THE PRINCE of BRITTANY. A NEW HISTORICAL NOVEL.

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 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 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 the ſummit of felicity. You poſſeſs the lovely wife who was once deſtined for me; John VI, his two eldeſt ſons being married, had demanded this Princeſs for his youngeſt; but the King of Scotland had then declined an alliances with this family. 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 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: 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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."

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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 —"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, 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 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 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.

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, 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! 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!"

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; 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."

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."

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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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."

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 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 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 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.

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 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 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: My Lord,

I dare not call you my brother: my enemies, perhaps, would impute a new crime to me, were I again to claim the rights of blood. I will no longer plead then a name that is yet ſo dear to me. I will only preſent to you the loweſt of your ſubjects, the moſt humble and unfortunate of men, who embraces your knees, who bathes them with his tears, and who ſeeks only to excite your pity. I might urge my innocence, which has been proved by ſo many witneſſes; I might appeal to your juſtice; but I will only implore your clemency. I will even conſent to appear guilty in your ſight, if that confeſſion be conducive to your generoſity. Alas! I have no longer any pride! Subdued by the iron rod of adverſity, I throw myſelf entirely on your compaſſion. Plunged into a deep dungeon, watering my bitter bread with tears, whoſe ſource will be ſoon dried up, without conſolation, without hope, torn from a wife whom I love more than ever, and who ſhares my dreadful lot—O Heavens! what an idea! Alicia, Alicia too is perſecuted! ſuch is the ſituation of the Prince, who has committed but one fault, a fault dictated by Love—but what was I ſaying? My intention, I repeat it, is to humble myſelf before you as the greateſt criminal. Your clemency in forgiving will then be more conſpicuous; and I ſubmit, without reſerve, to all the horrors of my fate. My connections with Henry and the Engliſh have diſpleaſed you: thoſe connections I renounce: I renounce every thing: I devote myſelf henceforth to the moſt implicit obedience to your will. None but you and Alicia ſhall occupy my heart. Do you refuſe to ſee me? Would you baniſh me from your Court, from Brittany? Let me be exiled then to the remoteſt corner of the world, to the moſt dreadful deſert: let me live there with my wife; I will ſtill bleſs your goodneſs; and never, never ſhall the leaſt murmur eſcape me. —Ah! my brother, (I cannot reſiſt, I cannot reſiſt this tender appellation) if our father were to riſe from the tomb, and behold me in this deplorable ſituation, could he believe—But I forbear from the ſlighteſt appearance of reproach. Call to mind only, I conjure you, what an Engliſh Prince ſaid to the inexorable William. You have often ſpoken to me with pleaſure of that affecting circumſtance, which did ſo much honor, you ſaid, to human nature.Prince Henry, afterwards Henry I, King of England, being diſguſted with the little care that was taken of his intereſt, in an accomodation between himſelf and his brother William Rufus, then on the Engliſh throne, and Robert Duke of Normandy, retired to Michael's mount, a ſtrong fortreſs on the coaſt of that province, and infeſted the neighborhood with his incurſions, Robert and William with their joint forces beſieged him in this place and had nearly reduced him by the ſcarcity of water, when the elder, hearing of his diſtreſs, granted him permiſſion to ſupply himſelf, and alſo ſent him ſome pipes of wine for his own table. Being reproved by William for this ill-timed generoſity, he replied, "What, ſhall I ſuffer my brother to die of thirſt? Where ſhall we find another when he is gone?"—Alas! if you are ſenſible to the pleaſure of being beloved, who will love you better than a brother? and you would ſacrifice that wretched brother, who invokes you as he would invoke God himſelf; and to whom, in ſpite of all his ſufferings, you are ſtill ſo dear. Oh! forgive, forgive me! Theſe expreſſions ſhould have irreſiſtible power over the human heart. And can yours be ſo rigorous as to forget their influence? The barbarians, my brother, would have you actuated by their own unworthy ſouls. Recollect, oh, recollect, that there was a time, when you would deign, to fold me to your boſom. How often would you ſay, "My brother, I will never ceaſe to love you." And are theſe the fruits of ſuch tender profeſſions? But I do not mean to utter one complaint that may wound you. If the confeſſion be neceſſary to diſarm you, I have merited theſe ſuffering. Your pity only I implore. Let theſe chains then, theſe too heavy chains, be broken; or at leaſt, let a ſpeedy death deliver me from ſuch inſufferable woes.

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 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. 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 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 〈◊〉 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 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 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!"

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.This is the ſuperſtitious language of the dark ages. The pure Religion of Chriſt knows no reſerve in the forgiveneſs of injuries. 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, 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 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 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.Arthur de Montauban, proſecuted by the Conſtable, quitted Brittany, took the habit of the Celeſtines at Morcouſſy, was afterwards Arch-Biſhop of Bourdeaux, and died of grief. Hingant was impriſoned many years. Oliver du-Meel, John Rayart, Male-Touſche, La Cheſe, and Robert Rouſſel, were beheaded, and their quartered bodies expoſed on the highways.—No expreſſions can deſcribe it. Francis perceiving his 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?"

