CHAPTER, I.

JUST at the close of one of those delightful days, so common in the south of France, the carriage of the Countess DE LAUNA descended into a charming valley, and the eye of the owner, which had for several hours been suffused with tears, was caught by the beauty of the scene; her heart had been so intirely occupied with some recent sorrow,—so lacerated by affliction long since passed, that her imagination had wandered from the Coach, and had conducted her to the death bed of her beloved friend, or the side of an afflicted brother: indeed she had some sor­rows of a nature still nearer to herself: but with an expan­sive heart and unusual benevolence of soul, she frequently forgot, or at least buried her woes in the griefs of others:—At this time her mind was unusually agitated; and when she caught a view of the sun now almost setting; a prospect of the verdure with which the surrounding hills were cov­ered, and a vision of the lucid stream which flowed around them, she thought how often her spirits had been calmed, and her mind harmonized, by a view of the beauties of na­ture: "Surely (said she) they cannot wholly lose their effect; I will try and steal if possible a transient tranquility from [Page 14] objects so simple so sublime!" She alighted and bidding her attendants drive to the top of a neighbouring hill, she walk­ed on; sometimes stopping to survey the beauty of the scene, and moralizing as she went, she thus found in some measure that tranquility of which she had been in pursuit. Almost at the bottom of the hill, in a little turn of the road, she found a neat Cottage; the perfect simplicity of which at­tracted her attention; a seat was at the door, a door whol­ly overshadowed with grapes and woodbine; the frag [...]nce of the one, and the coolness of the other, induced her to set down;—but the voice of affliction which [...] from the house, no sooner caught her car, than it reached her heart; and impatient to sooth, even, if she could not relieve, she entered without ceremony, and was immediately struck by the appearance of an old Man, who had just expired. By the side of his bed stood a young Girl, whose face was strongly agitated by agonizing sorrow, but it could not conceal her beauty; which even in that trying moment, was too uncommon to pass unobserved a moment; her hands were clasped together, her eyes [...] upon the inan­imate body, and her whole frame seemed convulsed by affliction.

The simple garb in which she was attired, was by no means calculated to adorn; but could not veil the ele­gance of her person; after a second's hesitation, Madam DU LAUNA, in a voice soft and plaintive, and a language that could not be misunderstood, for it came from the heart and it went to the heart; thus addressed the fair mourner. "I do not attempt to comfort you (said she) that must be the work of time, but heaven who pities your distresses, has sent me, to share them with you; whatever may be your sorrows, when you are calmer you will confess them to me; and though I may not have the power to mitigate them, yet I will join my tears with yours, and by my sympathy, aid you to bear them." There was in the manner, as well as the voice of the Countess, something so fascinating, so consoling, and so persuasive, that the afflicted heart felt re­lief, and JULIA, somewhat soothed, suffered herself to be seated; her tears still flowed, but they flowed in silence.

In a few moments, a young man with a woman and two peasants entered the room; the first appeared to be a ser­vant of the deceased, and the two others, persons whom he had brought with him, to perform the last duties to the [Page 15] remains of his master; he now informed the Countess that JULIA, which was the young woman's name, was grand child of the deceased: "And now (cryed he piteously) poor [...], has lost her only friend; for it is an hundred to one if her uncle even returns." This impertinent remark seemed to wound the unfortunate creature anew, who was the subject of it; and though her lamentations were nei­ther l [...]ad nor boisterous, her heart seemed to be breaking [...] sorrows passed, and sorrows yet to come: The Coun­t [...] with a tenderness and delicacy not often met with, a­gain attempted to soothe her; she a sured her, she should never want a friend in her, and that she should never feel a want which she could prevent; used to an elegant habita­tion, to a bed of down; and a splendid apartment, with ev­ery conveniency and superfluity of life, she determined to pass the night in the humble cottage, and in the morning of the following [...] to prevail upon the friendless creature to accompany her to her own dwelling, and to share her fortune with her friends: In this view she sent some of her attendants to the Carriage for refreshments from an Inn, and persuaded, [...], to retire to another small apartment, while the remains of her Grand Father were inshrouded.

The Countess DE LAUNA, spent the whole night in ad­ministering comfort to her young Protege, and so great a proficient was she in all the duties of humanity, that the dispa [...]ing girl became calm enough to listen to her gentle accents; to thank her for her goodness, and once more to think of life without those excruciating sensations that arose in her bosom when the Countess first entered. "Have you always resided in this place my love (enquired this ex­cellent woman,) this question was prompted by extreme cu­riosity which the perfect elegance of JULIA'S form had ex­cited; by the softness of her voice, by the propriety of her language and the gentleness of her manners; a politeness that arise from an affectionate heart is not subdued, but aided by sorrow; that politeness was obvious in this lovely girl; and the Countess mistook it for that good breeding which is the result of a life spent in the world, and an acquaint­ance with what is generally termed good company.

"I have no recollection of any other habitation (she re­plied;) my Mother was the only daughter of the worthy Man who is now no more: I have reason to think from many circumstances, that my Father was of birth and fa­mily [Page 16] superior; but my dear Mother always appeared un­willing to speak of these things; and when I once pressed her upon the subject, her reluctance was so apparent that I could not prevail upon myself to wound her heart with any further enquiries: she was very anxious respecting my education; she taught me herself the use of the needle in its various branches, and from a neighboring town, pro­cured masters to instruct me in musick, drawing and danc­ing; she purchased me books, attended to my studies, and treated me more like a superior than a child: The reflec­tions I have since made, did not then occur; nor did I till I was near sixteen years old, think with any degree of steadiness upon the difference between the few girls I was allowed to converse with, and myself; this difference arose wholly from our different educations;—I then remarked it to my indulgent mother, and begged to know why such a distinction was made; my grand father (I said is poor,) you have always told me that we were so too; why then expend so much money to procure accomplishments worse than useless; since they prevent my performing the duties of an indigent girl, with the alacrity that I ought too; surely I had better learn some useful employment that will enable me to earn my bread. I shall never forget her re­ply," you were not born my beloved child for the humble station you now fill; and I hope one day to present you to those friends who will think themselves honored by a connection with you: I strive to make your Education such, as will render you an ornament to the station you will most certainly be one day called to; the time will come, when I shall rejoice to unfold every Enigma; at present rest satisfied, and be assured I aim only at your happiness.—But alass! where are her pleasing prognostics, f [...]ed forever from my view! passed like the clouds of the night or the vapor of the morning, and not one ray of the sun appears to illumine my dark and desolate path!"—She paused a moment, overwhelmed by the recollection: but the soothing voice of the Countess reassured and com­forted her, and she continued. "There was something so peculiar in my situation, that it could not fail to call forth a variety of sensations; I was absolutely forbid to stray beyond the bounds of my grand-father's farm: I never saw one [...] man except our servant; now and then I was visit­ed by the daughters of two neighboring cottages, but never [Page 17] suffered to return their visits; but still I was happy: My mo­ther's assurance; my grand-father's kindness; my books, my harpsichord, and work employed my time, and occupied my mind: I had no time for regretting the want of pleasures that I [...]ever tailed, and knew only from reading. My mother made an annual visit at this season of the year to some friends she had, but would never take me with her; she always tarried all night, and never left home without giving me the strictest injunction to remain with her father, and never leave the farm, if any thing prevented her re­turning, at the period she appointed.

"Two years since she was absent but one day, and when she came home, joy seemed to animate her countenance, and sparkle in her eyes; her whole frame was agitated by hope: In a few days, my dear JULIA, said she, embracing me, every mystery will be cleared, and I shall have the plea­sure to see you acknowledged as what you really are; my present joys would be too great were it not for a sad and dreadful tale that I have to unfold. My dearest mo­ther, said I, why then do you keep from your daughter a secret, that will be so soon revealed▪ prove that you think her worthy of your confidence, and relieve my mind from a state of doubt and suspence. She told me with a kind of sorrowful severity her precepts had had but little effect, if I could not check a curiosity for a few days: you must learn to suppress it, indeed you must she added—I have suffered sixteen years of extreme uneasiness for you, I have lived se­cluded from the world; and when I am upon the eve of reaping the fruits of all my toil, you cannot wait three days for an eclairci [...]ement which will render us all happy; but if anticipated a moment, danger and difficulty awaits us.—I was hurt at my own folly; I entreated [...] received forgive­ness:—that night she conversed with her father, and in the morning she took from a box that I had never seen opened, a packet of papers, and after embracing me with great af­fection, left us; that day I spent indulging the most pleasing hope [...], and the next I looked every moment for her return; but I looked in vain; that day and many others were spent in a fruitless and intolerable anxiety, that I could not des­cribe: at length my grand-father sent Symon, his cultiva­tor, to make enquiry: but not a trace of her remained: Yet, still a later hope supported me, and I kept expecting this [...] and honored parent, and recollecting all her kind­ness [Page 18] and care, recalling every proof of her love, as well as the mystery to which she had often alluded; while my fear that she was [...]ea [...], kept my mind in continual alarm, agi­tation and distress: I began to think I never should see her again, [...] looking into a newspaper, which was wrapped round some articles that Simon had bought for our fami­ly use, my attention was attracted by an advertisement that I still hope respected her, though I own the idea is ro­mantic, and now, alass, nearly exausted! it was in these words: Whereas a female was by the machinations of an artful enemy deluded from her home; this is to request her friends not to be distressed, to put their trust in Providence, and to attend to the injunction she has often given.—The life my mother had led was always so in offensive, that I had never supposed she could have an enemy; I knew not what to think; but I had been so wearied out with conjecture, that I caught hold of the hope this held up; and though I sick­ened at the suggestion of her being kept from her friends, I was more composed than I had been; but the application I was obliged to make to family matters, kept me from despair: I attended my little dairy [...] cooked my grand­father's provisions, took care that my house was always clean, and endeavored to be cheerful to give him pleasure; thus labour was my resource, and constant employment; a shield from discontent. I now seldom read, and the notes of my harp, were discord; I only played a few tunes to gratify the only relation I knew in the world. When I list­ened to the birds that built their [...]sts about the house, my sorrows were increased, for I thought they either mourned as I did for the loss of a parent, or rejoiced in the care of one;—but when I watched the rising or setting sun, the calm hour of twilight, when I beheld the milky-way, the sky bespangled with stars, my heart was listened, my mind soothed, I became resigned, and pursued my duty with avid­ity. Thus I have passed two years; my hopes and fears have abated by degrees [...]; and I have not for some time indulged either. My grand father has received two letters from his son lately, but neither my mother or myself have been mentioned, and this has convinced me, h [...] is but a [...] brother and [...] uncle, and from him I cannot reasonably indulge any expectation; I have I think been equally removed from contentment and [...] and yesterday, oh madam! the sudden and [...] event of [Page 19] yesterday, has deprived me of the only one upon earth, of whom I can claim protection, or of whom I could boast affinity or relationship."

Here she ended her relation, and the Countess thanked her for her narrative, and told her that she should return with her to the VILLA DE LAUNA. "I am rich, my dear, and of noble blood, (said she,) but they only serve to prove that riches cannot bestow content, and nobility cannot confer happiness: in the midst of wealth and magnificence, I have been miserable, and nothing but the hope of futurity, and a confidence that he who directs all things, cannot do wrong, could reconcile me one moment to life. I admire your sen­timents, approve your conduct, and am glad that your edu­cation has been such as to enlarge your mind and cultivate your ideas. In your society I promise myself much pleasure, and while I live, you shall not want a friend: say nothing, my dear; I know all you would say; but to listen to the too greatful expressions of a feeling heart, would betray a civili­ty that I hate, and receive a pain that is unnecessary."

JULIA now expressed a fear that the leaving of the Cottage would be a breach of her mother's commands: but Madam DE LAUNA convinced her of the impropriety and almost impossibility of her tarrying there unprotected, till the re­turn of her uncle, who would most probably consider her as an intruder, and treat her as such. "There is no doubt, said she, a secret hangs over your birth; with me you will be secure; I am now going from Paris, where I have been to visit a brother who has returned from an exile of many years, and a dying friend. I will introduce you at my house as a young Lady of whom I have the care, my ser­vants are faithful; leave this place in the care of Simon—I will write your uncle; and when he returns he will un­doubtedly disclose every thing that appears like an enigma; in the mean time I will do all in my power to make up to you the loss of your Friends: and I again repeat, that in me you shall always find a friend.

The next day the humble obsequies of the old Man were performed, and the sweetly mournful countenance of JULIA attracted all the eyes of the rustic followers. The Countess walked by her side, and supported and incouraged her; the genuine dignity and highly polished affability of Madam DE LAUNA; the richness of her dress, the simple and unador­ed beauty of JULIA; formed a striking contrast to the [Page 20] peasant groap around her, and the humility of the Priest, his bald and reverend forehead, with his religious garb and fervent piety; the rural spot (but a few paces from the cot­tage) where Pierre was interred, formed a scene really pic­turesque. When they returned from the funeral, the carriage was ready, the Countess had before given orders to Simon. She now put a purse into the hand of the Priest, gave some money to the attending peasants, and leading JULIA from the house, seated her in the carriage, and the farm and the Cottage were out of sight in an instant.

Madam DE LAUNA saw her young friend so wholly en­grossed by a grief that she knew to be entirely natural, that for sometime she forbore to offer any consolation; deter­mined to let nature have its full play, and sensible that the unadulterated mind of JULIA, would, if let alone, soon re­sume its calmness.

The mind of JULIA had indeed nothing to cope with, but sorrow; she knew too little of the world to be suspicious, and her natural disposition was too cheerful and to good to harbour any jealous thoughts. She had given herself up to the Countess without one fear, and in full confidence of her merit. In doing so, she did but justice to her exalted virtues; but she would have been full as likely to have trusted herself to the vicious and designing, who could have assumed the garb, and the appearance of active benevolence. But providence beheld the innocent girl unpractised in the ways of deceit; unacquainted with vice or folly, and sent this worthiest of women as a friend to comfort and protect her.

CHAPTER, II.
HISTORY OF THE COUNTESS DE LAUNA.

AS the Countess DE LAUNA will continue to make a considerable figure in the following pages, it may perhaps be not unnecessary to give a few sketches of her history, and tho' it is so blended with that of her brother the Marquis of ALVADA, we shall be pardoned by the candid, if some cir­cumstances of his are intermixed with it.

The ancient family of ALVADA and DE LAUNA, had al­ready become connected, and it was the fervent wish of the Count and the Marquis, that the titles, honors and estate, should be still more intimately blended; the respective ladies had been intimate friends from their birth, and with the enthusiasm natural to youth and innocence, they fell in with their husband's plans, and looked forward with delight to that period, when their grand children should be equally dear, because equally attached to both. The Marquis AL­VADA was blest with a son one year after his marriage; and the Countess DE LAUNA became a mother within two years; the children thus affianced in their cradles became fond of each other at an early age, and when the Countess presented her husband with a son in less than three years after the birth of her daughter, they only regretted that the Marchioness was not favoured with a daughter: this wished for event did not take place, till young DE LAUNA was twelve years old. But this disparity of age did not prevent these friendly and affectionate parents from indulging their favorite wish; and the Count determined at all events to preserve the heart of his son, till CAMILLA, the daughter of the Marquis, was old enough to receive him: with this [Page 22] view it was determined to send him abroad, as soon as the nuptials of his sister with [...] ALVADA took place; that event was only delayed, till the young lady arrived at the age of fifteen. This marriage was preformed before all the dependents and vassals of both families; and many of the nobility and gentry were invited to be present at a ceremo­ny that more strongly united two noble families. As soon as the rejoicings that followed the wedding were over, young DE LAUNA was sent abroad with a worthy tutor, who had strict injunctions to prevent all intercourse with the other sex; to improve his mind and manners, and make him acquainted with every branch of knowledge useful, necessary or ornamental. But the joys of all connected were dreadfully damped by the death of the young bride, which followed the birth of a son; in a few days thus event hasten­ed that of the young [...] mother, [...] the [...] did not survive his beloved wife a year. At his death he left his estate to his infant grandson; his wife's fortune, with his title, and a large landed property, descended of his son, then only se­venteen, who in his last will he left to the care of the Mar­quis, and enjoined that as soon as his daughter became of age to marry, that she should be given to the Count. The young widower, after passing a few years near Paris, at the ancient family sent, concluded to spend some time abroad; he had loved his wife, for she was beautiful and amiable; but the early impressions she had made, and left, were in some measure worn out, before he quitted France; and gay company added to the variety of scene [...] to which he was now introduced, intirely restored to him his former cheerful­ness. CAMILLA had in the mean time grown in every beauty and accomplishment, and when only thirteen, was thought a lovely ornament to a brilliant Court. Just at that period HENRY the oldest son of the Earl of O [...]MOND, on his travels through France, was recommended to the Marquis, and became for two years, resident in his Hotel. It was almost impossible for two persons. young and amia­ble, to reside under the same roof; mix in the same com­pany, and frequent the same diversions without experienc­ing the tenderest of all sensations: Love the softest deluder of the heart, had assumed his power, and such was his do­minion that they lowed implicit, and forgetting the dictates of prudence, and listening only to affection, they prevaile I upon the Chaplain to perform the ceremony of Marriage, pre­vious [Page 23] to the departure of young ORMOND, who was by let­ters commanded to return directly to England; they now supposed themselves secure of each other, and willing to conceal their nuptials as long as possible, at least, till the young Gentleman's friends were consulted upon it; they parted with many tears, but in a short time she found con­cealment would soon be impossible: at the discovery of her situation she was distressed: The hope of soon seeing her beloved husband was her support; but what was her wretch­edness within two months, to be informed that he had died soon after his arrival in England, of a malignant sever; at this period, this stroke was more severely felt than perhaps it would have been at another. The Marquis was in a confirmed decline; and the continual attendance of the Marchioness had injured her constitution to a very alarm­ing degree; from her it was impossible for CAMILLA to hide either her distress or situation, and in this affectionate mo­ther she found a sympathising friend and adviser; fearful of the effects this discover▪ would have upon the Marquis, she concerted a plan with the priest who had officiated at the marriage to conceal it from him; in the execution they were aided by the only brother of ORMOND, who arrived in France as he said, only with a view to console the afflicted CAMILLA; shortly after his arrival, this unfortunate young woman became a mother of a fine son, and viewing her mis­fortune as a punishment for her imprudence, she implicitly obeyed her mother, and readily consented to his being put into the care of his uncle, and with his nurse conveyed to England. In pa [...]tin [...] from her child, the mother gave the severest proof of her sorrow for her past fault: she had in­sisted upon his being called by his father's name, and enter­taining an affection, romantic and natural, she looked for­ward to that period, when, mature in wisdom and virtue, he should become the [...] of those talents and manly beauties that had so early won her affection. Before she got [...] from her [...], her father's illness became so alarming, that she was obliged to spend every moment of her time in his apartment, and her unceasing assiduity to him served to sooth her sorrows for her Husband.

Young ALVADA was sen [...] and though he quitted Ita­ly with alacrity, he did not leave it without regret: His filial affection was warm and fervent, and the duty he owed [...] father, was strongly impressed upon his mind; his heart [Page 24] bore testimony of his piety; but it bore testimony likewise of his tenderness, and of the charms of SEIGNORA LAVINIA, a young lady possessed of a large fortune, descended from a family ancient and honorable. A lady, who had all the en­chanting simplicity of rural innocence, blended with all the grace and elegance of a court education, and trained beneath the eye of an aunt who was acknowledged the best and most accomplished woman in Italy. It is not surprising that LA­VINIA was all she appeared; the pride and the delight of all that knew her. Surrounded by admirers of her own coun­try, she gave a decided preference to ALVADA; nor did her friends wonder at this preference, for his person was indeed graceful; his manners refined; his morals unimpeached; and his abilities superior; with all the virtues engraven up­on his heart; he had received all the advantages of an ex­cellent education; he was at that time more than thirty years old, and in becoming acquainted with LAVINIA, he soon experienced that tender, fervent attachment, that every heart of sensibility will at sometime or other in their lives feel: he left her with vows of love and unerring truth, and ar­rived in France just time enough to receive the parting breath of his father: determined to obey his dying command, he soon settled every thing to the satisfaction of his mother, and sisters, and in one year he returned to Italy, when LA­VINIA consented to receive his vows at the sacred Altar; in a few months before that time had elapsed, poor CAMIL­LA. who seemed to be pointed out for wounds from all sides, received a letter informing her of the death of her son; this loss was an aggravation to her former troubles; but still she was supported, and behaved with a fortitude that did her hon­or, and when the Count DE LAUNA, returned after an absence of sixteen years, consented to give him her hand in compli­ance with the promise she had made her dying father; but previous to this step, she informed the Count of her prior attachment, and of its consequence, the Count was one of those rare characters in whom a sense of honor supersedes almost every other; the beauty of CAMILLA had engaged his attention; her virtues, and he felt the full force of a first love: But notwithstanding that, he would have left her free from presuasion, if ORMOND had lived: he ad­mired her frankness, and loved her the more for her candor; even the tears she shed for his rival, endeared her to his heart, and leading her to the Altar, he thought he possessed [Page 25] one of the greatest blessings, and one of the brightest orna­ments that had ever adorned the marriage state. Upon his side it was productive of the purest delights; on her's it was calm and not unpleasing; in giving him her hand, she had obeyed a dying father, and a mother who loved her superior to every earthly blessing: That mother she lost the fourth year after she became Countess DE LAUNA, her husband's increased assiduity and affection in some measure succeeded in making her forget her loss; and eight years passed on happily: In that time the Marquis had brought home his beautiful and amiable wife: but at home he found those troubles he had shunned abroad; his son now near twenty was profligate and wicked, he had art enough to hide both from his father, but not to conceal the chagrin he felt from his second marriage, which he supposed would produce children to share his fathers estate, if not wholly possess his affection; thus influenced by inter­est and avarice, he refused to see his mother-in-law; and two years elapsed without an interview: his grand father had made him independent and he resided upon his own estate; the Marquis often heard of his excesses and grieved at debaucheries he could not prevent. The mild and gen­tle spirit of the Marchioness was affected by his malice and folly; but no unkind or repining word escaped her lips, and she strove to render her husband and connections happy, by a constant perseverance in every virtue; but illness seemed to effect what filial affection and duty had in vain strove to perform. The Baron, (for his grand father had procured him a title) was seized with a violent fit of illness, which his physicians pronounced to be mortal on the fourth day; compunction then seized him, and notwithstanding he was but newly initiated into the mystery of the sect that had given themselves the title of ILLUMINATA, his conscience told him it was no shield against the hand of death; it was then he sent to beg his father and mother-in-law, to visit him and receive his last sigh; the Marquis and his lady obeyed the summons; an entire reconciliation took place, and such was the effect that he recovered from his fever, but was supposed to be in a decline. As the human heart is never softer than when newly reconciled to an object al­ways beloved, and for some reason neglected, so the Mar­quis seemed more attached than ever to his son; in the fear of his death he forgot all his errors; in the hope of his recov­ery he hoped he was cherishing recovered virtues.

[Page 26] The mansion of the Baron was convenient, superb and pleasant; it was not so large as his father's Hotel, nor so public, but it was retired, and the Marchioness readily con­ [...]ted to her husband's wish to continue there, till she should be recovered from a confinement that was soon expected to take place. This prospect gave the Marquis extreme plea­sure, and the Baron seemed to share his parent's joy; but though his fond father was deceived, the Marchioness was not; as his sickness abated, she saw the depravity of his heart in a thousand instances, and she felt a grief that she could ill conceal when the Marquis was obliged by the commands of the King to make a journey to the court of Spain; he had not been gone long when her uneasiness was increased, her suspicions turned into certainties, and his conduct was so vile, that she wrote her husband, and the Countess DE LAUNA, but the letters were intercepted; the Marquis was at a distance, and when a rumour that she was unhappy, reached the Countess, she was just recovering from a sick bed, and as soon as the Count could leave her, he set off for the Baron's; but alas! this lovely woman was no more. Two days before his arrival she had expired, in consequence of a premature labor: he desired to see the corps, and though he examined it with a critical eye, he found nothing that could justify his suspicions, that she came to her death by any unfair means—this suspicion was founded on a thorough knowledge of the Baron's cha­racter; and some acquaintance, with a set of vain Philo­sophers he was connected with: but his apparent grief, the affirmation of the Physician that attended, and the wo­man that was with her, convinced him he was mista­ken: her funeral was performed with great magnificence, but the Marquis' grief knew no bounds. He at first appear­ed like a man distracted, and for one year he continued in Spain, deprived of reason, and this was followed by a se­vere melancholy. The death of her lovely sister was a severe affliction to the Countess, they had thought and felt alike, and a similarity of sentiment had created and nursed the most perfect and sincere friendship. She mourned her loss with tears of heartfelt sorrow; but an event soon hap­pened that called her mind from more distant affliction, and fixed them upon her own. Summoned to attend the Court upon the King's Marriage, she went with her husband and upon entering the drawing room, her eye was caught by [Page 27] never to be forgotten, her long loved and long mourned ORMOND. At first she thought it a delusion, a vision of fancy, she gazed with astonishment; she doubted the evi­dence of her senses; she had believed him dead from the authority of his own brother. How then could this be? she now saw him advancing toward her with a pale face indeed, hollow eyes; his eyes had lost all their sweetness of expres­sion, and the roses of youth seemed blasted upon his cheek by an untimely frost; but they still retained their fire, and fierceness, and sorrow seemed to have taken the place of complacency and good humour: pride and haughtiness had lessened the reign of mildness and dignified humility. She made not these remarks; she fainted, and her husband with wonder and afflection, carried her from the presence.—ORMOND, with an exclamation of surprise, followed: it was some time after her recovery that the astonished Count could conceive the meaning of the scene to which he had been a witness. At length the behaviour of ORMOND, left him no room to doubt that he was his early rival in her affections, and still living to dispute his right. He loved his wife, he loved his honor, and a long train of distressing cir­cumstances rushed upon his view. It is not our design to enlarge upon the scene, nor could the feeble pen do it jus­tice. From some things that came to light after; and that a gentleman connected with the family related, it was learn­ed that the noble family of ORMOND could not brook the idea that the principal hope of their race should be allied to a catholic; the marriage was illegal, performed without wit­nesses; the party under age; and no consent from connec­tions. ORMOND was deceived into a belief that CAMILLA was dead; and the Priest who performed the nuptials, aided the deceit: thus both unsuspicious themselves, were both deceived. ORMOND, had passed several years in Ame­rica, and was recalled but fifteen months previous to this event, to take possession of his title and estate, as his father was dead, and he was now chosen by the Court of Great­Britain, to congratulate the king of France upon his nup­tials; the moment he saw the Countess he knew her, and with one retrospective glance, he saw into the deception—but his temper was changed, he was no longer the amiable youth that CAMILLA had loved, and had she seen him as he now appeared, DE LAUNA, had never known a rival; for his temper was revengeful, haughty & overbearing, and unmind­ful [Page 28] of her peace and quiet: The next day he sent a challenge, couched in such terms of defiance, that it was impossible not to accept of it; they met, fought, and DE LAUNA fell, covered with his own blood, and sinking beneath a mortal wound; but ORMOND, escaped to En­gland.

The terror, the grief of the Countess, is only to be con­ceived by the feeling mind, and not to be described. In a few weeks, with an heart broken by sorrow, and a frame, shattered by illness, she followed the remains of her [...] to the VILLA DE LAUNA, nor had she left it till within one month of the Commencement of this tale.—It is very necessary to add that the Duke of ORMOND had claimed her as his wife, and pressed his suit with all the ardour of passion. But she had steadily refused every pro­posal of this kind. Second marriages, she disliked from principle; but to wed the man whose hands were stained with her husband's blood; was an idea too dreadful to be dwelt upon, and her heart sickened at the thought. ORMOND was lately dead, and though it is probable she felt some pangs at this event; certain it is that she had been more calm since, than at any period of her widow­hood: Tried in the school of affliction: tutored by the rough hand of sorrow; she now lived only for others; to bless a numerous train of dependents; to comfort the afflicted, to bind up the broken hearted, to pour the oil and wine of kindness and sympathy into the bosom of the oppressed, was her business, and her pleasure: and her ample fortune, gave her sufficient power. She had never left the retirement that was endeared by her sufferings, and by her happiness, till called by the desire of a dying friend, and the sickness of her brother, who had returned to France not less wretched, though more calm; and whose afflictions were by no means lessened by the conduct of his son: now the Count DE LAUNA, son to the BARON; this title descending to him, upon the death of his uncle. This was the woman who became the protector of JULIA, and to them we will after so long a digression, return.

CHAPTER, III.

FOR several hours after they left the Cot­tage, silence was observed by the Countess, and JULIA, continued absorbed in unpleasing reflections. But just as the Sun was setting they entered a little village; a sight so novel attracted the eye of JULIA, and she could not forbear an exclamation of surprize and wonder; to her the little town seemed the capital of the world, and the humble church near its centre; a building of immeasurable magnitude. The Countess enjoyed her astonishment, and rather increased the senti­ment so natural to the inexperienced, and to the innocent mind: she did not tell her that Paris was an hundred times larger, or that the Chateau DE LAUNA, was more magnificent than the little convent, at which she meant to tarry for the night.

She had been always acquainted with the AB­BESS, and loved and respected her person and her character, and had often said if she should ever retire to a convent, which she had once con­templated, it would be this: is not to be [Page 30] doubted but she met with a hearty and friendly welcome, and both Nuns and superiors vied with each other to entertain the pensive and wondering JULIA, whom the Countess recom­mended to their care, for the night; refreshment and repose were highly necessary, and extremely welcome to the wearied frame of the unfortunate girl; but for some time her agitated mind for­bade its approach; wearied nature at length found it near midnight; and when JULIA awoke at sunrise, the next morning, she found her mind calm, and her person reanimated with health, hope and spirits.

