Portugal, says—"Lord Oglethorpe was stabbed, a few nights since, by some hired assassins. An adulterous connection with the wife of a Portuguese, was the occasion of this catastrophe." Thus we see, that altho' wicked men may for a long time go unpunished, the arm of Justice will seldom fail, sooner or later, to overtake them.

CAPTAIN INGOLDSBY was a soldier of fortune; the younger son of a younger branch of a great and respectable family; but his sword was his patrimony; and having enter­ed early into the profession of arms for a main­tenance, he pursued it with that enthsiuastic spi­rit of honor, which is dictated by the considera­tions of family pride, the hope of fame, the dread of disgrace, and the most ardent love of glory, and of his country.

He married, too, like a soldier: interest made no part of his composition. He saw and admir­ed his Emma; he formed an acquaintance with her; and found her mind the counterpart of her person: young, handsome, and gallant, he met with no difficulty in inspiring mutual regard, or in obtaining the consent of her father, a venera­ble, respectable, unbeneficed clergyman.

[Page 98]Happiness is neither confined to fortune or con­dition: the amiable couple loved, and love sup­plied all deficiencies. Love restrained the gaity of Mr. Ingoldsby's disposition; and taught his amiable partner the prudence necessary to regu­late expences, which were to be bounded by the pay of a lieutenant of foot.

Nor did the increase of their family, (for Hea­ven blessed them with a female infant within the first year after their marriage) add to their diffi­culties; it served only to augment the attention of the father, and the circumspection of the mo­ther; and they rejoiced in the participation of their scanty possessions, to the offspring of love, the pledge of the tenderest affection.

In the care and superintendance of their dar­ling daughter, did their years roll on in peacea­ble and humble content. If they heaved a sigh, it was for their Miranda's future welfare, if they breathed a wish, it was to see her placed in a sit­uation which might guard her against the attacks of poverty, and the designs of iniquity: from the former they were aware beauty and accom­plishments would prove no shield; and they trem­bled when they reflected, that they might prove the most powerful incitements to the latter.

The sweets of life are not to be enjoyed with­out its accompanying emb [...]erments. These dis­quietudes were augmented by a circumstance as unexpected as it was alarming: they were in a moment destined to be torn from each other's [Page 99] arms; or to purchase a continuance of the joys they had experienced in sixteen years society, by incurring an expence they were unable to sup­port, and risquing dangers and difficuties which female delicacy is little calculated to encounter. The regiment in which Mr. Ingoldsby served, received orders to embark for America in trans­ports already prepared for their reception.

On the communication of this intelligence, so subversive of their little plans of oeconomy and felicity, Mrs. Ingoldsby earnestly entreated, that she and her daughter might be the companions of his voyage; she enumerated in the most lively and affectionate terms, all the advantages that might be derived from keeping their little fami­ly together; and she displayed, in all the elo­quence of feeling grief, the horrors that must await her and her daughter at the moment of their separation. No arguments were necessary to convince him that what he wished must be right; he folded his Emma and Miranda to his bosom; and whilst he wept over the distresses to which all he held dear might be exposed, a smile of approbation burst through the manly cloud, and he exulted in such a wife and such a daugh­ter. All the difficulties which the narrowness of their finances suggested, were obviated by a thous­and arrangements, the ingenious devices of love; and the command of a company, which was con­ferred on Mr. Ingolsby before the embarkation, relieved them from no other anxiety than what concerned a future provision for their Miranda.

[Page 100]Few events, differing enough from the com­mon occurences of life to be worth recording, happened either in the course of their voyage, or on their arrival at Boston: except that the assidu­ities of a young officer of another regiment, who accompanied them in the same transport, seemed to have made some impression on the heart of the gentle Miranda; who listened to tales of love, sanctioned by the approbation of her pa­rents, and sighed out her own confession in strains of artless and irresistable harmony.

Mr. Monson was formed on the model which Capt. Ingoldsby had in idea fixed on for the hus­band of his Miranda. His manners were as mild as his soul was brave: he carried command in one hand, and affection in the other; and his orders were obeyed with that mingled fear and love, with which inferiors in every station look up to those who neither exert their powers in tyranny, nor suffer them to fall into contempt by in pru­dent and ill-timed indulgence. To the qualifica­tions of a soldier he added those which most high­ly adorn private life: he was lively, yet steady; generous, without profusion; and, if his expen­ces ever exceeded the strictest limits of prudence, the excess might be attributed to some acts of benevolence, to which his heart and his purse were always equally open. Nor was his income limited: for he was the only son of a gentleman of fortune, who had indulged his propensity to arms at the expence of the most acute and ago­nizing sensations; and who, with a parental af­fection as laudable as it is uncommon, subjected [Page 101] to no restrictions but in the choice of a wife, and in this grand object of the happiness of his life, had only enjoined him to consider birth, education, and virtue, as the most valuable posses­sions she could bestow on him.

But both Captain Ingoldsby, and Mr. Monson were too regardful of decency and propriety to hasten an event of so much importance, till the father of the young gentleman had been acquaint­ed with the attachment; and letters from Mr. Ingoldsby and the lover were prepared to be dis­patched by the first ships which should sail for Europe: and the young soldier conquered his impatience, by the suggestions of conscious dignity and rectitude in this discharge of his fili­al duty.

But alas! these precautions were soon render­ed fruitless, by events which dissolved the bands of affection, rent asunder the ties of mutual love; darkened the fairest prospects of future happi­ness, and involved in a gloom, apparently ever­lasting, connubial joys, present and promised!

On that day, which will ever he marked with horror in the remembrances of those who feel for their country; and which will never revolve without renewing the most acute anguish in the bosoms of those whose fathers, husbands, bro­thers, or relatives suffered in the dreadful con­flict! that day, when the attack of Bunker's [Page 102] Hill occasioned a carnage which thinned the Bri­tish ranks, and laid her heroes in the dust! Cap­tain Ingoldsby, and Mr. Monson, stood foremost in the bloody contest; accident had placed them in the same brigade, and they sought and fell to­gether; the body of the young officer being car­ried of by the Americans, and the mortally wounded Captain conveyed to the habitation of his wretched wife and daughter!