EDWARD AND MATILDA. A MORAL TALE.

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 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. 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.

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.

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—

I AM about to leave my father's houſe, to avoid a ſight of all others the moſt dreadful to me. What can you think! Surely, the elegant mind of Matilda can never be dazzled by the trappings 〈◊〉 wealth and ſplendour! Can you ever eſteem a man deſtitute of every quality that adorns the human mind? or is it the falſe ambition of a mother, who would barter her daughter's happineſs for wealth, and a title? You may never ſee me more! I have loved you tenderly. But, alas! who could behold ſuch a mind, ſuch a form, and not fall a martyr to their charms! Let the tear of pity ſolace him, who can never ceaſe to love you.

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—

I WILL no longer keep you in ſuſpenſe— You are not my wife! The perſon who performed the marriage ceremony was not a clergyman, but hired to fulfil the office. I was aſtoniſhed that you could believe my intentions ſerious, or ſuppoſe a nobleman would marry a girl whoſe only portion was her merit. The perſon at 〈◊〉 houſe you are, is no relation of mine. If 〈◊〉 will conſent to live with me a life of honor, every advantage love and riches can afford are yours.

"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."

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—

BASE, and unmanly wretch! think not that you ſhall triumph over ſeduced innocence; or that your elevated rank in life, which only ſerves to make you more deſpicable, ſhall ſecure you from the arm of juſtice. I command you to meet me next Thurſday, provided with a brace of piſtols. The bearer will ſettle time and place.

Lord Oglethorpe returned the following anſwer:

Your challenge is accepted, tho I deſpiſe the giver: but let this convince you, that I am not ſo unmanly as you amagine.

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.

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 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— Thurſday Morning, 5 o'clock. DEAR MATILDA,

AFTER my death, you will receive this letter. That I have ever loved you ſincerely, the cauſe will, I think, put beyond doubt. There is, in my mind, a ſtrong foreboding that I ſhall fall a victim. I am content! It is for you, it is in defence of injured virtue. Heaven ſometimes permits, for ends human reaſon cannot penetrate, the wicked to eſcape the puniſhment they merit in this life. The time is drawing near, when I muſt part with you. I have reſolved to exerciſe all the compoſure I can: but, I fear, it will be too much. From me, learn this truth—that noble qualities are not confined to opulence, but oftener thrive in the ſoil of ſufficiency. Adieu!—for ever!

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.

MIRANDA, OR THE DISCOVERY. A TALE.

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.

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 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.

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 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 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.

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.

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 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.

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: MADAM,

THAT your heart is not at all intereſted in the the intended event, you have with that candour, which renders your character the object of univerſal admiration, frequently acknowledged to me; you will not therefore even wiſh to receive an apology for my releaſing you from an unſuitable engagement: but as my heart ſtill holds you dear, and your virtues and beauties will ever poſſeſs my mind with unalterable regard; ſo I think it my duty to explain to you the motives by which I am influenced, in a conduct, which however cenſurable it may appear in the public eye, will, I am perſuaded, find a full juſtification in your goodneſs of heart, and in the ſenſibility of your worthy relations.

My long loſt ſon! my ſon, who I had for years reſigned to Heaven, is reſtor'd to me; and Providence, which has beſtowed on me this conſumate of happineſs, will not permit me to add to it a wiſh which concerns myſelf.

But I have another explanation to make, in which I am to beſpeak your forgiveneſs for an impoſition, which however innocent with reſpect to myſelf, I muſt 〈◊〉 to have been rather improper with regard to you. My real name is not Maxwell, which I aſſumed upon the ſuppoſed death of my ſon, when I retired from my uſual place of reſidence, in a diſtant part of the kingdom to avoid the importunities of ſome worthleſs and diſagreeable relations; and this ſecret I entruſted to only one friend in the metropolis, from whom my ſon procured directions to his concealed and almoſt forgotten father.

It is at the particular inſtance of this ſon, that I take the liberty to incloſe an order on my banker for three thouſand pounds, which I intreat you to accept as a ſmall tribute of my gratitude, for your intended goodneſs to him; who, till he has the honor to diſcloſe to you in perſon his real name, begs leave to ſubſcribe himſelf, Madam,

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, OR A PATTERN FOR HER SEX. By Mr. HAYLEY.

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.

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 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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.

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.

LEONTINE, OR THE IMPIETY OF MURMURING AGAINST PROVIDENCE.

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 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 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 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.

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, 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 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 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, 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, 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.

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, 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 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 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.

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 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.