She met the Countess in the parlor, and after the usual salutations of the morning, they accept­ed the invitation of the ABBESS, to join their early vespers, which were performed to the admiration of JULIA. One of the sisters showed her every apartment in the Nunnery; and in so doing oblig­ed and astonished her, and filled her mind with sensations so intirely new, as almost to exclude her recent sorrows, and furnished her with a fund of necessary and useful reflections for the day: at nine they bid adieu to these hospitable recluses, and began a journey that was much more pleasing than the preceding day.

The eye of JULIA, which for years had been bounded by one narrow farm, was never satisfied with gazing upon the vast horizon; the amazing tract of land, variegated by hills, meadows, woods and waters, attracted her [...]tention; and though the prospects in some parts were neither grand nor romantic, though the hand of industry had neither turned the globe, nor cultivated the soil for miles around; yet to her it was an inexhaustible scene [Page 31] of delight and astonishment. As she made her natural and lively remarks, the Countess listened with pleasure, and saw with wonder the power of nature over an heart unused to the world. The minutest beauties did not pass unnoticed, and what would have escaped the observation of a com­monly cultivated mind, was to her a source of moralizing and enjoyment. You are extremely like a lovely woman, said Madam DE LAUNA, who now sleeps in the cold embrace of death; the same beauty, the same bewitching simplicity, the same native good sense, and reflecting pow­ers, and to these she added all the elegance of a Court, and possessed every virtue and every grace in an eminent degree; the likeness struck me last evening, and this morning too, I could not but remark it. Nineteen years ago, (she added with a sigh,) I visited this convent with her, my brother and husband; we were all happy; compa­ratively, I was so; for though I had bid adieu to those flattering hopes of romantic felicity, that once flowed in my disturbed imagination, yet, I was calm and contented, I enjoyed all the blessings of friendship, and one of the best of husband's. The friend that possessed my warmest esteem, and that husband are long since secreted in the gloomy mansions of the grave; taken away by means the most shocking; sacrificed to the basest of passions. Forgive me my love; I pain you when I should assuage the anguish of your heart, by a sad retro­spection of my sorrows.—But I was going to re­mark, that you reminded me of that lady, and not withstanding the difference of your lives and edu­cations you think and speak so much alike, that I almost fancied I saw her again; beheld once [Page 32] more her fair frame, reanimated by life and restor­ed in all its former loveliness. When you re­marked the resignation of the pensive Abbess, the paleness of the Nuns, the sighs of the Novice, and the gloom of the Cloister, I heard her voice in your's and found your sentiments so exactly what her's was, that I went back near twenty years and looked around for my husband and brother: but alass! you are all that remains of joy to me: The fleeting vision of the original and the wor­thiest of men are no more; and my brother, by the cruel events of his life, is rendered useless to society and burthensome to himself. JULIA, with all the warmth of an affectionate heart, pres­sed the hand of her benefactress to her lips, and en­deavoured to cheer the spirits which were so low­ered by reflections, by asking questions that intro­duced a conversation that lasted till they came within sight of the VILLA DE LAUNA, and an involuntary exclamation of pleasure and surprise burst from her lips.

The elegance, taste, fancy and art that were here displayed; rural beauty mingled with gran­deur and magnificence, elevated the mind, while they charmed the eye: every necessary and real convenience were conspicuous, and at the same time rendered so ornamental, that it was impossi­ble for a person who had seen the world and been most acquainted with the grand, and the noble, not to admire it. The connoisseur and the critic sought in vain for faults, and vainly wished to find something to blame, that they might display their own talents: but they returned disappoint­ed, though not chagrined, for the hospitality and benevolence of the Countess, overpaid them for [Page 33] being obliged to commend, when they meant to condemn.

What then must be the sensations of a girl of eighteen, who recollected no house, but a Cottage of two rooms, and whose ideas of the superb, were formed from books, and the conversation of an old Man, of slender abilities, who knew but little; and a woman, whose mind was always too much agitated by misfortunes, to pretend to give infor­mation on architecture. She could not express her surprise; she found no words to tell her ad­miration, and she was lost in astonishment: The Countess so charmed with simplicity, and ingen­uous expressions, almost forgot every thing that related to herself; but her vassals and dependents, by the testimonies they gave of joy at her return, convinced her that neither absence nor misfortunes could efface from the grateful mind a sense of be­nefits received, when conferred in such a manner as to convince the obliged they were conferring favors; she could not receive such proofs of their grateful affection without tears; they assembled around the carriage with their humble pastor at their head to inquire for her health, and bless her for her return, while her smiles and affability were dispensing blessings and comforts around her. Oh, my dear Madam, said JULIA, how rejoiced I am to find the world so good and so amiable, I had supposed that there were some wicked & mis­erable amongst them, but all those people look so good and so happy, that I am sure I have been deceived. How blest must you be in the power to render them so happy and so good, and so glad to see you too: I had no idea that the world was so amiable. The world, my love, said the [Page 34] Countess, you see but little of the world; but yet added she, these humble and happy rustics, are an epitome of thee.

They now alighted, and after inquiries for the welfare of all, Madam DE LAUNA ordered whole­some food and liquors for them, and dismissed them, with an invitation to dance upon the green that day fortnight. It was near night when they arrived, and soon after a slight repast, JULIA was conducted to her apartment, they consisted of a bed chamber, dressing room and closet, those my dear (said her benefactress) are yours, they have been fitted up for some time, and I have been in pursuit of an inhabitant for them, and am rejoiced that I have found so pleasing an owner. The books, furniture, and musical instruments are your own. Tomorrow I will furnish a wardrobe for you, and here added she, taking a smiling lit­tle girl that just then entered, is your attendant, ANNETT, you are henceforth to obey this young lady, and see that you do nothing to displease her. Do not, my dear good lady, said JULIA, thus oppress me with benefits, I want no attendant, suf­fer me to attend upon you, it will be much more becoming. Not one word, my dear, as you value my esteem, you are my friend, my companion, and as such my equal, and not a servant. But let me do something, said the beseeching girl:—Let me u [...]dress you every night, let me read you to sleep; let me hall you every morning at your rising; attend you at your toilet, and by all the little trifling little offices in my power, in part repay, or at least, express my sense of your goodness, and my gratitude. Ah JULIA, cried the Coun­tess, you are too insinuating to be denied, and if [Page 35] I let you petition, I know I shall grant what you ask; so remember, that I refuse you the liberty of asking such favors as this. Good night, my love: [...]ay your repose be peaceful; and with an embrace she left her.

The next day JULIA attended the Countess in several visits of charity, and beheld the effusions of benevolence and gratitude with so much plea­sure, and a pleasure so new, that she began to think her very being was changed, and that her heart was filled with sensations to which she must have ever been a stranger: but for her excellent friend; the native condescension of her heart, that humili­ty of soul, which the amiable delight to cherish and encourage, taught her to be affable to all around her, while the innate dignity of conscious rectitude and conscious honor, forbade every thing like ser­vility or meanness. She soon grew beloved by the servants and every day rendered her more dear to the Countess. She was never tired of ramb­ling over the pleasure grounds, of setting under groves of Orange, Lemon or Citron, or attending to the feathered songsters, that every hour serenad­ed them, nor had the lombardy Poplar, the lofty beach, the graceful Elm, and the venerable Ches­nut, less beauties, because intermixed with less plenteous exotics; they were all surveyed with en­thusiasm and delight, and she literally "looked through nature. up to nature's God."

The Countess had real pleasure in informing her mind, and felt a sincere satisfaction in making her acquainted with every thing that could either please or impro [...] her, and the mere she knew of her native, good sense, the happy temperament of her mind and disposition, she became more at­tached. [Page 36] There is nothing that more endears an amiable dependent to a truly generous heart, than a knowledge of that very dependence, and a sense that it is in the power of the benefactor to render the obliged intirely happy: such were the Coun­tess, and JULIA, and a sense of obligations on one side, and a wish to oblige, joined to good hu­mour, frankness and good abilities, all concurred to cement the affection which they naturally felt for each other; thus grateful and affectionate, JULIA passed four weeks tranquil and happy, the peasants had their ball, and she was delighted that she had learned to dance; but till now had never been a partaker of the pleasing exercise and now at the desire of her patroness, she danced and found the music so animating and so agreeable that she enjoyed it highly. She was likewise plea [...]ed to see them happy, and one so blest as to have the power to make them so.

CHAPTER, IV.

ABOUT three weeks after, the Countess was informed, that a stranger wished to speak with her; she ordered him to be admitted, and was surprised, to see a Man near forty years old, who was an entire stranger to her. What are your commands, friend? she asked. The man replied, he had waited upon her by her own direction, upon account of a letter, which he then held in his hand, and which he said he had received three weeks since. The Countess immediately recollected the letter she had written from the Cottage, to JULIA's uncle. Are you the son of Monsieur PIERRE? (said she.) I am, Madam, he replied. 'Tis my uncle exclaimed JULIA, in a tone of pleasure; and she arose and advanced towards him; he stepped a little back and repli­ed, no, young lady, I have not that honor. How! cried the Countess, did not you say your name was PIERRE, the son of the old man, who died at AVIGNON. I am his son, Madam, but still I have not the honor to be related to that young Lady; 'tis upon that account that I have come here, otherways I should not have been so bold, and given you this trouble. After a mo­ment's hesitancy, the Countess rejoined, this young [Page 38] lady was the grand-daughter of your Father; her relationship would reflect honor upon any one; why then do you deny her as a neice? she wants nothing of you. Excuse me, Madam, said the man, and you Mademoiselle, pray, be­lieve me, I should think myself highly honored by being your uncle, for I am a poor man. a ser­vant; and you a fine young lady; but I should act a dishonest part were I to say I am your uncle. Who are you then, interrogated the Countess, & who is she? if she has been deceived, act a gene­rous part, and undeceive her. She now saw JULIA almost sinking under her various emo­tions; Emotions too strong not to be impressed upon her face. Do not give way to these agita­tions my dear, cried the kind, the feeling woman, I will always be your friend, and you shall never know the want of a relation. I know your good­ness, and I feel it, Madam, but do forgive this weakness; to find myself denied by the only per­son that I could claim as a relation. She would have proceeded, but tears stopped her utterance. The Countess again demanded of PIERRE, who she was? He stopped a few minutes, as recollecting himself, at length he said, my father was a poor, a very poor man, he never had any child, but my­self; my mother died when I was but three days old; my father was never married again: when I was twelve years old he put me out as a lackey, to attend upon the Chevalier St. ENNO: and he himself was entertained as a servant to the young Baron DE LAUNA. I went with my master to CLEAVES, and never saw my Father until I was twenty years old; he then came to visit me, and [Page 39] told me he had quitted the BARON's service, and was obliged to change his name; he said he had the care of a woman, and a little girl, who owned a farm at AVIGNON, and that he should in future live upon it; but as he did not under­stand the cultivating of it himself, he should keep a servant. When I asked him who this woman was, he said she went by the name of VALLACE, but that was not her real name, and she was o­bliged to take great care to conceal herself and child, as its life would be in danger if discovered; my Father told me that he depended upon my secrecy, and charged me in my letter never to mention it to any one but ourselves. I have liv­ed sixteen years at CLEAVES, with a Monsieur D [...]NVILLE, and have written my Father regular­ly once a year; his answer always told me he was well, and that he wanted for nothing; this made me quite easy; but when I heard by SI­MON of his sudden death, and from your lady­ship's letter found I was supposed to be heir to what he left, I thought it was my duty to inform you of the truth; as to this young lady, she is the right owner of the little land my father cul­tivated, and the house he lived in, and I wish it was as much again, for your sake Mademoiselle; for SIMON tells me that you were very kind to my Father, and if it is in my power ever to serve you, I shall be glad and ready.

Both JULIA and the Countess continued some time in a state of astonished silence; at length the former thanked him for his good wishes, and asked how she should proceed. I am pleased with your honesty, my friend, you shall not lose [Page 40] by if [...] I am not surprised at what you told me, I never supposed JULIA what she appeared; I will take it upon me to say, the Farm and the Cottage are yours, with all that belong to it; I only beg you will be silent concerning this af­fair; if you can leave your service, I should ad­vise you to reside at the late habitation of your father; I am persuaded you can make a com­fortable support from the land that surrounds it, and if we should want your evidence, we shall know where to apply. JULIA confirmed the promise of her benefactress, and as soon as PIERRZ left them, he took possession of his new abode, and was from that moment a faithful adherent to the Countess.

As soon as he left the room, Madam DE LAUNA embraced her young friend with expressions of the tenderest satisfaction; I am afraid, my dear, (said she) that I am so little minded as to feel what is called family pride; I am almost asham­ed to confess that I already love you better than when I supposed you were descended from old PIERRE. Do not mistake me, in imagining that I can suppose any grade of life, however lowly, excludes the virtues, nor that there is any, but is at some times graced with all that's good and amiable; but I cannot help thinking these in­stances very rare; this I do not impute so much to any original defect, as to the effects of a narrow and confined education; the society to which they are habituated; and the narrow sphere in which they move. I thought from my first seeing you, that you could not be in any shape related to the man of the Cottage, and I have [Page 41] no doubt you are descended from, or connected with some of our chief Nobility; I doubt it ve­ry much, (cried JULIA,) but I am not enough acquainted with the world to dispute the justice of your remark; though I own my dear Madam that there is a forlornness in the idea of not be­ing the acknowledged relation of one person in the world; of not knowing one person in whose veins one drop of my blood [...]lows; that is so painful, that I would gladly barter it, for what I should feel to know myself nearly related to one of your honest tenants. Conceive yourself relat­ed to me, then (said the Countess,) call me by the endearing appellation of Mother, consider me as such, and no one will prove a tenderer one. Oh! my Child, if my son had lived, I should in­deed be a mother, but providence has denied me such a blessing. I should be ungrateful to pro­vidence, replied JULIA, if I did not acknowledge the vast, the mighty blessing I received; forgive then my revered, my beloved benefactress, this mo­mentary laspe of gratitude, you are indeed more than a mother to me. Such was the tide of sen­timent that so tenderly rushed upon her, that to have restored the child of the Countess, she felt she would have given up her own life, and such was the similarity of emotions that swelled in both bosoms, that the Countess conceived without explanation the full force of her virtue and gratitude.

To dissipate these sensations, she proposed an airing, and after a pleasing ride of several hours, in which their eyes had been regaled by the most delightful views, and their spirits refreshed and [Page 42] enlivened by the cool air and fragrant breeze; when upon their return, she ordered her servants to drive back of the little road, and cross the river where it was fordable. She here pointed out some prospects that JULIA had never seen, and such a universal harmony seemed to pervade all nature, that every painful idea was succeeded by calmness & tranquillity. But this tranquillity was interrupted by the horses taking fright at the fall of a tree upon the opposite side, and in spite of the driver's endeavours turned down the stream, and were in a moment beyond their depth; and the carriage instantly overturned. JULIA was uppermost, and the servant who retained his pre­sence of mind, burst open the door of the coach, and with difficulty dragged her out and drew her to the shore. Quite exhausted with his burden, and heavy with his wet and cumberous clothes, he could do no more, and the Countess must have inevitably perished; but the sudden appear­ance of a young man raised a hope in his mind: for God's sake (he cried in a convulsive agony,) Monsieur, save my Lady, she is drowning in yon­der carriage. The impetuous stranger waited not, but plunging into the water, he was in a moment▪ by its side. The horses were by this time cleared from their tackling, and had disap­peared with the driver; the coach was full of water, and the Countess sunk senseless to the bottom; the intrepid youth entered, and with great difficulty forced her from it, and in a few minutes brought her to the shore; but not one symptom of life or animation, flattered them with remaining life. By this time several stout [Page 43] woodmen were collected, and the Ladies by the direction and assistance of the young stranger, were conveyed to a small cottage close by the edge of the wood. The extreme ignorance of the people was such, that they now thought they had done every thing that could be done, and but for the persevering care of her deliverer, his former exertions had been thrown away; the surgeon had been sent for from the Villa, but before his arrival, the aid that was then necessary, would be no longer needful; he ordered two countrywomen that were in the woodman's cot, to undress and put both the ladies into a warm, but very coarse bed, and with vola­tiles, that were found in the pockets of the Coun­tess, he assisted to rub their temples and hands; in a few moments JULIA recovered, but when she saw her friend and protectress, apparently dead, her agony became extreme, and she relaps­ed into a state of insensibility. The young gen­tleman with active and humane zeal, distributed his care and attention alike to each; It was more than half an hour before the Countess gave the least symptom of returning life; and then it was so very weak and faint, that one less animated than her preserver, would have given up the at­tempt as hopeless, and improbable. But his ex­ertions were continued till she opened her eyes, and attempted to ask where she was. At that moment the surgeon arrived, he immediately opened a vein, and gave her a cordial, which she swallowed with some difficulty, and JULIA who had now recovered a second time, had the inex­pressible joy to hear him say she would be quite [Page 44] well in an hour; in this, however, his sanguine hopes outran his judgment, for though she recov­ered her voice and recollection, she was still weak and dangerously ill. JULIA, my love, said she, where are we? and what place is this, that we are got to? I thought we were in the water; I am sick and dizzy; I believe I have had a dreadful dream. The emotions of JULIA were such as de­prived her of the power of expression, she could only clasp her arms around her and weep; joy, sor­row, gratitude, fear and hope, alternately asserted their power, and such a variety of sensations, struggled at once for vent, that her reason was almost overpowered. To calm the tumults of her mind, and to satisfy the Countess, the surgeon gave her an account of her danger and escape, and begged her to be composed. An opiate which he administered, had the effect he wished, and after a few hours repose, the Countess de­clared it her intention to return to the VILLA, and begged her deliverer would accompany her. The young man hesitated for a few moments; he felt it would look as though he wished for thanks, and perhaps reward, for an act of human­ity, that he would have performed with equal avidity, for the beggar or the king, for his friend and his enemy; and his heart which was warm and generous, revolted at the idea; but that heart was susceptible to the charms of beauty and in­nocence, and he felt himself drawn by a power that he did not comprehend, for till now he had never given a decided preference, to any one of the sex; nor did he understand the nature of a charm so sweet at to be irresistable, in the pressing [Page 45] invitation he received. A coach and attendants were sent from the Villa, and Madam DE LAUNA felt a sincere joy to hear that her servant had been saved, though both of the horses were drowned. She now rewarded every person who had been so active in assisting her; and at nine in the even­ing arrived at Villa. Her servants had been told she was dead, and most of them, with many of her vassals had come with agonizing hearts to the wood, and nothing but the absolute injunc­tions of the surgeon, and his declaration that her perfect recovery, depended upon the calmness of her mind, could moderate their joy, at finding her alive. But those that had not left the house, when they saw her, became quite frantic, and made the air resound with their acclamations of pleasure, and their conduct upon this occasion was the most convincing proof of her goodness and their affection. They got around her deliv­erer, and were so clamorous in their demonstra­tions of gratitude, that one less interested or less amiable, would have turned with disgust from them. But the innate benevolence of FRANCIS COLWORT, his love of merit, the noble frankness of his disposition, were such, that he enjoyed those transports that gave him an high idea of the worth of the Countess, and of her young companion. JULIA, who was intirely recovered, refused to leave the apartment of her friend for the night; but it was with great reluctance that her consent was granted.

Mr. COLWORT, was conducted to the best apartment, by the housekeeper, who wished him every blessing, and left him in possession of the [Page 46] best and greatest; an heart pleased with having performed an act of humanity, and a conscience void of offence.

The next morning the Countess was not well enough to breakfast in the parlour, but she sent to request her guest would take his morning re­past in her dressing room. Both she and JULIA were prepared to esteem a man who had rendered them so essential a service. For JULIA, her heart was so grateful, and she viewed the benefit she had received as of so vast a magnitude, that had he been old, ugly and deformed, her glowing imagination would have painted him young, lovely and amia­ble. But the aid of imagination was intirely un­necessary to add one charm, or one grace, to the manly form and intelligent countenance of FRANCIS COLWORT. In that countenance, an­imated by good sense and benevolence; she be­held the index of one of the best of minds, and a counterpart of her own, where virtue and gen­uine dignity of soul, presided; and a high sense of honor sparkled in his eyes; courage tempered by discretion; good humour, untinctured by meanness or servility, and a frankness that did not even border upon insolence or ill manners; and when he entered the apartment, with a step firm, and a manner majestic; with a graceful, modest and easy dignity; it is not at all surpriz [...] ­ing if she viewed him with sensations of admira­tion, almost amounting to reverence; and when the Countess attempted to thank him for the ser­vice he had rendered her, he spoke of it in such a manner, as shew he did not hold the act in any estimation; but was rejoiced that the life he had [Page 47] been so fortunate as to save was so valuable; as he assured her, he should have taken the same care of the most insignificant of his fellow crea­tures; and her heart, which was pained by the sense she had of the obligation she was under, became quite calm and easy; and after a few minutes the conversation turned upon general to­pics, and the forenoon was passed in the social, familiar manner, that is so endearing to old friends, and minds of similar sentiments; mutu­ally pleased with each other at the first sight: sensible of the pleasure of obliging, and being obliged. A few hours made them acquainted with the worth of each other, and they were in that time mutually charmed. With frankness and without hesitation, in answer to the Countess inquiries, he informed her that he had come to France, upon some business for an uncle, who had been the guide of his youth; as he had at a very early period lost his parents, that he had performed the affairs that called him from London, and now meant to spend a few weeks in rambling over the country, previous to his return, and that he soon intended to make a voyage to America. My uncle wishes me to go into trade, [said he,] because he has accumulated a large property by traffic, and I wish to visit a great people whose struggles for liberty, have emancipated several millions from tyranny and oppression; who have laws without an arbitrary government, and liberty without anarchy and confusion. I confess the character I have heard of them has excited an ardour rather uncommon in me, to be acquaint with them; and as I mean to establish a com­mercial [Page 48] correspondence, my plans will not inter­fere with my uncle's, and I flatter myself we shall both be gratified. But does not the length of the voyage affright you (said the Countess,) by no means Madam, he replied. In what time can it be performed, (asked JULIA,) he informed he that it did not usually exceed five weeks, but ad­verse winds, he added, sometimes rendered it four times as long. What an amazing while, (sighed JULIA,) to be tossed upon the bosom of the deep; and yet I think a view of the boundless Ocean uninterrupted by any other object, must be sublime. I think so too, cried the youth, and own I wish to behold it; and yet its sameness must tire a vacant mind, or a mind that is al­ways in pursuit of novelty. But a mind, young man, (replied the Countess,) that always carries about a fund of knowledge, and useful entertain­ment, will never be tired of viewing the grand and the sublime works of nature. It surprises me, said COLWORT, that so many of its real beau­ties pass unnoticed, except by few; we see every day the rising and setting sun, but how is this grand object unnoticed, except by few, and the heart alive to enthusiasm and delight, can never see them without renewed rapture and delight, and the sensations must be unutterable, when in all its majesty it is beheld withdrawing its splen­dor from this our horizon, and retiring to bless and enlighten other regions. I can never (said JULIA,) behold its arising without a pleasure that I have no words to express. It reminds me of some truly noble and worthy heart, who sets out in the morning determined to fulfill all the [Page 49] duties of the day, to bless and make all they meet happy. The same simile holds good at its setting, (rejoined COLWORT,) for it retires, like the excellent person you mention, satisfied with having done right, and in all the majesty and pride of virtue: But ladies, I fear I intrude; I shall carry away some of the sweetest and most refined impressions, and if I could hope to be re­membered by you, it would shorten and sweeten my voyage. You are not going (said the Coun­tess?) indeed I shall not permit it. I shall tarry in France but one fortnight, Madam. Tarry here then; you have seen the Capital, and from hence you may ramble around the country; we will either walk, or ride with you. I have in­tended to take a little tour, for some time, for the sake of my young friend: with you added to our party, we shall receive much more in­struction, and pleasure too. If I consult only my own heart, Madam, I shall gratefully accept your invitation; for I am sure I must be happier here, than elsewhere; but I fear I shall intrude upon your goodness. Leave that to me, replied the Countess, JULIA knows my heart, and she shall tell you when you intrude.

CHAPTER, V.

IN the afternoon JULIA played upon her harpsicord and accompanied it with a voice soft, sweet and harmonious: COLWORT found a flute; he joined the little concert, and the judicious se­lections of songs added sentiment to the charms of melody. After some time spent in this ra­tional and pleasing amusement, they left their instruments, and COLWORT asked the Countess if she was extravagantly fond of music. I can­not say that I am, she replied; I love a little of it; a good song and a sweet voice, pleases me; when I used to dance, I admired the violin; the sound was enlivening; with church music, I am delighted; it is a part of the service that ought never to be omitted, or abridged: it excites de­votion, it elevates the heart, and it softens those religionists that are either too austere, or too ri­gid, and I own I am always an enraptured listen­er. How comes it about, Madam, cried COL­WORT, that performers of music, or those who possess that art are so often addicted to vices? is it not because it softens the heart, and debili­tates the natural fortitude of the mind, and leaves it exposed to pleasures that enervate the noblest faculties of the soul? Your remark is new (she replied) and I believe just, for I have observ­ed [Page 51] the votaries of sensuality, are generally attach­ed to it; I have never thought with your SHAKESPEARE, that the "man who hath not music in his heart, is fit for treasons, robberies and murders:" It is an illiberal remark: I have found many persons who had neither ear nor taste for music, and yet possessed every virtue: When sentiment is expressed by an harmonious voice, and an amiable countenance which has breathed harmony of soul and sweetness of disposition; I am a warm admirer of it, but am ashamed when I hear people talk of dying, of fainting, merely at the magic of sweet sounds and I am al­most persuaded that the charms of a rational and refined conversation will be preferred by all who are capable of joining in it.

The next week was spent in excursions around the country, and as the Countess was not per­fectly well, JULIA, at the desire of her friend ac­companied COLWORT either in the carriage, on horse back, or in his walking rambles, and every moment passed together, served to endear them to each other, by discovering a similarity of senti­ment, taste, and disposition; they almost forgot the hours of retirement before they parted at night; and they arose early in the morning to meet with renewed pleasure, to communicate some remark, or some idea, that had occurred since they parted, or which had been before for­gotten.

One week flew by, on wings of down; ano­ther had passed imperceptibly, and a third was nearly elapsed; the Countess beheld a growing attachment, and she beheld it with pleasure and [Page 52] approbation; she marked its progress with satis­faction, and resolved to render it happy. She observed one day a cloud upon the face of COL­WORT, and asked the cause; I have been in a dream of bliss, for I had almost forgotten the sor­rows of one who is entitled to my love, respect & gratitude, (he replied,) but this moment reflec­tions has come to my aid, and reminded me of my duty. I see you are surprized, and I am sure you will forgive me, if I explain the cause of th [...] only regret, that I can know in your company. My uncle has only one child, a lovely daughter, who was till within two years, the principal pride and pleasure of his life; but she formed a con­nection that has blasted all his hopes in her. She married a man totally unworthy of her, and went with him to America: she is now in desti­tute circumstances, deserted by her husband, and suffering all the stings of poverty in a foreign country. It is to bring home the unfortunate ELEANOR, to restore her to parental love, and protection; that is my principal inducement to go to America. It was the thought of her woes and of her father's sorrows, that embittered one moment spent here. Before he had finished, or they had time to comment upon this informa­tion, a servant entered with a letter from his un­cle: he opened and read it without one apology, and found it was time to leave the enchant­ments of the Villa, and return to the affairs of the world; but he could not help betraying some emotion, his countenance became more softened. Both the ladies asked if he had received any bad news; yes, indeed, said he, I have, though I [Page 53] ought not to think it so; but I am summoned directly to London, the ship in which I embark for America, sails in ten days, and tomorrow I must attend the calls of duty and leave those I love best upon earth. If that is the case, said the Countess, why then do you leave us? why take this hated voyage? you are sensible of the a­mazing debt I owe you; and if I know any thing of the human heart, you will be happier here than elsewhere; suffer me then to fix you here for life, or if you prefer England, there is no need of going to America, to establish your for­tune. I consider you as my children, and as such I shall speak to you; I know you do not wish to impose upon each other, or deceive me: I am perhaps better acquainted with the progress that a tender affection has made in your hearts than you are yourselves: It is innocent, my ami­able friends, and you need not be ashamed of it; I have been an interested observer, from the mo­ment you first met, till now; I am drawn towards you both, by cords that I do not perfectly under­stand; but let the sentiment be derived from what source it will, I own I love you both, better than I do any other object, and I would seign render you happy: I will leave you for a few moment, and then return to hear upon what you have de­cided; only remember this, that an ample for­tune waits your acceptance; and that whatever place you fix upon, for your abode, I will be either an inmate, or a neighbor.

She went out, before either COLWORT or JU­LIA, could recover from their astonishment, to attempt expressing either gratitude or acknowl­edgement. [Page 54] COLWORT emboldened by this o­pening, waited but a few moments, till the tu­multuous confusion of his heart had in some mea­sure subsided, before he made an avowal of an attachment as sincere and tender, as it was im­passioned, JULIA listened almost sinking with blushes, and fluttering with a rapture till then unknown; his words vibrated upon her ear; they conveyed to her heart the softest, sweetest plea­sure; and though overpowered by the impression, yet she would not have exchanged the sensation for any other she had ever known; unacquaint­ed with the world, coquetry and prudery were equally strangers to her unadulterated mind, and she had attained that happy medium which is the result of pure nature, and with a frankness and modesty untinctured by art or affectation; she acknowledged a preference to his virtues and his person, of which she had till then been a stranger, and which she believed would continue as long as her life; but shrinking from conceal­ment, she told him the little story of her former days, and owned herself unacknowledged by a­ny relation, friend, or protector except the Coun­tess, to whose humanity, she was indebted for all the advantages she enjoyed; while COLWORT admired the native honor of her unsullied mind, he loved her the better for her misfortune and frankness, and her narrative had raised Madam DE LAUNA, to a pinnacle of excellence in his esti­mation, that no one had ever attained to before.

