The constant lover; or, William and Jeanette; a tale. / From the German of Augustus von Kotzebue, author of The stranger, Lovers' vows, Self immolation, Virgin of the sun, &c. ; To which is prefixed, an account of the literary life of the author. ; Two volumes in one. — Geprüfte Liebe. English

The constant lover; or, William and Jeanette; a tale. / From the German of Augustus von Kotzebue, author of The stranger, Lovers' vows, Self immolation, Virgin of the sun, &c. ; To which is prefixed, an account of the literary life of the author. ; Two volumes in one. — Geprüfte Liebe. English

Table of contents

Title page

THE Author's Dedication. TO MY FRIEND CHARLES GEORGE GRAUMANN, ST. PETERSBURGH.

MY LITERARY LIFE.

THE CONSTANT LOVER; OR William AND Ieanette. A TALE.

CHAP. I. THE BOY.

CHAP II. THE FIRST VISIT.

CHAP. III. THE PEAR-TREE.

CHAP. IV. THE CANARY BIRD.

CHAP. V. LOVE FOR LOVE.

CHAP. VI. THE SCHOOLMASTER.

CHAP. VII. PATIENCE!

CHAP. VIII. THE SOLDIER.

CHAP. IX. A NEW CHARACTER.

CHAP. X. THE MURDERER.

CHAP. XI. THE PRIEST.

CHAP. XII. THE PRISON.

CHAP. XIII. THE PENITENT.

CHAP. XIV. THE GENEROUS CONTEST.

CHAP XV. FORTUNE OF WAR.

CHAP. XVI. THE MEETING AND SEPARATION.

CHAP. XVII. THE WANDERER.

CHAP. XVIII. THE HUMORIST.

CHAP. XIX. IMPROVEMENTS.

CHAP XX. THE BOWER.

CHAP XXI. SLIGHTED LOVE.

CHAP. XXII. THE WIDOW.

CHAP. XXIII. THE SIEGE.

CHAP. XXIV. CONSTANCY REWARDED.

THE CONSTANT LOVER; OR, William AND Ieanette. A TALE. VOL. II.

CHAP I. THE PRISONERS.

CHAP. II. THE BRUNETTE.

CHAP. III. THE COFFIN.

CHAP. IV. THE CAVERN.

CHAP. V. THE TREASURE.

CHAP. VI. THE VISIONARY.

CHAP. VII. THE RIGHTS OF NATURE.

CHAP. VIII. THE SPECTRE.

CHAP. IX. THE STORM.

CHAP. X. THE SEPARATION.

CHAP. XI. THE FEVER.

CHAP. XII. THE CONFLAGRATION.

CHAP. XIII. THE PASSPORT.

CHAP. XIV. THE MAYOR.

CHAP. XV. THE CONSTITUTIONAL PRIEST.

CHAP. XVI. A CRITICAL SITUATION.

CHAP. XVII. LOVE AND GRATITUDE.

CHAP. XVIII. THE GRANDMOTHER.

CHAP. XIX. THE PLOT IS UNFOLDED.

CHAP. XX. THE FLIGHT.

CHAP. XXI. THE TYRANNY OF HONOUR.

CHAP. XXII. THE ROBBERS.

CHAP. XXIII. THE DELIVERER.

CHAP. XXIV. THE CONCLUSION.

§

§

§

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THE CONSTANT LOVER; OR, William AND Jeanette: A TALE. FROM THE GERMAN OF AUGUSTUS VON KOTZEBUE, AUTHOR OF THE STRANGER, LOVERS' VOWS, SELF IMMOLATION, VIRGIN OF THE SUN, &c. TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, AN ACCOUNT OF THE LITERARY LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

TWO VOLUMES IN ONE.

BOSTON: PRINTED FOR JOSEPH BUMSTEAD. SOLD BY HIM AT No. 20, UNION-STREET; BY THOMAS AND ANDREWS, NEWBURY-STREET; BY E. LARKIN, AND WM. P. AND [...]. BLAKE, CORNHILL. 1799.

THE Author's Dedication. TO MY FRIEND CHARLES GEORGE GRAUMANN, ST. PETERSBURGH.

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"OLD love rusts not," says our German adage, and, like many others, it is false; for a thousand times in my life have I seen old love rust, nay, rust, and so completely moulder away, that not the least memory of the fondest and most endearing connections seemed to remain.

Let us my dear GRAUMANN, substitute friendship for love, and say, "Old friendship rusts not." With grateful heart, then, I can raise my eyes to heaven, and exclaim, "The adage is true!"

My faithful, my generous friend for eighteen years, far distant removed as sometimes lay the paths we have pursued in the journey through life, we have never forgotten to cherish our acquaintance with kind remembrances. Allow me, then, to indulge the delightful hope, that in those regions to which death is our common guide, and where, by various caurses, our wanderings must all terminate at last, you will offer the same generous hand to the mature old man, which you gave to the rising youth.

The child of my fancy, which I now present to you, deign to receive with that indulgence, with which, eighteen years ago, you condescended to listen to the first prattle of my nurse. Whatever faults you may discover in it, think still that it is my child, and, for the father's sake, you will not cast it from you!

KOTZEBUE

MY LITERARY LIFE.*

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AS an author, I have experienced both good and bad success, both in a high degree, both frequently unmerited. I flatter myself that it may be useful to young men desirous of entering upon the slippery career of literature, to read the history of a man, who has not reached the goal indeed— for how few ever do reach it!—but who has so far advanced before them in the progress towards it; one who, without ceremony, joins their circle, and relates without disguise when he fell, when he erred, and when he was deceived; where he enjoyed the assistance of the Nine, and where he mistook the ravings of a Bacchante for the inspiration of the Muse.

Come hither, then, ye inexperienced youths, who have, for the first time, dipped the tip of your tongue in the honey of Parnassus, and think it desirable because it is sweet; sit down and listen to me. You see I am in the vein; my soul is unconstrained, and my lips are opened to confess with candour when I have been deluded by vanity, and when my mind has been warmed with the feelings of the true and the beautiful.

Rise then! rise before me, ye fairy phantoms of my happy childhood! In remembrance you now scarce form a part of the being I now am! Rise and hover round me, ye gentle shades!—Gracious Providence! suffer once more those delightful hours to rise out of the ocean of the past, like a dim mist before my fancy!

[Page]Seize then the fleeting shades as they pass!— Seest thou there that boy who hangs with rapt attention on his mother's tongue, as she reads to him and his sister some winter evening the interesting tale?—That boy was yourself!—Seest thou again how he makes the chair his table, and the footstool his chair? See how he devours the romance, while ball and playthings lie neglected in the corner!— That boy was yourself!

My honoured mother—Heaven be praised she still lives, she hears my grateful acknowledgments— My good mother, when but a very young widow, denied herself many of the pleasures and enjoyments of life to devote herself entirely to the education of her children. She possessed taste, reading, sensibility, and a rich portion of patient maternal affection. With these qualities, her efforts could not be wholly unsuccessful She provided preceptors of different kinds, but to her own discernment and taste I owe more than to the tutors to whose care my instruction was confided.

In the evening I used to read to her in the parlour. The first book that made a lively impression on me was a Collection of Tales selected from all languages, then in great repute; the next was Don Quixote; Robinson Crusoe then engrossed my fancy, and I wished myself the possessor of some desart Island.

Even in my sixth year I began to compose rude essays in verse; not long after I made my first dramatic effort. I made a comedy, which was just the length of an octavo page. I was sensible, indeed, that it ought to be much longer, in order to resemble a comedy; but who was to teach me the art of spinning out the thread, and expanding my materials?

I now come to that incident of my life, which, in its consequences, produced the greatest influence on my character, and from my tenderest childhood [Page] irrevocably destined me to be a dramatic writer. The late Abt, the player, came with his strolling company to Weimar. Since I possessed any power of thought, there had been no players in Weimar, and my curiosity was unbounded. Musaeus, the amiable and excellent Musaeus, who was attached to me from a child, offered to take me to the theatre.

I went with a kind of reverential awe; my expectation was wound up to the highest pitch. The piece was Klopstock's death of Adam. Musaeus placed me before him on a bench, that I might see over the heads of the spectators. The curtain drew up. I was all ear, all eye. Not a word, not a movement escaped me. Never had I before experienced such powerful impressions. I returned home enchanted. Robinson Crusoe and the desart island disappeared. The theatre now engrossed my whole soul.

My joy, therefore, was unbounded, when the Duchess Amelia, that favourite of the Muses, established a theatre at Weimar. Several of the most celebrated performers of the time came there, and among others, the admirable Eckhof. I never omitted any opportunity of going to the play, and I wondered that those who could do what they pleased, could prefer any other species of entertainment. As a proof of my attention, I could repeat the whole of Lessing's Emilia Galotti without ever having had the book in my hand. To the honour of the fashionable world at Weimar, I must confess indeed that Emilia Galotti was very often performed, and always to full houses.

Meanwhile I was a pupil of Musaeus in the Gymnasium [...] Weimar. Among other things, we had every Saturday an hour dedicated to the reading of little poetical attempts. At this period the rage for ballets was at its height, and the magazines swarmed with terrific stories of chivalry and ghosts. I composed [Page] a ballet in the taste of the times. It contained abundance of murder and ghosts; a Spirit read a lecture on vice, and the sinner was at length carried away by the Devil.

I read this performance the first Saturday after it was ready; and judge my raptures when after it was finished, Musaeus pronounced those words which I shall never forget: "Well, very well! From what magazine have you taken this?" With what triumph did I reply, that it was my own composition▪ "Really!" answered Musaeus: "Bravo! go on." Nothing could exceed my transports at this panegyric, and my poetic propensity was confirmed.

At this time of life every thing is imitation, and I am convinced that there is not a single original idea in a man's head till he is of an age to propagate his species. Every thing I now made was only an imitation of the book I had last read. I wrote a comedy called All's Well that Ends Well, which I believe had a strong resemblance to the Count of Ol [...]bach. Goethe used to visit in our house; he heard of my comedy, and was so condescending, or so polite, as to ask a reading of it. By this wish he highly gratified my mother; and this probably was his object, for I never heard more of the comedy. This able man, however, in my boyish days always treated me with great kindness.

In my sixteenth year I went to Iena. At first my attention was principally directed to the acquisition of the dead and living languages, and in both these my knowledge was considerably increased. At Iena my partiality for the stage still continued. Before my arrival, there was a private theatre established among the students, and it was one of my first objects to be admitted into the association. As it is not customary for ladies to appear in such theatres, on account of my youth female characters of the younger sort were often assigned to me. My [Page] propensity for rhyming likewise continued, and I produced a number of poetic trifles.

In my eighteenth year I undertook to write a Romance, which I finished. It consisted of eight or ten sheets, and, in my own opinion at the time, was nothing inferior to Goethe's Werter. The story indeed was much more terrific; for my hero precipitated himself from the top of a high rock, and was dashed to pieces. This performance I sent to the Weygand, then publisher of most fashionable romances at Leipzie. After waiting some time, however, I had the mortification to receive an answer from him, in which he told me that the manuscript was at my service, and desired me to order payment of the postage of it! I never, however, inquired after it.

In the year 1779 I returned to Iena from the visit I had paid to my sister then lately married, and applied with considerable zeal to the study of jurisprudence. I likewise attended the professors of history, logic, and metaphysics, and continued to improve myself in modern languages.

I this year produced a tragedy called Charlotte Trank, which was performed at our private theatre, and I myself enacted one of the principal characters. The reception of it, however, was rather cold. Soon after I wrote a comedy, which was much better received, and, as far as I recollect, containing some tolerable comic touches. I likewise instituted a poetic club, from which I derived considerable improvement.

In my nineteenth year I returned to Weimar, and studied the Pandects with great industry; was examined by the Government, and admitted Advocate. While I waited for clients, I myself continued a zealous client of the Muses. The summer after my return I wrote several little things, which I am not now ambitious to recall into notice. I likewise wrote some Tales, which were published [Page] with my name by Dyk, at Leipzic, with an hundred and fifty pages by some other hand. Several little dramatic pieces were likewise the produce of my partiality for the theatre.

In 1781 I went to Petersburgh. For some time I repressed my turn for poetic pursuits, but I again began occasionally to indulge my ruling propensity. There was a German theatre at Petersburgh. It was then in a very indifferent state; but soon after it was put in the number of the royal theatres, and the direction of it given to my friend General Bawr, of the artillery, a German. I now again found myself in my element.

I wrote a tragedy in five acts, called Demetrius Czar of Moscow. By a whimsical circumstance the representation of this piece was nearly prohibited. In the history Demetrius was by many called an impostor. In my play I found it convenient to make him an hero. It turned out, however, that there was an old proclamation of Peter the Great, in which this same Demetrius was declared to be an impostor. With much difficulty, however, the piece was allowed to be performed; after I had in a very formal manner been made to declare that I was perfectly satisfied of the imposture of Demetrius, and the justice of the proclamation, and that the freedom which I had used in my play was merely a licentia poetica. I likewise wrote a comedy, called The Nun and the Chambermaid, which was performed with great success. It was never published, and the copy of it was accidentally left.

In the year 1782, some of my friends who had influence at court proposed to procure me a place, and to facilitate their exertions I was requested to write a small volume of Tales and Fables for young Princes, to be dedicated to the young Grand Duke. Though I felt no great call for such a task, I complied; [Page] and the volume was printed in a most superb manner by the direction of one of my friends. Finding, however, that I was not qualified for this kind of writing, I resolved, after the work had proceeded a considerable length, to repay the publisher for his expence, and to bury the four sheets which were finished in eternal oblivion.

Ye who so often and so loudly accuse me of vanity, to my Fables I appeal as the proof of your falsehood! Their suppression cost me some hundred rubles, but my vanity not a sigh.

I now come to the period when I went to reside at Revel. Soon after this I wrote two plays, The Hermit of Formentera, and Adelaide of Wulfingen. The former was performed at a private theatre, and my propensity for the stage revived. To this propensity the people of Revel are indebted for a theatre, which for the last ten years has had an excellent company, and can boast of performers of no common merit. It was opened with a piece of mine, called Every Fool has his Cap. The piece bore a striking resemblance to Moliere's Miser, and I have buried it among my papers.

In autumn, 1787, I was seized with a severe illness, which for several years reduced me to a state between life and death; or, what is worse than death, a state of gloomy dejection of spirits. In the very height of this malady I wrote Misanthropy and Repentance, * and soon after The Indians in England. Both of them were finished within about eight or nine weeks. Never in my life, either before or since, did I feel such copiousness of ideas, such vigour of imagination, such fertility of diction; and I believe it to be undeniable that there are some kinds of maladies (among which may particularly be included those which increase the [Page] irritability of the nerves) which elevate the powers of the mind to an unusual height; just as, according to the story, a diseased muscle forms a pearl.

In the year 1790 I wrote The Virgin of the Sun, The Child of Love, * and Brother Montz the Humourist. I likewise proceeded in the collection of my smaller works.

Upon Misanthrophy and Repentance many foolish things were said and written at the time. Among other things, it was objected that it was defective in poetic justice, because, by an unconditional forgiveness, I had restored the criminal to the enjoyment of all the pleasures of life. Whether any forgiveness could completely remove the cruel punishment which her crime carried with it; whether such a woman as Eulalia, † with a conscience so awakened, could ever again be happy, are questions which nobody thought it worth while to ask, except Mr. Ziegler, who, however, took up the whole affair erroneously, and by the unjustifiable freedom of calling Eulalia's seducer from the dead, completely changed the nature of the case. I therefore wrote The Noble Lie, in which, although certainly there appears a young lady fallen from virtue, a circumstance on which the impure imagination of Reviewers continues to dwell, unquestionably prevails the purest moral that ever was inculcated from the pulpit or the stage.

In 1790, I experienced one of the severest dispensations of Providence in the death of an amiable wife. Grief for this loss drove me to Paris, and the account of this excursion I published under the title of The Flight to Paris, This book was likewise severely attacked by some critics.

Full of indignation against the Parisians, of whose excesses I had been an eye-witness, on my return [Page] to Mentz I wrote The Female Jacobin Club, a f [...]rce not without some humour. My friend Huber, however, because he happened to be of a different political creed from me, [...]ell soul of it in the most violent manner. Nevertheless, however, despotism is to me as hateful as to him, and this I testified soon after in my Philosophical Sketch of Louis XIV. My publisher at Strasburgh sent me the work in manuscript, and the correspondence which I had with him on the subject was broken open before it reached me. I complained to our minister at Frankfort on the subject, who took my side; but it was alleged at Mentz that the letters were open before they arrived there, and I never was able to learn who it really was who did me the honour to mistake me for a spy, or a red-capped Jacobin. It seems to be my fate, that while Mr. Huber and Co. exclaim against me as an advocate of despotism, the despots around consider me as a dangerous democrat, worthy of their most jealous attention. I could give signal examples of this, if a man were at liberty to tell all he could.

Once in my life I had the weakness to write a book in complaisance to another. It was the book on Nobility. I could say a great deal on this subject, but I am not at liberty to do it If the world knew—and perhaps they may one day know—into what equivocal reputation of a certain kind I have been thrown by the opinions, which both before and since I have expressed, and which have been so egregiously misrepresented; if they know how my most confidential private correspondence was turned against me; if they knew what inducements I had, and from whom they proceeded, they would decide upon that production upon quite different grounds; they would take into view not only the author, but the citizen and the father. I confess, however, that my inconsiderate complaisance laid [Page] me open in several points to the attacks of criticism; but for attack from those with whom I had lived in habits of friendship, I was not prepared.

All that I have written since has been received by the public with approbation, and by the critics announced without approbation. These are, Count Benyowsky, The Death of Rolla, The Youngest Children of my Fancy, * Poverty and Honour, The Man of Forty Years, The Negro Slave, The Chace, The Count of Burgundy, The Defamers, False Shame, and La Peyrouse.

Many of my plays have had the good fortune to be translated into French, Dutch, Danish, Polish, Russian, Italian: ⁶ a new thorn in the side of the Reviewers! A few days ago I received the following piece of intelligence in a letter from Moscow: "Your play, The Child of L [...]ve, was as often represented, and with more applause here than The Marriage of Figaro in Paris. It is very well translated into Russian."

Is it not matter of surprise, that at the same time, and in so many countries, the Public should every where have judged wrong, and approved of things upon which the Reviews had pronounced irrevocable sentence of condemnation?—The investigation of that phenomenon, however, I must reserve for the continuation of this article on some other occasion.

What may follow I must beg to be considered as the defence of a man accused; for the critics have to often charged me at the bar of their judges and mine, the Public, that it would seem a contempt for that tribunal never to take the [...]ouble to answer. In this [...] I certainly may have some [...]m [...]o indulgence. Yet [...] all i [...] being [...]avour as far as it is in my power, to in e [...]sperte with s [...]wn [...] day a subject [...] what B [...]u [...]ch [...]s [...]o we [...] [...] F [...], par [...] qu [...] [...] r [...]n d [...]nn [...] des [...]ap [...]ur [...] [...] Et sa [...]s [...]b [...]rd [...]? Leur é n'est [...]! ⁷

Notes

*

The following account of the Literary Life of Kotzebue is written by himself. Sill preserving the narrative in the Author's own words, the translator has omitted many things which, to the English reader, would have been uninteresting, and which would have extended this article to an excessive length.

↵

*

The Stranger.

↵

*

Lover's Vows.

↵

†

Called Adelaide, or Mrs. Haller, in the play as performed here.

↵

*

Under this general title the following Novel was first published.

↵

6

[...], when this was written, heard of the great [...] [...]untry.

↵

7

[...] right, are you to give your r [...]der [...] [...] [...]h ennu [...]? Their s [...] [...]

↵

THE CONSTANT LOVER; OR William AND Ieanette. A TALE.

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CHAP. I. THE BOY.

WILLIAM sat by the side of a brook under an alder tree. He had just slipped the bark from a willow branch, and formed it into a rustic flute. He sat and drew from his artless instrument simple, plaintive melodies; and now and then he would gaze upon the brook that babbled by, and weep bitterly. A few steps from the banks of the rivulet lay his hat, and in the hat a piece of bread. The linnets and goldfinches hopped from twig to twig, approaching nearer and nearer, till at last they had the boldness to peek the crumbs out of the [...]t. William viewed them with a melancholy [Page] smile, and struggled to suppress his sobs that he might not disturb the little guests.

"Why do you weep, my boy?" suddenly cried a rough voice behind him.

"Why do you weep, my boy?" repeated a sweet tender echo. William started, and blushed as if he had been caught in some criminal act. Mankind are ashamed of a gift which testifies their noble origin. We are ashamed to shed tears. Nobody chooses it should appear that he has been weeping. We pull out our handkerchiefs, and press them to our red eyes, to wipe away the last traces of humanity.

William had not time to dry up the large drops which trickled over his sun-burnt cheeks. With his fine black eyes he gazed at the strangers from whom the question proceeded. Before him stood a corpulent man, dressed in a close dark blue coat and a bob wig. In his right hand, which displayed no common size, he carried a long Spanish cane with a golden head, and in the left he led a beautiful girl of eleven years of age, on whose rosy cheeks the evening sun played through the trees, while the gentle zephyr wantoned in her fair flowing locks.

"Why do you weep, my boy?" repeated this benignant creature, and dropped a tear on the bunch of May-flowers which she had newly plucked.

"Ah, Miss!" said William, as he rose from the ground where he sat, "I weep because I know not what in the world will become of me."

"Are you an orphan?" said the corpulent man.

WILLIAM.

—Ah! no. I have a father; you, Sir, know him well, for he has often wrought in your house.

CORPULENT MAN.

—Who is your father?

WILLIAM.

—John Meadows the porter. Till [Page] now he has kept me at school. I can read and write, and also construe Cornelius Nepos. Times, however, are at present very hard. My father says he cannot any longer afford to support me at school; that I must turn porter, and earn my bread.

CORPULENT MAN.

—And you are averse to your father's proposal?

WILLIAM.

—I wish to apply myself to some settled profession.

CORPULENT MAN.

—My good boy, every man in the world is at bottom no other than a porter; and he that can take up his burden in one house, carry it to another, and there throw it down, has not the hardest lot in life.

William stared at the corpulent man; in his fine eyes it was easy to read—"I do not understand you."

"You do not understand me," proceeded the corpulent man; "and it were better that I did not understand myself.—How old are you?"

WILLIAM.

—Thirteen.

CORPULENT MAN.

—Then, indeed, are you too young and too weak to pursue your father's occupation.

WILLIAM.

—I am extremely willing to work, but then I should forget all I have learnt at school. I used always to think with myself that I ought to be diligent and attentive, for it was possible that I too might one day come to be a schoolmaster, and be able to provide for my old father when is no longer able to carry burdens.

"Give him something, father!" lisped the little Miss as she clung round the corpulent man, and looked up to him with eager, sparkling eyes. When she found that her father did not immediately answer, she added, in querulous accents, "This too, is my birth-day, and you have yet made me no present."

[Page]The good old man was touched; with a complacent smile he chucked her tenderly under the chin, and said to William, "Dry up your tears, my boy; I will pay the expence of your education at school. Come to-morrow morning early with your father to my house, and we will talk farther upon the business."

William hastily seized the corpulent man's right hand, and bathed it with his tears; the little girl kissed the left; the old man was affected. William gave his flute to the little girl. She accepted it, kindly nodded her head, and in return gave him the bunch of May-flowers. Not a word passed between them; but the young Miss viewed the flute with complacency, and William pressed the May-flowers to his heart.

"Farewell till to-morrow!" said the corpulent man as he went away, and the little girl tripped gaily by his side through the willows. William followed her with his eyes. She frequently looked behind, and every time with a kindly nod, till a hillock concealed the lovely angel from his view. William took up his hat, crumbled the piece of bread, and scattered it on the grass for the linnets and goldfinches. He then stuck the bunch of May-flowers in his hat with more pride than a young cornet his first cockade, and went home in the highest spirits.

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CHAP II. THE FIRST VISIT.

HE that goes to bed with his head full of the idea that to-morrow he has something of great importance before him, commonly awakes betimes. Scarce was it day-break, when William stood before a shattered looking-glass to prepare for his visit. He powdered his hair, and spared no pains to deck out his locks in the neatest style. A rose-coloured coat, of pretty fine stuff, but now worn threadbare, which three years before had been purchased from an old-clothes-man, and consequently now much too short at all points, this day received a new decoration from the half-faded bunch of May-flowers, which William had fastened upon his breast with two large corking pins.

Old John Meadows spread a towel upon his shoulders, and pulled the brass comb at least twenty times through his close-cropped hair. From the chest, which he ever kept locked with religious care, he drew out his Sunday's coat of dark blue cloth, and his scarlet waistcoat. It was trimmed superbly from the shoulders down to his thighs; his clean shirt was most carefully plaited, and displayed innumerable folds. A dark cane with an ivory head waved in his hand by a leathern thong, and a hat with three huge cocks covered his head.

Thus proudly arrayed, they bent their way to the house of the corpulent man; and as they paced along, old John Meadows thanked God in silence, who had inspired the heart of a heretic to assist William honorably through the world.

[Page]What! and the corpulent man then was an heretic?

Yes, courteous protestant reader! yet was he no political, but only a theological heretic; and at this time of day such a thing has ceased to be a crime. The cut of your religion and of your clothes, the form of your creed and of your hair, are now subjected to the omnipotent sceptre of Fashion; and Voltaire, who was once banished from his country because he ventured to start the impious doubt whether Adam and Eve in Paradise had their navels cut,* would now have been driven back to his country because he makes Titus exclaim—

— Je [...] [...]n mon c [...]r

L [...]t be [...]e g [...]av [...]e [...]les [...]ol [...] [...]n horreur†.

Mr. Jerome, whom the inhabitants of the little country town of L * * *, by an easy corruption, used to call Skrum, was a French emigrant—driven from his native land, however, neither by the revocation of the edict of Nantes, nor by the violence of the National Convention. He had left the country of his ancestors in pursuit of fortune, because she had not chanced to visit him at home. He was a staunch, thorough Roman catholic; by trade a stocking-manufacturer, a calling he had exercised for twenty years, during which he had been settled in Germany. Here by a pair of fine eyes his conscience was so overcome, that he was fain to accommodate it to the wishes of his heart, as he fashioned his stockings to answer every size of foot, great or small. In other words, he had ventured to marry a protestant heretic, who, however, for the punishment of her misbelief, died in childbed a year after their union, leaving him an only daughter, who was called Jeanette by her father, and Jenny by the rest of the family.

[Page]Mr. Jerome was corpulent; but when a wretched fellow-creature laid his hand on Mr. Jerome's breast, he felt his heart beat loud and kindly enough. He was of a cheerful disposition; well he loved a laugh, heartily enjoyed a glass of Burgundy, delighted in the social circle, but most of all when his morning had been employed in performing a kind and beneficent action. Benevolence, indeed, is the parent of gaiety, and the cheerful man is ever more ready than the gloomy and morose to draw his purse to relieve a brother.

The doors instantly fl [...]w open when John Meadows and his son were announced. Mr. Jerome was smoking a pipe of tobacco, and Jeanette was soaking a roll in tea: beside her cup lay the flute. She nodded benignantly to the giver, who returned her salutation with awkward bows, and blushed till his cheeks vied in colour with his father's waistcoat. She looked at the flute, and then at William, as if she meant to say, "Do you see how much I value your present?" William stood with downcast eyes, and played with the May-flowers, as if he would have answered—"Nor is yours less dear to me."

John Meadows broke silence. He spoke at great length of the Christian temper, and of God's blessing. He even ventured to maintain, that the man who protected and supported the poor orphan might, in spite of his corrupted faith, be placed among the sheep on the right hand.

Mr. Jerome smiled with much good-nature, and glanced at his tobacco smoke as it rolled up in spreading volumes, as if he would have said, smoke or cloud, it is all one in the end.

"I shall be very happy," said he with a gentle inclination of the head, "if the young lad continues to be diligent and well-behaved. I will pay the expence of his education at school, and take care likewise [Page] that he shall not want any thing necessary to his progress. Let him attend the precentor of the parish church two hours a week to learn to sing, as I understand he has a mind to be a school-master. He may come here every day, and dine with the superintendant of my manufactory upon what Providence is pleased to bestow. I shall then have an opportunity of hearing what progress he makes. Adieu! the table is always covered at two o'clock."

"Now, William, mind what you are about!" muttered his father, pinching his son's arm! "go and kiss this worthy gentleman's hand!"

Heaven knows from what feeling it proceeded, but William bashfully walked up with trembling steps to the tea-table, and kissed Jeanette's hand. Jeanette blushed as red as scarlet. John Meadows said: Blockhead! and Mr. Jerome laughed. "Be not displeased, good John! The lad has done quite right, since what I now do to assist him he owes originally to my daughter."

With many bows which no dancing-master would have endured, and many cordial blessings which God and the worthy old man's heart accepted, the happy pair took their leave. William, at first, in compliance with the dictates of politeness, was about to withdraw to the door, carefully observing always to present his face to the company. Vanity, however, whispered him to turn round, that the pretty little girl might have an opportunity of seeing his finely dressed and powdered hair. He wheeled abruptly round therefore, and with head erect he marched out of the room.

[Page]

CHAP. III. THE PEAR-TREE.

WILLIAM continued to advance in stature; he learnt to write, to read, to cast accounts, to sing, and had Luther's smaller catechism at his finger's ends. Jeanette likewise improved in size, and learnt even more than William. When they were together, however, they were wont to forget what they had learnt. William dined every day with Mr. Jerome's overseers. Frequently upon Sundays he was invited to his benefactor's table, as he was a well bred, modest lad. On these occasions he never forget to drink the healths of the whole company, and generally had the misfortune to spill a few drops of wine on the table-cloth, because, in making the circuit of the guests, his hand trembled whenever his eye lighted on Jeanette.

Every year William celebrated Mr. Jerome's birth-day in a poem in Ale andrines, a yard long, elegantly transcribed upon royal paper, stitched up in morocco with blue silk. Jeanette's birth-day was likewise sung with equal honor, but in dactyls; and instead of blue silk, the binding was ornamented with purple red. The father, on these occasions, rewarded him with a guinea, and the daughter with a kind glance. The guinea dropped into his pocket, the glance went to his heart. The guinea he usually carried to his father, and not a halfpenny did he retain for himself; the glance he would not have shared either with father or mother. He felt something like the same sensation as the young gentlemen of London when they ascend Dr. Graham's celestial bed.

[Page]Of the most delightful of all feelings, man is unable to give the least account, because, praised be the great Creator! they are original instincts in his nature. Envy, hatred, slander, and all the furies which compose the black catalogue of vice, are, at a later period, the bastard brood of the social state. W [...]am had never reflected why he employed purple silk for Jeanette, nor examined for what reason, at the sight of her, his heart leaped like his own dactyls. Neither did Jeanette know why at noon, just at the time when William came to dinner, she was sure to seat herself at the door. As little did she reflect why upon Sundays, in helping about the soup, she never failed to give William the largest share of the bouilli. It proceeded doubtless from this cause, that, without our ever suspecting it, in the first part of our life we are ripening for love, as in the latter part of it we are ripening for death. Love and death have many things in common. No mortal can defy their power. Both come upon us by surprise, like a thief in the night; both transport us in Elysium. A dying man and a lover resemble each other in this too, that the spectators generally discover before the person himself, what is his real situation. Fortunately this was not the case with William and Jeanette. Mr. Jerome never dreamt that Jeanette could ever forget in the amiable youth, poor William the porter's son; or that William would ever aspire to the daughter of a manufacturer. He did not consid [...]r that liberty and equality is the great mysterious law in love as in death.

When the light down began to spread itself on William's upper lip, and Jeanette's bosom began to extend, Cupid, the mischievous boy, with cunning artifice prepared by various little incidents to unravel that web which, with playful hand, he had wove in their infant hearts.

[Page]Mr. Jerome, who was universally considered a [...] of property, among other things possessed a garden in front of his house, where, in a fine summer evening, he was wont to enjoy himself. Hither used William to come after he had harassed his memory all day long, or had sung himself hoarse with the parish clerk, in order to refresh himself with new milk and vegetables.

One harvest day Jeanette happened to long for a pear, which hung deliciously tempting on the top of a branch. William instantly proceeded to climb the tree. The wish to gratify her was combined with the little vanity of showing with what speed and adroitness he could mount the highest tree; for it is a delightful sensation to extort admiration from those we love. He soon ascended the trunk, and lightly swung from branch to branch.

"William! William! you will fall," cried the old man from the bower. "There is no danger," returned William carelessly, and stretched out his hand to seize the tempting fruit. As his arm, however, was too short, in leaning forwards he lost his balance, tumbled, grasped a rotten branch; the branch broke, and William fell to the ground like a piece of lead.

Jeanette screamed. "There it is!" cried the old man, and waddled up in all haste quite breathless. In the fall the splinter of the branch tore the thoughtless boy's temple. "William!" cried Jeanette with trembling voice; "William! you bleed!"

"'Tis a trifle!" said William, his countenance distorted with pain as he writhed himself on the grass.

Mr. JEROME.

—Then rise.

WILLIAM.

—Immediately, immediately.

JEANETTE.

—O heavens! what is the matter with you? Rise!

WILLIAM.

—I cannot.

[Page]JEANETTE.

—Why not?

WILLIAM.

—I have broke my leg.

Jeanette very near swooned away at these words. She wept, and bemoaned his misfortune with so much anxiety, that William only lamented that he had not broke both his legs. He was immediately laid upon a barrow, conveyed home with all possible tenderness, and lodged in Mr. Jerome's house, where he was attended with the utmost care for six weeks. Twice a day came Jeanette with the knowledge of her father to visit him, and twenty times a day did she come without her father's knowledge. She brought him preserved fruits, strengthening soups, and kind glances, endued with the most wonderful healing powers.

"How are you now?" said she one day at the beginning of the seventh week. "Alas!" said William in a querulous tone, "I am well, and the happiest of my days are flown!"

"You dream dear William. Have you not lain constantly in bed, and endured the most violent pain?"

"Ah! how soon was it forgotten when I saw Jeanette enter the room!"

At these words, he concealed his glowing countenance with the bed-clothes; and Jeanette, overspread with the most captivating blushes of modesty, pretended some business at the window; in doing which she awkwardly overturned three phials with medicines. Of these, however, there was store remaining. The surgeon declared what William of his own free impulse would never have announced, that his patient was completely cured. William, with a deep sigh, left the house in which his heart had enjoyed more delightful emotions than his leg had cost him painful hours. Winter covered with snow the garden in front of the house, and the glimmering sparks of first love. Jeanette and [Page] William saw each other less frequently, and, when they met, they were constrained by an embarrassment which they had never before experienced.

Meanwhile the youth received the most flattering testimonies from his instructors. "He is diligent," said they, "and he has talents; it is a pity indeed that he is sometimes a dreamer. For hours together he will sit with open mouth, and gaze. Do you call him, he does not hear; do you shake him, he starts up in amaze! and do you ask him what he has been thinking of, the common answer is: Of nothing."

I know very well what I am thinking of, would William whisper aside to himself; I know well of what I dream, but I cannot impart it to you.—Jeanette felt some kind of sentiment, as if she knew likewise; but it was a subject which she was still less qualified than William to mention.

CHAP. IV. THE CANARY BIRD.

SOON as the spring again awaked every bud to life, and every bird to love, Mr. Jerome began to visit his garden. There would Jeanette often sit under the fatal pear-tree, and wonder that her bosom, which was now so much enlarged, should feel even more confined than when she wore frocks. With the frocks of childhood its joys too had flown. Last harvest the pear-tree was interesting only on account of its fruit, but now she preferred the blossoms. Formerly she delighted to see the linnet [Page] with his clipped wings hop through the room, but now she would rather listen to his song in the groves. Childhood loves to demolish; youth to enjoy; manhood wishes to build up, and to repair, but in the midst of its schemes is surprised by old age, which loves to lie down beneath a ruin, and doze away the remainder of existence.

Out of the abundant treasure of her youthful joys, Jeanette had nothing now remaining but a favorite canary bird, which, by the help of a violin, had been taught to sing the melodies of the song, "Marlborough's to the wars gone." He would often fit upon her shoulder, and peck the sugar from her mouth. As her father and this canary were the only living creatures she could venture to acknowledge, either to herself or to others, that she passionately loved, she soon became persuaded that little Marlborough was indispensible to her. "I should fret to death," would she often say, "were he to die." This in other words meant, "I cannot live without love, and I know not yet how easy it is to supply the place of a canary bird."

One hot sultry summer day it happened—and William chanced to be in the garden—that all the windows of the house were thrown open to invite the breeze, which gently waved the vine-leaves that arched round the window. While little Marlborough hopped at liberty through the room, the restless spirit of his great ancestor suddenly began to move in him. Perhaps he was enticed by the twittering of a sparrow on the outside, which reminded him, that in spite of his golden plumage, and his present delicate style of living, he was originally sprung from the sparrow race. He resolved, therefore to teach the courtier a lesson, by condescending to acknowledge his humble relation. Presto! in a moment he was out at the window, and Jeanette had well nigh leaped out after him. She stood with [Page] uplifted arms, and screamed as if she had seen somebody murdered below in the garden.

It was long before the cause of her screams could be ascertained, since nobody had observed the little fugitive, and Jeanette was so frightened that she could not for her life stammer out the word Marlborough. William stood before her, moved his lips, twisted his fingers, and with anxious looks seemed labouring to draw the words from her mouth. When he at last learnt what was the matter, he took the shortest way out at the window; and Jeanette was on the point of following him, had not female delicacy in the critical moment pulled her by the sleeve, and held her back. She flew out at the door, and soon joined William, whose eyes wandered from tree to tree.

"There he sits!" cried he at last, pointing to a cherry-tree, where Marlborough perched, and devoured with keenness a May cherry. "But how are we to entice him down without frightening him away?"

William whistled; Jeanette cried, but all in vain! A lump of sugar was shewn him at a distance; but he eyed it askance, like a contented peasant who is invited to the table of a prince, and yet would eat his buttermilk at home with much greater pleasure and appetite. After the little fugitive had pecked the cherry to the stone, he flew merrily away, like the favorite of some great lady, who is compelled to give the tone to the feelings of his mistress, though his heart refuses to beat in unison, and at last has the good fortune to fall into disgrace. His pursuers followed him close. He then perched upon a birch, and the feelings of liberty appeared quite to overcome the duty of gratitude; for he took not the least notice of Jeanette's fond, enticing complaints.

William was preparing to climb the birch, but Marlborough saved him the trouble, and flew from [Page] tree to tree. At last he flew over the hedge into the adjoining meadows. Without wings, and in spite of the thorns, William soon contrived to find his way over the hedge. Poor Jeanette, however, was obliged to remain behind, and content herself with her tender hands to make a little opening in the thicket, through which she could have a prospect of the meadow, and at least follow the beloved fugitive with her eye.

"Ah! William! William! get me him back" cried she to the youth with a voice so touching [...]y sweet, that he would have pursued the bird into the very cage of the fairy Strigillina, for whose acquaintance we are indebted to the facetious Cazotte. The meadow was but thinly planted with trees, and at the distance of a few hundred paces was bounded by a river of considerable breadth, though not very deep. On the banks of this stream Marlborough perched on a willow, so low, that he seemed easily within reach. William slipped up upon tiptoe, and when he was opening his hand—away the little fugitive took his flight across the stream, sat down upon an aspen tree, and began to sing merrily—not Marlborough's to the wars gone—but the song which nature had taught him without the help of an instrument. It is thus that we all do. Every one has his piece which he has learnt by rote, and he sings it no longer than he is obliged. The parson drones it from the pulpit, and at home resigns himself to the spirit of the cloth, while he calculates the amount of his tythes.

There was no time to be lost. William sprang forward into the water without consideration, clothes and all, waded up to the shoulders, and safely gained the opposite bank, but not the object of his pursuit.

Jeanette through the hedge saw what William had done, and the big tear of anguish which rolled [Page] down her cheek changed into the silent stealing tear of tenderness. She trembled still, but it was not for Marlborough. "Kind William!" said she aloud: "Dear William!" softly re-echoed her heart.

He had now, together with the bird, disappeared from her view. He leaped and sprang over hedges and ditches, keeping the runaway favourite constantly in sight. His strength now began to fail; his breath was nearly exhausted; the agitation of his breast was visible; the moment seemed at hand when he would be compelled to drop down with fatigue, and the resuscitated Marlborough would be abandoned to his fate.

Unexpectedly a third party now came into action, who, unobserved, had long watched his advantage. A hawk soared in air, lurking like a villain that prowls abroad to ruin innocence. Ah! that nature had not bestowed upon man the instinct of the feathered creation, to detect wickedness and treachery at a distance, when they seem to hover careless over him without menacing destruction! Little Marlborough, in his golden prison, had never seen a hawk, but nature distinctly told him—"Above you there is your foe!" What neither seducing love nor tempting dainties could accomplish, fear at last effected. He shaped his flight lower and lower; at last, but just above the surface, he perched upon a juniper bush—the hawk darted down—and Marlborough leaped for refuge into William's protecting hand.

"I have got him!" cried William panting for breath; "thank God, I have got him." He forgot that his strength was exhausted; he thought only of Jeanette's transports, and the idea inspired him with new vigor. He could not allow himself to think of going round by the high road over the bridge, and through the town to Mr. Jerome's [Page] garden. With the bird in his hand he leaped more lightly than before over all the hedges and ditches which separated him from Jeanette; with the bird in his hand he plunged again into the river, and held his captive over his head.

"I have got him!" exclaimed he, when he saw the white robes of his beloved waving through the hedge. A tender tear stole down her cheek when she at last saw William standing before her breathless, drenched to the skin, his hands torn and bloody, his face inflamed and discoloured, his hair as wet with perspiration as his clothes with water. She darted an animated glance which betrayed her whole soul; she forgot Marlborough and her disordered morning gown, suddenly threw herself round his neck, and with loud sobs kissed his glowing cheek.

Poor William, indeed, had earned well his reward. He was so much exhausted that he could not even return Jeanette's caresses. He sunk down on the grass, and panted for breath; Jeanette could not speak her thanks—she was silent; but this moment decided the fate of her life. William was requested to go to town and change his clothes. He would not go. Next morning he was seized with a fever and ague.

CHAP. V. LOVE FOR LOVE.

THE cunning boy Cupid claims an indisputable right to inhabit every damsel's heart. Should you knock and inquire whether he is within, and [Page] you find him denied, you must not conclude that he is really absent, but only that your visit was not acceptable. Cupid is unquestionably the greatest potentate upon earth, and accordingly he sometimes exercises the privilege of other great folks, to slap the door in the face of th [...]se low-bred worthy people who have nothing to pretend to but their honesty. This celestial divinity too has it in common with the gods of the earth that he submits to the tyranny of favorites, provided they never fall into disgrace with him. Gentle reader! do you guess the names of these favourites? They are called Vanity and Sense. Love, indeed, has also a friend, less a favorite, as usual, it is true, than the flatterers, but often possessed of the greatest influence. This friend is Pity! and when, as it sometimes happens, the friends and the favorites combine together, the most rigid heart must open to their addresses.

William, without being aware of it, had succeeded in interesting both the friend and the flatterer in his favor. As early as the day when his tears dropped into the brook, and the flute breathed the simple tones of his plaintive melody, Pity first stole into the gentle bosom of Jeanette. The broken leg of last year nourished this feeling, and the ague now lent it incalculable strength. Hence was formed the triple alliance to which we have just alluded. Vanity whispered in soothing accents: "For thy sake it was he climbed the tree; for thy sake he plunged into the river."—Sense—Fy! fy! what has an innocent girl of sixteen to do with the suggestions of Sense?

Forgive me, dearest ladies! but be careful not to confound this refined feeling with its coarser sister Sensuality. Do you not contemplate with greater pleasure the head of an Antinoüs than that of a So [...]es? [...] who will impute this pleasure of sense [Page] to you as a crime?—William was a tall handsome stripling; he had the glow of health upon his cheek; his countenance displayed the fresh bloom of youth; he had a fine intelligent eye, purple lips, white teeth—Is it my fault that nature has communicated to these qualities the power to please? When all is done, must we not exclaim with Boufflers:

Que deviendroient les familles,

Si les coeurs des jeunes gar [...]ons

Etoient faits comme ceux des filles?

The very same apartment where last year William had found his health but too speedily re-established, was on this occasion likewise the scene of his joys and sufferings. He entered it with delightful warmth of emotion, to which the shivering fit of his distemper was for a moment forced to yield.

Almost the whole day Jeanette was wont to sit by his bed-side. Her father troubled himself little about the matter, partly because the slightest suspicion never entered his imagination, and partly because his affairs, for some time fallen into disorder, occupied his attention, and soured his temper.

Jeanette had learnt botany from an old Frenchman, a pupil of Rousseau, and inherited from her mother a number of notable receipts. She liked to dabble a little in medicine too, and she resolved to undertake in person the cure of her beloved patient; a design, in which she very probably would have ultimately succeeded without the assistance of any receipts whatever. Sometimes she prepared for him fresh decoctions of cresses, borage, and other herbs; again she would give him mint leaves with honey; and sometimes she made him drink coffee with lemon juice. William, without reluctance, swallowed whatever her fair hand presented to him; and [...]d it pleased her to prescribe it, he would have drank coloquintida without making a wry face▪

[Page]When he at length perceived that the fever had left his body, but that his love for Jeanette was not likely to be soon expelled from his heart, he became pensive and melancholy. Jeanette daily made tender and pressing inquiries after the cause; but in vain! no decoction could loosen his tongue. Most willingly indeed would he have rolled away the heavy burden that lay upon his heart, but where could he find courage for the attempt?

"Bashful boy! when love is deficient in courage, it has recourse to art. You dread Jeanette's resentment? Why, well! Try then to discover your love without betraying the design. Have you not a fever? Cannot you affect delirium? The ravings of a distempered fancy she cannot take amiss."

Something, I know not what, whispered these suggestions to William's heart, and to its soothing accents William lent a willing ear. Several days he revolved his little plan of imposture, and watched only for a favorable opportunity to put it in practice.

One evening Jeanette amused him in reading the celebrated Reinecke Fuchs, which M. Goethe has dressed out in a new garb. He was so wearied with the pranks and the jokes of master Reinecke, that he had abundance of time to study his part. Twenty times was Jeanette, yawning with fatigue, on the point of laying the book aside; but as William was silent, and his eyes, steadily fixed upon her, seemed to indicate that he was interested in the story, she concluded that it must be very entertaining, though she could not comprehend it. She continued to read on to the ninth canto, and kept herself from sleep as well as she could. She was at the place which says that the "hero boldly addressed himself to all the barons," when the word boldly struck William's ear, and vibrated to his heart. "Why do you hesitate?" whispered Love; "take courage! [Page] be bold!"—Here, however, it was no barons that William had to deal with; and he would have thought it far easier to address himself to all the barons in Christendom, than to expose himself to the offended looks of Jeanette.

Suddenly William began to toss himself about in bed, and to utter unintelligible jargon. Jeanette looked up: "William, are you not well?"—He returned no answer. Jeanette repeated her question, and William still refused to answer. Alarmed, she threw away the book, rose, leant over him, and gazed upon his countenance with inquisitive looks. His cheeks glowed—and that appeared a suspicious symptom; his brow was hot—it was a return of the fever; his eyes rolled—he breathed quick—she was seriously alarmed. Silent and anxious she stood beside him to watch the symptoms.

William now began to give loose to his tongue: "Jeanette!" exclaimed he without turning his eyes towards the place where she stood, "my beloved Jeanette!" Then he proceeded to talk enthusiastically of palaces and cottages, which he would inhabit with his Jeanette. Now he would suppose that he saw Mr. Jerome before him; with tears he entreated and conjured him not to refuse him Jeanette because he was poor. Now he thought he saw her in the arms of another; then wept and raved, complained and stormed.

Jeanette was terribly frightened. She attempted to run away, but did not go; she was about to cry for help, but she did not. William's ravings were so interesting that they fixed her whole attention, and the confession of his love she heard with rapture, as his situation spared her blushes.

After the pretended sick man had played his part for a considerable time with great success, and had unveiled the most secret wishes of his heart without embarrassment, he sunk down upon the bed as [Page] if exhausted, and peered at Jeanette with half-shut eyes, in order to ascertain the effects of his talents for theatrical performance. His sinking down appeared to Jeanette to be a swoon; and when he gazed steadily at her, she thought that his eyes were set in his head. Away she ran to the window, where stood a phial with cordial drops, took a cup, and intended to pour out twenty; there were at least eighty however, partly because her hand trembled, and partly because she reckoned as much out of rule as if she had in her life heard no more of addition or multiplication than of Kant's Criticism on pure Reason. Had this cordial been applied as it was intended, the roguish patient would indeed have sustained no injury; for on the way between the window and the bed her trembling hand had spilt four parts of the potent drug. With the remainder she approached the patient's lips, and with soothing accents said, "My dear William!"—At these words, instead of the cup he seized her hand, pressed it ardently to his mouth, and gazed upon her with languishing softness.

"You will spill the drops!" cried Jeanette confounded. But the drops were already spilt. William troubled himself no more about them; he threw his arms round the lovely girl, hid his face in her bosom, and stammered, "Forgive me, Jeanette, I do not rave!"

"What is the matter with you, William?"

"Alas! I am poor! I have nothing but a heart that dotes upon you!"

"You are sick!"—

"O yes! to death if you disdain me!"

It was indeed an excellent, though a very dangerous fashion among the old Germans, which assigned to the fair sex the practice of the healing art. What extraordinary cures might not in those days a young handsome baggage have performed! How [Page] often, on the other hand, might she not have been the victim of her humanity! How often has the patient been cured when the physician caught the distemper!