To attempt the description of such a scene, would require a pen inspired by pity herself: let those who wish to paint it, figure to themselves a brave officer, unstained by a single act in life which he could possibly recollect with regret, ex­piring of wounds received in the service of his country; and with all the dignity of virtue, admi­nistering consolation to the objects of his latest af­fection! let them represent the wife sinking under the load of accumulated woe, on the bosom of the dying possessor of her heart, and calling back his fleeting spirits to guard her against giv­ing way to the impulses of grief, and the impres­sions of despair! let them pourtray youth, beau­ty, and virtue, stabbed with a double blow; and bereft, in one moment of a father unequalled in affection, of a lover unrivalled in fidelity, ex­claiming by turns for each, and with all the frenzy of inarticulate rage, arraigning the jus­tice of Heaven, and the villainy of man! And, if they desire to revel in all the luxuries of woe, let them attend to the heart-piercing shriek, which announced the departure of the brave, the regret­ed Ingoldsby.

[Page 103]We shall not follow the unfortunate mourners through the various progressions of grief, from keen and piercing anguish, to silent and corrod­ing melancholy: in the last state, they embarked for England; after having received every atten­tion which the governor and garrison could offer, as a tribute to the memory of the deceased, and to the virtues and excellencies of the survivors.

On their arrival in England, the case being made known to their benevolent sovereign, they were soon relieved by his bounty from the appre­hensions of indigence; and on a pension granted to the mother, and continued to the daughter in case of her death, they retired to a village very remote from the metropolis, and rendered desira­ble to them by its being the residence of a mai­den [...] of Captain Ingoldsby, who possessed a considerable portion of the virtues of her brother, and an affection for her niece which could only be exceeded by that of her mother.

As the fortunes of this lady, though large enough to gratify her wishes, were limited, she and the widow agreed to join their narrow in­comes, and as Miranda was their mutual care, so it was the earnest wish of the aunt, that she might be accommodated at their mutual expence; and they entered on their little plan with the most affectionate intentions of rendering it as agree­able and comfortable to each other, as the nature of a situation, in which they each felt, though in different degrees, the pangs of softened but unabated grief, would admit.

[Page 104]But as no retirement will conceal the charms of beauty, nor any circle, however confin­ed, prevent the fame of accomplishments from spreading beyond its limit; Mr. Maxwell, a neighboring gentleman of fortune and character, was soon captivated with the reports of Miran­da's excellencies, and as he was a widower not much past the prime of life, and had yet an in­clination again to wear the silken chains of ma­trimony, he determined to visit the fair; and if he found her worthy his heart, to offer his hand; an offer which be doubted not would be accepted, as his person was far from being disagreeable, his manners polished and elegant, his character un­exceptionable, and his fortune very far above any expectations which orphan indigence could form.

To a man of Mr. Maxwell's consequence, few excuses were necessary for a liberty, which how­ever improper among people of equal fortunes, custom has unworthily commissioned the possessors of wealth to take, with those whole situations in life are less eminently favored by the smiles of the blind and undistinguishing goddess.

But Mr. Maxwell was not of a disposition to avail himself of this unmerited superiority, he languished for a proper introduction, and suffer­ed all the pains of impatience till accident threw in his way the gratification of his wishes. The house which the ladies inhabited was advertised for sale; and, under pretence of an intention to purchase, he obtained permission, in consequence [Page 105] of a proper request, to inspect it on a particular day, which at his instance had been named by the fair tenants.

On that day, Mr. Maxwell hastened to the vil­lage, and in the earliest moment that had been mentioned; he alighted at Mrs. Ingoldsby's door, not without the most flattering expectations that the politeness of the ladies would prove instrumen­tal to the attachment of the only object he had in view.

Nor where his hopes disappointed; after he had viewed the house and gardens with an air of an intended purchaser, the refreshment of tea was proposed to him, and being accepted with­out hesitation, he was introduced to the fair, the amiable, the still mourning Miranda.

Prepared by the universal voice to admire, love was the immediate consequence of a visit, which he requested leave to repeat in terms with which civility could not refuse to comply; and a very few days confirmed Mr. Maxwell the ardent, and the professed lover of Miranda.

But her heart was still engaged, nor could she abandon even an hopeless passion; she wished to indulge her regrets through life, and was averse to every proposition which tended to turn the edge of her melancholy, and most to those which offered a new object for the affections.

[Page 106]Yet the character, the fortune, the unobjec­tionable person of Mr. Maxwell, were urged to her by her only friends, with such energy, but mildness of persuasion, that, enforced by the de­clarations of her admirer, that he hoped not to inspire her with love, but to engage her friend­ship, and opinion, that in accepting the hand of a man advanced in years, she offered less violence to her former engagement, than if she yielded to the solicitations of a young and pleasing lover; she was prevailed on to promise Mr. Maxwell the accomplishment of his wishes; and a day, at no very considerable distance, was named for the completion of his happiness.

The necessary preparations now engaged the attention of Maxwell and the two matron ladies; whilst Miranda, like a sacrifice adorned with gar­lands for the altar, passively yielded to the assidu­ities of her friends, and suffered the ornaments of her person, and the intended provisions of settlement, to be adjusted, without interfering in the management, or participating in the result.

But, a very few mornings before the appoint­ed day, when the intended nuptials were to take place, as Miranda was at breakfast with her mo­ther and aunt, a servant put into her hands a let­ter, which being known by the superscription to be from Mr. Maxwell, she immediately deliver­ed it to Mrs. Ingoldsby, who, to the utter asto­nishment of both her auditors, read aloud the contents of it as follows:

Before the three could recover from the sur­prize which this extraordinary epistle had occa­sioned, the arrival of Mr Maxwell and another gentleman was announced: and the former en­tered the room, he presented his son to Miranda▪ who, having uttered the words▪ "Mr. Monson!" fell motionless into the arms of his father.

The conclusion of the story is obvious. He who held the welfare of his son in higher estima­tion than his own happiness, could have no ob­jection to a match which heaven itself had ordain­ed: and where worth, honor, beauty, virtue, and fortune, are united, happiness must be the sure, the constant attendant.