Their conversation was broken off by the en­trance of the lady, that now occupied almost an equal share of their esteem; but in attempting [Page 55] to express his thanks, he found it impossible to do justice to his feelings; he then confessed that his voyage to America was inevitable; that gra­titude and affection to his uncle, required it; and declared he thought he should never be happy, though equally blest by love, friendship and affluence, until he had restored his unhappy cousin, to the arms of her parents; he promised however that six months at farthest should return him to the Villa, and then it JULIA would re­ceive his hand, he would settle in any part of England or of France, that was agreeable to JULIA and her benefactress; that his own for­tune, though limited, was not dependant upon another, and he should chuse to depend upon his own exertions, for increasing it, rather than upon the bounty of any one. I own to you Madam, (said he) that bound to you both by the ties of gratitude and affection, that possessed of every other wish of my heart, I should not be happy unless blest with your society; I have now, Ma­dam, made a candid confession of my heart, thoughts and situation, and you will judge if I ought not to pursue the plan I had originally laid down; I make a sacrifice indeed, but where would be the virtue in performing my duty, if I did not; love, friendship, esteem, gratitude and interest, bid me stay in this delightful spot; a­gain gratitude and honor bid me leave it, for a while, but I trust to return shortly and part from you no more: suffer me my beloved JULIA, and do not let your delicacy shrink from the avowal, to call you mine, suffer me in the presence of this best of women to swear, eternal fidelity and amity [Page 56] to you, and let her witness an exchange of vows, lest if either, should suffer one light or incon­stant thought, to interfere with its truth, this benefactress and friend, so interested for both, may be an evidence against us. I cannot but approve your intention, (said the Countess,) tho' I grieve at the necessity that tears you from us; I will be responsible for JULIA, I will be respon­sible for you, and I hope before the expiration of a year, to give you to each other, and see you united beyond the power of ought, but death, to separate you.

It would be only a repetition of what has al­ready been repeated a thousand times, to go in to a detail of what passed between JULIA, and her lover. He took his leave of her the next day, after promising to write long and circum­stantial letters, and with an heart filled with love, gratitude, admiration and regret, left the VILLA DE LAUNA, for Calais, at which place he meant to take a packet for Dover.

The Countess and JULIA, felt a vacancy in their hearts, after his departure, that was painful, nor was the void filled up by finding his place at the table deserted; so forcibly were their minds impressed at his absence, his intended voyage, and the dangers which imagination presented as his attendants, that whether, walking or riding, he was the continued subject of conversation; a topic which never tired them.

As soon as he arrived in London, he wrote them, and though his letters were of necessity short, they very forcibly expressed the sensations of his heart. Before they received these letters, [Page 57] he must have been several days upon his passage; yet every change of weather was observed and at­tended to; and JULIA never looked at the moon, but she thought her esteemed COLWORT might at that moment be contemplating the same ob­ject: his miniature that he had sent her from London, was her constant companion, and the day after she had received it, the Countess came into her dressing room with another picture in her hand; look here JULIA, said she, holding it up, whose likeness is this? Dear Madam (said the surprized girl) it is Mr. COLWORT, did he send it to you, it is indeed a great resemblance; yes (rejoined the Countess) it is a resemblance, but I dare say taken before his birth; this picture, my dear, was designed for the man I loved as fondly as you do Mr. COLWORT, though not with so much prudence: May he never change as the original of this [...] and may your attachment have a very different termination to my unfortu­tunate love; they compared the pictures, and the difference, except the drapery, was so very trifling, that one might have been taken for the other. I saw the amazing resemblance on the first of your lover's arrival, (continued Madam) & am almost ashamed to own that my partiality for the CHEVALIERE arises in some measure from his likeness to the unfortunate author of all my sorrows; at first I supposed there must have been some relationship; but upon inquiries, I found he was wholly a stranger, except from report to the family of ORMOND, but it is really surpris­ing, that two persons, no ways connected by the ties of blood, can be so much alike. JULIA [Page 58] saw that her friend was much affected, and though no subject could be more pleasing to her; though she would have delighted to trace the cause of this resemblance, from feature to fea­ture; yet she turned the subject to some other, and asked some questions that no way concerned her, only as they served to withdraw the mind of the Countess from see [...] that had long since passed; a retrospect of which always depressed her.

CHAPTER, VI.

NOTHING happened for several weeks worth relating; but one morning when JULIA went into the chamber of the Countess, she found her so much indisposed, that her affectionate heart took an immediate alarm. Madam ap­peared calm and composed, and though she would not acknowledge herself so ill as she ap­peared, yet she told JULIA, that she was appre­hensive of a sever, and informed her that a num­ber of years before, she had been attacked in the same manner, and that though her life was then spared, the physicians had declared she could never survive so cruel a distemper in future. I have a presage (said she) that I shall not recover;—I wish to perform some necessary business, and to send for an advocate from the next town: I have neglected this duty to along, and fear my reason will not be [...] to perform it now.

The grief of the affectionate JULIA, cannot be described, but it did not for one moment pre­vent her fulfilling every duty of friendship. When the physician arrived [...] looks were cloud­ed by anxiety, his answers doubtful, and he even urged the Countess to finish her worldly business [Page 60] as soon as possible. This was only to make a will, in which she bequeathed JULIA, fifty thou­sand crowns, and the like sum to COLWORT: the residue of her noble fortune, excepting lega­cies which were large and liberal, to her servants, would devolve upon her brother, the Marquis ALVADA, and his son the Count DE LAUNA.

When the servants knew that their mistress was making a will, they filled the house with their lamentations, and every apartment echoed with their affliction; as for JULIA, her's were silent, and tho' her grief was not of the boisterous kind, her sorrows were deep and afflictive. She attend­ed the bedside of her friend every moment, and presented every medicine to her lips, her soft hands fixed the pillow that supported her throb­bing head, and wiped the damp drops from her forehead & temples, her arm was always ready to assist her, and when she fixed and placed the bed and clothes, a kind of transient [...]ase seemed to follow.

The Marquis & Count were sent for, but before this was done, the Countess lost her reason, & suf­fered all the pangs that the delirium of a fever could inflict, the physicians were detained at the Villa, & for some days a conflict was maintained between a good constitution and a dreadful disorder, and which would get the victory was doubtful; upon the ninth day after shifting her position a thou­sand times, she sunk into a deep sleep, in which she continued for six hours, the physician sat up­on one side of the bed and JULIA upon the oth­er, watching that breath that they expected every moment to leave the worn-out frame of their [Page 61] expiring friend, and now and then wetting her parched lips with a liquid that the nurse had prepared. The doctor declared that if she ever awaked, she would be in some measure recovered, or else in the last agony of expiring nature. The last hour of this sleep appeared the longest of JU­LIA'S life; she counted the seconds as they moved upon her watch, and listened for the clock to strike twelve, with an impatience that she had never known, as if the hour of midnight was to decide her fate, for it was the opinion of all, that the Countess would not survive that time.

But the clock had struck twelve; and it was near one, when awakening with a deep sigh, she stretched out her feeble hand, and asked for something in such a manner, as declared she had regained her perfect recollection. JULIA had kept her sorrow within due bounds, but she could not so easily conquer or control her transports. She threw herself upon her knees; kissed the hand which she held in hers, and in a delirium of joy, she thanked heaven for this recovery; declared her self the happiest creature in the world, and em­braced the doctor with a thousand expressions of frantic extacy. The sensible son of GALEN, found it necessary to curb her feelings. For the present, he persuaded her to be more silent, and calm, which he assured her were highly necessary, as the Countess must still be kept very quiet.

She obeyed him, but though she observed al­most a death like silence, she could not subdue her joy; she seemed to move on air; every care was lighter than down, and she could with diffi­culty refrain from embracing every one who ap­proached her.

[Page 62] This night was a crisis that declared the Coun­tess a candidate for lengthened life: in the morn­ing she was much better, and though her recovery was slow, it was attended with the most pleasing presages.

The very day after her disorder had assumed a favorable aspect, the Marquis and his son arriv­ed; though the utmost caution was used in in­forming her they were come, yet she was obliged to take sometime to prepare her mind for an inter­view, and sent out the doctor to receive them. In less than half an hour she became so composed, that they were introduced; she held out her hand to her brother, said she was rejoiced to see him and thanked him for this visit. The Mar­quis who loved her tenderly, embraced her with emotion, and the Count expressed his satisfaction to find her out of danger. After they were seated, I cannot support a conversation myself (said she very weakly) that task must devolve up­upon my friend, Madamoiselle VALLAICE, who does me the honor to reside with me.—The Marquis now turned, and for the first time beheld the elegant form and interesting face of JULIA; simple and unadorned, habited in a white Robe de Chambre, her beautiful hair stray­ing over her fine forehead, and her charming mild eyes fixed upon the languid face of the Coun­tess, animated with hope, and expressive of ex­treme sensibility; she returned the salutations of the Marquis with a graceful curtsy, and a gen­tle inclination of her head; she offered him her chair that he might set by his sister, and the soft accents of her voice which tremblingly expres­sed [Page 63] the feelings of her heart, vibrated upon the ear of the old LORD.

It was many years since he had experienced a­ny emotion at the sight of youth and beauty, but the beauty of JULIA was of that nature to arrest the eye, to reach the heart, and to engage esteem and respect from every beholder. The Marquis felt his whole soul drawn [...]owards her, he gazed upon her for some moments, he looked with sur­prize; and tried to define his feelings, he at­tempted in vain to address her, he observed her hair that fell in luxuriant abundance about a neck, whose extreme whiteness can never be emu­lated by art. She now arose to present the friends of her benefactress with a cordial; her motion ra­pid and easy, became again the subject of wonder. Where did you meet with this young lady, sister? By an accident, the most fortunate to me, (she replied.) JULIA added, the accident was indeed an happy one for her. The sweetness of her voice again fixed his attention. Oh! CAMILLA, (said he) such was once the loveliest of women; say, did you never think she resembled—The Mar­chioness (interrupted the Countess,) yes, brother from the moment I saw her, the likeness struck me forcibly; but I see you are moved, I am sor­ry you have seen my JULIA; she will absent her­self, I am sure, if the sight of her, pains you.—Certainly (cryed JULIA.) I would not for worlds give a moment's pain; she was going,—No, (said the Marquis detaining her) your ab­sence would indeed distress me, I am an old Man, Mademoiselle, and you may permit an old Man to look upon you; for indeed I find a pleasure [Page 64] in it, that I am not accustomed to; I am both old and unfortunate, say, will you indulge me with your society, for there is a charm in it, that I thought was lost forever.

Oh (said JULIA with impassioned fervor) if I can indeed give pleasure to the beloved and respected brother of my benefactress, even a momentary pleasure, I shall indeed be happy; too happy, too much honored, and grow vain. Amiable crea­ture, (said the Marquis) where are your parents, tell me that I may congratulate them upon so great a blessing. Alas! she replied, I have none, and except your excellent sister, not one friend in Europe. Then you shall be my daughter, (he said) I never had one, and will be a father to you, say will you own me for a father?

Happy Oh most happy shall I be (replied the grateful girl, to call you by so respected, so endear­ing a name, and on my knees, I thank you for this condescension. He embraced her with tears, and she joined her tears with his; she wondered at emotions so new, and so pleasing, and when she beheld his hair whitened by sorrow [...] rather than years, the furrows which grief had impressed up­on his face, she felt so much love, veneration, respect and sympathy, as altogether formed a com­bination of sensations, which, till then, she had been a stranger to.

During the first part of this conversation, the Count had regarded JULIA with looks very different from his father's; his eyes had wander­ed over every charm, and confessed its power; and he thought her an object worth his attention; but when the Marchioness was mentioned, he had [Page 65] retired with some emotion to the window, till the Countess prayed her brother to introduce his son to his adopted daughter; you are an old Batch­eldor, Nephew (said she,) but you must guard your heart, and think of [...] only as a sister, for my young friend has given aw [...]y all her more tender affections. With the air of a man of the world and gallantry, the Count assured his aunt he thought her caution necessary, and that he would endeavor to regard Madamoiselle only in that light that would be most pleasing to her.

CHAPTER VII.

IN one week the Countess was so well as to leave her chamber, and in less than two to ride out, and associate with her family as usual. Re­turning health brought with it cheerfulness, and all its pleasing attendants. She was anxious to render the Villa agreeable to her brother and his son; for, though she detested the character of the latter, she wished to try what effect she could have upon his mind, when at a distance from his vicious associates.

The Marquis grew every day fonder of JULIA, and she looked up to him every moment with increasing reverence and affection. The more the Count became acquainted with JULIA, the more dangerous he found her; too lovely not to be admired; too constant to change, and too frank to dissemble: But notwithstanding his o­pinion he formed of her fidelity, his vanity repre­sented himself as irresistible, and he began to form hopes, and to think that a connection with her virtues, would restore him some of those he had lost; and secure to him the good will and favor of the Countess, which he had penetration enough to know he was not possessed of; with [Page 67] this thought he strove to render himself agreeable to her, and assumed a merit that he was a stranger to; but while lavish in the praise of virtue, tho' loud in his declamation against vice; she saw through the veil; penetrated through the cloud he had wrapped himself in, and found he was an infidel. "For tho' his tongue dropped manna, and could make the worse appear the better reason," yet she looked and found that all was false and hollow; nor was he such a novice in the human heart, as not to read hers, he was indeed an adept in deception himself, and understood the charac­ter of mankind as well, if not better, than peo­ple in general; he saw that JULIA despised him, and he could not hide from himself that he de­served she should.

He was indeed a very singular character, his mind was never formed for virtue, and early in life he discovered traits of a designing, artful dis­position; his father was very young, and at that time absent; he was flattered and caressed by all who knew him; and at the age of fifteen, put under the care of one of the worst of men, who knew how to render the vices, and weaknesses of others subservient, to his own interest. This man was a member, though a concealed one, of the Illuminati, and he saw what an advantage would accrue to the society, by adding to their number the principal of ALVADA and DE LAU­NA's family, whose great estates would enrich them, and whose power would serve as a protec­tion; with this view he indulged all his pupil's vicious propensities; turned all religion into ridi­cule, and learned him to conceal his vices with [Page 68] art and caution. The young man was an apt scholar, and by the time he was twenty, had com­mitted some crimes that made even his tutor shudder; he had indeed been successful in con­cealment, but some little piccadilla as they were called by his party, had escaped him, and sealed his character with the stamp of infamy, in the opin­ion of every person of worth and merit; nor could any pretentions to virtue ever restore it to any thing like purity. Dark in his designs; sudden in his resolves; obstinately attached to his own opinions; vain of his understanding; and though in many respects ignorant; proud of his talents, and after all, though courageous in the prosecution of his designs, he had a latent weakness and imbecility of mind, or rather cow­ardice of thought; for, it could not be called conscience, that sometimes made his associates a­fraid to trust him, though they scared to refuse him their confidence, for he was envious and ma­licious. Thus, though hated and despised, by them all, he was their ruler, held their lodges at one of his houses, and was now next in dignity to their Grand Master; he hated royalty, yet was sometimes so vain, as to aspire at the posses­sion of a sceptre; he laughed at religion, and he trembled at its power and wished, to possess it; he turned virtue into ridicule, while he had known it existed; and he adored honor, at the moment he sneered at its dictates; as a slave to vice, he was unacquainted with reason, for its laws had never once controled one vicious thought, nor prevented one bad action. This was the Count DE LAUNA, a man who had not been one [Page 69] fortnight at the Villa before he made serious pro­posals to the innocent and amiable JULIA.

Never was the power of virtue more fully proved over the vicious, than in the present in­stance; not that virtue embodied, could have made a lasting impression on a mind so vitiated as the Count DE LAUNA; but it had a transient effect, it arrested him in his career, it stopped the progress for the present, and it occasioned a lapse in his illegal pursuits. He was never tired of the company of JULIA, and though her whole con­duct was a censure upon his own, and he saw he was indebted for the little civility and respect she granted him, to his father and aunt, though he feared she hated him, yet he loved her as a being of superior merit. When he came into her pre­sence, he lost that haughty triumph that was so evident in his countenance and demeanior, and became humiliated to such a degree, that he des­pised himself for his servility which he found him­self unable to conquer.

The Marquis enjoyed in the quiet of the Villa, a satisfaction, to which he had been long a stran­ger; his health was benefitted; his mind was calm, and his reason, which had been much de­ranged, was perfectly restored; the Countess ob­served this change with pleasure; she loved her brother and did every thing in her power to pro­long a visit, that rendered her much the happier; his son was in his opinion restored to virtue, and JULIA whose whole attention was marked with a kind of reverential attention, performed for him a thousand little offices, that more properly belonged to his domestics; when he entered the [Page 70] room where she was setting, she arose involunta­rily; if his seat was inconvenient, or unpleasant, she was sure to fix one more commodious; if he walked, she attended him; if he slept, as he sometime did in his chair or sopha, she played some soft tunes upon the harp or piana; if he wished it, she read to him, and in short she be­came so necessary to his comfort, that he was un­easy without her; thus she cheated him of his sorrows, and concealed her own; for she was un­easy about COLWORT of whom she had heard nothing since his embarkation for America.

Thus passed three months, and the Count had exerted every talent to prevail with JULIA to accept his hand and fortune, but all his persua­sions proved that those talents which had been so successful with other women, were nothing to her, and he had the extreme mortification to find, he had not advanced one step farther towards her favor, at the end of three months unwearied constancy, than when he began the attempt.

More company now appeared at the Villa, these were Madamoiselle GYRON and DONNA OLIVIA a Spanish lady; this last lady was dis­tantly related to the Countess, and had taken this opportunity to play off her hitherto successful charms upon the Count. Mademoiselle GY­RON, had always felt the warmest esteem and love for the Countess; she was certainly a fine wo­man, and though an air of pensive sadness was evi­dent, and though she wished to conceal it, it was always observed. She had heard with extreme satisfaction of her late recovery, and she took this opportunity to renew their old friendship, and congratulate her upon her returning health.

[Page 71] The Chevalier ENON, a coxcomb and an Ital­ian Nobleman, who was a kinsman of the Mar­chioness, attended these ladies, and they came prepared to render this party as pleasurable as possible. DONNA OLIVIA, was a finished Co­quette; she had beauty, and she added to it an haughtiness that was insufferable to good minds; but which pleased men of a particular description, but the mild and modest JULIA felt so humbled by it at first, that she seemed to shrink from ob­servation, and it was several days before she re­covered her usual ease and gentle dignity. The Italian was an old beau, but his heart was honest and his ideas often truly diverting.

The Countess introduced JULIA as her ward, and as she knew the power of wealth over the human heart, she intimated that her fortune was considerable, this was done merely to save her young friend the mortifications that any slight or neglect would occasion. By the men she was pronounced a divinity. Madamoiselle was charmed with her, and as she had a large share of penetration, had studied the mind of man, and knew the world; she saw that some mystery hung around her, and she was determined, though not from a bad motive, to develop it if possible. But the praises that all concurred to give her, ensured her of DONNA OLIVIA's envy; she looked upon her as a simple country girl, whose beauty she was obliged to acknowledge, but was in­intirely unacquainted with the beau monde, and treated her with that neglect that she supposed the world would approve of, and that was most likely to pain her. But with all her simplicity [Page 72] the noble minded girl heeded not her neglects, and if she felt it, her conduct was such as pro­claimed her innate superiority.

For one week the Chevalier was in love, he dressed, danced, sung and talked nonsense, but all to no purpose; JULIA was diverted with his follies, and he [...]ound the pursuit vain, and like a true Frenchman grew himself sick of it.

DONNA OLIVIA exerted all her talents to please the Count, and it is certain that he appear­ed to be pleased, and paid her an attention at once flattering to her, and surprizing to his friends. The truth is, he was tired of his unsuc­cessful attentions to JULIA, and estimating her by some that he had formerly known, he suppos­ed the fear of rivalry would alarm her jealousy and wound her pride, and in the end serve his purpose better than the marked respect and deference he had hitherto paid her. With this view he actu­ally made love to OLIVIA, who wished for no­thing so much as to secure her conquest, and pleased with her lover, flattered herself that she should soon become Countess DE LAUNA; this idea was really suggested by an affection to the Count's person, independent of his rank and af­fluence; but for one moment it did not exist in his bosom, he had never once thought of matri­monial fetters, unless JULIA, would put them on for him, since he ceased to teaze her with pro­fessions that were irksome to hear, and which would have flattered the pride of most women, only gave her pain; she behaved with her usual ease and good humour, and was always calm and serene. The Countess was happy to see her [Page 73] friends and the whole party were most agreeably entertained.

One morning, after the subject of conversa­tion had shifted several times, according to the whim or fancy of the company, it turned upon men of honor and the common acceptation of the word.

What can be more binding upon a man of nice honor, (said the Count,) than his honor; what pledge to sacred, what so solemn! Why nothing replied the Countess,) nothing, and yet I do not believe the English Moralist ever meant to have the sentiment you have quoted, applied to our modern men of honor, a principle of rectitude and of religion, will render the word of a plain honest man, of ten times more consequence than what you call a principle of honor. And yet cried OLIVIA, the mind must be mean and sus­picious, that would not trust the word of a man of honour, even if it had not all the good quali­ties that you seem to think necessary. I think, (said the Countess) that a man has no reasonable pretentions to honor, who is destitute of those requisites; and I am sure no word was ever more wrongly applied; no term more prostituted, than that which is the subject of Conversation. These men of honor as you call them, and as they call themselves, will undoubtedly defend their reputation, at the risque of their lives, even if that reputation, has been stained with every infamous, every vicious deed; they will pay their debts of honor, and cheat the honest tradesman, who furnishes them with the necessary articles of [Page 74] life; they will fight for their king, their country, or their honor; but I believe there are but few of them who would not seduce the wife or daugh­ter of his friend, bring distress into his own family, blaspheme his God, redicule religion, and trample upon all laws but those of honor. In­deed I think (continued she,) that a man must act from higher principles, before he can be call­ed a man of honor, he must be fearful to offend a God of purity, who sees into his most secret thoughts, words and actions; he must in com­pliance with the commands of that God, do to all men as he wishes to be done by; when this is the principle he proceeds upon, he will be lit­erally a man of honor, such a man may boast the noble distinguishing perfection with propriety, and such a man is the American WASHINGTON, he has fought, bravely fought for his country, but I never heard of his fighting a duel: he has really protected the rights of man, and avenged the injuries of his fellow-citizens, but never brought sorrow or ruin to the families of his coun­trymen; in him, the wives, daughters and wi­dows of America find a friend and protector. Let no one henceforth claim the sacred title of a man of honour, unless he can like him, "keep a conscience void of offence towards God and to­wards man." But a modern man of honor is a more dangerous character, than a downright knave, who is known to be a villain, and scorns not to be called so; for the former acts in dis­guise, and in deceiving others, often deceives him­self; the world infatuated with the glare of his character, will admire, fear and trust him: per­haps, [Page 75] there are some whose inclinations always side with the laws of honor and virtue, for we do find persons who are possessed of so tranquil a temper, and have so happy a temperature of blood and spirits, that they are inclined to do right and virtuous actions, even without any fixed principle; but these persons are in great danger of falling into temptation; their ease and imbecility of mind may betray them into evils, which require principle, and fixed ideas of vir­tue of shun; and in general I am persuaded where a principle of religion does not prove a safeguard to honor, that however dazzling it ap­pears, when the inclinations, the interests, or wish­es can be indulged at its expence, honor is found an insufficient barrier, and flies as a phantom of the morning, or as the ignis fatuus of a vapory night, and leaves the deluded wretch plunged in vice and misery.

I know your assertion to be just (said Madam GYRON,) and I will produce an instance that has fallen within my own observation. A man of the highest sense of honor, who had fought to establish it, who was admired and even esteemed by all, became at one and twenty, when his ideas of honor or rather his character was at its Zenith, the guardian of a young lady just then fourteen, the daughter too of his best friend and protector: Her fortune was pretty considerable, her person rather pleasing, her life had been innocent; her mind pure, and her heart unadulterated by art, or the world: But this man of honor within one year seduced her from the paths of virtue, deprived her of her honor, and rendered her a [Page 76] wretch indeed; he was then married, but when five years afterwards he left his wife; when he had stripped his unhappy ward of her for­tune, and left her in a Convent almost in want of the necessaries of life, he then refused her the only reparation in his power, and left her still to suffer: But when by the death of a distant rela­tion, she became mistress of an ample and inde­pendent property indeed; this man of honor a­gain sought her out and would again have de­ceived her, for he offered marriage: But she nobly scorned him and sought a great, a lasting revenge, a revenge that has planted his pillow with thorns, and till this moment he lives a suf­ferer in continual fear, that he shall be punished for a crime of which he is not guilty; but still by some he is considered as a man of honor; his story is concealed, but how much better would a principle of religion and rectitude of heart have been, than this ideal, fantastic honor which he professed; the one would have served as a refuge in distress; would have shielded him from the commission of guilt at which his soul shrinks with horror; would have left him peace of mind, if suspected, and he would not shudder, as he now does, lest the thunder burst over his head, and the red lightning blast his guilty con­science.

But (asked the Count,) what was the nature of this revenge; it could not be too great, for he was indeed a villain. That is a secret, she replied, but it was great and glorious. The Countess was about to make some remarks upon revenge, and its consequences; but upon casting her eyes [Page 77] upon Madam GYRON'S face, she beheld it unu­sually flushed, her eyes sparkled with the fire of passion, and her whole frame appeared so ag­itated, that she dropped the conversation, and proposed a walk.

CHAPTER VIII.

SCARCELY had they left the house for the garden, when a servant came running after them with a packet of letters; the superscription de­clared COLWORT was the writer, and the cheek of JULIA, underwent a deep suffusion that in­creased her beauty; the Countess broke the seal with impatience, and presented JULIA with her letter, who retired to read the sentiments of an heart faithful and affectionate, and shed tears of pleasure over the suffusion of that fancy, and that tenderness, of which it was her joy and pride to be the object. But we will follow the example [Page 79] of the amiable girl, and since her delicacy would not allow any one to peruse the young man's epis­tle, except the Countess we shall carefully conceal it from the uninterested reader. But the Coun­tess was pleased with the contents of her's, and ever anxious to communi [...]ate her pleasures to others, she seated herself in an adjoining alcove, and at the request of her friends, read as follows:—

CHAPTER IX.

THE Count had been a concerned specta­tor of JULIA'S emotion, at receiving COLWORT'S letter, and though the omen that he drew from it was discouraging; he was determined to make one more attempt, to gain her affections in an honorable way, and if he succeeded, to be as much reformed, and for as long a time as possible; but if he failed, to press a project that his own dark bosom had long harbored.

With this view, he followed her to a little summer-house, in the garden, after dinner; as soon as she saw him, she prepared to leave him, and pursue her walk; I intreat, Mademoiselle, (said he with some solemnity) that you will re­sume your seat, and permit me the pleasure of a few moments conversation with you; she was silent, but sat down; after a little hesitation he resumed: It is now four months since I have known you, and in that time, do me the justice to believe, that my heart has not ceased to beat for you, nor for one moment has my mind been em­ployed on any other subject: He was going on, but she interrupted him, with, I am sorry to hear [Page 88] it, my Lord, I hoped indeed that your mind had regained its usual occupations, and was employed, in a more useful manner; I beg your Lordship will not think me disrespectful, but I wish to be excused from saying any thing more, upon a sub­ject that has already wasted too many moments; nothing has happened to change my mind, and I assure you that it remains the same. "A few minutes (said he,) is no great sacrifice, even to an enemy, and surely, JULIA, you will not deny that to me, while I plead something in my behalf that you have not yet attended to; I do not re­mind you of the ease and affluence that will be yours, if you consent to make me happy; nor do I mention a splendid title; I know you are above such paltry considerations; but I would wish you to reflect one moment, upon the ad­vantages, they will most certainly confer; supe­rior to any you could ever receive in a connec­tion with the Chevalier COLWORT, if you should ever meet him again, which I think very uncer­tain; you have known this young adventurer but a short time; he has but a small fortune; you must leave the friends who love you, to whom you are attached; you must leave France, a charming country, where your cheerfulness will endear you, and make you respected, and reside amongst strangers; upon that haughty, unsocial Island, you will be despised; as a foreigner, parti­cularly as a French woman; for a depend upon it, no friendship, no amity can long subsist between a native of Britain and France; the aversion is rooted, it cannot be erased; it will embitter your future days, and render you unhappy; tied down [Page 89] to their cold and frigid rules, you will be with­out the consolations of love or friendship; for they are capable of neither; but if you consent to give me your hand, you will live with the Countess who loves you; you will be adored as the mistress of all around you, and the possession of unbounded wealth will give you the power to succour the afflicted, and to assist the needy. My former life, has not been what I could wish, for upon reflection, I have been guilty of follies that I grieve for; of imprudence, that I regret; but it is rather my misfortune, than my fault; for I am persuaded. I never should have erred as I have done, if I had, at an early period of my life met a JULIA: It is in your power to perfect a reformation; it is with you to save me not only from present sorrow, but perhaps from future misery; you will make my father happy by pre­senting his son a penitent and reformed: Oh, JULIA, do not turn from me an averted face; do not be deaf to my intreaties, but smile upon me, and give me that dear hand, and say you will be mine.

I am grieved, my Lord, (said JULIA, as soon as he had ceased speaking,) that you should after four months acquaintance with me, entertain so poor, and suffer me to say so unjust an opinion of me, as to suppose me so unstable, and so incon­sistent: I wish you happy, my Lord: I wish it for your own sake, for that of your excellent fa­ther, and for your much loved aunt: If you have been guilty of follies, I hope you will in future be more circumspect; a consciousness of having done wrong generally precedes repentance, and [Page 90] from my soul, I wish you happy; I wish you may find a woman much more capable of making you happy, and more capable to move in so high a sphere, than the humble girl you now address. I feel the force of what you have said; am sensi­ble of the honour you do me; but, my Lord, why will you wish to deprive me of the only qua­lity that would entitle me to your esteem? In becoming yours, my Lord, I must forfeit my vows, break through a sacred and solemn engage­ment; a voluntary engagement too, and thus lose my own good opinion, and lose with it all hopes of happiness. No, my Lord, I am incapable of a conduct so vain, so trifling, and so frivolous: I refuse the profound honor, my Lord, because I am engaged to another, and because wealth, and a title however adorned, however noble and exalt­ed, could not compensate to me the loss of my probity; the loss of the man I sincerely love and esteem, and suffer me to say, the loss of your Lordship's good opinion.