Jeanette felt that she had more occasion for the cordial drops than William. She would have run out of the room, but she wanted strength to disentangle herself from his arms. She would have chid, but she wanted breath to speak, as William's glowing lips were pressed to hers. At this moment the juggler Cupid, with inconceivable dexterity, exchanged their hearts; and showed them, by the help of a little of his Necromantic skill, instead of a yawning abyss under their feet, a distant prospect of flowery fields and beds of roses.

CHAP. VI. THE SCHOOLMASTER.

THERE are four kinds of happy mortals in the world. With three of them happiness glides swiftly away, like the light clouds which the helpless mariner, as he clings to the shattered helm of reason, at a distance mistakes for land. With the fourth only is it permanent; provided no physician happens, uncalled, to interfere. The three first are, the drunk man, the lover, and the child.—The last— alas! why must I acknowledge the unwelcome truth?—the last is—the madman. All the four have this in common, that they are contented with what they possess; they enjoy the present, and entertain [Page] no apprehensions for the future. On account of the coincidence which we have mentioned, it is usual to call lovers childish, drunk, or mad; and I have nothing to say should the reader be inclined to apply these honorable appellations to the principal personages of my story; for it was childish at their age to permit love to steal into their hearts; it was intoxication to acknowledge their mutual attachment; it was madness to dream of future bliss.

William's most ambitious hopes scarcely aspired so high as the rank of a school-master. Jeanette, indeed, thought that love ennobled every station, and constituted the happiness of the beggar as well as the prince. She already anticipated in imagination how she would feed the hens and geese, and bake cakes at Christmas. Even the difference of their religious faith gave her no uneasiness. Lovers have only one religion.

William thought these sentiments extremely well founded, and did not fail to add many other reasons no less conclusive. If a warlike prince, would he argue, returns his sword into the scabbard to repose in the arms of his confort, why 'tis the same thing exactly when the schoolmaster lays down the rod and embraces his helpmate. The prince adorns his brows with laurel, and the schoolmaster at Whitsuntide decorates his apartment with birch. The laurel is dyed with blood, but the birch sheds a sweet perfume.—Love delights to amuse itself with such companions. The imagination admits them without scruple; but as with infants, who thrust every thing indiscriminately into their mouth, it is soon discovered that some things will not go down.

William, whose fever had now taken a different turn, appeared endued with supernatural powers since Jeanette's lips had been pressed to his. His masters no longer called him dreamer. He was [Page] the most attentive, the most studious scholar in the school. He acquired every branch of knowledge with extraordinary expedition, and never lost sight of the object of his exertions, the valuable prize for which he struggled. He now learnt more in six months than formerly in as many years; and at a public examination, in presence of the superintendant-general Hori [...]iophilius, he made so favorable an appearance, that notwithstanding his youth he received the appointment of schoolmaster at Walldorf, a situation of no contemptible emolument.

Prouder than a cardinal who has received from the visible head of the church the right to wear a purple robe, and to lead a great white horse by a golden bridle; happier than a shipwrecked navigator, who for many weeks has defied the attacks of hunger and thirst in a crazy canoe, and at last descries a friendly South Sea island at hand, on whose coasts the bread-tree invites him to allay his hunger; prouder and happier did Wiiliam now sly home to revive his sick father with the news.

Good old John Meadows was not destined to enjoy the fruits of his son's industry and preferment, for he died a few weeks after. To the day of his death, however, he continued to amuse himself with a hundred little plans how he should spend an easy old age, how he should superintend the kitchengarden and the orchard, or undertake the management of the school upon occasion, when urgent business took his son to town In the midst of these flattering dreams John Meadows fell asleep—the happier for him, perhaps! The imagination is wont to paint al fres [...]o; its performances will not bear a narrow inspection.

It may naturally be supposed that William, on being invested with his new dignity, immediately after communicating his good fortune to his father, [...]ied away to Mr. Jerome's house. Before he set [Page] out, however, he carefully renewed the powder upon his temples, which, in the terrors of his examination he had wiped off. On the road his senses were inaccessible to external objects. Now he just [...]ed against a milk-woman, and again a cart-horse shoved him into the kennel▪ He pressed onward without looking at his way, talked to himself as he went, and his smiles easily discovered that his soliloquies were not of a gloomy character.

"I am extremely happy to hear it," said Mr. Jerome; "God bless you, my son!" Jeanette's cheeks glowed with transport; and she could scarce resist the impulse to throw herself round his neck, and kiss the beloved youth. The word son, which her father had employed, awaked in her mind a train of smiling images.

William was invited to stay dinner. He sat in speechless joy; he could not eat a bit, and satisfied himself with feasting his eyes; and when the old man poured out a glass of wine, and kindly said, "Your health, Mr. Meadows!"—the tears burst into Jeanette's eyes; she was obliged to rise from [...]able on pretence of business.

It is a good old practice to drink healths. It is indeed the most insipid thing in the world when it is merely a piece of ceremony in a polite company. But upon particular joyful occasions, when heart drinks to heart, the tear starts into the eye of manhood, and the youth exclaims with the old man—

"God preserve the good old customs of our forefathers!"

[Page]

CHAP. VII. PATIENCE!

A FEW days after this joyful incident, death summoned some half-dozen princes and lords to the other world, and by the same conveyance dispatched likewise John Meadows the porter, there to be interrogated, by a more penetrating examiner than the superintendant-general Horistophilius, how each of them had borne his burden through life, and whether they had dragged it without stumbling from the cradle to the grave?

After William had dropped a tear of filial piety upon his father's grave, and taken possession of his whole inheritance, consisting of the blue Sunday's coat and the scarlet waistcoat, he departed in good spirits for Walldorf. He found on his arrival a delightful country; a hospitable mansion, inhabited by a good old lady, the widow of the deceased schoolmaster; a kitchen-garden and orchard, a bower formed of honeysuckles and jessamines; a piece of arable land, a small meadow, an honest peasantry, and a worthy clergyman! All, all exceeded his wishes and his hopes. Happy as a child, he made his little domestic arrangements in the gaiety of a benevolent heart. His arrival had alarmed the old widow of his predecessor, as she was afraid that she would be thrust out of the little cottage, in which for more than thirty years she had lived in peace. Her fears were groundless. "You may live in my house, mother!"

William, "till death summon you hence, and God may perhaps provide in the same manner for my widow when I am gone." He thought of Jeanette. She is unacquainted with the management [Page] of a family, and the old woman will teach her both by her advice and example. The old woman understands cookery as well even as the parson's wife; and when I bring home the bride, she will treat us with a dish of pancakes, which I know Jeanette dearly loves. Then shall we dine in the honey-suckle bower, and after dinner shall I lead her through the fields, and show her all our riches. In the orchard are pears, and as good too as those for which I broke my leg; and in the kitchen-garden are sallads, which little Marlborough will relish sweetly.

With thoughts like these did William nightly lull himself to sleep, till he had fairly settled in his new habitation; and according to his opinion, every thing was properly dressed out and prepared for the reception of the bride. One Morning then, with anxious beating heart, he sat out for town, and, as he went, conned over a speech, which was quite to overwhelm Mr. Jerome; every word of which however, he forgot the moment he laid his trembling hand upon the door of the room. "Hah! welcome, Mr. Meadows!" cried the old man when he entered, "how goes it with you?"

"Thank God, Mr. Jerome, matters succeed very well. I have enough for all that I want, and something over."

Mr. JEROME.

—I am glad to hear it. Sit down.

WILLIAM.

—I want nothing in the world but a good wife.

Mr. JEROME.

—So! so! Think you of that already? You are very right, very right. Well do, never rue. You must try and lay your hands upon some rich farmer's daughter.

Jeanette drew in her breath, and listened behind the door. Her bosom heaved with agitation, an [...] alone prevented her from being mistaken for statue.

[Page]"Ah! Mr. Jerome," proceeded William with trembling voice, "what should I do with riches? The art to be rich is the art to have few wants, and thank God I am content. The daughter of a farmer, or a beggar, it is all one if my wife loves me."

Mr. JEROME.

—Aye! very well. You are a good-looking young fellow, and will find plenty of girls to like you.

WILLIAM.

—I—I have already found one—

Mr. JEROME.

—O [...]! I wish you joy. You are come then to invite me to the wedding?

WILLIAM.

—Her name—is—Jeanette—

Mr. JEROME.

—So! Why, that is the name of my daughter.

WILLIAM.

—Dear Mr. Jerome! you are my benefactor! you have raised me from nothing, and made me a man—Complete your work!—Give me Jeanette to wife!

"What! what! are you out of your wits?" said Mr. Jerome, and the pipe dropped from his mouth.

William seized the old man's hand, devoured it with kisses, and bathed it with his tears as he stammered the words: "Jeanette loves me!"

"This is very absurd in you," said Mr. Jerome, after he had a little recovered from his surprise; "very childish and thoughtless in both of you. I am indeed no friend of old-fashioned whimsies, but order must still exist in the world. Every one should match with his equal. Besides, I am a catholic, and two religi [...]s will never do in marriage. The children would not know whether to believe their father or mother. In short, my friend, I can forgive you for hankering after Jeanette; for you are young, and she is a handsome baggage: but I hope you will give up all ideas of matrimony, and never return the benefits I have conferred upon you with ingratitude."

This was the first time in seven years that Mr. [Page] Jerome had dropped a hint of the word benefit; so it went the more severely to poor William's heart. "Ingratitude!" said he, while his quivering lips drank up the falling tear: "No! God preserve me from that crime! Befall me what may, God preserve me from ingratitude!"—He squeezed his hat between his hands, looked to heaven, his eyes bedewed with tears, and exclaimed: "I may be wretched, but never ungrateful!"

With these words he staggered to the door. The old man was affected. A compassionate emotion pleaded the cause of his adopted son; but reason interfered, and protested with decisive voice: "it must not be!"—So he bade him go in God's name.

When William opened the door, Jeanette lay upon the threshold and sobbed. From the threshold she crept to her father's feet. She could not speak, but her eyes spoke a language which her father's heart understood. Mr. Jerome was obliged to summon up all his firmness to withstand its dumb eloquence. He struggled, and was victorious; for the good man's opposition to the marriage was founded neither upon regard to rank, nor to the catholic religion, but upon reasons which he was ashamed openly to avow.

High living, indolence, and dishonest servants had squandered his means of subsistence, and for some time past he had been meditating some scheme for repairing his fortune. The easiest and most commodious appeared to be to marry his daughter to a rich young tradesman who had lately settled at L***, and seemed to be much attached to Jeanette.

The world talks a great deal of prejudice, and yet in nine instances out of ten it is only the cover for human actions. Interest and passion are the secret springs of the machine, and prejudice is only [Page] the puppet that plays before our eyes. Gentle reader! be not offended with the corpulent man. He did what millions of honest Christians would have done in his situation; he bestowed upon the young people a fruitless, unavailing compassion, suggested common-place topics of consolation, and recommended to them patience.

CHAP. VIII. THE SOLDIER.

THERE are a number of virtues of which we are unable to form any just estimate. A number did I say?—Perhaps all!—Climate, constitution, and age here form a saint, and there a villain. If the Indian, whose fruitful soil returns his increase an hundred-sold, is more beneficent than the native of Findland, who must draw his scanty bread from the rugged rock, in what does the superior merit of the former consist? When Boileau preaches chastity, because a cold-blooded tutor had in his boyish years taught him to be a woman hater, in him it is no virtue. And if Mr. Jerome, in the sixtieth year of his age, should practise the patience which he recommends, he is indebted for it to the sober temperament of his blood, which no longer darts rapidly through his veins, but creeps on in a slow and easy current.

The existence of youth is composed of wishes and of hopes; that of the old man, of habits. Wishes and hopes, the youth may change or renew; but [Page] the old man clings to his habits like an oyster to his shell; tear him from his habits, and he dies. Mr. Jerome felt that an easy life, a well covered table, and a glass of good wine, were become indispensible to him. William was unable to supply him with these, and accordingly he persisted resolutely in his refusal.

William and Jeanette parted as life parts from youth, with struggles and convulsions. "Alas! had fate but ordained me to be a porter!" exclaimed William, as he tore himself away. "Even then should I have loved you!" returned Jeanette in a voice almost stifled with sobs. In vain her father employed every means to divert the attention of the doting maid. He took her out to the garden—but there lay William under the pear-tree!—He walked with her in the meadows—there sprang William into the river!—He invited company—but among them at table she still saw the image of William!—He presented her with new dresses—but for whom should she now adorn her person? Her hair remained uncurled; her flowers were no longer tended; and poor Marlborough was almost starved. She exchanged her apartment for that where she had nursed William in his sickness. There she would sit upon the bed where first he had encircled her in his arms; there she would rivet herself to the ground where the fatal drops he had spilt yet stained the floor.

William returned to his village with a stern indifference to every thing that is called mankind and the world. The good old dame at home observed with sorrow, that he gave to the dog the savoury pancakes she had so carefully prepared for his entertainment. He went out to the fields, and smiled when he saw that the vermin had destroyed the green shoots of the [...]orn. He traversed the orchard, and conceived a sullen joy when he saw the caterpillar hang upon the blossoms. He accidentally [Page] looked up, and saw a hawk which had stolen one of his chickens from the court-yard, and he involuntarily exclaimed: Bravo!

In this temper of mind, he proceeded with hasty steps to the village. His arms across, his h [...]t slouched over his face, his head leaning upon his breast, he saw neither man or beast; he looked neither to the right hand nor to the left. Suddenly he heard the voice of sorrow moaning at a little distance. He awaked for a moment from his stupefaction, raised his hat from his eyes, and discovered a country woman weeping and wringing her hands in despair. William, the once tender, kind-hearted William, ever ready to comfort and to relieve, now did not think it worth his pains to inquire the cause of her sorrow. "What can be the matter?" thought he. "She has perhaps been robbed, or her cow-house has been burnt down. Poh! a trifle!" He was passing on.

"Ah! Mr. Schoolmaster!" cried the woman, "help me, for God's sake!" "God help you!" said William carelessly.

"Ah! the cruel soldiers! they have taken from me my only son!"

"The soldiers!"—A flash of lightning darted into William's soul. "Where are they?"

"There, in the alehouse.—Alas, my Henry! I shall never see him more! He is but a weakly lad, and never can stand the fatigues of service!"

"Patience, Goody! We shall see what is to be done."

With rapid strides William approached the alehouse. In his soul was a cruel struggle.—Who am I?—What am I?—Is there any thing now upon earth to which my heart can cling?—My father is dead! Jeanette is dead!—Shall I here remain, and eat and drink, and walk and sleep, to-morrow and to-morrow, just as I did the day before? [Page] —Uniformity and repose were intended for happy mortals. Noise, bustle, and war; here to day, there to-morrow; well to day, to-morrow wounded—This is the life for the miserable!"

He▪ went into the alehouse. A Prussian sergeant sat at a table toasting the king's health, and laughing at the effeminate recruit who sat weeping by his side. William called the sergeant aside: "Sir!" said he, "what can you make of that poor delicate fellow? He can scarce yet carry a musket."

"There is no help for that," pursued the man of war, "we have no alternative. Food for powder—food for powder! The French cut out work for us. If we were now to look so closely to the height and the broad shoulders, not a company in the service would have its complement."

WILLIAM.

—But what say you if, instead of this recruit, I should furnish you▪ with a stout, healthy, robust young fellow six feet high?

SERGEANT.

—O ho! that is another affair. In God's name, be it so with all my heart.

WILLIAM.

—Done then! I am your man.

SERGEANT.

—

(stepping back)

What! you, Mr. Schoolmaster?

WILLIAM.

—No more words. Give me a glass of wine. Here's to the king's health!

SERGEANT.

—Has your honor drank a glass too much already? How? Would you exchange your snug, comfortable situation for eight pence a day?

WILLIAM.

—That is my affair, good Sir. There is my hat, clap a cockade in it.

SERGEANT.

—Why, then, since you will have it so—

WILLIAM.

—Hold! that would attract too much notice in the village. When do you march?

SERGEANT.

—This very evening.

WILLIAM.

—So much the better. When yo [...] [Page] pass my house, down there in the corner, whistle, and I shall immediately join you.

SERGEANT.

—But the bounty money—

WILLIAM.

—Bounty money? Ha! ha! ha! The bounty money is my wretchedness; I will not run away from you. Now go and inform the poor devil that he is at liberty.

SERGEANT.

—Not till I am sure of my bargain, and you have taken the bounty.

WILLIAM.

—Must it be so? Why then here!

William received a few guineas, and followed the sergeant into the room. Here he viewed with indifference the joy of poor Henry, And the raptures of his mother. Into the hand of the latter he slipped the guineas, not for the sake of doing a beneficent action, but to be rid of the money. Followed by a thousand blessings, which neither moved nor gratified him, he went home to pack up his linen in a bundle. The old dame looked at him with astonishment, and twenty times asked him what he meant, but received no answer. In the evening the sergeant whistled. "Farewell! good mother!" said William, and threw his bundle over his shoulder.

"Gracious God! Where are you going? and so late in the afternoon too?"

"Go to sleep in peace, good mother! When the morn shall dawn in that place where merchants and schoolmasters, catholics and protestants, awake together, we shall meet again!"—The old lady understood him not. She looked after him till the hawthorn hedge concealed him from her sight. She shook her head, waddled away to a neighbour, with whom she puzzled her brain till midnight in vain, to conjecture what could have befallen the schoolmaster.

The sun rose majestic in the east, as the sergeant and his recruits ascended a hill, from which they could [Page] command a view of the place of William's nativity. William distinctly discovered the top of the house in which Jeanette lived. The garden before the door appeared quite plain to his sight, and he thought that he could even distinguish the fatal pear-tree.

Hitherto he had followed his conductor in gloomy silence. Neither words nor sighs had betrayed the sufferings of his heart. Now he suddenly stopped, as if rooted to the spot on which he stood, stretched out his arms towards the place of his nativity, and wept bitterly.

"Courage!" said the sergeant. "Though you were to spend twenty years in his majesty's service, the town wont stir an inch from its place. When you return, too, as a corporal discharged, with a medal dangling in your button-hole, it will sparkle far differently in your sweet-heart's eyes from that black old-fashioned coat!"

"My sweetheart!" said William, alarmed: "How do you know—?"

SERGEANT.

—Po! 'tis easy to see that. I have lived too long in the world not to know that such things are. Were there not a sweet-heart in the case, you would not gaze so earnestly upon yonder valley.

WILLIAM.

—My father lies buried there.

The sergeant smiled significantly, and opened his knapsack. "I see you wont tell me. Why, no matter! Here, then, take a glass. There is an excellent song I have heard sometimes, which says, A glass to the silent dead!"

William took the glass.

"To the dead or to the living?" said the sergeant, archly.

"Why should I deny it?" returned William, "it is to my Jeanette!"

SERGEANT.

—Jeanette? Here's her health!

The sergeant's observation recalled to William's [Page] mind the song to which he had alluded, and he felt himself soothed as he repeated it to himself.— "Come along," said he after a short pause, "I am a man again."

CHAP. IX. A NEW CHARACTER.

WERE it not inconsistent with the respect which I entertain for what is called spirit, I would say, that the soul sometimes resembles a sprained joint—you cannot touch it without causing violent pain. Often, however, a little stroking by a skilful hand is sufficient to restore every muscle to its proper tone. Accident led the sergeant to quote a few words of Schiller's sonnet to Pleasure.

William had the song completely by heart; every line rushed into his memory, and every one bore the stamp of perfection; every one irresistibly roused his soul to heavenly emotions. I know no human ills for which this exquisite poem will not afford a cordial drop of consolation. Blessings on the poet's head who wrote it! Once in a dreary hour it revived me!—"Blessings on his head!" exclaimed William, as a beam of hope dawned in his breast, and a spark of courage awoke in his soul.

William, with moistened eyes, cast a parting look at his father's grave, the beloved pear-tree, and the ivy mantled roof of Mr. Jerome's house. With hasty strides he darted down the hill, and felt a kind of satisfaction when he found that it [Page] concealed the last spires of the town from his view. Satisfaction do you say?—Certainly. As long as a man can grasp at a beloved image with the smallest probability of reaching it, he is more wretched than when the last ray of hope vanishes from his breast. As often as William saw, in the blue horizon behind him, the hill which the preceding day he had descried in the blue horizon before him, as often as he crossed a river, and saw the flying bridge again removed behind him, he felt as if his heart was ever collected more firmly within itself; the storm in his soul was silent; and if he did not enjoy tranquility, yet the tempest had ceased to rage.

Very naturally, the sergeant, in this expedition, became his confidante. Communication is indispensably necessary to a lover; and had no human ear been open to William's melancholy tale, he would have stolen a dog in the first village he came to, and made him the partner of his sorrows. William's companion, indeed, was no such rough fellow as his fierce whiskers and his stern voice seemed to indicate. He had left a wife and a child at home. He loved to talk of war and battles; but he loved still better to talk of his dear Nancy, and his fine boy at her breast. The man who combines affection for a virtuous wife and a sense of domestic happiness can never be hard-hearted. Patiently he listened to the complaints of his love-sick recruit, or at least seemed to listen; and that was enough for William.

After several days journey they arrived at the place of their destination, a fortress upon the frontiers, where the recruits were assembled, and the new levies instructed in military service. The sobriety, regularity, attention, and rapid progress of the young man soon gained the regard of his superiors. With ease he acquired dexterity in the manual [Page] exercises of his new profession. He was steady and correct in his conduct, and never was involved in any unpleasant adventures. He wrote a fine hand, and instructed his captain's children in the rudiments of education. By these means he gained universal love and respect; and even the wildest of his comrades entertained no animosity against him, as he pretended no call to the office of a preacher of morality▪ and never interfered to damp their pleasures. There was one, however, more attached to him than the rest; and this was precisely the most dissipated among them.

Frederick Perlstadt, the son of a collector of the revenue, combined with an open generous heart a very sprightly disposition. When a boy he used to tease and torment his master by his mischievous tricks, and was inexhaustible in wanton sallies of waggery. Sometimes he would fasten a hook to the venerable peruke of the schoolmaster, and whip it off, to the infinite entertainment of his companions. Sometimes he would sew together the skirts of his schoolfellows' coats, or stick their heads between the spars of the benches, as if they stood in the pillory. Neither admonition nor the rod was spared for the good of his soul, but the latter succeeded worse than the former. His father, who had been several years a widower, was disposed to overlook his boyish tricks; and perhaps every thing would have gone smoothly with him, had not his evil genius cursed him with a step-mother.

Truth demands the confession, that sometimes good step-mothers may be found; they are very rare, however, like honest divines. Such a rarity the French call belle mere; the common step-mother they style marâtre, * a very significant and energetic [Page] phrase, for which the poverty of our language has no corresponding term. Frederick's pest was a marâtre. She hated the wild boy from the bottom of her soul, and every childish waggery she ascribed to a rooted bad disposition; every thoughtless, youthful extravagance she imputed to a vicious and corrupted heart. His wildness daily increased; and as no debt on earth is more faithfully repaid than that of hatred, he returned his step-mother's animosity with silent detestation. Wherever he found an opportunity to do her a mischief, he was sure to seize it. His usual enterprises of hostility were to throw sugar into the cream; to catch rats and mice; and then set them loose in her bed-room; to place a number of beetles under her pillow, to keep her from sleeping. By this conduct he eternally disturbed the peace of the family; and his father was daily more and more spirited up against him, till his step-mother began seriously to consider of getting rid of the graceless youth.

One day she was to stand godmother to the child of some person of consequence. For this festival she had brought out of her wardrobe a splendid white dress, which was carefully spread out upon the sofa. Frederick saw it and chuckled. He went and brought into the room a large tabby cat, which had the bad custom of considering the most valuable things of no more importance than the most useless. The cat was laid on the middle of the gown, and the consequences answered Frederick's most sanguine expectation.—At last, however, the storm which had long been gathering over his head, burst.

"It is impossible to live any longer with Frederick," said the step-mother; "either he or I must leave the house!"

"But where shall he go?"

[Page]"It is no matter to me! I will no longer live under the same roof with him. Is not the rascal big enough? Why, let him be a soldier. I'll warrant the mus [...] will soon drive the mischief out of his head."

Frederick laughed; his sister wept and prayed; his father made some feeble objections, but in vain. The irresistible decree of his step-mother was pronounced, and before a month elapsed Frederick was a fusilier in the celebrated regiment of Ostein.

But the musket did not drive the mischief out of his head. Without being guilty of any very criminal excesses, he still continued, as formerly, a wild, thoughtless fellow, ever ready to knock his head against the wall, and in danger of being betrayed by his impetuous temper into troublesome scrapes. It is difficult to say what such a temper, with a mind totally neglected and uncultivated, would have led to, had not chance brought a company of players to his native town. With this intellectual pleasure he was altogether unacquainted. By the help of a few shillings, with which the savings of his sister enabled her to supply him, he had sometimes an opportunity of going to the theatre. The Grateful Son was the first [...]ece which he saw represented. It made a wonderful impression upon him. He laughed and wept. They were the first tears of sentiment which he had shed. He was ashamed of them, and was still more astonished at the delightful sensations which they produced.

This moment, however, decided the nobler character of his soul. He was not, indeed, all at once changed into a new mortal, Still he was sometimes hurried away by his impetuosity, and indulged his disposition to wild and boisterous enjoyments. There were periods, however, in which he tasted the pleasure of reading. There were moments in which he perused Don Quixote and Tom Jones with [Page] delight; and at last he began to relish Don Carlos and Oberon.

It was at this aera that the hero of this history became Frederick's companion, and the books which William received from him, and read over and over with so much rapture, formed the first links of their acquaintance. It was yet a slender tie, but time gave it strength. The dissipated Frederick sometimes followed the prudent counsels of his sober friend; could not help entertaining a kind of respect for his judgment, and profited by his society. William, too, would sometimes gratify Frederick by joining his social parties; and often by his presence prevented many follies and quarrels which so naturally aris [...] among the votaries of Bacchus. In a word, William descended to Frederick, and Frederick elevated himself to William. He daily discovered in the unexplored regions of his heart new delicate emotions; his judgment every day became more correct, his soul more refined; and in a short time, of all his youthful foibles nothing remained but his ardent temper and impetuous spirit; qualities which, if they do not constitute a virtuous man, at least are more compatible with goodness of heart than insidious coldness and frigid equanimity.

CHAP. X. THE MURDERER.

IN this way of life two years had now elapsed. William had never received any intelligence from home, nor did he wish for any. What indeed [Page] could he expect to hear from such a quarter?— That Jeanette had married some rich respectable husband? That now, perhaps, she was a mother?— Melancholy news! ungrateful ever to a lover's ear. William carefully avoided meeting any body from the neighbourhood of his native place; and was even afraid to read the newspapers, from a fear of finding Jeanette's marriage announced. Still he continued to love Jeanette beyond every one in the world; and, to tell a secret, Frederick Per [...]stadt would not so easily have gained his friendship, had he not chanced to have a sister who was likewise called Jeanette. It was not that his sister herself could ever have gained an interest in his heart. He had not the least desire to see her, though frequently invited by Frederick to accompany him to visit her. It was enough for him to know that his friend too was affectionately attached to a creature called Jeanette. On this account, he delighted to hear him talk of her; and whenever the word Jeanette was mentioned, William nodded benignantly, as if he would say: "I too have a sister called Jeanette."

The incessant activity of his situation alone prevented William from falling a victim to the melancholy of this lasting hopeless love. The leisure hours which the service allowed him were employed in the instruction of some children, and in the cultivation of his own mind. It was but seldom that his gay friend could contrive to draw him from his books to roam abroad. The weather must have been very inviting, and the heavens very serene indeed, if William consented to accompany Frederick in his excursions. When he did so, however, he could be extremely cheerful in his way; for his sorrows were never so intense, but that the beauties of Nature were able, at least for a moment, to sooth his mind to tranquillity.

[Page]One delightful May-day Frederick came and persuaded William to accompany him in a walk to a neighbouring village. They went, and strolled along in friendly chat between two blooming hawthorn hedges. Near the village, where they intended to drink a glass of beer, another soldier, called Frank Moritz, joined them. This Moritz was a peevish, ill-natured fellow, constantly seeking quarrels and taking offence. When he had drank a glass of brandy too much, he fell on friend and foe, like Huber the reviewer; * and if you could not get out of his way, you were obliged either to take no notice of him at all, or compelled to cane him.

William and Frederick would gladly have gone out of his way; but they never perceived him till they met directly in the teeth, at the corner of a hedge.

"Good day, Mr. Parson!" said he.

FREDERICK.

—Whom do you mean?

MORITZ.

—Who but his worship Mr. Meadows there? who is soon to be our chaplain.

WILLIAM.

—I thank you for the information.

MORITZ.

—Then will you be stationed in safety beside the baggage.

FREDERICK.

—Even there he would not be secure against the darts of malevolent tongues.

MORITZ.

—Heaven guard him! Who dare attempt to assail our captain's favorite? He holds him out as a pattern to the whole company.

FREDERICK.

—And shame it is that you, and those like you, profit so little by his example.

MORITZ.

—Po! it were a fine thing truly, if, instead of his cartridge-box, every man in the army carried a book in his pocket, and, when he ought to give fire, should present the enemy with a poem.

[Page]WILLIAM.

(calmly.)

—Let that matter alone, Moritz. Allow every man to amuse himself in the way he likes best.

FREDERICK.

—And look you, Moritz, that is nobody's business; do you understand me?

MORITZ.

(contemptuously.)

—And if I were to say that I do not understand you? what then?

FREDERICK

(warmly.)

—Then I should let you know my meaning more distinctly.

MORITZ.

—O! ho! is this the case?

WILLIAM

(to Frederick.)

—Let him passon; return him no answer.

They both were silent, but Moritz continued to follow them. "Where are you going this way?" said he again.

WILLIAM.

—To Greendorf.

MORITZ.

—And what do you mean to do there?

WILLIAM.

—Drink a glass of beer.

MORITZ.

—A thimblefull I should guess!

FREDERICK.

—Hark ye, Moritz! you are but a sorry jester! I'd advise you to hold your tongue, or perhaps you may repent it.

MORITZ.

—How so?

FREDERICK.

—Really your company is not agreeable at present.

MORITZ.

—Why, I have seen the time when you did not think my company so disagreeable.

FREDERICK.

—I beseech you don't remind me of the sins of my youth.

MORITZ.

—Why truly, comrade, you were once a fine fellow; but since you have attached yourself to that canting—

FREDERICK.

—Hold your impertinence. That canter is my friend; and whoever dares to be rude to him must not think that his sword will rust in the scabbard.

MORITZ.

—Mine you see is pretty easy to draw!

WILLIAM.

—I entreat you, Frederick, not to [Page] gratify him so far as to quarrel with him.

MORITZ.

—His reverence the parson there probably cannot stand the sight of blood!

FREDERICK.

—Why not? Were I to give you a bloody nose, perhaps he could stand that.

MORITZ.

—O, ho! Mr. Smockface! we shall see that.

With these words he struck Frederick a blow on the face, and, springing a few steps back, drew his sword. Like lightning Frederick's sword flashed in the air; with blind rage he darted at the villain, and before William could run between them the miscreant lay at his feet weltering in his blood. Half-drunk, he rushed on his antagonist's point, and received the mortal blow in his heart.

"My God!" exclaimed William, "what have you done?"

"The rascal has met with his deserts," said Frederick. "Has he not compelled me to do what I have done?"

WILLIAM.

—But what is now to be done? Will you not be punished as a murderer? Will the testimony of a friend in your favour be admitted?

FREDERICK.

—I doubt it! What then is to be done? I must fly.

WILLIAM.

—And your poor old father? your good sister?

FREDERICK.

—It is hard! but my misfortunes are unmerited.

WILLIAM.

—And on my account too! To that I will never consent!—Recollect yourself, Frederick; put up your weapon; go to town; declare me to be the author of this deed; and in the mean time I make my escape.

FREDERICK.

—Are you mad?

WILLIAM.

—There is no time to be lost. Yo [...] [Page] have never been from home; you are unacquainted with the world; you must be taken. I am better qualified to fight my way. Besides, I have neither father nor mother, sister nor brother; my fate will cost no human being a tear.

FREDERICK

(wiping his eyes.)

—Are not these tears? Think you I could drive you to misery, and ever enjoy a moment's repose? Think you I could read your name upon the gibbet, and not sink into the earth with shame?

WILLIAM.

—Unmerited punishment can be no disgrace. My name will remain engraved in your heart, and God is our witness here!

The two friends fell into one another's arms. There was no time now for much reflection. The danger required an immediate resolution. Every moment they might be surprised beside the corpse. Delay would render flight more difficult. William exerted all his eloquence to convince Frederick that regard for his parents and relations, on whom his disgrace would redound, imposed it on him as a duty to allow his friend to fly. He did not convince, but he silenced him. Alas! Frederick, the involuntary murderer, was already so confounded, that he knew not what he did. Weeping, he put his purse into the hand of the generous youth— speechless, he pressed him to his heart. William tore himself away. He flew light as a roe; for, instead of a murder, he felt in his breast the consciousness of a noble action!

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CHAP. XI. THE PRIEST.

WHEN a fugitive with a few shillings in his pocket, and the consciousness of a good action in his heart, grasps the beggar's scrip with more joy and satisfaction than the crowned robber his seeptre—O God! can man demand from thee a still farther reward for that conduct which, in the moment it is performed, so richly rewards itself? About the close of day William heard three guns fired, and soon after the sound of bells in the neighbouring villages. He knew that he was the object of pursuit, and he concealed himself in a ditch under a bridge that crossed a river on the high-way. Over the bridge in a short time he heard the trampling of the horses of the hussars who were scouring the country in search of him. He did not quit his hiding-place till darkness favoured his flight. Although he was unacquainted with the road, he knew that he was near the frontier; and after he had travelled on as fast as he was able for two hours, a crucifix apprised him of his safe arrival on a foreign soil, as the adjoining country was catholic.

Wearied with his journey, [...]e threw himself upon the grass to rest himself. He had not laid long before the purple morn announced the coming day, and at a little distance he discovered a village, in which he resolved to seek an asylum till the evening, since even in a foreign territory he durst not, for fear of the hue and cry, venture to pursue his journey during the day. "That church spire [Page] before me," thought he, "is a proof that there is a clergyman in the village. He is not of my persuasion, to be sure, but humanity dwells among all religions; Jeanette, too, was a catholic. If I tell him candidly the circumstance, which compels me to fly, he will not refuse me a corner of his hayloft till it grow dark."

Having formed this resolution, he entered the village, and knocked at the priest's door. A window opened, out of which locked a chubby round head with the clerical tonsure. A pair of small squinting eyes peered with gracious looks over his red bloated cheeks, and played on his pursy double chin.

"What do you want, my friend?" said the fat priest to the fugitive.

"I wish to speak a word in private with your reverence."

"A little patience, and I will open the door."

The rosy priest drew in his head, shut the window, came to the door with silent steps, and opened it without noise. William now saw that the head was only a model of the belly, which, if another Jonah had been doomed to be thrown into durance, and no whale at hand, would have been able to contain a couple of prophets. That fat men may be generous and beneficent, William had already experienced, nor was he staggered in his opinion by the tun-bellied figure of the little priest.

Kindness, however, is of two sorts. The one is like the dust on a butterfly's wings; men's faces are only powdered over with it. The other bears the rich colour of an autumn fruit; it indicates full maturity and exquisite flavour; it refreshes the thirsty. When men smile, and smile whenever you address them; if they are always smooth and simpering, the kindness of such men is only farmed; it is not their property. From a lease-hold it is usual [Page] to draw as much advantage as possible; while the proprietor alone has a real regard for his possession without continually planning how he is to draw some profit from it. The little fat priest farmed his kindness, and it brought him annually large sums from his parishioners. He looked with the same gracious smile on the bride and bridegroom whom he married, and on the poor sinner whom he reproved when doing penance before the congregation.

William had not sufficient skill in the science of physiognomy to determine whether the kindness of his host bore the stamp of the heart, or of custom. With courage and calmness, since he was no criminal, William informed the priest of his difficulties, who listened to him without altering his countenance.

"Very well, my son," said he with a soft and gentle voice; "follow me without apprehension." He conducted his guest to a loft, which was formed by a partition of boards, and shewed him a bundle of hay for his bed.

"It is probable you have wandered about all night, and will require repose. Here nobody will disturb you. At dinner time, I myself will fetch you a bason of broth, and whatever kind Providence may send. When it is dark you may, with the blessing of God, proceed on your journey. Two leagues hence lies a market-town, the mayor of which is my friend. I will give you a recommendation to him that you may procure a passport, for without a passport you will find it difficult to proceed. I advise you likewise, as soon as possible, to exchange your uniform for a peasant's jacket."

William, affected and transported by this active and voluntary attention, kissed with ardent expressions of gratitude the fat hand of the priest. "I thought indeed," said he to himself after he was alone, "that a religion which Jeanette professes [Page] must teach humanity." Free from all care and apprehension, he sunk down upon the new-gathered hay, and slept sweetly for several hours. When he awoke about noon, the priest stood before him with a bason of broth, a slice of bread and bacon, and a bottle of beer.

"Here, my friend, take this and refresh yourself. There also is the letter to the mayor. I advise you, however, not to quit my house till midnight. There are Prussian hussars in the village; the alehouse where they are quartered is not far off, and you had better not stir till the landlord and his guests are all gone to sleep. If you had only your dress changed, and the passport in your pocket, you are safe."

William renewed his expressions of gratitude. The priest took leave of him with his usual kindness. William ate, drank, and again fell asleep. Towards evening he awoke refreshed and invigorated, and in this solitude resigned himself to his reflections. With melancholy emotion he reviewed the past; hopeless he looked to the future. Whither should he go? What was to become of him? He knew not, and indeed it was almost indifferent to him. A man who can work, thought he, may earn a subsistence any where; and i [...] he must forego love, it is of no consequence [...]e he finds a livelihood.

Till now the most profound silence had prevailed in the house. William heard not a footstep, not a word, not a whisper. Two or three mice attracted by the savour of the bacon, and which ran about quite tame, seemed the only inhabitants of the place. In the dusk of the evening, however, William thought he heard a feeble moaning in the room below. He listened—and again all was silent. I must have been mistaken, thought he, and took no farther notice of the circumstance. Scarcely had [Page] his mind turned to some new object, when the moans he had heard again struck his ear. He held in his breath, and again listened. He now distinctly heard, sometimes with longer, sometimes with shorter intervals, sighs and groans. They appeared to issue from the apartment directly under his place of refuge. The house was built entirely of wood, and the thin floor favored his curiosity. He laid himself down, and put his ear to the boards. He now heard quite distinctly that he was not mistaken; but from whose breast the complaining proceeded▪ and by what sufferings it was occasioned, he could not guess.

Sometimes he thought he heard the voice of the priest. From this he concluded that there must be another wretched sufferer in the house besides himself, who was treated by the benevolent priest with the same kindness and hospitality. Still, however, he could not conceive from what the accents of grief and pain which he had heard could arise. If it was a sick person, the illness must be severe indeed which could extort such violent expressions of pain and anguish. His heart sympathised with the unknown sufferer; and in that feeling he forgot his own danger.

As night advanced the groars became more violent and more incessant; at last they changed to shrieks. They were the shrieks of a female, and they cut William so cruelly to the heart that he wished himself with the hussars in the alehouse. In about half an hour all was silent; he listened, and heard some one step softly; in a little time the house door creaked on its hinges. Curiosity led him to the window; the moon shone bright. He saw the priest slip through the court to the garden, and he seemed to carry something under his cassock. William's eyes followed him into the garden. The priest stopped under a large tree, laid his burden on the ground, took up a spade, and began to dig.

[Page]The female shrieks had meanwhile changed again into groans and sighs, and William was withdrawn by their gentle influence from the extraordinary scene which he now witnessed. He slipped down stairs upon tiptoe, and, keeping in his breath, approached the apartment from which the voice of anguish proceeded. A glimpse of light discovered to him that the priest as he went out had left the door a-jar. He advanced, and saw the floor stained with new-shed b [...]ood; a lamp threw a feeble light upon a bed, in which lay a young woman pale as death.—Here I must drop the pen, nor attempt to paint the horror of William's feelings—Eternal Providence! it was Jeanette!

Cold as a stone, and deprived of sensation, stood the wretched youth. His feet were rooted to the floor, his knees knocked against each other, his hair stood on end, his eyes gazed motionless on the spectre that threw around a doleful glance, and groaned. He attempted to cry, but his throat was choaked; he attempted to fly, but his limbs were nerveless.— How long he stood, how at last he had torn himself from the frightful scene, how he reached the street-door and gained the high road, and of every circumstance which had passed, he had next morning nothing but a confused remembrance. When he first recovered his senses, he found himself seated under a tree; the sun was high, and a young peasant girl that stood before him asked kindly whether he was ill; offering him at the same time a pitcher of milk for his refreshment.

He gazed at this girl with wild looks. He felt as if he had recovered from the delirium of a fever. "I thank you, my girl," said he in seeble accents, "I want nothing."—The girl threw a compassionate glance at him, shook her head, and went away.

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CHAP. XII. THE PRISON.

WHEN God sent grief into the world he gave insensibility as its beneficent companion. Grief sometimes would, in a moment, annihilate the machine, if it did not plunge us into the bosom of insensibility.

William flew, unconscious, from the scene of horror. Hastily, and without reflection, he continued to walk on. He went past the alehouse; by the moon light he saw two hussars sleeping upon a bench, and never mended his pace. After walking several hours, exhausted with fatigue, he threw himself upon the grass, under a tree. The chill morning due wet him to the skin—he felt it not.—Night succeeded to day—he saw it not.—The lark mounted [...]loft to greet the morn with her melodious notes—but he heard it not. When the milk-maid left him, he gazed after her without thinking what he did; he dropped his head upon the ground, and, as far as he could reach, plucked the daisies which grew around.

About noon a storm arose, and the distant thunder rolled. William heard it, as through a slumber, and it was pleasant to him. The heavens were obscured with gloomy clouds, and he raised his eyes with satisfaction. The big drops of rain fell upon his face; they cooled the heat of his glowing cheeks. The lightning flashed more and more vivid; the thunder p [...]aled louder and louder, and William began to breathe more freely. A violent [Page] shower of hail, accompanied by a furious whirlwind, rushed from the black bosom of an angry cloud. A little penthouse offered a safe shelter to the traveller. William saw it, but he moved not from his place.

At this moment, a party of hussars passed by. To shield themselves from the storm, they had drawn their cloaks over their faces, and rode on at a rapid pace. They saw him not; but William viewed them without apprehension; he recognised them to be Prussians, and could not comprehend for what reason they appeared in such numbers in this neighbourhood.

The louder the storm howled and the thunder roared, the more he felt his breast lightened; with more firmness he looked up. The tempest now hung over his head. Not an hundred paces from the place where he lay, the lightning, with tremendous crash, struck an oak-tree, and shivered it to pieces from the top to the very root.

"Why not this!" said William, pointing to the tree under which he lay. "O God! annihilate me amidst this conflict of the elements! Take back thy unwelcome present of existence, and give it to the fool who thinks it worth his pains to thank thee for it!"

Happy for thee, wretched youth, that thy lips, which anguish had sealed, are again opened. Accuse thy lot—murmur, complain; and when thy warm tears mingle with the cold rain which beats upon thy countenance, the demon of despair resigns his prey and passes by thee. Wrapped in the mysterious invisible bosom of the pea [...]ing thunder, the softer genius of melancholy descends into thy breast. The tempest is now silent—the sun bursts through a watery veil—the birds awake to melody—thou weepest.

Weep on—sigh—sob—these tears extinguish the [Page] rising thought of self murder. "I am not yet wholly detached from the chain of existence," exclaimed he, "I have still a friend whom I must save! a friend to whom I have pledged myself to defend my life.—Fly! fly! every step increases his tranquility, and removes you from the faithless woman on whom you doted!—Ah! Jeanette! Jeanette! how low art thou fallen!

He now rose, and proceeded on his journey. Towards evening, he arrived in the town to which the priest had directed him. Here he recollected the letter he had received to the mayor; and though his heart revolted at the idea of obtaining a favour by the assistance of a man who had violated the sanctuary of his heart, yet the consideration that the safety of his friend was now his only duty, prevailed, and reluctantly compelled him to take this step. He went to the mayor's house, was ushered in to an old silver-haired personage with a benevolent countenance, to whom he presented the letter.

The old man took the letter, perused it with amazement, threw an inquisitive look at William, and the symptoms of dissatisfaction were visible in his face. He took off his spectacles thoughtfully, laid the letter on the table, and paced silently through the room. At last he pulled a bell, his trembling hand seemed reluctantly to perform the service. An officer of justice immediately appeared.

"My friend," said the old man to William, "I am sorry to inform you that you have been betrayed. You have fallen into a priest's hands, and of course into bad hands. Were you merely a deserter, I would willingly overlook the circumstance; but this letter charges you as a murderer. You are my prisoner. Officer do your duty."

William stood petrified. "Is it possible," exclaimed he, "that so much villany should lurk [Page] under the mask of friendly tenderness? This deceitful priest, who has so scandalously abused the confidence of a persecuted man, has seduced an innocent girl, murdered his own child, and buried it, last night, under a tree in his garden."

The honest old man heard this charge with satisfaction▪ which William, whose natural feelings of resentment were roused to the highest pitch, circumstantially related, without considering the danger to which he thus exposed the wretched Jeanette. With feelings most cruelly distracted, his reliance upon love, faith, and the whole human race severaly shaken, he followed the officers of justice to prison, where an heavy chain upon each leg fastened him to the wall. In other respects he was treated with as much indulgence as the strict duty of his judge would permit.

The following night the magistrate repaired, with a party of officers to the house of the priest. The mother did not deny her situation. When asked what had become of her child, she replied, that it had been taken from her, and given to a country woman to nurse, though she would willingly have suckled it herself. She spoke this with the tone of innocence and truth; but terror and anxiety sat on the priest's countenance, and betrayed his guilt.

They went out to the garden, and found under a tree the earth n [...]w turned up. They dug, and found the body of a new born child, wrapped in a bloody cloth, with a large nail driven through its temples. The officers seized the culprit, and threw him in irons into a dungeon, from which the spiritual power soon after removed him. He did not, as he deserved, expiate his crime upon the scaffold, for the honor of the church was concerned in hushing up the affair. He was shut up in a distant cloister, and nothing more was heard of him.

When poor Jeanette was informed of the murder [Page] of her child, she lay three days senseless; on the fourth she was delirious. The humane justice did not attempt, in this situation, to throw her into close confinement. He ordered a physician to be called, and appointed nurses and midwives to attend her; and after the lapse of a month, when the physician declared that she could be removed without danger, she was carried to prison.

During this period, William languished in his cell, without knowing what was determined respecting his fate. Legal forms had retarded his being delivered up. It was necessary to write to the garrison, and receive answers backwards and forwards, till at last the news arrived that a party of soldiers were sent to take him into custody. The justice was anxious to accelerate William's removal; because the place where he was confined was the only apartment in the prison in which a man could be lodged without danger to his health.

One morning when the youth was busy in trying to entice, with crumbs of bread, a mouse, which was his only companion, to come nearer, he heard, at an unusual hour, the doors of his prison grate harshly on their hinges, and the heavy keys rattle. The officers of justice opened the door, and pushed in a woman, who sunk senseless on the threshold.— "Jeanette!" e [...]claimed William, and tore his chains, and tugged with all his might at the rings which fastened him to the wall. In vain, however! His hard fate denied him the feeble consolation of lending his aid to the faithless beloved. He roared out with agony!—The noise he made, and the clanking of his chains, awoke the wretched girl from her swoon. She opened her eyes, and shuddered with horror, for she thought the figure she saw was William's ghost.

William stretched out his arms to clasp her. She rose to throw herself into his arms, but suddenly [Page] the burden of her conscience again weighed her to the ground.

"No! I am unworthy of your embrace! You know not why I am in this place!"

"I know it," cried William: "you have forfeited your innocence—but I trust in God you are no child-murderer!"

"No! of that I am innocent!" She crawled upon her knees to her beloved, seized his chain, and pressed it to her streaming eyes.

What imagination can describe the scene of sorrow which the first melancholy hours exhibited? Broken sentences choaked with tears, woful looks, and lengthened groans— [...]h were the joys of a meeting, after so long a separation! "Ah! Jeanette! how was it possible?" repeated William with indescribable anguish; and Jeanette, in a voice interrupted with sobs, began her confession.

CHAP. XIII. THE PENITENT.

"GOOD William," she began, "it was neither pride nor a difference of religion which steeled my father's heart against our wishes. We and the whole town thought him rich. He was indeed so once, but dishonest people had cheated him out of his property. He was anxious to have an opulent son-in-law to re-establish his affairs. Alas! had I known the reason why he so earnestly wished such an alliance; had I known that he dreaded poverty in his old age, I would have made [Page] him the sacrifice at the expence of my happiness. I should not thus, then, corroded by shame and remorse, have been compelled to hide my head before the man I love. I would then have met him with confidence, and said: 'Thy faithful Jeanette sought to console herself for hopeless love in the discharge of duty.'

"It was not destined to be so! Fate had ordained me to experience how much misery a feeble woman can endure. False shame induced my father to keep the secret locked up in his breast. When he went to the counting-house, he saw that every day the ruin of his house approached; and when he came home, he was tormented by the sight of a daughter who pined for thy loss.

"When, at last, the news of your elopement reached my ears, I wept incessantly, and shut myself up for weeks together to prey upon my grief. Our house, once the centre of social pleasure, became desolate as the grave. The once healthy, blooming girl walked about like a spectre, and Jeanette was no more the consolation of her drooping father.