CHARIESSA was the youngest child of a wor­thy and active gentleman, who, though his name had a place in the will of a very opulent father, suffered many hardships, in the early part of his life, from tne scantiness of his patrimony. His father was infected with that rediculous, or rather detestable, pride, by which many persons are tempted to leave their younger children in ab­solute indigence, from the vain and absurd pros­pect of aggrandizing an eldest son; a project which was suggested to the old gentleman we are speaking of by his discovery of a genealogical table, which unluckily enabled him to trace his progenitors to the reign of Edward the Fourth, when it appeaaed that one of his ancestors was high-sheriff for the county in which he resided.

As the father of Chariessa had keenly felt all the evils arising from an unjust distribution of property, he [...] to leave whatever for­tune he might himself acquire, in equal propor­tions among his children. From a very fortu­nate marriage, and much unexpected success in life, he was enabled, at his decease, to leave to his son, and to each of his daughters, a portion equivalent to sixteen thousand pounds.

[Page 112]The son had been educated in one of the first merchantile houses in London; and, at the time of his father's death, was just returned from a tour to the continent, where he had been engag­ed in fixing his future correspondencies, before he settled as a merchant.

He had passed some few years in trade, when his uncle the eldest brother of his father, died without issue, and left him the family estate, on the condition of his quitting commerce entirely, and residing at the ancient seat of the Trac­kums. He obeyed the injunction of the will, and retired into the country with his wife; who, tho a celebrated beauty, was a lady of infinite discretion, and distinguished thro life by the most prudent attention to a numerous family.

Squire Trackum, as we shall now call him, changed his manners with his place of abode; and quitted the grave address of the important merchant, to assume the boistrous jocularity of the Esquires that surrounded him. In a short time he was so completely metamorphosed, that, in his first visit to town, he greatly astonished and entertained his old acquaintance of the city; but his real character remained th [...] [...]me.

He now concealed, under the mask of rustic jovialty, that uncommon share of worldly wisdom, which he formerly hid under the man­tle of serious and solemn frankness: he even car­ried into the field of rural sport that incessant at­tention to interest which he used to exert upon [Page 113] Change; and, in the very moment when he was galloping after a hare, would calculate the chan­ces of settling a daughter in marriage, or let­ting a farm to advantage. In one unguarded moment of real frankness, when he was warmed by the bottle, he boasted, to an intimate friend, that he never passed ten minutes in the company of any man, without considering how he might derive some degree of pecuniary or interested advantage from his acquaintance.

Before the squire assumed his rural character, Erinnis, the eldest of his two sisters, had married a gentleman of a distant county, who was res­pected as the descendant of an ancient family, and the possessor of a large estate.

The unmarried Chariessa, whose temper, sui­table to her pleasing, elegant person, was spright­ly, generous, and unsuspecting, conceived a most lively attachment to the wife and children of her brother, whom she always regarded with such af­fectionate confidence, that she suffered herself to be guided, in all important points, by his judge­ment and advice.

The provident [...]ire, considering that a rich maiden aunt is an amiable prop to the younger branches of a very fruitful house, had very early determined within himself, that his sister, Chari­essa, should pass her life in single blessedness; and he doubted not but that he had sufficient ad­dress [Page 114] to confirm her an old maid, by the artful device of perpetually expressing the most friend­ly solicitude for her marrying to advantage. He had persuaded her, on his leaving London, to chuse for her residence a provincial town, in the neighborhood of Trackum Hall; and by thus securing her within the reach of his constant observation, and studying to increase the influ­ence which he had already acquired over her frank and affectionate spirit, he took the most ef­fectual precaution for accomplishing his wishes. As Chariessa was in that rank of life, in which matrimonial approaches are made rather in a slow and ceremonious, than a rapid and ardent man­ner, the watchful squire had sufficient time and opportunity to counteract the attempt of every man whom he found guilty, or whom he suspect­ed, of a design on the heart and hand of this de­voted vestal.

By inducing his innocent sister to believe, that he most heartily wished to see her well married; and by persuading her, at the same time, to think highly of his penetration into the real characters of men—he brought the good and credulous Cha­riessa to see all her lovers exactly in that unfavor­able point of view, in which his own interest and artifice contrived to shew th [...]. In consequence of her affectionate reliance [...] assiduous coun­sel, she absolutely rejected the overtures of three gentlemen, who were generally esteemed unex­ceptionable; but the friendly zeal of the vigi­lant squire had discovered that they were all ut­terly unworthy of so excellent a creature as Cha­riessa.

[Page 115]The mean designs of self interest are frequent­ly punished with the heavy tax of solicitude, con­cerning the many dangers to which they are com­monly exposed. It happened thus with our pru­dent and successful squire. He triumphed, in­deed, by putting every suitor to flight, while Chariessa resided within the reach of his indefat­igable attention; but then were periods, in which he was tormented by the restless appre­hension of losing all the fruits of his ungenerous labor.

Attached as she was to the person and family of her brother, Chariessa did not cease to love or to visit her sister Erinnis; and she resolved to pass the summer of every third year at the house of that lady, who was settled in a very distant part of the kingdom. Erinnis was one of those extraordinary women, whom nature, in a fit of perversity, now and then produces, apparently for no purpose but that of proving a burden to themselves, and a torment to all around them. Erinnis had possessed, like her sister, youth and beauty, opulence and understanding; but she possessed them only to shew that, valuable as these endowments are, they are utterly insufficient to secure happiness or esteem, without the noble blessings of a [...]volent heart and a regulated mind. She was [...]rly married to Sir Gregory Gourd, a placid and honest baronet, who, in ra­ther an advanced season of life, had united him­self to this young lady, by the advice of his re­lations, for the two following purposes: first, to pay off an incumbrance on his ancient estate with a part of her ample dower; and, secondly, to [Page 116] provide a male heir to that honorable house, whose antiquity he contemplated with a compla­cent and inoffensive pride. The luckless knight was doubly disappointed in these his two favorite projects. As to the first, indeed, he paid off a mortgage; but soon found himself involved, by the profusion of his wife, in much heavier debts. As to his second hope, whether he had entered too far into the vale of years to be gratified in such an expectation; or whether nature, who had certainly given no maternal tenderness to the temper of Erinnis, had therefore wisely deter­mined that she should never be a mother, I will not pretend to decide; but certain it is, that, vehemently as she panted for this event, Erinnis had never any near prospect of producing a child. This disappointment, from what cause soever it might proceed, had such an incessant tendency to inflame the natural contemptuous malignity of her spirit, and she insulted the poor submissive old knight with every humiliating outrage which an imperious wife can inflict on a terrified and un­resisting husband.