She arose to leave him, but he threw himself between her and the door, with a countenance inflamed by anger, and a frame agitated by con­flicting passion, he swore she should not leave him: think for a moment, (said he,) before you seal your ruin, this is the last time I will ever put it in your power to reject or receive; I have al­ready thrown away too much time upon you, but you shall be mine, be heaven, you shall.

Never, my Lord, (she replied,) I never will be yours, nor will I seal my ruin, by giving a consent to what I should detest myself; for, reflecting upon for a moment, with any degree of compla­cency. [Page 91] Never, cried he, enraged; the time will come, when with all the ardent fondness of your sex, you will beg in vain for the honor you now reject; by heaven, he added, while fury flashed in his eyes, I am half a mind to murder you and myself; but the time will come, for revenge, when, and that shortly too, you will repent this madness; but penitence will then come too late, and self reflections will render you doubly wretch­ed; you shall never see that cursed adventurer more, never see again that infatuating savage.

I rejoice, my Lord, (replied she, almost smiling from the complacency of the idea,) I rejoice that your power is not adequate to your will, and that my fate is in the hands of one, who can controul both you and I at pleasure; who with one thought can bid this whirlwind of the passions cease, who will never put it in the power of a vain mortal, to say what shall, or what shall not be done; there is no situation, my Lord, above his reach, nor no one so humble as to be below his condescending care and kindness; he has promis­ed to protect the orphan, and as such, my Lord, I will depend upon him: Let me go, said she, firmly, I insist upon being detained no longer; I insist upon passing, and she passed him with a spirit that amazed him; leaving him astonished at her fortitude, and his mind a prey to conflict­ing passions.

But the fortitude of JULIA forsook her; as soon as she had left him, a kind of indignant des­peration had supported her in his presence, but she hurried to her chamber, burst into tears, and was giving full vent to her emotions, when she [Page 92] was interrupted by Madam GYRON, who had been in pursuit of her, and was surprized to find her in such a situation: Dear Mademoiselle, said she, what is the matter? JULIA could not an­swer; what is the matter she repeated, it is not a reprehensible curiosity, for that I could sup­press, it is a better motive that makes me inquire into this extraordinary emotion, perhaps my ad­vice may be of service to you; do my dear JULIA, confide in me, and whatever may have caused your grief, it shall be a secret, if you wish it, and I am sure you will never repent the confidence that I solicit.

It was indeed a release to JULIA to unfold to this friendly and sensible woman, the present cause of her sorrows, and to receive with gratitude the advice she offered her: Madam told her in re­turn, that she highly approved of her refusal, and spirited behaviour: I know him to be a villain, (she added,) I know such things of him as make me shudder only to think of; but his threats are not to be despised, for he is powerful and ma­licious: I would have you behave as usual to him; he will, I fancy, soon leave the Villa, and then constraint will be no longer necessary; but do not inflame him to revenge, by informing his aunt, till his departure, and I believe we shall all be glad of his absence. I fancy, said JULIA, DONNA OLIVIA will not acquiesce in your senti­ments, but I suppose she does not know him as he is. DONNA OLIVIA, my dear, has been used to affluence from her cradle, she cannot ex­ist without it; her family is ruined, her fortune spent, she loves the Count, and such are her ideas [Page 93] that she would accompany him to the Altar, though he stood confessed the villain before her, and she knew that his heart was engaged to you.

Is it possible, (said JULIA,) that any one can think or feel so? Why, I had rather labor for bread, and receive the scanty pittance of hard earned industry, than to be the wife of such a man. And so had I, (replied Madam,) but my dear, we must go down; take no notice of what has passed, and I will contrive, in a day or two, to free you from such a constraint, as the presence of that wretch will inflict.

They then joined the company, and had the satisfaction to find the Count was not with them: indeed he was too much discomposed to associate with any one, and with a confidential servant had rode out. This man had been long a faithful auxiliary, and he now disclosed to him, schemes of the blackest die; nor did the fellow miss this opportunity to inform his master some hints that had dropped from a servant of Madam GYRON's, which the guilty conscience of both the Count and the man immediately suggested, alluded to a transaction that had passed some years before, and fearful lest any thing more should be said, he concluded to leave the Villa.

In pursuance with this resolution, he did not return untill the Countess and her guests had retir­ed; he then waited upon the Marquis in his bed­chamber, and formed an excuse that obliged him to depart immediately for Paris; the Marquis admitted his excuse, and at his request consented to say every thing to the Countess and her friends that was necessary: He took leave of his father [Page 94] that night, and before the rising of the next sun, was with all his attendants, half a league from the Villa.

The company were surprised to find he had left them in that abrupt manner, but all readily admitted his excuses, except DONNA OLIVIA, who could not conceal her chagrin, and disappointment; but before night she received a summons to visit her brother who was very ill, and Madam, GYRON, who had come in the same carriage readily agreed to return with her, and the Chevalier signified his intentions of accompany­ing them the next day.

The Countess unwilling to be so soon depriv­ed of the society of her friend, urged her longer stay, and the Marquis and JULIA added their most pressing persuasions to her invitation, but she pleaded some business that must be soon at­tended to, and promised a longer visit when the coming winter had excluded other visitors.

The Italian concluded to stay a few days lon­ger at the Villa, and then return immediately to Spain, and not go again to Paris. The next day he remarked that JULIA, had a happy mixture of the French and Italian in her countenance: You have all the vivacity of the one, said he, with all the bewitching softness of the other; was your father a Frenchman, Mademoiselle? Indeed I do not know, (she replied,) while the crimson that mantled upon her check, discovered that her mind had underwent a sudden emotion. Not know, (he repeated, amazed at her answer;) not know of what country your father was? I never was so happy as to know a father, (she [Page 95] said, while her voice trembled as she spoke.) Was your mother an Italian? she interrogated.) Of that I am likewise ignorant, [...] I believe she was a native of France. Perceiving that his questions embarrassed her, he dropt them, and soon after sought the Countess, who finding he knew some­thing of JULIA, told him part of her story with a strict injunction of secrecy. In a few days he left them, and the Countess, her brother, and JULIA, again enjoyed that social intercourse which constitutes the sweetest happiness of congenial souls.

CHAPTER X.

IN about four weeks they were surprized one afternoon by the arrival of a number of men at­tended by two officers, who entered the apart­ment, in which the Countess and her friend were seated, without ceremony, and seized upon JU­LIA, as a prisoner of state: It would be impos­sible to express the surprise or distress of the Countess, and the trembling girl; they begged an explanation, and desired to know for what she was arrested; what was the crime alledged against one so innocent and inoffensive. I should be sorry to offend your ladyship, said one of the officers, I only do my duty, nor do I know for what Mademoiselle is arrested; here is my war­rant which you may read.

The Countess read with astonishment, and found it was under the great seal, and that it com­manded to seize the person of JULIA VALLAICE, a resident at the Villa of the Countess DE LAU­NA, and conduct her to the frontiers of the King­dom, and then deliver her up to the Spanish Offi­cer, who was one of the present company. It was in vain for the Countess to expatiate with these men, or to oppose a power so superior; the Mar­quis [Page 97] had rode out, and all that she could do was to assure JULIA, that she and her brother would most certainly her; that they would first attend at Court and obtain all the information necessary, and use all their power for her release. It was in vain that she persuaded them to tarry till the return of the Marquis, and till her car­riage could be got ready. All the indulgence that could be obtained was for JULIA to take a trunk of clothes, and that ANET should go with her in a carriage, which they had brought for the purpose of carrying her. The Countess put a purse into her hand at parting, and gave another to the officers, who promised she should have ev­ery care and attention paid her during her journey. She hung upon the neck of her generous benefac­tress, she wept upon her bosom, while the Coun­tess half distracted, knew not what to do, or how to conduct herself. Trust in your innocence, my dear, said she, trust in him who is the father of orphans, and the friend of the afflicted. Oh, Madam, and must I leave you, must I indeed be dragged from you? We part, but for a short time, said the Countess, I will be with you in a few days; she could add no more, for the officers separated them, and put the trembling JULIA into a carriage that waited.

This transaction was so sudden, and so unex­pected; the transition from liberty and happi­ness, to slavery and misery; from all the blessings of friendship, and the most elegant and refined society, to the company of men whose persons were unpleasing; whose manners were rough and disagreeable; had taken place in so short a time, [Page 98] that when JULIA found herself shut up in a close carriage with the officers, and ANET, she could hardly suppose herself awake; she thought it must be a dream, and she tried to shake off the fetters of sleep, that she might escape from so dreadful a vision. But her efforts were vain, she found indeed it was a reality, a painful reality; and instead of the soothing, the sentimental friend, the charming Countess, she was driving from her, in company, that she almost feared to look upon.

She endeavored to recollect every passage of her life, to look back upon her infant hours, to form some probable conjecture, if possible, for what crime she was now a prisoner, but it was in vain; she only ransacked the annals of an inno­cent heart, of a life void of offence. She then searched the records of her memory for an enemy, and here indeed she was more successful, for re­flection in a moment presented the Count, he had threatened her with vengeance, and now in idea her accuser, her judge, and her jailor, stood con­fessed, the Count DE LAUNA. She saddened at the horrid thought, and the hints and caution of Madam GYRON, rushed upon her mind, and brought such a confusion of afflicting images and suspicio [...]s, that she almost sunk under them.

From this state she was recalled by the tears of ANET, who sat crying opposite to her, and who had for a few minutes been forgotten: she now endeavored to comfort the little girl, by an assurance that the Countess would soon follow, and that whatever happened to herself, she would be taken care of; the voice of JULIA, who stiffled her own uneasiness, and appeared as calm [Page 99] as possible, operated like a charm upon her af­fectionate attendant, and restored her to tranquil­ity: She assured her lady that she would gladly go with her all over the world, and that she was only distressed for the Countess, and her, and would be quite easy as to what concerned herself.

JULIA now began to question the officers con­cerning the cause of her arrest; the Frenchman could not, and the Spaniard would not give her any information, and after a few fruitless enqui­ries, they all continued silent, and the mind of JULIA, wandered back to the Villa, which was now for behind her; she saw, in imagination, the anxiety and distress of the Marquis, and his sister, and almost fancied she heard their voices, as they talked of her; she sometimes too, thought of COLWORT, and a sigh followed. Her uncertainty was an aggravation to the anguish of her heart, and she wished this state of suspence over, let the end be ever so dreadful; for she thought a cer­tainty of the worst, could not exceed her present affliction. In consideration of her attendant, she concealed her fears and combated with forti­tude the agonizing surmises that she could not dismiss: I every picture that her fancy drew, the Count stood foremost, and there was no evil that she dreaded, that could bear any comparison to those she feared from him, and her heart sunk at the idea of meeting him.

It is not our intention to describe her journey, nor the towns and villages she passed through; they only stopped to change horses, and for refresh­ment, and travelled with such expedition, as left JULIA, no hope of being overtaken by her friends, [Page 100] until they reached the place of their destination. Upon the frontiers of the kingdom, the French officer left them, and JULIA had reason to regret his departure: The Frenchman was humane and civil, he had told her the names of the towns they had passed, and given her some sketches of the inhabitants, and she had endeavored to divest herself of personal fears, enough to attend; in some measure she had succeeded, and she found his communications a source of satisfaction: But the Spanish officer, who now took her into his custody, was haughty and vain, supercilious and illnatured; and had besides a really weak understanding.

With this man she continued some days lon­ger; had her constitution been less firm, she must have sunk under the fatigue of such a jour­ney, with a person and mind so harrassed by con­stant fatigue and agitation: But a kind of des­peration kept her up, and her fortitude seemed to increase with her trials, and she found the resour­ces she had within herself, more numerous, than she supposed them.

At the close of the fifth day, they arrived at M—, and JULIA was told her journey was terminated here: But when the coach stopped before a large high house, dark looking and ill contrived, she trembled so, she could hardly alight, and her tottering limbs would scarce sup­port her, for she there expected to meet the Count; but here she was mistaken, for she was only met by too bad looking men, and an appa­rently innocent woman, who conducted her up two pair of stairs into a large Chamber, with a [Page 101] small grated window, little furniture, and a bad fire; the weather was now cold, and she felt the want of that cheering element; and when she found herself only with ANET, and heard the door shut and the key turned upon her, her heart died within her, and overcome with fatigue and cold, she found herself incapable of taking off her outside garment, and sunk into a chair, and for a moment become insensible either to the miseries of retrospection or anticipation.

The cries of ANET, soon brought up the wo­man, who exerted herself for the relief of JULIA, and her recovered reason was softened by sensi­bility, which by a gush of tears, in some measure, relieved her almost bursting heart: She accepted the repast that the woman had provided and be­coming in some measure calm; she suffered the bed to be warmed, and went immediately to it, after insisting upon her little attendant being a partaker of it. This was the first time she had been undressed since she had left the Villa, for the purpose of repose, and it now seemed to fly from her intreaties, and she wooed it with wishes that seemed to drive it far from her; but towards day she sunk into a profound slumber, and did not awake, till the woman, she had seen the night before, came to inform her that two persons wait­ed in an adjourning apartment to see her.

She arose to dress herself with such a confusion of thought, and hurry of spirit, that she could hardly put on her clothes; her face was pale and languid, a faint blush just tinged her cheeks; her hair which had not been dressed for many days fell in a kind of natural curl about her neck and [Page 102] forehead, and though her eyes had not lost their brilliancy, they were more soft and gentle than usual; yet the mild and resolute fortitude of her mind was impressed upon her countenance, and she prepared to accompany her attendant with dignity, tempered with sweetness.

She was only led to an opposite chamber, where she found two persons, one a young man of a pleasing but troubled aspect, and the other an old one, who wore an appearance of discontent and suspicion: They both met her at the door, and seemed equally surprised at the elegance of her person, and manners; the glow upon her cheek was hightened to crimson, by a sensation of ming­led fear and indignation of conscious virtue and assured innocence; with an air of respect they re­quested her to be seated, and assured her that no injury was intended her, and that if she was not intirely satisfied with her apartment, she should immediately be put into possession of a better: She replied that she did not complain of her ac­commodation, she only wished to be informed upon what pretext she had been torn from her friends, and treated and confined as a prisoner. They replied, she would soon be informed of ev­ery circumstance, and that reparation should be made for every appearance of injury she had re­ceived; they then conversed upon different sub­jects and dropped no hint of what related to her confinement and situation; she endeavored to join in the conversation which was several times addressed to her.

In near an hour after, three men entered, one of them produced the materials for writing, and [Page 103] the others began to interrogate her concerning her former life. They explained to her the nature of an oath, and then with great solemnity adminis­tered it to her, when she laid her hand upon the book, which she observed to be the Bible, she trembled, but she lifted her heart up to heaven for support, and went through the awful ceremo­ny without hesitation. They asked her where she was from? She answered that she did not know. Where she had lived? At Avignon, un­til about six months ago, since which, with the Countess DE LAUNA. Who were her parents? Her father she had never known; her mother, she described with the circumstance of her loss. She answered all these questions with clearness, and without any apparent reluctance, and was a­gain with respect, conducted back to her apart­ment, and the door once more locked upon her.

CHAPTER XI.

IN a short time refreshments were brought, of which she eat, more, wish a view to gratify ANET, and induce her to follow her example, than from inclination. She then asked for a book, and a vo­lumn of Hannah Moor's Poems was brought her, this had been left by an English prisoner, when he was liberated by accident; as she understood the language almost as well as her own: She read it with pleasure and delight; and in the perusal of that beautiful poem, upon sensibility, almost lost herself, and her sorrows. But some lines that seemed to allude to minds and situations like her own, brought her back from the illusive fields of poetry, and she sighed when she looked upon her dismal abode.

Three days passed as the first, with little or no [...] The woman brought her meals regular­ly, and behaved with respect and attention; but she began to find so inactive a life, even if it were divested of the anxiety she suffered, and free from confinement, irksome and tedious. She had been used to active industry from her infancy; not an [Page 105] hour of her life had passed unoccupied; she con­sidered idleness as the parent of every evil, the nurse of every vice, and employment as one of her great­est privileges; she had always arisen before the sun, and work, books and amusements, had filled up every moment; she never had found the day too long; but now, shut up in a lonely prison; no book, no work, no musick, and no one to converse with, except ANET, she found the time hung heavy upon her hands, and "chide the tardy minutes as they pass.' She got the keeper of the prison to procure her the implements for drawing, and some books; the first he got agreeable to her direction; but he had no taste, and was ignorant and superstitious, and he brought her some devo­tional tracts, and she threw them by, for neither instruction nor amusement could be gathered from them.

She had some turn for drawing, but what could she exercise that talent upon; her high grated window only gave her the prospect of a dark nar­row street, with a large brick building, the back of which was towards her, and which seemed con­trived to prevent the rays of light or wholesome air, from entering her gloomy apartment, it in­deed sufficiently excluded them, for she had not seen the sun, since her residence in it.

She indeed sketched the figure of some haughty Spaniards as they walked by in solemn state, wrapped up in their black cloaks; but the sameness, soon tired her, and she could not row as formerly, draw from imagination; her heart was chearless, and her mind too gloomy, and she chose not to tinge the canvas with those sombre shades, and she threw by the pencil; [Page 106] her mind was inventive, she asked the woman that attended her, for work; plain useful sewing she preferred, and she was soon furnished, and in this found a resource against her sorrows, and a solace in her affliction. She instructed ANET to work, and the jailor's wife began to find a benefit from their industry.

While her fingers were so usefully employed, her mind was at liberty to range at pleasure, and in imagination she often visited the Villa; often felt the embraces of the Countess, and her bro­ther; often too, fancy represented them as com­ing to her relief, and she accompanied them in their journey, found them stopped at the door of her prison, listened to every noise or ring of the bell, and almost expected to see them enter her apart­ment. Some times too, she crossed the Altantic, and beheld her beloved COLWORT enjoying all the pleasures of liberty and peace, improving his mind by observation, or occupied in soothing the broken spirit of his cousin, and cherishing her infant with tenderness and benevolence.

Her mind had never known suspicion, and she was saved a vast deal of uneasiness, that mean dispositions are subjected to; she had never for one moment doubted, the continued affection and friendship of the Countess, or her brother, and a shadow of jealousy had not for one instant cloud­ed her dependance, upon the constancy of COL­WORT. She sometimes gave way to fear; that sickness prevented her friends from coming to her relief; and then, indeed, she was wretched.

In less then a week, she received another visit from the gentlemen who had waited upon her [Page 107] at first, underwent the same interrogatories, and returned the same answers; and was again recon­ducted to her prison. Six days passed on as usual, and her patience became almost exhausted; and when led again to the presence of the persons, who had twice before questioned her, she begged to know how long she was to suffer this confine­ment, and what was alledged against her? I wish, Madam, I could answer you, said the eldest, but I cannot. And why not, cried JULIA, with some spirit, I am unused to ask favors, but in this case surely, it is natural, and excusable; I only beg to be informed, why I am thus confined? I have been torn from friends that I love, from a situation that was delightful, from society that was dearest to my heart, and hurried along for several hundred miles, and after that, confined in a dark and gloomy prison, without friends, with­out society, and without amusement; not one intimation is given why I thus suffer? To suffer­ings, I am resigned, and will be satisfied with the decrees of those who have my fate at their dispo­sal; all I ask, is an end to this state of suspence, and I think I have a right to demand an answer, and a relief to the painful sensations that doubt occasions. Three weeks from this, Madamoiselle, (returned her interrogator,) the Lord High Ad­vocate, with the other Judges, will return to this city, the court will then set, and a final decree will be given. Good God, said JULIA, am I to be arraigned before the Lord High Advocate, and tried as a criminal, as a state offender; what have I ever done to merit this treatment? You are not to be treated with such ignominy, replied [Page 108] the youth, nor are you to be brought as a criminal before any tribunal, and no one who looks upon you for a moment, would credit an assertion so improbable.

I did not wish for a compliment, she answered, I only wish for information. And that, he said, is the only request that cannot be granted; we are bound by the most solemn oaths, not to declare for what you are confined; if we break those oaths, we are perjured. If that is the case, said JULIA, sighing, I must aim at resignation; pa­tience is a virtue often called into exercise, and long and frequent use only, increases it; when our virtues lay dormant, and inactive, we do not justly appreciate them; it is practice that shews how really valuable they are, and how great their utility is. Indeed, said the young gentlemen, we are grieved for you, and wish for nothing more, than to have the power to relieve your mind from suspence, and your person from confinement. It is evident that you can practice every virtue; you are too lovely and amiable, to permit us to doubt it. Were I happy, sighed JULIA, seign­ior, perhaps your compliments might make me vain; I am at present too much the reverse to be elated. He bowed, and she was again led back to her chamber, with a heart doubly oppres­sed; she thought she saw in the countenance of the young man, pity for her fate, while the old one seemed to betray ill nature, and squint suspi­cion. What they had said respecting a court and a final decree, created a thousand new images of horror; her mind recurred to the direction she had received from her mother, not to leave the [Page 109] Cottage; again PIERRE, the son of the old man, had said, her life when an infant, depended upon the concealment of her real name; that she thought was now discovered, and her life would than be sacrificed to some interested enemy. She had often wished, she could remove the veil, that wrapped her birth in impenetrable obscurity; that veil she now supposed would be soon re­moved, and her death close the scene; even to that she looked with some degree of impatience; so greatly did suspence aggravate every evil she suffered: In the affection of the Marquis and his sister, she was secure, and she had expect­ed they would have come, or sent to her succour: She still hoped they would appear; but, the sad idea occurred, that perhaps, they were withheld from giving her any assistance, by that hand of power, that had confined her: perhaps too, they had upon inquiries found her state so hopeless and desperate, that every attempt was laid aside, as fruitless and unavailing. In these reflections she indulged, until her mind became a perfect chaos, and so much agitated, as to be little short of distraction. She traversed her apartment with hurried steps, till after ten, when she heard a low step approach her door, the key was turned with evident caution, and she beheld the young man enter, whom she had seen in the morning.

He was alone, and approached her with evident confusion and respect. Forgive this intrusion, said he, forgive this unseasonable visit, which is meant, if possible, to relieve you from some of the disagreeable things that surround you. Your meaning is so very kind, replied JULIA, that I [Page 110] am willing to overlook the impropriety. Have you any good news for me? Have my friends ar­rived? Is suspence and concealment no longer necessary? I have heard nothing new, Madam­oiselle, I do not even know your friends, and I am bound by a solemn oath not to reveal the rea­sons of your confinement. But the knowledge of it will injure no one, but myself; and free you from suspence, and I could not rest till I had relieved you, even at the expence of my honor. And do you think, said JULIA, that I would buy transient ease, to myself, at such a price? No sir, if my curiosity is not to be gratifi­ed, except at the expence of your truth, I will sacrifice that curiosity, great as it is, and endure this suspence, until I may with honor be relieved from it. There was a heroism in the princi­ple, that exerted a spirit that arose almost to en­thusiasm; it taught her the value of virtue, and learned her how much easier it was to endure un­merited sufferings, than pleasure purchased at the expence of truth, even of another; the first she had borne for weeks; her health was good, her nerves strong, her capacities for reflection or rea­soning, for business or amusement, by no means impaired; her appetite as good as it could be without exercise; but, at the idea of the last her heart sickened, her limbs trembled, she became pale, and she would not have involved a fellow creature in guilt, for a world and liberty.

The young gentleman gazed upon her with astonishment; he had that morning seen her dis­tress; he observed, she had pleaded with an energy of language; with an air of affliction, and [Page 111] had almost melted the heart of his companion, and now when her sorrow was heightened by their refusal, when anxiety and agitation was impressed upon every interesting feature, she could nobly refuse to have her heart eased, her curiosity gratified, and her favorite request granted, rather than suffer a stranger to forfeit his word, or to lose his honor. This was a stretch of virtue, a no­ble height, to which CARLOS had never suppos­ed any mortal could aspire to.

I am charmed with your character, Madam­oiselle, said he, and hope that you will not enter­tain too low an opinion of me; your beauty and your sufferings led me astray; your fortitude and honor have restored my scattered reason, and I hope I shall be able to follow so noble an example. I thank you, said JULIA, for your consideration; to know that any one sympathizes with me, is a relief to my sorrows; and I shall always be grateful for the favor you intended me, for I shall always remember what a price you would have paid. He hesitated a moment, he looked upon her face, and the virtue that had until then reign­ed in his heart, was not proof against her soft and gentle beauty; he would have bartered it, to have made her happy, for it was death to see her miserable. It is in my power, Madamoiselle, said he, it is in my power to free you from con­finement, but shall I do it, or not? you yourself shall determine; upon your decision my fate now hangs; I will this night prepare a carriage, and set out with you for your friends; but he added with a sigh, it is highly probable this may cost a dear and respected father, his life; yet it [Page 112] is a risque, I am willing to run; a sacrifice, I am willing to make; a proof that I am this moment ready to give. Heaven forbid it, said JULIA, I would rather suffer imprisonment for life, with innocence, than by such a step incur the deserved punishment of a guilty conscience; no seignior, I am at length content to await the decrees of fate and its appointed time, for my death or re­relief, but I will not involve you in my distresses, and I advise you, seignior, to appreciate virtue at too high a rate, than ever, even, for a moment of­fer to part with her; do not suffer either your sympathy or benevolence to betray you, to lose your honor or fortitude; they then become weak­nesses, and are no longer virtues. I entered your prison, he replied, with sensations very different from those I shall feel at leaving it, I then pitied you as unfortunate; I now envy you as one of the first and noblest of characters; but amidst the glare of your virtues, I must still do homage to your beauties, I must, Madamoiselle, I must de­vote my life, myself and fortune to you; Oh suf­fer me to hope, that when this gloomy scene has passed, when this eventful period has elapsed, that one thing may be remembered with pleasure; Oh promise when that time comes, to listen to my vows, and to unite your fate with mine. I should indeed be guilty, she returned, of what I have always considered as unpardonable, if I hesitated to assure you, that though you will al­ways possess my gratitude and esteem; that all my more affectionate thoughts, have long been in possession of another; let this be sufficient, and drop the only subject that I cannot listen to with [Page 113] pleasure. I will obey you, said he, though no one can tell with what anguish of heart I re­linquish an hope, and the only one, that I had permitted to irradiate my prospect; that prospect is alas, more dark, more gloomy than ever, for should the events of an approaching trial be as I apprehend, I shall leave my country, and com­mence the life of a wretched wanderer, for how could I support life and reason in a country dyed with the blood of a parent. Since I have seen you, I have indeed encouraged an hope, that matters might not turn out so badly, but be they what they will, I now find I have bid adieu to that tranquility that can make any place dear to me. Do not, interrupted JULIA, let such melancholy fears tinge your mind; things may all be well, and it is a folly to anticipate evils that may never ar­rive, and wisdom to be deluded by hope; you are still very young; I don't know what scenes of sorrow you allude to, but there are but few sen­sations, but may be effaced, and the transient im­pression, that perhaps gives you pain at present, may and will soon be forgotten. I fear not, Madamoiselle, he replied; indeed I do not wish it, for if I am to gain tranquility only by losing some of the most delightful sensations; I own I have not fortitude to relinquish them. No greater proof can be given, cried JULIA, of the futility and folly of such sensations, than not wish­ing to part with them, when they are only pro­ductive of pain, and cannot be indulged with honor; for my part, my prospects are enveloped in ten fold misery, and every step I take, renders them darker and more perplexing; the absolute [Page 114] uncertainty I am in, at present, forbids my antici­pating; but I own that hope, even now throws a ray of light upon them. I wish it could be extended to you, and I think if you catch on­ly one gleam of so delightful a soother, you ought to encourage it. You are, indeed, he sigh­ed, a delightful soother, but it is dangerous to be with you. I ought before this, said JULIA, in­terrupting him, to have put an end to this visit, and I thank you for so timely an intimation, and assure you that the pleasure of social and friendly conversation, has so relieved my mind, that I for­got I was acting with impropriety. Do not wrest what I said, he cried, to such a meaning, and per­mit a longer stay; for the moment, I quit you, I become a prey to gloomy doubts, and dark de­spair. Indeed, said the gentle girl, were I to fol­low only my inclination, your request would be granted; but, it is time for you to go, and I must insist upon it: She looked upon her watch, it was near twelve, you will carry my best wishes for your happiness and tranquility. Good night, he said, as he opened the door; you have taught me what it is to be virtuous, and to be miserable. Virtue and misery cannot long dwell together, she observed, as she bade him good night. He re­peated the wish; the door was now lo [...]ked upon her, and she retired to rest; and the pleasure she realized in the consciousness of having made a sac­rifice to honor, was so tranquil, that a balmy sleep soon bound her cares in a sweet oblivion.

In the course of three weeks she underwent se­veral examinations, which all terminated as those already narrated, at [...] of these, she was told [Page 115] that in three days she would appear before the Judges, and the old gentleman asked her, with much civility, if she did not want any thing to prepare her for this appearance. She answered him, that she had or could procure, every thing she wished for, but her liberty; that with respect to her appearance, it was indeed, but of little consequence, in comparison to the event of that day, which, though dreaded, she ardently wished for.

CHAPTER XII.

IT is now time to return to the Villa de Launa. When the Marquis returned from his ride, he was met by the servants who informed him of the departure of JULIA, and in a very incoherent manner, gave him a detail of that event, stupified by his information, it was with difficulty he reached his sister's apartment, who could only confirm what he had already heard. Though as much shocked and distressed as the Countess, he endeavored to sooth her by every argument that he could make use of, and assurances that every thing should be done, to release and restore her to them.