"The luckl [...]ss old man cherished his grief in silence; carping cares laid him upon the bed of sickness; the hand of death was on him, and in his last moments he gave you and me his blessing, and departed to those regions where he would receive the reward of his integrity and benevolence. His death tore my bleeding heart; but I yet knew not the full extent of my misery. Through the gloom which surrounded me shone a tender ray of hope. Something whispered me that I was free; 'I am rich, and richer too in my father's blessing. I will seek out William, and find him—for into what quarter of the globe will not the voice of love penetrate? Then will he return to my arms, and share my father's inheritance, his property, and his blessing.'

[Page]"Such dreams soothed my sorrow in the first weeks which succeeded my father's death. At last a distant relation came, examined the papers of the deceased, and very coldly informed me that I was a beggar, a beggared orphan! Unaccustomed to earn my subsistence by the labour of my hands, without friends, without acquaintances; a stranger in the wide world—whither could I fly? Where seek a refuge from want and hunger? My distant relation, from an apprehension of entailing a burden upon himself, said a great deal of his numerous family, his scanty means, and advised me to go to Mansier, to an old aunt, by the mother's side, of whom I never had heard in the course of my life. Necessity compelled me to follow his advice. Out of my father's house I took nothing with me but little Marlborough, and, after encountering many difficulties, arrived safe at the house of my old aunt, who was very rich, very devout, and very avaricious.

"She hesitated long with herself whether she should acknowledge me as a relation. At last she took me into her house, as she expressed it, to lend her charity to heaven upon interest. Heaven, I trust, will not deceive her hopes as she deceived mine, or her capital and her interest in the other world will be but small. She scarcely supplied me with the bare necessaries of life, and every morsel she allowed me was seasoned with reproaches on my poverty, and cruel reflections on the mismanagement of my worthy father.

"In her house have I shed more tears than I drank drops of water; I suffered more than in the happy days of my youth I could have thought it possible for me to endure. And would to God I had then descended to the tomb with the [...] innocence! Fate had not yet poured out on m [...] full measure of my woe!

[Page]"Accident brought to our house father Hieronymus. He had formerly lived at Munster, and had been my aunt's confessor. No man ever could more perfectly assume the mask of honesty and devotion. To this art he was indebted for a rich living in the country. He saw and was pleased with me. His living was only a few miles distant. He often returned, and spent whole weeks in our house; yet never did there a word escape him that could offend my innocence.

"At last, he addressed the old lady with a proposal to take me as his house-keeper. He himself indeed remarked, that I was too young; but he relied upon my discretion, and upon his own well-established character. This proposal was extremely acceptable to my avaricious aunt. She never ceased to congratulate me on my good fortune; she extolled his piety and the fame of his holiness throughout the country. She displayed, with all her eloquence, the advantages of such a situation in the clearest light. She represented to me, that I should be supplied with every thing, that my reputation would be shielded from all attack. In a word, she considered this as the best means to cure the errors of belief which I appeared to have imbibed in an heretical land.

"I saw how eagerly she wished to be rid of me; and far was I from suspecting a profligate villain under the hypocritical mask of kindness and of devotion. Consider too, dear William, that the inconveniences and oppressions of my situation daily increased, and you will not blame me for at last yielding to the solicitations of the priest and the importunities of my aunt.

"For many months, indeed, I had no reason to repent the step I had taken. Father Hieronymus treated me with studied attention; whenever it was in his power he anticipated my wishes, and [Page] seemed as dependent upon me as I was upon him. At this period indeed tranquility, that friend by whom I had been so long deserted, again returned to my breast. I called him father; he called me daughter. Gratitude filled up the void in my heart.

"Sometimes, indeed, it struck me that his eyes dwelt upon me with unusal fire. I called it kindness; it was voluptuousness. Spare me the recapitulation of all the hellish arts which he practised to ensnare my innocence; how at first he attempted by jesuitical morality to overflow the rooted principles of my education. When he found that he did not succeed in this attempt, he endeavoured by a thousand arts to inflame my passions. When here too he was baffled, he employed the most villainous arts, mingled heating drugs in my food, and stupefying potions in my drink, till in an evil hour he availed himself of a death-like insensibility to render himself master of a violated form, and reduced me to a wretched, degraded woman!— Alas! I know it well, I ought the very first instant that I penetrated his diabolical plan to have fled naked from his house, and thrown myself upon the protection of my aunt.—Rather ought I to have suffered every mortification than have exposed my innocence a prey to this danger; but I relied too confidently upon a heart where William reigned, and the principles which a virtuous father had implanted. Alas! I knew not the villainy of my seducer, and my own feeble means of resistance.

"I am punished!—The cup of my sufferings is filled to the very brim, and I must drink it to the dregs.—I defy the utmost malice of fate, and I fly to a prison with joy, there to conceal my shame.— At least, these were the sentiments I felt an hour ago. I suspected not that my destiny had prepared for me another cruel stroke; I suspected not that in this [...]son I should meet with a man from [Page] whose looks I would have hid myself in the grave! —Or do I murmur unjustly? May there yet be a drop of consolation reserved to cool my parched tongue?—Shall I quit this world without your forgiveness?—Perhaps you will not refuse to the repentant sinner the last consolation in death?"

She threw herself at his feet, and bathed his knees with her tears. Her moistened hair clung round his chains; her trembling arms embraced the pillar to which he was fastened. William's heart was bruised to pieces, and his tears mingled with hers.

"Till death shall I love thee!" exclaimed William suffocated with sobs; "till death shall I love thee, poor ill-fated girl! I—I alone am to blame for thy undoing!—My precipitate elopement gave this cruel turn to thy fortune. Had I patiently waited in my lonely cottage for the support of God, who crowns true love as well as virtue, for they are sister graces, we should now have lived in sweet tranquility and union, rich in content. How could I impute my thoughtlessness to you as a crime!—I—I alone am guilty of your undoing!"

Thus did this luckless pair mingle their complaints, and mutually exculpate each other, till in about an hour the doors of the prison were again opened, and a party of soldiers entered, to whom the gaoler delivered up William. Jeanette sunk to the ground insensible, and clasped the pillar to which her beloved was chained. By force they tore him from her. She remained lying upon the ground in convulsions; and several hours after, when she opened her eyes, she found herself abandoned to darkness and solitude.

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CHAP. XIV. THE GENEROUS CONTEST.

"MY friend," said the captain to William, "you have here played a foolish trick. As to running that miscreant Moritz through the body, any one in your situation would have done the same thing; as he knew from Perlstadt's information that the fellow was drunk, provoked you for a long time, and at last roused your passion by a box on the face. But why did you run away for this?—Means might have been found to assist you; but now God knows what will be the consequence!"

"Whatever God pleases!" said William, without betraying the least fear or anxiety.

CAPTAIN.

—You seem very composed?

WILLIAM.

—I am drawing near the period of my sufferings.

CAPTAIN.

—I pity you very much. You were ever an excellent lad; my children inquire daily what is become of you. Would to God I could be of any service to you! Without running the gauntlet you can scarcely get off; but we shall try to save your life.

WILLIAM.

—Your honour will then confer upon me no favour.

CAPTAIN.

—Po! for shame! What! if you have a mind to die, go face the enemy's cannon; but keep out of the hangman's way as long as you can. To-morrow your first examination will take place; be rational; say nothing but what you answer to the questions proposed; and in God's name lay all [Page] the blame upon the deceased, who cannot contradict you.

With these words the good-hearted captain left the guiltless prisoner. William was put into close confinement, again chained to the wall, and fed upon bread and water. There was a little grated window, through which you might see into the cell. Almost all his comrades came to the grate to see him, and to sympathize with his situation— Almost all—except Frederick Perlstadt.

"He is right," thought William. "His heart is made of too susceptible stuff; he would betray himself."—In tranquil expectation he awaited the coming day, in order to confirm the supposition of his guilt by a solemn confession upon his trial.

Meanwhile the scene was suddenly changed. Two hours after William's arrival, Frederick Perlstadt came pale as death, but firm and collected, to the guard-room, took off his sword, gave it to the corporal, and desired to be taken into custody, as he was really Frank Moritz's murderer. They stared at him and thought him out of his wits; but he persevered in his purpose. The commanding officer of the watch was called. Frederick repeated his story. He was therefore taken into custody, and the affair reported to the commanding officer.

Next morning a court-martial was assembled, which was not a little confounded, at the behaviour of both the prisoners, as each of them resolutely persisted in saying that he was the criminal. They were confronted, sunk into each other's arms, and kindly reproached one another with their mutual obstinacy. The circumstance was so singular that it excited great attention. The duke of Brunswick, the commander in chief of the Prussian troops, happened to be then in the garrison. His curiosity was raised, and he ordered the prisoners to be brought before him. Frederick, without hesitation, relate [...] [Page] the affair as it had really happened, and how his friend had sacrificed himself on his account to spare the sufferings of an old drooping father. He had accepted the magnanimous offer of his friend, in hopes that he would make his escape, and because by his talents he would be able to provide for himself every where. Now, however, as the innocent young man had been apprehended, it was impossible for him to derive any advantage from his generous devotion. He knew that he must die, but death would be less bitter to him than the thought of having brought his friend to the gallows.

William contradicted this story in every point, told how Frederick from his youth had been the victim of a cruel step-mother, and at last had been driven by her artifices to enlist. He had embraced the life of a soldier with reluctance; since ever he had known him he had been overwhelmed with disgust at existence, and he had often expressed how eagerly he wished for some favourable opportunity of sacrificing his life for a man of worth and honor. He entreated the duke not to ask him to profit by this mental malady of his friend. He only in an unlucky hour had done the act, and was willing to suffer the punishment which it involved.

The excellent duke eyed them alternately. "You are a couple of brave lads," said he with emotion; "one or other of you must have done it. Confess to me candidly: I will report the affair to the king, and who knows what may happen?"

His arguments, however, were in vain. The two friends persisted in their story, and Heaven knows how the affair would have terminated if the visum repertum had not contributed to unravel the mystery. The body of Moritz had been examined with the usual formalities, and a detailed account [Page] of it drawn up. From these minutes it appeared that the wound had been inflicted with a sword, which, a few inches from the point, had a pretty deep notch. The auditor availed himself of this hint, caused the swords of the two delinquents to be examined, and it was discovered that Frederick's sword had this identical notch. William's denial was now in vain; the affair was decided. Frederick resigned himself to joy, and William to despair.

But the generous contest between the two young men had made a deep impression upon the mind of the duke. He reported this extraordinary occurrence to the court, and employed his interest to procure a pardon for the parties. William accordingly was liberated without punishment, and Frederick condemned to a year's labour on the ramparts.

William now applied himself to the service as before; and when he could spare an hour, he flew to the ramparts to visit his friend, and to carry him refreshments and consolation; or, when duty permitted he would labour for half a day instead of his companion. By this generous proceeding, by his attention to his duty, his sobriety and fidelity, he gained the friendship of his superiors in so high a degree, that in a year's time he was promoted to be a sergeant. The period of Frederick's sentence was now expired, and the two friends were more inseparable than ever. Officers and privates considered them with some degree of respect, and William was rendered particularly interesting by a settled melancholy which hung upon his countenance. Alas! how could his heart enjoy tranquillity when he thought of Jeanette's fate!

He had received intelligence, that although pronounced innocen [...] of the charge of child-murder, she had been condemned to six years imprisonment in the correction-house for having concealed [Page] her pregnancy; that this sentence had been put in execution, and that Jeanette now daily moistened her task with tears. The image of this sufferer, still so dear to him, haunted his imagination incessantly. He could not drink a drop of wine while he knew that Jeanette was languishing upon bread and water. He could not be gay while she pined in tears.

CHAP XV. FORTUNE OF WAR.

WILLIAM's regiment received sudden orders to march. The victorious enemy revenged the disgrace with which their capital had rashly been threatened. They rushed over the boundaries of the German empire, and every effort was required to check their impetuous career.

William and Frederick fought with distinguished courage; for the one fought death, and the other an opportunity to save the life of his friend. Courage is a quality which combines with every other passion; it equally associates itself with love and honour, with hatred and revenge. Towards the end of the campaign, one day the grenadier company of the regiment of Ostein received orders to storm an enemy's redoubt immediately under the eye of the commander in chief. They advanced under a shower of grape shot. The captain lost an arm, the first lieutenant a leg, and the second was left dead on the spot. The ensign, a delicate [Page] milksop, took to flight. The brave grenadiers deprived of their leaders, exposed to an horrible discharge of artillery, began to give way, and but a moment longer and they would have fled. William then sprang forward, and exclaimed with animation: "Follow me, my friends! for the king and for our country!"

With fixed bayonet he ascended the hill; his companions pressed round him with wild cries; Frederick was at his side. A shot carried off his grenadier's cap and half of his ear. Bleeding violently, his head bare, William reached the top of the eminence, and ran through the body the engineer as he was on the point of applying the match to the touch-hole. The conflict was now decided by the bayonet. William received a thrust through his side. Frederick stretched upon the ground the man who did it. William sunk down, and shouted "Victory!" Frederick thought his friend was killed, and raged like a lion among the enemy. A private soldier here decided the event of the enterprise. Reader! you are surprised?—The gazette, it is true, says nothing of the matter. Often, however, has the courage of a common grenadier, whose exertions are afterwards rewarded with a crown, atchieved exploits which in future periods, shine in the biography of the general.

The redoubt was taken; the enemy fled; William was carried to the hospital. His wounds were no farther dangerous than from the loss of blood they had occasioned, and in three weeks he was perfectly recovered. He received a message to attend at head-quarters.

"Ensign Meadows," said the general, presenting him with a sword, "it gives me pleasure to reward your gallantry. The king allows you an hundred ducats to provide your accoutrements."

[Page]The modest young man was almost ashamed of a distinction for which he was conscious that he was indebted to the courage of despair. He even ventured to represent to the general, that, if the discharge of duty constituted any claim to reward, Frederick Perlstadt's pretensions were perhaps better founded than his.

"I have not overlooked his merits," replied the general. "Perlstadt succeeds you."

Ha! What sneers were thrown out by the little-minded noblemen when they saw William the porter's son appear with scarf and epaulets, and invited to the general's table! "To raise him to the rank of ensign might pass, as it is possible that such a thing might be deserved; but to bring him to the table of a prince, among men of birth and rank, that was too much."

The sneers and the whispers were still more loud when William, who had just enjoyed the honor of dining with the commander in chief, met his friend Perlstadt at the door of his tent, and embraced him without ceremony. One of his new comrades, a hero over a glass and a lamb in the field of battle, tripped up to him with great self-importance, and, pulling him by the sleeve, whispered: "Ensign, that really is improper."

"Lieutenant," interrupted William abruptly, "my epaulets have within these two hours been changed to gold, and his are still of tape, but Heaven has formed our hearts of the same materials. The action which has raised me to be an officer, cannot permit me to be a rascal. The man who in prosperity will not acknowledge his friend, or would allow any injurious tongue to wound his [...] is indeed a scoundrel!"—This warm declar [...] [...] accompanied by a significant [...] right hand towards his sword, produced its effect. The gentleman shrugged his shoulders, and withdrew.

[Page]The young gentry of birth were shy of mingling in his company, because he took the pains to gain by his personal exertions what they inherited without trouble from their ancestors. Sometimes, indeed, an old staff officer would shake him kindly by the hand, or a general converse with him familiarly; but the proud subalterns took the advice of their noble mammas, and shunned him as a Bramin shun [...] a Pariah on the coast of Coromandel.

William smiled—"I have often heard," would he say, "that family pride is intolerable, but I find the contrary to be the case; for it rids us of troublesome company."

Modest and unaffected, firmly attached to established principles, indulgent to fools, and haughty to the insolent, William showed that he knew how to maintain by the dignity of merit what he had gained in the field of battle by the equivocal courage of despair.

The troops retired into winter quarters. William divided his days between the performance of his duty, the calls of friendship, and the cultivation of his [...]d. His nights were spent in broken slumbers, [...] in tears for Jeanette. More than once he entertained the design of asking leave of absence, to to and carry consolation to her dreary imprisonment. [...] the thought came across his mind, he was deterred by a feeling of delicacy— "How will she be able to stand the sight of me? Am I in a situation to help her? Should I not rather increase her distress by depriving her of the only wretched consolation she possesses, in being accustomed to her situation?"

He checked the wish he felt to see her, and contented himself with sending her every month, by the hands of a worthy merchant who had extensive de [...]lings at Munster, the money which he was able to save out of his pay. "I am not actuated by [Page] love here," would he say; "this I owe to the daughter of my benefactor."

Jeanette received this gratuity with astonishment. "Lives there yet a human being in the world who pities me? I know nobody but William, and him I have cruelly injured! His magnanimity, indeed, forgav [...] me; but is he still alive? Has he not taken upon himself another's guilt? And if he still lives, is he not a poor soldier, who cannot be in a situation to snare his hard-earned pence with such an o [...]cast as me."

She considered the matter to no purpose, and [...] herself in conjecture [...]. At the end of every month a merchant's clerk regularly appeared, whose whole conversation was: "Here is money, and be good enough to sign this discharge." He never said a syllable more, and neither tears nor entreaties could extort a word from him. Jeanette thought him cruel, but he knew nothing of the matter himself.

What rapture did William feel, when first he saw Jeanette's subscription! what sorrow when he read: "The unfortunate Jeanette Jerome returns her thanks to her unknown benefactor, and earnestly wishes to know his name. The name of this generous friend will gladden her dr [...]ry solitude, and render her prayers acceptable to God"—William wept over these lines, and kissed away the tears with which she had bedewed the paper. Thus in the most desolate situation some cheering blossoms spring up to the noble mind. He that can share his penny with her he loves, is not poor! He that can impart consolation to the wretched, is not a stranger to joy!

The army passed the winter in sullen repose, like a sick man who sinks into a short and feverish slumber to awake to new struggles. Not the bleating of the folds, nor the song of the lark, now invited the friends of nature to the field; drums and trumpets drove the peasant from his hut, and the linnet from her n [...]t.

[Page]The campaign was opened with great fury; skirmishes and battles were daily occurrences. Discord sat on a sable cloud, looked down with a ghastly smile, and with bloody lips kissed her general, Death, who with unwearied efforts overthrew the hopes of wives and mothers. William and Frederick, as in the former campaign, behaved with great gallantry. Courage without fortune, however, is like merit without birth; neither of them can obtain distinction. The two young heroes wanted an opportunity to distinguish themselves; and to confess the truth, William did not covet such an opportunity so eagerly as formerly. What had he to lose the preceding year? At that time death to him would have been a joyful event. Now, however—who would share the scanty pittance with Jeanette, should William fall?—Whoever wishes to raise an army of desperate heroes, let him admit no lover among them who contributes to the support of his mistress.

But stop! Once indeed chance presented the young hero with an opportunity of signalizing himself, and he seized it with avidity. Under the view of the king a decisive action was to be fought. Each party endeavored to gain a march upon the other, in order to be able to occupy the most advantageous position upon the plain where the action was to take place. It was the intention of the general to extend the left wing to a village, which it was necessary to occupy before the arrival of the enemy. A strong corps was detached to take possession of this village. The enemy, who had gained a march of some miles, were approaching very near. They had already advanced into the village in great numbers, compelled the corps to give way, and were on the point of disconcerting the king's plan of operation.

William saw how extremely important it was to gain time. He found himself in the middle of the [Page] disordered crowd, and was hurried along with the fugitives. By threats and remonstrances he at last collected a little troop, and, with a few hundred grenadiers and some rifle-men, threw himself into the church, which was situated in such a manner as to command the whole of the plain. Here he barricaded the doors with the benches and seats, and posted his men advantageously at the windows. Grenadoes were scattered among the foe wherever they appeared in numbers, and the rifle-men levelled every one who ventured to come too near.

The enemy, whose numbers every moment increased, were ungovernable with rage, to find themselves checked by a handful of men. In vain they poured showers of balls in at the windows. The gallant fellows were sheltered by the walls. A general advanced, and, convinced of the importance of the post, condescended, at the head of an army, to offer the little party a free retreat. William answered: He was determined rather to bury himself under the ruins of the church.

Already more dead lay on the graves in the church-yard than under the ground; but William's companions had nearly expended all their ammunition, and the enemy were preparing to open their heavy artillery upon the church, when the king, who had availed himself of this diversion, suddenly appeared with the whole army. As long as William held out, it was impossible for the enemy to form their right wing as they wished. They were, therefore obliged to abandon this position entirely, and the fortunate issue of the battle was partly ascribed to the gallant officer who had so bravely defend [...]d the church.

"Who is he? What is his name?" said the king.

[Page]William was presented to him. With glowing cheeks and downeast eyes, he stood as if ashamed of the service he had performed.

"I return you my thanks, lieutenant," said the king, "You have this day done us most noble service. Speak, what can I do for you?"

"Please your majesty!" exclaimed William, throwing himself at his sovereign's feet, "I have an unfortunate sister—she does not carry my name indeed—she is but my half sister—yet I love her more than if we had lai [...] under the same heart.—Youth and base seduction have plunged her into misery! Three years has she languished in prison, and three years more is the ill-fated girl condemned to expiate the crime of a villain. I intreat your majesty for her liberty!"

The king inquired the particulars of the affair; and when he heard that Jeanette was entirely innocent of the child-murder, he granted William's prayer, gave him a letter of recommendation written with his own hand, and leave of absence for ten days, that he might in person announce to his beloved sister her freedom.

William could not express his thanks, he could only weep. It is a charming thing to see a man shed tears, who two hours before has performed an heroic action. The king was affected. "I will provide farther for you," said he. William flow out of the tent. Frederick in vain asked him what was the matter. He could utter only a few broken syllables, embraced his friend with tears, ordered his horse to be saddled, and set off full speed.

[Page]

CHAP. XVI. THE MEETING AND SEPARATION.

MUNSTER is a city of considerable celebrity. The traveller, if he is a politician, visits with respect the town-hall, in which the famous treaty of Westphalia was concluded, of which the different contracting parties observed just no more than they sound convenient. If he is a curious traveller, he seats himself with fear and awe in the chair of king John of Leyden, who twice baptized his followers, though once seems quite sufficient. The sentimental traveller, however, will in future visit the little cell where for three long years Jeanette suffered for the absurdities of the primitive church, and the arts of priestcraft which it had produced.

The shades of evening had already begun to descend upon St. Paul's hill, in the neighbourhood of the town, and the harvest mists began to veil the tops of an hundred useless steeples, when William allowed his blowing steed to stop at the barriers, and with hasty impatience answered the questions of the officer on guard. He dismounted at the first good inn he came to, gave his horse to the first person he met, called a porter from the street to guide him, and, covered with dust and sweat, was usher [...]d into the antichamber of the magistrate to whom his letters were addressed. Some time elapsed before he obtained an audience; for the magistrate, in company with his confessor and an old gouty counsellor, had five points to play out at an interesting game of ombre. William bit his nails, and viewed, without the least interest, the pictures of the saints which adorned the antichamber.

[Page]At last the doors were opened, and he delivered his dispatches. The king's superscription produced a powerful effect; the affair was immediately decided; but the execution of it was postponed till the next day, and the lieutenant invited to sup. Although for three days William had scarcely eaten a morsel, he felt not the slightest sensation of hunger. He could not conceive how the magistrate had invited him so calmly, how the servants so unconcernedly waited at table, and every thing proceeded so evenly in its natural course.

"Speedy assistance," said William, "doubles its value. Night appears long to the [...]ck, but to the wretched it seems longer still. The sooner you apply medicine and consolation the better. If your excellency then would permit your secretary to attend me—"

MAGISTRATE.

—You will first do me the favour to eat a bit of supper?

WILLIAM.

—I shall cut but a sorry figure at your table.

His whole appearance prayed most affectingly to be excused, as he said these words, but there was no remedy. Your great people think they can confer no higher honour upon a common untitled man than to permit him to eat in their company; and as they themselves place so high a value upon the favour, they are not pleased that others should treat it with indifference. They do not consider, that a man of sense and independence pays dearer for his dinner by constraint and ceremony, than if he went to dine at the most expensive tavern.

Poor William sat upon thorns▪ and whenever he saw a new dish placed upon the table, he was ready to expire with vexation. During supper, his excellency read a lecture upon politics, in which he declared that he had long ago predicted, in the cabinet, every thing which had lately happened, [Page] and every now and then appealed to the counsellor for the truth of his story; and the latter corroborated every word with "Yes, brother," and at last became as eloquent in his turn, when the conversation related to the different flavours of Rhenish. On this subject the confessor found himself at home. He swallowed every glass with the air of a connoisseur, smacked his lips, and began to rail against a party of Prussian hussars, who, when he was superintendant of a certain convent, had drank a whole cask of the best old hock.

At last the hour of breaking up arrived, and William received his discharge. With what rapidity did he descend the stair-case! a little fat secretary was scarcely able to follow him. In the street he would have left his companion behind, if he could have found his way to the correctionhouse without him. His cool-blooded conductor came blowing, a few steps behind him, and by his questions of What news from the army? almost drove poor William to despair.

"You have gained a battle?"—"Yes."—"It was at first reported that you had been defeated?" —"Yes, Sir, you are right."—"How? What? I do not understand you."

"My God! Victorious or defeated, any thing you please. At present I have no leisure to talk of battles. To-morrow, to-morrow, my good Sir, I will tell you things which at present I know nothing about!"

The secretary shook his head, as if to say that all was not well with the strange gentleman. At last, however, they reached the gate of the correction-house.

"We must ring," said the secretary; and in an instant William had broke down the bell. Jeanette was paying her evening devotions. William was the saint to whom she commended herself; [Page] for she thought him dead, and her unknown benefactor she warmly remembered in her prayers.

Hark! the hasty tread of a man's footsteps sounded through the long empty passage.— What can be the meaning of this late visit?—Hark! some one rattles at the door.—What can it be?— Who drives open the door so hastily?—An officer rushes into the cell—Jeanette had not time to recognise him—he lay at her feet, and breathless exclaimed—"Jeanette, you are free!"

There are scenes in human life which after the curtain drops appear a dream to those who have played the principal parts. Such scenes defy all the skill of art to represent; and if the artist does not find the picture already sketched in the imagination of the reader, it is better to throw away the pencil.

Jeanette was unconscious of what passed around her. Insensible she lay in William's arms, insensible was she carried to an hackney coach; and when she at last recovered from her swoon, in a strange room, she began to consider, with astonishment, how she had come into this house, and lay in this bed.

All was still around. Near the bed stood a night lamp, which shed a melancholy light on the old embroidered tapestry. "Where am I?" said she. "Did not William appear to me? Alas! I have had strange dreams."

She now accidentally looked round, and saw her beloved sitting at the bed-side; the excessive fatigue of the three preceding days and nights had thrown him, in spite of his efforts, into a short slumber. "William!" shouted Jeanette. He awoke, and sunk down on her bosom. A flood of joyful tears eased his panting bosom. After many silent embraces, William at last recovered strength and recollection to relate his story in broken sentences.

[Page]Jeanette listened with great attention, and particularly inquired the period when he was raised to be an officer. His answer coincided with her suspicions. The mystery of the unknown benefactor was now solved.—"Yes, it is you to whom I am indebted for every thing! My heart long since whispered it to me!"—She hung, sobbing, round his neck. Day found them dissolved in delightful tears; night surprised them in innocent endearments. Quicker than thought two days flew away.

What might not a young man, who had gained so many titles to the love and gratitude of his mistress, have asked? What might he not have ventured to attempt? But William honoured innocence and virtue, which, though once left defenceless in the spoiler's cruel fangs, had never forsaken the fair mansion in which they resided. At the word innocence, perhaps some prudes may sneer. It is an eternal truth, however, that innocence is gone only when the purity of the heart is lost, and many women, who may boast themselves innocent from man, have forfeited theirs.

When they began to enjoy some moments of tranquility, the question naturally arose, "What is to be done with Jeanette?"

"She shall be my wife!" exclaimed, William, and pressed her, blushing, to his breast.

"God forbid," said the generous girl, "that one who has suffered an ignominious punishment should stain thy opening fame! How could you submit to the sarcastic jests of your comrades?"

"Ha! I would—"

"Why, yes, I know what you would do. You would dye your sword in blood to wipe away my shame; you would make me a widow, or yourself a murderer.—No, William, the king cannot trust the honor of a man who could give his hand to a degraded outcast like me. Though I may be more [Page] unfortunate than capable, though I deserve pity rather than contempt, this I must demonstrate by the refusal of a hand, the possession of which I so willingly would have purchased with my blood. You have called me sister—Then, brother William, let us for ever forego the sweetest and the most endearing of appellations!"

William exerted all the eloquence of love to shake this resolution. Five days of his period of absence were now elapsed, the sixth arrived, and he had no time to lose. The heart of the poor girl was assailed with caresses and with specious arguments, which in such cases commonly pass for invincible reasons. She felt that longer resistance exceeded her power, and that she must at length yield to the solicitations of her lover. With great difficulty she obtained a short respite from him till next day.

When he tenderly pressed her hand, as he retired to bed, and had opened the door to go to his apartment, she threw herself abruptly round his neck, and wept bitterly. "What ails you, Jeanette?" —"Nothing! nothing!—To-morrow! to-morrow!" "How? Do you think with alarm of the happy hour which will extort from you the delightful promise to be eternally mine?"—"No! no!— Eternally thine!—Go, good William—sleep sound —for God's sake go!—I can endure it no longer!"

William withdrew. Delightful hopes soon lulled him to sleep, and pleasant dreams hovered over his head. Hastily he sprung out of bed next morning, threw on his great coat, and slipped softly to the door of Jeanette's room. He found that it was only on the latch, opened it without noise, and whispered, "Are you awake, dear Jeanette?"— There was no answer.—He put his head into the room, it was empty—he threw a glance towards [Page] the bed, it was empty! and, alas! not a trace was to be seen that it had been used that night at all. The blood flew rapidly to his face, a fearful presage arose in his breast; with beating heart he entered the room, looked anxiously round, and saw a letter lying upon the table. His eyes devoured it.

"Forgive me, good William! I fly from myself. How could I longer have resisted you and my own heart? And yet I must resist, to spare you disgrace and repentance. In the violence of passion you will reproach me. Ah! William reproach me not! My resolution has cost me a dreadful struggle. Acknowledge, that to be worthy of you I must fly. Farewell! banish all anxiety on my account. Your kindness has placed me in a situation to live for months without other assistance, till I can find employment in some respectable family, were it ever in the humble character of a servant.— Farewell, inquire not the place of my abode. You must never see me again, till I can call you brother without a blush; till the period of my guilt, of my shame, and perhaps of thy love, shall be forgotten.—Thy love!—Alas! why must I wish that?— Stop, poor Jeanette, while you yet have strength to fly!—I have been in your bed-room—I have heard you breathe—perhaps for the last time in my life! I thought my heart would have burst.—Already I held the lock of the door, when an invisible power impelled me to slip once more to your bed-side, to see you once more.—I feared you might awake, and that your impetuous love might annihilate my honourable resolution. I withdrew my hand, and covered with kisses and with tears the handle of the door which to-morrow your fingers would first touch. I kneeled upon the threshold, and with folded hands implored the blessing of God upon you.—Now it is over!—I fly to conceal myself from my beloved. Farewell, brother! Remember thy ill-fated sister!"

[Page]William gazed upon the letter with tearless eyes; his lips quivered, but not a word could he pronounce. After a long pause he awoke from his trance, wrung his hands and exclaimed: "Ha! this is too much!" His wild look wandered round the room, seeking some relic of Jeanette. Alas! not a trace of the beloved fugitive could he fi [...]

"Yet did she not cover the handle of my bedroom door with kisses? Did she not kneel upon the threshold and pray for me?"

William kneeled in his turn, and prayed for Jeanette, and his tears renewed the faded marks of hers.

Suddenly inspired by a burst of passion he sprang up, raged and stormed through the house; demanded from every kitchen wench, an account what had become of Jeanette, and in the heat of his resentment knocked down a waiter who very naturally asked him whether the young woman had robbed him.

When he found that nobody could give him the [...]ast information, when, how, and whither Jeanette had gone, he dressed himself in haste, stormed the house of her old aunt, traversed the whole city, the suburbs, and the neighbouring country. Wherever he saw two persons conversing, he listened to hear if they talked of Jeanette. Wherever he saw a female face lurking behind a window-curtain, he remained standing below, and gazed till curiosity induced some stranger to look out. Wherever he saw a church door open he slipped in, examined every corner where he saw some devotee kneeling before the image of a saint.

Without having received the least refreshment, and obliged by the coming night to abandon his search, he returned to his inn. As he went back, he even ventured to cherish the hope that Jeanette, during his absence, might have made her appearance. [Page] The landlord sat quietly before the door' smoking his pipe. "She must certainly be come back!" thought William, "how else could the landlord be so tranquil?" He attacked him with an hundred questions; and when to every word he got no answer but an indifferent No, he felt the last [...]eam of hope expire in his breast.

His leave of absence was now reduced to four days. Three he had spent in travelling to Munster, four were still necessary for his return to the camp. His horse, too, was so jaded that it seemed doubtful whether he could hold out the journey. At day-break he mounted the battered steed, in sullen stupefaction, took the road by which he came; and when, as he ascended an hill, he turned round to Munster, the morning sun shone upon his tears.

CHAP. XVII. THE WANDERER.

JEANETTE, with a small bundle hanging on her arm, and a few pieces of gold in her pocket, had silently stolen at midnight out of the inn. She first thought of applying to her old aunt; but after what had happened how could she expect a welcome reception? Had she, during three years, ever shown the least anxiety about the poor orphan, or ever sent the least refreshment to her cell? Jeanette preferred throwing herself on the wide world.

With great difficulty, and by doubling the toll at the gate, she prevailed upon the centinel to let her pass, under pretence of going to visit a sick person [Page] in the suburbs. When morning dawned, she had already walked a mile, and arrived at a village where two roads crossed each other. She sat down to rest herself under a row of trees at the entrance of the village, where she had not been long when a stagecoach passed by. A few hundred steps farther on, the carriage stopped at an alehouse, because the postillion, according to the laudable custom of his calling, wished to have his morning pint.

The idea instantly struck Jeanette, "What if I should take a place in this coach, and go on with it, in order the sooner to escape from William's inquiries?"

She yet was entirely ignorant whither the road on which she now travelled conducted. This, however, was of little consequence, as she had the world before her, and had left Munster behind. In the first considerable town, whatever it was, she resolved to apply for service.

Engrossed with these reflections she went into the alehouse, and found the postillion at breakfast. S [...] proposed to take a place in his vehicle, and at the same time offered him some drink-money. He grinned at the sight of her white teeth, expressed his consent by a nod, and seasoned his complaisance with some dry jokes at the expence of the solitary pedestrian. After he had finished his breakfast, and with rustic politeness invited Jeanette to drink a glass, he went out to the coach: "Gentlemen, sit a little closer if you please, and make room for a pretty young girl, who has walked herself lame." With blunt officiousness he assisted Jeanette into her place; and, as the weather was fine, he took his great coat down from the coach-box, and spread it under the seat as a bolster. The power of beauty is felt by the peasant as well as the poet, and the postillion's coat was as great an homage to Jeanette's charms as a sonnet.

[Page]When she took her seat she apologised to the passengers with modest condescension for incommoding them. It was impossible to be angry with her, and they willingly made room.—A stage-coach is often a place where a young woman, like Gresset's Vert-vert, finds herself in bad company. Jeanette had already experienced this the first time she went to Munster to her aunt. Scarcely had she now taken her seat, therefore, when she began unobserved to examine the physiognomies of her fellow-travellers, to discover what she had to hope or to fear.

This survey (for which the penetrating, infallible eye of a woman requires only a second, were the coach stuffed as full as Noah's ark) gave her great satisfaction, as she saw four or five grave old men who had the appearance of merchants, and did not seem inclined to interrupt her melancholy meditations. Instead of saluting her, they had only pulled up their night-caps a little, and one of them offered Jeanette a pinch of snuff. This how [...]er, was all; they gave themselves no farther concern about her.

She felt a strong desire to ask the person who had offered to share the contents of his snuff-box with her, to what place the coach was going. She was afraid, however, of betraying by this question that she was setting out in the wide world without object or provision, and by that means attracting attention. She therefore remained silent; her companions continued silent also, and seemed as if they were calculating the profit or loss of an adventure. The gloomy silence, which was interrupted only by an exclamation of "God bless us!" when any of the company happened to sneeze, cherished Jeanette's melancholy; and the jolting and rattling of the carriage could not withdraw her from her comfortless reflections.

[Page]For the first two days they travelled only through villages and little towns, the names of which were utterly unknown to Jeanette, as she had never troubled herself much about geography. As she had no opportunity in these obscure places to attain the object she had in view, she pursued her journey. On the evening of the third day, as she gazed pensively on the fields and trees on the right hand, which seemed to recede from the coach, she suddenly started, and with difficulty suppressed a loud shriek.

William rode past the carriage!—His horse moved on at a sluggish trot; William's head was reclined upon his breast, and his eyes seemed to be so intent on the pummel of his saddle, that he never once looked at the stage-coach. Indeed he could not have seen Jeanette, as she sat back in a corner. A single glance was enough for a lover, and she would have pledged her salvation that it was William. How it appeared evident, that instead of [...]ying from him him she was running directly into his arms.

"My God! what shall I do now?—At the next stage the carriage will be emptied, I must dismount, and perhaps meet William at the door!"

She became restless and uneasy on her seat, her face glowed, her heart beat. The nearer they approached the stage, the more violent her anxiety became. One of the passengers happened to ask the postillion, "Friend, have we far yet to go?"—"Half a mile farther yet," replied the postillion, Jeanette was alarmed, and formed an hasty resolution. "Stop, friend!" cried she suddenly. The postillion stopped. She took up her bundle, put half a guinea into the postillion's hand, and bade him drive on.

"What a God's name do you mean, Miss? What! It is almost dark. You don't mean to stay here on the road all night.?"

[Page]"In the next village I am at home," returned Jeanette; "drive on if you please without me." The postillion shook his head, mounted his horse, cracked his whip, and in a few minutes the carriage disappeared from Jeanette's view. She looked after it with a kind of stupefaction; and when she saw herself alone and helpless amidst all nature, when she heard the cricket chirrup its evening song, and the grasshopper buzzing in the bushes, she began to weep bitterly.

"Poor girl! what will now become of you?— Return?—Whither?—Advance—Alas! William!"—She paced on a little way upon the high road, till on the left hand she saw a little foot-path, which she followed without farther consideration, and in secret prayer she proceeded.

Hitherto twilight had shed a feeble ray upon the pathway, but night darkened round, and she found herself at the entrance of a thick wood. A few moments she stood irresolute, but her courage revived. "This foot-path," thought she, "must lead to the abode of men. I must surely find some village, or at least a farm-house, and the deeper in the wood the better." At first she pursued her way with spirit; but the darkness every moment increased, and the sullen silence was interrupted only by the distant cooing of the wood-pigeon. She felt a fearful oppression steal round her heart which she had never before experienced. She redoubled her speed, and terror lent her new strength.

Till now she thought that see had observed the marks of a beaten foot-path; but at length her progress became so embarrassed by the thick twining bushes, that she began to fear she should lose the path altogether. Alas! what she feared soon happened. She suddenly found herself in a small opening, bare of trees; and where all around the pines and [...]rs entwined their branches, the shrubs [Page] opposed their close-grown twigs, and apprised her that here no human foot had smoothed a passage. Terror now deprived her of strength and reflection: she groped round as if struck blind, and was unable to find the path by which she had come. Trembling, she sunk down upon the root of a tree, and recommended herself to God and to his angels.

In about an hour the moon rose, and with it a beam of hope in her soul. She rose, and chose the place where it seemed easiest to penetrate through the bushes. After she had wrought her way through with great perseverance for a considerable distance, her hands scratched and bloody, and her white cloak torn to pieces on the thorns, she came to a hedge, which, as far as the feeb [...] light of the moon enabled her to judge, seemed to border a stack of hay. "God be praised!" exclaimed she, "here must be the habitation of men!" She had not advanced many steps farther when she really saw a light at a distance. "Ha! a light! she hastily cried, and felt her strength invigorated. With renewed courage she followed the side of the hedge, advanced towards the light, and soon perceived that it issued from the window of a little house which was thatched with straw, but yet had a better appearance than common cottages. It was surrounded by a few out-houses, and skirted all round by the wood.

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CHAP. XVIII. THE HUMORIST.

MAN, who now no longer has a window in his breast, nor carries a mark upon his forehead (should he even have killed a brother,) yet in two ways displays his character with considerable precision, namely by his âress and his habitation. He whose head is clear, and whose heart is tranquil loves to dress himself with taste, and to live in a pleasant so [...]y. Only the enthusiast or the miserable bury themselves in desarts.

Such thoughts as these lay heavy upon Jeanette's breast when she saw the little house in the midst of the wood. "Could I but find an [...]ylum here; could I but be allowed here to attach myself to some unfortunate being, who flies from envy and persecution as I fly from love!"

She advanced a few steps nearer till she came to an aged oak, which shaded a seat formed of turf. Higher up on the trunk of the tree something glittered in the light of the moon. It was a white board with some inscription, and fastened to the tree by a gilt thong. Jeanette stepped up on the bench, and by the moonlight read the following lines in French:

La plainte est pour le fat, le bruit est pour le sot;

L'honnête homme trompe s'eloigne, et ne dit mot.*

"Ha!" exclaimed Jeanette, "here lives some mortal who has quarreled with the world; he will not shut his door upon the wretched."

[Page]Animated with hope, she leaped down from the bench, and went straight to the house-door. A large dog with a chain about his neck suddenly rushed out of his kennel, and bawled out like a reviewer. Jeanette was frightened, and did not venture to approach. She stood like a young bashful author, whom the reviewer denies admittance into the temple of fame, the sacred recesses of which he himself enters as little as the watch-dog the house of his master. Both are kept only to bark, and to growl at every stranger.

At the noise which the dog made, Jeanette thought she saw the light in the house move past the window. She heard a bolt drawn; the door opened, a man looked out, said "Tush, Fagel!" to the dog; and when the bark softened into a lower growl, the woodman turned to the place where the white figure of Jeanette glanced in his eye, and cried: "Who is there?"—Jeanette told in a few words that she had lost her way, and begged a night's lodging.

The stranger answered not a word. He went in and shut the door behind him. The poor wanderer could not conceive what this meant. The cur again began to rage as before; the light appeared to be placed in its old situation; and, except the dog, nobody seemed to think of her being there.

After a few minutes of anxious expectation, the light again moved through the house; the bolt was withdrawn, the door grated on its hinges, the man who had before come out, made his appearance, said "Tush, Fagel!" to the dog, and to Jeanette two words: "Come in."—Jeanette followed. She now perceived by the light of the lamp that her conductor was an old man, with a blue jacket and close cut hair. He did not appear to share the curiosity with which she viewed him, as he scarcely once looked at her. He led her into a little room adjoining to [Page] the lobby. "Here is a bed," said he; put the lamp on the table, and retired.

Jeanette knew not well what to think of this extraordinary reception. She examined the room, in which a kind of indigent cleanliness seemed to prevail. The furniture consisted of a small folding bed with fine bed-clothes, a looking-glass with a brown frame, two tables covered with green cloth, and six straw-bottomed chairs. The floor was strewed with white sand and new cut fir branches. The only articles which seemed to indicate the owner to be a man of property, were four valuable landscapes by Wouvermann, which were fixed to the wall.

When she observed that all was quiet in the house, and that nobody thought any thing more of her, she threw herself in her clothes upon the bed; and exhausted by three sleepless nights, by bodily exertion and mental distress, she enjoyed a pretty calm night's rest. The day was well advanced when she was awaked by a noise in the room. It was the same silent man who had attended her the night before. He entered with a basket, from which, without saying a word, he drew a white cloth, and spread it upon the table. He then placed upon it bread, butter, cheese, honey, a bason of milk, and a glass of small beer. "Here is breakfast," said he, and again withdrew.

This laconic invitation extorted a smile from Jeanette. She remained lying on the bed for half an hour, and puzzled herself with conjectures to account for the singular behaviour of her host. She then rose, and refreshed herself with bread and milk. As she happened to look out at the window, she observed another man, about forty years of age, in a grey coat, and short hair like the other. He sat upon the turf seat under the oak, reading a book. His pale, haggard countenance bore the traces of sorrow; his eyes were hollow, and shaded [Page] with shaggy eyebrows, which gave his features a gloomy character mixed with something of wildness.

Jeanette considered him long with attention. She concluded that he was the master of the house; and she resolved, as soon as he gave up reading, to throw herself in his way, to thank him for his hospitable entertainment, and to offer herself to him as maid-servant. The man in grey, however, did not seem disposed to quit his place. Sometimes indeed, he laid aside his book, stroked a spaniel, or cut a piece of hazle, in doing which he lost himself in meditation; he would then take up the book again, though he seemed to read but little.

About mid-day the servant, for [...]ch Jeanette considered the man in the blue jacket, placed a table under the oak tree, and carried out a few frugal dishes, of which the man in grey sparingly partook. Immediately after the servant brought the same fare to Jeanette, and said: "Here is dinner," and went away. "These men," thought Jeanette, "are not curious. It appears to be very indifferent to them who I am. I however am very anxious to know who the person is to whom I owe this asylum."

When the servant returned to clear the table, she ventured, for the first time, to ask him a question: "Where am I?"—"Among honest people," returned the man, and went his way. Jeanette concluded that speech was here used only as a necessary, and not, as at court, as a luxury. Notwithstanding her desire to gratify her female curiosity, she felt a repugnance equally strong to harass by her questions; and she struggled with herself the whole morning, whether she should go out and speak to the man in grey. More than once she had the door in her hand; but after she had summoned courage to make her proposals, she perceived that the stranger [Page] had left his seat, and hid himself in the woods.

The shades of evening closed around. The man in the blue jacket brought a lamp, and said: "Here is a light." In a little white he covered the table in silence; and when he had placed the victuals upon it, he retired, saying: "Here is your supper." The conversation for the day there closed. Jeanette remained alone, neither saw nor heard any thing farther, and slept as well as she could till next morning.

When next day her breakfast was placed on the table, and she had begun to eat, the monosyllabic man in blue said: "Now you may go. The road on the left hand takes you out of the wood."— "Alas! my friend!" said Jeanette, "does your master want no servant girl?"—The man in blue for the first time looked her broad in the face, answered however not a word, but went out to his master, who was seated under the oak-tree. In a few minutes he returned, and said: "No. The left hand road takes you out of the wood."

"I shall go this moment," said Jeanette with a sigh; "but may I not be permitted to return your master my thanks?"—"No!" was the rough answer with which the man in blue left her. Melancholy and disconsolate she went to the window, every moment thought of preparing to set out, and still postponed it. "Where shall I find an asylum so peculiarly adapted for the gloomy temper of my sorrow? The bustle of cities, the ceremony of great houses, the importunity of talkative men—and here—this dreary wilderness, the solemn firs, the domestic silence—O! he must retain me; the strange mortal there under the oak must take me into his service."

Suddenly she felt, as it were, something whisper her: "To succeed in your object with singular characters you must yourself act in a singular manner." [Page] —The day before she had accidentally observed, that at this hour the servant had brought some pails out of an adjoining house, taken them to the well, and washed them clean. He had then gone into a little shed where a couple of cows were kept, milked them, and brought the milk into the house.

On this discovery, Jeanette immediately formed her plan. She hastily pinned up her gown, went out without hesitation, carefully avoided looking at the man in grey as she passed him under the oak-tree, went into the out-house, took the pails, and washed them clean at the well. She then posted to the shed, milked the cows, and proceeded to carry the milk into the house. All this she did with the same neatness and dexterity as if she had been accustomed to it all her life.

The man in grey dropped his book upon his knees, and eyed her with surprise. When she came out of the shed and was passing by him, he said: "What is the meaning of this?"

"Good Sir!"—"I am no good Sir! But I am a man!"—"Alas! I am unfortunate."—"Who is not so?"—"I wish to remain with you as maid-servant."—"I want no maid-servant."—"If you do not want me—Ah! good Sir! I stand in need of you!"

The man in grey remained a few moments silent. "Peter!" cried he to the servant, "the girl may stay." After these words he took up the book, and took no farther notice of Jeanette.

[Page]

CHAP. XIX. IMPROVEMENTS.

AN old Latin proverb maintains, that the same consequence does not always follow when two men perform the same action; and this observation holds as true in the woods of Westphalia as in the city of Rome. If nature is adorned with youth, beauty, gentleness and grace, the fortunate possessor of these advantages may boldly undertake what [...] old wrinkled beldame durst not attempt. Had not Jeanette been a lovely girl, had not her hand excelled the milk in whiteness, and her form transcended the elegance of the poplars, perhaps the man in grey might have considered her unbidden officiousness as extremely impertinent and disagreeable. But it was impossible to meet the glance of the lovely girl's fine benignant eye, without feeling some emotion of kindness, though you had been stretched on a bed of thorns. When you saw her you felt the same effects which Moritz, in his Magazine of Moral Experiments, mentions to have been produced by the glowing tints of an evening sky. A melancholy man was walking one fine summer evening up and down upon the Mall, with his face first turned towards the east, where the sky was dark and gloomy. Corroding care and disgust of life filled his breast. Suddenly he turned round—The soft beauties of the purple western sky saluted his view. Hope, love, and confidence awoke in his soul.

The man in grey would not listen to Jeanette's thanks. He said; "O! very well!" and beckon [...] [Page] with his hand for her to retire. He conceived that he had performed a pure duty of humanity, abstracted from all collateral feelings and views. "She is unfortunate," thought he, "and imagines that it is possible in this world to enjoy happiness. Happy for her! so long as she continues to cherish this dream!—But what misfortunes can she have sustained?—O! 'tis all one! What is it to me?"— He continued to read, but soon perceived that he knew nothing of what he had been reading. "My thoughts wander," said he to himself, put his book in his pocket, and plunged, as was his custom, deeper into the wood.