Her passions, naturally vehement and acrimoni­ous were inflamed into fits of frenzy by her wishes in this point being disappointed▪ but, in the mo­ments of her most intempe [...] absurdity and ex­travagance▪ she constantly retained a considera­ble portion of hypocritical cunning; and, how­ever insolent and injurious in her treatment of all her other relations, she for ever expressed, though in a disgusting manner, the fondest af­fection for her sister Chariessa. This affection [Page 117] was partly real, and partly pretended. There was, indeed, so engaging, so pure, so sublime a spirit of indulgent benevolence, in the char­acter of Chariessa, that it could not fail to inspire even malignity and madness with some portion either of love or respect. But this passionate at­tachment of Erinnis to her sister arose chiefly from a mercenary motive.

Though Chariessa was, in general, blessed with good health and good spirits, she was frequently subject to certain feverish attacks, in which her life was supposed to be in danger; and Erinnis, who had squandered enormous sums in the public display of much aukward magnificence, and in many private articles of expence, was grown so needy and rapacious, that she looked forward, with all the eagerness of avarice, to the several thousand pounds which she was sure of gaining if the good angel Chariessa took her flight to Hea­ven. In her most stupifying fits of intoxication, and in her most furious sallies of ill-humor, she never lost sight of this expected legacy. Cha­riessa, whose pure and generous mind could hard­ly have been induced to believe that such an idea ever entered into any human breast, not only ne­ver suspected the profuse professions of this pre­tended love, but gave a very singular and touch­ing proof of the genuine sisterly affection and confidence with which her own heart was inspir­ed. It happened that she was attacked by a very dangerous fever, at the house of Erinnis. After many days confinement to her bed, being alone with her physician, she said to him, in a very [Page 118] calm and unembarrassed manner—"Pray, Sir, tell me very frankly, do you think I shall die?" As her distemper had just taken a favorable turn, the doctor very chearfully replied—"No, indeed, my good Madam." Upon which she exclaimed, in a very affectionate tone—"I am glad of it, for the sake of my dear sister!" Nor was this the exclamation of a feeble mind, afraid of death, and disguising that fear under the mask of affec­tion.

Chariessa was a genuine Christian, who, hav­ing weighed both this world and the next in the balance of reason and of faith, was at all times perfectly prepared for her natural dissolution. Her exclamation was the dictate of a most gene­rous and disinterested tenderness. She had seen the artful Erinnis counterfeit such inordinate sor­row during the course of her malady, and she so fondly believed the truth of that well-dissembled affection, that, totally free from every selfish idea, the innocent Chariessa considered only the joy with which she supposed her sister would contem­plate her unexpected recovery.

Though her own affectionate and unsuspecting temper made her receive with an amiable credu­lity, all the lavish endearments of Erinnis, Cha­riessa was very far from being blind to the many glaring faults of her turbulent sister; but she generously found an excuse for them, which con­verted them at once into objects of the tenderest compassion. She persuaded herself, that the sal­low and ferocious appearance, in the altered [Page 119] countenance of Erinnis, proceeded entirely from a disease in her liver; and that all the furious perversities of her temper were owing either to the internal pain of this cruel disorder, or to the medicines which she was tempted to try.

Under the influence of this kind idea, she most assiduously laboured, not only to apol­ogize for the offensive irregularities in the con­duct and manners of Erinnis, but to counteract, to the utmost of her power, all the mischievous effects of her capricious and vindictive ill-hum­our. She raised and comforted the poor knight, whenever she saw him reduced to a painful state of humiliation by the frantic insolence of his wife; she consoled and rewarded the innocent and un­fortunate domestics, whenever she found them stript and discarded by their turbulent and of­fended mistress; in short, she endeavored to main­tain a degree of order, justice, and decency, throughout a numerous houshold, under the cha­otic dominion of a malevolent, intoxicated fury: and whoever has seen her in this trying situation, has seen a perfect image of Charity; "believ­ing all things, hoping all things, enduring all things."

Although the peaceable and chearful spirit of Chariessa could find but little pleasure in a house like that of Erinnis, a compassionate affection to her sister made her very exact in her stated visits: their duration always extended to six months, and sometimes amounted to seven; a circumstance which did not fail to increase the tormenting [Page 120] fears of her distant brother Trackum, who al­ways contemplated the return of Chariessa into his neighborhood with that sort of satisfaction which is felt by the tamer of a bird, on seeing it, after fluttering to the limits of an extensive chamber, return, in an easy and voluntary manner, to the open door of its cage.

Chariessa, however, was very far from feeling any degree of constraint: she departed on many of these distant visits, and returned as often to her own mansion, without once suspecting the inquietude which her long absence never failed to excite. Indeed, the fearful squire might have saved himself the pain of many teazing doubts, and many private perplexing enquiries, had he been capable of forming a just estimate of the heart and mind of Chariessa: but this, indeed, he was not; and though he knew that the mag­nificent but lonely habitation of Erinnis was as much avoided as the den of a savage, yet he trembled at the idea of the lovers that the un­guarded Chariessa might meet in that pompous solitude. He was assured, that a rustic apothe­cary, and a more rustic divine, were the only frequent visitors at this dreary castle; but, as he had no confidence in female delicacy or discretion, and as he found that the man of physic and the man of God were both single men, and that each would have many opportunities of being alone with Chariessa, he greatly feared that she and her fortune might fall a sacrifice to one or the other of these formidable assailants. This groundless ter­ror, instead of being diminished by time, in­creased [Page 121] with the increasing age of Chariessa. The squire was very coarse in his idea of old maids: he concluded, that no virgin turned of forty, and left entirely to her own discretion, could resist any matrimonial offer whatever; and, as his sister had reached that decisive period on her last visit to Erinnis, his spirits were not a little depressed by his despair of her return in that state of vestal purity which he had so zealously wished her to maintain. At length, however, his ap­prehensions were effectually terminated by an e­vent which, though much more probable than the dreaded marriage of Chariessa, was not so stongly anticipated by the imagination of the dis­tant squire. This event was the death of Erin­nis; who, having utterly worn out a good consti­tution by the most absurd and disgraceful intem­perance, died, as she had lived, in magnificent misery.