Early the next morning they set off for Paris, and as soon as they arrived at that city, the Mar­quis applied to the king; LOUIS received him with condescension and affability, the unfortu­nate Monarch, who has since drank the cup of affliction to the very dregs, had just began to ex­perience the sorrows that showered so thick about him; his heart was open to the woes of others, and he wished for nothing more than to see his people happy; but he could give the Marquis little information, and referred him to the Spanish ambassador; upon waiting at his [Page 117] Hotel, he was told, he was gone to pass a week with a friend in the country. The next morning he appointed to follow him, but the exercises of his mind and personal fatigue, had brought on a fit of the gout, which fell immediately on his stomach, and confined him to his bed. The Countess, who loved her brother, and shuddered at th [...] ▪ idea of his death, could not leave him for a moment; but though her anxiety for JULIA, was in some measure suspended by this new af­fliction, yet she was not for one moment forgot­ten. Six days after his first attack, she received a visit from Madam GYRON, who had but just heard of her being at Paris. As soon as the Countess informed her of the cause of her jour­ney, and of her suspence and uneasiness for JULIA, that lady with all the warmth of true friendship, offered to go herself to the Spanish Ambassador's, and learn the cause of JULIA's arrest; she said he was a relation of her's, and would, she knew, deny her nothing.

She set off that very day for the country, and when arrived, heard some things of real import­ance to herself. Confused and agitated, she re­turned to Paris, wrote an unsatisfactory note to the Countess who was still confined to her brother's bed-side; was present at the nuptials of a young lady she had educated, and a young man she had adopted as her son; got the deposi­tions of some persons of respectability; and then, with the new married pair, set out for Spain, bearing letters from the Countess, accounting for the non-fulfillment of her promise, and fully fraught with love and tenderness.

[Page 118] We now return to JULIA, who the evening preceding her appearance at Court, found her mind much agitated beyond its usual habit; she could not sleep, and arose early the next morning, that she might be ready when called for; she at­tired herself in a simple white robe, a small cap, placed after the manner of the country, upon the top of her head, was her only borrowed orna­ment. But her soft and luxuriant hair, of the brightest auburn, curled in a thousand natural but becoming ringlets, would have ornamented a face less beautiful than her own, which did not need the aids, which less handsome females find so necessary.

At nine o'clock, she was summoned to attend, and with a palpitating heart, obeyed the summons. The Court had not long been seated, the council upon both sides convened; the concourse was great; when attended by a thousand graces, with an air at once humble and majestic, JULIA made her appearance; instantly the eyes of all were fixed upon her, and a murmur of applause ran through the building: She was led in by the jailer, and ANET was by her side; her appear­ance operated like a charm; even the Judges viewed her with partiality, and the Council, for the defendant, hoped every thing, from an ap­pearance so prepossessing. It is now time to dis­close the cause of her arrest, and her mysterious confinement.

Seignior DON PEDRO, a Spanish gentleman, had died of grief, for the loss of an amiable wife; he had left an only child, a daughter, to the care of his brother, DON GASPERD, and by his will, [Page 119] bequeathed his whole estate to that brother, if his infant daughter should die before she attained the age of one and twenty; but if she lived until then, her fortune was to be at her own disposal. The child was brought home to her uncle's house, but being seized with indisposition, was carried into the country, with her nurse, about six months after the death of her father; from that time she had never been seen, and when in­quiries were made for her, answer was given, that she was in a Convent for her education; doubts had arisen in the minds of many; the uncle had been unhappy and gloomy; but about three months previous to the arrest of JULIA, the brother of the child's mother had returned from the East-Indies, and immediately demanded his Niece; DON GASPERD at first equivocated, then said she was dead, but being unable to prove this, declared she had been stolen by her nurse, as he supposed, for the sake of some valuable trinkets, which she had about her; that he had used every expedient, tho' secretly, to discover her; he could never find her. The newly re­turned uncle, who had loved his sister with ex­treme tenderness, immediately supposed that her life had been sacrificed to secure her fortune, and directly commenced a prosecution against him, as the murderer of his sister's child; this hap­pened just before the Italian nobleman (who had long known DON GASPERD, and who entertain­ed no doubts of his innocence, visited France; he there saw at the Villa DE LAUNA, JULIA, and hearing her story, immediately supposed he had found DON GASPERD'S neice; with this news, [Page 120] he sat off for Spain, and an edict to summon her to appear, was made out, but her maternal uncle, DON ELZIVER supposing this all a deception, and burning to revenge the murder of his niece, got an order from the King to the Ambassador, for JULIA to be arrested as a culprit, and that secrecy should be more strictly adhered to, pledged himself in an oath, and had the same administer­ed to CARLOS, the amiable son of DON GAS­PERD, that she should not be informed of the cause of her confinement, till she appeared before the Judges. Notwithstanding the prejudice he cherished, and which had convinced him, she was an impostor; he was charmed with her beau­ty, majesty, and innocence; her good sense and artless, tho' brilliant remarks, he could not help admiring; and her extreme frankness, almost con­vinced him, that if she was a deceiver, she her­self was deceived; and tho' he wished to release her mind, he had strictly adherd to the oath he had taken, while CARLOS had lost his reason, in his admiration of her beauty and pity of her suf­ferings.

In this august Court, before thousands of spec­tators, before the opening of the cause, JULIA was informed of these particulars; and tho' she could not prove that she was not the neice, or any ways connected with her, yet a pre-sentiment, persuaded her, that she was not; she had under­went a strict examination, previous to the infor­mation; the clearness and precision of her ans­wers, and her artless manner, and her own re­marks, had convinced all, that she was no impos­tor. After this necessary delay, the trial went on, [Page 121] and the Counsel on both sides displayed talents and abilities, that could not sail to please lovers of eloquence, although the subterfuges that they made use of, struck the innocent heart of JULIA, with disgust. Several gentlemen, with true Span­ish gallantry, pressed forward to support and at­tend JULIA, who had no friend near her; (CAR­LOS being too much interested to witness a deci­sion, upon which the life of his father depended;) she was indulged with a seat, and her counten­ance betrayed the various agitations of her mind.

The advocate for the prosecutor, endeavored to prove, that JULIA was an impostor; that the real neice of DON GASPERD was murdered; they brought forward the perturbated state of his mind; imputed his gloom to guilt; and expati­ated upon his avarice, upon his equivocating with Don ELZIVER, of the falshoods he had told him, and the many shifts he had made use of, to get rid of this affair; and now, said one, he has found a needy adventurer, and has compromised the matter with her; and is willing to give up the fortune of the poor murdered orphan, rather than his own life.

JULIA, could hardly refrain from speaking, but her indignation sparkled in her eyes, and was flushed upon every feature of her face.

When it was time for the advocate upon the opposite side to speak, he plead forcibly in behalf of his client, and endeavored to prove him inno­cent of the crime alledged to him; when near the close of his defence, he produced evidence to prove, that JULIA was under the protection of the Countess DE LAUNA, treated by her as a [Page 122] daughter; by the Marquis as a child, and entit­led by the will of both to an hundred thousand crowns; is it likely (said he) that so noble, so ex­alted a female, as the Countess DE LAUNA, would become an accomplice in so dark an affair? Is it likely that the Marquis ALVADA would abet any one in a scheme, to rob a man of his right, or to protect his murderer? But, said he, we have in the face of this lady, the fairest and most convincing proof of her innocence, (and he threw up the gauze veil that shaded, but could not conceal her beauty,) look at her, added he, and say if she can be guilty; does not innocence and every virtue appear in every feature; and appeal to every feeling heart, against the injustice done her? Does not the varying crimson tell you, how great is her indignation at this insult, and how much her soul would recoil at the idea of deception? I will not say that JULIA VALLACE is niece to Don GASPERD, but I will undertake to prove that she is no impostor; he then endeav­ored to touch the feelings of all, by representing in terms pathetic, the crime of injuring beauty and innocence; when unprotected by wealth or power; the horror of condemning a man upon any, but the most positive proofs, and the misery that would be deserved and endured, if Don GASPERD should be condemned and suffer, and in any future period found innocent. The judges inquired, if JULIA had no one of the jewels about her, for which the infant had been sup­posed to be stolen; the uncle said that amongst them was a miniature of her mother, and that she had a mark upon her arm occasioned by a burn. [Page 123] Upon inquiry, JULIA owned she had worn a pic­ture, that she had always supposed to be her mo­ther's, but by the direction of the person from whom she received it, had kept it out of sight; she produced it, some persons declared it to be the picture of DONNA ELVIRA, but most of those who remembered that lady, thought it was not; they remarked that the eyes of DONNA ELVIRA were black, those of the miniature a soft blue; the features and colour of the picture were rather mild, than striking; they were rich and delicate; a pensiveness seemed spread over them while, DON­NA ELVIRA was sparkling, and to some had the appearance of boldness, JULIA was remarked by all to resemble the portrait; but DONNA ELVI­RA, was different, though lovely. The picture was returned, and with a dignified modesty, she replaced it in her bosom.

She was next questioned respecting the mark, and when the glove was pulled from her soft white arm, it was apparent to all. This was regarded as an unequivocal proof; but some of the judges wished to defer a decision, till the Countess DE LAUNA could appear, but the parties and populace pressed so loudly for an immediate ver­dict, that they became decided in favor of Don GASPERD, and he was solemnly acquitted; and JULIA acknowledged as his niece, and the heiress of his brother's fortune.

Congratulations flew around the Court; Don GASPERD thanked the judges, and CARLOS who was informed of the happy issue of this dreaded trial, half breathless with joy rushed into the Court, and with frantic emotions embraced his [Page 124] father, declared his gratitude, and kneeling before JULIA, acknowledged her as his beloved cousin, and the saviour of his father; his dutiful emo­tions interested every one in his behalf, for every one had long loved his virtues, and Don ELZI­VER forgot his suspicions, and saluted JULIA as his niece.

But amidst this confusion of joy, a groupe of four persons entered the court; and pressing forward, attracted the general observation; they consisted of Madam GYRON, who stood foremost; an old woman who had the appearance of a domestic; a modest, a pleasing looking young man and woman, dressed in a most magnificent manner.

The appearance of these persons who advanc­ed to the bench, regardless of forms, had so inter­ested the curiosity, that when she solemnly de­manded an audience, it was instantly granted.—Don GASPERD, grew pale at her approach, and JULIA could not conceal the joy, which animat­ed every lovely feature in her face; when she be­held a friend of the Countess; instead of address­ing the court, she turned to JULIA, she took her hand with tenderness, she pressed it with venera­tion to her lips, shall I give you pain, my dear, said she, if I prove to a demonstration, that you are no ways connected with Don GASPERD; that not one drop of his blood [...]lows in your veins; that you are not entitled to a single crown of that fortune, that has this day been decreed to you; that you have no claim upon them, whatever: I know I shall not pain you, for your soul is noble, you do not need wealth, and you love justice two well, even if you did, to keep or wish to keep the [Page 125] property of another. I am come to prove you are not his neice; I bring in my hands proofs that cannot be disputed. Many persons, said she, turn­ing round in this august assembly, have already acknowledged that they recognize me, and I am sure that the only child of Don FELIX DE GY­RON and his amiable CISILLA, will be acknowl­edged; in me you behold that injured daughter (she stopt, as if overcome by the sense of what she was about to unfold) but what she had already said, had fixed attention and raised curiosity to that height of expectation, that a silence almost like death ensued; every face was impressed with the magnitude of what they imagined, they should hear; and a stillness pervaded the court, uninterrupted by even a breath; she continued, I am that child, and at the age of fifteen, was left by my father, the friend, and protector of Don GASPERD, to his guardianship; the consequenc­es have proved, how mistaken my poor misguided father was, in his choice, and how unworthy Don GASPERD was of the confidence reposed in him; he seduced me from the paths of virtue, robbed me of my honour, stripped me of my fortune, and left me in obscurity, to misery, and want; by the death of a distant relation, a few years after, I be­came mistress of a plentiful fortune; I had then enough to educate my son, the fruit of my shame and dishonour; but my country was the coun­try of my seducer, and was hateful to me; I re­solved to leave it, but before I went, instigated by revenge, I stole the infant orphan of his bro­ther, and with her nurse conveyed her to France. I took care that her identity should be proved, be­yond [Page 126] the power of even a doubt; I placed her in a convent, I educated her as my own, and three weeks ago I gave her to my son in marriage; do not hesitate one moment, to determine upon the truth of what I assert; here is the miniature of DONNA ELVIRA; her mother; here are the jewels that was upon her daughter when pilfered from her uncle's country-house; here is a paper that contains proof, that I stole, educated and mar­ried her; if other witnesses are necessary, here is the nurse, who has not lived one day from under the same roof with her. I acknowledge that re­venge stimulated me to commit this crime, and but for Madamoiselle VALLACE, I should have pushed it still farther; I saw at one view all the consequences; I was the first that infused suspi­cion into the minds of the populace, I had it hint­ed to Don ELZIVER; I kept it alive, and I meant to, till the law had, as I hoped it would, executed my full vengeance upon Don GASPERD, and his life, had paid the forfeit of my lost honor: But when I heard that JULIA, the innocent, the amia­ble JULIA, was implicated in the affair, that she was by some considered as an accomplice; I could delay no longer, and have come from France, to sacrifice a just revenge upon the shrine of forgiveness and mercy; for this purpose, and this alone, I am come; here is the daughter of DONNA ELVIRA, and the niece of Don GAS­PERD; if a doubt remains, let those who knew her mother, look, and acknowledge the striking likeness in her child: GOD has fixed it as an inde­lible mark, to ascertain the truth of what I have declared: this young man is my son, the son too [Page 127] of Don GASPERD; and the husband, of his niece. Here she stopt, and it was impossible to withhold belief; the truth found its way into every heart, and every mind felt the force of con­viction.

The resemblance of the young lady, was ac­knowledged by a large number of persons, who had known her mother; the declaration of Madam GYRON, and the nurse were admitted, and the decree in favor of JULIA reversed; but her heart thus relieved from suspence, her person at liberty, and her innocence owned by all, found a pleasure that the wealth of Indostan, could not have bestow­ed; she saw in rightful possession of that fortune, that a mistaken justice had but one hour before decreed to her, innocence, youth and beauty; she saw her husband apparently worthy; she beheld Don GASPERD, though vicious, in many respects, cleared from an unjust aspersion; Don ELZIVER, satisfied, and though she shuddered at the re­vengeful character of Madam GYRON, yet she remembered her misfortune and pitied her errors; she saw too a prospect of a speedy return to France, and longed to converse with Madam GYRON, alone.

But to return from this digression, Don GAS­PERD, acknowledged the justice of the vengeance that he had so severely suffered by, and offered every reparation in his power, owned her son, and embraced his niece with every mark of tenderness. Don ELZIVER, followed his example, and embrac­ed her with more tenderness and more avidity, than he had JULIA, for though her person and talents were really superior to those of his niece, [Page 128] yet his heart bore testimony of the validity, of her claim; and nature, pleaded so powerfully in his bosom, and when he viewed the features and countenance of his sister upon the face of her daughter, that the force of blood overpowered his fortitude, and he could not refrain his tears; as for the generous CARLOS, delighted that the in­nocence of his father, was so fully cleared, that his life was spared, and all parties reconciled, with all the warmth of fraternal affection, he embraced his new brother, and told him with what joy he should divide his inheritance, and what was still dearer, his father's affection with him.

They all attended Madam GYRON, to her house, and every offer of reparation was made to JULIA, but the disinterested girl, who enjoyed the joys of others, found herself fully repaired for all she had suffered, in finding those sufferings, the means of doing good.

CHAPTER, XIII.

AS soon as a moment, could be found Madam GYRON, delivered a packet from the Countess, and the tenderly affectionate explanations which they contained, removed from her mind every remain­ing anxiety. She was invited to return to France as soon as possible, but desired to reside with Ma­dam GYRON, until an opportunity presented her with good company, as companions, and she was empowered to draw upon a merchant in Spain for what money she wanted; a letter too was en­closed from COLWORT, breathing forth the ex­pressions of a sincere and affectionate heart; to her surprise, it was dated in Virginia, and near the residence, of the sage of Mount Vernon,—It was as follows:—

Before the reading of her letters, JULIA, had retired, to a magnificent apartment, that was by Madam GYRON's direction, prepared for her; and joy in tumultuous tides rushed upon her mind, so as to deprive her, when she reflected upon the events of th [...] momentous day, which had decided upon the fate of so many; which had unveiled scenes so uncommon, and in which for­tune had so often shifted; she found it impossible to close her eyes, until midnight, when a balmy slumber, sealed in forgetfulness, its transactions.

CHAPTER, XIV.

IT was late in the morning when she awoke, and her first thought, was to return immediately to France; anxious to embrace her friends, she for­got the difficulty that might attend her journey.

Upon joining her friends below, she found CARLOS with them, whose impassioned looks declared, how tender his feelings towards her were, he made the most affectionate inquiries for her health, and upon bearing her resolution, joined Madam GYRON and her son and daughter, in persuading her to tarry, till some of her friends were going to France, unless she would permit him to attend, which he most ardently wished to do; as she could not be prevailed upon to accept this proposal, she concluded to tarry a week or two, till a gentleman and lady who called to see Madam, and who being about to travel to Paris, requested the pleasure of conducting her, to her friends. Of this invitation she accepted, and the conclusion gave great pleasure to the family, she was with, who all began, not only to admire, but to love her.

In the course of twenty years, Madam GYRON had to calm the perturbation of a mind ill at ease; visited almost every city in Europe, she had by [Page 138] turns, partaken of all their amusements, and for a season, entered into all their dissipations, but she found it an ineffectual cure for a diseased mind, and sought in vain for a remedy, while she nursed that deadly passion, and bore about her all the distem­pered malice, of indignant reputation and lost hon­our. She was wealthy, and her liberality gave her friends and flatterers; her talents and her accom­plishments had procured her both admirers and en­emies; but her temper was soured by ill-treatment, and disappointed love; and she was at times so capricious, as to quarrel with those she loved best. This unhappy propensity involved her in many difficulties, and in the midst of her chagrin, she sometimes sought in solitude, a relief, that socie­ty could not give her.

Solitude, is indeed a relief, to a wounded spirit; it is a balm, to a distempered mind; but it is insufficient to those, who cherish an unfor­giving temper; for in solitude, we look in upon our­selves, and we cannot forgive the injuries we re­ceive. The investigation must distress us, and we turn from a retrospect so disgusting. As for Madam GYRON, she had never found a wish to forgive Don GASPERD, and of consequence, those retirements that gave leisure and time for reflec­tion, convinced her it was her duty to forgive him, had become irksome and disgusting to her; to have heard of his death, would have distressed her, if death had approached in the natural way; for to such an height was her thirst of vengeance carried, that she sometimes enjoyed in idea, the pleasure she should receive, in being the princi­pal agent, to inflict an ignominious death. It was [Page 139] in vain for such a mind, to seek for peace; she first began to feel compunction, when she return­ed to France, and beheld her son amiable and ac­complished; she then contemplated his marriage with Don GASPERD's niece, who was truly lovely. She almost forgot her scheme of vengeance, and hearing at that time, he was really under arrest, and that JULIA was likewise implicated in that affair; she formed a resolution of going directly to Spain, and laid a plan of proceedings which she put in execution, as has been already narrated.

She had now acknowledged her crime; made all the reparation in her power; a perfect recon­ciliation had taken place; her mind was freed from the sting of a wounded conscience; from intended iniquity; her temper sweetened; and in the society of her amiable son, and daughter, she forgot she had ever been injured. Or being so, ceased to think of it; her natural cheerfulness returned. Her unbounded wealth, put it in her power to gratify every whim, and she now dis­played her taste and elegance, by magnificent balls, and entertainments, in honour of the newly married pair. In these, she imitated the fashion of almost every court in Europe; balls, operas, masquerades, and routs, at which all the nobility and gentry at M—, were invited, with all the strangers of fashion; and the Spaniards for a while forgot their stately gravity, and mingled in the motley dance of the sprightly Frenchman, and listened to the soft music of the enervated Italian.

JULIA was obliged to partake in all these dissipating scenes; she was followed, flattered, and [Page 140] caressed; and indeed her person was so lovely as to attract universal attention; while the sweet­ness of her manners and affability, gained her the love and admiration of all; though her cheer­fulness charmed every heart, her perfect prudence, and innate delicacy, seemed to repel every impro­priety; and her admirers, declared that the sensa­tions she created, were such a mixture of respect, love, esteem, and friendship, that they had never been sensible of before.

At first the novelty of every thing carried a charm that could not [...]ail to delight her; but they would not bear repeating; they palled upon reflection, and she soon grew sick of this contin­ual round of amusement, where not one moment was given to thought; and reflection was ban­ished, by gaiety; and she longed for the quiet scenes of the Villa, where sentiment gave a zest to every enjoyment; and virtuous and rational amusements, rendered every scene pleasant, re­fined, and instructive. She sighed for the society of her benefactress, and longed again to attend the venerable Marquis; she saw much company, but found little society; she gained many ac­quaintance, but her heart sickened for the bless­ing of friendship; she was introduced with ecla [...], to a great deal of the gay world; but she found, but little substantial enjoyment; and after a day spent in gaiety, and what is usually termed pleasure, she retired with regret, to her own apartment, affrighted upon reflection, that she could recol­lect no praiseworthy action, or useful pursuit. There she always found ANNET, who recollected that Madamoiselle had lost much of her color, [Page 141] and was thinner, then she had been at the Villa.

With Donna ELVIRA, she had but a few leisure moments. That lady was indeed amiable, but she had just escaped from a convent, to enjoy all that love, wealth, and rank could bestow. She loved her husband, and his mother; she found the world as gay as she wished it, and as happy; every one was interested for her, and she was inter­ested by every thing. She had been ushered into life, in too extraordinary a manner, not to engage the attention of all, upon first fight; and she went from one scene to another, with astonishing avidity.

Her husband, who had made the tour of Eu­rope, and was well acquainted with the world, was pleased with so new a character, and as he loved her, likewise loved to gratify all her wishes, but he did not then see, the danger to which a lovely, young, unexperienced woman, is exposed; indeed he was really good, and had but very little of the Spaniard, in him; yet he some­times looked beyond the present, trifling period; and with some degree of impatience, contemplat­ed a scheme of retirement, and sighed for a more rational life.

CARLOS was the only one, except this gentle­man, in whosse society JULIA, could really take pleasure; their good sense, and extensive know­ledge, was a fund of information, and gave her much satisfaction; for CARLOS, she felt a kind of fraternal friendship. He was amiable, and wor­thy of it; but she feared to indulge the social intercourse, that true friendship requires; for not­withstanding, the pains he took to suppress his feelings, she saw that he loved her, with enthusias­tic [Page 142] passion; but in the husband of Donna ELVI­RA, she found a friend, who esteemed her person; revered her virtues; admired her talents, and up­on whose advice she could depend.

Two weeks, and double that time had elapsed, and still she waited for her companions; she grew every day more impatient, to return, and when at the end of another week, she was informed that they would set out in three days, she was trans­ported with joy.

Madam GYRON, who loved her fair guest, determined to give a masked ball, as a particular compliment before her departure. It was to be after the English fashion, and cards of invitation, were distributed to all her acquaintance.

JULIA, had from her earliest infancy, accus­tomed herself to do that which her conscience would approve; however she might be persuad­ed to the contrary. She had an innate and live­ly sense of female propriety, and never had she once deviated from it. She had always thought it, highly inconsistent, with the true dignity of a young woman, to appear in a borrowed character. For this reason, she refused any garb, that would disguise herself; or for one moment mislead ano­ther. Madam GYRON, persuaded in vain, and her eloquence was all lost, upon her fair inflexible. I cannot, my dear Madam, said she; indeed I cannot act in a character, that providence has not given me; it has placed me in a very humble station; it has alloted me a very plain and easy part; it is my duty to perform it well; nor will I militate against its decree, by taking one that is not assigned me. You are very humble indeed, [Page 143] my dear, (replied Madam,) but surely your mod­esty and humility, will not be offended at the dress and character of a nun. But (cried JULIA,) nei­ther my conscience, or inclination, would permit me to be a recluse; I must refuse, and beg you will no longer persuade me. But indeed, I shall be a queen then; what assume the appearance of royalty! My most ambitious thoughts never as­pired to it, for one moment. Strange girl, (cried Madam,) be a shepherdess then. Not by any means, Madam, I do not aspire to be above my­self; and I do not mean to descend. You should remember, my dear JULIA, that you are the friend and companion of the Countess DE LAU­NA, and by appearing with propriety, you do hon­our to her election, and attachment; but if you do not, you disgrace her choice. I am persuaded, returned JULIA, very seriously, that my present conduct would meet with her approbation; I shall dress in a manner much above myself; be­cause I will shew the world, I glory in being her dependent; that I am indebted to her, not only for the conveniencies of life, but for its elegancies: But after all, I will not forget, that I am a hum­ble cottage girl; and the child of her bounty; is the plain, and simple JULIA VALLACE. But I am sure, replied Madam, that the Countess would not have your appearance so singular, as to occasion remarks. I know my dear Madam, not­withstanding your kindness, (said JULIA,) that I am really too insignificant, to attract much at­tention, if my conduct is inconsistent with the ettiquette of the place, it will be attributed to ignorance, and in a few days at farthest forgotten; [Page 144] but if I did that, which I was conscious was wrong, I am sure the sense of it would hurt me for many years, and embitter some of my plea­santest moments. Well then, replied Madam, take your own way; for I find you will not adopt mine. Pray, my dear Madam, (said JULIA,) do not be offended, nor impute my refusal to obsti­nacy; there are few things, I would not do to oblige you; I must ever feel under a thousand obligations, that I can never return to you; and I hate the appearance of ingratitude. Tell me that you are not angry with me. Embracing her with affection, Madam assured her, she did not think it possible, for any one to be offended with her: I have but one fault, to find with you, said she, you are too good, and too submissive; I wish you were not half so faultless. JULIA kissed her hand, and went to her chamber, where she dressed herself in a stile of elegance, superior to what she had ever worn.

The rooms were hardly opened, before she found herself surrounded, by characters of all des­criptions; from the king to the link boy; from the queen, to the opera girl; Dutcheses, and nose­gay women; nurses, and women of easy virtue; bishops and sailors; and in general, she could not help observing, that people assumed those charac­ters they like best, and in which they are the least likely to shine, as they were most opposite to those which providence had assigned them. She soon discovered CARLOS, whose impassioned voice, the moment he addressed her, rendered his mask an insufficient disguise. At first, she was pleased with the motley scene, and the remarks [Page 145] she made to CARLOS, declared her pleasure, and told at the same time, how soon it tired.

Just as the company were summoned to sup­per, a tall mask offered to tell her fortune; she held out her hand, and desired he would exert his utmost skill. I will tell you one thing, fair lady, (he said,) while he examined the spotless palm of JULIA, you will meet with a sad disappointment; the friends you mean to visit, you will not see for some time, and many is the trial, that you will go through, before you are so fortunate.

Though JULIA had never given credit to astro­logy; though her heart revolted at superstition; though she knew her informer acted in a borrow­ed character; yet so perverse is the human heart, that she felt her spirits depressed for a moment; the prediction cast a shade upon her cheerfulness; and gave a sombre tincture, to the ideas, that had before sprung from the gay scene; which sur­rounded her, and hope of more rational enjoy­ment.

After supper, she danced with CARLOS, and the company did not separate till morning; she retired languid and fatigued, to her chamber; and a disturbed sleep followed the hurry and bus­tle of the night.

CHAPTER XV.

WHEN she awoke from a disturbed slum­ber, she found herself much indisposed; a vio­lent head-ach, cold, shivering fit, and a difficulty of breathing, declared her really sick; she how­ever got up, and as she was to set out for France, the day following; she determined not to com­plain, attributing it to the fatigues of the preceding evening. She found her appetite intirely gone, and her attempts at cheerfulness and conver­sation, was vain, and she was obliged to retire early, and take a medicine, that her friends pre­pared for her.

She was so determined to be well the next morning, that when she arose after a sleepless night, she persuaded herself, that she really was so, [Page 147] and with trembling hands, and limbs that could scarce support herself, she put on her riding habit, and assisted ANNET to put up her things; and was quite ready, when Madam GYRON entered the chamber and informed her that her traveling companions were come by appointment, to break­fast with her, and would set off immediately after.

It was with difficulty she got down to the breakfast parlor; and there her altered looks were observed by all; who united to persuade her to defer her journey, for a few days longer, or at least, till she was better; she assured them she thought the excursion, would be of service to her, and that she did not doubt she should be quite well, before she had been an hour in the carriage; as they saw her heart was much set up­on going, they did not oppose it, but after break­fast, of which she did not taste, when she arose to bid farewell to the friends she was leaving, and attend those with whom she was going, she fault­ered and sunk into a chair, unable to support her­self a moment longer, and was carried back to her chamber, almost insensible of every thing a­round her.

The exertions of this morning, and of the pre­ceeding day, had so accelerated the progress of her disorder, that she found it impossible, to with­stand the violence with which she was attacked.

A physician was immediately sent for, and up­on his arrival, did not hesitate to declare, she had taken the small pox; the eruption began to ap­pear, and she grew delirious.

The family had before had this disease, so fa­tal, to female beauty; yet they were thrown in­to [Page 148] to unusual consternation; the manners of JULIA had been so attractive, so mild, and unassuming; her voice so sweet, and her whole conduct so gen­tle, that every domestic in Madam GYRON's house was distressed at her sickness, and interest­ed in her recovery. As for ANNET, unable to as­sume the fortitude of her mistress, she became al­most distracted, and was obliged to leave an ap­partment, in which her distress, was so loud, as to disturb the patient.

Madam GYRON and her daughter never left her for a moment; the best of nurses were pro­cured, and the ablest of the faculty consulted, and every thing done to render sickness bearable; for the first seven days, the poor sufferer was in­sensible, to her pains, and her disorder wore an as­pect, so alarming, as to be pronounced mortal; but upon the eighth, it assumed a more favourable appearance, and came to a crisis that flattered them, with hopes of the most happy event; it was then that she recovered her recollection, and knew the persons around her.