Meanwhile Jeanette went cheerily about her new occupation. She took possession of the kitchen, arranged every thing in the neatest order, [...]ou [...]d and burnished what was not sufficiently bright, cleaned the pots, put water on the fire, ingeniously made herself a scuttle of twigs, which she pealed with her fair hands. All this she did without saying a word; for she had already observed that in this house silence was the greatest recommendation, and she was determined to shew the man in grey, that it was not necessary to banish the fair sex from his solitude on account of their reputed deficiency in this virtue.

Peter stood and gazed at her. He said not a word indeed, but he smiled kindly, and sometimes with a half nod muttered Ha! hem! However eagerly Jeanette longed to know where, and in whose house she was, she reflected that her silent host had still a better right to anticipate her curious inquiries; and as he allowed her to remain undisturbed, she thought it fair to observe a similar delicacy.

Thus passed a whole month without a human voice being heard in the solitude. Every hour of the day was dedicated to its appropriate employment, every employment had its established form▪ [Page] Good morning! Good night! were expressed with a nod of the head, and at most by a single word. The dishes required for dinner were settled and communicated to Jeanette by their bare appellations. Never once had they inquired her name. When she was called, it was, Girl!—The man in grey was called Master, and the valet was called Peter.

Jeanette endeavored, by every little attention, to win the favor of her new master. She had now cause to rejoice that her old aunt at Munster had initiated her in the mysteries of cookery. From the happy days of her youth she had still cherished her propensity for gardening. She was skilled in rearing fruits and flowers; and every thing, as formerly, [...]ourished in her hands.

In a corner of the kitchen-garden she chose a spot of good rich soil for a flower-plot. "Peter," said she, "take the spade and dig me this spot." Peter looked at her, smiled, muttered, with a half nod, Hem! hem! ha! and prepared the ground as he was desired. In a short time, roses and hyacinths began to shoot up, which Jeanette carefully watered every evening. When they began to perfume the air with their full-blown beauties, she transplanted them into flower-pots, and stuck them in the ground, by the turf bench, round the oak-tree. When the man in grey repaired next morning, as, usual, to his favorite spot, it seemed as if during the night, roses and hyacinths had sprung up under his feet.

When he first observed this little piece of gallantry, he stood a good while gazing at it. Peter brought breakfast, and his master pointed with his finger to the roses. Peter understood him, and answered, "The girl."

"The girl!" involuntarily repeated the man in grey, and a smile escaped him which still pla [...]ed [...]ound his li [...] with a cast of severity. He t [...] [...] [Page] a guinea, gave it to Peter, and said "The girl." Peter carried the money, with the words, "From master."

"For what?"—"For the flowers."—"If the flowers afford master any pleasure, I am rewarded. Kindness cannot be purchased with gold."

Peter looked at her with a little astonishment, and for the first time in his life clapped her on her shoulder. He carried the money back, laid it on the table, and said: "She refuses."—"Why?"

She says, "If the flowers have afforded master any pleasure, she is rewarded. Kindness is not to be purchased with money."—"Said she so?"— "Yes."

This time the countenance of the man in grey relaxed into a smile, in which the severity was almost totally eclipsed. Thus did Jeanette avail herself of every opportunity which presented to smooth the brow or the humourist. He was not ungrateful; he was sensible of the effort, though he long remained silent. When she passed him in the morning to milk the cows, he could not refrain from lifting his eyes from the book, and looking after her. This stolen pleasure had, without his being aware of it, become so necessary to him, that, if she happened to be longer in coming than usual, his eye wandered an hundred times from the book to the house-door, to catch her dear form. This, however, was all. In the same uniformity passed a quarter of a year. Jeanette could not help feeling her female vanity a little hurt, that with all her efforts, and all her attention, she had not been able to interest the man in grey so far as to inquire her name. At last, however, she hit upon a thought, the execution of which at first appeared extremely difficult, but which succeeded beyond her hopes.

"Who made the tablet which hangs on the oak?" said she one day to Peter.—"It was I."—"And [Page] who painted the inscription?"—"I."—"Are you a painter?"—"I was in my youth."

"I am glad of that. Make me such a tablet." Peter looked and smiled. "Are you serious?"— "Yes. You must say nothing of it, however, to your master. I wish to procure him an unexpected pleasure." Peter laughed, again muttered hem! hem! and made the tablet. When it was ready, Jeanette gave him a stanza to be inscribed upon it. Peter wrought con amore, and surpassed himself. The kind thanks with which Jeanette repaid his trouble gave him more satisfaction than the celebrated Casanova enjoys in a present from the Semiramis of the North.

When the man in grey, according to custom, slipped out one morning to the turf seat under the oak-tree, and happened to look up to the trunk, behold! the old tablet was taken away; in its place hung a new one, on which he read, with great surprise, the following words:

Ne te vante point d'avoir en cet asyle

Rencontré le parfait bonheur.

Il n'est point retire dans le fond d'un bocage,

Il est moins chez les rois,

Il est encore moins chez le sage;

De cette courte vie il n'est pas le partage:

Il y faut renoncer; mais on peut quelques fois

Embrasser an moins son image.*

He read it over twice, three times, and could scarcely believe his eyes. Peter brought breakfast, his master pointed with his finger to the tablet. Peter understood the gesture, and replied with a smile, "The girl."

[Page]"Th [...] [...] involuntarily repeated the man in grey, and smiled without any mixture of severity. When Jeanette passed by, quite unconcerned, a short time after, to pay her morning visit to the cows, he could no longer maintain his reserve. "Girl!" cried he.—"Sir," replied Jeanette, and turned round to him.

"Who are you?"—"I am unfortunate."—"Can you tell me no more?"—"Excuse me."—"Well, I am not displeased to see the unfortunate take refuge with me. Will you remain with me till I die?" —"Most willingly."—"What is your name?"— "Jeanette."—"Well, you may go." Jeanette withdrew.

The man in grey had not spoken so much at one time for many years. He was surprised, even himself, at the effort, and fell into a profound meditation, in which he forgot his morning walk. What was the precise subject of his reflections, kind reader, he ne [...] [...]ntured to communicate even to the oak-tree; and perhaps he himself did not exactly know. This explanation, however, produced no alteration in the mode of life of the hermit and his domestics. Every thing moved on in its usual course; and except the new inscription upon the oak, every thing remained in its former place.

Winter had now stripped the leaves from the trees, covered Jeanette's flower-garden with snow, and kept the man in grey confined to his chamber. To the want of exercise, perhaps, it was owing that secret grief, and incessant brooding over a silent sorrow, affected his health this season more than he had before experienced. He was attacked by a severe illness.

It is a proud destiny which the fair sex enjoy, th [...] to them we owe the most delightful of our pleasures; but it is still a prouder distinction they possess, [...]n soothing our moments of sickness and [Page] distress. Jeanette never stirred from his bed. Botany, formerly the amusement her youth, she now employed with advantage. In the morning she prepared him cooling draughts, and made him drink potions made from the juice of the most agreeable and salutary fruits. For dinner she made him light vegetable soups; in the evening she took a book from his small but select library, and read till he fell asleep. She then lay down, without throwing off her clothes, on a sofa in the adjoining room, and if the patient but stirred she was with him in an instant.

By her unwearied care his health was in a few weeks re-established. He appeared still, it is true, as formerly, pensive [...] reserved. His countenance, however, [...] no longer morose and misanthropic. He was silen [...] indeed, as before, but his silence seemed to be constrained.

"Go to Jeanette's chamber," said he one morning to Peter, "and lay this pur [...]on her table." Peter did as he was desired. Jeanette found the purse, and easily guessed from whom it came.

"Go to your master's room," said she to Peter, "and lay this purse upon his table." Peter obeyed, and the purse was sent three times backwards and forwards, without any farther explanation taking place upon the subject. The man in grey was at last obliged to put up his purse again in his pocket. In the evening, as he stood at the window, with his face to the casement, and his back to Jeanette, he began, contrary to custom, to whistle a tune. Suddenly he stopped, and without turning round said, in a low hesitating voice: "you take no money?"

"No!" replied Jeanette. The man in grey continued to whistle, and beat time with his fingers upon the glass, but said not a word more.

Next day, however, at dinner-time, when Peter [Page] began to cover the table, his master said, "Lay two covers." Peter started, and remained standing in the middle of his work, like a clock run out, till his master gravely repeated the order. He then placed the two covers, without saying a word, and thought with himself that company must be coming. No guest appeared, however, and dinner was served up.

"Call Jeanette!"—Jeanette appeared.—"Sit down, and dine with me."

Jeanette felt the kindness of this behaviour. She sat down, and attempted to eat; but the tears started in her eye, and she could not swallow a morsel. The man in grey threw a stolen glance at her. "Why do you weep?" said he. Jeanette rose, and ran out of the room.

"She is a good girl!" muttered the hermit; a smile played round his lips, but instead of the former severity it was blended with a look of sorrow.

CHAP XX. THE BOWER.

WHEN God pronounced the sublime command, "Let there be light!" he sent beauty into the world, and there was light. Where is there a dungeon so dreary—where a heart so overwhelmed with grief, to which the influence of beauty will not impart light and consolation?

The hermitage of the man in grey by degrees lost its gloomy aspect. A groupe of tall firs, on the east side of the house, intercepted the passage of the cheering rays of the morning sun. This was precisely to his mind, as he fled from the light of the [Page] sun, and buried himself in a chamber looking towards the north, into which scarce a beam of light po [...]ed in the longest summer day. Jeanette [...]rove him out of this room on pretence of some re [...] Peter, in consequence of a hint from her at [...]t, cut down the old firs, and, when the man in gray awo [...]e, the sun peeped through his curtains.

Astonished at this visit, he rung the bell. Peter appeared. His master p [...]inted to the sun. Peter smiled archly.—"The firs are gone," said he cheerfully: "What is become of them?"—"I newed them down."—"Who ordered you to do that?"—"The girl." The man in grey bowed to the authority, as a loyal old Frenchman would have done to a disagreeable order announced de par le Roi.

Two hundred paces from the house lay a little hillock, overgrown with thick bushes and shrubbery. When spring began to open the leaves on the trees, Jeanette requested the ever obliging Peter to clear the top of the hillock, and to leave only as much as was necessary to form a bower. The ivy, the jessamine, and the honey-suckles were arched over a [...]urf bank. A gravel walk was formed up to the spot; the man in grey was invited to take a walk, and at the top of the hill surprised with an agreeable prospect.

He said nothing; but, when Jeanette retired a few steps to pull a bunch of May-flowers, he turned round, and nodded to Peter with an inquisitive air. Peter nodded and winked. Another time, Jeanette privately bought a nightingale from a country girl. This was a bird rarely seen in this part of the wood, where only owls screeched and hawks screamed. She hung the sweet singer, in the evening, under the window of her master's bedroom. The bird began his melodious song, now in plaintive, now in joyous notes. The man in grey [Page] awoke from his first slumber, listened, wondered, and rejoiced at this unusual visit; and he even wished that the nightingale might not be a passing guest, but that it might build a nest in the garden.

When he opened the window next morning, he perceived from whence the serenade had proceeded. Peter brought up breakfast, and his master had already lifted up his hand, as usual, to point to the object the appearance of which had excited his surprise; but he drew back his hand. The question is unnecessary, thought he: who else can it be but the girl?

Pensive and absent he sat down to the tea-table, and stirred the tea round and round with the spoon, to melt the sugar which he had forgot to put in.— "Jeanette!" said he in a low voice.—"Jeanette!" repeated he a little louder.—"Jeanette!" exclaimed he the third time, with some degree of vehemence.

Jeanette, in the kitchen just by, heard her name called, and immediately appeared. "Did you call?"

The man in grey was visibly embarrassed, "I [...] —No. Go, my child—go." Jeanette withdrew, and felt an emotion of pleasure; for it was the first time he had called her child. It was anxiety to obtain this endearing appellation which had animated all her exertions, and every day seemed more and more to promise her complete success. Since the period when she had so disinterestedly refused the fee which her medical care had earned, she commonly dined at table with her master. Without her knowledge, he sent Peter into the next village, to hire a peasant girl to assist her. He no longer suffered her to do any work that had the appearance of drudgery. In the evening she participated in his hours of reading and with the most [Page] kind address she contrived to supersede some of his former favourite authors. Zimmerman's Solitude, [...]oung's Night Thoughts, and books of this description, were exchanged for Montaigne's Essays, and the Travels of Anacharsis the younger. Sometimes even he condescended to listen to the humorous adventures of Gil Blas. In a word, after the lapse of a twelvemonth, he as little resembled the man in grey of the last ye [...] as the bare rose-bush which you bring out of the cellar resembles the rose-bush that in a few weeks displays its foliage, and spreads its blossoms to the sun.

He was conscious of this change, and his heart opened to tender sensations. How dear Jeanette had become to him, and what might be the consequence of the attachment, he had never reflected; and an opportunity alone was wanting to apprise him of the true nature of his feelings.

Since the bower on the top of the hillock had been reared, he had, in a great measure, deserted his former favourite spot, the turf bank under the oak-tree. He often stole, well pleased, through the fields, and hied by the winding path to the top of the hill, where an unconfined prospect no longer, as formerly, was disagreeable.

One day, as he was approaching the bower with silent steps, he thought he heard an unusual noise. He listened, and he imagined he heard some one sob. By a sudden turn he entered the bower, and discovered Jeanette in tears. She had been thinking of William, and her tears flowed to absence and to love. She started up, and endeavoured to force a smile. The man in grey, however, looked her keenly in the face. "Jeanette," said he, "you weep!" She could not answer.—"Are you still unhappy?"

"Alas! No! I am as happy as I can ever be upon earth."

[Page]"And yet these tears?"—"They flow to the remembrance of the past."

"Perhaps, too, the hopes of future bliss in store?"

"I hope for nothing but the continuance of your favour towards me."—A long pause followed. With faltering voice the man in grey again proceeded: "Are you married?"

"No."—"Have you a lover?"—"I had one!" —"Is he dead?"—"Heaven forbid!"—"Is he unfaithful?"—"O! no [...] How is it possible that he could be so?"—"Yet you have renounced all hope?" —"Because fate has divided us for ever!"

"How so?"—"Because—forgive me—I cannot explain myself—but I must never see him more! I never will!"

"You never will?"

"While God enables me to retain the sentiments of honor and virtue!"

"Do you mean this seriously?"—"I should hate myself if I thought differently; I should despise myself if I could act differently."—A pause ensued. The man in grey seized Jeanette's hand with emotion, led her to the turf bank, and said with tender accents: "My good child, I entreat your confidence; tell me the cause of your unhapness!"

"Were you to know that, you would expel me from this solitude, the only asylum which is now left me."

"With you, then, I should banish the happiness of my life." And a violent glow rushed to his cheeks, as if he had been ashamed of this involuntary confession. "Speak without apprehension," continued he in a more calm and soothing tone. "Perhaps I have hitherto appeared to you unfeeling▪ We Dutchmen are reputed cold as the fogs in which we live. But my sorrows too were chiefly the sorrows of the heart! Speak, and fear not that your confidence will be abused, or that your sufferings will be unpitied."

[Page]Jeanette at last yielded, and from a very natural bashfulness related—not her own but William's story; how he had been received as the son of a poor porter into her father's house; how love had arisen out of childish affection; how when he became a schoolmaster he had solicited her hand, and in grief on account of the disappointment of his wishes had enlisted; how he had so nobly sacrificed himself for his friend; how he had bravely fought, and had been promoted by his merit. [...]e pretended that she could not bear the thought of confining the generous youth's advancement [...] career of f [...] an indiscreet marriage. "We have at last ag [...], said she, "to consider one another as brother and sister, and nothing in the world is capable of diverting me from this resolution."

The man in grey saw nothing in [...]s narrative which could justify the fear which Jeanette had expressed of being banished from his protection. He guessed that there must be some mystery unrevealed, and in vain he solicited the timorous girl to make a full disclosure. In spite of the repugnance which his heart felt to such a task, he made several attempts to convince her [...] [...]e was guided by a false delicacy; offered to contribute his advice and assistance to effect a union between her and William, but all in vain! She remained immoveable, and entreated him, as he valued her peace, not to mention William's name in her presence. He was obliged to give this promise, and he gave it without reluctance.

They now separated, and went home in silence. Both remained immersed in thought, and supper was carried from table untouched. The man in grey went to bed, but he never closed his eyes; he was deaf to the melody of the nightingale under his window; and, still lost in waking dreams, the morning sun called him from his pillow.

[Page]

CHAP XXI. SLIGHTED LOVE.

THE following day [...]ssed in tranquility. Jeanette had recovered her usual serenity, but something seemed to brood in the soul of the man in grey.

"Let us take a walk, dear Jeanette!" said he in the evening. They went up in silence to the hill, and sat down, as the preceding day, upon the turf bank before they exchanged a word. A long pause followed. Jeanette looked round with embarrassment, and twisted the leaves which hung down from the arching honeysuckles. The unerring penetration which is inseparable from a female mind in cases of this nature enabled her to anticipate the scene which was impending. The man in grey sat with his head reclining upon his breast, and his heart seemed labouring to be delivered from a heavy burden. "Jeanette!" said he at last, "do you still continue in the sentiments which you expressed yesterday?"—"I shall never entertain any other."—Then you renounce your William?"

Jeanette with a sigh: "I have already renounced him forever!"

The man in grey, with saltering voice, and drawing figures in the sand with his cane, continued: "Will you marry me?"

Jeanette started. A question so abrupt she had not anticipated. She gazed at the man in grey with a look which testified some feeling of horror, [Page] an emotion quite foreign to the sentiments which he had hitherto inspired.

"Yesterday," proceeded he visibly relieved, "you honored me with your confidence, and it is just that I should return it. My history you shall hear in a few words.—I am a Dutchman, and my name is Van Shipper. My father was a rich merchant, who loved money beyond every thing in the world. The little cultivation which my mind has received, I owe to my residence in foreign countries, and to the perusal of good books.

"When I returned home, I had the misfortune to fall in love with a young lady of great beauty. I wished to make her my wife, but durst not gratify my desire for fear of offending my father. The threat of disinheriting me, added fuel to the flame. I endeavoured to persuade her to elope with me, and would have sacrificed for her every expectation of present fortune. Before, however, my plan could be accomplished, a German coxcomb brought the pest of sentimental cant into her family, and she became faithless.

"I now exchanged love to the fair sex for love to my country. I became what was called a patriot, and was banished. A person of the name of Fag [...]l, whom I had once saved from being drowned at Baden, was my most violent persecutor. I should have forgotten the worthless fellow, but that the name of my dog daily reminds me of him. A reward was offered for my apprehension. My father was dead. I ventured to go secretly as far as Amsterdam, and lived some weeks concealed in the house of my mother. There I made arrangements for remitting my property out of the country. I had already safely transferred one half of it, when I learnt that I was betrayed by my own mother. Party spirit and fanaticism trample upon the feelings of nature. I was on the point of being arrested; I [Page] fled, and trusted the other half of my property with my own brother, by whom I have been cheated of it. Thus did fate dissolve the bands of love, friendship, and nature. I remained alone in the world, and in vain opened my arms to catch to my heart a being of congenial disposition. I then withdrew into this solitude, accompanied by a single domestic, whose stupidity seemed a pledge for his honesty.

"What I have been able to save from the wreck of my fortune is far more than I spend, but still less than my heart requires. Since I have known you, the past seems a dream, and the future begins to smile upon me. I cannot live without you. A man like me of eight-and-thirty, rough and forbidding withal, can scarce venture to pretend to your love. If, however, you are serious in your resolution to spend your life in this sequestered solitude, why not as my wife? as my close united friend and companion?—You have restored confidence in humanity to my breast, if you consent to confer happiness and tranquillity upon me, say the transporting yes!

"You are silent?—You tremble?—Do I guess your sentiments?—The heart can love but once!— No, dear Jeanette, you are mistaken. Try only to make a human being happy, and you will soon conceive an attachment to your own work.—Come, then! accept the hand of an honest man, and let me bless the hour which brought you to this wood!"

Jeanette, trembling and blushing, heard only one half of his narration, and of the apostrophe at the end nothing at all. An hundred times had she secretly lamented that the day before she had not been more candid; that she had not discovered all, even at the risk of being turned once more into the wide world. The man in grey, indeed, was agreeable to her, but the sentiment he inspired was not [Page] a-kin to the tender passion; his pleasing qualities were not those which are rewarded with love [...] [...]d she really felt for him, however, what he felt for her, and she felt for William, she was incapable of imposing upon him an innocence which resided only in her pure soul. She opened her mouth to make a full confession, but her tongue refused its office, and shame closed her lips.

The man in grey looked in her face with penetrating eyes; he read confusion and anxiety, but no repugnance. This observation gave him courage, and he became more pressing. At length, with faltering accents, Jeanette entreated permission to give him her answer in writing. "When?" exclaimed he eagerly.—"To-morrow," said the wretched girl, and hastened away. He was about to follow her—She turned round "For goodness sake leave me alone!"—He withdrew. She plunged into the recesses of the wood, where she wandered till it was dark, considering with herself in what terms she should couch her confession. The attachment of the man in grey flattered her; the loss of it was inevitable, and it was painful. Yet to lose his esteem—the thought was intolerable!—"But it must be so! Better to suffer what I have merited; better to sink to the situation of a despised woman, than to deceive a worthy man who is my benefactor."

Having finished her soliloquies with this determination, she returned to the hermitage. She did not make her appearance in the parlour before Mr. Van Shipper, whom she heard pacing through the room. She prepared supper as expeditiously as she could, and retired to her closet.

Peter covered the table, and laid only one cover. His master pointed to it, and said: "Why?"— "The girl does not sup."—"Where is she?"— "She is in her room."—"What is she doing?"— [Page] "I can't tell."—"How does she look?"—"She has been weeping."—The man in grey redoubled his strides. Peter placed the dishes on the table, took his station with his towel under his arm behind the chair, and coughed several times to make his master perceive that supper was waiting. When he found that neither coughing nor stamping the ground produced the effect, he at last took the freedom to say: "Supper is cooling." This hint, however, he was obliged to repeat three times before Mr. Van Shipper could be so far roused from his reverie as to say peevishly: "I don't choose any supper!" Nine years had Peter lived with his master in this solitude, and never had been treated by him in this manner. It was no wonder, then, that this first ebullition of passion made a strong impression on the d [...]ll good hearted creature. He began to weep. "Good master!" said he sobbing, "how am I to blame because you cannot eat?"

Mr. Van Shipper immediately recollected himself. "Go!" said he, with softened voice, as he clapped him on the shoulder, "go, good Peter! Be not offended with me, I am ill." Peter carried the dishes back to the kitchen, but his appetite was gone also.

The man in grey continued for two hours to pace backwards and forwards in the room. He was at last so fatigued that his knees trembled, but he found it impossible either to sit down or go to bed. He burned with curiosity to know whether Jeanette was asleep. He slipped softly through the court, from which he could have a view of her window, which was on the ground floor. There was light in the room. He approached the window, and found the curtain half open. He saw Jeanette writing at a table; often she laid down the pen to wipe her eyes. This picture haunted him in his bed-room, and was not very well calculated to procure him found repose

[Page]The morning sun found Jeanette still at the desk. She had now finished her story; she revised what she had written, sealed it with trembling hand, and called Peter. The man in grey shuddered when he heard her voice. He stopped his breath to listen. Peter now opens the door of Jeanette's room—he returns, and every step he advanced, the heart of the anxious expectant beat more violently. The door opened; he saw a letter in Peter's hand, and the last drops of blood vanished from his cheeks. Trembling he broke the seal; a mist obscured his eyes.

Jeanette, when she had removed this burden from her breast, went with lightened heart to perform her usual occupations in the kitchen. She ordered the fire to be kindled, assisted the maid to gather vegetables in the garden, and, as she prepared dinner, listened with beating heart when she heard the least noise in the adjoining room.

After the lapse of an hour, the door opened. Mr. Van Shipper came into the kitchen with Jeanette's letter in his hand. The poor girl, covered with blushes, durst not look up. The greens dropped from her trembling hands, and the big tears trickled down her cheeks.—"Jeanette!" said the man in grey—"thus do I destroy all remembrance of this confession." He threw the letter into the fire.

Jeanette sobbed. Mr. Van Shipper gave the maid a hint to withdraw. "Look at me, dear girl," said he, and seized her trembling hand. She looked up with timid aspect, her eyes bathed in tears.—"I am now acquainted with every fold of your heart.—The expression is improper, your heart has no fo [...] ▪ Forget what you have suffered, forgive the spoiler of your innocence, I have forgiven him. You have escaped from the share into which your virtue was once betrayed; you are saved, and your heart is unpolluted. I have known women [Page] destitute of every good quality, women in whose breasts envy and malevolence overflowed, who would sneer disdainfully at a poor fallen sister, because she no longer possessed the trivial thing which alone they stamped with the name of virtue. Comfort yourself then, dear Jeanette; the letter is burnt, and with it all memory of the past is extinguished. Never shall a word, or even the most remote allusion, remind you of what you have suffered. Once more I solicit your heart and hand.—You are silent. May I send Peter to the next village for the parson?"

Alas! poor Jeanette was in a cruel situation. On the one side her benefactor, a gentleman animated by most generous love, who nobly overlooked her fault, and offered her tranquility and abundance.—On the other side, William!—She had indeed renounced him, but she was not to blame because a spark of hope still glimmered in her breast; she was unable to extinguish it. Could she, in this situation, give her hand to another man?—Were William then to make his appearance, still faithful, and overflowing with love, alas! must she not be unspeakably wretched? Must she not render her generous husband wretched likewise?—No! she could not pronounce the word that must eternally separate her from William. It cost floods of tears, and a long struggle between love and gratitude; but love prevailed, and she pronounced an irrevocable refusal.

The man in grey was too noble to press her farther, not a reproach escaped his lips, he was silent, and locked up his grief in his heart. To his former morose and austere deportment succeeded a profound melancholy. He spoke less than usual, was absent when he was addressed, wandered the whole day in the wood, and tossed himself, all night long, sleepless on his pillow. Scarcely did he take sufficient nourishment to supply the bare means of [Page] existence. Jeanette saw that a secret sorrow consumed him, his cheeks grew paler and paler, his eyes grew more hollow—her heart bled.

CHAP. XXII. THE WIDOW.

THE sorrows of the heart have this in common with corporeal sufferings, that they render us indifferent to life. The man in grey felt himself easiest, in proportion as he perceived his strength decay, and his state of health promise him a speedy period to his griefs. There was one thing indeed which still lay heavy on his heart, and he hastened to settle his last business with the world.

One morning he retired, as usual, into the wood, but did not return at his accustomed hour to dinner. Jeanette became uneasy; night came, but he did not appear. She waited all night long, but the man in grey still remained absent.

Peter wept, and Jeanette could not rest a moment for anxiety. She traversed the wood for a mile round, cried the man in grey's name a thousand times, but in vain.—Quite exhausted, she returned home at noon, ard hoped that during her absence he might have returned; but her hopes were disappointed. She now felt that the man in grey was dearer to her than she had suspected. She reproached herself most bitterly for her ingratitude, and Peter's cries drove her almost to despair. In the afternoon she renewed her [...]arch, [Page] with cries and lamentations. She examined every bush, and trembled every moment lest she should find the lifeless corps of her benefactor.—She found it not.—Almost worn out, she threw herself under a tree, and resigned herself to the dictates of the most violent grief.

"What is the matter with you, Jeanette?" said the well-known voice beside her. She hastily looked up, and the man in grey stood before her. "God be praised!" cried she with folded hands, while a flood of tears accompanied her words. She raised herself on her knees, and embraced his legs. "God be praised! you are alive!"

"My good girl, did you doubt that?"

"O! I have been frightened to death!"

"I am sorry for that. I did not know that you took so warm an interest in my life. I thank you for it. It is a cordial drop in the cup of my sorrows!—Be easy, rise, night approaches, let us return home."

Jeanette rose, and tottered to his arm. She was strongly inclined to ask why he had stolen away so privately? Where and how he had spent the two days he had been absent? As he himself, however, said nothing on the subject, she did not venture to put the question.

Peter came to meet his master, with his eyes red and swollen, kissed his hand with sobs, and in the evening sang, in a very audible voice, in his room, "Praised be the Lord, &c."

A few days after this occurrence, the man in grey fell sick. He himself refused to take any notice of it, and insisted that he was very well. But whence that unusual flush upon your cheeks? Whence this want of sleep and appetite? Whence these shivering fits which agitate your whole frame? Alas! poor man in grey, in vain you endeavour to [Page] conceal the violent fever which rages in your veins!

Jeanette, alarmed and distracted, pressed him to accept her assistance, him who with joy saw himself at the period of his thorny pilgrimage. Every morning she prepared, with the fondest care and the most tender anxiety, the medicines, which he took from her hands with complacency and with thanks. He placed them on the table, however, and allowed them to remain untouched. In vain did the faithful Peter entreat leave to call a physician from the next town. "You are strange children," would he reply with a smile—"I am quite well." Never had he been more serene or more affable than now; he even sometimes indulged a joke. This pierced Jeanette to the heart. Bitter reproaches would have affected her less than the silent anxiety which he discovered to conceal his sorrow.

He continued these exertions till at last nature was too powerful to be resisted. He was obliged to confine himself to bed. His strength seemed to have sustained a rapid decay; his health in a few hours was so much altered for the worse, that Jeanette began to be seriously apprehensive for his life. She stood by his bedside, and seized his burning hand; big tears trickled down her cheeks; she anxiously counted his feverish pulse; her heaving bosom sympathized with the short, quick breathing of the patient; in his eyes the fever glowed, in hers the tears sparkled.

Her grateful heart was cruelly torn. Without knowing well what she did, she suddenly pressed her lips to his burning hand. He made an attempt to prevent her. "What do you mean?" said he in a low voice. "Do not embitter my last moments."

"My benefactor!" cried Jeanette with extreme emotion. "No! you shall not die! I should be the most ungrateful wretch in nature if I could [Page] endure this sight."—She kneeled by his bedside.— "My benefactor!" said she with the utmost eagerness, "if the thought of seeing yourself united to a faithful, dutiful wife can now cheer you, live still—I am yours."

These words made a strong impression on the sick man. For a long time he remained silent. At last, he tenderly pressed her hand, and, notwithstanding his bod [...] weakness, said with great animation: "My good girl! I can perceive what passes in your breast. A generous feeling has extorted from you an offer which your heart disclaims. The sight of my sufferings you consider as a reproach; you would sacrifice your own repose to shield yourself from it. Of such a state of your feelings I ought not to avail myself, nor would I accept the offer you make, did not my own sensations now tell me—that you hazard nothing. On the contrary, I flatter myself with the hope of establishing the happiness of your life on a more solid foundation, and turning the compassion you have shown to your own advantage. Yes, I will die as your husband.—Rise, dear Jeanette, and, if you are serious, hasten to call the parson of the village. If he cannot unite our hearts, he can at least join our hands. You shall beat my name till you change it with the consent of your heart. And even then —surely, dear Jeanette—you will not forget the unfortunate man who acted so honorably towards you!"

Jeanette could not speak. She retired in tears, and ordered Peter to go to the village for the parson. About noon he arrived. Jeanette was more dead than alive. The man in grey seemed for a moment to gain new strength. He raised himself in bed, propped up by pillows. The bride's hand trembled! his was firm and steady. The yes which she pronounced was scarcely audible; his was manly and unembarrassed. The priest spoke the [Page] blessing, the bride rushed out of the room, and lay for several hours insensible on the floor of her chamber.

Meanwhile the sick man had a long private conversation with the parson. When Jeanette had recovered a little, and dried up her tears, she returned as collected as possible to the patient's room, and found him weaker than in the morning. With unwearied care she exerted all her medical skill, and exhausted all her recipes. "You have now," said she, "conferred upon me an endearing interest in your life. Will you then reject the assistance of that hand which is your own, and which so anxiously would contribute to your relief?"

"Heaven forbid!" said the sick man with a smile: "on the marriage-day we must refuse the bride nothing. Give me, my dear wife, give me whatever you think proper; I am ready to swallow every thing."

He kept his word, and took one spoonful after another; though it was easy to perceive that he did it merely from complaisance, and expected no farther relief. Towards night he became visibly weaker. Jeanette and the parson sat by his bedside. The latter spoke to him consolation drawn from religious views; Jeanette could only weep. Her tears the sick man repaid with a grateful squeeze by the hand. To the parson he replied, "I have ever endeavoured to act as became an honest man, and God will deal graciously with me!"

At midnight his breath became shorter. Sometimes it stopped altogether. In dumb anguish his wife hung over his pale countenance. A cold sweat covered his brow—her trembling hand was going to wipe it off. Suddenly he seized it with a kind of convulsion, and laid it upon his eyes— his throat rattled—he uttered a groan—and expired.

[Page]

Doux noeuds de la reconnoissance!

C'est par vous que dès l'enfance

Le coeur à jamais sut lié;

La voix du [...]ang, de la nature,

N'est rien qu'un languissant murmure,

Près de la voix de l'amitié. *

Jeanette's grief was without bounds. Had William died in her arms she could not have felt a more sincere sorrow. She lay in a paroxysm of grief over the dead body. The house rang with Peter's lamentations.

In vain the clergyman preached comfort. She heard not what he said, till he announced to her the last wish of the deceased, that she should immediately leave this solitude, and reside in the parson's house until the first transports of her grief were over, and her affairs were arranged. She was removed from the body almost by force; in a state of speechless stupefaction she placed herself in the carriage, and allowed them to carry her wherever they thought proper.

The parson committed her to the care of his wife, an honest good-hearted woman, and returned next day, in order to superintend the burial. Two or three weeks elapsed before Jeanette recovered spirits enough to pay any attention to what was passing around her; and during this period she had never once thought of William. She now learnt how Mr. Van Shipper had spent the two days of absence in which she had suffered so much anxiety on his account. He had been at the neighbouring town with a notary, where he formally made his last will. Jeanette was nominated heiress of his [Page] whole property, consisting of thirty thousand ducats, under the single condition of providing for honest Peter till his death, in such a manner as to enable him to spend his life agreeably in any way he thought best.

When this was announced to her, Jeanette wept bitterly. Such a disinterested proof of hopeless love, at a time when she did not yet bear the name of his wife, tore her heart afresh. "Where is Peter?" said she with emotion. Peter immediately appeared, for he had been in the house ever since his master's burial; and had been kept out of the way, that Jeanette's wounds might not, by seeing him, be opened anew.

Bathed in tears, Jeanette presented him her hand, which Peter kissed with sobs. "We shall never part, good Peter," said she with faltering voice; "I will provide for you as if you were my brother."

"Alas!" said the honest fellow, you are generous—I know it—but my good master—I shall never forget him!"

A few months Jeanette continued in the house of the worthy parson; and willingly would she there have fixed her abode, but she saw that his house was too small to accommodate her longer. She, therefore, was obliged to think of another asylum.

The war, which raged in the adjoining districts, made residence in the country very insecure and unpleasant, especially for a woman. She resolved, therefore, after she had rewarded the parson's kindness as far as it could be rewarded by a present, to retire into a garrison town with her property. She there bought a house, and lived reti [...] [...]though on a very respectable footing, under the name of Mrs. Van Shipper.

[Page]

CHAP. XXIII. THE SIEGE.

FOR more than a year she had heard no intelligence of William. The man in grey indeed received the Hamburgh newspapers, and Jeanette never failed, on the accounts of any battle, to read with great anxiety the lists of the killed and wounded. Fortunately she never found William's name among the number; her prayers seemed to have made him invulnerable. But among those, too, who had distinguished themselves in a particular manne [...], she likewise sought in vain for this beloved name▪ and often secretly cursed his unlucky stars, which denied him an opportunity of acquiring fresh laurels.

Now, when a young, rich, and independent widow, it occurred to her an hundred times a day: "Where is William? Does he still love me?" To the last question her heart ever replied, Yes; but the first nobody could so readily answer, for the flames of war still raged around, and the country where she resided, to William was a hostile land.

Could she but find some person to send in search of him—not to renew their old long-forgotten correspondence—no, God forbid! her heart never confessed such a design!—but only to inquire whether he was alive? A sister surely may enquire, without impropriety, after the life of a brother.— Who can tell too in what circumstances he may be placed? Whether he is not laboring under the weight of poverty?—Besides, she is still deep in his debt. Once did he pinch himself in the necessaries [Page] of life, to save for her the half of his pay. It was indeed but a few crowns. The heart, however, does not calculate by crowns, and, in short, it was the half! Ought she not now to share her property with him?—O! yes, yes! Could she but find him! Had she but some discreet, prudent, faithful person to send in search of him! Why, such a one is Peter. He is faithful and discreet; but is he prudent too? Could it be said of him that he was wise as the serpent and harmless as the dove? Yet what extraordinary wisdom was necessary to inquire for such a person, whose name was such a thing; to travel as a pedlar through the country where the hostile armies lay; to inquire from regiment to regiment, for a certain officer, till he was found; and then to tell him these words: —"Your sister Jeanette sends you her compliments; she lives in R***." This is the whole mystery, and surely Peter is sufficiently qualified for the task. To be sure, he may very probably give himself a great deal of useless trouble; he will often expose the name of Mrs. Van Shipper to the jests of the young ensigns and lieutenants; bu [...] where is the harm of that? Who knows Mrs. Van Shipper? Who knows her connections with William?—It is worth a trial!

Peter received two hundred ducats for the expences of his journey, was obliged to get his lesson by heart, and was dispatched with the injunction, "that he must find out the gentleman, though he should be obliged to follow him to the extremities of the Russian empire!"

He had now been away two months. Jeanette counted every minute, in anxious expectation of his return. During his absence she secluded herself from the world, and lived alone in the joyful hope of finding William alive and faithful.—Alive, that was very right—but why faithful?—Had she [Page] not renounced him? What if, during their separation, he had found a young, beautiful, and rich lady, with whom he had indissolubly united his fate? Ought not Jeanette to rejoice that he had thus fortified the weakness of her heart, that he had secured her more firmly against the danger of a relapse?— She formerly had considered herself unworthy of him—had her situation since been changed? Wealth could not restore her lost reputation.

No, no! By fidelity she understood only the faithful affection of a brother; to this she was still permitted to lay claim!

Enough! We shall not call her to a too rigorous account for the feelings by which she is actuated, but boldly declare that none of my fair readers will be the first to censure her conduct.

Two months had she waited in vain. The theatre of war approached nearer and nearer, and she was soon obliged to renounce the hope of her messenger's return, as the fortress of R*** was suddenly invested, and immediately besieged in form. No human being was permitted either to enter or quit the place. Spies, indeed, might always contrive to make their way, but honest Peter was not formed for a spy.

The inhabitants of R*** had little desire to see their houses reduced to ashes by the enemy's bombs; they presented petition after petition to the commandant, entreating him to surrender the fortress. The gallant officer, however, knew his duty: and as he was wearied at last with their importunities, he swore to tuck up the first man who spoke of surrender, upon a tree, on the ram [...]arts. This threat produced its effect; the citizens were obliged to be silent, and endured want and terror with secret murmurs.

The works of the besiegers were daily brought nearer and nearer to the walls. What the besieged [Page] with great difficulty destroyed in a week, was often repaired, with incredible activity in the space of a night. The people began, at last, to be as much habituated to the thunder of cannon as to the ringing of bells upon a Sunday. The enemy, however, had yet done little injury to the fortifications, nor was there any immediate danger of scarcity. The place was repeatedly summoned. An officer, who one day came for this purpose, with a flag of truce, to the gates, was taken to the commandant with his eyes hood-winked.

Jeanette lived in the street through which he was to pass; she heard a noise, and went to the window.—Ha! among ten thousand she would have known him to be William!—A white handkerchief indeed covered his eyes, and part of his nose; but his mouth, his hair, his gait, his size!—She would have known him among ten thousand!—She screamed aloud, and stretched her arms out at the window. Fortunately the noise of the crowd drowned her shrieks; and as every eye was fixed on the stranger, her extraordinary agitation remained unobserved.

With anxious beating heart she waited his return, to be thoroughly convinced of the truth of her observation. Half an hour elapsed. Jeanette walked through the room with hasty steps, and a magic force irresistibly attracted her to the window. At last he came.—O! yes, it was he! At an immense distance she recognised him!—The unfeeling wretches led him past.—He is so near—every muscle bounds towards him.—Alas! she dares not call him—she cannot detain him—he disappears from her sight, and she sinks insensible upon the sofa.

When she recovered her senses, she recollected to have observed a cross hanging at his button-hole. "Noble William!" exclaimed she, "gallantly hast [Page] thou behaved, though the lying gazettes have passed over your deeds in silence!"—This cross flattered Jeanette's vanity not a little. A woman who dotes, thinks herself honored in the man she loves. Her eagerness to clasp her brave brother in her arms is redoubled. Her thoughts every moment wandered to the enemy's camp to William: and we must confess, that since his appearance she had been a disloyal citizen; for, had it been in her power, the garrison would, right or wrong, have been surrendered.

She could not conceal her joy whenever she heard that a new battery began to play, that the place was more closely invested on all sides, and that all succors were cut off. When the commandant found it necessary, to prevent a scarcity, to diminish the allowance of bread, and a general murmur arose among the inhabitants, Jeanette alone remained tranquil and unconcerned, as she considered it as a proof that the place would speedily be given up; in expectation of which she would willingly have lived upon an ounce a day. Such is the character of the best of men! The passion of love for our country excepted, every other passion renders us selfish, and extinguishes our feeling for the good of the whole.

Yet the fulfilment of her hopes was not so near as she had expected. In proportion as the scarcity increased, the obstinate courage of the commandant was confirmed; and to the last summons, in which he was threatened with a storm, he gave the indignant answer, that he would bury himself under the ruins of the fortress. The enemy began seriously to make preparations for a storm, and the besieged remained day and night upon the walls, ready to oppose the most vigorous resistance.

One rainy September night, the thunder of cannon awaked the citizens from their first sleep. The enemy unexpectedly carried their threats into [Page] execution, and with wild shouts attacked the fortifications. The din in the streets, the wailing of women, and the cries of children, the thunder of cannon, the distant shouts of the combatants, the bombs in the air, which gleamed a feeble light upon the horrid scene below—every thing was combined that could shake the firmest courage. But Jeanette scarcely retained any sense of her own danger, she saw nothing but William, besmeared with blood; she lay on her knees, and prayed for William.

Several hours victory remained doubtful, till day broke, and with it the cry rose from every quarter, that the enemy were in town!—All that were able to fly took to flight. People concealed themselves in churches and cloisters, in cellars and garrets. Like a rushing torrent the enemy's legions poured along the streets, the doors were every where broken open, every merchant's shop and every considerable house plundered. Children were torn from their mother's breasts, and stuck upon pikes; chaste matrons and innocent virgins were violated in presence of their husbands and fathers. In vain the officers endeavoured to stem the fury of their troops; the bands of subordination were dissolved, and the voice of command was lost in the dreadful confusion.

A troop of these wild rioters broke likewise into Jeanette's house. She lay on her knees in prayer. The avaricious robbers fell first upon the silver plate, and broke and plundered every thing of value. At the sight of the lovely supplicant, however, a new passion arose in their savage breasts. They flew upon their prey with brutal violence. The poor victim maintained an unequal struggle with her executioners—and alas! she had been undone if her screams had not brought a humane deliverer to her assistance. A young officer entered, seized the [Page] brutal miscreant by the hair, and with his drawn sword threatened to pierce his heart. The firm tone with which he spoke, and the sight of the sword at his breast, compelled the ruffian to abandon his prey; one after another stole away with the booty, and left Jeanette alone with her deliverer.

She awoke from the swoon into which she had sunk. With timid looks she eyed her deliverer, and hoped in him to recognise her William. It was not he. A young man of a noble appearance stood before her, and congratulated himself on being the instrument of her deliverance.

Her senses were still confused. She could only utter broken sentences. With tears of gratitude in her eye, she pulled a valuable ring from her finger, which she presented to the generous stranger. He declined it with politeness: "Would you," said he, "deprive the action I have performed of the little merit which it must likewise divide with accident?" He remained to protect her till the first alarm was over, and tranquility was restored in the town. He then left her, with the promise as soon as possible to renew his visit; and Jeanette recollected too late that she ought at least to have asked him for his [...] William's name, on the co [...] was an hu [...] [...] [...]s on her tongue, and o [...] [...] bashful feeling [...]acy prevented her from [...] inquiry for him.

[Page]

CHAP. XXIV. CONSTANCY REWARDED.

WHEN Jeanette had a little recovered from her terror and alarm, she spent the remainder of the day at the window, and reviewed the enemy's officers, who now passed in crowds. She trembled whenever she saw a figure which in size and air bore any resemblance to her beloved brother. Often she thought she descried him at a distance. "That is he! that is he!" whispered her heart. He came nearer, but it was not William.

"O! why must I be indebted to a stranger for my deliverance? Why did not fortune and love bring him to his sister's house?—Or—Almighty God! Should he be dead!—His courage must certainly have hurried him too far!—Sure he was the first to lead the assailants!—Alas! he knew not that here his Jeanette by upon her knees imploring guardian angels for her safety!"

Her soul thus [...] between hope and fear. Longer than till the promised visit of the young officer she was determined not to endure this dreadful suspence; and she resolved immediately to ask intelligence of William.

"O! that the stranger would come! Why does he tarry so long? Why did I indulge this unseasonable delicacy? Perhaps, now, I might have lain in William's arms!"

Patience, dear Jeanette! Look down the street; there comes your deliverer. You may recognise him by his elegant form, and his fine blue eye. [Page] Now he salutes you kindly—now he knocks at the door—the maid opens—hearest thou not his foot upon the stair? Why do you tremble? Have you not already prepared yourself to put the question?

The officer entered. Jeanette welcomed him with politeness, but he allowed her no time to finish her compliment. "Madam," said he, "you were so good this morning as to offer me a testimony of your gratitude. However little claim my small service may have upon you, I feel myself at present compelled to employ your kindness."

Jeanette misunderstood him, and seized the ring which she had upon her finger. The officer instantly waved with his hand, as much as to say that she was mistaken.

"No! it is not that which I come to ask. I take the liberty to request another favor, which perhaps may occasion you inconvenience. I have a friend who is dearer to me than life. He has been dangerously wounded in storming the town. In the first moments of confusion he was carried to a house, where he is destitute of every accommodation; and the number of the wounded renders it impossible to tend him with sufficient care. If your house were large enough to receive him, you would not only recompence the service I was fortunate enough to render you, but make me eternally your debtor; since every thing you can do for my friend, I shall consider more than all the treasures you could heap on me!"

At these words the tear started in his eye. Jeanette was affected. She hastily replied: "And if I had but this single apartment, I would sleep on the floor till your friend is out of danger. Here he shall want for nothing. May I ask your friend's name?"

"Captain Von Eichenwald."

[Page]"And yours?"

"Lieutenant Perlstadt."

"Lose not a moment then, Sir, to make arrangements for bringing your friend here. This house and all I possess belong to you."

The officer kissed her hand with gratitude, and [...]low down stairs.

Again she felt herself ashamed to inquire for William. But was this the moment for such an inquiry? The friend of a man to whom she was indebted for the preservation of her honor lay helpless in the hospital, and his life, perhaps depended upon a single minute. What c [...] generous young man, who spoke of his friend with tears in his eyes, have thought of her unseasonable curiosity? No; she could not blame herself for having this time postponed the feelings of love to the sacred duties of gratitude. She immediately gave orders to prepare the best apartment in her house for the reception of the expected guest, and in half an hour four grenadiers brought the wounded officer down the street upon a litter.

Jeanette threw a compassionate glance at the death-pale countenance of the young officer, who lay motionless with his eyes closed, and seemed insensible of what was passing. His friend accompanied the litter, and watched every step of the bearers with anxiety, and warned them of every stone that lay in the way.

"But, gracious God! what a resemblance—this Captain Eichenwald and Willliam!—It is he himself!—Impossible!—It is he!—No! no!—My God! what a cruel deception!"

He was now brought into the house, where, that he might be least disturbed, he was laid in a room upon the ground floor. Jeanette was going down stairs, but she was not able to reach the door; her knees trembled; she was obliged to sit down. She [Page] was quite alone. In vain she called the maid, and a boy she had hired in Peter's room. Both of them had been attracted by curiosity to the [...]bby to see the wounded officer brought in.

Alas! what cruel anxiety she suffered! With what painful, impotent struggles she exerted all the power of her mind to animate and put in motion her agitated frame!—"What if it were William, and I cannot quit this spot—am confined here— and perhaps he requires my aid—or perhaps the dreadful moment is at hand when he will no longer stand in need of human assistance!—O God! he dies, and I shall never see him more!"—She made a second effort to go out, but terror had completely deprived her of the use of her limbs.

Peace, peace, poor Jeanette? Why art thou so ingenious to torture thyself? What is Captain Eichenwald to thee?—Can a slight resemblance to William so violently discompose your spirits, and enervate your body?—Perhaps, too, your imagination deceived you. The person who thinks he sees spirits glide in every corner, and stalk abroad at night, will, in the end, really come to see spectres.

Thus did reason whisper consolation to her when anxiety allowed her to exert her understanding. But reason communicated as little firmness to Jeanette's mind as an evening zephyr could restore serenity to the stormy sea. Anxiety and terror were visibly painted in every feature of her countenance when Lieutenant Perlstadt entered the room to return her his thanks. At the first glance he perceived that she laboured under some extraordinary emotion. "Heavens, madam! what is the matter? You appear agitated?"

"And I am so indeed!—Tell me, Sir—repeat to me once more your friend's name?"