The tender Chariessa paid the last office of af­fection to her unworthy sister; and returned in a calm and pious state of mind from the abode of joyless grandeur, whose vanity was now most compleatly shewn, to her own peaceful and com­fortable mansion. Her disposition was still re­markably cheerful; and she took too kind and too virtuous an interest in the general happiness of the living, to think affected sorrow a proper compliment to the dead. She had too clearly seen all the various infelicity of Erinnis, not to consi­der her release as a blessed event; and it pleased [Page 122] Heaven to reward the long and indulgent atten­tion which she had paid to the bodily and mental infirmities of that unhappy relation with many years undisturbed tranquilities to contemplate her interesting character at this season of her life; and, as I believe her to have been, for several years, one of the happiest of mortals, I shall en­large on the particular circumstances which con­stituted that happiness, and minutely examine that invaluable cast of mind which enabled her to gain and to secure the rarest and most precari­ous of all human possessions.—Chariessa was about forty-two when she returned to a constant resi­dence in her own quiet and comfortable mansion. She was naturally fond of society; and her easy fortune enabled her to enjoy it in that temperate and rational manner which suited her inclination. Having made many just remarks on the different conditions of female life, she was perfectly con­vinced, that she had great reason to be satisfied with her own single state; and no incidents arose that could make her wish to change it. Her pa­trimonial fortune had been much increased by some considerable legacies; and she enjoyed an income which by her prudent regulation of it, not only supplied her with all the usual comforts of affluence, but furnished her with the exalted pleasure of conferring happiness on a selected number of industrious poor. She had a spacious and cheerful house, that peculiarly pleased her own fancy; and a set of intelligent and good-humored domestics, who were attached, more by affection than interest, to her person; and the neighboring seat of her brother afforded her a [Page 123] young flourishing family, whom she frequently sur­veyed with all the tender delight of an affection­ate parent.

Such were the external circumstances that con­tributed to form the happiness of Chariessa; cir­cumstances, indeed, highly desirable in them­selves, yet utterly insufficient to make a woman happy, without those noble internal blessings which were the true riches of Chariessa. She possessed, in the most eminent degree, a chear­ful simplicity of heart, inexhaustible benevolence, and unaffected piety. It was by the constant, yet modest exercise of these admirable qualities, that Chariessa secured to herself, not only more felicity, but even more public regard and atten­tion, than was obtained by some single ladies of her neighborhood, who were undoubtedly her superiors in the attractive endowments of beauty, opulence, and wit. Chariessa, perhaps was ne­ver known in her life to utter a witty repartee; but such is the lively influence of genuine good-nature, that her conversation never failed to de­light, and her house was frequented as the abode or benevolent vivacity. Though she had passed the gay period of youth, and never affected to disguise her age, she took a particular satisfaction in promoting the innocent amusements of the young: indeed, she was a general friend to eve­ry season and every rank of life; even the com­mon acquaintance of Chariessa, if they had any occasion to wish for her assistance, were sure of finding her, without solicitation, a zealous pro­moter of their prosperity and pleasure.

[Page 124]There was a period in her life, at which some of her uncandid neighbors conjectured, that the subtle vice of avarice was begining to infect her; she suddenly parted with her chariot, and reduc­ed her establishment, without assigning her rea­sons for a conduct so surprizing. In a few years she resumed her equipage, and recommenced her usual stile of living, with as much, or rather more splendour than ever.

This still more engaged the attention of the neighborhood; and the very people who, on the former alteration, had accused her of avarice, now exclaimed, that she was either seized with the frenzy of extravagance, or was endeavoring to allure a husband. It was, however, proclaim­ed upon her death, by the worthy family of a de­ceased merchant, that, under the promise of the most absolute secresy, she had allotted to his as­sitance, during the years of the abovementioned retrenchment, a full moiety of her income; by which generous exertion she had supported him through the most cruel and undeserved distresses, enabled him to retrieve his circumstances, and preserve his family from impending ruin.

Though her spirits were naturally quick, and her affections strong, I never heard an instance of her being at any time of her life betrayed into an uncanded animosity. The town in which she re­sided was frequently distracted by ecclesiastical and parliamentary contentions. In those uncha­ritable struggles for power, the relations of Cha­riessa were often hotly engaged. Her affection­ate [Page 125] heart never failed, indeed, to take a lively interest in all their pursuits; but she never ridicul­ed or vilified their opponents with those eager and illiberal invectives which have been known to flow, upon such exasperating occasions, from the lips of many a quiet spinster, and of many a sober matron. The enmity of Chariessa was as generous as her friendship; and, when ever she heard such petty abusive tales, as are basely fab­ricated in every popular contest, for the purpose of the hour, although they favoured her own party, she would discountenance that circulation, or expose their absurdity. Nor was this libera­lity of conduct without its reward: Chariessa had the satisfaction of perceiving, th [...] she conciliated to herself the perfect respect and [...] will of the most opposite contending characters. Perhaps their never lived a human being so fairly and ful­ly possessed of general esteem; and, to a mind truly amiable, there can hardly be a state of earthly enjoyment superior to what arises from incessant and open proofs of being universally be­loved. Having possessed for many years this tranquil and pure delight, the tender Chariessa began to sink under natural infirmity. She sus­tained a short but severe illness with exemplary composure: and, in the close of [...] [...]ith that calm and cheerful devotion which had distin­guished her life, she resigned her benevolent spirit to the Great Parent of benevolence.

[Page 126]The influence of her virtue was far from ceasing with her mortal existence; though twelve years have now elapsed since the decease of this admir­able woman, her excellent qualities are still fresh in the memory of all who had the happiness of her acquaintance; and they hardly ever pass the house in which she resided, without bestowing a sigh of regret, or a sentence of praise, on the merits of Chariessa.