Madam GYRON wished to make her suppose, that she had been sick with a fever; but the impo­sition did not take, and she begged to be informed what was the nature of so distressing a malady. Her mind was so debilitated by her suffering, that it shared in her corporeal weakness; and when she learned she had the small-pox, she shed some tears; but in a few hours, she gathered strength sufficient to assist her fortitude, and she returned fervent thanks to heaven for her returning health, and was perfectly satisfied, that the intire loss of beauty, should be the consequence, of her illness. [Page 149] She recovered by slow degrees; the tranquillity of her spirits, and patience, aided every medicine; at first her friends supposed the ravages made in her person, would be dreadful, but were agreea­bly disappointed, to find as she recovered, the im­pression wore out, and before she was able to leave her chamber, scarce a mark remained.

Madam GYRON, had deferred writing to the Countess, till she was better, and intirely out of danger, as she knew it would be impossible, for her to take a journey, at that time, and she wish­ed to save her from the pains of suspence; so that the very next post after she heard of her ill­ness, she received a letter from JULIA, informing her that she should soon be able to commence her journey, to France; the benevolent heart of this worthy woman, was rejoiced at this news, and she sent off one of her own carriages, with her woman, and two men servants, to wait upon JU­LIA from Spain, and fraught with letters, breath­ing the most tenderly affectionate expressions, from the Mar [...]uis, as well as his sister.

JULIA was so much delighted at this proof of the Countess's attachment, that it accelerated her perfect recovery, and rendered her doubly impa­tient to be with friends, whose affection, even ab­scence and affliction could not lessen. She had it in her power, to reward ever person, in Madam GYRON's house, for every trouble she had occa­sioned, and for the various proofs they had given of their regard, and attachment. And with re­doubled gratitude, and affection; with many tears and few professions, she took leave of friends that she found herself bound to, by ties of friend­ship [Page 150] and obligation; and set off for France, sev­en weeks after she had prepared to go there be­fore.

The son of Madam GYRON, and the excellent CARLOS accompanied her for two days, and then le [...]t her to finish her journey, only with her do­mestics. CARLOS wished to have gone still farther, and even to Paris, but she excused herself from consenting to this request. She esteemed and valued this young gentleman, but she was not blind to the progress that an hopeless passion had made in his heart and constitution, and longed for that absence, that she thought would ease, what could not be rewarded. This young gentleman im­mediately after his return to M—, embarked for London, hoping by change of scene, and a va­riety of objects, to erase in some measure from his heart, an attachment, that rendered him wretch­ed.

For several days she travelled unmolested; but when with in half a days journey of Paris, when she was in anticipation, of enjoying the embraces of the Marquis, and his sister, and longing to spring from the carriage to their arms; the coach was stopped by four men, on horseback; one of whom opened the door, and desired JULIA to alight; at first she supposed the persons footpads, and offered them her purse, while her waiting woman and ANNET produced theirs for the same purpose; but the men refused the money, and told her it was herself they wanted; the woman clung around her, but her cries and their entreaties were e­qually vain; they dragged her from the carriage; and seated her in a chaise, that was in waiting, and [Page 151] two of them entered with her and bid the postil­lion drive on.

This transaction seemed performed by the pow­er of magic; and she found herself between two ruffians, and almost before she had the power to recollect herself. But when she looked behind and saw her own carriage driving slowly the opposite way, she grew almost distracted, her reason was upon the point of deserting her; and in language almost frantic, she demanded to know by what authority they had forced her from her servants, and begged to be restored to her friends. One of the men replied, he acted by the direction of a master, whom it was his duty to obey, and that she was going were she would find servants e­nough, and friends too, if it was not her own fault.

She found arguments thrown away, and en­treaties lost, and knew it was worse than folly to attempt resistance, she therefore was silent, revolv­ing in her own mind the probable consequence of this event. But to what end were her conjec­tures, and how impossible for her to conceive the extent of the horrors that now surrounded her. Her tears flowed without controul, and she sat back in the chaise quite absorbed in grief, while her companions did not notice her, and engaged in a conversation that would if she had attended too, given her a worse opinion of them, than she could conceive any one of the human race deserv­ed. But her thoughts were busily employed by the Marquis, the Countess, and her lover, whom her imagination painted as distressed at her ab­sence, and endeavouring in vain to rescue her. A [Page 152] gleam of hope sometimes appeared to assure her, that such active measures would be taken, that she should be restored to her friends. A youth­ful mind, and a good one, will always form ex­pectations, that some fortunate event, may restore the blessings they have lost, and present those they wish for; while judgment, matured by frequent disappointment, and by misfortunes, will acknow­ledge the hope, romantic, and the wish vain, and futile.

The little acquaintance she had made in the world, had convinced her of the power of mon­ney. Her purse was well filled, and she hoped by that means to procure her liberty. She did not doubt but the Count was her persecutor, she still dreaded his power, yet flattered herself that she should be able, with the assistance and care of heaven, to elude his arts, and escape the evils he had prepared for her; upon observing one of the men with attention, she thought she had see him before. He was tall, and had a stoop in his shoul­ders, and while she endeavoured to recollect, when his voice convinced her, that he was the fortune­teller, that had foretold her disappointment at the masquerade. In this conjecture, she was right; for this fellow had watched her motion from her first arrival in Spain, and had got information of every step she had taken, determined that she should be disappointed; it was not very surpris­ing that he was quite a skillful astrologer. Her sickness had at that time prevented his execution of a plan, of which he was a diabolical agent, to a no less diabilocal superior.

In these reflections, the day was spent; and [Page 153] night coming on, a full moon shewed her a vast extent of woods and plains, while she seemed to be travelling above them; indeed the carriage had ascended a long ridge of hills, and went over a very rough road, with astonishing velocity. It was after midnight, they descended into a level plain, and soon after stopped at a lofty mansion, that seemed to have bid defiance to the hand of time. It was large, spacious and magnificent. But its brown walls, and lofty turretts informed the traveller, that it had been built in times of old; they entered by a large gate, that opened upon a court that was occupied by a variety of buildings, and that stood at the back of the chatteau. She was then taken from the carriage, and a large bell that hung at the portal of the door, was rung, to give notice of their arrival.

It was some time before any one came, and she had full time to survey the moon, which in full orbed majesty, now shone from its meridian height; she sighed, when she thought of various regions it overlooked, and asked her heart if one more wretched then herself, now gazed upon it. Perhaps at that very time, COLWORT was look­ing upon that chaste planet; perhaps too, his thoughts were as ardently fixed upon her, as hers were upon wretchedness. Oh could he but know, (said she,) how quick, he would fly to my relief! Her meditations were disturbed by the appearance of two women, and a man servant, who were not half dressed. Well, said the man, you are come at last; we have been looking for you, this three days. And a good look out you have kept, said one of her conductors; here you [Page 154] are all asleep, while you ought to have been upon the watch. Come get us some supper, cried ano­ther; we are sharp set, and will eat all you have in the house. The devil a bit have I tasted, since five o'clock last night; and you SUSAN, do you look to this young woman, and see that she has [...]very thing, that is comfortable.

JULIA followed the woman across a large hall, and up a winding staircase; she then crossed two old fashioned, but magnificent chambers, and af­ter passing two or three small entries, stopped at a chamber, where the woman set down the light. This she found was the end of her journey; fa­tigued with riding eighteen or twenty hours, she would gladly have rested, but a dreadful fear pre­vented her setting down; she knew this must be the Count DE LAUNA's Chateau; she had heard much of it, and what she had seen, answered the description; besides she saw hid beneath the hors­men's coat, the DE LAUNA livery upon several of the men. She now turned to one of the women and asked if her lord was at home. No Madam­oiselle, he is in Paris; how long has he been ab­sent, (asked JULIA, taking courage at her answer,) it is six month's since he was here; and then only for a few days, with some friends. And when is he expected, demanded JULIA! In a fortnight, (re­plied the girl,) his father the Marquis, has been sick, but is now getting better. But (cryed the other, mistaking the cause of her enquiries,) you shall be as well treated, as though he was here, and want for nothing, Madamoiselle; to this odd rejoinder, JULIA did not reply. You look sadly fatigued, Madamoiselle, (said one of the women;) [Page 155] you had better take some refreshment, and go to bed. Disappointed, distressed, chagrined, and fatigued as JULIA was, she had not learned to doubt the veracity of any one; and mistrust, was not added to the catalogue of evils, she now endured. What the girl had told her was strictly true, but one more acquainted with deceit, would have doubted her word. Thus, conscious innocence, though not its own protector, is a shield against suspicion, and a comforter in distress.

She was so delighted to find the Count was absent, that almost half her woes were lost in that joy. She accepted the proposed refreshment, and went to bed, committing herself to the care of that power, whose eye pervades the abode of dark­ness, and haunts of misery; and enjoyed several hours of interrupted repose.

CHAPTER. XVI.

WHEN she awoke, the horrors of her situ­ation rushed upon her mind; she had not as formerly, ANNET, as a companion; that faith­ful girl, who was a comforter to her in her prison; a nurse in her sickness, and a friend in her exile; who had shared all her joys, and all her sorrows, was now with the Countess; and JULIA a prisoner alone, and wretched, friendless and for­lorn; far from the soothings of friendship, and distant from the cheerful voice of those she loved; in the power of a man, who possessed wealth and honour, and who was unprincipled, and wicked to the last degree of vice.

She arose and surveyed her chamber. It was large, and furnished with crimson velvet, fringed with gold; but so old, that it was black and tar­nished; the chairs and toilet were the same, as the bed. An high old fashioned japaned bureau stood in one corner; and the floor was covered with India matrass; the room was hung with tapestry, and had once been rich, and beautiful, but its [Page 157] beauty was lost, to memory; and its value gone forever. The windows were of painted glass, and emitted so little light, as rather to increase, than lessen the gloom; she looked from them, and found the prospect extensive, and delightful; hills, vales, and meadows, crowned with lofty trees, and spread with verdant foliage, interspersed with rivers; the streams of which, were in several pla­ces crossed by bridges, formed at once, a view, grand, noble and majestic; and in the contem­plation of the beauties of nature, her heart as­sumed something of its usual tranquillity, and be­came more assured, as she looked upon the vari­ous flocks that bleated in the meadows; alas! said she, I am as innocent as they are; why am I not so happy? Her reason replied, they have not the same reflective qualities, they are insensi­ble to the charms of innocence; and to the blackness of vice, say, who would barter the sen­sibilities that refined reason possesses, for the mean sensual pleasures they enjoy; fed, but to be fitted for the knife of the butcher, or rendered delicious, for the table of the voluptuary; they catch the transient joy of the moment, nor dream that to­morrow, they shall be served up as a feast for the hungry, or the glutton, while I, said JULIA, tho' oppressed and unhappy, look forward to futurity with hope, and blissful certainty.

The woman, now entered with her breakfast, and she eat but little, and endeavoured to enter into conversation with her; it was neither of those she had seen the night before; age had ren­dered her respectable; her hair was white, and time with his relentless finger had impressed her [Page 158] fore-head with his wrinkles; she was dressed de­cently, and very neat, but not the least appear­ance of finery. She sat down the salver which she had brought, but did not look JULIA in the face; nor did she speak. JULIA viewed her with attention, and the examination of her features filled her with a pleasing hope; how long, good woman, said she, have you lived at the chatteau? It is above nineteen years, she replied. I should suppose then (said JULIA, with a sigh) you are much attached to the Count? I am attached to my duty, and that leads me to regard the inter­est of my employer. Was you ever in the service of any one else, asked JULIA? I served the good old Marquis, his grandfather, and the present wor­thy Marquis, his father, (replied she,) and there love and duty went together. You know the Marquis, then said JULIA? I know him and love him too. But he could not love what was not good, cried the old woman. At that moment she looked in JULIA's face, you look good, she added, but we are often deceived. Do you suppose me vicious, asked JULIA? I have no right to suppose you so, she replied, but if you are, as it is said, a kept mistress of the Count, you cannot be much the reverse. Good heaven, said JULIA, does any one ssuppose me so; I am innocent, I detest the Count, he has basely forced me from my friends; the Countess DE LAUNA is my benefactress; he has artfully brought me here. Oh do believe, that I love virtue, and hate vice. I do believe you, said the old woman, for you have not the look of one of those bad women; but I was told you were a mistress he had long kept, and that you [Page 159] were eloping with another man. It is false, said JULIA, indeed, it is false; I never was the mist­ress of any one, and hope I never shall be. She then told the honest and faithful PHILADA e­nough of her story, to interest and convince her; the kind creature whose heart was attuned to the soft sensation of pity, assured JULIA, that she should have every liberty it was in her power to give her, and that she would try to assist her escape; but that she feared would be impossible: She persuaded her to eat; to be cheerful, and told her, that she might range at pleasure, around all the apartments, up­on that floor; when JULIA with tears thank­ed her: She looked up in her face; you interest me Madamoiselle, said she, for you look so much like my good lady, the Marchioness, that I can­not help loving you; she then went down, leav­ing the chamber door unlocked, that she might visit the others, when her inclination led her.

It was not long before JULIA, profited by this liberty, for though curiosity was not her pre­vailing passion; though she knew how to suppress it, yet she had her share.

The first room she entered, was furnished with yellow satin, and was fresh and handsome; the second with gilt leather, but neither had any thing to interest the heart, or call up any of its better feelings; but the third was wholly fur­nished with books and pictures; the window­curtains were of a dark scarlet damask, with silver fringe; a writing table that had long been unus­ed, stood in the middle; a large pier glass hung between the windows, and the books were arrang­ed upon shelves, from the floor to the ceiling; [Page 160] while the pictures occupied the opposite pannels. At the first glance, she knew the Countess and the Marquis, and her affectionate heart did hom­age, even to their resemblance, sketched upon the senseless canvass; but her attention was much en­grosed by one of uncommon beauty, that hung beside the Marquis. This picture reminded JULIA, of some painting, or person that she had seen before. The drapery was at the same time, a combination of simplicity and elegance; the charming countenance was lovely, and expressive, and her soft blue eyes, seemed fixt upon those that were viewing them: She held upon her fin­gers a bird, and the benevolence that was expres­sed in her looks; told the most cursory observer, that the little flutterer was happy. JULIA con­templated this picture for some time, she left it, walked to the other side of the room, but return­ed to it in a moment; she was drawn, by a power, that she did not fully understand; but it was irresistible; while she still gazed upon it, PHILADA entered. I have brought you some books, Madamoiselle, said she, that will I believe, please you better than those in the library. Have you looked at this picture, Madamoiselle? JULIA replied, she had; and that she was charmed with it; and it was a very lovely picture. Is the ori­ginal alive? Oh no, cried PHILADA, with a deep sigh; she has been dead for many years; that picture was taken for the Marchioness, before she left Italy, and sent by the Marquis to his son. It is the very image of her, said she; just such a sweet smile; she always wore just such a soft look; how often have I seen the tears in her [Page 161] mild eyes, when she saw any body unhappy. That picture at the right hand is the Marquis; he seems to be looking back upon the other, that was his first wife, the Count's mother: She was a pretty creature, but a mere baby, and not to be compared to the other. There Madamoiselle, is the Count, and Countess DE LAUNA, they were a noble couple, and looked as grand and good, as you see them there. And who is this, said JULIA, that hangs behind the Countess? It is a young English Lord, (replied PHILADA,) that loved her, and Madam was sadly in love, with him; they were privately married; but the friends contriv­ed to break it off; if has cost Madam, many a tear. JULIA now examined this picture with a scrutiny, that was occasioned by hearing the Countess remark, the resemblance, between her lover, and COLWORT; she saw indeed, a likeness, but not the striking one, that she expected; she turned to the portrait, that adorned the other side, and enquired who they were? These on the left, said her kind informer, are the old Count and Countess; these on the right, the old Mar­quis, and his lady. Do Madamoiselle, look in the glass, (added she, as she wiped off the dust that had gathered upon it, with an handkerchief,) do look in the glass, and then look upon this picture, of the young Marchioness; and tell me if you do not see a likeness. I think I do, replied JULIA, after she had for a moment done as she was requested; but it is perhaps owing to my vanity. Oh Madamoiselle, said PHILADA, if you are as much like my lady in action, as you are in looks, you are good indeed; but I hope you will [Page 162] be more s [...]tunate. Why, said JULIA, I thought [...]he Marchioness, very happy. Did not she love the Marquis? Yes, and he loved; and if they had been let alone, they would have been happy until now together. Why said JULIA, astonished, what happened to them, and who interfered to prevent their happiness? Why, Madamoiselle, the Count hated her; but he fell sick, and pre­tended to repent, and so the Marquis brought her, to see him; would to heaven she had never come. I attended my lady; she had another woman with her, who loved her as well as I did; She had come from Italy, with her lady, and was always near her; but what could we do? But Madamoiselle, I am telling you things, that does not concern you, and doing very wrong too, I fear. I think not, said JULIA, I beg you would proceed; depend upon it, I will never betray you. I do not know how it is, said PHILADA, but I cannot find it, in my heart, to deny you any thing. Well, as I was saying, we came to this chatteau, and the Count got well, but slowly; and the Marquis was distressed, for fear he was go­ing into a consumption; and loath to leave him alone a persuaded the Marchioness to lay in here, for the Marquis was obliged to go to Spain; and after he was gone, the Count fell in love with his mother in law; the Marchioness was frighted and distressed, and cried night and day; and wrote to the Marquis, and would never let us be absent from her for a moment. Well, Madam­oiselle, the Count was enraged at her refusal, and vowed he would be revenged, and my lady was scared to death, and took to her bed, and at last [Page 163] was brought to bed of a little daughter; and that very day, the Count was closeted with a physi­cian, for several hours, who left him and went immediately into my lady's apartment, and per­suaded her to take an Elixer, as he called it. She was always submissive, to other people's will, and did as he desired her; but she grew worse, and remembered how the Count had threatened her, and she thought she was dying; she called me to her bed side, with ISABELLA. PHILADA said she, tell the Marquiss I ever loved him, tell him that I fell a sacrifice to that love; take care of my child; I wish the Countess DE LAUNA could bring her up; but I charge you both to deliver her to my Lord; she said much more, but I am a weak creature, and went into fits, but my poor lady died that night, and her little daughter died too, and the maid was carried off, for I have never seen her since; but I believe the Count had her conveyed away, and knew what was become of her. GOD forgive him; I fear I never shall. And you think, said JULIA, who had listened, with emotion to the artless tale of PHILADA; you think the cordial proved fatal to the poor Marchioness; why did not you in­form against the physician? Oh yes, said PHILA­DA, it proved fatal; but what could a poor ser­vant do, against a rich and powerful Lord? the Marquis grew distracted, the Count DE LAUNA was killed in a duel; and Madam left the world for retirement; so that the matter was hushed up, but I believe the Count suffers sometimes in his own mind, though he does not believe in GOD, or the bible; I know he is afraid of spi­rits, [Page 164] and I believe he is haunted; with a troubled conscience, said JULIA; but the pure spirit of the amiable Marchioness, will never leave the realms of bliss, to disturb him; would to heaven I was with her, for I shudder to think that I am in the power of a murderer, an atheist, an un­natural man; who fears not GOD and believes not in a future state. Do aid me PHILADA; do assist me to escape; and you shall never come to any harm by your kindness. I will try, Madam­oiselle, I will do all in my power; but this house is strongly secured and guarded, and I am watch­ed, and am afraid I shall not be able to assist you. Why Madamoiselle, there has been in the prison, under the chatteau, persons confined for years and years together, and I do not know if they are men or women; but three nights ago, they brought another, that was a man; but I do not know who it is. Where are they confined, said JULIA? She answered in the prison, beneath this part of the chatteau; but it is very deep, and a great way off.

Just then, PHILADA was summoned to the kitchen, and JULIA was left for the remainder of the day, to indulge the most painful apprehen­sions, for the information she had received, had rendered every idea gloomy, and every thought sad; how often do we pay this heavy tax, for the indulgence of our curiosity.

That, and the following day, she did not see PHILADA, but on the third morning, that vener­able domestic, brought her breakfast; she apo­logized for not having come before, as she had been busy in preparing the spring feast, for the [Page 165] vassals of the Count; and to day Madamoiselle, said she, I shall be fully employed in getting mat­ters to rights, so that I shall not be able to attend upon you myself, until tomorrow; but you look sad and gloomy, would not a walk do you good; if it is agreeable to you, you can walk upon the terrace that surrounds the upper part of this building. Alas! said JULIA, I cannot be di­verted from my melancholy reflections; for I have so faint a hope of being freed from the machinations of this dreadful man, that I cannot but be unhappy. But you are very good, PHI­LADA; formerly I should have enjoyed the pros­pect that I am sure the terrace affords, and I will go now, as you so kindly propose it.

PHILADA looked upon her with pity, as she led the way across the chamber, and up two nar­row staircases; she then opened a door, and they were immediately upon the terrace. It would be impossible to describe the beauties of the exten­sive view, that were presented, and JULIA lost her present woes and anticipated evils, in delight and astonishment; she tarried here for several hours, and only returned to her chamber at the time PHILADA had requested she would receive her dinner; as she was cautious that no one of the servants should know, of the liberty she allowed her.

Her mind had experienced some tranquillity, while enjoying the fresh air, and cheering pros­pect; but when she returned to her own apart­ment, the illusion fled; the bubble was dissolved, and in spite of fancy, she was wretched. After tasting of her solitary meal, she opened a vo­lume [Page 166] that lay on the table, and endeavored to read; but the charm that once gave her pleasure in perusing the works of genius, was fled; the beauties of poetry, ceased to delight; the histor­ic page, to instruct; and the fiction of romance, to amuse; "hope, to borrow the words of an enchanting writer; had ceased to illumine the horizon of her prospects, and dark clouds, and gloomy despair, occupied its place."

In this despondent situation, she spent several hours; but her chamber was warm, and she a­gain sought the fresh air of the terrace. The sun which was near sitting, just emerged from a cloud, and its yellow rays, darted with refulgent beauty across the horizon, and surrounding hills; the soft rain that had just fell, had refreshed the mea­dows; and a gentle fragrance arose, like smoak­ing incense to heaven. At a small distance, she beheld some fishermen, that had drawn their nets to the shore; one, had hung the finny fair upon a pole, and thrown it across his shoulders; he walked towards his cottage; three children ran out to meet him; his wife stood in the door, and by her gesture seemed to invite his haste, to partake of the repast, she had prepared. JULIA's fancy followed him in; she saw him seated; the coarse, but clean table-cloth; the frugal meal; heard the laugh of the children; and the ac­cents of love and welcome from the wife; and formed so delightful a picture, that her imagina­tions loved to dwell upon it.

But the bleating of the flocks, awakened her from the delusion, and she beheld in reality the fresh and ruddy milk maid, bending beneath her [Page 167] full pail; while the lowing herd, and fleecy flocks, seemed prepared to take that repose, which indul­gent nature, allows to weary man; to all, but me, said JULIA, all can repose; but alas! for me, far from those I love; the sweets of slumber are denied me, and I have not one vision, that can lull me to repose, not a thought that can comfort me waking, or one idea, that can suggest an a­greeable dream.

While she leaned against one of the battle­ments, she indulged these desponding sugges­tions; but before she had pursued them long; her attention was aroused by the opening of a door; looking around, she saw a female that had just entered the terrace; her form was ma­jestic; her motion slow, but graceful; and her dress was of the finest muslin, which floated in the wind; her back was towards JULIA; she observed that her steps were weak, and trem­bling; and that as she walked she held by the banisters; she walked away, and JULIA longed to see her face; felt all the force of curiosity, mingled with surprise; she would have followed her, but feared such a conduct, might be imper­tinent, and obtrusive; it was not five minutes before she returned; and looking at JULIA, clasped her hands, and raised her eyes, as aston­ished and affrighted.

Oh Heaven! exclaimed she, it is my sister; my blessed, beautiful sister; come from the com­pany of angels; from the society of saints, from worlds of purity and joy. Oh, tell me, tell thy miserable LEONORA; when shall I be freed from these fetters? when freed from a sense of guilt? [Page 168] when will my crimes be blotted out? when shall I be at peace? Alas! said JULIA, I am a mor­tal, and a poor unhappy creature. Unhappy, re­plied she; have you broke your vows? are you guilty? No, said JULIA, I am innocent of any great crime; yet I am miserable. Misery is re­served for the guilty, replied she wildly; the in­nocent have no claim to it. If indeed you have broken no vows, if your conscience is free from stain; and you do not look back with horror, upon some black transgression, you are happy. The wildness of her fine eyes; the paleness of her face; her cheeks faded; her forehead dense; and her once beautiful nose pinched by the hand of sickness; shewed indeed the sad, the sorrow­ful picture of beauty in ruins; and those ruins brought on, by the stings of a wounded con­science; and an heart corroded by guilt. JU­LIA gazed on her with astonishment, and with pity; she was silent, and JULIA replied; but I have been forced from the friends I loved, de­prived of my liberty; a prisoner within these ha­ted walls; and in the power of a base, unprinci­pled man; do you wonder that I am unhappy? I, said the stranger, have no friends; no fortune; I have lost my health; my title to the esteem of the worthy; to the prayers of the virtuous; fled from my country; forsaken by the man I dared to love; who was the occasion of all my woes; I have broken my vows; vows too the most solemn; the most sacred, which any one but an impious wretch, would have respected, and lost inevitably lost my peace of mind. Good heaven, said JULIA, what a catalogue of evils; let me [Page 169] sympathise with you, and I will forget my own sorrows, to mitigate your's. "Will that restore my honor; my fame? will that stand between me, and divine justice? will that compensate for the evils I have done to society? Oh no; I am not to be trifled with; if indeed you are my sister, tell me so; and say, die LEONORA! and be at rest." Oh, said JULIA, I have no sister; I never knew such happiness. "Well then, (replied the stranger,) while a heavy sigh seemed to rend her heart! but I shall die; and shortly be laid be­neath the clods of the valley; or confined with­in the dark and narrow limits of the tomb." As she spoke, she faultered; a slight convulsion cros­sed her countenance; and but for JULIA, she must have fallen.

At that moment an attendant entered. Good heaven! SIGNORA, said she, we have been distres­sed for you, but you are ill, and weak. Let me assist you to your chamber; she then called up another female servant, and with great tender­ness and respect, persuaded her to return. Lift me up, said she, I would once more look towards England. JULIA assisted the women to raise her, she looked to that part of the horizon, that pointed to the British shores, and for a moment seemed lost in thought. Alas! (she cried, with a mournful accent,) alas! he dies there, the victim of his own perfidy, and falsehood; but the sacri­fice is not completely made; but one victim has fallen; another remains, and that soon will com­pleat it; but GOD forgive him; I will go pray for his repose. She then leaned upon her domes­tics, and left the terrace.

CHAPTER, XVII.

JULIA's pity and wonder prevented her fol­lowing so sad a spectacle, and by dividing her concern, lessened it. She found herself innocent, and in full possession of her reason, and she bent with humble gratitude to heaven, for both these blessings. She prayed for their continuance; she prayed too, for the poor unfortunate, she had seen; she asked the protection of that power, who is the guardian of the [...]; and let it not de­duct from her sensibility, when we say she was calmer, and slept better than she had for several nights.

She awoke with the earliest rays of the morn­ing, and was not entirely dressed, when PHILADA entered, with one of the young women she had seen the day before upon the terrace. "I am sorry, Madamoiselle, (said PHILADA,) that you met the SIGNORA yesterday evening, she has been sadly affrighted all night; and tells her attendants, she has seen her sister's apparition; IRESILLA, who waits upon her, has come to request you will visit her in her own apartment, as she is too low to leave her bed." JULIA replied, she would go most willingly. Will you, Madamoiselle, be so good as to promise me, not to mention the Count, if you should, it will bring me into great trouble? [Page 171] Certainly (said JULIA,) I will never say any thing, that can injure you.

They then conducted JULIA across several a­partments; till they opened a door that led to the south wing of the building; two chambers in this suite were furnished in quite a modern stile; and were much larger than any she had seen; the third was the bed chamber of the unfortu­nate LEONORA. Upon a bed of yellow silk was laid this woman once so lovely; always so unfor­tunate; her emaciated arm, was out side the counterpane, while one hand was under her pale and faded cheek; the young lady you wished so much to see, is here (said IRESILLA.) JULIA approached the bed, and in gentle accents expres­sed her sorrow for the state she saw her in. For­give me, this trouble, lady, said the dying peni­tent; my imagination misled me; I thought you were my sister; my faithful attendants were sorry to see me so mistaken; and you have kind­ly condescended to undeceive me; set down, and if you can bear a sick chamber, and spare me a few moments your company, I think it will sooth me. JULIA, seated herself; she assured her, it would give her pleasure to spend some hours with her; and PHILADA withdrew, saying she would return by noon; she then inquired of JU­LIA, if she was of that country? I am a native of France, Madam, (said JULIA.) You are young and lovely, returned the sick lady; but I fear you are not happy. "Indeed, replied JULIA, I am very far from being happy. I do not ask the source of your misfortunes, rejoined the lady; for I am too ill to converse or attend; I must advise you to keep a quiet conscience; do not, for a [Page 172] temporary pleasure, however flattering, involve yourself in guilt; do not for one moment suffer yourself to think of happiness, unattended by in­nocence; be assured that it never was attained; be assured likewise, that you cannot long be mis­erable, while you preserve a consciousness of hav­ing done your duty; of having acted upright; and preserving your honor; if afflictions crowd a­round you; if you are tempted to despond by their weight, and numbers; put your trust in him who has the peculiar care of innocence; be assured the clouds will disperse, and he will ap­pear for your relief; for me, I have forfeited his love; but I have a strong hold upon his mercy; and though I have lived seventeen years, despair­ing and miserable, yet I die calm, satisfied, and composed. For your instruction, I will present you with a manuscript; it is a sad, but faithful narrative of my transgression, and its attendant woes; while you read it, you will condemn me; it is your duty to do so; but recollect the state, to which you have seen me reduced, and shed a tear of sympathy, for my failings, and my misfor­tunes."