[Page]"Captain Eichenwald."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure; but how"—

"Now I am easy.—Forgive me, Sir—a strange caprice of nature—an accidental resemblance—I had a brother in your service—his name was Meadows."

"Is it possible! Madam—this Captain Eichenwald—and that Meadows—but he had no sister"—

JEANETTE (with extreme emotion)—"Proceed, Sir, for heaven's sake proceed! What do you tell me?"

"Are the same person!"

He uttered these words so abruptly and inconsiderately, that he had not time to catch Jeanette in his arms as she dropped senseless to the ground. Assistance was called, and she was laid on a bed. Perlstadt, the confidante of William's heart, suddenly guessed who Jeanette must be, and bitterly reproached himself for his want of consideration. He sat down beside her, held her hand in his, besprinkled her with hartshorn, rubbed her temples, and listened with trembling anxiety till she again began to breathe.

At length Jeanette opened her eyes. "Does he yet live?" were her first words.

"Compose yourself, madam," said Frederick with friendly anxiety; "if my conjectures do not deceive me—if it be really Jeanette Jerome whom I see"—

"I am she," interrupted Jeanette.

"Why then! every thing will go well. That name will save the life of my friend."

"Allow me to go to him."

"What is it you ask? The sudden joy would kill him. He must previously be prepared."

"Are his wounds dangerous?"

[Page]"The first dressing has not yet been taken away, but the surgeon gives us great hopes."

"Does he yet love me?"

"Can you ask such a question?"

"But how comes this strange name?"

"Captain Meadows one day stormed an abbatis, and took possession of an oak wood, * from which with matchless courage, he drove an enemy three times superior in number. The consequence of this achievement procured us a victory. To reward his gallantry, the king conferred upon him, what nature had long before bestowed, nobility, and called him in memory of the exploit Von Eichenwald."

Jeanette would have listened for hours together to the speaker, for William was the subject; but it occurred to her how indispensible Frederick was at his friend's bed-side. Abruptly she drove him out o [...] room to inquire whether her beloved wanted any thing; whether he yet exhibited symptoms of convalescence; whether the removal had not affected him; whether he found himself commodious in his new apartment. Scarce was he gone when she called him back; for there still was something which she had forgot.

Frederick brought her the welcome intelligence that William had slept well, and now she could not resist the desire she felt at least to see him as he slept. She pulled off her shoes, and stole softly to his chamber door; she listened through the keyhole; joy, grief, hope, melancholy—all these feelings combined, drew tears from her eyes. Frederick was obliged to bring her away with a friendly violence, that her sobs might not disturb the patient.

Several weeks elapsed before Frederick durst venture to communicate to his friend the joyful [Page] intelligence. He did it with the greatest care and prudence, and suffered him only by degrees to infer at last that he was under the same roof with his beloved. Yet, perhaps, the joy wou [...] have been too much for the invalid, if it had not been damped by the name of Van Shipper.

"Mrs. Van Shipper! And was it possible she could give her hand to another man?"—This moderated his raptures, and even made him melancholy.

Frederick guessed what passed in his soul, and banished his gloomy, jealous apprehensions by a narrative of Jeanette's fortune. William heard every word with the most anxious curiosity. O! his fond heart received with welcome the flattering consolation from the lips of his friend! His beloved stood justified. Scarcely could he wait the moment when he should be permitted to press her to his breast. He cursed the surgeon, who prohibited him in the strictest manner [...]pose himself to any violent mental agitation.

The wished-for hour at length arrived—the door flew open—Jeanette lay in his arms.—Their feelings were too powerful for utterance; feelings, which no tongue can speak, no pencil describe. In delightful raptures William sat on the sofa. In his right hand he held his faithful mistress; in his left, the friend to whom he owed the preservation of her honor. "I am the most fortunate man on earth!" He could say [...]o more.

A few weeks after he heard with indifference that the king had appointed him a major. How could he now rejoice at such in event? To-morrow was his wedding-day! And on this joyful, important day did Peter return to his mistress with disconsolate looks, to inform her, that notwithstanding all his inquiries Lieutenant Meadows was not to be found.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

Notes

*

Le Mondain.

↵

†

I carry freedom in my heart, and hold kings in abhorrence.

↵

*

Step-mothers (les marâtres) desolate cities and villages; and, no less than poverty, they people the earth with beggars, vagabonds, domestics, and slaves.—Characters of La Br [...]yere.

↵

*

A critic who has frequently fallen foul of our author's writings.

↵

*

The fool complains, the knave makes a noise; but the ho [...] man decei [...]ed retires and says nothing.

↵

*

Think not you have found happiness in this retreat. It lives not in gloomy woods; still less is it to be sought at court, as little in the breast of the sage. It is not the portion of this fleeting life. We must then forego the possession. Yet [...]times we are permitted to embrace at least its shadow.

↵

*

Sweet bond of gratitude, it is thou that bindest the infant heart to what it loves. The voice of blood and of nature is feeble in comparison of the powerful dictates of friendship.

↵

*

Eichenwald.

↵

THE CONSTANT LOVER; OR, William AND Ieanette. A TALE. VOL. II.

[Page]

CHAP I. THE PRISONERS.

IS the love of war a natural propensity, like the love of dancing? Does the Supreme Being supply mankind with life and strength merely for his amusement, as the English feed their gamecocks?—Or is war the child of hunger, like the ravage of the hawk? Or does it arise from the craving appetite of the rulers of [...]tions?

A great philosopher, and therefore no friend of mine (since creatures who are guided only by categorical imperatives assimilate as ill with friendship as the cedars of Lebanon with a bean-stalk) maintains that this insignificant planet, the existence of which our neighbour Jupiter never once suspects, was formed to be the scene of war of all against all. Good men are averse to acknowledge such cruel theories. Good men are more inclined to adopt [Page] the observation, that from the elephant down to the polypus, the instinct of love awakes in the spring in every living creature, breathes lif [...] [...]d sensibility into millions of beings, and when [...]ter approaches again expires. If however, the propensity to kill reverses this order; if it awakes in the spring only to destroy, the business of the soldier is at variance with the course of nature. Love alone should take the field, and the May-dew should mingle with the tears of fondness to render every grain of powder useless which is destined to destroy the existence of any being capable of the tender passion.

Such were the reflections which William indulged when, after the lapse of a happy winter, he received the unwelcome order to hold himself in readiness to march, to envelope the first genial rays of the sun in clouds of smoke, and to tread the rising seed deep in the bosom of the earth. For five months he had now experienced, that wh [...] most ardent imagination conceives of the joy [...] first-love falls infinitely short of the inexhaustible felicity of domestic content; that if the imagination of the enamoured youth lends him the fiery chariot of the prophet to soar into visionary heavens, sober reality brings him down to earth and to humanity, but lays him on a bed of roses. His intoxication was now gone; he enjoyed the flame, however, which formerly had been exposed to every puff of wind, and threatened at last to consume the rich fuel by which it was fed. Now, indeed, it resembled the lamp which has been discovered at Portici [...]; enclosed in the pure chrystal lamp of marriage, it burnt with a mild and eternal light.

Large cities, in one respect, resemble a retired cottage; you may live in them just as you please; nobody troubles himself how the happy recluse spends his time. If you allow the great to enjoy their feasts, their routs, and their card-parties undisturbed, [Page] they will permit you, with a contemptuous smile at your singularity, to remain happy at home. William had fully availed himself of this permission. A fond accomplished wife, a proved friend, a simple yet plentiful table, a glass of good wine, and a superfluous guinea for a brother in distress—such were his pleasures; and he who requires more for the happiness of life, is indeed to be pitied, were he even possessed of the wealth for which he sighs.

Wishes rarely abandon even the happiest breast. But William belonged to that class of the peculiar favorites of destiny, who feel no other wish but "that every thing may continue as it now is;" who wish to lose nothing of what they enjoy, and covet nothing more. The king had presented him with a small estate in the country. "God send the king peace!" would he often exclaim, "that I may retire from the army to enjoy what his bounty has bestowed, and what love will adorn." The country round it is delightful, and the neighbourhood inhabited by old proud nobility, who would not condescend to visit new-raised merit. What transporting prospects! Love, friendship, a country life, and no company.

The roses on Jeanette's cheeks were now indeed a little faded, and the usual lustre of her eye was obscured; but the happy husband rejoiced at the symptoms, and anxiously longed for the pledge of faithful love. Ambition was asleep in his breast. Willingly would he have taken the laurel from his brow to deck the cradle of his son.

Never, therefore, was an order to march more unwelcome than that which William had received. Several days he concealed the disagreeable intelligence from his wife, now become doubly dear to him. The penetrating eye of love, however, soon discovered his anxiety; Jeanette had long trembled at the thought of a new separation; she endeavored [Page] to arm herself with firmness, and speak to William that comfort which she herself so much required. She concealed her tears, and wept only in the silence of the night when William seemed to be asleep at her side. If her sobs waked him from his slumbers, she imputed her agitation to an unpleasant dream.

His tenderness would almost have induced him, at the opening of the campaign to quit the service; but Jeanette opposed this sacrifice. "It shall not be scornfully said of you that you lost your warlike ardor in my arms; never shall it be said that you was ungrateful to your sovereign. Go to the field— be courageous, but not fool-hardy; remember your duty, but remember too the helpless innocent whom yet you have not seen. When you return, he will bound to you with cries of fondness from my breast. When you have fulfilled the demands of duty, ungird your sword, and let our boy play with your arms while you repose upon my bosom."

Thus did she conceal her anxiety and her grief under a feigned heroism, while the moment of separation was still at some distance. When, however, the Sunday of the last week arrived, and William's regiment for the last time marched in procession to church, her courage disappeared, and she trembled like a condemned criminal as she tied William's belt over his shoulder. He went to church—and anxiety and dovotion prompted her likewise to go thither. During the sermon she had frequently, unobserved, wiped away the falling tear; but when the chaplain of the regiment began to offer up a solemn prayer for the success of their arms, when he blessed the assembled warriors, and the tear dropped upon the whiskers of the old grenadiers, she hid her face in her muff, and prayed in speechless grief.

With what warmth did her heart repeat the words of the preaches: "Permit me, O God! to [Page] see all those who are now before thee, once more assembled in this place; let not one of them be missing; and in thy temple let us hear the triumphant voice of gratitude, not the complaint of the widow, and the wailing of the orphan!"

She returned home quite exhausted. Her courage had fled. In two days the regiment was to march. Every hour she heard the dreadful note of preparation under her window. Baggage and stores were continually passing through the streets, and the dull sound of the cannon rattled along. Every thing was alive; every thing was in motion, while she lay weeping before a trunk packing up her husband's linen. She had prepared bandages and lint in case he should be wounded, and twenty times informed his servant where he would find every thing the moment it was wanted.

After this melancholy task was performed, she wandered disconsolate from room to room, and fixed her sorrowful eyes on the empty spot where William's camp bed had stood, now on the bare wall where William's pistols were used to hang. When the morning of separation arrived, and William had stolen early from her side to drown in bustle and activity the agony of separation, she threw herself into a carriage, and drove on for half a mile to a cottage, where she was to bid her husband farewell.

A thick cloud of dust announced the approach of the troops. One regiment after another marched past. Women and children pressed with cries of sorrow between the ranks; here a weeping grenadier led a little girl by the hand, while the pregnant mother walked sobbing beside them; here a lusty boy carried his father's musket; here a rough, blunt soldier shook his aged mother's hand; there another embraced his wife, who clung in tears round his neck. Young fellows, who had no attachments, [Page] laughed and made merry, waving their hats adorned with green leaves. Here and there pedlars and hucksters offered their wares to sell. Many drank to drown care, and tears trickled into the glass.

Jeanette saw nothing that passed. Her heart beat, her breath was irregular, her eyes were inflamed. She gazed with fixed attention towards the gate from which the troops still continued to pour. The well-known uniform of William's regiment now glanced in her view. William rode carelessly on at the head of his battalion. The once fiery steed paced along with sober steps. The reins had unperceived dropped upon the horse's neck. When William reached the cottage, he leaped from his horse, and Jeanette from the carriage. He flew to her pale as death, and she sunk down in his arms. He kneeled by her side, pressed his cold lips to hers, which glowed with feverish heat, left the marks of his tears on her cheek, sprung hastily up, and mounted his steed. Jeanette lay insensible. When she recovered, the distant drum sounded in her ear. She rose, looked down the valley, and saw the last clouds of dust driving in the wind.

She quitted her attendants, retired into a neighbouring thicket, fell upon her knees, and prayed. Spare, ye sceptres! spare the sorrowful heart this comfort in affliction! which, if it does not heal the wound, protects it against the violence of external assaults. Happy the mortal who is confident in prayer! Tranquillity and hope are the rewards of his pious conviction. Early in the morning when she awoke, late in the evening when she retired to rest, Jeanette revived herself with this cordial balsam. It strengthened her in the heavy hour of her delivery, and banished every melancholy presage concerning her husband's fate.

Alas! his regiment was but too soon engaged in [Page] a severe action between the advanced posts. William fought by the side of his friend, and was surrounded. He saw his gallant comrades fall around him, and, overpowered by numbers, was at last obliged to yield. He and Frederick were taken prisoners. After being plundered by the enemy's hussars, they were conducted to the camp. There, indeed, they were treated with respect, but closely watched; and in a few days they were sent off, with a number of other prisoners, into the interio [...] of France.

CHAP. II. THE BRUNETTE.

WANT and sorrow accompanied William in his captivity. One consolation only was left him. He was not separated from his friend, whose ear and heart were ever open to his sighs, and who listened to the eternal monotony of his complaints with unwearied attention. Often had Frederick formerly laughed at him, as an enamoured enthusiast, and teased him with his raillery, telling him that marriage was fain to keep itself warm by the embe [...] which the flame of love left behind, and that eve [...] th [...]e it would often extinguish when they began to glow. Now, however, he acknowledged that Love did not always extinguish his torch when Hymen lighted his, since never had William doted on his wife with such fond affection. The flame of first desire, which the soft gales▪ of undisturbed [Page] possession blow invisibly from heart to heart, was now awakened by the regret of separation. He thought only of Jeanette. He spoke only of her; no privations affected him, no object could engage his curiosity. Plundered and stript of the most urgent necessaries, he leapt for joy when in a corner of his pocket he found a small ink-horn and a silver pen, which had escaped the avarice of the hussars. He now daily wrote a letter, at every place where the escort stopped, when he could find even a stone by the road-side to serve as a table. When others ate or slept, his heart was awake. Grief, the pain of separation, the fondest consolation, the most glowing hopes of meeting, he painted in his letters with ihe most ardent enthusiasm; and with what grateful rapture did he press to his breast the good-natured corporal, who promised to forward his first letter!

After a long and fatiguing journey, they at last arrived at the place of their destination, a little town in Guienne. Here they received permission to go about at large on their parole of honor. They [...]urst not avail themselves much of this indulgence, as the deluded people hated every foreigner, as the slave of despotism, and thought themselves justified, with savage ferocity to seize the slightest pretext to insult or even to murder men whom they considered as tools hired for their subjugation.

During the day, therefore, William and Frederick seldom left their sorry habitation. Commonly they stole out in the twilight, strolled through the blooming fields, stretched themselves on [...] [...]anks of the Garonne, or at night sought the [...] hut of some peasant, who entertained them [...]h milk, honey, and fruit.

One evening they accidentally met with a German book; and as they had so long been deprived of the pleasure of reading, they congratulated themselves [Page] on the feast that awaited them next morning. The first rays of the sun found the two friends already in the fields. The unclouded sky and the dewy grass seemed to threaten a warm day, and they sought, therefore, at a little distance from the town, a shady thicket which lay on the brow of a hill. There they found a delightful retired spot, and stretched themselves under an olive-tree. William pulled the book out of his pocket, and Frederick lay carelessly on the grass.

They had not been here above two hours when a wild din from the neighbouring village struck their ears. They were alarmed, and hesitated whether they should leave their retreat, or conceal themselves deeper in the wood. The last might appear suspicious; they remained, therefore, where they were, resolved to return to the town as soon as the road should be clear, for it passed directly by the village church, from the steeple of which proceeded the alarm which had roused their apprehension.

As they listened, and lost themselves in conjectures respecting the cause of the tumult, they suddenly heard a rustling in the thicket at a little distance. It seemed as if a flying roe rushed past them. It came nearer—again it seemed to recede —sometimes on the right, sometimes on the left— the irregular breathing of a person exhausted with running apprised them that some one was at hand. The two friends held in their breath, and anxiously looked towards the place from which the sound seemed nearer and nearer to approach.

"Here [...] are!" exclaimed hastily and in a feeble voice [...] [...]rown girl, with flowing hair and disordered [...], while with eager anxiety, and occasionally [...]g behind, she broke upon the astonished stran [...]rs.

"Fly! fly!" stuttered she with a voice scarcely [Page] articulate, "they are coming, they are in pursuit of you.—You will be found here—and you are gone!"

"How? Why? What is the matter?"

The girl was exhausted and could not answer, she only pointed with her finger to the footpath; and then the strangers still hesitated, she ran bef [...]re them▪ pointed and folded her hands in the attitude of entreaty. William and Frederick at last f [...]owed her, without knowing why or whither. Their swift conductor soon brought them to a fisherman's empty hut. Here she sank down on the grass, and exclaimed: "I can do no more!"

Her full bosom heaved with violent agitation; the blood forsook her cheeks. Yet now and then she struggled to hold in her breath, turned towards the village to listen, and again panted more violently. The two friends stood before her, and knew not what to think of this extraordinary incident. They gave her time to recover herself. Frederick lighted upon a wooden dish in the hut, which he filled with water and gave her. She drank a few drops, and bathed her cheeks, to cool the glowing heat. When at last she recovered the use of her tongue, she told them in broken incoherent sentences:

"Some ill-inclined persons have last night cut down the tree of liberty in our [...]llage. The whole village is in an uproar. The yo [...]g men have taken arms, and are in search of the [...]etrators, and if taken they will be put to death.— You have been observed, for some weeks past, to s [...]lk about in this neighbourhood; it is suspected [...]at you are the culprits."

"We!" exclaimed the two frie [...] in amazement.

"I believe you are not," proceeded the girl, "you appear to be men of honor; and even were [Page] you guilty, I could see nobody murdered. My Philip, too, is in the mob; he has his sword, and swears to put you to death. I tremble yet to think of his dreadful oaths—and if he sheds blood I can no more love him. This morning, very early, as I was feeding my pigeons, I saw you pass by the village, and stroll into this thicket; the cow-head likewise saw you, and gave the information. Now they are about to surrou [...] [...], and will not rest till you are found [...] I run to [...]e innocent blood, and [...] guardian angels that with their help [...] [...]tely meet you, and they have graciously heard my prayer!—Haste! endeavour to gain the town by a circuitous way, for here you are not safe. I would accompany you with all my heart, but I can go no farther!

"If you follow this footpath, it will carry you into the road to Montauban; then leave our village on your left hand, and after making a circuit of a few miles you may in the twilight return to town."

"But we are innocent," said William.

"We have never even seen your tree of liberty," pursued Frederick.

"That will avail you nothing," returned the girl hastily. "You will be murdered—you are strangers—you are not French citizens (this she said with some degree of solemnity.) Nobody will demand satisfaction for your lives. Fly! fly! Heard you not the voices in the thicket?—In a few minutes it will be too late!"

William and Frederick soon perceived that in spite of their innocence, their lives were in danger, and that they had not a moment to lose. They thanked their [...]erous deliverer, and flew down the pathway which she had pointed out. It soon brought them into an unknown road where they stopped a little to take breath, and to confirm the observation which has so long been made by travellers [Page] in every part of the world, that women are every where more courteous, more gentle, more benevolent, and more humane towards strangers than men.

CHAP. III. THE COFFIN.

AS they had now left the dreadful village a good way behind, the fugatives considered themselves safe, rested a few minutes, and then slowly pursued their way, blessing the generous girl who, notwithstanding her pride in the title of a French citizen, had so kindly apprised them of their danger. They soon perceived, however, that the enthusiastic spirit, like a raging lioness, had thrown the whole country round into alarm and apprehension by its wild roar. They found, that in our times the cutting down of a tree of liberty can excite the same fury, which two hundred years ago the destruction of a cross, or two thousand years ago the violation of a sacred oak, would have occasioned.

When Alcibiades demolished the statue of Mercury, the Athenians raged just like the new men of France about their tree of Liberty. On the right and on the left, before and behind the fugitives, the sullen sound of bells was heard in all the villages. They redoubled their speed. The road led to a hill, which they endeavoured to reach; but, alas! under the brow of the hill lay a village, from which [Page] the confused noise of shouts and the rattling of arms proceeded. Hastily they wheeled round, ran rapidly down the hill, directly back again, and perceived, at a distance, a cloud of dust, which warn-them that their pursuers were at hand.

They now flew over hedges and ditches across the fields; sometimes they thought of concealing themselves in the standing corn; sometimes they thought of hiding themselves in a farmer's hayloft; but a loud-mouthed cur or a bawling infant frightened them away. They now knew not whither they went, ran through brooks and morasses, without reflection. They heard the alarm all around, and at last they arrived, without suspecting it, at the road they had left.

The danger every moment increased. The fields round were covered with their pursuers; before and behind, clouds of dust rolled; the bells rang from every steeple, and the shouts of men and the barking of dogs broke on them from every quarter.

"I can go no farther!" said William. "Heaven protect my wife and child! Here will I die!"

He sunk down under a tree. Frederick summoned up all his strength, climbed the tree, and viewed the country around.

"I see a country house," said he, "not two thousand paces distant. Belong to whom it may, the owner will surely protect us at least from the fury of the mob. If he is a man of honor, he will deliver us into the hands of the civil power, but not permit us—even should he consider us guilty— to be murdered like wild beasts by a frantic rabble."

He came down. William rose, and they exerted every effort to gain the country-house. In a romantic valley, through which a branch of the Garonne rolled meandering, lay a solitary habitation, shaded by lofty elms, on the north side bounded [Page] by a thick grove, which stretched down to the banks of the river. The fugitives arrived, without interruption, at the iron gate that bounded the front lawn, which was tastefully ornamented with flower-beds. They sound the doors shut and barred. William boldly took a stone, and knocked loud at the iron wicket. The grove reechoed the sound, but no dog barked, no living creature stirred. They called. Nobody answered. The house appeared to be empty. A number of broken windows confirmed the supposition. The railing was too high for them to climb over, and too strong for them to break. The moments were precious. William and Frederick hastened to the other side of the grove, there to look for a place where they might wait the shades of night.

The grove was likewise surrounded by a pretty high wall, but time had here and there loosened the stones; and fear lent them wings, for the voices of their pursuer [...] already resounded through the valley. A gloomy thicket of tall pines received them in its shade. Here they listened a few moments; and as the whole grove seemed to be inhabited by the feathered creation, as the linnets and bullfinches hopped as fearlessly about them as if they had never seen a human form, they ventured to penetrate deeper into its recesses.

They soon perceived that a little walk, in the stile of the English gardens, skirted round the whole of the grove; but the grass that grew thick through the gravel, which was here and there broken up by the rain, and not repaired, seemed to prove that it was long since it had been trod by human foot. Courageously the two friends advanced, intending, if possible, to take possession of some empty corner of the house; when Frederick suddenly stopped, as William pulled him by the coat and pointed, with a mixture of fear and surprise, to the mark of a lady's foot in a mole-hill.

[Page]It was now plain that this must have happened yesterday or the day before, consequently the house with the broken windows was not altogether uninhabited, and the fugitives remained irresolute in new embarrassment and apprehension. In spite of their dangerous situation (for the voice of their pursuers still sounded more terrible in the valley) their feelings, on perceiving the prints of the foot were very different from those which Robinson Crusoe had experienced on a similar occasion. They could not cease to contemplate with pleasure the mark, which was that of an elegant foot; and William thought, that if it was possible that Jeanette could be here, it must have been made by hers. For a moment fear gave place to softer emotions. So feels the traveller, who, surrounded by the murky shades of night, suddenly descries at a distance a friendly light.

What a powerful effect does an inch more or less produce upon the senses of [...]en, through them on the imagination, and so on upon the understanding! Had the mark covered the whole of the molehill, the idea of beauty, and with it of harmless goodness, would not have associated with the feelings of our fugitives. Perhaps, alarmed at the appearance, they might have again made their retreat over the walls. A creature, however, that had such elegant feet, seemed so little calculated to inspire terror, that they were inclined to wish rather than to avoid a meeting.

With more caution and circumspection they now pursued the winding way, which appeared to lead to the banks of the river. The murmuring of the stream soon convinced them that they were right; and after descending the footpath, winding through a thick shrubbery, down a gentle declivity, they commanded a prospect of the water. They observed a little island, on which was built, with singular [Page] art and taste, a grotto, surrounded with weeping willows, which bended their branches to the stream. A little draw-bridge led to the island. This secret recess appeared a secure asylum, and they redoubled their steps to reach the bridge. Silently they passed over, and drew it up behind them. Silently, and with some anxiety, they approached the avenue to the grotto. Frederick was a few steps before, as William was detained fixing the bridge. When William had finished, and was running up to overtake him, he saw his friend suddenly turn round, his face pale and his knees trembling. He laid his finger on his mouth, waved his hand, and by his gestures signified that William should approach without noise.

William obeyed, and threw a fearful glance towards the grotto, which was lighted by a window in the roof. Two coffins lay close together, covered with black, and without any ornament. Upon one of the coffins lay a female figure, in profound grief, her back towards them, and her head leaning upon her hand. She seemed to be asleep, or to be lost in grief—they did not hear her breathe.

Dreadfully shocked at this spectacle, the two friends stood motionless, and conversed only by doubtful looks. They waited long to see whether this solemn figure would turn round. As not the least movement betrayed the appearance of life, and they saw a beetle crawling on her white neck, without attracting her attention, Frederick began to think that she must be in a swoon, and ventured to advance a few steps nearer. His foot trod upon some dry leaves: they rustled—the figure rose up. Heavens! what a creature! with every quality of an angel but fearlessness!

Fair as a lily, with long flowing black hair, an eye mild as the evening star surrounded with light clouds, her bosom negligently covered, whose dazzling [Page] whiteness was heightened by the contrast of her black robe, a tall elegant form, a hand which seemed formed to wipe away the tears of love, a foot which the fugitives easily recognised to be that which had left the mark in the grove—Such did the lovely stranger stand before them, in the first bloom of her charms. Had not her full bosom anxiously heaved—had not her white hand trembled, they would have dropped on their knees before her, as a superior being. Frederick stood speechless, with his eyes riveted to this celestial figure. William endeavored to speak, but it was only in broken sentences. The stranger first broke silence.

"Who are you?—What do you want?—Why have you intruded upon this sanctuary of my grief? Would you rob me even of these dear remains?"

At these words she hastily threw the lid from one of the coffins, and discovered the corpse of an old man, whose head was severed from his body. This shocking spectacle occasioned a long pause, during which the young lady gazed at the corpse with folded hands, and shed a tender tear. Frederick was unable to speak, nor did he attempt to reply. William collected himself as well as he could, and in soothing accents began to relate the accident which had brought them here. He begged for an asylum for a few hours, till they could elude their pursuers. The uproar which every moment grew louder and louder, testified the truth of his story.

As William spoke, the young lady's attention was involuntarily fixed by his figure and discourse. When he had finished, her looks fluctuated doubtfully between him and his companion. She had not made any answer, when a wild mob was heard thundering at the iron gate, and another round the walls of the grove.

"What can I do to assist you?" said she: "Where can I conceal you?—Every corner of the [Page] grove is well known to these monsters. From its most secret recesses they dragged my aged father, and cruelly murdered him!" She burst into tears, and seemed anew to be quite engrossed with her grief, till a noise at the gate louder than before, announced that the mob had burst it open.

"They come!" said William. Frederick did not seem to hear them. "They come!" repeated the lady with anxiety. "It is too late to take you to the desolate mansion—there you would be—but no—it is too late. Fly! fly! I cannot see you murdered!"

The frantic rabble now rushed through the garden in crowds. Nothing remained for the fugitives but to plunge in the river; but it was deep, and neither of them could swim. "Ha!" exclaimed William, "for what an inglorious death has fate reserved me!"—Frederick said nothing. He gazed at the young lady, and seemed to be utterly insensible.

The young mourner walked up and down, wringing her hands. She looked compassionately at the strangers, and appeared to struggle with a thought which she sometimes reluctantly dismissed, and again benevolently cherished. William saw what passed in her soul. He threw himself at her feet: "If this angel form can give the least pledge of humanity, save an unfortunate being, who has left in his own land, other helpless creatures dependent on him!"

"Humanity!" repeated the lady, "Alas! that was denied to me!"

Suddenly the whole grove resounded with the voices of men, and on all sides the shouts of frenzy were heard. It rushed like a whirlwind througn the trees, and the frightened birds forsook their nests. The mob had already discovered the path which led to the grotto; numbers had reached the [Page] bridge, and began to cut down with their scythes the pulleys by which it was drawn up. A glow overspread the young lady's cheeks; the mild lustre of her eye kindled into fire. She threw herself on the coffin. Anxiety lent her strength; she lifted out the dead body and laid it on the mossy bank.

"Stranger! conceal yourself here," said she, pointing to the coffin. William sprang into it, and in a moment the lid was replaced. She now opened the second coffin. It was empty. She made a sign to Frederick, which she was thrice obliged to repeat before he understood. At last he threw himself into the coffin, bu [...] with an air which seemed to show that he only obeyed her commands. She shut the lid upon him, and at this moment the steps of their pursuers thundered over the bridge.

The young lady threw herself down between the two coffins, with an arm extended over each, and in this posture she awaited the arrival of the mob.— They came.—Men armed with scythes, sickles, swords and muskets, surrounded the entry into the [...]rotto; but suddenly the foremost stood still, a [...] [...]understruck, and kept back those behind, [...] [...]ith gaping mouths, gazed over their should [...] ▪

▪What do you want!" said the lady to them with firm voice. "Is it not enough that you have murdered my father? Would you also deprive me of a bur [...]nsome existence?—If so, you are welcome! —Come in! come in!—Dye your arms in the blood of an innocent orphan!—Murder me on the corpse of my father!"

The peasants looked at one another doubtfully. The contrast between the beauty of the lady and the bloody corpse, together with their disappointed expectations, made a powerful impression on the rough sons of nature. The wild clamor was succeeded [Page] by a death-like silence. "Come, friends!" at last said one of them, "they are not here!"

"You may be perfectly easy, miss," said another, "tell us only where the villains have fled."

"Whom do you mean?" pursued the lady. "Since that old man fell under your weapons, no human foot has entered this solitude. If you mean to insult—if you mean to delight yourselves with the sight of a murdered man, come nearer! See how placidly he smiles; he has forgiven his murderers. Come in, and touch those cold hands, of whose blessing you have deprived me!"

At these words she seized the hand of the corpse, and held it out to them. The peasants were shocked, and started back. The hindermost disappeared; the crowd dispersed, and the last went away with fearful looks. "They are not here!" cried they as they crossed the bridge. "They are not here!" they sounded through the grove. The noise gradually subsided, and before a quarter of an hour elapsed, the birds had again taken possession of their nests, and a gloomy silence of the solitude.

CHAP. IV. THE CAVERN.

SHOULD any of my sarcastic readers be inclined to laugh at the circumstance of a young beautiful lady, in the height of grief, taking the mutilated corpse of her father out of the coffin, in order to put a handsome young man into it, let them recollect [Page] the widow of Ephesus, who, from much more questionable motives, hung the body of her departed husband upon the gallow▪

BABET—for it is now time to discover the name of this lovely guardian angel—Babet was the daughter of a nobleman, who had the misfortune to be rich, and to be a man of worth and honor. Of course he was obnoxious to the party now in power. They resolved to get rid of him in the usual manner; that is to say, they denounced him as an aristocrat; he became a marked man; and the people, ever ready for such deeds, undertook the execution of the sentence. Two of his sons were murdered. The third fled, as was said, to America, there to weep in company with young La Fayette.

The old man himself chose the most retired of all his estates, and thought to escape persecution by a voluntary seclusion. In vain, however!—Party fury traced him to this harmless retreat, tore him from the arms of his only daughter, and hurried him to the scaffold.

Babet, in the sixteenth year of her age, had been educated in a cloister; and when the destroying angel, called Liberty, burst those holy cells, she returned to the bosom of her family. While she lived immured within the w [...]lls of the cloister, except the old blind gardener, she had never seen the face of man; and, except a favorite cat, had never loved any thing. When she became acquainted with her worthy father, and her sprightly brothers, she loved them with her whole soul, and their sentiments and modes of thinking became hers; for women rarely choose their own opinions, they are formed by the company in which they live. They commonly love with great constancy; but if they ever change their attachments, they likewise change their principles.

Babet was a decided royalist. The death of her [Page] father and brothers at first made her quite delirious▪ and still nourished by the solitude in which she lived, and the [...]eadful objects to which she was habituated, her grief bordered upon lunacy. She conversed only with the corpse of her father, she slept on the moss bank in the grotto, ate only the fruits which the trees a [...]cidentally presented; never went beyond the limits of the gloomy grove, was deserted by the officious servants of her former prosperity, and even dismissed the few who offered to share her danger and her poverty.

Her inflamed imagination had inspired her with a superstitious idea, which she neither could nor wished to drive from her mind. Having dreamed that on the anniversary of her father's birthday, which was to happen in a few weeks, she would be united to her father and brothers by a stroke of lightning, she was firmly convinced that the dream would be realised; for which reason she had prepared an empty coffin to receive her. This firm belief rendered her indifferent to what passed around her. She smiled when any attempt was made to amuse her, and wistfully shook her head when she was advised to collect the remains of her estates in different provinces, which were left a prey to rapine.

In this temper of mind the two friends found her; and on seeing them, nature, for the first time, resumed her rights, and bound her to life with new and tender ties. A young lady, who, till now, seemed to be abandoned by God and the world, who had no relation, no friend to whom she could fly; a young, helpless, insulated creature, could not but feel herself in a new element when she saw herself the deliverer of two handsome, generous young men. When Babet opened the coffin, she felt something as if she saw her brother rise from it. She was no longer without support. She [Page] had purchased at the risk of her life, perhaps of her honor, two grateful protectors.

The young men lay at her feet, pressed their glowing lips to her hand, and uttered soothing words of gratitude. A new and delightful feeling diffused itself through that breast, which, till now, had heaved only with sighs. She looked down upon the creatures with complacency; she wished to complete the work of their deliverance; she forgot her father's corpse, and she even forgot to reproach herself for her negligence.

"Follow me!" said she. "Your persecutors and mine might repent their having been surprised and overcome by a feeling of humanity; they might suddenly return. Follow me into the mansion, which they have dismantled. I will conduct you to a cavern, which, for many weeks, served my father as a secure retreat. Alas! he would have lived still had he not left it!"

Babet went out of the grotto. Frederick and William followed her; the former like a person intoxicated; the latter had recovered the perfect exercise of his faculties With politeness and tender concern he conv [...]d with their fair guide as she hastily walked on [...]fore them, and he contrived to introduce so many refined and elegant compliments on her beauty and beneficence, that Babet by degrees, was brought down from her converse with spirits to an intercourse with kindred mortals. She possessed so much consideration, as to avoid every open and exposed place of the garden, and to steal along between high hedges till she brought her guests safe through many a winding alley to the back-door of the desolate habitation.

Here they mounted a winding stair-case, passed through a small antichamber, and went into the kitchen; where an old footman and a young servant girl lay trembling on their knees, emploring [Page] all the saints in the calendar for help▪ When the frantic mob broke into the garden, they thought that the rabble had come to destroy the last frail shoot of the old stem, and gave up their mistress for lost. When they heard footsteps on the stair, they imagined that their own hour was come, and were pronouncing their last prayer. At the sight of Babet their terrors were changed into the wildest transports. They sprang up, leaped and sung around her, and it was a longtime before she could make the footman understand that she wanted the key of the subterraneous cavern. He then ran to find it, sought it over the whole house from the garret to the cellar, and at last found it in her own pocket.

Babet now conducted the strangers into her father's closet. Here she took a lighted lamp, opened a concealed door in the tapestry, and descended a narrow stair-case, which, through many windings, terminated in a spacious vault. She fought and found an iron crow, which accident seemed to have left in a corner. She gave it to William, and desired him, as she pointed out the place in the wall, to remove the stones, which were but newly built up, and were but weakly fastened.

He did as he was desired. An iron dooor appeared, so small that a person could hardly push through. Babet touched a concealed spring. The door flew open, and they entered a spacious cavern, which was furnished only with a few necessary articles of furniture, a straw bed, and a mattress.

"Here you may remain quiet and easy till nightfall. Meanwhile I will dispatch a person to reconnoitre the road, and to bring intelligence. When all is safe, I myself will return and liberate you from this confinement. My servant, in the mean time, shall bring you bread and fruit for your refreshment. Except such scanty fare I have nothing to offer. [Page] The plunderers have robbed me of every thing. Meanwhile, replace the stone in the wall, and shut the iron door; you may then sleep in peace till I awake you."

She disappeared. A few minutes after old Antony brought a light and a basket of fruit. The two friends were then left alone. Frederick threw himself on the straw-bed, and hid his face; while William employed himself, in silence, in rebuilding the stones which formed the false wall that concealed the secret door.

CHAP. V. THE TREASURE.

WHEN Cupid steals from his mother a handful of flax to make a love-net, the moment which the cunning rogue chooses to spread the flax on the enchanted spindle will decide the fort [...]ne of the enterprise, since on the first twist and pull it will depend whether the thread will ultimately be rough or smooth, coarse or fine.

To speak without metaphor, it is of the utmost importance for a lady who wishes to captivate a man she has never seen before, to choose a situat [...] and to improve it with address, in which she can display all her female charms in the most seducing light. The observation is applicable both to the charms of body and of mind. Take a stranger into the habitation of a divinity at the moment [Page] when she gives her waiting-maid a box on the ear —carry him then to the hut of a gentle creature, who, if you please, is deformed with freckles and the marks of the small-pox, he finds her employed in feeding a poor old man, or clothing a naked orphan—rely upon it the mortal will triumph over the divinity.

After this common-place remark, (for, alas! there is nothing new to be said under the sun, and Kant's great discoveries, when closely considered, turn out nothing but new words;) the reader will think it very natural that Frederick's heart, in which no damsel had yet been able to kindle a spark, suddenly burst out into a flame.

Consider only how many things combined to heighten the force of Babet's charms. The agitation of mind in which Frederick arrived before the entry to the grotto, and in which Babet appeared to him like a star in a gloomy night, when perhaps in a more calm temper she might have seemed to his impartial glance like a t [...]per at noon-day— besides the grief in which she was plunged, her helplessness, which, with youth and beauty, makes a most powerful impression; and last of all, the magnanimity with which she had exposed herself to save the life of two strangers—the romantic expedient she employed, which, in a critical moment, could have occurred to none but a woman—truly! though her eyes had not been half so brilliant, though her bosom had not been half so round and white, though the print of her foot in the mole-hill had been as large again, Frederick, who was not, like his friend, protected by the aegis of honorable love, would not have failed to be as deeply wounded as he was.

He now lay upon the straw-bed, and shut his eyes to avoid the inquisitive looks of his companion. It was not that he wished to conceal any [Page] thing from the friend of his heart, but that he himself yet knew not what was the matter with him, or what exactly he had to communicate. That something extraordinary had befallen him he indeed was well aware; but he felt like a blind man, who, being couched for the cataract, does not venture to open his eyes, and spends some time in voluntary darkness.

William stood before him, and looked at the sick man with a gentle smile diffused over his countenance. At last he broke the mysterious silence with these words:

"The adventure seems to have greatly affected you?"

FREDERICK.

—Very much.

WILLIAM.

—You like the young lady?

FREDERICK

(with a serious smile)

—Like her▪

WILLIAM.

—As you never liked before?

FREDERICK.

—Never.

WILLIAM.

—Why do you shut your eyes?

FREDERICK.

—Because she is gone.

WILLIAM

(after a pause).

—I am afraid you are in love.

FREDERICK

(turning aside).

—Good William, be kind enough to leave me at present to my reflections.

William, who knew well that there are moments when a man would rather choose to be whipped than to be teased with questions—for the blows you may bear with stoical fortitude, but the questions you are compelled to answer—politely withdrew, and began to think of some amusement from the persecution of some spiders, which in a vault generally find a most secure abode. He walked backwards and forwards, whistled, sang, examined the furniture, and surveyed the inhabitants, which consisted of toads and beetles.

At last, having found a rusty nail, idleness suggested to him the amusement so natural in inns and [Page] prisons, of scrawling his name on the wall. For this purpose he took a view of the wall, and pitched upon the largest square stone, which was distinguished from the rest by some degree of colouring mingled with its grey hue. He took a chair to stand upon, which seemed to have been manufactured in the time of Henry IV. and with the lamp, now quite superfluous to his dreaming companion, in his left hand, the rusty nail in his right, he mounted up to immortalize his name in this subterraneous retreat.

But what was his astonishment when he held up the lamp and saw an inscription engraved upon the stone? It was clear that it had been formerly employed for the purpose he had intended, a circumstance which had made it whiter and more conspicuous than any of the rest. The characters were feeble, and in some places scarcely legible. With considerable exertion, however, William made out the following:

"Dearest Babet! If thy innocence at last can find no asylum but this; if you are robbed of all, you will find, under this straw-bed, a proof that, even in his most dreary hours, thy father still remembered and cared for thee."

William instantly communicated the discovery to Frederick, but Frederick seemed to treat it with indifference.—"What, don't you hear?" said William. "Rise, probably beneath that straw a treasure lies concealed."

"What is the treasure to us?" said Frederick, and never stirred.

"But it belongs to our guardian angel—to our generous deliverer!"

Scarce had William finished this remonstrance, when Frederick was on his feet, carefully turning over the straw. They found a place where the earth seemed loose. They employed the nail to dig it up, and in a few minutes they pulled out a [Page] casket, which was filled with articles of value. Transported at this accident, which enabled them to testify their gratitude to their generous hostess, they expected the coming night with redoubled impatience. Almost as much as in the discovery of the jewels seemed Frederick to rejoice in the discovery of the name of Babet; for he did nothing but repeat this harmonious name, sometimes aloud, sometimes quite low, in tender and melting tones.

CHAP. VI. THE VISIONARY.

ABOUT midnight, gliding softly, like a benignant spirit, the lovely form of their protectress approached. A gentle touch pressed the spring, the iron door flew open, and Babet entered.— "You are not yet safe," said she; "the neighbourhood swarms with drunken blood-thirsty murderers. You must remain here till to-morrow night, when, in all probability, tired of the tedious fruitless search, the peasants shall have returned to their occupations. In the mean time, indeed, yo [...] [...]ill be exposed to want and inconvenience, for I have nothing with which to entertain you. Scarcity, with good welcome, is your only cheer." At these words she laid on the table a few eggs, and a piece of black bread.

"Two hens," said she with a melancholy smile [Page] —"two hens are, God knows, all that has escaped the general ravage and plunder. Alas! formerly our court-yard swarmed with poultry, for I delighted to feed them.—Now I have nothing to feed my favorite hens, but they are still alive, and I could not have the heart to kill them.—You must be content with the eggs.—I am almost sorry to rob them of these."

"How fortunate is my friend," said William, with a generous sacrifice of his own accidental merit—"how fortunate is my friend, that he can repay this benevolent kindness! While I was asleep he found a treasure which will place you, fair Babet, in a more comfortable situation than that in which you now live."

Frederick stood beside him, and presented the casket. Babet looked with doubtful astonishment, now at her guests, now at the well-known casket, the appearance of which in the hands of strangers, as well as the mention of her name, seemed equally unaccountable. William took hold of the lamp, led Babet to the stone, mounted on the chair, and read her father's testament▪

Scarcely had the tender girl recognised the traces of that honored hand, no sooner had she heard the words "dearest Babet," than she dropped upon her knees, burst into tears, and raised her hands to the sacred stone. She received the casket as a relick, and pressed it with respect to her lips. "Honored father," cried she, "thou knowest that I no longer stand in need of this provision"!

[...] [...]ow turned round to the two friends: "You have made strong professions of your gratitude. If indeed I have any claim to your thanks, it is in your power to discharge the obligation."

"Speak!" said William, while his friend's eyes sparkled with eagerness; and it was easy to read in them that he hoped it would at least demand the hazard of his life.

[Page]"You will soon return to your native country," continued Babet, "and there it is my request that you would endeavour to obtain intelligence of the Chevalier Belloy. He fled to America—perhaps he is still alive!"—She said this with such warmth of feeling, her eye seemed to glance to heaven so ardent a prayer for the life of the Chevalier, that Frederick was greatly agitated. But he was soon relieved from his anxiety when the lovely creature proceeded: "He is my brother—now my only brother!—To him belongs these jewels; they may enable him perhaps again to re-establish the splendor of his house—for him I commit them to your care. Leave no means untried to discover the place of his abode—promise me this—swear it!"

She held out her hand to them at once, to receive their oaths. William pressed it with firmness, but his friend was deprived of his consciousness when her fingers touched him. He trembled and hesi [...]ted Had Babet been vain or suspicious, she would have known him to be a lover, or suspected him to be a knave.—She continued with composure:

"If all your pains and inquiries are in vain, if my Philip has likewise gone before me, I bequeath this casket to you. Share its contents, be beneficent, and remember me!"

When William observed that she was silent, and fixed her tearful eyes upon the ground, he took the liberty to represent to her that she was still very young, and stood more in need of a provision▪ than a brother, who could every where obtain [...] subsistence in foreign military service. He entreated her to think of the desolation that now prevailed in the abode of her ancestors, he reminded [...]er of the complaint of want which but a few moments before, she had mentioned, and advised her to fly from a country where a villain might remain unpunished, [Page] but no nobleman could live in safety. "Such a flight," added he, "is difficult, and without money almost impossible."

Babet had listened to him with silence; and with a sorowful smile, "Yes," said she with a look of wild enthusiasm, "I will fly!—not fly—but depart in triumph—and that is possible—it is quite easy, without money.—You do not know, "proceeded she with a secret horror, while her eye sparkled benignantly, "you know not, that in ten days I shall be with my father!" She looked to heaven with revere [...]al awe and devotion.

William asked her if she was ill, that she felt herself so near death?

"O no!" replied she, "God deals very graciously with me; he takes me out of this world without sickness." (She continued in a low and solemn voice) "In ten days, towards evening, a violent storm will take place; the wicked men around shall tremble, but I shall rejoice.—Then will the lightning strike upon the turret which stands there by the water side. I shall stand under the turret, and stretch out my hands. Then shall the angel of God descend from a cloud, and transport me to the eternal throne; there shall I again behold my relations in glory!"

As she spoke this, she betrayed an enthusiastic rapture, and appeared herself to be transporte [...] with ecstasy. William gazad at her with astonishment, and began to think that her mind was disordered. He soon perceived that her monastic education and her early misfortunes had given her a tincture of superstitious enthusiasm. Se told them, that after her father's death, deprived of her reason, she wandered through the grove day and night in wild despair, without sleep or refreshment. One morning she had sunk, exhausted, into a profound slumber, and in a dream God had revealed to her that her deliverance [...]as at hand.

[Page]"Since that moment," pursued she, "I have been in full possession of my senses; my sorrow has become more placid. I have prepared a coffin to receive my body, and an angel is destined to receive my spirit. Congratulate me, the hour is not far distant!"

With secret compassion William listened to the visionary maid; Frederick turned round, and dropped a silent tear. William was too well acquainted with mankind to know that argument and reason would here be fruitless. He rather appeared to have no doubt of the prophetic dream. He put the casket in his pocket, and promised punctually to fulfil her commands. By degrees he endeavored to awaken other images in her soul, to withdraw her attention from that single object on which she incessantly gazed. He continued to give the conversation a direction towards indifferent topics, and even to matters connected with Babet's family. He made her talk of her brothers, their person, their character, the regiments in which they had served, and the visits they had formerly paid her in the cloister.

From this he naturally passed to inquiries concerning the monastic system of education. He affected to be more unacquainted with it than he really was. He inquired after the mode of life, the plan of instruction, the connections and friendship to which such a scene gave rise.

At first Babet seemed to answer with reluctance; but, by degrees, so many scenes were recalled to her remembrance, so many youthful incidents occurred to her fancy, that at last, if she was not talkative, she took part in the conversation. She related many anecdotes; and, at last, she felt a pleasure in relating them. In a word, the charming vivacity which gradually displayed itself in her [Page] whole conduct, clearly showed that she was formed for cheerfulness, not for melancholy, and that solitary grief alone could have produced so violent an effect upon her temper.

She was astonished when morning dawned, was vexed at her dissipation, as she called it, bashfully apologized, and took her leave, to allow her guests to enjoy repose. William threw himself on the straw. He soon dropped into a placid slumber, while Frederick paced through the cavern, standing still occasionally on the spot which Babet's foot had consecrated.

CHAP. VII. THE RIGHTS OF NATURE.

IT has an hundred times been said that flattery is a poison. Well! be it so; but does it follow that it ought never to be employed? Do not the physicians prescribe poisons for the most desperate diseases?—Is not, for example, Belladonna considered an excellent remedy for a cancer?— And is not a deep rooted grief more dangerous than this cruel malady?

Such were William's reflections when be awoke, after a few hours sleep; and on them he formed the design to beguile the sorrow of his benefactress by well-directed flattery. Really there are no means so well calculated to withdraw men from serious or gloomy objects, as this balsam properly applied. You must be careful, however, not to betray the design. It must not be a visible esse [...] [Page] it must be an invisible perfume. It must not descend in showers like the atmosphere of our earth, but, like that of the moon, it must distil in dew. Oh! there is not a sage in the universe who could withstand the effect of this soothing anodyne.