THE murmurs of mankind against the de­grees of Omnipotence are as unjust as they are impious. Resignation to the will of his Creator in the duty of every human being, who by presuming to censure the unequal distribution of good and evil in this world, discovers a weak head, or a depraved heart; sometimes both.

Short sighted as we are, how childish are our complaints, how absurd are our repinings! re­pinings and complaints into which we surely should never fall, did we seriously reflect on the infinite and amazing vicissitudes in human affairs, did we consider that the severest afflictions, ac­cording to our hasty apprehensions, are often eventually the most substantial blessings.

Against the degrees of Omnipotence I once murmured myself. The unequal distribution of good and evil in this world, I once censured—I repined at the sight of beings in a more prosper­ous situation, and complained of my own hard fate in the bitterest terms. I am now in another, in a better frame of mind, and sincerely hoping [Page 130] that many of my discontented fellow-creatures may be rendered otherwise by reading the fol­lowing narrative, written with the pen of expe­rience, I beg the favor of you to give it a pass­port to the public.

I was born to the inheritance of a small pater­nal estate, the income arising from which would, in this age of luxury and dissipation, be reckon­ed a trifling one. Little, however, as it was I could not hope to see it increased as I was not, being an only and a fondled child, with a tender constitution, bred up to any business, though I re­ceived a very good education.

Having lost my father and mother as soon as my education was finished, I could not help think­ing that what had served us all three, would un­doubtedly, be sufficient for me alone; especially as I looked upon my orphan situation in a des­ponding light, and had no desire to live in an ex­pensive manner.

So violent was my grief, so deep was my af­fliction, on being deprived of my parents, that I gave myself up to despair, and accused heaven of cruelty for snatching them away from me instead of being thankful for having enjoyed them so long. Time however, and the tenderness with which the gentleman whom my father had ap­pointed to be my guardian, treated me, allevia­ted my sorrow—My friendship too for that gen­tleman's son, who was remarkably formed to please, who was as amiable in my eyes, as he was [Page 131] agreeable, and who professed the sincerest esteem for me, not a little contributed to its alleviation.

The happiness which I enjoyed with my young friend was excessive, and I thought that nothing could make any addition to it: but while I was pluming myself on my peculiar felicity, and de­pending upon its continuance, I was extremely disappointed; for the most esteemed companion of my heart was obliged to make a voyage to Lis­bon, his father's affairs rendering his presence at that place absolutely necessary.

During his absence, which affected me greatly, I became acquainted with one of the most amia­ble girls in the world; and soon fell so despe­rately in love with her, that I had no rest night or day, because I had reason to believe that her father would think my fortune too small; and that he would expect a more advantageous match for a girl with her person and accomplishments— Then—then I wished, more ardently wished, that I had been thrown in a way to improve my patri­mony, and to make it more worthy of the accep­tance of the only woman with whom I could be happy: without whom, indeed, I should be ac­tually wretched.

I had been fortunate enough, as I thought, to find several opportunities to make my address to the lady; but the dread of being rejected by him, who had alone a right to dispose of her, kept me for a considerable time in a state of the most rack­ing uncertainty; and I was weak enough to af­front [Page 132] the memory of my once beloved and reve­rend parents by accusing them of having been cruelly inattentive to my future welfare—"Had I been brought up to business, I might have ena­bled, perhaps, to offer myself to this adorable creature, without fearing a refusal either from her or her father!"

I was not, indeed, too far advanced in life to settle to business; but love engaged my thoughts so much, and forbade me also to embark my little all on a precarious bottom, that, instead of endea­voring to increase my income by industry, I aban­doned myself to despair.

Despair, at length, drove me to ask the father of my Maria for his consent.

I was as I feared I should be, repulsed with a peremptory denial.

This was a finishing stroke; I could not sup­port it—I murmured at Providence for not having given me the exact sum I wanted, fretted myself ill, and was soon pronounced to be in danger.

My guardian and his family, who had ever be­haved in the tenderest manner to me, well know­ing the cause of my disorder, informed Maria of my situation.

She, who had never been averse to me, on be­ing acquainted with it, flew to her father and with tears in her eyes, intreated him to let her come and see me.

[Page 133]Moved by her sorrow, he complied with her re­quest; but he was so much more affected, at her return, by the account she gave of my indisposi­tion, that he consented to our union.

Our marriage was to be solemnized as soon as my health was restored; and I believed myself to be the happiest of men.

My wife's fortune was but little, if at all supe­rior to mine. Her parents, however, reckoning upon her person and accomplishments, had high­er views for her, and had flattered themselves that she would be raised considerably by her ex­external attractions co-operating with her intrinsic merit: they were consequently, at first, rather chagrined to see their schemes defeated; but finding that she was satisfied with her lot, and that I continued extravagantly fond of her, they also became more contented.

In a short time after our marriage, her grand­father died, and left her only five thousand pounds; but, at the same time, ordered five thousand more to be paid on the birth of a son; and in case of our having only girls to be made over to another branch of the family.

This unkind, this unjust procedure, rouzed my sentiments, and I insulted the memory of the deceased old gentleman with the keenest invec­tives—I ought to have been thankful for his hav­ing remembered us at all, as he had a large fami­ly, [Page 134] who wanted what he had bequeathed to us more than we did.

We were now perpetually wishing, and wish­ing with anxiety, to have a boy, to bring so good a legacy home to us; but heaven, justly offended, no doubt, at our unreasonable disquietude, sent us only a female, who was to me, in particular very disgusting merely as a female; and her mother was so much displeased with her sex as to deny it nourishment from her own breast. The poor child, though as fine a one as ever was born, was turned out of the house at the tenderest age, not only to partake of the rude accommodations and homely fare of one of the lowest cottagers, but to run the risque of imbibing, with the milk of a stranger, all the ill-blood and ill-humors with which that stranger might be filled.—Thus did we throw away a treasure, of which we were not capable of estimating the value.