"She then bid IRESILLA hand a casket, and unlock it; here, (said she) is the manuscript; and with it, I beg you will accept of this picture; it is the miniature of my sister, whom you so much resemble; keep it for my sake, and possess the virtue, she inherited, and you will be good indeed."

JULIA had been too much affected to answer; she could now only press the cold hand of LEO­NORA, to her lips, she placed the picture in her bosom; and after some time, thanked her for her bequest, which she assured her should have [Page 173] an happy effect. If ever you are tempted to swerve from the paths of virtue, (said LEONORA) read that paper, and while you read it; remember you have seen the wretched writer, deprived of those charms which rendered her an object of affection, upon the bed of death; deprived too, by the man who loved her, of that which alone could render her an object of esteem▪ to this sad, this deplorable condition we all must come; but it lays in the bosom of all, to render the hour of death, happy or miserable. Had I endured all the austerities of a convent; nobly combatted an illegal passion; and kept my faith unbroken; my temptations would now be a cause of triumph to me; and in joy, I should now leave a world, whose vanity had failed to allure me; whose vices had tempted me in vain; and in whose wickedness I had ne­ver shared. But now I shrink from the conflict; I am fearful of offended justice; and rest only up­on forgiving mercy. As she pronounced the last words, she sunk back upon the pillow, faint and exhausted. JULIA wiped the cold damps from her face; she endeavored to assure her faith, with the promises of mercy, and forgiveness; of di­vine love and consolation; and with one of her cold hands in her's, set by the bed, while she slept.

To have beheld an object the most indifferent approaching its exit; struggling with the last symptoms of a slow disease; combatting with the grim tyrant without a friend; without strength; without spirits; her heart would have melted with sympathy, and she would have felt the sensations of pity; but when she beheld a wo­man, sensible, interesting, and lovely; reduc­ed [Page 174] by misfortune, and acknowledged guilt; Pale, faded, wan, and afflicted; without a friend or relation to soothe; attended by servants; strug­gling to suppress her last sigh; while she heard her in a soft, trembling, and pathetic voice, ex­horting her to persevere in the paths she herself had forsaken; while the last breath was hover­ing upon her lips, inculcating the lessons of truth, and virtue; with an energy that exhausted her, and a pathos that almost wore her out; She gave a loose to her feelings, and her tears flowed without control.

It was near noon, when LEONORA awoke; but so very weak, that she could not speak; ex­cept in a whisper; after taking a cordial, she seemed inclined again to sleep, and PHILADA entering, requested JULIA, to return to her cham­ber; she kissed the cheek of the dying▪ LEONO­RA; promised to visit her the next day, and left her. As soon as she got to her chamber and had dismissed PHILADA, she opened the paper, and read the following story of that unfortunate wo­man.

"It is unnecessary to say, I am of a noble family, since the late beautiful and amiable Marchioness of Alvada was my sister; born in Italy, and edu­cated in a convent; the darling of a fond mother who loved her children so well, as to spend most of her time with us; my heart never swerved from the rules of virtue; and honor was to me dearer than life. It was my bitterest misfortune in early youth, to lose this best of mothers. After her death, I spent some time with my father; and there became acquainted with an old noble­man, who wished to marry me; my father flat­tered [Page 175] with the proposed connection, pressed my acceptance; but I refused; he then offered me the choice of a nunnery for life, or marriage with the Duke. I had no alternative, and I did not hesitate; I embraced the latter; and with a holy zeal, immediately took the veil; and with all the enthusiasm of misplaced piety, performed all the duty of my station; and became an ex­ample to my sister nuns, and gained the love and admiration of the superiors. For several years I was happy; but I lost my father; my sis­ter married, and left Italy; my attachments to the world were lessened; my love to it abated; and I was superstitiously attached to my convent, and my religion. I shed but few tears when my sister died, though she was the dearest object of my earthly affection; and deserved the love of all; but alas! my sorrows were then near commenc­ing; and it was time for me to bid adieu, to all tranquillity.

It was at a procession, at which, the duties of my station obliged me to make a public appear­ance; I saw and was seen by an English noble­man; the moment his eyes met mine, I imbibed that fatal passion, that has since proved the des­truction of my happiness: whenever he passed me, his looks declared that our sensations were mutual; and I retired to my cell, confused, ag­gitated and wretched: I could not read; I could not pray; my mind burst the walls of my con­vent; and my imagination conveyed me to the man who had caused such anxiety; three days after I received a letter from him; it was filled with professions of tenderness, and love; a corres­pondence ensued, for I had no power to resist his [Page 176] arts; and fell into the delusion, that shut my eyes upon truth and its dictates. I shall not pre­tend to recount the various methods he used; nor the gradations, by which I lost a sense of du­ty: I vainly thought that I could reconcile a breach of my most solemn vows; pledged upon the sacred altar to the most high, with honor and with love; and at last was so infatuated, as to consent to escape from my convent, and go to England, upon his promise that he would send some one, in whom he could confide, to meet me at Brussels, and conduct me to London; where I should be introduced to him in the pre­sence of his mother and family, and that the holy priest should be in waiting, and the day of my arrival should make me his wife.

His word once pledged, I dreamt not that he could break it; nor did I once think, I had set him an example, that he would follow: I was infatuated by a blind passion, that triumphed o­ver truth, and religion; that [...]et death, and dan­ger at defiance; for I risqued my life, by break­ing my vows; and ran vast hazard and danger by making my escape.

But I surmounted every difficulty, and got the better of every fear; and with two faithful domestics, left my convent; and arrived at Lon­don; hitherto his promises had been punctually fulfilled. I had been met as he had appointed; and attended with the utmost respect; but the moment I arrived, he supposed me in his power, and though he did not throw aside the mask in­tirely: I found myself disappointed; instead of being conducted to his mother, and met by his relations, I was informed his venerable parent was [Page 177] so ill, as to preclude the possibility of my being in­troduced to her; and that of consequence, my nuptials must be delayed.

I entertained no suspicion; but my regard to my honor, bid me absolutely refuse to see my lover, until I could be acknowledged as his wife, before all his connections; and though I made as great a sacrifice to reputation, as ever was made, I obeyed the dictates of honor; in the interval, which I was persuaded to believe would be short, I endeavored to perfect myself in the English language; my wishes, my ardent wishes to please the man I considered as my husband, were such a stimulus to my exertion, that I became a profi­cient, and in a very short time I was able to con­verse in the language that I loved, in preference to any other, merely because it was the language of the man I loved.

I wished to prove myself worthy his choice; to gain the esteem of his friends; particularly of his mother, who I found was considered as the best of women; and I was ardent in the pursuit of every praiseworthy accomplishment.

The person whom he employed, as my in­structor, was not a common teacher, but a gen­tleman and an intimate friend of Lord B—. I was pleased with his society, separately from the benefit I derived from his lessons; for he talked of my lover; extolled his virtues; and painted him as free from even the frailties of mortality; he accompanied me to public places; gave me all the information I thought necessary; and intro­duced me to many persons, whom he said were the friends of Lord B—, but though the scenes I now frequented, were gay, festive, and new; [Page 178] calculated to fascinate the heart, inflate the imagination, and mislead the understanding; yet I at last saw through the veil that hid the truth from my eyes; my suspicions were first aroused, by observing all the lessons that my instructor gave me, were calculated to inflame the passions, to set vice in a fair point of view; to throw a shade upon virtue, honor, and religion; at last he be­came so bold, as to declare a preference to illicit love, rather than an honorable attachment and holy marriage.

My temper, naturally warm, was raised; I for­bid him my presence; and wrote my lover, to require an explanation of his conduct; and a di­rect avowal of his designs; before I received his answer, I was informed that I had been considered as an infamous woman; as a kept mistress of his lordship; that the persons to whom I had been introduced were of suspicious characters.

Good GOD, what were my sensations, at this information; I even now shudder to reflect upon the horror of my mind; I was every thing but distracted.

When I received Lord B—'s letter, my eyes were intirely opened, and he stood confessed the villain, he had the audacity to avow his designs and with the most specious arguments, he woed me to vice and folly; but why should I enlarge upon so degrading a proposal; my passions were exhausted by their own violence; and I became so calm as to write him; I did not upbraid him, but I bid him adieu forever; I likewise wrote his mother, his venerable mother; I inclosed all the letters that had passed between her son and myself; I gave her a minute detail of my family, and likewise [Page 179] of the arts that had been used to seduce me from my country; I stayed not for an answer; but by the assistance of a countryman, who had been my friend from my first arrival, I set out for Italy, and left my unhappy followers in his care; for had they returned, their lives were forfeited by law for having aided a nun, to escape from her convent.

But for the humanity of this gentleman, I should have gone directly back to my convent, and received the punishment that I deserved, a severe punishment; a lingering and cruel death; but his persuasions prevailed, and I was admitted into another nunnery, as a pensioner; the little property that I had been able to take with me, I had divided between my servants; what I left behind, became the property of the convent; so that I was entirely destitute, and but for this gen­erous man, must have been indebted to strangers; and while he lived, he paid my board; but in five years, this worthy friend paid the great debt of nature, and fell a sacrifice to the king of ter­rors, and I was again destitute.

But I was resigned to my fate, and performed some of the meanest offices of the nunnery, for my support.

The Marquis ALVADA, heard of my situation, and offered me an asylum at this place; I accept­ed his generous offer, and found every thing pre­pared for my reception, that could render life bearable: But alas! how vain for a guilty mind, to seek for peace, how vain the care of friendship! the pomp of wealth! the ease of affluence! or the assiduity of the worthy!

Until now, I had only suffered the pangs of [Page 180] disappointed love; I had almost forgot my own crimes and the crimes of Lord B—, and when I heard he had put a period to his life; for he could not live without the woman he had so in­jured; I lamented him with tears of anguish! I accused my sate of cruelty; I spurned against the Divine decrees, and murmured at the will of Heaven; my days were passed in sorrow, and my nights in lamentation; but now that I had no employment, that every thing was provided for me; that no tongue accused me; that no voice condemned; now that I became the object of sympathy, I had leisure to look into my heart; I accused and condemned myself; my conscience bore witness against me; my guilt stared me in the face; my broken vows arose in judgment a­gainst me; I endeavored in vain to forget my trangressions; I changed my name; I charged my attendants, never to mention it, or ought that could suggest one distressing idea.

But my endeavors were fruitless; my reason and my misery could not exist together; as there was no remedy for the latter, the former fell a sacrifice; and for several years, I was a confirm­ed maniac; at length I grew better; my reason was in some measure restored; and my recollec­tion, my painful recollection returned; but my health has gradually decayed, and I am now in the last stages of a consumption; and so grievous are my self-reflections; so acute the accusations of my own conscience; that at some periods I am not myself, but a poor distracted creature.

I have until late only contemplated, and that with fear and trembling, the justice of the Al­mighty; [Page 181] I have dreaded his vengeance, and de­precated his anger; but within a few weeks, the cloud seems to dissipate, and I look forward to divine mercy, with a hope, that I would not barter for worlds; while that agreeable vision floats upon my imagination; I am calm and sa­tisfied; but sometimes despair with all its black attendants haunts me; then my shattered reason is too weak for the conflict, and flies before it; but I bless GOD, that these dreadful fits are less frequent, as I approach my end; and I look for­ward to the tomb as the only refuge for the mis­erable; as the safe and certain portal to everlast­ing bliss. If this manuscript should fall into the hands of any one, who should think my sad story worth reading, let them take warning by my fate, avoid my guilt, pity my weakness, and forgive my errors.

CHAPTER XVIII.

JULIA wept over the above narrative, and found it to be the very story that ROUSSEAU with his pen of fire translated from the original language, and gave to the world as his last pro­duction; the letters of an Italian nun and an English nobleman; she remembered that the Countess DE LAUNA had told her, the correspon­dence was original, and that the facts had come within her own knowledge.

Her reflections were such as may be imagined; she saw more to pity than blame; she sighed at the frailty of human nature; and endeavored to forget her errors, in the contemplation of her sufferings, and the recollection of her virtues.

The next morning she renewed her visit, and found this unfortunate woman just breathing her last; as she could not whisper consolation to her departing spirit, for she lay senseless, she quitted the room in a state of mind, easier to be conceiv­ed, than described; in less than an hour PHILA­DA came up, and informed her the last sigh was over, and that the soul was freed from its clayey tenement, and emancipated from sin and guilt. She likewise informed JULIA that as many per­sons would be naturally about the house, for some days, that her walks upon the terrace, and [Page 183] in the adjoining rooms, must be abridged, as she might become the object of suspicion.

JULIA was grieved at this prohibition, but submitted to it in silence; two gloomy days were passed in sad reflection upon the fate of LEONORA, intermixed with anxiety for her own; she saw no one, but PHILADA, who told her that the Marquis and Count had expected to hear of the death of LEONORA for several weeks, and had several days previous to that event, sent down their directions, by a confidential servant of the Count's, as a spy, she supposed upon her, which had obliged her to abridge her liberty.

JULIA now learned that the funeral of LEO­NORA, was to be the following day, and that her remains were to be interred in the tomb, that she could see from her window, and was but a few paces from the Chatteau; she was not sorry, that she could have an opportunity of seeing the last respect that was paid her, and when she beheld the funeral procession begin to move; beheld the coffin supported by six men, and followed by all the servants and dependants of this domain; as she looked upon it and reflected, that in that small and narrow compass, were contained every thing, that remained of LEONORA; whose en­larged soul and generous heart, enlightened by love, and dictated by a noble confidence, had found a convent too small to contain her; who had with hurried steps and a throbbing heart, travelled from one kingdom, to another, was now going peaceably, and privately, insensible to that domain, whose doors would soon close upon her forever.

When she saw her followed by a train of igno­rant [Page 184] peasantry, without friend or relation, she could not help looking back to the hours when she and her sisters, were nursed by the affection of her fond parents, in the very bosom of elegance, ease and affluence; when their wishes were prevented by fruition; when every attention was paid to their education; she thought of the hope then entertained; and sighed to reflect upon their dis­appointed hopes, unhappy life, and untimely end: Oh! Said she, could they have looked forward, and seen them thus blasted, how wretched it would have made their lives; how would it have added stings, even to the pangs of death. What a moral may be drawn from the fate of these love­ly, unfortunate women; how little does the fond parent know, while triumphing in the ripening beauties of a smiling infant offspring; for what they are preserved; Oh added she, recurring to her own sad, desolate state; could mine, though poor and humble, have known to what a situation their JULIA would be left, and to what dangers exposed, they would have wished themselves childless.

As she pursued these melancholy reflections, the procession arrived at the place of its destina­tion; the coffin was carried in; the bearers re­turned from the tomb; and its ponderous jaws, were closed upon the remains of LEONORA.

JULIA had a strange curiosity, to visit the tomb; she had never seen one; a pre-sentiment told her she should rest in that; and she had this strange wish so much at heart, that when PHILADA, brought up her supper, she mention­ed it to her; I have a great curiosity, PHILADA, said she, could not you contrive to gratify it.— [Page 185] LORD bless you Madamoiselle, what a strange request, you make; I would not go into it for the world. Well, said JULIA, let me go in a­lone, and do you keep watch without. Ah, Ma­damoiselle, if once I did that, you would never return to the Chatteau, and I and mine should be undone forever. No PHILADA, cried JULIA, I should scorn a conduct like that; I wish to leave this place, indeed; but I would rather run every risque of threatened danger, and at last die in it; than involve any one in ruin, or do a thing, that would bring any bad consequences upon you; only let me visit that tomb, and I promise you upon my honor that I will return. I should be glad to oblige you, said PHILADA, but I could not open it, to save both our lives; my son has the key, and could not go in the day time; and LORD have mercy upon us; who would go to visit the dead at night? That would be the very time, I should like to go; your son has the key; I am sure he will go with us. Here PHILADA, give your son this guinea, and ask him to go with us to night. No, I thank you, Madamoiselle, LORD bless you, what go in­to a sepulchre, the very night after a dead body was put into it; why I should think, I saw the Seignora's ghost all the time. Indeed PHILADA, said JULIA, there is no such thing as a ghost.—But i [...] you are reluctant to night, let it be tomor­row night; speak of it to your son; consult with him respecting it; he will go with me, if you are unwilling. Well, Madamoiselle, I will think of it; but I do not think it will ever do. JULIA, thus encouraged; made her take the money, and the most disagreeable visions floated upon her fancy till morning.

[Page 186] It was early when PHILADA came to her chamber; well PHILADA, said JULIA, the mo­ment she saw her, what does your son say to the request I made you? Have you seen him? I have, returned PHILADA, and he is ready to obey you; but I am afraid to venture. Of what can you be afraid? dismiss it, I beg of you, and this once oblige me. Why Madamoiselle, said PHI­LADA, the good Marchioness, that I loved so well, lays there; the last time I was inside that tomb, was to see her placed there, and my heart trembles within me, when I think of going again, but you are so much like her, and so urgent, that I will go with you; only you shall promise not to attempt to escape from me. I do promise, said JULIA, I will not leave you; even if an op­portunity should offer; I will return back, to my chamber.

PHILADA then agreed to call upon her at e­leven, and that her son should be waiting for them, at the garden gate.

All day Julia spent in anticipating the visit of the night, and though some chilling reflections came over her, yet her heart did not misgive her; when she thought of entering the receptacle of the dead; and when it began to grow dark, she waited with extreme impatience, though indeed it was mingled with fear, for the striking of the clock. It had but just announced the hour, when PHILADA, faithful to her promise, knocked at the door, she entered with, it is so stormy Madam­oiselle, that I was thinking you had better not go, to night. Julia assured her that she did not value the storm, and observed they should be less likely to be seen.

[Page 187] When Philada found her determined, she desired her to follow her; we must said she, go through the Seignora's apartments; her attend­ants have left the Chatteau, to day, and we shall run less risque of a discovery; PHILADA led the way, and Julia followed; they passed thro' the chamber, in which she had visited the late inhabitant, when dying; as she went by the bed, she shuddered, and PHILADA trembled so, that she could scarcely stand; she took hold of Julia's arm involuntarily, and went on; when arriv­ed at the bottom of the staircase, she left the candle and took a small lantern, that was al­ready lighted; I think, Madamoiselle, said she, in a whisper, you had better take the candle; this gives but a dim light; and if the candle is put out, by the wind, we can light it again, for it is very dark, where we are going. Julia did as she was requested, and immediately the great door, that led into the court yard, was opened; as she had not felt the fresh air for a week, tho' the howling of a thunder storm struck her ears, yet it was not wholly unpleasant to her; the walls were high, and almost surrounded by different buildings, so that in crossing the court, she felt no inconvenience from it, and indeed she paid no attention to it. But when they came to a little gate, at the further end, it blew full in their faces, and in a moment extinguished the candle she car­ried in her hand; the lantern of Philada only gave light enough to render the darkness visible; it could hardly be called a guide; she now gave it to Jaques, and by the advice of Julia took hold of his arm. I thought as how, said Jaques, that you were not coming. Philada replied, [Page 188] she had done all she could to persuade Julia out of the notion of it, but finding her so bent upon it, she had come with her; just at that in­stant a violent clap of thunder, seemed to shake the firmament; Philada exclaimed, and Ju­lia endeavored to assuage her fears; a violent flash of lightning followed, and the hail and rain were driven by the wind full upon them. LORD have mercy, said Philada, if I ever get back to the Chatteau alive again, you will never catch me outside the doors at night. Certainly, said Julia, we are as safe here, as in the Chatteau, not quite so comfortable perhaps; but it will be but a few minutes, and I do not mind it at all. Nor I, said Jaques; I wish mother was not quite so fraid. I cannot help it, said Philada; Oh mercy, what a clap was there! Dear PHI­lada, cried Julia, do not be so alarmed, we are as perfectly safe here, as we could be in our cham­bers; every flash is commissioned by the Al­mighty, and it cannot harm us, except by his ex­press command. But, replied Philada, we have no business here, searching tombs in the night; and I am sure no good can come of it. The young woman has paid me well, mother, said Jaques; and I will search the tombs every night, for the next year, for a good English guinea; it is my bu­siness, and I am no more afraid, than I should be at home in my bed. By this time, directed by the faint light, and white pailing, they arrived at the tomb, Jaques applied the key to the door, and with an harsh grating sound it opened.—When Julia looked into this mansion of death, a kind of chilling horror, seemed to pervade her whole frame, and congeal her blood; but for [Page 189] shame, she would have turned back; but she ventured in, and Philada holding by the arm of her son, followed. Jaques was quite undaunt­ed, and Julia with a trembling hand, lit the candle, it was large, and wax, and the bright light of that added to the glare of the lantern, which was now open, illuminated the tomb so that eve­ry object was discernable.

Julia looked in with a mixture of fear, awe, and satisfaction; and as she cast her eyes upon a row of coffins that were placed upon a shelf of black marble, heaved one sigh, for what they con­tained. Philada was so much affected, that she sat down upon a marble that was low, and unoccupied, she held the candle in one hand, and resting her head upon the other; Jaques offer­ed to tell Julia to whom they all belonged; for though they have been put there before I came to the Chatteau; yet I know them all; for I was employed to keep them all clean and in repair. I will accept your offer, said Julia, and pay you for your trouble; Jaques assured her he was al­ready paid, and taking the candle, began to give her the information she wished; those two rich coffins so covered with gold, and silver, are the old Count and Countess de Launa; they are long since turned to ashes; nothing but bones remain; yet see how clean and bright they are. Julia viewed them, she read upon the plates that adorned the lids, their names titles, fortunes and virtues. Alas, said Julia, of how little real value is their titles, and estates; possessed by one who disgraces the one, and dishonors the other; and their virtues are only owned by distant branch­es of their family; no trace is to be found in their [Page 190] immediate successor, of one virtue; to this we must all come, and she turned again to Jaques. This, Madamoiselle, was the Count De Launa; their son, from what I have heard of him, he was good, for he was greatly beloved. This then, said Julia, contains what was once the husband of my benefactress; the man whose worth she still reveres; whose memory she loves, and whose loss she laments. Her thoughts glanced upon OR­MOND, and she turned to another. This was the mother of my Lord, said Jaques, and these little coffins contain some children, that belonged to the family; and here is the Seignora that was interred yesterday, I would not open it Madam­oiselle, (for she put her hand upon it,) for I am sure, it is offensive. Julia withdrew her hand, poor Seignora, sighed she, at last you are at peace; for "here the wicked cease from troubling, and here the weary are at rest." The last tears are wiped from your eyes, you have breathed your last sigh, reason no more deserts you; a con­sciousness of frailty no more afflicts you, your transgressions are all forgiven, and your wounded bosom healed by the hand of a pitying Redeem­er. She turned from this to a coffin that stood a little apart from the rest, it was still covered by a velvet pall, fringed with gold, that said Jaques was the lady that my poor mother laments so much; that was the last Marchioness; (Julia went close to it), I can open it, Madamoiselle, if you wish it. If, cried Julia, the gratification of my curiosity, would not too much affect your mother, I should like to see what remains of her. I will see her too, said Philada, for I always loved [Page 191] her, and am not afraid of her. JULIA was pleas­ed at PHILADA's resolution, and offered her arm to assist her; and JAQUES opened the lid and turned down the rich white satin, with which the face was covered, and PHILADA exclaimed, Oh, Madamoiselle, what a dreadful thing is death, and who would have supposed this to be my dear lady, and yet, said JULIA, I am surpriz­ed, to find it so intire: I thought indeed that laying twenty years, in this damp place, would have destroyed every vestige of a face, and yet ever feature remains, only the tincture of the complexion is changed. I have heard, said JA­QUES, that its preservation is owing, to the rich spices and aromatics, that the Count DE LAUNA, had put in the coffin; JULIA now examined it with a kind of interested curiosity; look PHILA­DA, said she, the crimping is not out of the lin­en. That very linen, said PHILADA, I did up, and crimped for her; I mended too a little rend I had made in that rich lace, when I carried it to her; I little thought it would be her burial clothes, I shall never forget her manner. PHILADA, said she, you take too much pains; you will wear your­self out, with your cares; and then she took some nice lawn from her drawer; here, PHILADA, said she, (in a kind gentle voice just like your own Madamoiselle,) have that made up for a holiday suit; dear lady, it was the last present she ever made me; and it is as good as new now. That ribbon too that is about the cap was brought down to ornament her baby linen; I tyed up that bow myself, it was a true lover's knot, Madamoiselle, see the coronet is worked in gold upon the ends of it. I have heard, said JULIA, that hair grows [Page 192] after people are dead, I think it must be the case, for surely such a quantity would not have been left to shade the face; O, said Philada, my la­dy had a great deal to be sure, but it has grown; I wish, added she, in a trembling voice; I wish I had a lo [...]k of it. Your wish can easily be grati­fied, for surely it arises from affection, and must be innocent, (said JULIA,) and it cannot be criminal in JULIA, to take off a lock with my scissors. Philada wept as irresolute; what a dreadful thing, is death said she! I shudder at it! and I, said JULIA, regard it as a blessing, far from considering it a dreadful thing; I look up­on it as the only solace for affliction, and wish that my own aching heart, were forever inclosed within this peaceful mansion; she sighed deep­ly, as she spake, and JULIA, proposed to return to the Chatteau, as they had been absent near an hour. JULIA produced her scissors, but JAQUES could not use them; and anxious to gratify Philada, assumed courage to do it herself; Jaques took the candle, and Philada held the lanthorn; and JULIA stooped to cut off the lock of hair, she looked around the tomb, she asked her heart if it was sacrilege, if she was doing wrong? but conscience answered in the negative, and she was proceeding; she had just touched the hair, when the stillness that pervaded the gloomy mansion was interrupted by a deep sigh; and JULIA started, touched the face, to her hor­ror it sunk into ashes, and mouldered into dust; not a feature remained; it was all an horrid chasm, for the affrighted imagination to fill up. Julia was petrified; don't be scared, Madamoiselle, said Julia, it is only the pressure of the air, effected it. [Page 193] Philada turned almost fainting from the coffin; and JULIA's trembling and paleness, declared her emotion; Jaques pulled up the satin covering, but before he could close the lid, she cast a fearful glance around the tomb, and at a distant part of it, thought she discovered a man; Philada saw it at the same time, and the lantern dropped from her hand, she fell almost senseless to the ground; the sight JULIA, had witnessed deprived her of the power of looking, and almost of breathing; she stooped, but could give no succor to Phila­da; who in a low and grieved tone of voice, de­clared she had seen a ghost; Jaques helped his mother up, and though very courageous, was doubtful as to the nature of what he had seen; and aided her out of the tomb; but the instant the air met the candle, it was extinguished, the light in the lantern was put out by the fall, and they were now in intire darkness, except the fre­quent and awful flashes of vivid lightning; the thunder too rolled over their heads, the winds howled as answering, and the rain beat with a­mazing violence. This war of elements however in some measure recalled the scattered senses of Philada, and she exerted herself to walk be­tween Jaques, and JULIA; who was more terri­fied than she had ever been before, yet she en­deavored to inspire Philada, with a presence of mind, that she herself wanted. It was with some difficulty they reached the Chatteau, and Jaques helped them to JULIA's room; a candle was burning upon her table, and the moment they entered, Philada sunk into a chair; and JULIA out of breath with her exertions, and terrified be­yond her power of expression, set down and found [Page 194] herself unable to move. Jaques went to his mo­ther's chamber and returned with a bottle and glass, and JULIA readily consented to drink some wine; after Philada had taken a glass; they were so much refreshed, that Jaques left them, and in a few minutes Philada declared herself unable to get to her own room, and said, for the world she would not lay alone. JULIA readily offered part of her bed, which was accepted with gratitude; but notwithstanding their clothes were cold, and wet, it was some time before they could undress. Philada, said JULIA, did you suppose that any one, but ourselves was in the tomb. Dear Ma­damoiselle, there was not any other person there, it was an apparition, I saw it as well as you, and knew who it was; I have heard the Chatteau was haunted before; but never was sure of it until now. Who did you suppose it to be, said JU­LIA. I cannot think, but it was some person who followed us into the tomb. Oh, no, no, said Philada, it was no living person, it was the Lord HENRY ORMOND, he died ten years ago; that killed the Count DE LAUNA; I am sure it was he, for I have seen him, an hundred times when he was at the Marquis'; he used to visit at the Count's, and I knew him at the first sight of him; why, I looked upon him a minute, before I had strength to fall down. I was shocked, said JULIA, at the dreadful change in the Mar­chioness; but I do not think what we saw, was any thing supernatural; it might be the shade of something we had not noticed before; and our imaginations were so much affected, that we sup­posed it more terrible, than it really was.

They now went to bed, and notwithstanding [Page 195] her terrors, Philada got to sleep, long before JULIA; for a very painful idea, was suggested to her mind, that her fortitude could not overcome, and that she did not chuse to mention. She thought upon recollection, that the figure she had seen resembled COLWORT; the observation Philada had made of it's being young ORMOND, confirmed her in the thought; for the Countess had often remarked, that COLWORT, bore a striking likeness to her first lover. This was the time he was expected in France. She now fanci­ed him dead, and that what she had seen was his apparition. Thus superstition, with all its train of evils, entered a mind, that had hitherto been freed from its influence: but her natural good sense, aided by the books she had read, and the remarks of the which she now recollected, soon in some measure overcome it, and the cheer­ing light of the sun, which now arose in bright­est majesty, helped to dispel the fears of the night; yet when she reflected upon the gloomy scene, and upon the sudden change of the Marchioness; she again experienced her former terrors; and did not wonder that her imagination had become im­pregnated by superstition; she endeavored to combat her fears, by hopes that COLWORT was still living; and that the Countess would dis­cover, and rescue him from the machinations of the Count.

CHAPTER, XIX.