When Babet returned, about noon, and brought with her, for the entertainment of her guests, what nature in the ravaged garden still offered unsolicited, William began to play his part. He could not calculate indeed upon the assistance of his friend, for the man who truly loves cannot flatter. He summoned all his knowledge of the human heart, and all his experience. What he had often seen in the world, and had treated only with contempt, he now endeavored to imitate. Pity and gratitude communicated an irresistible force to his words, and an ardor before which Babet's coldness began to melt. Sometimes he was able to extort a smile from her; and when she detected herself in it, a stolen sigh seemed to ask forgiveness of her father's spirit. Before two hours had elapsed, William's flattering tongue had so far succeeded, that the lovely mourner sat down to table with her guests and shared the fruits she had provided.

Day flew rapidly away. Babet with regret saw evening approach, for she had insensibly acquired a taste for society. Her eye often dwelt with particular complacency on William, who principally supported the conversation. His unembarrassed heart allowed him to display all his amiable qualities, while Frederick sat dreaming by his side, and, for fear of saying something silly, chose to be silent.

When the shades of night began to close round, Babet sent the girl and the footman out, different ways, to learn whether the tempest, which had raged so violently, was yet allayed. Both returned like [...]oah's pigeons with the olive-branch. However satisfactory this intelligence might be, it was [Page] received with welcome by nobody but William, who was extremely anxious to return to town, because he was afraid that he and his companion might be missed, and considered as deserters.

His friend was not at present affected by these considerations. He wished to see the villa as thickly surrounded by murderers, as the nightly traveller in some regions of Africa sees himself surrounded by moving fires, for he felt courage to defend Babet against a host; and he found that it was in such moments alone that he could testify to her his love. As no enemy, however, was to be seen, and as the fields were occupied only by crickets and grasshoppers; as the owls glided out and in through the broken windows of the mansion, the two friends prepared for their departure.

Babet was pensive and melancholy when they went away. She accompanied them to the iron gate, and gave them her hand as they took leave. "Providence above," said she, "has brought us together—be to me as brothers while I continue to sojourn here below.—It is but ten days to the wished for hour—visit your sister sometimes before she goes [...]ence, provided you can do it without danger."

Frederick smiled at the word danger. William promised to come, were it even in disguise. Frederick smiled at the word disguise. He had kissed Babet's hand.—She had called him brother.— Where is the danger?—Why disguise?

They took their leave. Frederick often stopped to look back, though it was quite dark. Babet stood at the gate, and listened to the footsteps of her guests, which sounded through the silent night. She then slowly returned.—She thought of going to the grotto, to her father's body, yet descended pensive to the cavern. She threw herself on the bed of straw, to meditate fully on her approaching death.

[Page]Since her acquaintance with William, this idea seemed to have acquired new charms, for with the solemn image of death she associated the agreeable picture of her new brother. She resolved, that upon the eventful day he should not leave her. She saw herself, struck lifeless by the lightning, sink into his arms—she thought how he would stretch her body tenderly upon the grass—how he would kneel beside her—A tear dropped from his eye on her cold hand—and at the thought her cheek glowed— he impresses a brother's kiss upon her pallid lips!

Thus were associated with the thoughts of death many delightful images, drawn by the pencil of purest innocence in the most pleasing colours. Death indeed still was in the perspective of the picture, but with a fainter light than the more captivating features. She expected, with a degree of impatience, a second visit from her guests. She no longer lay unconscious on her father's coffin, but sat upon it wistfully, and listened to the murmur of the waters which dashed on the banks of the little Island. The nightingale sung in the grove, and she blamed herself beause his melody gave her pleasure. The servant brought her a pigeon for dinner. She chid him for supposing she could be hungry; and when he was gone, she ate first one wing, then another, then the whole pigeon.

A soft and secret melancholy sometimes drove her from the grotto to the house, from the windows of which she had a view of the road, both on the right and left. She walked up and down through the empty apartment, and sometimes threw a stolen glance on the shattered looking-glass.

Meanwhile, poor Frederick, ill at heart, stalked about like a spectre, and must have bled to death of the deep wound he had received, had not his friend, with unwearied attention, poured into it the balm of hope. As the words of [...] are to [Page] a lover sacred as holy writ, Frederick, notwithstanding his excellent understanding, was not disinclined to believe that really in ten days a stroke of lightning would tear Babet from him; and William was obliged to laugh him out of this conceit, since to reason him out of it was impossible.

Even although, perhaps, Babet should be saved from the dreaded lightning, would she be disposed to forget her grief in his arms? The hope appeared too bold, for true love would make even a Narcissus modest! William, who coolly considered the situation of affairs, endeavored to remove every doubt, and to convince the timid lover that Babet's youthful innocence, her destitute situation, and the unoccupied state of her heart, would enable him to secure her affection. He encouraged him, at least, to make his eyes the interpreters of his heart, and not to appear ever before her with downcast looks. Frederick promised every thing, but did not keep his word; for first love embarrasses every motion, because it is ever fearful to offend.

They received a very agreeable piece of intelligence on their return to town. The persons who had cut down the tree of liberty, had been taken in another village, and condemned to an ignominious punishment. The two friends, therefore, were enabled, without danger, to continue their little excursions, and Frederick wished to avail himself of this liberty, though a circumstance in itself very indifferent, to prevail upon William to pay Babet a second visit the following day. William, however, more cool than his friend, was afraid that the enthusiastic girl might be displeased, and thought it better to wait till the day after.

Frederick cursed the coldness of his companion, stood the whole day che [...]rless at the window, and wondered to see the people pursuing their occupations so coolly. When it was scarce midnight, he [Page] roused William, who lay fast asleep, and maintained that it was already day-break. It was but the declining moon, which shot a feeble ray into their apartment.

At last the eastern horizon was overspread with purple clouds, and before the first rays of the sun peeped through the grey twilight, the two friends were already in the street. The doors were all shut, and their footsteps alone resounded along the empty pavement. They had this time loaded their pockets with all kinds of provisions, and hoped to prevail upon their benefactress to partake of a frugal meal. William meditated, as he walked along, how he should tempt her from the gloomy grotto, where the terrific objects it contained furnished fresh food for her grief. His care, however, was unnecessary; for when the travellers arrived at the iron gate, they saw Babet sitting under a lime-tree on the lawn, feeding her two hens with crumbs of bread.

The [...]vely creature blushed modestly, and bade them kindly welcome. William secretly made the agreeable remark that her hair was dressed with some degree of care, and that her bosom was more studiously covered than it was the first time they saw her.

They all sat down under the lime-tree. The conversation of the little circle, indeed, was constrained. They seemed to be afraid to display any symptoms of joy. The lovely dreamer was somewhat hurt to perceive that all allusion to her affliction was carefully avoided, and she herself likewise forbore to mention it. William exerted every effort in his power to animate the conversation, and he sometimes succeeded. Babet appeared to feel his anxiety with gratitude, and repaid his exertions by many kind looks. In a word, her natural feelings for the pleasures of life awoke. She again [Page] resumed an interest in what passed around her. Of Frederick's love, however, she entertained no suspicion. A more experienced girl would have guessed, from his vacant stare, his embarrassment when she spoke to him, the blush upon his cheeks when her eye met his, what passed in his heart. But Babet, educated in the seclusion of a cloister, never suspected the power of her charms.

The day passed in the utmost harmony. Babet led her guests through the fields, the meadows, and gardens, pointed out and described to them all its former beauties, every place that was now destroyed. She dwelt with a melancholy pleasure on every spot which had been the favorite of her father, and said, that if she were not so well convinced of her speedy death, she could not endure the melancholy prospect of these scenes, but would fly from her country.

William seized this opportunity to descant on the charms of his native land, and to declare with what cordial welcome she would there be received. He lamented that fate denied him the pleasure of being her deliverer. He ventured even to express the wish that his prayers might avert the fatal lightning.

He then watched her countenance unobserved, to see whether she betrayed any dislike at such an idea; and he had the satisfaction to perceive that, though she was silent, her downcast looks testified seriousness, not displeasure. Contented with his first success, he broke off the conversation, and left to her own imagination to complete the sketch in solitude.

When evening began to spread its shades, the party separated, with the promise of seeing each other daily till the fatal hour arrived. Poor Frederick's heart was more deeply pierced than ever, for Babet, in a few hours, with sisterly solicitude, [Page] developed the whole charms of her soul; and an innocence, which Gessner's pencil alone could pourtray, diffused round her personal cha [...] the glory of an angel.

William's hopes were new sanguine. He calculated upon still more decisive effects from his exertions during the nine days which remained. Babet flew to the grotto—for the first time she found it inspire her with a degree of horror.—She was astonished to feel a secret disgust—and returned in dee [...] meditation to the lime-tree.

CHAP. VIII. THE SPECTRE.

REVIEWERS and undertakers resemble each other in this, that they both perform their respective functions for hire; the latter are paid to mourn, the former to abuse. Both of them are engaged indeed in precisely the same occupation, that of making hired criticisms, the latter upon men who are carried to the grave; the former upon books, which people are at perfect liberty, if they please, to carry to the same place.

Should any body observe that this remark is very unseasonable upon the present occasion, I have two answers ready. First, I follow the example of Cato, who, whatever subject might have been discussed in the senate, always concluded his speech with: Coeterùm puto Carthaginem esse delen [...]ag [...]; and [Page] the authority of this great example must be the more conclusive for my justification, as the republic of letters would evidently gain a great deal more by the extermination of Reviewers than Rome could do by the destruction of Carthage.

Secondly, this remark is not quite so foreign from the purpose as on the first glance might be imagined; for this true history now is at that very period which gives the Prometheuses among the reviewers an opportunity to surpass the work of the gods. Babet, will they say, the rapt enthusiast, that scarce seemed to touch the earth, now too easily admits of consolation, and forgets the murder of her father and brothers, as soon as if merely her lap-dog had torn her handkerchief. There is no consistency in the character!

Very well, gentlemen! It is a pity, however, that mother Nature cares as little for your sage rulers as a lam [...]kin in the meads would care for a dancing-master, who should prescribe how he ought to skip. The celebrated Mr. Huber (I had almost forgot to add, author of the Secret Tribunal) somewhere observes, that "Brutus is the most consistent character in the history of the world." Although such a remark is advanced only because it sounds extraordinary, it follows, from this hyper-critic's own confession, that there are very few consistent characters in the history of the world. The author of the world, we all know, is dame Nature; and if she exhausted her powers on Brutus, Babet may justly hope to be forgiven.

We candidly acknowledge, therefore, that the good young lady, in consequence of the repeated visits of her new brothers, discovered in the last ten days of her life a quite different temper of mind from that which she had displayed when she rejected the casket, with contempt of all terrestrial things. She was now attached to life by secret wishes.

[Page]Three days had Babet, according to her calculation, still to live. On the first she confessed that she had too precipitately prayed for death; on the second she even ventured to think that God too hastily had granted her prayer; and on the third she trembled for the succeeding morn.

As soon as William observed this favourable disposition, he began to suggest doubts of the fulfillment of the prophetic dream. He repeated a number of examples of dreams which had never been fulfilled. He explained as well as he could (for who can perfectly explain it?) the effect of the state of the blood, or excessive agitation of the corporeal organs, upon the mind of the sleeper. Babet did not understand him; but she listened with respect, and secretly wished he might be right.

She had insensibly conceived a strong attachment to William; with this attachment was connected a sisterly confidence, and in their walks she clung to his side with as little constraint as if he had been one of the nuns with whom she used to walk in the gardens of the convent. Frederick, on the contrary, seemed only the moon, which borrowed a feeble ray from the friendly sun. She esteemed him likewise, but it was more with a feeling of friendship. How could it be otherwise? Love had veiled all his splendid and amiable qualities in the mist of reserve.

When, on the evening before the awful day, they separated with beating hearts, the lovely Babet, with trembling voice, entreated her friends to return very early next day, that she might not be utterly deserted in her last hour. William promised for both; and as the sultry evening really portended a storm, they scarce went an hundred yards from Babet's house, to be nearer at hand, and took up their lodgings at an inn.

[Page]A lover, as all the world knows, is ever in extremes. He is in raptures or in despair; he is dumb or talkative; and when in the humour to speak, his subject is so inexhaustible, that he commonly spares the hearer the trouble of an answer; and a tree or a man, therefore, are often equally his confidantes. That Frederick, in the silence of night, in the sleepless hours, should dwell upon the charms of his beloved; that he should descant with all his eloquence on Babet's beauty and innocence, was quite as natural as that William, who could hope to hear nothing new on this subject, should fall asleep. Receiving no answer to his questions, and hearing his companion breathe louder than before, the orator at length perceived that he was uttering his complaints to the bare walls. He was unwilling to disturb his friend's slumber; he rose, went out, and groped his way in the dark along the road.

As during the last ten days he had formed an acquaintance with every stone and tree which stood or lay in the road to Babet's house, it was not difficult for him, in spite of the darkness which surrounded him, to find the well-known path to the abode of his beloved, without stumbling or knocking his head against a post. He arrived safe at the iron gate, and through the rails contemplated with sighs the broken windows, from which a solitary lamp shed a feeble light. He walked backwards and forwards, breathed lengthened sighs, and in the silence of night repeated, sometimes aloud, sometimes in a low voice, the name of Babet.

Alas! he knew not what agonising tortures he had occasioned his beloved by this nocturnal excursion. The timorous maiden had stood at the window ever s [...] her friends had left her, gazing at the gloomy clouds, which gathered in the west, and seemed to carry in their bosom the arrow of death. The distant lightning increased her apprehension [Page] —her heart trembled as often as the flash burst from the cloud!

But what were her feelings when, by this horrid light, she suddenly saw a figure walking backwards and forwards at the iron gate!—when she heard profound sighs, and distinctly heard her name pronounced!

My father's ghost!—The idea struck horror through her whole frame, and her teeth chattered.—"The ghost of my father summons me hence!—My dream was no idle phantom of the brain!—My last hour approaches!—The spirits of the dead are ready to receive me!"

She dropped down upon her knees, and attempted to pray; but she fell senseless upon the floor. Frederick, unconscious of the mischief he had done, had now finished his romantic excursion; for the light streaks which appeared in the east announced the coming day. He returned and awaked his friend. With the first dawn of the morning they were at the door.

They ascended the stair without noise and found the servants still buried in sleep. They imagined that Babet was likewise in bed. William opened the door of her room as carefully as a mother who is fearful of disturbing the slumbers of her sick child. Frederick stood behind him, and threw a timid glance over his shoulders. The maid lay stretched upon the door.

"She is asleep," whispered William, and was about to retire. But Frederick, with ill presaging alarm, advanced nearer, took her hand, found it cold as clay, and screamed, "She is dead!—The terrors of imagination have killed her!" William endeavoured without success, to moderate the transports of his grief. He ran through the room like a person frantic and exclaimed in agonizing despair: [Page] "She is gone!—Is there now a compassionate thunderbolt reserved for me!" With wild cries he threw himself on the supposed corpse— with frantic grief he sprang up to look for some weapon to put an end to his miserable existence. William begged and threatened—sometimes with tenderness, sometimes with anger—in vain! Frederick, heard him not—till at last his friend seized him forcibly in his arms, and shouted in his ear: Man! are you mad?—She is not dead!—her heart beats still!"

Frederick now threw himself down transported beside his beloved, laid his trembling hand upon her heart, felt it beat, and to the most violent grief succeeded the most immoderate expressions of joy. He pressed William to his breast—embraced the old footman—he wept, and shouted. He never thought of applying the proper means to recover her from the swoon—it was enough that she was alive—her heart beat, he thanked heaven with enthusiasm!

Meanwhile, William had roused the servant. Cold spring water was the only cordial with which she could supply him. He sprinkled Babet's face, rubbed her arms and temples, and in a few minutes she opened her eyes.

She looked round wildly, and eagerly pressed William's hand. "I thank you," said she, "for having come so early.—Soon, very soon, and my death-hour knells." William led her to the windows, pointed out to her the beauties of the blushing morn, remarked how the black clouds dispersed, how the thick most formed an ocean in the valley, all indications of a pleasant day. The blushing morn, however, had no charms for Babet. Her eye gazed wildly at the iron gate—there was the place where the spectre stalked—thence issued the dismal groans—thence it had called the name of [Page] Babet. In vain did William endeavor to amuse her mind, and to withdraw her attention from the object on which it dwelt. "Leave me, said she, "I must die—too sure this day I die—My father's ghost has appeared to me—his warning summons has roused me from my sinful hopes.—I go to prepare for death."

Without farther explanation respecting the nature of the apparition, she retired into an adjoining room to pray. Astonished and chagrined, William looked at her, and cursed the demon that, with some new phantasy of a disordered imagination, had blasted the fruits of his exertions. In vain the two friends endeavoured to gather from the domestics, whether, since last night, any thing extraordinary had occurred. They knew of nothing. Babet had ordered them to go to bed, and they obeyed without opposition, for it was no new thing for their mistress not to undress at all. William could now no longer conceal the impression which the circumstance made upon his mind. He dreaded not indeed any miracle of nature; but he dreaded the wonderful effects of imagination, which, so often governed by phantoms of its own creation, silences the feeble voice of reason. In a word, he dreaded not Babet's death, but, what is worse than▪ death—madness. He endeavored, as well as he could, to conceal these melancholy thoughts from his friend, who walked about with tottering steps and folded hands, in visible agitation. Sometimes he stood gazing at the door through which she had disappeared. Sometimes he stopped short, looked at him wistfully, as if to seek consolation in his eye.

After the lapse of an hour Babet returned to the room, and a supernatural serenity sat majestic upon her brow. She spoke little, answered shortly, and seemed afraid to drop a single word that could indicate [Page] a doubt of her approaching death—as if she feared to lose that composure and resignation she had prayed from heaven.

The conversation was very constrained. Of dreams, apparitions, and dying, the brothers would not talk, and the sister would [...]ear of nothing else. They walked up and down together, almost in silence. From Frederick's breast heaved long heavy sighs, as if he himself had been condemned to die. Babet walked about in still meditation, not a breath, not a footstep was heard. Spirits skim along the earth—and Babet was already almost disembodied.

William, from time to time, went to the window, and failed not always to observe, that the morning was delightful and serene, that not a threating cloud hung on the horizon. The visionary maid however, heard his remarks with indifference, for the voice of the spectre still vibrated in her ear.

CHAP. IX. THE STORM.

WHEN the sun had advanced far towards the meridian, and an oppressive heat announced the highest influence of his reign; when his burning rays penetrated through the unshaded windows into the apartment, Babet herself proposed a walk in the grove. It was not, indeed, in order to refresh herself in the cooling shade; for she would have been ashamed, when at the very verge of the world of spirits, to have expressed any corporeal [Page] inconvenience. She wished unobserved to approach the turret which her dream had pointed out as the termination of her pilgrimage, and the humanity which still adhered to her, taught her the tender delicacy of concealing this circumstance from her anxious friends.

William seized the proffered plan of amusement, slight as it was. They went out; and the good-hearted William, whose suspicions had wandered into a wrong track, studiously endeavored to conduct her far from the little island and the hideous grotto. Babet observed it, and said with a smile: "Why this anxiety?—Why should I now with to visit the melancholy remains of my father, since in a few hours I shall see him in glory?"

William sighed softly at her invincible credulity, and Frederick sorrowfully broke the twigs as he passed along from every bush. At last the sultry noon-day heat compelled them to seek the most shady place of the grove, where a gravel foot-path led to a solitary hermitage which received only a feeble light through a little window, round which ivy and wild hopes were entwined.

Here a mossy bank invited them to rest from their fatigue. Babet seated herself between her two brothers; and William, who found that it was important to talk, be the subject what it might, in order to divert the attention of the visionary, took up the most indifferent topics. He descanted upon the beauty of the butterfly, and the industry of the ant. At last, a coat of arms, which was pointed on one of the panes, afforded matter for along and interesting conversation. Among many other useless things, Babet in the cloister had likewise learnt heraldry. The artful William, who really understood little of the subject, affected to be more ignorant than he really was, and with exemplary patience led her to explain all the mummery [Page] of crests, supporters, &c. When upon a critical occasion it is important to withdraw the mind from some ruling object, the most trifling means are not to be despised, since by the association of ideas they awaken they produce the happiest effects. Babet exhausted the science she had acquired in the cloister on the arms of her female friends, whose images recurred to her mind as she dwelt upon topics with which they were connected, or renewed the faded recollection of past scenes. Insensibly the subject withdrew her from the gloomy contemplation of death. Who knows how far William might have succeeded, for two hours had thus clapsed, when suddenly the noise of the distant thunder struck alarm into the little party!

Babet grew pale—the blood forsook Frederick's cheeks—even William was disconcerted, and secretly repined at fortune, which seemed resolved still farther to prove the poor superstitious maid. All three sprang up, and hastened to the door. The horizon was overcast, the wind howled through the trees, the croaking ravens flew to their nests, and the birds flattered about in alarm.

Babet folded her trembling hands: "Follow me!" said she with faltering voice; "leave me not!"

Frederick was so confounded and agitated by what he saw, and what he felt, that he knew not what he did. "Would to God!" said he as he seized Babet's hand, and pressed it eagerly, "would to God I could die with you!"—She started, and gazed at him wildly. She then gently disengaged herself, and flew so rapidly through the thick bushes, that the two friends could hardly follow her. The storm approached nearer and nearer, the big drops fell, the wind whistled, and the rustling leaves were shaken from the trees.

[...]reathless ran Babet through a meadow, which [Page] the river formed into a peninsula, at the extremity of which stood the ruins of the old tower, under the nodding walls of which she resolved to bury herself. William followed her close, and overtook her just as she sunk down exhausted upon a stone, and stretched out her arms to Heaven to receive the angel of death.

Her brothers kneeled by her side. With terror and the agitation of her rapid race her breast was like to burst. William looked round▪ and perceived that in this dangerous situation accident might very easily realize Babet's prophetic dream; for the turret was surrounded by tall oaks, whose tops defied the tempest, and seemed boldly to tempt the lightning down. But it would have been in vain to mention this danger. The luckless Babet was already almost in the agonies of death.

The black cloud hung directly over their head —the thunder pealed tremendous—the lightning darted quicker and more vivid—the wind suddenly died away—the rain ceased—a sullen silence reigned over the sullen landscape—a sultry breeze tainted every flower—death seemed to hang the threatning clouds in maffy chains over their heads— Babet breathed languid—the lustre of her eye was faded—Hark! the lightning crashes upon the turret, shivers the wall, the ruins roll into the river, and the earth trembles.

"Jesu Maria!" cried a voice from the midst of the ruins.—Babet lay lifeless on the ground—the hail descended in torrents—Frederick was motionless—William lifted Babet, who lay senseless, covered her with his great coat, and turned towards the ruins, from whence the voice had issued. He saw, and shuddered.—Through the gaping wall, between stones which still separated and tumbled down, appeared the figure of a young man as if rising out of the grave. Pale and haggard, covered [Page] only with a few rags, he gazed wildly it the strangers, and advanced in silence like a spectre.

"Who art thou?" cried William. The spectre answered not. The rain beat on his uncovered head; he visibly trembled, and endeavored to hide his naked limbs. Roused by William's summons, his friend turned round, and gazed at the figure, which inspired a mingled feeling of compassion and fear. He sprang up, advanced hastily towards the apparition, and cried in a rougher voice, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Spare me!" said the young man with trembling voice; "you see that God has now spared me.—I beheld from the turret how you kneeled▪ by the side of this virtuous maid.—Happy for me that you prize her so much! My Babet will pray for me!"

"Your Babet?" cried Frederick starting back, and eyeing the figure with doubtful penetrating looks, and reluctantly perceived in him an handsome young man, whom want and misery had worn to the bone.

"Your Babet!" repeated William with curiosity.

"My Babet!" said the young man somewhat more firmly, and advanced uninterrupted to the lifeless maid, kneeled beside her, and endeavoured to warm her cold hands between his. Frederick stood gazing speechless—an indignant feeling darted through his heart. He felt as if the odious wish arose in his mind that Babet might never awake.

Meanwhile the stormy clouds had spent their fury, the thunder now rolled at a greater distance, a soft shower revived the earth, the flowers again reared their heads, the birds began to twitter; with the birds and the flowers Babet also awoke, and found herself—in the arms of her brother.

His countenance was the first object which met her half-opened eyes; it was not extraordinary, [Page] therefore, that her imagination, assailed by dreams and by realities, should fancy that she awoke in L [...]ysium. She thought herself deceased, and transported to the abodes of the blessed.

"My brother Philip!" said she in feeble accents, "has death again united us?—Where is our father? —Why comes he not to receive his daughter?"

When he heard the unsuspicious name of brother, peace returned to Frederick's breast. The youth, against whom he thought he had felt an emotion of hatred, suddenly became dear to him— he was Babet's brother!

It was a long time before Babet could persuade herself that she was really alive; the supposed spirit of her brother before her supported the deception, which was not in any degree removed by the presence of her friends, for she believed that they too had been killed by the lightning. The youth, by lengthened misery and continual danger, from which he had not yet escaped, was weakened both in mind and body; he still considered the strangers as pursuers, who thirsted for his blood. In Frederick's bosom, joy on Babet's recovery struggled with the apprehension of what might be the consequence of her having found a brother, who might perhaps disapprove his love. These doubts kept him pensive and silent.

William was the only one who, in a few minutes, recovered his presence of mind. He observed that this place, drenched with rain, and the melancholy prospect of the ruins, was not calculated for receiving mutual explanations. He made a sign to his friend to lead the exhausted Babet home, while he himself supported her tottering brother. The way was long through the dripping grove. Whenever a drop from the branches fell [...]pon Babet's hand or cheeks, the poor maid started▪ [Page] [...] gazed at every tree or bush with a certain va [...]ant smile, which shewed how feebly her reason yet struggled with the delusions of imagination.

Frederick's eyes hung upon her with anxious solicitude; her arm lay in his; he trembled like the aspen-tree, whose overhanging leaves cooled the glow of his cheeks; it was the most painful journey he had ever performed. He thought he should never be able to reach its termination; he looked towards the house, and yet wished that it were miles distant.

William was examined with keenness and apprehension by his haggard companion. The nearer they approached the mansion-house, the more his hollow eye testified suspicion and uneasiness. Often he was on the point of running away, and probably he would have yielded to this impulse had he felt himself strong enough to escape from two vigorous pursuers. He trembled as he entered the house, and his confidence did not return till on the stair he met the faithful old footman, who threw himself at his feet with shouts or joy.

They at last reached Babet's apartment, where the brother and sister viewed every thing around them with looks of wildness and surprise. William prescribed for them refreshment and repose, medicines of powerful virtue even for diseased minds.

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CHAP. X. THE SEPARATION.

CHEVALIER BELLOY, the same whom his sister imagined to be on his way to America, had seen his father and brother murdered by his side, and had withdrawn himself from the fury of his persecutors by taking an asylum among some inaccessible ruins, which in the amusements of his boyish days had been thoroughly explored, and were perfectly familiar to him. Here he ventured for many weeks only to creep out with the owls, to gather wild roots and fruits for his subsistence. At first he supposed that the whole mansion was destroyed, and that his sister too had fallen a prey to the rage of his sanguinary persecutors, till one day, through the chink of his retreat, he saw her in deep sorrow walking at the foot of the tower.

He was on the point of running down to throw himself into her arms, when he was deterred by a dread of the loud expressions of her sudden joy. He did not know who might be in the neighbourhood; whether she might not be a prisoner. Had he not reason to dread spies and ambush in every thicket?—The sorrowful Babet again retired from the tower; and though in a few days after want and affection had overcome all his scruples, and he was determined to come forth in spite of every danger, the lovely form never again appeared to his view.

At last, when he had no longer any means of supporting his existence, he resolved in despair to [Page] quit his retreat, and again throw himself into his sister's arms, or expose himself to the daggers of his blood-thirsty murderers. He had for this purpose fixed upon the day when the roots he had collected by moonlight were exhausted, and he had no longer any means of supporting his wretched existence.

This, however, was the very day when our fugitives had been driven into the grotto by the wild rabble, who filled the garden, the grove, and the whole neighbourhood with their frantic shouts. Philip thought he was betrayed, that this careful search, this roar of the wild beasts for prey was directed against him. More than once, indeed, the tower had been surrounded by the raging mob; the boldest of them ventured into the tower, and clambered over the moss-grown ruins. As the only access to Philip's retreat was by a small opening, before which he had piled up the stones in artful disorder, he escaped their search.

As, however, nothing appeared more certain than that he was the object of their pursuit, his fears were redoubled, and in the first days which succeeded this incident, he did not even trust his life to the friendly darkness of night, but resigned himself a prey to the most pressing hunger and thirst, till he was almost too much reduced to be able to quit the place of his retreat▪

Meanwhile he sometimes saw his sister in the neighbourhood of the tower, and rejoiced to see her safe. Now, however, she appeared to be attended by two strangers, whose suspicious presence prevented him from discovering himself, more especially as the deep grief which Babet's features bore, gave him reason to apprehend that her attendants were no friends but guards.

When first in the obscurity of night he ventured out to allay his thirst in a neighbouring pond, despair [Page] drove him into the court of his father's house; and had he found the door open, he would in spite of all danger have penetrated to his sister's chamber; but all was fast. Should he make a noise, should he knock at the door, must he not meet the suspicious strangers whom he daily saw wandering in the garden? Irresolute he walked about till the first cock-crow chased him back to his ruins.

Yet longer to endure this accumulation of misery was beyond the strength of a young man reared in the lap of prosperity, on whom every joy of life had shed its gentlest influence, and whom the winds of Heaven had never visited too roughly, Want and despair unfolded that courage which▪ effeminacy and profusion, had weakened: for all our virtues and vices are the offspring of natural or artificial wants. He had formed an irrevocable determination the ensuing night to force his way into his father's house, and, if it was possessed by murderers, to die in his sister's arms. The tempest anticipated the execution of his design, sprang open his dungeon, and accidentally threw him into the hands of friends.

Such was the story which he communicated when refreshment had recovered him from the first stupefaction of returning sensibility. The discovery that William and Frederick were prisoners of war inspired him with confidence. Their blue coats, which he had hitherto mistaken for the uniform of the national guard, he no longer viewed with abhorrence, These men had fought for his rights; they were of his political faith, and could not betray him. When similar necessities and similar principles form a point of union among men, the most suspicious souls soon cordially fraternise.

The clouds which had obscured Babet's mind [Page] now began to disperse. She felt that she was alive, and appeared to be pleased at the feeling. William, who anxiously observed every change of her countenance, now ventured more directly to pronounce the prophetic dream to be a delusion of the imagination; and to refute his opinion, she recapitulated the story of the apparition of her father, and the awful summons, with the minutest circumstances. When she led her friends to the window, to show them the place at the gate where the spectre had walked and sighed, Frederick blushed, and stammered out the confession, that he was the figure which had occasioned her so much uneasiness, and he respectfully begged her forgiveness for having sighed so loud.

Babet's joy at this discovery served to conceal the ingenuous shame which glowed in her cheeks, on hearing Frederick's confession. His romantic nocturnal excursion recalled to her mind the uncommon eagerness with which, at the door of the hermitage, he had expressed the wish that he might die with her. Inexperienced as she was in the tender passion, she yet would have sworn that this was love—and the roses on her cheeks changed into the deepest scarlet.

Philip, who had long known that passion, guessed what passed in the heart of the stranger. The conquest his sister had made seemed to give him pleasure, as in his own destitute and unsettled situation he was unable to afford her protection [...]; and he rejoiced at the prospect of her honor being secured, in a union with a man of worth. That the modest, backward Frederick was no seducer his own experience convinced him, for at the first glance he discovered a man unhackneyed in the ways of vice. The same evening, too, William completely removed every doubt, by availing himself of a favourable opportunity to acquaint him with the pure and honorable passion of his friend.

[Page]"Is he a nobleman?" was the only question which the prejudices of this Frenchman of the old school suggested; and when William, by an evasion, had satisfied him upon that subject, he joyfully gave his consent to the proposal, that, as soon as an exchange of prisoners took place, Babet should accompany Frederick as his bride.

The bashful lover meanwhile had remained alone with the object of his wishes, but his courage had ceased with the tempest. He allowed the favorable opportunity of completing in the evening what he had begun in the morning, to escape. They both sat in profound silence—both fixed their eyes on the ground—Frederick because he had already said too much, and Babet because she had heard too much to remain longer doubtful of the situation of his heart.

In the delightful feeling of having escaped the dangers by which they were threatened, the little party spent, in friendly confidence and harmony, the remainder of a day which had begun with such unfavorable auspices. They now began to consult what was to be done with Philip. Babet insisted that he should take refuge in the inaccessible cavern till the republican tempest had spent its fury. Even Philip himself was at first inclined to this proposal. When he was informed, however, of the treasure which had been found, and saw the casket full of diamonds, with the value of which he acquainted the inexperienced company, he suddenly changed his resolution.

He was too generous, indeed, or rather too thoughtless, notwithstanding Babet's entreaties, to take more than a small proportion of his father's bequest. He would not, as he said, diminish the little dowry of his sister, as the three rings which he appropriated to himself were fully sufficient to carry him out of the territories of France. He [Page] then proposed to equip himself in a manner suitable to his rank, hasten to the army of the Prince of Conde, and never again set his foot on the soil of his ungrateful country, till he came back to reclaim his paternal inheritance with armed hand. "Thy sate, my dear Babet," said he with a significant smile, "I commit to these brave men. They are noblemen, they are soldiers, and I rely upon them with confidence. To them I transfer the father's authority and the brother's duties, which fortune now denies me an opportunity to exercise. Under their protection leave this desolate mansion, as soon as they invite you to fly to a more safe and agreeable retreat."

In vain Babet laboured to prevail upon him to prefer the security of the cavern to an unsafe flight; in vain she offered, since he was not to be diverted from his resolution, to accompany him and share every danger. He urged so many plausible and powerful reasons against this proposal, and William, although he did not altogether approve the thoughtlessness with which the Chevalier entrusted the happiness of his sister in the hands of men whom he had never before seen, supported him so ably, that Babet was at last obliged to yield.

The old servant procured his young master the dress of a peasant. They cut off his hair, changed his fair complexion into a sun-burnt olive, and equipped in large wooden shoes, accompanied by the faithful old footman, who knew every bye road and footpath: the inconsiderate youth at midnight took leave of his weeping sister. He first took the road to Montauban, where he expected the assistance of a steady friend to enable him to proceed on his journey.

After his departure, the little society he had left behind lived more than a month in great concord and tranquility. Frederick enjoyed many delightful [Page] hours, but it was only in seeing his beloved; for as often as William either seriously or with raillery reproached him with his timidity, and often as he himself formed the heroic resolution this day to open his heart, and to entreat from Babet's lips the decision of his fate, yet he continued to return at night to town as undecided as he had come, and communicated only to the trees the secret which he ought to have confided to the ear of his mistress.—We can indeed offer but one apology for this conduct. Babet carefully avoided being alone with him, and a declaration of love, even in presence of the best friend, is, God knows why, a very unpleasant task.

Matters, however, could not long remain in this state. It was improper that a young lady of sixteen should receive daily visits from two young officers. In the present situation of the country, indeed, nobody paid any attention to their conduct, and the new marriage code justified many things which formerly would have attracted censure. But Babet herself felt the doubtful nature of her situation, her tender sensibility revolted at it, and her helplessness alone led her to suppress the dictates of her trembling delicacy. To this likewise was added, the general report of a speedy exchange of prisoners, an event which might daily take place. A sudden departure then must render the favorable issue of Frederick's declaration still more doubtful; for experience tells us, that it is easier to obtain a lady's consent, when there is the prospect of a long courtship, and when she has time to think of her new situation. Precipitation might ruin all.

This and much more did William daily urge to his bashful friend; nor was Frederick insensible of the justice of his remonstrances, but he wanted courage to obey his own conviction. One day, as they were walking slowly home in the dusk of the evening, William bethought himself of endeavoring [Page] to give new effect to his solicitations, by suggesting something, the mere possibility of which is sufficient to drive a lover to despair. "What," said he, "if by your procrastination the chastity and innocence of your mistress should be exposed to danger? What, if a horde of frantic persons, hurried on by some criminal ebullition—a circumstance indeed which cannot be foreseen, but which, in the present frenzy of the people, may always be apprehended— should again burst into Babet's house? The first time, the ghastly sight of her father's corpse allayed their fury, but what now will protect her from their brutal outrage?"

Frederick stopped, stared wildly around and trembled.

"Who," proceeded William, "who will answer that even now, while we are walking quietly here"—

"For heaven's sake, no more!" cried Frederick with trembling lips, "you have succeeded, here is my hand.—Sure as these planets revolve over our heads—sure as a God is enthroned above these planets, to-morrow shall I tell her all!"

William received the hand and promise of his friend. In order to facilitate this bold attempt, he resolved to remain at home next day, under pretence of indisposition. Frederick hurried on before him, immers [...]d in thought. He imagined himself at the feet of his mistress, sought words to express his passion, and found that either Babet's language [...], or he had made but [...] in the French tongue.

[...] habitation, scarcely [...] [...]umber, and Frederick [...] the sweet dre [...]ms [...] heard at the [...]. A b [...]nd of [...] of troops [...]. William started from his sleep, [Page] r [...]bbed his eyes, and asked what was the matter.

An officer of the national guard, who was by trade a butcher, told him roughly, that the number of prisoners of war in this little town was by far too great; that symptoms of disorder had been observed, and the municipality had therefore thought proper to transfer the half of their guests to the next department. Lieutenant Perlstadt was among the latter, and therefore he would be so good as to follow him immediately.

Frederick was confounded. William collected himself, and expressed a hope that at least they would not separate him from his friend, but send them together to the same place.

"To separate such friendship," pursued the officer bluntly, "is the very object the municipality have in view." He begged them to make haste, as he had many other prisoners to call out of their beds. "On account of the temper of the people," added he, "who hate all foreigners, you may consider yourselves indebted to the magistrates for giving orders that you should be sent out of the town by night."

William easily saw that all kind of opposition would here be fruitless, Frederick was too much stupefied by the order to be able to make any preparation for his departure. William packed up the few necessaries which belonged to his friend, and whispered in his ear: "Be easy! I will speak to Babet to-morrow upon your affair."

Frederick embraced William, and took leave in silence.—Silently he walked along the streets, surrounded by grenadiers. At the gate he found the troop of his companions already assembled; he joined them without saying a word, and a sigh first relieved the oppression of his breast, when, in the stillness of night, the detachment fi [...]ed past Babet's house.

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CHAP. XI. THE FEVER.

THE lovely mourner did not hear with perfect indifference of the departure of her lover. Besides that a young man who dotes upon a woman with his whole soul must ever have a claim to some consideration, even with the most inflexible beauty, Babet really felt a cordial regard for Frederick; and who knows how far this feeling which she indulged without distrust might have carried her, had not William's presence, unconsciously to both of them, extinguished every softer emotion of his friend?

The sorrow she felt at Frederick's departure was rather sympathy with William's grief; nay, we must confess that this feeling was instantly blended with a sensation of secret joy, because in future she should enjoy William's company without the constraint which the penetrating eye of a lover imposed. Yet let it not be supposed that her mind distinctly avowed this thought. No; it was only an obscure feeling which she never properly explained to herself, and which, perhaps, she did not exactly understand.

With the most childish unembarrassment she laid her hand in his during their walks, or she clung to him when the cold harvest wind rustled through the trees; or she would allow him to carry her over a ditch; or eagerly snatched the glass from his hand when he was over-heated, and was about to swallow a hasty draught.—In a word, she gave [Page] him involuntarily so many proofs of her innocent attachment, and the sparks of love diffused so many new charms over her enchanting form, that it required the infinite affection he bore Jeanette, and the pure friendship he entertained for Frederick, to enable him to avoid the dangerous influence of a passion, which it would have been criminal to indulge.

Never, perhaps, had his constancy sustained a severer trial. Better acquainted than Babet with the wandering of the human heart, he ventured to examine the state of his feelings; he could not but perceive that the beauty and innocence of this maid powerfully interested him, he trembled when he contemplated the precipice on which he stood, and resolved, the better to avoid the danger, to hasten the discovery which he had promised to communicate of his friend's attachment.

He was not deterred from the performance of his promise by observing that Babet avoided all conversation upon this subject; that she endeavored to interrupt what she could not altogether shun. He declared to her with warmth and importunity, that it was in her power to make his friend happy, and at the same time to confer the greatest happiness upon himself. Babet had but one answer to all that William urged so eloquently in favor of the absent lover.

"But do I love him?" said she blushing, while she peeped through the veil over her long silken eye-lashes. "But do I love him?" repeated she with glowing cheeks, as she darted a glance at the more fortunate advocate, which told him what he durst not suppose. In a word, the suitor was obliged to content himself with the equivocal answer: that she would leave her resolution to be formed by time, that she would not studiously resist his [Page] wishes, but would candidly acknowledge whenever she began to feel any thing more for Frederick than esteem."

His absence, while William was daily with her, was not very well calculated indeed to effect so favourable an alteration. And why then did not William modestly decline his visits, when he but too distinctly perceived that his intercourse with Babet would be fatal to his friend?—Two sophistical reasons, backed by vanity, prevented this necessary step. "She is quite alone," thought she, "she has no protector but me. I cannot venture to abandon the young helpless orphan to chance. And besides, the interest of my friend! Must I not rather redouble my visits, to talk to her daily of his accomplishments, and thus by degrees animate her heart to love?"

Alas! all this might have perfectly succeeded, had he only apprised her of the secret that he was married; that he was united to an amiable wife, and was now perhaps a father. But we must here confess a weakness in our hero—a weakness which he had in common with three-fourths of his sex Although unquestionably he laid no claim to Babet's love, yet he secretly felt himself so flattered by it, that such a discovery daily became more unpleasant. Often the decisive word hovered upon his lips; but one of Babet's ingenious glances again overthrew his resolution; and though he did not use the smallest effort to cherish the flame, it was high treason to friendship and to love not to extinguish it. Far be it from us, therefore, to attempt to justify our hero's foible, who, in this instance, allowed himself to be governed by his vanity.

[...] did not attempt to justify himself at the bar of [...] conscience. He bitterly reproached his own conduct, and daily procrastinated with honest but [...] [...]solutions, till a good angel came seasonably to his relief.

[Page]One evening when he entered his apartment in profound meditation, he found a letter from Jeanette lying upon the table. He blushed, pressed the well known characters to his lips, and hastily broke the seal. She informed him of her happy delivery, described the beauty of the lovely boy, her maternal transports, her anxiety to see the beloved father. All was tenderness and love. Not a trace of jealousy was to be found in the whole letter; every line discovered the fondest confidence, which rejected the most distant thought of the possibility of infidelity. Ha! this generosity touched him to the quick. A tear started in his eye; he raised his eyes, and secretly swore to God and his conscience to appear before Babet next day with this letter in his hand.

And indeed this time he would have kept his word, but the caprice of fortune was not yet weary of embittering his cup of life. In th [...] morning William awoke in a strong fever, which had been occasioned by a cold he had caught in coming home one wet harvest evening. At first he paid no attention to it. He attempted to rise and put on his clothes, but scarcely had he left his bed, when the fever attacked him more violently. One shivering fit succeeded another, and again compelled him to return to bed.

There was but one physician in the town, who combined with William's impatience to increa [...]e a slight indisposition. On the fifth day he felt his strength so impaired by a profusion of drugs, that he began to fear he should never more revisit his native land.

When Babet had for somedays expected in vain a visit from her friend, she sent a peasant boy to the town to inquire after him. The news of the danger in which the man she secretly loved was placed, plunged her into [...]spe [...]able anxiety. An hundred [Page] times she was on the point of flying to his bed side, and an hundred times her female modesty withheld her. She now felt, and for the first time acknowledged to herself, how much she was attached to William. She now saw that it was on his account that life had acquired new charms. Two or three times a day she sent the boy to town to bring her tidings of his health. The impatience with which she expected his return, the inquisitive anxiety with which she ran to meet him, indubitably testified the warmth of her attachment.

William's illness, though not dangerous, was very lingering. It left a languor and debility behind, which prevented him from going abroad. In a few weeks he again walked through the room, but he could not mount the stair, and durst not venture to expose himself to the bleak autumn winds. He always sent, however, the most flattering accounts to his anxious friend, and was so accustomed to the appearance of the little messenger, that at the hour when the latter used to arrive he stood at the window, and expected him with impatience.

All at once the boy failed to come at the usual hour. He came not in the morning; he did not appear in the evening. This surprised William the first day; the second it gave him uneasiness; the third his anxiety was extremely painful; and on the fourth he could no longer endure the tortures of suspence. He threw on his great-coat, supported himself on a crutch, and slowly bent his way along the well-known road.

When he saw at a distance Babet's habitation, his heart beat; but he carried his talisman, Jeanette's letter, in his bosom, and it was the anxiety of friendship alone which caused his agitation. Expectation redoubled his strength and his speed. He entered the gate with inquisitive looks; he went through the desolate court; he ascended the stair, [Page] found all the doors open, and all the apartments empty. Not a trace was to be seen of Babet or her servant; not a sound announced the presence of a human being.

"Perhaps," thought he, "some new tumult has compelled her to take refuge in the cavern." He endeavoured to grope his way in the dark down to the dungeon, and to find the place where the entrance of the cavern was guarded by loose stones. He found it, and whispered softly—then louder and louder: "Babet! It is I! it is your friend!"— In vain, all was silent.

"Perhaps," did hope again suggest, "solitude has renewed her enthusiastic turn. Perhaps I shall find her in the grotto."—With much difficulty he succeeded in finding his way back through th [...] dark winding passages. He went to the garden, traversed the grove through the leafless trees, went softly over the bridge, stood before the door of the grotto, and saw nothing but the picture of desolation.

"My God," exclaimed he, "what can have become of the helpless creature?"—With exhausted strength he pryed round the whole neighbourhood, visited the hermitage, searched the ruins of the tower, through which he clambered, calling every where the name of Babet—but in vain.

One time the murmur of the stream deceived his ear; again the buz of a grashopper in the neighbouring thicket. Still he hoped to clasp Babet; but his hopes deceived him, and every moment his strength decreased. At last he sunk down exhausted under the lime tree on the lawn, and fell into a kind of unconscious stupor. "Is there then no compassionate mortal at hand, who can give me some intelligence of her?—Would I could but see the little messenger?"—In vain; his vows were unheard, and the approaching night obliged him at [Page] last to think of returning home without being able to form one probable conjecture respecting Babet, to cheer him on his solitary way.

Distracted by gloomy presages, tortured by the thought of the despair into which his friend would be plunged by the intelligence, he proceeded on to the town in sorrowful plight, his head reclining on his breast, when he met a peasant boy chanting merrily, "Allons, erfans de la patrie!" The sound roused him from his reverie. He looked up—it was the little messenger. "Ha!" cried he hastily, "what has become of the lady, who for some weeks past sent you daily to inquire for me?"

"The lady?" said the boy carelessly, "I don't know. Three days ago she engaged me to come to her, as usual, the following day. When I went, however, she was gone; I found nobody at all in the house."

The boy could tell him nothing more. Tired of importunate questions, he took off his hat, again began to sing, and went his way.

CHAP. XII. THE CONFLAGRATION.

BABET's sudden elopement made so violent an impression upon William, that his illness became more serious than ever, and he would not perhaps have escaped a dangerous relapse, if he had leisure to dwell upon his situation, and had followed the advice of his physician, who ordered [Page] him to keep his bed; for nothing, perhaps, tends more to confirm sickness than such a regimen. He now forgot his own health, and made incessant inquiries after Babet in all the neighbouring country; traversed every road, and searched avery village, to discover some traces of her. Thus the fresh air and exercise superseded the physician, and completely cured the patient without farther prescription.

His conscience now became uneasy, and smarted severely at the least touch. To the blame which he justly had incurred, his ingenuous sensibility added a new charge, which preyed upon him no less acutely. When after long inquiry and reflection William could discover no other reason for Babet's mysterious flight, vanity at last whispered him, that she had fled from him to seek that cure from the soothing hand of time, which his coldness had apprised her that she could not expect from love.

Alas! had he but told her sooner that he was married, this would never have happened. If a traveller ignorant of his way comes to a thick gloomy wood, and finds an high road, he proceeds with caution; even a foot-path may induce him to go on; but if there is neither beaten track nor path-way, he returns. So is it with the labyrinth of Love, in which Cupid's bye roads abound, but through which, too, the great high road of Hymen leads. If the latter is shut, some Werter seeks a forbidden path; a virtuous maid turns quick and flies, however sweetly Love's groves and nightingales may entice.—Babet would have overcome her passion, she now had been the bride of his friend, had not childish vanity—Alas! how he blushed for his weakness!—and be assured, the worst kind of shame is that which surprises us when there is none to witness its effects.

Where now was he to inquire for Babet?— [Page] Where obtain intelligence of her?—It was dangerous to inquire after her with too much anxiety. The steps of the prisoners were watched with jealousy; their conversation and their conduct were marked. Babet's family was obnoxious; the warm interest he expressed for her might excite suspicion of a secret connection, and at this time a secret connection was always considered a conspiracy.

He durst venture, therefore, only to put indirect questions, or endeavor by some artifice to discover what he sought; but the unsatisfactory answers which he thus obtained, afforded him no light in his darkness. He at last was silent, and expected from accident a clue to the mystery.

In order, if possible, to put himself in the way of such a discovery, he wandered about from morning till night through all the villages in the neighbourhood, and failed not from time to time to visit Babet's habitation, which he still found desolate and forlorn.