My wife, not finding herself breeding again, soon began to take a fancy to a different stile of living—She had hitherto been satisfied with pri­vacy, and paid a proper regard to domestic oecon­omy, as we were by no means in splendid cir­cumstances; but her disappointment arising from the birth of her daughter, had made a change in her temper; and the society of some gay peo­ple of her own sex, with whom she struck up an acquaintance, at first, in order to dissipate her un­easiness, inspired her with too strong a passion for pleasure—Yet was not my fondness in the least abated by her new propensities.—I still doated on [Page 135] her, and indulged her in the gratification of her heart's every wish. Just about this time I receiv­ed a great deal of pleasure, pleasure very little expected, from my friend Theodore's return from Lisbon: his arrival gave me the greater delight, as I had flattered myself that he would, as a sin­cere friend, enjoy by the force of sympathy, the happiness which I felt in my lovely Maria's com­pany.

I flew to him, therefore, immediately, and presented him to my wife with the highest enco­miums on each other, which, indeed, they both deserved, and which they both soon felt, neither proceeded from the extravagance of love, or the romantic ardour of friendship.—Few men were more agreeable than Theodore; few women more amiable than Maria.

I now began almost to forget my late disap­pointment in the arms of my wife, and in the conversation of my friend, between whom I spent all my happy hours—My felicity was, in truth, so complete, that I even thought not of the di­minution of our fortune.—My felicity, howe­ver,—(how can we expect permament felicity here?) was soon interrupted.—My wife fell sick of a fever—In a few days afterwards she was de­clared to be hastening to her dissolution, and in a few more expired in my arms.

It is impossible to describe the agonies which my soul endured when I beheld the woman whom I had ever loved to distraction stretched out before [Page 136] me a lifeless corpse—I behaved like a mad-man, and, in the height of my frenzy dared, impiously dared, to accuse the Almighty of having given her to me only to make me a thousand times more miserable than I should have been, if I had never known her, by an early separation. I stamped— I tore my hair—I committed innumerable irreg­ularities. When I grew somewhat less disturbed, I sunk into a sullenness which nothing could re­move.

Soon after the death of my wife, my friend Theodore was obliged to settle abroad—His de­parture occasioned new murmurings, new im­pieties.

There was now but one object left to at­tract my attention; that object was my little girl, against whom, from her birth, my bosom was steeled.

Maria now had just entered into her fourth year; but having been shamefully neglected both by her mother and me, had contracted a great many low ways, under the tuition of her vulgar nurse. I went to see her—but O, sharp reproach for having so long stifled parental affection in my bosom—she screamed at the sight of me—I was, indeed, a stranger.

Pitying the poor child's situation, I took her home: however, as I gave myself no trouble a­bout her education, she only exchanged as she grew up, the coarse dialect of the nurse, for the pert language of the chambermaid—Forced by recollection to dwell on the losses I had sustained, [Page 137] certain of never seeing my beloved wife again, and doubtful with regard to the reappearance of my friend, I sat either stupified with sorrow, or raving with despair; unmindful of my moulder­ing fortune; unmindful of my injured daughter.

One day the maid came into my room telling me, that Miss was cutting her double teeth, and was very ill, adding, that she wished I would give her an anodyne necklace, which she knew her mis­tress had in her cabinet.

On being thus unnecessarily, I thought, remind­ed of my wife, I was thrown into a violent rage and in the first transports of my passion, severely reprimanded the maid for her officiousness; but passing soon afterwards through a room in which the young Maria lay on her lap in extreme pain, I was struck with the resemblance between her and her late lovely mother, a little while before she expired.

A sigh, which I could not suppress, heaved my bosom; and as I hung over the innocent, the tears of paternal sensibility rushed from my eyes, and rushed down her pallid face.—I then hasten­ed to the cabinet to search for the necklace, or any thing that might probably relieve her.

In turning over several papers, which were in­termixed with my dear Maria's trinkets, I recog­nized the hand of Theodore.

Astonished beyond expression at so unexpected a sight, I opened the letter with precipitation, [Page 138] and read it with horror—I was stabbed with the perusal of it—Every word planted a dagger in my heart—It was—Oh, heaven! I still tremble at the recollection of it—a letter from Theodore, the man whom I believed to be my firmest, since­rest friend, to Maria, to my wife who doated on me, I also believed, as fondly as I did on her— After having thanked her for the great regard which she had discovered for him, he thus pro­ceeded—"You need not be in the least afraid of your husband's suspicions, for I do not know upon the face of the earth a man who has a stron­ger confidence in any person than he has both in you and me; nor is there a man in the world, in my opinion, more easy to be duped."

This heart-breaking discovery made me quite furious—I now exclaimed against Providence in the most daring and irreverent terms, for having suffered me to be so deceived, and despised; so grossly imposed upon, and injuriously treat­ed. I declared with much vehemence that no hu­man being had ever been so cruelly used, and swore in tremendous accents that no man should so use me with impunity.

Could I have reached Theodore in those mo­ments of madness, when I smarted with resent­ment, and breathed nothing but revenge, I should have certainly murdered him; but luckily he was at a distance, and I had leisure to grow cool—My rage gradually subsided; but the misery I felt by reflecting on the undeserved treatment which I had received from two persons the dearest to me in the world, threw me into a violent fever.

[Page 139]From that fever, I, with great difficulty, re­covered, and sunk into a dejection which almost rendered me incapable of doing any thing. I neglected my affairs—life became burthensome to me—all the efforts of my acquaintance to raise my spirits, and to put me in humor with existence, were ineffectual—I at last grew so disgusted with society, that I only admitted the visits of the old gentleman, who was a man of exceeding good sense, and irreproachable morals. By his fre­quent visits I found myself by degrees less and less embarrassed in his company; and at last I grew so unguarded, that I made a discovery of the true cause of my melancholy, which I had till then concealed from every living creature.

No sooner was he acquainted with the source of my sorrow, than he told me that I was in his o­pinion, very deservedly punished—"Learn hence­forward," said he, "to submit without the least murmuring to the will of the Supreme; for you may be assured, that every thing in this world is ordered by unerring wisdom; and that we poor, imperfect beings, know not what is best for us. You thought yourself the most miserable of men when you lost your wife; but had she lived, what torments would you have endured! you would have seen her prefer your friend to yourself: you would have known that she had been guilty of a very atrocious crime, and the continued sight of her would have doubled your concern as well as your aversion.—Had you been divorced or only sepa­rated from her, the talk occasioned by it, and the apprehensions with regard to your meeting some­where, [Page 140] might have produced the most painful sen­sations in your breast. Besides, with what pro­priety could your daughter have been educated under the eye of a mother who had violated her conjugal vows; and how severely must she have been shocked at the idea of a woman whom she could not, without being scandalized at her con­duct, acknowledged as a parent! You, ought, therefore, fervently to offer up praises to heaven for having delivered you from so much unhappi­ness by the death of your wife: and not with less fervency ought you to pour out your thanksgiv­ings for the absence of your friend—Had your friend been within your reach at the time when you discovered the treachery, you would have, it is highly probably, challenged him in the heat of your resentment. You might by so doing, ei­ther have been answerable for his death as a mur­derer, or have been sent yourself, unprepared and loaded with guilt, into the awful presence of Him, who has expressly prohibited revenge in these em­phatical words: Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it. Look up, therefore, with devotion and with gratitude to that Being, who is as merciful as he is almighty; think, seriously think, how unwor­ty you have been of his interposition in your fa­vor; and may you be always ready to say, for the future, on the most trying occasions, Thy will be done, without feeling your heart at variance with your lips."

I was struck with the good sense and piety ut­tered by my valuable neighbor, who had taken the most efficacious measures to restore the tran­quility of my mind by setting things before me [Page 141] in a proper light, and by endeavoring to make me sensible, that under the pressure of any mis­fortunes whatever, a thorough submission to the dispensations of Providence is as much our interest as it is our duty.

I now began to reproach myself severely for having behaved in so unbecoming, so unjustifia­ble a manner; and tried to atone for my past ill conduct, by making myself as well satisfied as the situation of my affairs, which had been conside­rably injured by the extravagance of my wife, in consequence of her immoderate love of pleasure, would suffer me to be.—Yet still I could not bring myself to behold my little daughter with the eyes of an affectionate parent—I repined continually because my child was not a son, as I should have had, during the minority of a son, the manage­ment of five thousand pounds, which would have been of the greatest service to me. Setting aside her having been estranged from me for so long a time, Maria had none of those whinings, fond yearnings after me, which children generally have who are trained up under the inspection of their fathers and mothers. Of this want of filial sensibility in my daughter, I complained in the bitterest terms, to my good old neighbor, who told me that I had brought upon myself the dis­quietude which tormented me—"At the very time," continued he, "that the tender affections take root, you cast your daughter from you as if she had been an alien; from your unfatherly be­havior, therefore, to her, during her infancy, arises her attention to you. Folly is its own pun­ishment—However, it is not yet too late to make [Page 142] her sensible, by a proper carriage, that you are her best friend; and possibly, that despised girl may turn out every thing you can wish her to be."

I listened a second time to the voice of reason— I began to apply myself to the education of my child. I hired, in the place, an elderly woman, recommended by my friend, who had been bred a gentlewoman, but having met with misfortunes, was glad, with a moderate allowance, to under­take the care of my family, and to teach my girl all kinds of needle work: in reading, writing, accompts, geography, French, and music, I was her only instructor; and by accompanying my in­structions with many rewards and few punishments, I at length carried my point so far, as to make her love the father, while she revered the master. I had at the same time the satisfaction to see that she improved every day in her person and manner, and became a very fine girl.

When she was about eleven years old, my ex­cellent friend and neighbor (to whom I was in­debted for all the pleasure I at last received as a parent, and to whom my daughter was also in­debted both for her father and her education; as I should not, probably, have behaved to her in a paternal way, or have taken any pains to render her an accomplished woman, if I had not been acquainted with him) was suddenly taken ill, and died in a few days.

The first news of his death was a blow which almost stunned me—So deeply was I affected by it, that I gave myself up again to murmuring and despondence.

[Page 143]While I was throwing out some very melan­choly effusions, dictated by despair, I was in­formed that he had left my daughter in his will, having few relations of his own, and none who were not richer than himself, ten thousand pounds; five of which I was at liberty to improve by any sort of business or traffic, the most agreeable to me, till my daughter was six and twenty: with the other five she was to be invested on her being of age. I had, however, only the use of my five thousand during the stipulated term of years, on condition that I tied up a part of my estate which would produce an equivalent sum at the expir­ation of them, in case I should be guilty of any embezzlements, or be disabled by unforeseen contingencies from making a restitution.

This was a noble legacy, as unmerited as it was unexpected; but it administered no consola­tion to me for the loss of the worthy testator. The generosity of my excellent friend I remem­bered every hour with the sincerest gratitude, and his separation from me eve [...] hour with the sincerest regret. However, as I paid too great a regard to the memory of him whom I had so just­ly and so highly esteemed when living, to neglect the improvement of the sum for which I was res­ponsible, I offered myself to a sober careful man, who had been his book keeper, to go into part­nership with him, provided he would thoroughly instruct me in his business; and he chearfully complied with my proposal, as the stock advanced by me would be of considerable advantage to him.

In this manner I obeyed my dear deceased friend's injunctions, and made an honest old ser­vant [Page 144] of his happy. By strictly attending to the duties of my new employment, I not only kept my mind from dwelling on any disagreeable sub­jects; but, in a few years, trebled the five thou­sand committed to my stewardship. When my daughter came of age, I made over ten thousand pounds to her, and married her to a very amia­ble and deserving young man, for whom she had a great affection. With the remaining sum, ad­ded to my little patrimony, I resolved to spend the rest of my days in doing all the good in my power, as my daughter and her husband were in too affluent circumstances to wish for my decease. In acts of benificence, therefore, I have spent my time from that happy aera, in supplicating the Almighty's pardon for my past offences, and in pouring forth praises to Him for all the blessings which he has showered on my undeserving head. —Never am I so happy, never do I feel such transporting sensations, as when I am offering up my fervent thansgivings to the throne of grace —More and more am I every hour convinced, that the goodness of the Deity is equal to his power; that we ought ever to pay the most im­plicit submission to his decrees; and that whate­ver he permits to be is permitted for the wisest ends.