One evening he wandered weary with his search through a village, returning cheerless home with still renewed disappointment. Scarcely had he got through the village, when suddenly he heard a cry of Fire! He looked back, and saw a cottage in flames, which spread so rapidly, that before William could reach the spot, the neighbouring houses were in a blaze. The inhabitants flocked together from all quarters; every thing that could be rescued from the flames was saved, and William vigorously contributed his assistance to carry off whatever he could reach. Sometimes he bore a chest upon his shoulders, which anxiety alone enabled him to carry; now he tottered under heavy bundles of linen; and again, to recover himself, stood at the well to supply water. The flames continued to rage, the fire gained ground, those who endeavoured to extinguish it shouted, the unfortunate proprietors lamented their fate, and the fire bell rang.

[Page]A piercing cry suddenly burst through the dreadful noise, and struck William's ear. He made his way to the place from which the voice of woe proceeded, and saw a young woman rolling herself on the ground in the agonies of despair. She had been in the fields at work when the fire broke out; she ran breathless to the spot, and found her cottage in flames. She had left a sucking infant in the cradle, and a boy of eight years old to watch his little sister. Neither of them was any where to be found; the flames prevented all access to the cottage, and the roof every moment threatened to fall in.

The woman lay on the ground, tearing her hair, and uttering such bitter cries as cut the hearts of the by-standers. "My children! my children!— My Antony! my little Babet!"—William could not sustain this cruel spectacle. Without consideration—for the [...]llest reflection would, on the present occasion, have deterred him from the rash deed—he plunged into the flames.

The spectators shuddered—the mother raised herself on her knees, and stretched her hands to heaven in the attitude of prayer. She could not speak—she only cried, and God heard her cries!— With the screaming boy in one hand, and the sleeping babe in the other, their deliverer returned in half a minute, and, almost suffocated with dust and smoke, dropped senseless at the feet of the weeping mother.

Her joy expressed itself in the wildest transports. She pressed the children warmly to her breast— laughed, wept, and prayed—crept to William, kissed his feet, bathed him in tears, blessed him!— Then she raised the little suckling to Heaven, and ordered the boy to fold his hands, and pray for his benefactor. The old men stood round—tears hung on their grey eye-lashes; they pulled off their caps [Page] when William again opened his eyes, and gazed at him with respect as a superior being.

The flames were at last extinguished; no lives were lost; William was the only person who had sustained much injury, and lay unable to crawl home. "Generous stranger," said the woman, "willingly would I carry you to my cottage, but I have none to offer you!"—"Come to mine, come to mine," cried an hundred voices. They contended for the honor of entertaining the stranger, who had so magnanimously risked his life. An old man at last obtained the preference, because his house was nearest. William was removed to it with the utmost tenderness, and every thing was provided that could contribute to remove the pain, or conduce to his refreshment.

The grateful woman watched all the first night beside him. She sat with the babe at her breast by his bed-side, and offered secret prayers to Heaven for his recovery. They had applied to his wound a salve composed of olive oil and sweet cream, mixed with some white lead, a remedy which so greatly assuaged the pain, that about midnight he fell asleep, and next morning when the day was well advanced he awoke, greatly strengthened and [...]efreshed.

To what delightful sensations does he awake, whose first reflections are on the good action he performed the day before! Delightful sensations! —The happy mother sat before him, and smiled with ineffable benignity. She held out to him the little Babet, as if she would have said: "See there that lovely innocent; to thee she owes her life!" The dear name of Babet awakened in his mind a train of agreeable ideas, which perhaps yesterday, when the mother expressed her agonising grief, had unconsciously assisted to compel him to the rash attempt. He now learned that the husband and [Page] brother of the young woman served in the national guard; that they had lately been ordered on an expedition, from which they were daily expected to return; and that, reduced to poverty by the conflagration, they would feel nothing so poignantly as their inability to testify their gratitude.

William was so unweariedly tended with the most anxious care, that in a few days he was in a situation to quit the house of his benevolent host. He was followed with blessings from every quarter. The young woman accompanied him out of the village; and when he was about to leave her, she attempted to kiss his hand. She entreated him with tears not to forget her, but as often as his walks were in this direction to call at her house, and taste the joys of the noble action he had performed.

He promised to visit her again, shook her heartily by the hand, and, accompanied by the delightful feeling of having been the benefactor of an honest family, which he considered r [...] [...] enough, he walked light and cheerily home.

CHAP. XIII. THE PASSPORT.

WHILE all this was passing upon the agitated theatre of French liberty, Nature had set free a little captive, who had long been expected with anxiety. Jeanette was delivered of a boy— lovely as a May-day would I say, were all Maydays [Page] lovely. To use a comparison more precise, the little William was lovely as every mother considers her first-born son. Jeanette, as is usual with mothers, thought him very sensible at the end of fourteen days. She alone saw him laugh, she alone saw in his scarce visible nose the counter part of the hawk nose of her husband. She remarked that he already knew her, that he stretched out his hands to her—In a word, the boy was just such a prodigy as the whole world is peopled with, if we were to believe what mothers tell us.

Poor Jeanette's joy at the birth of her boy was greatly embittered by the intelligence of William's captivity. It was some consolation to her, indeed, that his life was no longer exposed to the swords and bullets of the enemy, and that she might now hear or read of battles without trembling. But yet was not her beloved exposed to a thousand dangers, which perhaps it might be more difficult to parry than the grenadier's bayonet in the open field? Did he not live in a country were vague suspicion passed for convicted guilt, and where the people at once pronounced and executed the sentence?—But, should his prudence and discretion elude the ever weakful jealousy of his foes, might he not be sick?—A new climate, anxiety, ennui, every thing which can affect the health, may lay him on a sick bed, and who then is to care for him? —Who watch and tend him?—Who give him his medicines at the proper moment?—Paid hirelings! who with pleasure would see him die, in order to rob the deceased stranger!—Has he not a wife whom love and duty call to his aid?—The journey is dangerous, but do love and duty shrink from any difficulties?—The journey is attended with many obstacles and hardships, but is love acquainted with trifles like these?—Did William weigh all these considerations when he came from the camp [Page] to Munster?—But the mother must leave her newborn child—Alas! that indeed is the hardest condition of all!—The little sweet creature is so infinitely dear to her! almost as dear as his father!— Her heart is distracted, but at length decides for him—him who by his unbounded love has acquired a right to every sacrifice.

Jeanette made every arrangement which maternal anxiety could suggest for the most careful treatment of her child. She committed him to the superintendance of a clergyman's widow, who was her friend and neighbor. She left him in the hands of a nurse, an honest country woman who loved the boy as her own child. The moment of separation was dreadful, but she tore herself away, and obeyed the dictates of the most sacred duty. Accompanied only by the faithful Peter, she set out on her journey, and arrived safe at Paris, at this period the theatre of Robespierre's enormities.

She had taken the precaution to feign herself poor, and Peter appeared a perfect sans culotte. She accordingly enjoyed the most enviable advantage which could be possessed at this moment, that of remaining unnoticed. Hitherto a guardian angel seemed to have guided her steps, but no difficulties increased upon her which it was difficult for an helpless woman to surmount. She remained several weeks in Paris before she could learn to whom she ought to apply for a passport, to carry her safe through the interior of France. She was sent from one office to another, and no where was she treated with the respect due to her sex. Here a taylor gave himself airs, there she was exposed to the vulgar jests of a peruke-maker, dressed out with the tri-coloured cockade; here she was hooted by a secretary, and there imposed upon by a clerk. Those who treated her best, advised her not to excite suspicion by too much importunity, and bade her be patient till to-morrow.

[Page]Judge of the situation of a poor helpless woman, who alone in the midst of this huge Golgotha unacquainted with the dangers by which she was surrounded, trod every moment on the brink of a precipice, knew nothing of the forms it was necessary to observe, and among a million of pretended philanthropists, could not find a single good man, who showed a real principle of humanity and friendship. Think of the misery of a woman who longed, with the most glowing impatience, to be again united to her husband; who every morning left her lodgings with renewed hopes that now she should attain the object and reward of her fond perseverence, when she returned home again in the evening weary and forlorn. Thus did several weeks elapse, and the sickness of hope disappointed, began at length to give place to despair.

One morning, when she had wandered from street to street, and from office to office, and had every where in vain sought humanity under the red cap, exhausted with fatigue, she lost herself in the garden of the Thuilleries, sunk down upon a bench, and, without regarding the company passing by, bitterly wept her fate. Many stopped and gazed at her a moment. Many, accustomed to the daily spectacle of misery, passed carelessly along. Nobody asked, "Poor woman, what is the matter with you?"

A beautiful woman, elegantly dressed in the Grecian style, now came down one of the walks. Jeanette did not observe her. The lady observed Jeanette with sympathy, did not stop indeed, but frequently looked back. After passing on a little she returned, repassed the mourner, and whispered▪ "Do not weep, my child! To shed tears is a crime here!"

Jeanette looked up.—Scarce had she time to observe the benignant profile of the lovely stranger; [Page] but the features were so blended with humanity and kindness, that they instantly inspired the poor outcast with confidence. She started up, followed the lady, and eagerly exclaimed: "Ah! madam, pity a poor helpless stranger!"

The angelic creature turned timorously round, and said eagerly: "Not here! not here!—Come in the evening to the Rue St. Hanoré, and inquire at number 27, for Theresa Cabarrus. *

She disappeared, but her words remained deep in Jeanette's memory. With impatience she expected the evening; hope lent her wings; with serene confidence she appeared before the amiable Theresa.

"Forgive me, Madam," said the gentle creature, "forgive me for seeming this morning to treat you with harshness; but you know not how dangerous it is in this place to show compassion for the unfortunate. Here we are alone. Impart to me your distress. Your figure, and the expression of grief on your countenance, have inspired me with the wish to be of service to you. I have a little influence. Speak freely."

Alas! such accents! such kind attentive goodness were now strange to Jeanette's ear and heart. She burst into tears, but they were tears of melancholy pleasure. The artless narrative of her simple tale affected Theresa. She detained the amiable wife, to whom she felt herself attracted, to supper, and set down to write a note. She then entertained her guest with the most unconstrained cheerfulness, and carefully avoided touching upon any chord which did not found in unison with innocent gaiety. Jeanette, animated with new hopes, forgot the sorrows by which she was oppressed. What Theresa said was so kind and so elegantly [Page] expressed, that even a woman was compelled to yield her whole attention. The few hours which elapsed till supper flew rapidly and pleasantly away. They sat down to table—and when Jeanette lifted her cover she found a passport in the plate.

CHAP. XIV. THE MAYOR.

THE happy pilgrim breathed silent blessings over her guardian angel when she saw the barrier of Paris shut behind her. Engrossed with delightful contemplations she lolled in the corner of her chaise. The most enchanting landscapes passed unnoticed. She never stopped at any stage. Twenty times a day indeed was Jeanette obliged to show her passport; but it was immediately returned to her with sulky looks, because the most dexterous inquisitor could find no error in it.

The anxious wife, hastening to her beloved husband, allowed herself neither repose nor refreshment; the third day had dawned, when a restless slumber overpowered her for a few moments. A large town now presented itself to their view, where she resolved to stop till next morning, to recruit her exhausted strength.

As she entered the gate she heard a noise in the neighboring streets, to which at first she paid no attention. When she came near the market-place, however, she saw an immense crowd of people, who [...]locked together from all quarters. She was now [Page] alarmed; for all she had read and heard of the wild ebullitions of popular fury suddenly recurred to her mind.

Alas! in a luckless hour she had entered within the walls of the town. It would be supersluous to relate how the tumult arose. The people resemble the sand in the desart, which at first whirled round by the gentle breeze in little volumes, is by degrees agitated deeper and deeper, till it swells into a sweeping torrent which overwhelms every thing it meets, tears the trees up by the roots, and buries men and houses in destruction.

Some Jacobin had been preaching up the plundering system of an equal division of property, and collected the journeymen, and porters, and servants, by the force of their arms to carry it into effect. The enfuriated people assembled in crowds to murder a source of rich people, and share their inheritance under the banner of liberty.

When Jeanette entered the town, the people were entertaining themselves with that spectacle with which they had so often been glutted since the 9th Thermidor, that of bloody heads carried in procession upon pikes. The carriage was suddenly caught in the crowd, and could move neither backward nor forward. Jeanette trembled and grew pale when she perceived the frantic rabble, who, instead of the former images of saints and consecrated banners, carried in triumph the bloody ensigns of human heads which they had cut off.

Peter sat on the coach-box, and gazed with open mouth and looks of horror. The lofty box made the poor fellow, against his will, a prominent object. When the sanguinary rout came up, one of the standard-bearers thought proper to practise the cruel jest of clapping the goary head to Peter's nose, and insisted on his kissing it. As Peter did not understand a word of French, and therefore [Page] did not know what they required him to do, the natural disgust which such a spectacle inspired, taught him to turn away the bloody head with both his hands. But the greater reluctance he expressed, and the more he protested, in German, against this violence, the more obstinate the people became, and with frantic shouts insisted that he should obey.

Jeanette dropped down senseless. Her faithful servant was torn from the box, kicked and abused in the most cruel manner. Peter must have fallen a sacrifice to their fury, if the attention of the miscreants had not been withdrawn from the footman to his mistress in the carriage. "This way, brothers!" cried one of them in a brutal tone, "here is an Austrian lady, who cannot stand the sight of royalist blood." They broke open the carriage, pulled out the unconscious victim, searched her pockets, plundered her of her money, took her passport, tore it to pieces, and scattered it in the air.

Already a thousand voices thundered her doom, and a savage monster, with an ax in his hand, offered to undertake the office of her executioner. Most seasonably, at this moment, a young man, of a genteel appearance, followed by a detachment of the national guard, made his way through the crowd, and, in the name of the law, enjoined tranquillity. This command, enforced by threatening bayonets, procured respect, and rescued the victim. The people dispersed with murmurs.

When Jeanette opened her eyes, she found herself, surrounded by soldiers, in the arms of a young man, who gazed at her with complacency. He announced himself as the mayor of the town, and so politely congratulated himself on his good fortune in being her deliverer, that Jeanette immediately recognised him to be an elegant, accomplished [Page] man.—"Take courage, madam," said he with respectful interest, "the danger is over. Have the goodness to allow me to conduct you to my house. My wife and I will do every thing in our power to give you a better opinion of our town."

The mention of a wife redoubled Jeanette's confidence; she accepted his offer with thanks; he assisted her into the carriage, which the guard surrounded, and he himself followed on foot. Poor Peter was so beaten and bruised, that he was not able to mount the coach-box, but was obliged to be led by two grenadiers. He had, at last, found out what they wished him to do, and in whimpering voice cursed the horrible proposal. "Were there never," said he to his conductors, "another woman for me in the world but here, and were she the fairest that ever was seen, I should not come for her to your country, and be forced to kiss bloody heads." The soldiers looked at him and laughed, for they did not understand what he said—Every body knows, but the circumstance has never been explained, even by Kant, that an ignorant man always laughs when he does not understand a thing.—The mayor's lady welcomed the stranger with polite hospitality. She was ushered into an elegant apartment, which was furnished with every conveniency; the table was covered with all kinds of refreshments. They pressed her earnestly to partake of them; but when she assured them that she wanted nothing but repose, they politely withdrew and left her alone.

Her first care was to thank God on her knees for her deliverance. She threw herself on the bed, which was adorned with silken curtains, that formed an agreeable shade. She fell asleep, and did not awake till the evening, greatly refreshed. Scarcely had a little noise she made announced [Page] that she was awake, when the mistress of the house drew aside the curtains, kindly inquired how she did, and invited her to supper in the family circle.

Jeanette appeared in full splendour of youthful beauty. The roses which terror had chased from her cheeks, bloomed afresh. Refreshing sleep, and a delightful dream of having met with her husband, had kindled a delicate fire in her eye. Every body complimented her, all pressed round her, every one endeavored to say something civil, and Beaublanc himself (for that was the mayor's name) distinguished himself by his assiduity, conversed with her in the most agreeable manner, and strove to anticipate her most trivial wishes.

Jeanette would have forgot herself in this pleasing society, if her anxiety to see William had not been much more powerful than the charms of any kind of amusement. Immediately after supper she entreated her deliverer to send for post horses, as she wished to pursue her journey, even by night. Her request seemed to throw him into some confusion. He represented to her the necessity of repose; he called a physician, who happened to be in company, to give weight to his remonstrance; and when nothing could shake the impatience of the anxious wife to be gone, he exaggerated the dangers to which she exposed herself, as the people still swarmed disorderly round the house; he promised her next day to take precautions for her safety. All was in vain. Jeanette persevered in her resolution to set off immediately.

Beaublanc at last was obliged to acquiesce, and begged to see her passport, which his duty required him to examine. Jeanette hastily put her hand in her pocket—but how great was her terror when she found neither passport nor money, and was obliged to bring out her hand empty!—"Ah! God!" exclaimed she, turning pale as ashes— [Page] "Ah! God!"—She could say no more—her knees shook, and she was forced to sit down.

The mayor seemed to receive the news of this unfortunate accident with feigned concern, and a secret joy was painted in his countenance. He comforted her with the utmost kindness, and promised to write immediately to Paris, giving a faithful statement of the accident, and immediately procure her a new passport. He assured her likewise that she need not be under any uneasiness respecting money, for he should consider himself happy in being permitted to lend her. He entreated her, during the short delay, to consider his house as her own, and in the mean time to announce to her husband her speedy arrival.

She listened to all he said in silent stupor, and could only express her thanks in broken sentences.

The proposals, indeed, were the most agreeable which, in her situation, could be made; and since fortune had resolved to make her the object of its caprice, it was happy that she had found a house were she could remain with comfort and with respectability, and await a more favorable turn of her affairs. She yielded, therefore, to the necessity of circumstances, and with tears entreated the mayor to hasten his proffered assistance.

He repeated the consolatory assurance, promised this very evening to dispatch a courier to Paris, and in the mean time enjoined his domestics to do every thing to render the agreeable stranger as happy as her situation would admit. "My example," added he, "will teach you how to conduct yourselves."

Alas! this last was the only point in which he kept his word. Beaublanc belonged to that class of good weak men who are irresistibly attracted by new charms. He was married to an amiable woman, with whom before his marriage he had [Page] carried on a long and romantic courtship, and encountered a thousand obstacles before he attained the object of his wishes. He loved her still, his heart was hers, but his licentiousness she was not able to restrain. Many a tear she wept in secret; sometimes a tender reproach escaped her, which the young man felt indeed, but it produced no other effect but to render him more guarded in his intrigues, and more secret in his infidelities. When he was detected, he threw himself at her feet, clasped her knees, wept, intreated, called himself a wretched licentious profligate, and could not conceive, when he possessed so amiable a wife, how he could have any taste for other charms. In a word, he never ceased till she tenderly forgave him.

After these occasions succeeded an interval of domestic happiness for two or three months, during which his wife was satisfied with his conduct, and he was satisfied with himself; for after such occurrences he seriously endeavoured to correct his bad habits, but all his resolution vanished if a new beauty fell in his way. In a word, he resembled a needle, which turns steadily to its pole so long as it is not attracted by some new and more powerful magnet.

Jeanette's appearance happened just in one of these intervals of domestic tranquility, during which Beaublanc had been the best husband in the world, and when he had solemnly promised after his last error never to wander again. Who could have suspected that he should thus accidentally meet with a woman like Jeanette? who seemed as if formed by an adverse fate on purpose to triumph over his firmest resolutions. When he rescued her from the fury of the populace; when she lay senseless in his arms, and her half-covered bosom beat against his; when her lily cheeks touched his, and his mouth received the first breath which reanimated [Page] her lips—ah! his heart was gone!—His attention, his hospitality, his humane exertions sp [...]ang from a source which his experienced wife easily discovered. These suspicions which had been but too often justified, awaked. She trembled, and concealed her apprehension, too patient to cry Fire on perceiving the first sparks, and too generous to revenge the inconstancy of her husband on an innocent stranger.

During the first day she consoled herself in the expectation of the speedy departure of her guest; but when the disagreeable accident of the loss of the passport was mentioned, when she discovered the secret joy of her husband, and saw herself compelled to entertain so dangerous a rival in the house for several weeks, her only hope was in the character of the stranger, whose dignified manners and modest reserve inspired her with confidence that the licentious views of her husband would here be disappointed.

She was not mistaken. It was some time before Jeanette perceived the unwelcome triumph of her charms; and when she could no longer doubt the fact, it caused her the most cruel vexation. Her situation became more painful than ever. What could she now do?—Was she to [...]ease with importunities the man who had saved her life, and given her a secure asylum in his house?—But he had not yet made any express declaration of his passion. His looks only spoke what he felt; a thousand little attentions betrayed the state of his heart. It was possible that he struggled with himself, that he endeavored to extinguish his rising attachment, and in this case he deserved pity rather than reproach. How happy would she have been to have aided his struggling virtue by a sudden slight! but whither could she fly, without money, and without a passport?

[Page]Should she confide the secret to her kind hostess? Ought she to awaken the jealousy of an unsuspecting wife; and, as a reward for her sisterly attention, plant a dagger in her heart? No! She rather chose to be silent, to conceal her anguish, to throw a veil over her grief, and resolved as much as possible to avoid the company of Beaublanc, and to wait the arrival of her passport in solitude, which she took every opportunity to indulge. She contrived many pretexts for spending the forenoon in her own apartment. In the afternoon she was going to write to William, or an head-ache furnished her with an apology, or she walked with her hostess in the garden. Often too unwelcome guests detained the mayor, so that he found but little opportunity to enjoy the company of his new love.

The conduct which Jeanette observed was indeed perfectly well calculated to keep Beaublanc at a distance; but it could have little effect in repressing his passion, since perpetual obstacles only inflamed him the more, and drove him to despair. The more his wife felt herself indebted to the delicate and discreet conduct of the generous stranger, the more expedients did Beaublanc contrive to prolong Jeanette's stay, in the hope that a favourable opportunity would at last lead to the accomplishment of his wishes.

For the attainment of his object he was not very scrupulous about the means he employed. A month had elapsed, the new passport had really arrived, but Beaublanc concealed it. During this period Jeanette had written eight letters to her husband; but Beaublanc had suppressed them, and his jealousy delighted to observe the anguish of the wife, who considered William's silence as an ill presage. He himself undertook to make inquiries in the place where William resided, but only to communicate [Page] to her equivocal intelligence. Sometimes he gave the anxious wife reason to suspect the death of her husband; sometimes he told her of a prisoner of war answering his description who had married a rich heiress.

With regard to the passport, it was easier to mislead her unsuspecting confidence; for what could be more natural than in the revolutionary confusion which now prevailed in Paris that such a tri [...]e should be forgotten?—A letter to Theresa remained unanswered. Theresa and William were silent precisely for the same reason.

The poor forlorn Jeanette, separated from all she loved and honored, trembling for the life of her husband, of her child, wept bitter tears in secret. As Beaublanc had now completely laid aside the mask, as he became more pressing, and did not hesitate eve [...] to offend her tender ear with his ardent passion, her sorrows reached the highest pitch.

She endeavored by raillery and remonstrance, by severity and by mildness, to recall him to the path of reason and of duty, but in vain. He remained unmoved by her tears, deaf to her representations, and callous to the silent grief of his wife. He was at no pains to conceal the hope that William might be dead. He laboured to render her familiar with this frightful idea. He insinuated how easy it would be for him, according to the present marriage code of France, to procure a separation from his wife. He dropped hints of his wealth, his consequence, the splendid life which he could enable a wife whom he loved to enjoy. In a word, he left no arts unemployed which could shake Jeanette's conjugal fidelity. Her passions he likewise endeavored to engage by the display of an elegant figure which was animated and adorned by the glow of love; and he exerted himself to give it new charms by the most tasteful display of dress.

[Page]It is unnecessary to assure the reader that all his arts were bassled, and fell harmless from Jeanette's heart, like a blunt arrow from a mail of steel. Not a foul drop ever mingled in the pure fountain of her feelings. Never once did her vanity listen with compl [...]cency to his passion, and even the certainty of William's death would have produced no alteration in her sentiments. But this did not at all contribute to render her situation less wretched. She was dependent upon a man who laboured to obtain his criminal object at every risk; who, as appeared, did not even shrink from the commission of a crime if it promised to conduct him to his wishes; for he had now gone so far as to throw out menaces, and to drop hints at which her virtue trembled. And if indeed his uncontrouled passion should prompt him to acts of violence—alas! what guardian divinity would then protect the helpless Jeanette!

CHAP. XV. THE CONSTITUTIONAL PRIEST.

HAPPY for thee, William, that you never suspected the sorrows to which thy poor Jeanette was doomed! You imagined that your faithful wife was safe at home with the dear boy at her breast. You saw her in imagination sitting with maternal fondness by the cradle of her son, and you thought that anxiety alone for his father could sometimes dash a drop of melancholy into this cup [Page] of joy. Letters full of delightful hope you wrote her every week, which would contribute to moderate that anxiety. Poor easy William! she received them not.

That man should be so short sighted! that hills and vallies should interpose between the sorrows of the mistress and the sympathy of the lover; that perhaps a mother, a wife languishes in want and misery, while the son or husband walks abroad unconscious and unconcerned; that two souls closely united in congenial sen [...]iments should never, when separa [...]ed by the smallest distance, discover by some slight anxiety or secret horror the sufferings in which the lover or the friend is involved!— Alas! shall I say that it is well, or that it is ill for man that it should be thus ordered?

After Babet disappeared, and his friend was torn from him, William's most delightful dreams now hung undivided upon his native land, on his beloved Jeanette, the object of his most ardent wishes. Engrossed with these contemplations, he strolled in harvest through the fading flowers; or, when the bustle of industry offered him unwelcome amusement, he plunged into the shady recesses of a wood, or stole among the bulrushes which skirted a murmuring brook. The hope of again finding Babet daily decreased, like the bank which the str [...]m every moment washes and sweeps away.

One day the morning had issued from the chambers of the e [...]st wrapped in a veil of thick mises, but the sun had withdrawn the clouds from the face of day, as a youthful husband by his caresses prevails upon his wife t [...] lay aside her veil—William stood earlier [...] shal upon a little hillock near the town, [...] meditations, which the landscape around and [...] view of the flitting clouds had inspired. He thought of the birth of man, and the first dawn of life; how often the cradle of [Page] a king is adorned by the beams of morn, while before 'tis noon the throne is involved in clouds and tempests; how often darkness and mists cover the poor man's cradle, while the caprice of fortune prepares for the obscure child a serene and joyful evening. His own example recurred to his mind, and with the last traces of the parting clouds his gratitude mounted up to heaven.

The temper of his soul was now so sublimated that it sought for kindred objects, and he therefore resolved this day to ascend to the top of a hill, which he had long marked out as the boundary of his excursions. The way to it was through the village, the inhabitants of which, since the conflagration, loved him with brotherly affection. He wished to pass on unobserved; but the little boy he had saved came running after him, and pulling him by the coat, said: "Mother is coming too; she cannot run so fast." William stopped, and waited till the young woman came up with the most cordial expressions of joy, and held out to him her smiling infant. She kindly complained that he had quite forgot her; the boy had daily asked for him, and she had been much grieved at his absence. A thousand times she had thanked God for the deliverance of her children, but she had lamented that she had not an opportunity to express her gratitude to the angel whom God had sent. She then informed him that she now lived in the house of her father-in-law till her cottage was rebuilt, and begged him to be so good as come and partake of a rural breakfast. She was so pressing, she so eagerly wished in this way to show her kindness, that it was impossible for him to refuse.

He was conducted to a neat, clean house, where he was cordially received by an old man with silver grey locks. Every body was employed in the house; they ran backwards and forwards, sought [Page] the whitest cloth, the clearest glasses, the finest plates. They brought out honey, butter, milk, and fruits; and every eye sparkled with joy when the welcome guest seemed to eat with appetite. They appeared delighted that their efforts had succeeded in pleasing their benefactor.

The young woman told him that during his absence her husband and brother had been at home, and heard of his noble deed, and both of them intended to come to town to thank him, but the calls of service prevented them. "Yesterday," added the weeping wife, "they were sent off in search of aristocrats, and God knows when they will return."

At the latest, however, she hoped they would be home on Saturday, and William was obliged to promise solemnly to repeat his visit next Sunday.

After he had eat and drank a great deal from pure complaisance, he told the good people his intention to walk to the top of the hill, which began gradually to ascend just at the back of the village. He inquired which road he ought to take. They told him it was several miles to the top; first, he must cross a bridge, then he would come to a sheep-cot, then he must quit the road, and ascend by the left-hand way. The ascent was steep and difficult. They advised him to provide himself with refreshments, and insisted on filling his pockets with fruit. William, however, refused, as he wished to be as light as possible; and said, if necessary, that he should find milk at the sheep-cot to which he was directed. The young woman, however, represented the inhabitants to be rough unobliging people, and desired him to observe a small house, not far from the sheep-cot. "There," said she, "lives our constitutional priest, a good, kind-hearted man; call there if you want refreshment. [Page] He receives every body with welcome."

William thanked her, and went away with the resolution to call no where unless he was compelled by some unforeseen accident. He easily found the road which had been pointed out to him, lay on the top of the hill, and enjoyed the delightful prospect into the fertile valley below, through which the river rolled along, in a thousand meanders. He traced out Babet's deserted habitation, the sight of which banished the serenity of his soul. He resolved to look at it no more, and his eyes still recurred to it. The landscape lost its charms, he sunk into a melancholy mood, and did not observe that twilight began to approach.

He started up. The shades of night already covered the valley. A grey streak of the setting sun still glittered on the summits of the rocks. He hastily descended the foot-path, and night thickened fast around. Too much precipitation might lead him astray. He began, therefore, to walk more slowly, and to examine the path, since, if he lost it, he must be compelled to pass the cold harvest night in the open air in this solitude, which after his late illness, might be attended with danger.

He was extremely happy, therefore, after wandering several hours through unbeaten tracks, to reach a fold belonging to the sheep-cot. Recollecting the advice of his friends, however, he did not call, but directed his steps to the abode of the priest, whose white-washed walls glittered through the shade at the distance of a few hundred paces. Here he resolved to beg a night's lodging, as it began to rain, and the darkness became every moment thicker.

As no light appeared through the windows, he began to fear that there was nobody at home, and was about to ring the bell, when the screams of [...] female voice struck his ear. The sound seemed [...] [Page] proceed from a back house or cellar, and William distinctly heard the words "Help! help!"

He now pulled the bell with violence several times. He endeavored to open the house-door, but it was locked. He attempted to get over the wall round the court, but it was too high. The screams still continued, and cut him to the heart. He ran anxiously as fast as he could round the whole place, hovering like a hen over a pond where her foster ducklings swim. He reached a garden fenced with a thick hedge. He was not deterred by the thorns, continued to make his way through, and hastened to the place from which the cries proceeded.

He came to a back-door, which appeared but ill secured; he struck it with his foot, and it flew open. He entered, stumbled, and fell. An iron shovel lay in his way: he rose, seized the shovel, for some obscure feeling told him that here arms were necessary. The shrieks had changed into moan [...] of lamentations; he followed the sound, which soon brought him to the door of a room. It was shut; he thund [...]red at it with his fist. A man's voice cried, "Who is there?"

"Open," cried William.—They refused.— "Open, or I will break open the door!"—They still refused. William threw himself with all his force against the door, and drove it from its hinges.

At this moment the light in the room was extinguished, and William received a violent blow on the shoulder, which probably was aimed at his head. He easily could discern the figure that had struck the blow. He lifted up his shovel, and struck so violent a blow at the shadow, that the latter cried, "Jesu Maria!" and dropped to the ground.

At the same time another figure slipped past him out at the door. He now remained thunderstruck in this extraordinary situation; here at his feet a [Page] man whom probably he had mortally wounded, a few steps from him a low voice of lamentation continued to moan; utter darkness prevailed, and the whole house was utterly unknown. He groped round the place from which the sound proceeded, struck against a bed, and found a person whom by the dress he supposed to be a lady.

"Who is here?" said he. Groans were the only answer. He was almost inclined to join in unison with these groans, for the pain in his shoulder was very violent. Without light, however, he could neither assist himself nor others. But where was he to find it?—Where was the kitchen, in which, perhaps, the fire was still alive in the embers? He went out, groped along the wall, creeped through the whole house, sometimes found the doors open, sometimes shut, but no where was he sought. He now was unable to find the way back to the mysterious chamber, and had resolved to wait on the stair till morning, when he heard keys turning, and a door sling open with great noise. A number of voices sounded through the passage, and a gleam of light was seen at a distance.

Conscious of his innocence, he went fearless to meet the party, and found a number of half-naked peasants, who, armed with all kinds of weapons, pressed in, led by an ugly old woman with a lanthorn.—"There is the robber," cried the woman when she saw William. He had thrown down the shovel; the peasants seized him quite defenceless, and tied his hands behind his back.

In vain he protested his innocence, in vain he attempted to relate the accident which had brought him to the house; the old beldame bore him down. "He meant to rob my good master, your worthy pastor!" cried she with shrill voice. "Who knows but he may have already murdered him? His niece, the villain first gagged; by God's mercy I contrived to escape in the dark."

[Page]The accusation was so monstrous, that William was amazed, and viewed the woman with looks or contempt. She ran on before with the lanthorn, the crowd followed with William bound in the middle. They entered the room—William looked round, and was confounded.—On the bed lay a beautiful young lady gagged with a handkerchief—It was Babet!—On the ground lay weltering in his blood a thick-headed priest—It was Jeanette's ravisher!

CHAP. XVI. A CRITICAL SITUATION.

NATURE is so fruitful in surprising incidents, that the most creative imagination cannot surpass her works. The reader should not, therefore, pronounce this history improbable because it is surprising. We live in times when it would be matter of no great wonder to see the Emperor of China, like Dionysius of old, turn schoolmaster. Why then should we wonder to find a priest in his vocation? But he was a convicted child-murderer! —Why, what then?—When the innocent and virtuous La Fayette languishes in a dungeon, is it matter of surprise that an infamous miscreant should be at large? As long as the former is found not improbable, the latter must be allowed to pass for ever natural.—The whole affair too hangs so simply together, that it is very easy to solve the mystery.

[Page]The priest, as the reader will remember, in the first volume of this history was withdrawn from the civil power, and shut up in a cloister. This, however, was done only pro forma, to remove him from the view of the good believers, who might have taken offence at his little mischievous tricks. His more tolerant brethren took no offence at the matter, but chastised him as the Spartans used to chastise a boy who happened to steal clumsily. After a short confinement, they gave him money for his expences, and sent him about his business. He chose France as the place of his retreat, where, according to the spirit of the priesthood, he took a share in every thing, accommodated himself to the spirit of the time, practised the easy art of ingratiating himself with the people, was one of the first who, without scruple, took the famous constitutional oath, recommended himself to the people in power, and, in the most natural way imaginable, insinuated himself into the confidence of an unsuspecting congregation, who chose him their pastor, and settled upon him a considerable income and a comfortable house, from which a worthy old man, whose conscience revolted from the oath, was driven naked and helpless.

Here he played his part with more prudence and success than in Germany. He took into his house an [...] procuress, who in better times, had resided in the capital, and had been the confid [...]nte of several distinguished characters. The fall of the great [...] likewise involved her fortunes, as the st [...]m which levels the oak destroys the cobwebs among its leaves. She left the country, was almost starved; she returned, narrowly escaped the guillotine, and saved herself by taking refuge under the wings of a constitutional priest. Here she again had an opportunity to exercise her tal [...]nt [...]; and she gave her protector so many proofs of them, [Page] that he dropped the design of marrying her which he had first conceived, and employed her hellish art in corrupting the innocence of the country girls, till Babet's charms captivated his foul passions.

That very day when William was attacked by the fever, and Babet expected her friend under the lime-tree on the lawn, accident brought the priest this way. He saw the lovely maid, as she lay careleslly on the bench, her head reclining on her snow white hand, while her auburn locks waved round her bosom, and her elegant foot played in the sand. This was more than sufficient to inflame his passions. He approached, with that soft, simpering air which he had ever at command, as a courtier his smile. "Those mourning weeds," said he, "tell me that you are in grief, and my office justifies me in intruding upon you with an offer of consolation."

He sat down beside her, and talked to her a jargon for which we Germans ought to have a word, since the thing may likewise be found among the priests of our country. Babet, educated in a cloister, was accustomed to consider these wolves in sheep's cloathing as a superior class of beings. She received him with respect and confidence. She rejoiced once more to see a priest, whose consoling conversation she had been so long denied. She willingly gave him permission to visit her daily. She even begged him to come, and, on the very first interview, joyfully offered him one of her diamonds to say masses for the souls of her father and brother.

The priest soon found what an unsuspicious creature chance had thrown in his way. The very next visit he discovered all Babet's secrets of every kind; he learnt the flight of her brother, her attachment to William, the treasure she had concealed in the casket; he discovered all, and bounded with joy, like Satan in Klopstock's Messiah. Any attempt, indeed, to change Babet's childish confidence into [Page] love, was not very likely to succeed, as she was much too innocent to understand what he meant. When he gazed at her with glowing passion, she considered his ardour to be paternal kindness; and when he pressed her hand, she kissed his respectfully. To give her any opportunity of discovering the foul corruption of his heart was dangerous: her innocence might be alarmed, and she might take offence.

Under pretence of placing her in safety, he proposed to take her home to his house, as his niece. He represented to her the danger to which she was daily exposed in this solitary habitation; the impropriety of a young lady, quite deserted, living thus without protection. He then displayed the advantages of the undisturbed tranquillity she might enjoy at his house, the security with which she could there, unknown and unpersecuted, indulge her grief, and perform the duties of devotion.

His arguments made an impression upon Babet, but they were not attended with all the effect which she expected. The image of her friend was too deeply engraved upon her heart; she must see him and consult with him before she finally adopted a resolution by which they would be separated. She did not, therefore, absolutely refuse the paternal offer of the priest, as she called it, but postponed her decision till William's recovery.

Such a delay and such consultation were not consistent with the priest's plan. He dreaded the return of this dangerous prisoner, and saw the necessity of accomplishing his purpose before the arrival of this friend opposed a new obstacle to his success. One evening, therefore, when Babet informed him with joy, that she had received the most favourable accounts of the convalescence of her friend, and that she expected to see him in a few days, he conceived a diabolical artifice for the completion of his design. At midnight somebody knocked at [Page] Babet' [...] door: the maid went down, and received [...] hand, a l [...]t [...]e [...], which she car [...] [...]. It contained the following [...] and scarce legible manner.

"Dearest sister! Fate, whose hand lies heavy upon o [...] [...], is not yet weary of persecuting me. Our frontiers are too closely watched to allow me to escape; our faithful servant has been murdered, and I am a wretched fugitive. Of what I took with me from my father's inheritance, I have partly been robbed, and par [...] I have been obliged to [...]ll, to support my wretched existence. Now despair is my only companion, and death my only hope!— Yet I tremble to die by the hands of the executioner!—I languish in this neighborhood, but dare not venture to enter our mansion. I am pursued and traced, spies watch for me in every quarter.— If you love your only brother, grant his last wish, to see you once more before he falls under the sword of his persecutors. To-morrow night, at twelve o'clock, a faithful confidante of mine will expect you at the gate.—If you have courage and love for me, follow her; she will bring you to the arms of your affectionate brother,

"PHILIP CHEVALIER DE BELLOY."

Babet trembled as she read this letter. Tears started in her eyes, sisterly affection glowed in her breast. Without the least suspicion she instantly resolved to trust herself with the expected messenger, to put the casket into her pocket, to give her unfortunate brother the half of its contents, and by her tender consolation perhaps save him from self-murder.

She had never seen the hand-writing of the Chevalier; but though she had been acquainted with it, yet would not the slightest suspicion have [Page] arisen in her guileless heart. With anxious impatience she waited the day, and, with tender anxiety, the night. The priest visited her as usual. He hoped she would impart to him what had happened, and the resolution she had taken; but she was silent. It was not her own secret; the care of her brother's safety sealed her lips.

The cunning seducer, however, easily perceived that she labored under the pressure of secret anxiety, and in her agitation he guessed the success of his villainy. In the evening he went away with an air such as the celebrated Catharine de Medicis might have assumed, when, for the last time, she visited the unfortunate Coligni. He drew himself up squat in the middle of his net, like a malignant spider, to be ready to spring out on the harmless insect for which he had spread it.

He was no sooner gone than Babet began to pack up her casket; and after a warm prayer to her guardian saints, in the obscurity of night, accompanied by her faithful servant, the tripped through the court, listened, till she heard a slight noise and coughing at the gate. It was the procur [...]ss we have mentioned, who, like a rattle-snake, opened her jaws to swallow the fascinated bird.

Whither Babet thought she followed, and to what place she was really conducted, we already know.

CHAP. XVII. LOVE AND GRATITUDE.

AS starts with horror the youth who thinks he is about to kiss the rosy lips of beauty, and suddenly beholds the cancerous cheek of corruption, [Page] so did Babet shudder in wild dismay, when she saw the villain she had begun to respect as a second father, unmasked at her feet. For the first two or three hours she could neither speak, sigh, nor weep. She was first obliged to reflect on the possibility of such a baseness, before she could complain or reproach The priest was obliged to confess his shameful purpose before she could comprehend what he meant. When she understood his design, however, from impotent resentment she rose, at once, to the height of unspeakable contempt. Her innocence was so intimately blended with the whole of what constituted herself, that she felt that it could be torn from her only with her life. This feeling inspired her with a discretion and courage far beyond her years and strength. While the hours of night slowly glided by, she remained obstinately dumb, and not a motion of her eye betrayed the smallest interest in what passed around. She paid no attention either to the disgusting talk of the priest, or the wretched consolations of the procuress. She sat in a kind of [...]rance till morning dawned. When it was day, and she heard at a little distance the shepherd's pipe, she suddenly started up, ran to the window, threw it open, and cried: "Help! help!"

The priest and his female Satan were alarmed at this unexpected movement. They pulled at the struggling maid, who clung with her nails to the window shutters, and cried with all her might. At last they dis [...]ngaged her by force, and hur [...]ied her into a remote apartment. Here the villain threatened to gag her if she again was so childish, as he called it, as to act in this manner. A smile of the most profound contempt was her only answer.

Her cries, mean while, had really assembled the shepherd, who were easily satisfied with the story that their priest, whose virtue they never suspected, [Page] had, from motives of humanity, taken a lunatic niece into his house, whose disordered understanding he hoped to be able to re-establish. The priest desired the honest peasants to inform their neighbours of this circumstance, that they might not again be alarmed by her cries. Thus every suspicion was obviated. The helpless maid was [...] in the hands of her spoiler; for she was soon deprived of the company of her faithful servant, whom they removed out of the way, by confining her fast in a dark ce [...]lar.

The priest left none of his helli [...]h arts untried to habituate the mind of Babet to the thoughts of vice. Sometimes he descended to every kind of flattery, and again he endeavored to alarm her with the basest threats. On the one side he painted to her a life of voluptuousness, if she would consent to live with him as his mistress or his wife, and on the other, an ignominious death, should he give her up as a royalist to the existing authorities. But neither his threats nor his flattery could produce the smallest effect on the pure innocence of the angelic [...].

The experienced procuress endeavored to inflame her mind by lascivious descriptions, but their pollutions could not stain the mirror of her soul. It was impossible for the wretch to return, even in thought, to the period when she was innoc [...]; the stories she repeated to Babet were u [...] mysteries; and when she impudently persisted, Babet shut her ear against her conversation, by a [...] and servent prayer.

The priest began at length to perceive that force alone could enable him to succeed in his infamous design, and he pro [...]s [...]d to the poor victim, with horrible impreca [...]s, that he was resolved to have recourse to that [...]p [...]lient, if she persisted any longer in scorning hi [...]. She had now no other hope lest but in the protection of a higher power. "God [Page] of the fatherless and orphan!" did she exclaim in secret prayer, "hast thou deprived me of every aid?—H [...] thou denied me every instrument of saving my innocence by a voluntary death?—On thy strong arm do I alone depend!—Thou wilt appear to me in the moment of my highest need!"

And he did appear—her protecting angel veiled himself in the form of a friend. William appeared at her bed-side, as her innocence was on the point of being overpowered.—With the deliverance of Babet's honor just Providence too connected Jeanette's revenge, and the merited punishment for the murder of her child. The priest breathed out his foul spirit, and the last influence which hell exercised over the dying reprobate was to dictate the false declaration that William was a robber, a murderer.—Thus did he descend to the other world; the hand of his murdered child seized him, and led him dismayed to the tribunal of an offended Judge.

But his villainous accusation remained behind. Every thing testified against William; the words of the deceased, the cries of the procuress, the broken door, the gagged maid, and lastly his own confusion; for the sight of his suffering benefactress on the one hand, and of the detested betrayer of his wife on the other, had struck him dumb with astonishment. Nothing declared in his favor but the voice of Babet, and she was considered our of her senses.

The shepherds, who were attached to the hypocritical priJst, loaded William with curses, and almost sacrificed his life to the first dictates of their resentment. It was now clear day when they conducted him, his hands fast bound, down the hill, and took the road to the town. They told every person they met that this wretched stranger was a [Page] disguised royalist, who had murdered a worthy constitutional priest. He was followed by the curses of every traveller, and every boy abused and maltreated him.

Only in the village where William's friends lived did things assume a different appearance. They crowded round the prisoner, were amazed at the enormity of the charge, doubted the truth of the story, and expressed their sorrow for his situation. The woman where children he had saved came running up, made her way through the pikes, loudly protested his innocence, thr [...]w herself in the way of his con [...]s, and would [...] allow them to proceed. William was obliged to comfort her; he entreated her [...] [...]ave him to his fate, and to trust to the justice of God.

"Me you cannot save," whispered [...]e [...]ly, "but save, at least, the h [...]p [...] [...] wh [...] [...] is con [...]d in the house of the infamous parson. She is not mad; she will tell you all."

Th [...]se words were a mystery to the good woman, but she reflected on them. William was [...]orn away. N [...] [...]r [...]ly [...]ss compassion accompanied him, [...]ut a number of sto [...]t young [...] armed [...]selves, and hastened to [...] guard, in order to defend him from [...] of the people. [...] town. A [...] the sho [...]s and hi [...]s of the people [...]e was thrown into prison, into which not a [...] p [...]netra [...]e—but day [...] into [...]. He had saved Babet and revenged Jeanette, and he contemplated death with tranquility.

How indeed could I elo [...] [...]e future with hope? Even had he appeared in [...] of the crime with which he was charged, the [...] demanded a sacrifice. They shouted [...]ay and [...] round the walls of the prison, and demanded his execution. It was decided. Very little attention was paid to [Page] legal formalities, and his trial was only postponed a few days, because the fate of a number of emigrants e [...] the executioner. He availed himself of this interval to write down his justification with a pencil. He took leave of his wife, and beque [...]thed his blessings to his child. He then pitched on one of the guards who daily attended him in his [...] whose [...]g [...]omy appeared to promise most humanity, and whom he had often observed viewing him with compassionate looks. He conjured him to forward that paper. "I have nothing to offer you," said he, "but if you have a wife and child—"

"I have a wife and child," said the national guard with emotion. He was going to say some [...] more, but he checked himself, took the paper [...] [...]ew.

[...] solemn hour at last arrived. On the [...] of the third day, William was carried be [...] [...] judges. All the circumstances testified [...]gly against him. What he urged in his defence appeared an inconsistent incredible story, and after a short hearing he was condemned to death. The next day was appointed for his execution.

He lay on his bed of straw, with the invaluable consciousness of having never in the course of his life, been guilty of a dishonourable action. He prayed—but not for himself—he prayed for his wife and child.—At midnight he fell into a placid slumber.

The rattling of keys suddenly awaked him. Two soldiers of the national guard entered with a dark lanthorn. William started up, and thought the awful moment was come. In one of the soldiers he recognised the man to whom he had entrusted the last proof of his love for Jeanette. "I am glad," said William, "that you have been chosen to attend me on this occasion. Be witness of my [Page] death, and announce to my wife that I have met it, if not with perfect tranquillity, at least with firmness."

"Be silent, and follow us," said the soldiers, as he raised up his chains to allow him to walk more easily. William followed in silence. They led him through a gloomy passage, which he never before had trod. They reached an open court. The stars glimmered over their heads. William wondered to find that it was yet night. They came to a little door, which stood open. When William went out, he heard the trampling of horses, and soon distinguished a carriage and four. The soldiers assisted him to mount, and took their seats beside him.

Away they drove, full speed. William knew not what they meant to do with him. He asked, but they gave him no answer, and the rattling of the carriage drowned his words. The moon rose. William looked round in the open fields—he thought it was all a dream.

After they had proceeded about a mile, they came to the high-way, and the carriage suddenly stopped. They obliged him to dismount. When he touched the ground, some person kissed his hand, and bathed it with tears. William looked round—it was the young woman whose children he had saved.—The two soldiers were her husband and brother.

The husband now pressed him to his heart. "You saved my children from the flames," said he with tears—"I have delivered you from an unmerited death—that was but the duty of a man, now shall I reward you."

William followed him in silent astonishment; the young woman led him by the hand. A few steps farther something white glittered behind a tree—a female figure now rushed into his arms.— [Page] It was Babet!—Another woman came up, with tottering steps, and seemed scarce able to walk.— Babet pulled her friend along, the stranger stretched out her arms—the moon beamed upon her countenance—through the silence of night he heard his name pronounced—it was Jeanette!

CHAP. XVIII. THE GRANDMOTHER.

IF the author should anticipate objections, and begin this chapter with the observation that "probability is really nothing more than the feasibility or possibility of a thing," it would seem to infer that he himself entertained doubts of the probability of this true history. As every thing which happened, however, is pourtrayed to his fancy in the clearest light, and he hopes with the assistance of the muses to sketch it to the reader in no less lively colours, he shall take the liberty, merely to enhance his consequence, to remind the reader that Dubos and Breitenger, Marmountel and Schelegel, are the examples he has followed; and that all these gentlemen have shown him that it is quite conceivable and possible that William, Babet, Jeanette, and the worthy peasants should all meet at day-break on the read to Limoges, although the former escaped from his dungeon, and, what is still more difficult, the latter must have eluded the vigilance of a lover. Were the author doubtful of his cause, he would entrench himself behind the example of celebrated [Page] poets. The works of many distinguished writers are full of things which no man, with all the inclination in the world, can consider probable. It does not however require this foreign aid to justify the incidents of this history; for the simplest statement will immediately bring down the reader from the fairy fields of the wonderful into the region of the uncommon, but at the same time very possible,

Gratitude impelled the honest peasants, in contempt of every danger, to attempt William's deliverance. Their situation as soldiers of the national guard, assisted however with Babet's diamonds, afforded them ready means for the attainment of their purpose. While the husband began the undertaking, the wife, accompanied by her brother, went to the house of the deceased parson, to discover the meaning of William's mysterious request. At first, however, they found none but the old procuress, who was busy in packing up all the moveables, in order to transfer them to some place of safety. When asked whether there was not a mad girl in the house, she replied, that the poor creature had made her escape. Some degree of confusion, which still lurked behind her unblushing impudence, excited suspicion. The keys were demanded, which she refused.

The woman and her brother agreed to separate, and traverse the whole house from top to bottom, and at every door they found shut to call aloud, to ascertain whether any prisoner would answer. This resolution they immediately carried into effect. The one went up stairs; the other down. In a few minutes they returned, and they had found more than they sought. "Above, there," said the sister, "I heard the voice of complaint." "And below, there," replied the brother, "I heard the sound of groans in the cellar."

The procuress was now aware of her danger. [Page] The honest soldier overtook her just as she was stealing out at the garden-door. She had left behind the heavy and bulky part of the spoil, and contented herself with a small bundle, from which the soldier pulled out a suspicious-looking casket. "To the right about, mistress!" said he in a stern voice, seizing her roughly by the arm: "Give me the keys, or I sha [...]l plunge you into the pond."

This pond, which was but a few steps distant, and the threatening aspect of the young man, whose flaming eyes promised that he would keep his word, compelled the old serpent to be more compliant. She offered to exchange the keys for the casket; but this was refused, in case any body should be found who had a better claim to it. This hard condition produced a fruitless refusal. The soldier advanced a few paces nearer the pond, and the keys were delivered up.

Joyfully the young woman ascended the stair, and her brother hastily went down to the cellar. The former liberated the languishing Babet, and the latter brought out the half-starved maid-servant. While mutual explanations were going on, and Babet, to the astonishment of the peasants, related her unfortunate story, the old beldame took the opportunity of their confusion to make her escape. She made off without the booty of the casket, but provided with accomplishments by which she every where earned a subsistence, till at last, under Carrier's administration at Nantz, she again rose to be a woman of consequence.

Babet was unable to give any satisfactory account of her fate till she heard that William was alive, and that hopes were entertained of his deliverance. With joy she offered the contents of her casket to contribute to that object, an offer which, in case of necessity, they promised to accept. She accompanied her deliverers to their rural hut, there [Page] to await the result of the dangerous enterprise, and to pray for the [...] of her friend.

We [...] [...]e [...]t [...] Jeanette in a very critical situation; and if it is considered what in these times a mayor might have [...]d with impu [...]ity, we must be [...]d for her [...]ate. Besides her own grief, that of an amiable young woman likewise lay heavy upon her heart for Beaublanc's wife could no longer conceal that the new infidelity of her husband was no secret to her. She indeed was perfectly conscious to herself that Jeanette's conduct was entirely unexceptionable. The fair stranger, however, still was the destroyer of her peace, and she could not love her. She showed her all the attentions which her misfortunes and the duties of hospitality demanded; but the cordial kindness which seasons all these attentions it was not in her power to display. A cold politeness was all she could bestow, which to noble minds is not less galling than open hate.

They at last only met at table; they saluted each other coldly; they talked only of the most indifferent subjects, and both were glad when the dessert was introduced. Beaublanc himself played a very awkward part. The more he felt the impropriety of his conduct, the more he endeavored, as men usually do, to justify it to himself by imputing it to causes in which he was not to blame. The cold behavior of his wife he did not overlook, and he reproached her for it when they were alone. She answered him only with tears, which still more displeased him. In a word, the part which the different persons had to support was now become so serious, that a melancholy catastrophe was justly to be apprehended, when a beneficent deus ex machina appeared upon the stage.

One evening Jeanette heard a carriage drive up to the door, to which at first she paid no attention. [Page] When immediately on his arrival, however, she heard the whole house in motion; when she heard baggage brought up stairs, and Beaublanc's children skipping about in great joy, she asked the servant who brought her a light, whether any company was come?—"Our master's grand-mother," said the man.

The news was very agreeable to Jeanette, partly because she hoped that Beaublanc in presence of his grandmother would be more attentive to his wife, partly because, in a company of persons who are intimately acquainted with each other's affairs, a stranger is always welcome, because it gives some relief to the conversation. Jeanette, therefore, when summoned to supper, went down with more ease and courage then she had done for several weeks. She saw upon the sopha a venerable matron, who rose on her entrance, and, with that amiable frankness which age is entitled to display, came to meet her. Beaublanc presented the old lady to her with the words "My grandmother, madame Jerome."

"Madame Jerome!" stammered Jeanette, and grew pale.—"Madame Jerome!" she repeated with an earnestness which struck the company.

"You appear to know that name," said the lady; "I flatter myself that it is not disagreeable to you."

"Disagreeable! No. Jerome was my father's name."

Beaublanc appeared surprised. The old lady started. With visible anxiety she rubbed her hands, and said: "you are a German?"

"My father," continued Jeanette, "was a Frenchman, who had left his country for more than twenty years."

"His sirname?"

"Joseph Aime."

[Page]"Great God!" exclaimed the old lady—her knees shook—she sunk in Beaublanc's arms. In a word, we need no longer conceal what the reader must have anticipated: she was Jeanette's grandmother, and the mayor was Jeanette's cousin german.

Extravagance and irregular conduct had formerly irritated the old lady against her son; she banished him from her presence, and by her severity compelled him to seek his fortune in foreign countries. Necessity—the great master which leads its pupils either to virtue, or drives them to despair— had reclaimed the prodigal to the path of order and of industry. He did not choose, however, to communicate any intelligence of himself to his mother till he had accumulated as much property as should enable him to dispense with all assistance from his relations, in order that she might have no foundation for thinking that he only [...]g [...] repentance for the sake of her money. When this moment arrived, he wrote the most tender and affecting letters. A series of years however, had elapsed; his family had experienced various vi [...]issitudes. From Picardy, where they formerly resided, they had, on account of accidents unconnected with the history, gone to reside in [...] doe; his letters, therefore, never reached the place of their destination.

His fruitless expectation of an answer from his mother long embitt [...]red his domestic happiness. He could ascribe her silence only to two causes: either his mother was irreconci [...]ble, or she was dead. The former his heart disclaimed; he wept over her therefore, as no more, and ceased to write.

Madame Jerome, on the other hand, had long since forgotten her resentment; for the resentment of a mother is like a flake of snow in the month of May. She reproached herself bitterly for her harshness. In the sleepless hours of night she wept her [Page] lost son; she saw him wandering in the world poor and abandoned. With what joy would she have called him back! but in what region of the globe was she to seek him?—With what anxiety did she expect some filial application from him! But he was silent.—How often did she invite him by public advertisements in the newspapers to return! They never reached him. Was it possible that he, who, in spite of his levity and wildness, was so affectionate towards her, could remain so long silent?—Ah! no! he is dead! he has fallen a sacrifice to his mother's unnatural severity!

This reproach, which incessantly preyed on her maternal heart, threw a gloom over her evening of life—and now to be so delightfully awaked from this disagreeable dream! True, indeed, her Joseph was gone!—but he had lived happily, and he had left behind a youthful representative, who fondly called her Mother; a being of her own flesh and blood, and of whom she had reason to be proud.

Every thing in the house now assumed a quite different aspect. B [...]aublanc ceased to be an object of dread, since his c [...]nsanguinity dictated to him n [...]w du [...]ies, and so presence of his grandmother imposed upon him a salutary restraint. He was ashamed when he reflected that madame Jerome had a right to say to him: "Baptiste, remember with what a [...] you su [...]d to obtain your wife; think what I did and sacrificed to enable you to succeed." He trembled to think that his wife might complain of his conduct, and in what light he must then appear to a mother, to whom he was indebted for so many favors; one, too, whom amidst all his errors he had ever continued to love with filial a [...]tion.

Jeanette at l [...]st completed his reformation by a step which was now easy for her, since she considered [...]eaublanc as her cousin, and was secure in [Page] the protection of her grandmother. She sought what formerly she had so carefully avoided, an opportunity of being alone with him. She even led the conversation to a circumstance which she formerly did not wish to seem to perceive, his passion for her. She then spoke with such interest to his heart; she painted the sorrow of his wife and her own with such truth and feeling; she mingled such cordial assurances of friendship and gratitude with her delicate reproaches, that he threw himself at her feet quite overcome, and with tears of the most sincere repentance entreated her to forget his improper conduct.

The first moments of repentance derive a peculiar strength from that virtue which is ever ready to unite in the bands of cordial affection, when it observes the least advances to amendment. Beaublanc felt in himself a spirit which animated him with a serene joy, to which he had long been a stranger. He was happy to feel that it cost him no pangs to prepare what was necessary for Jeanette's departure. A few days, indeed, she was obliged to spend with her new-discovered grandmother; but the good old lady was too considerate to require more than a few day [...] ▪ under the condition however that Jeanette, with her husband and child, should visit her as soon as the troubles of the republic allowed her to do it with safety.

Doubly reimbursed by liberal presents for all she had lost by the violence of the populace; furnished with passports which perfectly secured her safety, with the delightful idea of having re-established the domestic felicity of her amiable hostess, she proceeded on her journey to Guienne.

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CHAP. XIX. THE PLOT IS UNFOLDED.

HOW delightful are the feelings of the traveller who, after, a long▪ absence, discovers at a distance the lofty spires of a city, in which reside those on whom his heart hangs with fondness! N [...]w [...]gitated with alarm, now animated with hope, he feels the sweetest elation of joy. Every peasant he meets returning from the market, every citizen going out when his work is finished to his cabbage garden, he is inclined to ask: "Know you into whose embraces I am hastening!—Is he happy and well?"

How peevish he feels at every crooked turning of the road! how he curses the phlegm of the postillion, who, so near the end of his journey, stops to fa [...]en his stirrup, or to take a glass of beer at some obscure inn! He whose whole being is absorbed in the idea of meeting those he loves, is insensible to hunger and thirst. Now the whip cracks and the horse [...] fly along, the carriage rolls down the hill, and the soul far outstrips its speed. O severe trial of patience! A tract of heavy sand yet remains to pass▪ and the horses again move slowly on. [...] si [...]s, and with both his hands seizes the [...] door, pushes it on as if to assist its rapi [...]. Every moment he thrusts his head out at the window to measure the extent of the sand, which seems to stretch to infinity like the desarts of Sa [...]a.

Such were the feelings which agitated Jeanette's breast when she approached the town in which she expected to find her husband. At last she [Page] reached the gate, and had a new delay to encount [...]r. Her passport must be examined. It availed nothing here that nature had written the passport of virtue and innocence upon her brow; this might have availed her only on the banks of the Ohio, or Hudson's Bay. Captious objections were advanced; her person was to be compared with the description. Formalities and ceremonies of every kind were to be observed. Here an officer of the municipality thought he discharged his duty well in proportion to the time he consumed; there an officer of police thought that the colour of her eyes did not exactly correspond with the original.

Every thing was at last adjusted, passport and baggage were stamped with the seal of liberty. The postillion slowly mounted his horse, and, looking back, inquired where madame chose to alight.

"At the first good inn," replied Jeanette hastily▪ and the carriage rolled heavily through the streets. The principal streets were full of men; the windows were likewise crowded with spectators.— Jeanette saw nobody; she looked only for William's face. The people seemed in great agitation; th [...] words murder and guillotine were re-echoed through the mob.—Jeanette was quite ina [...]tentive to every thing; she had no ears but for William's voice▪ with a light spring she jumped out of the carriage when it stopped at the gate of an inn. A gossiping hostess conducted her up stairs, and immediately began to entertain her with the news of the day. She told her that a prisoner of war, an officer had murdered a constitutional priest, and violated his niece; that he had been thrown into prison, and probably in a short time would receive his deserts under the guillotine.

Jeanette started at the words prisoner of war, but instantly laid aside her fear when she heard the nature of the crime of which he was accused. [Page] "He has dined at my table," said the prattling hostess; "he appeared so quiet, well-behaved a young man, that I would not have scrupled to have trusted him either with my strong box or my daughter. But still waters are deep—Brave he may be, as he wears a cross, and they call him major."

Jeanette stood petrified, and the blood forsook her cheeks.—"A cross?—Major?—What is his name?"

Alas! he had a very hard German name; the hostess could not pronounce it. "But how did he look?"—She described his person, feature for feature. It was easy to see that William had sat for the picture. From Jeanette's pale lips dropped the name of Eichenwald! and—"Right!" interrupted the hostess—"Right! Eichenwald is the very name!"

Poor Jeanette sunk to the ground; night obscured her eyes; her pulse at her heart ceased to beat, and a convulsive movement of her lips was the only symptom of life. The hostess in terrible alarm, invoking all the saints to her aid, contributed all the assistance in her power. "Ah! my God! Ah! poor madame!" she repeated an hundred times, and tears of sympathy burst from her eyes when she heard that the lady before her was the wife of the unfortunate prisoner.

She immediately shut the door, that the populace might not hear of the discovery, and confound innocence with guilt. But Jeanette became delirious: she insisted on going out—she would throw herself at the feet of the judges—in the public market-place protest the innocence of her husband.—The good-natured hostess was obliged to detain her by force; was obliged to stifle her cries by shutting the windows, and repeat to her a thousand times that her interference would only accelerate the fate of her husband. When at last Jeanette's strength was [Page] exhausted; when she lay breathless on the sopha, and her tears, which passion had suppressed, began to steal slowly down her cheeks, she began to listen to the consolation of the hostess.

"I fain would believe," said the kind-hearted old woman, "that he is not guilty of the shocking crime; I wish to believe it because you love him so well; and truly I have a good opinion of him myself, for many a day has he sat so [...]erly and quietly at my table; but of what avail is his innocence? Alas! madame, innocence does nothing for us now-a-days. Either appearances are against him, or he has powerful enemies; nothing but money can save him."

Jeanette ha [...]t [...]ly pointed to her coffe [...].

"I understand you," proceeded the hostess; "you have money; you will sacrifice all?"

Jeanette n [...]dded assent, and her feeble tongue in vain attempted to pronounce the word "all."

"Make yourself easy therefore a while; I shall put on my cloak, and mingle in the crowd, to hear what is the state of matters. If he is innocent, that God who protected Daniel in the lion's den will not forsake him, and will discover us means for his deliverance."

With these w [...]ds she went out, and l [...]st Jeanette in the most [...]mising tor [...]ur [...]s. The first evening the hostess [...] succeed in discovering any thing favorable to the prison [...]. Jeanette's situation bordered on phrenzy; a f [...]ver preyed upon her frame, and in the mo [...]ing she was delirious. The hostess never stirred from her bed-side; as soon as it was day she committed her to the care of her daughter, and hastened out on an errand of humanity to seek the balm of hope.

About noon she returned with a soldier of the national guard, whom she brought with a mysterious [...]ir to Jeanette's bed-side. "This brave man," [Page] whispered she to the patient, "is one of your husband's guards."—Jeanette rose, and hastily seized the stranger's hand. Her eyes were hot and inflamed, but tears refused to flow.

"Madame," said the soldier, "your situation would affect me had I no other motive to venture my life for your husband."—Jeanette made a signal to the hostess to reach the chest, which stood at the foot of the bed. She opened it, and it was full of money. With a melancholy, affecting look of intreaty, she presented it to the soldier, who rejected it with some displeasure.

"Madame," said he with the accents of offended generosity, "your husband threw himself into the flames to save my children. I hope that is enough to induce you to shut up your strong box. Here is my hand, I shall save your husband's life, or die with him."

Jeanette attempted to kiss his hand; tears of gratitude again rushed to her eyes; a servent look to heaven spoke her thanks to God and her deliverer. When the beams of hope, like an electrical shock, restored her the use of her tongue, and she again was able to speak, she pressed upon the generous soldier as much as was necessary for the payment of all expences; but he insisted that he alone must answer these, should it cost him his last sixpence.

She now asked pen and ink to write a note to her husband to announce her arrival, and communicate to him consolation in his dungeon. The soldier, however, refused to carry the letter. He would not even undertake to inform the prisoner of Jeanette's arrival, because it was to be feared that his joy might betray him.

"Patience!" said the generous young man, "patience till to-morrow, or the day after; by that time it will be decided. Meanwhile this good woman will bring you as soon as it is night to the village [Page] where I reside. There you may remain in tranquility in my house, and wait the result."

"In tranquility!" sighed Jeanette.

The soldier endeavored to raise her spirits, informed the hostess which way she should take, and hastened back to his post to avoid suspicion. Regardless of her fever and her weakness, Jeanette prepared for her departure; and when night spread its shades over the earth, she set out in company with her worthy hostess, and about midnight reached the young woman's cottage. She was received as the wife of her benefactor, and in Babet she found a sister.

What passed in the heart of the lovely maid when she so suddenly saw the wife of her beloved appear, those who are acquainted with the human heart may conceive. Her attachment, however, was too pure and innocent to permit the smallest feeling of jealousy. She saw only William's danger; she forgot her wi [...]hes, her dreams, and clung to a being who prayed as fervently as herself for his deliverance.

God heard the prayers of these kindred spirits. On the evening of the third day they received a message, to repair at midnight to a rend [...]zvous on the road to Limoges. Trembling they s [...]t out— Silently they kneeled on the grass, and started at every rustling of the leaves. Their hearts beat high when they heard at a distance the sound of a carriage.—When it came nearer and nearer— when it stopped—the young woman flew like lightning to the road—Babet hastened after her —and Jeanette tottered between hope and fear till she could go no farther, and sunk into the arms of her husband.

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CHAP. XX. THE FLIGHT.

THE reader will not be greatly surprised that our hero, at the scene before him, which seemed altogether so miraculous, began to think whether his head was not separated from his body, and those he saw were not the visionary shades of Elysium hovering round him:—The explanation of the mystery, however, upon a public and well frequented road, might be dangerous. The brave soldier roused William from his dream, and led him into the thicket, where a large open cart waited for them, furnished with every thing that was necessary to facilitate their flight.

In ten minutes William was freed from his irons. Instead of his uniform, he put on a coarse frock, and his hair he tied up under a red cap. Jeanette and Babet were likewise obliged to bind up their waving locks in a less conspicuous form. Coarse handkerchiefs concealed want their fashionable corsset [...] threatened to betray; short clumsy coats disguised the g [...]ces of their person, and monstrous wooden shoes covered their elegant feet.

Already Jeanette and Babet had taken leave of their kind hostess, with tears. William had assisted them into the carriage, and was himself about to follow, when an unexpected discovery changed his resolution, and almost determined him voluntarily to return to his prison. Till now it had never occurred to him, in the slutter of spirits into which he had been thrown, to inquire who was his conductor; and for the first time he was fully aware of the extent of the sacrifice which gratitude had led the worthy rustics to make.

[Page]The soldier had retired a few steps with his wife. William saw how anxiously she clung round his neck; he heard her sob, and ask when she should see him again:—He heard her husband comforting her in broken accents; he heard him blessing her and his children, promising to return as soon as he could venture it without risk of his life.—The poor woman could not tear herself away; she still hung upon him to take her last embrace, till her husband whispered her: "Think of the fire, and our duty!"—She then let him go.

"God protect you!" said he, and went away.— His wife remained standing and wringing her hands. "No!" cried William with emotion—"No! I cannot purchase my life at such a price. If my deliverance must render you an helpless fugitive, your wife a widow, and your children orphans, I should a thousand times rather return to my cell, and meet death to-morrow."

These words diffused terror through the whole party. Babet and Jeanette rose up from their seats, the soldier stopped, his wife immediately dried up her tears, and stifled her sighs.—"What do you mean?" began the soldier in firm voice. "Take your place quietly in the carriage. The step which puts my life in danger cannot be recalled. Suppose even that you were to return to your prison, it might now be more difficult to get into it unobserved than it was to get out. You must already be missed. If not, you cannot reach the town before day-break; and then it must be just as fatal to your guard, whether you really escaped, or only attempted it by his connivance. Away then, without losing a moment! My wife and child I commit to the protection of God and my brother, who was not present with me on the post, and consequently has nothing to answer for. I will conduct you to the frontiers, and there remain till the tyrant of [Page] my country it overthrown, which sooner or later must happen, as I know the temper of my comrades. Justice will then have time to breathe again, and it will no longer be reckoned criminal to obey the dictates of gratitude and humanity.—Away then, and God be with us!"

He seized the reins, and leaped into the saddle. William, though his alarms were not banished, was convinced by his arguments, that now to recede would nothing diminish the dangers to which the gallant fellow was exposed; he resigned himself to necessity, seated himself by Jeanette's side, and the carriage drove on.

Had I [...]ouvet's pen to paint the danger of this flight, the description would answer the fearful expectation of the reader. Often would he remain breathless with anxiety, and stretch every fibre of attention.—Five nights they travelled through unfrequented roads, known only to their guide. During the day they concealed themselves in woods and deep retired vallies among the mountains. Twice did the harness break in passing over the rocks. On the third night they lost their way, and at dawn saw, with terror and astonishment, the lofty spires of a large town at a little distance; and as they suddenly turned the horses to shun this danger, one of them dropped down dead.

The courage of the men and the firmness of the women at last overcame all dangers. The morning sun of the fifth day dawned as they entered the frontiers of Switzerland. In vain Jeanette opened her purse, and Babet her casket, to supply their generous guide, at least with what was necessary to secure him from want during his exile. "I can work," said he—"Industry and honesty are welcome every where. If you would alleviate the pain [...]tion from my family, give me nothing, in order that while I follow my labour, I may have the consoling reflection that I have done well."

[Page]About noon, William with his fair companions reached a town, where they resolved to recruit themselves after the many difficulties they had encountered. There their hearts, for the first time, opened to easy unembarrassed conversation. Fear no longer sealed their lips, no dangers now obliterated the remembrance of the past, or clouded their hopes of the future.

Jeanette had now an opportunity to inquire with cordial sympathy the history of her husband's friend; and William availed himself of this occasion to relate, in Babet's presence, the state of his heart. He gained this advantage by the step, that he was not obliged to address himself to Babet, and she could blush in silence, as the looks of her friend were too delicate to dwell on her ingenuous shame.

He now painted Frederick's passion in the most glowing colours, expatiated with eloquence on all the amiable qualites which the reserve of his friend had rendered him incapable of displaying, and concluded with the ardent wish (which he addressed to heaven, and not to Babet) that the lovely creature might one day reward the first love of a man of honour by a mutual attachment.

Babet was silent, and fixed her eyes on the ground. What really passed in her heart it is impossible for us to unfold. All that she heard, however, connected with the impossibility of possessing the man who had made the first impression on her heart, and now spoke so warmly for another, combined too with her helpless situation in a foreign land, produced no disadvantageous impression on her mind to Frederick's pretensions.

William now was silent, and left the rest to his wife, to whom he made a significant sign to second the wishes of Babet, convinced that in such cases a woman is the best agent that can be employed.

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CHAP. XXI. THE TYRANNY OF HONOUR.

TWO days had now elapsed. Repose and anxiety to see her child had armed Jeanette with new strength. For some days past she had observed a cloud on William's brow, the cause of which she was unable to explain; and she hoped, by a speedy departure, to restore his wonted serenity. She intreated him, therefore, to make preparations to set out next morning, and he promised to comply.

This promise indeed appeared to cost him some pain. He seemed reluctantly to make preparations for the journey; and the evening previous to their intended departure he was uncommonly pensive; melancholy clouded his open countenance. Jeanette's eye dwelt upon him with anxious looks; but as she could not devise the reason, and he studiously evaded her inquiries, she contented herself in the expectation that time would unravel the mystery, and banish her uneasy apprehensions with the thoughts of soon seeing her infant.

The morning came. Jeanette awoke, but William was gone. On the day of their departure so many things were to be arranged, that at first she was not surprised. She leaped out of bed, and went into the adjoining room, to awake Babet, and began very busily to pack up her baggage.

Breakfast was brought up, and with it the waiter delivered her a sealed letter. She glanced over it, and turned pal [...]—the address was William's handwriting. With trembling hands she hastily broke the seal, and read as follows:

[Page]"My dearest wife! it is not in my power to return with you. I am bound by my word of honor, and I must perform it. For the sake of my comrades who still remain in captivity, I must not abuse the indulgence for which we pledged our honor. Be easy, however. I do not intend to deliver myself up to the frantic deluded people. There are still in France men of worth, who will protect me till the expected exchange takes place. Be not offended at the step I have thus taken. I am indeed a husband and a father, but I am likewise a citizen and a soldier. I cannot appear in my native land as a dishonored run-away. I cannot enjoy happiness in your arms if I violate my word. If my joyful presages do not deceive me, we shall soon meet again. Proceed in your journey— may it be happy! Carry my blessing to our child. I leave you far from the theatre of war, and your road home is quite secure. You have an amiable companion, a faithful servant, and more money than you will require. I am easy therefore. Proceed on your journey, then, this very day. Every thing is ready. Forbear all fruitless attempts to discover me. When you receive this letter I shall be upon the territories of France. Take the shortest way home—do not plunge yourself into new dangers; think of our deserted child. Heaven guide you, and shorten our separation!"

To see a thunderbolt from the unclouded sky suddenly shiver to pieces the lofty oak by his side, would less astonish the affrighted traveller than this letter amazed Jeanette. Pale and trembling she handed the letter to Babet. "Ah! William, William, what hast thou done?—You are going to a land where the laws of nations afford no protection—to a land where noble sentiments are despised, where the few who yet are animated by principles of humanity, must bend under the iron rod of [Page] tyranny; and can I then be easy?—A thousand dangers have I defied—through difficulties innumerable, through frightful precipices did I press to find thee—yet again you abandon me!—Ah! William, what hast thou done?"

Thus did she lament under the heavy load of her anguish, and was inaccessible to the cold consolations of her friend. Her spirits quite exhausted, unable to turn her attention to any object, she did unconsciously whatever she was desired; consented, without being sensible of what she did, to Babet's request that they should leave this melancholy spot. She followed her into the carriage, seated herself in silence, and neither asked nor cared whither they were going.

When she began again to breathe her native air, when they passed the frontiers of Germany, Babet succeeded in rousing her from her stupor, by reminding her of her child. At last, when they had advanced within a day's journey of the place of their destination, the feelings of the wife yielded to those of the mother; her imagination painted the little smiling William stretching out his arms to her. She calculated in idea how much he had grown; she heard the new words he had learnt to lisp, and rejoiced in the thought that in spite of her long absence he would still know his mother.

It was evening when they reached a little town only two short stages from the object of her tender anxiety. As they had pursued their journey day and night without repose, the wearied Babet here wished to enjoy a few hours sleep; and in this wish she was confirmed by the representations of the landlord, who told them that there was a wood in their way, through which it was very unsafe to pass. "A desperate band," said he, "consisting of German deserters, Dutch run-aways, and French refugees, [Page] have collected here, and render travelling very dangerous. The neighborhood of the frontiers favor their designs. Dreadful stories of robbery and murder are circulated, which perhaps may be exaggerated, but yet are terrible enough if you believe only one half of them. Government, it is said, however, is making preparations to put an end to the disorder, and a strong party of soldiers is to be sent to surround the wood, and hunt the robbers from their retreats." Whether the detachment had yet arrived, whether the attempt had yet been made to clear the wood, and with what success, the landlord could not tell, and he thought it very dangerous, for the travellers to proceed, especially by night.

The tim [...]rous Babet agreed with the host, and [...] of William's recommendation to expose herself to no new dangers. Maternal anxiety, however, overcame every apprehension; for a mother's love knows no fear. Jeanette had formed to herself so delightful an idea of embracing, [...] day-break, her sleeping babe— [...]t was clear [...]oon-sight—and the host himself had confessed that [...]tions were taken by government for the safety of travellers. Rumour too magnified the danger; the wood was already cle [...]red of its desp [...]rate inhabitants, and such frightful tales were commonly circulated, like stories of apparitions, to frighten the timorous. In a word, her maternal anxiety overcame the fears of her friend, and, lighted by the rising moon, they proceeded on their journey.

Their confidence was increased, when at the distance of half a mile from the fatal wood they met a traveller on horse-back, who had rode through it unmolested, and who communicated to them the agreeable intelligence, that in the morning two companies of gr [...]diers had been drawn out, and had invested the wood on every side.

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CHAP. XXII. THE ROBBERS.

IT would be an interesting subject for the curious in the phenomena of the human mind, to investigate why the soul expands itself in open and luminous situations, and the flame of courage burns then more bright; why, on the contrary, in the gloomy recesses of rocky cliff, or the obscurity of a shaggy wood, the breast seems contracted, and the frame is agitated by an involuntary horror.

As long as the road stretched through cultivated fields, and here and there the village dog was heard to bark, the travellers felt no apprehension. When the [...]a [...]l wood, however, blacker and blacker, skirted the horizon before them; when they began to enter upon it, and the solitary trees gradually thickened into an impenetrable grove, through which the beams of the moon could not pass, they began to conceive some degree of alarm. An anxious silence prevailed in the carriage—every accidental rustling among the leaves, every deceitful shadow of the trees, struck them with dismay.

At little intervals the wood sometimes opened, and displayed little spots, on which the gentle light of the moon sh [...]e unclouded. They breathed more freely when they came to such places. After they for near an hour had been tortured by secret terror, Babet first ventured to whisper to her friend the agreeable hope that probably they should very [...] [...]h the extremity of the wood. Hardly [Page] had she said this, however, when a shrill whistle from a thicket on their left hand sounded so frightfully through the silence of night, that they started up. The signal was repeated at a little distance before them in the same shri [...]l note, and immediately they heard the trampling of horses, and the sound of human voices.

"God protect us!" said the postillion, and crossed himself. In trembling broken accents Jeanette endeavored to comfort her companion with the hope that perhaps it was the grenadiers who were in search of the robbers, and who guarded the road. But at this moment a shot which levelled the post-boy confirmed all their fears. The carriage was surrounded, and the ladies screamed for help. One of the robbers mounted upon a stately charger advanced to the door with a pistol in his hand; he spoke to them in French, and ordered them, as they prized their lives, to observe a strict silence. One of his companions pulled down Peter from the coach-box; another leaped into the saddle, and drove the carriage into the wood. The robbers surrounded it on all sides; two of them stood behind, and one rode before, to guide it through the rough, unformed path.

Scarcely had they advanced two hundred paces, when the carriage struck violently against some f [...]lled timber, and broke the axle-tree. The robbers swore; the ladies trembled; nothing remained to be done but to take the animate as well as inanimate booty out of the carriage, and leave it. This the robbers instantly resolved to do; twenty hands were employed in removing the baggage; and the person on horseback, who appeared the commander of the gang, came up and politely requested the ladies to dismount. They were obliged to obey.

He immediately quitted them again to superintend his companions, and to hasten the business. [Page] Jeanette and Babet sat down upon the mossy stump of a tree, and were obliged to look on and see their little property thrown about and plundered. Most of it was heaped upon poor Peter's shoulders, and when he groaned under the burden, they stimulated him with lashes. In a very few minutes the robbers had emptied the carriage, and shaken the lining to see whether any thing was concealed.

They immediately put the cav [...]l [...]ade in motion, and the ladies at first believed that the robbers would content themselves with the booty, and leave them behind in the wood, as nobody seemed to take any concern about them. Their situation was so distressing, that the frightful alternative of remaining alone in the heart of the pathless wood seemed preferable, and Jeanette in secret breathed a fervent prayer that they might be left; for a mother can find her way through a wilderness to her child. Of this wretched hope, however, they were deprived. Two saddled horses were brought, and a signal was made that they should mount and follow the rest of the party as fast as possible.

They declined with abundance of tears, and both declared that they had never in their lives been on horseback; that they would rather follow on foot; but their intreaties were fruitless. A dozen of rude fellows surrounded them, and with coarse jests promised to take care and keep them from falling. When the ladies still refused, they seized them rudely, and placed them on horseback by force.

At this moment a volley of musket shot poured in among them▪ the balls whistled about Jeanette's [...]ars. Two of the robbers who stood beside her fell dead; others severely wounded crept away deeper into the thicket.

The whole wood seemed suddenly to be animated. Thundering cries resounded through the trees. "This way! this way!' cried a man on [Page] horseback, who cut his way through the bushes with his sabre. Behind him grenadiers' caps glanced in the light of the moon.

The robbers who had gone before, threw down their booty when they heard the firing, seized their arms, and assembled courageously round their leader, who boldly advanced to meet the soldiers. A furious engagement began, which was rendered still more dreadful by the darkness of the night, and the narrow space within which the combatants were confined. Jeanette and her companion were almost as much exposed to danger as those engaged. They attempted to fly, but on all sides they were surrounded by the sanguinary conflict. Balls struck the trees by their side, and wounded men dropped down at their feet.

The robbers exceeded the soldiers in number, and the latter began to retreat, still maintaining a running fight. By this movement the ladies were involved in the middle of the crowd. The officer who commanded them was wounded. His horse received a shot, and reeled—he leaped to the ground just beside Babet, who lay trembling on her knees, and with a sigh stammered the words, "I can do no more!"

"My God!" exclaimed Babet as she wrung her hands, and threw her tearful eyes to heaven. At these words, the wounded man looked up, screamed "Babet! Babet!" and plunged anew into the battle. That sweet name seemed instantaneously to have closed his wounds, and manned his arms with supernatural strength. [...]is sword slashed destruction among the rob [...]ers, an [...] at last he reached their valiant leader, with whom he maintained an unequal combat. He was on foot; the latter was on horseback. He was exhausted with loss of blood, his antagonist was unhurt; he attacked him however with undaunted courage, and disputed every [Page] inch of ground with the captain of the robbers, whose horse and undiminished vigor gave him every advantage.

Alas! he was again driven back to Babet's feet— covered with new wounds he sunk down beside her, and exclaimed, "Here will I die with pleasure!"—The stranger was bending forwards to cleave his head, when the sight of Babet again seemed to be endued with an inexplicable charm. "Babet!" cried the robber, and his uplifted arm dropped nerveless. "Babet!" repeated he; then leaped hastily from his horse, seized the kneeling maid, and hurried her through the crowd deeper into the thicket. The officer lay unable to move, or to make the least opposition to this attempt.

CHAP. XXIII. THE DELIVERER.

SCARCELY had Babet thus, without her consent, quitted the spot where robbers and soldiers contended with equal courage and doubtful fortune, when the scene suddenly changed. An officer at the head of twenty hussars started suddenly from the thicket, fell like thunder upon the robbers, and in a moment decided the victory. All that were able to fly took to slight. The place was [...] with killed and wounded. Those who [...] attempt to [...] [...]re taken prisoners, were bound.

The officer leaped from his horse, hastily traversed [Page] the field of battle, found Jeanette, who lay senseless under an oak, and threw himself down beside her.—She sighed—she opened her eyes, and found herself in William's arms!

Astonishment and joy deprived her of speech. She could not ask what miracle had sent her husband as her deliverer. She could only feel an unspeakable joy, and this feeling venting itself in tears, she hung on his neck and wept.

The groans of a wounded man attracted his attention, and roused William from the delightful transports into which he was thrown. He looked round, saw a man lying weltering in his blood—looked again—started with affright—and sunk down overpowered with grief by the side of the sufferer.—It was Frederick—his friend, who knew him not; for the night of death sat heavy on his eyes.

"Help! help!" cried William with great emotion, and pulled ou [...] his handkerchief to bind up the wounds, which bl [...]d violently. Jeanette, too, came up and uttered a piercing shriek, when she recognised the pale countenance of the gallant youth.

The soldiers desisted from the pursuit of the robbers, returned, and hastily made up two litters of twigs; gently placed the wounded man upon the one, and the exhausted Jeanette upon the other, and bore them with cautious steps through the wood. The hussars drove the prisoners before them. William rode slowly beside the litters, and a thousand conflicting emotions agitated his breast. When he looked at the wife he had saved from such danger, he was filled with a melancholy joy; but when he turned to his dying friend, and heard Jeanette's lamentations for the lost Babet his pleasure in being the deliverer of his wife was cruelly embittered.

At day-break they reached the extremity of the [Page] wood, and with it a village; where, though destitute of every accommodation, they were obliged to remain, for the wounded man could not endure to be moved any farther. William immediately dispatched a hussar to the next town to call surgeons. They came about noon, and to William's unspeakable joy declared that none of his friend's wounds were mortal. They pledged themselves for his recovery, and said, that the only dangerous circumstance was the weakness which the loss of so much blood ha [...] occasioned.

The parson of the parish, a benevolent old man, now came to the inn, and with the kindest hospitality made an offer of his house for the accommodation of the patient. The offer was gratefully accepted, and Frederick, after the first dressing was taken off, with permission of the surgeon was removed. The good old man prepared the best and quietest room in the house for his reception; and with the most tender anxiety produced whatever his kitchen, his cellar, and his little domestic medicine chest could furnish.

In the evening Frederick again became perfectly sensible. He could not speak, however, but he smiled complacently when he saw his friend sitting at his bed-side. He smiled, too, when he saw Jeanette busied going backwards and forwards; and his eye glanced with looks of anxiety round the room, as if he still sought another object. William understood this look, and with a significant gesture asked his wife, whether Babet was yet asleep: Jeanette nodded assent, but she was forced to turn aside to conceal the rising tear. This little deception produced an happy effect upon Frederick; he seemed to be perfectly satisfied, and soon after fell asleep.

By the fatigues of her journey, and the terrors she had sustained the preceding night, Jeanette [Page] was so exhausted that she was scarce able to move. William was almost as much worn out; but he resolved this night to watch by his friend's bed-side, and insisted that his wife should return and enjoy the repose she so much required in the adjoining room. One of the surgeons likewise remained with Frederick. As the patient, however, seemed to sleep quietly, the surgeon fell asleep also. William continued awake; and the remembrance of all his wonderful adventures furnished his mind with such copious subject of meditation, as enabled him to resist the attacks of sleep.

A little after midnight he heard repeated knocks at the door; but as the room where the sick man lodged was at the back of the house, and the knocking could not disturb the repose of his friend, he took no further notice of it. In a short time, however, his attention was attracted by the noise increasing, by the sound of people passing and repassing, and talking at a distance. Not long after, some one stepped up to the door of the room, and knocked softly. William went out, and found the parson with a light in his hand, who told him that a beautiful young lady with a casket under her arm had come to his house on foot, and had called him up to speak with him. As she, however spoke nothing but French, and he did not understand that language, he had conducted her to his closet, and taken the liberty to call him as an interpreter. The lady appeared very uneasy, and was bathed in tears.

William hastened to awake the surgeon, and followed the old man with a presentiment which did not deceive him; for, when the door opened, Babet flew into his arms!—William's unexpected appearance gave her extreme joy a tinctu [...]e of wildness. She now considered herself completely saved when she found herself again under the protection [Page] of a beloved friend. She laughed, wept, sighed, prayed, and for a long time could not utter a coherent sentence. At last she inquired first for Jeanette—and then, with visible emotion, for Frederick, whom, in the confusion of the sight, she had too well recognised when he dropped at her feet, and his last words, "Here will I die with pleasure!" still vibrated in her ears.

After William had given her a favorable answer to all her inquiries, and had somewhat settled her spirits by a composing draught, he expressed a wish to know by what lucky adventure she had so unexpectedly appeared:—Babet, however, laid her fingers on her mouth—she remained silent— her eyes lost their fire—and, after taking two or three turns through the room, she seized William's hand, and intreated him never again to distress her with this question.

William could not comprehend the cause of this refusal; but as she repeated her intreaty in the most fervent tone, and he was not accustomed to pry into oth [...]r people's secrets, he desisted from all inquiry. The parson, too, could give no clue to the mystery. The servant could only tell that when Babet knocked, a carriage, surrounded by several men on horseback, stood at a little distance from the house; and that as soon as the door was opened, and she admitted, the carriage and the attendants wheeled round, at full gallop took the way back to the wood.

Next morning the joy of the company was completed by the appearance of honest Peter, about whom, in the first alarm of the sight, nobody had shown any concern; and availing himself of this circumstance, he had fled with the baggage on his back into the th [...]kest part of the wood The whole day he had wandered about the wood, and was almost starved, [...] at last a good-natured peasant [Page] brought him into the road. He then traced out his master, and arrived just at the moment when, on the removal of the second dressing, the surgeon gave the most sanguine hopes of Frederick's speedy recovery, and Babet and Jeanette stood arm in arm by his bed-side.

CHAP. XXIV. THE CONCLUSION.

FOR an author to consider all his readers to be persons of the dullest intellects, and therefore to leave them nothing to anticipate, or to supply, would be no less absurd and injudicious than it would be in the manager of a theatre, who, after dropping the curtain on the conclusion of a grand scenic opera, should draw it up once more to exhibit to the spectators the whole mechanism of the metamorphoses, and to show them every contrivance by which the various objects were represented.

The narrator of this surprising but true history is convinced that most of his readers, particularly those of the fair sex, (whom, from his own experience, he knows to possess a peculiar felicity of conjecture, in proof of which they are much quicker of comprehension than men) must long since have penetrated into the contents of the two last [...]pt [...]rs, and anticipated the catastrophe. He [...] it only [...] [...]y, therefore, to mark the [...] [...]ry pursued, merely with [...] in maps use to point out the [Page] route of navigators, that the reader may follow them till he traces our heroes into the haven of Love, constant through every trial.

That Frederick, soon after his separation from his friend, was exchanged; that he returned to his regiment, which during the war had suffered very much, and which, partly to allow it a respite, and partly that it might be recruited to its full complement, was stationed in its old garrison; that the young hero, accustomed to activity, undertook the task of clearing the wood of the robbers by whom it was infested; are circumstances extremely natural, and unnecessary to be insisted upon.

William's elopement was the effect of, perhaps, too nice a feeling of honor, and his speedy return was the effect of a proper display of generosity in the enemy. When he arrived at the head-quarters of the general, who was encamped on the frontiers of Switzerland, he voluntarily surrendered himself as a prisoner of war, and, with the noble candour which testifies the innocent man, recounted the story of his flight. The commander in chief did not think it his duty again to expose the life of the prisoner to the fury of his countrymen, by detaining him. He joyfully seized the opportunity which his office of intendant of the exchange of prisoners presented, to rescue William from all farther inconveniences, and that very evening he gave him liberty to return home.

What use William made of his freedom it is easy to conceive. He flew back to the place where he had left his faithful Jeanette with the hope of still finding her there. When he found that she had got the start of him by twenty miles, he took post-horses, and followed her. Every moment the distance by which they were separated diminished. The last stage he reached an hour after her departure, and the timorous host told him how [Page] he had warned her not to proceed; and that in spite of his friendly remonstrances, and Babet's fatigue, she had resolved to continue her journey.

William trembled to think of the danger in which she was involved by her maternal anxiety. He hastened to the commandant of the place, an old fellow-soldier, and requested a strong escort to the next stage. Twenty hussars immediately received orders to attend him, and he set off fullspeed. The tumult in the wood reached his ear, and he arrived just in time to save his wife, and avenge his friend.

The thickest veil concealed the secret of Babet's adventure; and we should never have been able to penetrate it, if she had not some years after, herself communicated the mystery in a moment of confidence to her husband. The captain of the rubbers, who had called her name, seized and carried her off, was her brother Philip. In his youth spoiled by indulgence, perverted by the prejudices of birth, he left his country full of chimerical hopes, trusted to the distinction of his birth, and expected to perform an important part among the emigrants, for which he was not qualified. He thought himself neglected; he then joined himself with other discontented persons in the same situation, and became a robber.

For some time he carried on his depredations cautiously, and with success. But when his troop was increased by new accessions, he had the hardihood to engage in some extravagant attempts, which attracted the attention of government, and involved him in the most serious disasters. He was overpowered, his troop dispersed, and he had the good fortune to avoid an ignominious death by making his escape to America.

When in the heat of the battle he recognised his sister on her knees, a spark of fraternal affection [Page] awoke in his breast. He forgot his own danger, and thought only of carrying the helpless maid to a place of safety. After the skirmish was over, and the rest of his troop were assembled, he caused her casket to be sought for, returned it to her, and in person conducted her by circuitous paths, known to himself alone, to the parson's house; here he presented her his rugged hand, which she bathed with tears of sorrow to see him fallen so low. All her sisterly admonitions to divert him from his career of guilt—her affecting appeal to her honored father's spirit—he heard only in sullen silence.

With a heavy heart, and a determination at least not to divulge her brother's shame, she resigned him to his fate, and hastened back to the arms of friendship, in the bosom of a new family; where in person of her husband, the orphan found a father, brother, and friend.

Love, friendship, virtue, hope, soon restored Frederick to perfect health. On William's estate the two families now grew and flourished. Harmony, contentment, and cheerfulness beamed in the looks of their parents, and smiled in the eyes of their children. The two friends hung up their arms in the hall, tended their turnips and cabbages, and exclaimed with Voltaire:

Ah! [...] [...]les sages

Le [...]

FINIS.

Notes

*

The present Madame Tall [...]on.

↵

§

§

[Page]

CONTENTS OF VOLUME FIRST.

THE Author's Dedication, Page III

Literary Life of the Author, Page V

CHAP. I. The Boy, Page 15

CHAP. II. The First Visit, Page 19

CHAP. III. The Pear-Tree, Page 23

CHAP. IV. The Canary Bird, Page 27

CHAP. V. Love for Love, Page 32

CHAP. VI. The Schoolmaster, Page 38

CHAP. VII. Patience, Page 42

CHAP. VIII. The Soldier, Page 46

CHAP. IX. A new Character, Page 52

CHAP. X. The Murderer, Page 57

CHAP. XI. The Priest, Page 63

CHAP. XII. The Prisoner, Page 69

CHAP. XIII. The Penitent, Page 74

CHAP. XIV. The Ge [...] Contest, Page 80

CHAP. XV. Fortune [...], Page 84

CHAP. XVI. The Meeting and Separation, Page 92

CHAP. XVII. The Wanderer, Page 100

CHAP. XVIII. The Hum [...]rist, Page 106

CHAP. XIX. Improvements, Page 112

CHAP. XX. The Bower, Page 119

CHAP. XXI. Slighted L [...]ve, Page 125

CHAP. XXII. The [...], Page 132

CHAP. XXIII. The [...]. Page 139

CHAP. XXIV. C [...]a [...]y rewarded, Page 146

[Page]

CONTENTS OF VOLUME SECOND.

CHAP. I. THE Prisoner, Page 153

CHAP. II. Brunette, Page 159

CHAP. III. The Coffin, Page 164

CHAP. IV. The Cavern, Page 172

CHAP. V. The Treasure, Page 177

CHAP. VI. The Visionary, Page 181

CHAP. VII. The Rights of Nature, Page 186

CHAP. VIII. The Spectre, Page 193

CHAP. IX. The Storm, Page 200

CHAP. X. The Separation, Page 207

CHAP. XI. The Fever, Page 216

CHAP. XII. The Conflagration, Page 222

CHAP. XIII. The Passport, Page 227

CHAP. XIV. The Mayer, Page 232

CHAP. XV. The Constitutional Priest, Page 242

CHAP. XVI. A critical Situation, Page 249

CHAP. XVII. Love and Gratitude, Page 254

CHAP. XVIII. The Grandmother, Page 261

CHAP. XIX. The Pl [...] is unfolded, Page 269

CHAP. XX. The Flight, Page 275

CHAP. XXI. The Tyranny of Honor, Page 279

CHAP. XXII. The Robbers, Page 283

CHAP. XXIII. The Deliverer, Page 287

CHAP. XXIV. The Conclusion, Page 292

Information about this book

Title statement

The constant lover; or, William and Jeanette; a tale. / From the German of Augustus von Kotzebue, author of The stranger, Lovers' vows, Self immolation, Virgin of the sun, &c. ; To which is prefixed, an account of the literary life of the author. ; Two volumes in one.Geprüfte Liebe. English

Kotzebue, August von, 1761-1819.

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Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

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Ann Arbor, MI :

Date

2007-10.

ID [DLPS]

N26815

ID [TCP]

N26815

ID [STC]

Evans 35693

ID [NOTIS]

APY3471

ID [IMAGE-SET]

35693

ID [EVANS-CITATION]

99030586

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Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 35693.

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(Evans-TCP ; no. N26815)

Transcribed from: (Readex Archive of Americana ; Early American Imprints, series I ; image set 35693)

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Source

— The constant lover; or, William and Jeanette; a tale. / From the German of Augustus von Kotzebue, author of The stranger, Lovers' vows, Self immolation, Virgin of the sun, &c. ; To which is prefixed, an account of the literary life of the author. ; Two volumes in one., Geprüfte Liebe. English, Kotzebue, August von, 1761-1819., Graumann, Charles George, dedicatee..

Extent

xiv, [1], 16-295, 5 p. ; 17 cm. (12mo)

Printed for Joseph Bumstead. Sold by him at no. 20, Union-Street; by Thomas and Andrews, Newbury-Street; by E. Larkin, and Wm. P. and L. Blake, Cornhill,,. Boston: :: 1799.. (Dedicated to Charles George Graumann.)

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