THE courage of Jaques, his good sense and honest open countenance, suggested to her an idea, that he could aid her escape; hope began again to flatter her, and she was impatient, until she could put her plan into execution. She de­sired Philada, as soon as she awoke from a dis­turbed sleep, to request Jaques to come to her; I want to ask him some questions, and have be­sides a favor to ask him. Philada promised to send him, but my dear Madamoiselle, said she, you must promise me never more to ask me, to go into a tomb again; so do not ask it; for I never will go. I never will, said JULIA, I paid too dear for the gratification of my curi­osity last night, ever to repeat it. When left alone, her mind again recurred to the trans­action of the preceding evening; and she endea­vored to think, some persons had watched their motions, and perhaps were hid in the tomb, for the purpose of robbing the dead, of some of the valuable articles about them; but this thought was so much to the dishonour of her species, and [Page 197] so repugnant to her heart, that she could not give it a moment's continuance. When Philada re­turned with her breakfast, she was sorry to hear that Jaques, was gone to a village, near three leagues distant, and would not return until the following night, as he went upon business of the stewards, which would detain him until that time.

She felt disappointed at this intelligence, and the idea of spending this day alone in her cham­ber, was so irksome to her, that she requested Philada, to indulge her, with walking upon the terrace, and the adjoining rooms; this request was granted, and she immediately ascended the former place, to enjoy the free air, and charming prospect. She tarried several hours, and upon her return, visited the chambers of LEONORA; every thing remained as she had seen them, but upon opening a small closet, she was gratified to find a small writing desk, with every material for writing; she did not scruple, to take some paper, pens, ink and wafers; with these, she left these melancholy apartments, and returned to her own room.

She now sat down, and wrote a letter to the Countess; as she did not doubt, she should pre­vail on Jaques, to carry it; this seemed to a­muse and employ some of her time, and when evening was come, hopes of its success had shed so pleasing an influence upon her mind, that not­withstanding her disagreeable situation, she slept soundly, and awoke refreshed.

She found upon enquiries, that Jaques would not be back until night, and Philada promised she would bring him up to her, as soon as he had [Page 198] delivered his messages to the steward; she now took a book, and once more ascended the terrace; but she had not been there long, when lifting up her eyes to behold the beautiful appearance of the surrounding hills, she saw several carriages, and men on horseback; at first she thought they were going by; and how ardently did she wish she was flying with them, from her hated prison; but they turned a sudden angle in the road, and came directly to the Chatteau; in a moment she conceived it was the Count, and his associates, and her trembling limbs could scarce support her; she left the terrace, and shut herself in her cham­ber, as if she was more secure; or that a single bolt could avail any thing against her oppressor; she went immediately to the window, and there observed the carriages enter the Count's yard, and wheel round to the other part of the Chatteau, followed by the Chevaliers on horseback. She could see no more of them; though the noise they made at their entrance, she distinctly heard.

When she recollected her own weak defenseless state, and the power and strength of the Count; her confidence forsook her, and her tears flowed apace, until reflection told her, to trust in him, who is the protector and friend of the orphan, and those who confide in him. She prayed with that genuine piety, which exists in the bosom of innocence; and her confidence increased; her courage returned; and her calmness once more resumed.

It was late when Philada entered: Ah! Ma­damoiselle, said she, I was afraid you would think I had forgot you; but we have had so much to do; my Lord is come, with a world of followers; [Page 199] and has ordered such a dinner for tomorrow, that I shall have to set up half the night, to prepare it. Did he mention me, said JULIA? Philada repli­ed in the negative; he has brought a lady, with her woman, and has ordered the Seignora's apartment to be prepared for them, and the adjoining cham­ber for himself. Perhaps he is married, said JU­LIA, and if so, how happy shall I be? No, said Philada, I inquired, and found she was a kept mistress; she is very handsome, but she looks ve­ry far from happy. Well, said JULIA, if she only learns him to forget me, I shall wish her hap­py; I am sure, I have had no opportunity to speak to my Lord, nor to come to you; but just now before they set down to supper, the Count had me called to the hall, and told me he wished to speak to me before he went to bed; and bid me wait in his chamber; so I thought I would bring up something first for you; and then return. Do, said JULIA, let me know, what he says to you; I have no inclination to eat, and beg you will carry it down again. Dear Madamoiselle, you will be sick, cried Philada, you have eat no­thing for two days; if you will take the refresh­ment I have brought you, I will come up after the Count has dismissed me, and bring up Jaques who got home an hour ago, and is now with the steward; but if you will not, I will go to my own room, and not see you until the morning. The promise and threat prevailed; JULIA assur­en her, she would try, and animated with the hope, that Jaques would set off with her letter that night; she drank a little wine, and eat some of PHILADA's delicacies.

[Page 200] It was more than an hour before the honest creature returned; she then entered with Jaques. Oh, said JULIA, I am glad to see you, but tell me, I beg of you, Philada, what did the Count say of me? Why Madamoiselle, I waited in his chamber for some time; at last he come. Well, Philada, says he, I am glad to see you; and want to know what you have done with the young woman I sent to you. I told him what chamber you were in, and that you took on sadly, and would not be comforted; he said you were a fool, for that, he did not mean you any harm, and bid me tell you so; and that he should visit you tomorrow; he bid me not to mention you to the servants that came with him; or his guests, and to caution the domestics in the fami­ly not too; he then bid me good night, and I called Jaques, and came directly to you.—JULIA, thanked her for her information, and then addressed herself to Jaques; she offered him her purse, and all its contents, if he would carry that letter to the Countess DE LAUNA; she as­sured him of the protection of that lady, and re­presented to him her sad, defenceless state, in such moving terms, that Jaques at length consented, but he refused her money. If the Countess will take me into her service, said he, I shall be amply rewarded; if not, I shall be ruined; but the thoughts of having served you, Madamoiselle, will reward me; the money will do but little good. JULIA forced upon him as much as would defray his expences; and with a thousand charges gave him the letter; the honest fellow left her with an assurance that he would [...] that very hour.

[Page 201] It was now near two o'clock, the ill she presag­ed from the Counts visit; the hopes she conceived from Jaque's honesty, and expedition, filled her mind, with such a variety of sensations, that she felt no wish to sleep; she did not go to bed, but sat down at the window, and lifting up the sash, explored the expanded firmament; the blue ex­panse and myriads of stars that sparkled with soft­ned lustre; a light vapour had arose from the vallies beneath; and seemed to skim along the surface of the plain; and hang on the sides of the hills; a gentle zephyr whispered through the trembling foliage, and just moved the tops of the trees, and when towards day, the moon which was in its wane, arose in the east, attended by the morning star, she lost her griefs in the con­templation of the weather; such an enchanting picture of the grandeur of the works of GOD; and of still life was presented, as calmed the tumults of her mind, and disposed her to confidence and resignation; she beheld the approach of morning, with pleasure; when with a faint light, the eastern horizon was tinged; until at length the suffusion of yellow and crimson was displayed, and the sun emerging from its slumbers arose, and threw such a blaze of glory, over all nature, as almost to dazzle the senses; her reflections were so soothing, so cheering, and agreeable, that recom­mending herself to him who formed the world, who taught the sun, moon and stars, their differ­ent stations, and all their various, but regular ev­olutions; she sunk into a quiet sleep, that lasted until Philada made her appearance.

The kind creature only came with her break­fast; for the increasing cares, and business of the [Page 202] family claimed her whole time, and attention, and she could only tarry a few minutes.

Scarcely had she left her, when the footsteps of a man were heard, approaching her door; and in a moment the Count made his appearance; JULIA arose, as he entered, and retired involun­tarily to the remote part of the chamber. He approached her with respect; good morning, Madamoiselle, said he, pray take your seat, for I have something to say, in vindication of my own conduct, that requires your attention. I am sorry, my Lord, (said JULIA, with spirit) that your conduct to me has been of such a nature, as to exclude the possibility of a vindication; but you can command my attention, for I am your prisoner. You are no longer so (he replied) than you prefer confinement; give me your hand and you are from this moment free, the mistress of my house, my heart, my fortune, the sharer of my titles, my honour; I will present you as a daughter to my father; as a niece to my aunt; I saw you, and I loved you; unused to controul, I could not bear to give you up quietly, and see you in possession of another; I have been success­ful in bringing you here, and it now depends up­on yourself, whether you return my affection and become my wife; or obstinately bent upon your own destruction, you refuse, and are forced to be­stow these favours, which I had rather receive as the voluntary offerings of your heart. With my heart, said JULIA, you can have no connec­tion; for before I knew your Lordship, I had bestowed that upon another; but least you should mistake, and suppose I wish to withdraw it, I own to your Lordship I never could have loved, or [Page 203] esteemed a man, that could act the part you have done; and there is no evil I could encounter so great, as a connection with one, whose conduct I so much and so seriously abhor, as I do yours. She paused, but as if amazed at her spirit, he did not reply. She proceeded, there is but one way, my Lord, to regain my esteem, to make me wish you well or happy; restore me to your aunt; give me my liberty. And do you think (he interrupted) do you think me such an idiot, af­ter the pains I have taken; attached to you as I am, to act so inconsistent a part; no, I am not such a fool. He was proceeding, when she interrupted him: Suffer me, my Lord, to ask you one question, (said she,) how can you answer your conduct to me; to your conscience; how can you answer to him, who created you; and who can instantly bid the vital spark that now animates your frame to cease! who with a thought, can deprive you of life, and every thing that renders life dear to you? think my Lord what account you could give, if called upon to give it within a few hours, at that great tribunal, to which you, as well as I, my Lord, must appear. You are romantic, cried the Count, and talk of impossibilities; you are holding up a mere chi­mera which has no existence, and cannot affright the truly enlightened mind; it is high time these bugbears, the mere tricks of cunning, and artful priestcraft, were erased from your understanding: your mind is enlarged; it is capacious; it is su­perior to these notions that you have imbibed from a low and confined education: where is the tribunal you speak of? it exists only in the in­flated imagination of the wild enthusiast; the [Page 204] very being you adore is imaginary; the future state you threaten, a vision of the heated brain; or the fiction of religion, to keep the world in awe: I am to myself a God, and to my myself accountable; I pursue my own pleasure; if any one stands in my way, I put him out of it, with as little concern as I would kick a dog; or crush a spider; created as much by chance, as the ani­mals he treads upon; man has only a higher rel­ish for pleasure, and different views in pursuit, the world is filled with enjoyment, but it is hid from all, except a few, who have become enlight­ened, and now no longer afraid; seize with avid­ity the offered blessing; while the vulgar herd are still the slaves to superstition, and prejudice; move on in the same dull round, fearful to catch the transient pleasure, lest future punishment should ensue. Are these your sentiments, my Lord, (said JULIA,) I shudder at their wicked­ness and falsity; I no longer wonder at a conduct that has hitherto astonished me, and for the honor of human nature I hope and believe you are alone. Your hopes deceive you then, (he replied,) more than twenty thousand enlightened minds, have already imbibed these opinions, and a few years will discover them to the astonish­ment of all Europe, and the wonder of the world; the temples that are now used as the ha [...]itations of a blind Deity, will soon be levelled with the earth; his worship will be abolished, and nature, the God we adore; will alone be acknowledged. The first characters in literature, the first in philoso­phy, have joined themselves to our society; men of all ranks, and all ages, have embraced our sen­timents; and become bound by our lives; some [Page 205] fair and beautiful women too, whose minds are too capacious, to be bound within the narrow, and confined limits that the sex have been oblig­ed to walk by; have thrown off the fetters of preju­dice, and advanced within the circle of the illumi­nated; these are persons, whose births and fortunes are inferior to none; but disdaining the ideas of birth and fortune, if you will permit me, I will present you to them, a convert, a lovely orna­ment, and a brilliant superior; for you will par­take of my dignity, and your own shining qualities, will fit you for their superior. Never, my Lord, (said JULIA) never; my soul shrinks from such a connection; it rises infinitely above them; the idea will be sufficiently humiliating, that you have even made the proposal; I would sooner become the companion of an honest rustic, whose soul was dignified with the idea of immortality; whose mind was exalted with the acknowledge­ment of a GOD, and claimed affinity with angels, than stoop to the first character in the universe, cursed with such degrading sentiments. What is it that distinguishes man from the brute crea­tion? It is neither power, wealth or honor, for they are all imaginary; the meanest insect or the filthiest reptile, has, when GOD permits, power to inflict death, and tortures; the ant and bee, pos­sess wealth equal to all the coffers of the miser, or the treasuries of the great; and the lion of the forest boasts an honor, superior to every irreli­gious man in creation; it is, my Lord, that little spark of immortality; that celestial flame that GOD has breathed into him, that makes him discriminate between good and evil; that fits him to bear the misfortunes of this life with digni­ty [Page 206] and cheerfulness, that renders him in another, a companion for angels, that will exist to endless ages, through time and through eternity; when the fashion of this world passeth away; and all its pageantry, and gorgeous palaces, and empty greatness are crushed to atoms. Not one word more, my Lord, said she, (for he was interrupting her;) I can attend to you no longer; for though your tenets are to me not dangerous; they are horrid; they shock me, and I shudder that I ever conversed upon them, and beg I may never be forced to listen to them again. At present [...]aid the Count, you are at my disposal, and must when I please attend to me; you are so obsti­nate, that I shall not attempt to argue with you; I pity your infatuation; and will give you two days, to consider of my proposal; in that time either conclude to become my wife, by laws that custom has rendered respectable; and that you consider as holy; or else be mine upon terms less honorable; I can be trifled with no longer; I love you, and perhaps I respect even your er­rors; but I will not be made the dupe of your talents, or your charms; in two days, I shall ex­pect an answer; weigh well, before it is too late, the consequences of your decision;—he bowed, and left her.

CHAPTER, XX.

AS soon as JULIA was left alone, she began to reflect upon the consequences of irritat­ing such a man; a man who had wealth and power on his side; and who feared neither GOD nor man; who acknowledged no being superior to himself; and who impiously defied the Di­vine vengeance, by doubting his existence. Her anger was weak and imbecile; she had no friend, no protector, except that Being whom the Count had derided, and in whom she had hitherto plac­ed a confidence, in every evil; she felt not her confidence weakened; but she thought it best, if possible to gain time. She remembered, that the youthful and beardless shepherd, had over­come the lofty, and proud Goliah; and she trusted that she should not be sacrificed, weak, and humble as she was, to this haughty defier of GOD and all that was sacred; but she determin­ed to behave with prudence, that even those who trust in worldly prudence might not blame her; in three days, she could reasonably expect, the Countess warned of her danger, would be on the way to relieve her; and in four she hoped to see her. She resolved to write a line before the time the Count had proscribed her, was expir­ed, requiring three more days; if that request [Page 208] was granted, she thought herself safe; if not, her whole reliance, was upon Providence, and as she felt the need of that reliance, [...]he found it in­creased.

One source of satisfaction was now denied her, that she had before enjoyed; she could no long­er walk upon the terrace, but confined to a gloomy chamber, with no company, but her own reflec­tions; the day seemed long and irksome; and when the evening arrived, Philada could only spend a few moments with her. By her she learn­ed that the company was increased; that the Chatteau was as full as possible, and that they would the next day celebrate a great festival. How wicked (said she, as Philada locked the door) must the associates of this man be? how wretched a prospect have they before them? I will not en­vy them their liberty, their mirth, or their gaiety, for I should rather, infinitely rather, spend a long life, shut up, in this dreary, chamber, with the hopes I entertain of futurity, and the firm belief of a GOD, than like them enjoy every thing here, and have no hope that is substantial, to brighten the prospects of a future state.

In these reflections, she spent that, and the fol­lowing night; and beheld the next approach with a trembling anxiety; two days were expir­ed, and she had not altered her resolution respect­ing the Count; yet the more she reflected, the more she dreaded enraging him. She therefore wrote him a short note, requesting three days more, to consider of his proposal, and promising a final answer when that time was clapsed. In less than half an hour Philada returned, and pre­senting her with a strip of paper, she read the fol­lowing words:

This note dashed her hopes intirely, for the Countess could not grant her any relief so soon; as it was impossible, for Jaques to have delivered his message, and returned by that time; she sat down on the bed, and giving way to despair, al­most expected he would come this night: She detained Philada with her for some time, and endeavored to prevail on her to aid her escape; but the terrors of her weak mind placed so many difficulties in the way, that JULIA could not suc­ceed; and she saw her close the door upon her, with a presage that she never felt before.

She sat with her head, rested upon the case­ment, and in a state of mind that defied the mu­sic of the spheres to soothe, or calm; and thoug [...] her eyes were fixed upon the stars, her imagin­ation soared far beyond these shining luminaries and she wished she could lay down a being, tha [...] subjected her to miseries, doubts and insult, an commence one free from these various evil▪ Just then as the clock struck one, and all belo [...] was still as death, she thought she heard a rust­ling near her, and in a moment her own nam [...] was distinctly pronounced by a voice, that vibrat­ed [Page 210] upon her ear, as Colwort's. The recollection of what she had seen in the tomb, now rushed up­on her mind, and combining his appearance, with the voice; she no longer doubted but he was dead; and that his apparition had now come to give her warning of her approaching fate; una­ble to sustain such shocking sensations, she fainted and sunk upon the floor, it was some time before she recovered her recollection; and when she did, such horrid images rushed upon her mind, that she had nearly relapsed into the same state a­gain. After several exertions, she got to the bed, and there tears came to her relief; for some time she indulged them, until at length nature wearied out with exertions, she fell into a dis­turbed sleep; which lasted however, but a short time. She awoke with the first crowing of the cock, and again revolving in her mind the most horrid images, she recollected that the crisis of her fate approached, and that fortitude would be ne­cessary, to support her; she endeavored at resig­nation, and prayed for that support she needed. As the morning advanced, she became calmer, and when Philada entered with her breakfast, she had resolution enough to eat something.

The day, however, was long and tiresome, and when at length the dreaded night come, and no news from the Countess, no release from the Count, not one glimmer of hope entered her gloomy abode to cheer it from without; all her resources were from within. The hours passed on without interruption until eleven, when the door opened, and the Count entered; he started at her pale face and languid looks, en­quired for her health, and seated himself beside [Page 211] her. After hesitating for a moment, he asked her with apparent agitation, if she was ready, to give him an answer. She replied firmly, that she had no answer to give him; that he knew her mind, and that it had not for one moment hesi­tated with respect to her decision. I know I have nothing to expect from your justice (said she) let me claim something from your pity! it is your mercy, that I now implore to protect me against yourself; I am defenceless and wretched, I throw myself upon your protection! Oh save me from the worst of evils, and restore me to my friends; or if that is displeasing, immure me in a nunnery; confine me to a convent, but do not force me to a connection that my soul abhors!

She was upon her knees before him, and he en­deavored in vain to raise her. No, never will I rise, said, she until you have assured me of my safety! In my arms (he cried) you will be safe; they shall be your prison, and I will be your guard, obsti­nate and ungrateful as you are; I will make you happy, for I love you; and that love shall plead my excuse. He threw his arms around her and attempted to embrace her, but she shrunk, as from the touch of a torpedo, and hardly knowing what she did, called loudly for assistance. At that instant a violent push against the door forc­ed it open, and some one exclaimed, turn villain, and defend yourself; the Count turned upon his opponent, and snatched his sword from the table; several thrusts passed upon both sides, until at length the sword of the stranger entered the right arm of the Count; his foot got entangled in the carpet, and he fell with his head against the post of the bedsted, and fetching a deep groan, became senseless.

[Page 212] JULIA had raised herself an anxious witness, and when her deliverer approached her, she dis­covered Colwort; her joy and astonishment de­prived her of the power of speech, and to his in­treaty, she could only answer by holding out both her hands. He pressed those hands to his lips, until at length her spirits became restored, and she begged him to tell her from whence he came; this is no time for enquiries, cried he, do my love exert yourself, that we may leave this dreadful scene; and though he does not deserve it, call some one to assist this bad man, for I would not leave him thus; and this mansion is full of his emmissaries. He is gone, (said JULIA,) as she stooped down; he is gone with all his vices, with all his load of crimes upon his head to ap­pear before an angry GOD.

Colwort thought the same; but fears for her safety prompted a deceit; he assured her that the Count was only stunned by the fall, that he would send help the moment he had got her out of doors; thus assured, she assumed fortitude to leave the chamber, and though she trembled with fear and apprehension, yet his presence encour­aged her, and with hasty steps, they gained the staircase, when they began to descend, they heard the groans of the Count; this added to their speed, and they were in a moment upon the first landing, when a light burst from a room be­low, and they beheld a lady ascending by the same stairs; it was impossible to avoid her; or to retreat; they must meet, and upon her turn­ing a winding, the candle threw its rays full up­on her face, and in the midst of her fears and con­fusion, JULIA discovered Donna Olivia. She [Page 213] intreated to go back, but Colwort almost forced her forward, and in another moment they found themselves discovered! Donna Olivia looked up­on them astonished; Colwort attempted to push by her, but she besought him to stop, and desir­ed to know where they were going. Colwort enraged at this delay, refused an answer; and JULIA intreated Olivia to let them pass unmo­lested. Is it you, Madamoiselle, (said she,) I wish not to detain you? I have but just discovered you were here, and with the old house-keeper have been laying a plan for your escape. In the Court yard you will find a horse, and servant, who will attend you, to a place of safety; unless this young gentleman chuses to have that pleas­ure; read this paper, and after that deliver it, as directed, and when you think of the vicious O­livia, think of her with symphathy. It was no time for thanks, Colwort informed her of the situation of the Count, and with an hasty and agitated step, she left them, to go to him.

COLWORT and JULIA descended the staircase, crossed the hall, and went into the court where they found horses, and a servant who assisted to set her on horseback, and Colwort having mount­ed, they rode off with as much expedition as pos­sible; with a speed, that newly acquired spirits, renovated hope, and liberty just recovered, lent them.

So quickly had the incidents of the last half hour succeeded each other, that JULIA thought it almost the work of enchantment, and that her deliverance was the business of fancy, or an airy dream. The fresh air, the cloudless sky, a thou­sand twinkling stars, restored her tranquillity, al­most [Page 214] before her lover could assure her of her safe­ty; and enter into a conversation consistent or regular. She then requested him to inform her, how he got information of her confinement, or what had brought him to her rescue. I will, re­plied he, be as concise, as possible, for if the Count should recover his recollection, his Chatteau is filled with his associates, and we may be pursu­ed. It is now three weeks since I arrived in France; directed by the letters of the Countess, I set off for Paris, attended only by a faithful servant, that had accompanied me to America; we were within half a days journey of the capital when we were joined by two persons, who had the ap­pearance of gentlemen; they soon found, that my visit was intended to the Countess DE LAU­NA, they were acquainted with her, and you, and informed me that you had both set out for the Villa three days since; that the health of Madam DE LAUNA, was so poor, that you had left Paris, the day after your return from Spain. The story was feasible, and I became the dupe; I had until then travelled in a public stage, but at the first Inn, I ordered horses, for myself and servant, and set out for the Villa; the next day in the afternoon, we were surrounded, by ten men on horseback, well armed and a carriage at­tending; we defended ourselves, for some time, but were at last seized, bound, and put into the carriage. In two days I arrived here with my guards, and was immediately led to a prison; here I continued, near a fortnight, when in exploring the recesses of my dungeon, for such it might be called, I found a passage that led to a tomb; I immediately laid a plan to escape, for I knew [Page 215] not my tyrant nor the reason of this confinement. One night, last week, I saw a light in this recep­tacle of death; I opened the door, that led to it with caution, and to my astonishment, beheld two women, and a man intently examining a coffin; I immediately formed the design of pass­ing them, which I could with ease, and safety, have done, but curiosity prompted me to exam­ine the faces of the persons so employed; when I came a little more to the light, I thought in one, I discovered the features and countenance of my JULIA; before I could enough divest my­self of surprize, to be assured of the truth of my conjecture, I was discovered. One of the women fainted, and the light was extinguished; the first impulse of my soul, was to assist you, for it was indeed yourself. But a sentiment that I could not define, withheld me; the tomb was left open, and I left my prison; I repaired to a neighbour­ing cottage, where I gained much information respecting the Chatteau, and its inhabitants; I found too, that a lady was confined there. The next day the Count arrived with his friends; I disguised myself like one of the attendants; and got admittance; as such I had no fears of being discovered, I had been brought in the night, and since my arrival had seen no one, except the man who brought me my food; and him only by night; my dress was different, and my disguise complete. Last night I found your cham­ber door, and called to you by name, but you were asleep or did not hear me. A noise below obliged me to leave my station; but to day I pro­cured horses, to be in waiting, and was deter­mined to rescue you, or perish in the attempt. [Page 216] It was surely Heaven that sent me, at that peri­od, when I was so much wanted; and yet, we should not have effected our escape, but for the lady, who is, I suppose, the Count's mistress.

He ended his narrative, with expressions of gratitude, to that power, who had thus far pro­tected them, and professions of a passion as tend­er and faithful, as it was sincere; and JULIA gave him an account, of every thing, that had happened to her since he left the Villa. This con­versation lasted until morning, and with a heart filled with grateful sensations, JULIA beheld the sun arise. How different were her emotions now; and the last time she saw it, she remarked this difference to Colwort; who could now view her beautiful, and interesting face, with rapture; and they enjoyed the most sublime pleasures, those of mingled gratitude, love and friendship.

As the morning advanced, they entered a little town, and Colwort left his horses at the first Inn they came to, and hired a chaise, for that day's journey, and JULIA purchased some things, that were necessary, the fear of being overtaken prevent­ed their taking any repose, and after a slight refresh­ment, they sat forward to the Villa. When Colwort looked at JULIA and saw her counte­nance animated, though her face was pale, and though her eyes expressed joy and hope, they were sunk and languid; he thought he had nev­er seen any thing so beautiful before; he held her hand in his; he pressed it to his lips, and in the softest and most energetic language expressed his love, his delight, his hopes, and anticipated joys, of days and years, spent in her dear society.

They made long stages, and at night JULIA [Page 217] found herself, so much fatigued, as to be unable to pursue her journey without repose; besides the carriage, was only hired for one day, and was now dismissed, when they stopped at a public house, and JULIA preferred passing the night, at a con­vent, that was in the neighbourhood; Colwort immediately conducted her, and she was agreea­bly surprized, to find when she arrived, it was the same convent, she had once been entertained at, with the Countess DE LAUNA; the Abbess and several of the nuns recognized her, and re­ceived her with pleasure for the night; Colwort was invited to stay to supper, with the superior, and upon his taking leave, desired to breakfast with them the next morning; as he left the parlour, JULIA followed him, with her eyes, and sighed as the door shut him from her view; she was ashamed of the pre-sentiment, she was then sensi­ble of, and endeavoured to shake it off; after a short conversation, the Abbess conducted her to her chamber; and a bed and repose were never more welcome to the weary traveller, than they now were to the fatigued and exhausted girl. But though she wooed with the most pleasing sensations, the drowsy god, it was late, and the convent clock had struck twelve, before he deigned to close her eyelids; when she awoke, the sun had risen to a considerable height, and fearful that she had trespassed upon the rules of the house, or made Colwort wait, she dressed her­self in haste, and descended to the parlour.

CHAPTER XXI.

AFTER the compliments of the morning, the Abbess expressed her surprize, that Col­wort did not make his appearance; she wait­ed half an hour and then sent a servant to the Inn to enquire for him; he was absent but a few minutes, when he returned with the dreadful ac­count, that the young gentleman had been seiz­ed by the officers of justice, for the murder of the Count DE LAUNA, and carried to Paris at mid­night.

When JULIA heard this news, a death-like stupor pervaded her senses; she sat like a statue, no tears, no sigh, declared her distress; her eyes fixt in despair upon the floor; her hands lifted up, and her whole frame in the attitude of an­guish, too severe to be expressed; the Abbess moved and alarmed at her situation endeavoured to provoke her tears. After some time she suc­ceeded, and when her full heart was in some mea­sure relieved, she informed this benevolent wo­man, of all that had happened to her, and asked her what she would advise her to do? I would advise you, my dear, said that good lady, to proceed im­mediately to the Villa, inform the Countess of every circumstance, and you will insure her in­terest in favour of Mr. Colwort.

JULIA arose with spirit, and prepared to act, [Page 219] agreeably to the advice, she had received, which indeed agreed with her own sentiments; but up­on sending out, no chaise or carriage of any kind was to be procured, for that day; and a gentle­man who lived in the neighbourhood of the Countess, and was a friend of the Abbess, heard of what had happened, and as he had business, a few miles, beyond the Villa, proposed to carry JULIA to the Countess, the next morning, if she would put herself under his protection.

Though she felt extreme reluctance, to tarry another night, from the Villa, and she thought it her duty to take every step, in her power, to re­lease her lover immediately, yet she was obliged to submit to this delay.

This day was perhaps the longest of her life, and the most painful. Very early the next morn­ing, the gentleman called at the convent; she had been ready a long while, and after taking an affectionate leave, of the worthy Abbess, and friendly nuns, she seated herself by the side of Monsieur Duboit, and began her journey to the, Villa; though this gentleman was sensible, and kind, yet he had not those qualities, which could shorten the distance, to a mind so distressed as her's was; the unfortunate girl after a few at­tempts at conversation, became silent, and retir­ing within herself, found a vast horde of misery for her contemplation.

The sun had gained his meridian summit, and she was awoke from her reverie by her com­panion, who pointed out to her the buildings of the Villa; at this cheering sight, hope which had almost deserted, returned; her bosom became animated, and she anticipated the embraces of [Page 220] the Countess; her exertions in favour of Colwort, and his restoration to liberty; they were now within half a mile of the end of her journey, when they were overtaken by a servant, who came to inform Monsieur Duboit, that his eld­est son had met with a most distressing accident, and that his immediate presence was required. The gentleman became distressed, and JULIA desired he would let her alight, as she could with ease, and pleasure walk the little distance, in a short time. She expressed her sorrow for his af­fliction; thanked him for his attention; and he permitted her to get out of the chaise.

She proceeded with alacrity, until she came to the gate, but was surprized, to find it locked; a circumstance that persuaded her, that the Countess, had not returned, as it was always left open, when she was at home; she rang the bell, and in a few moments saw the porter coming a­cross the Park.—Oh Pedro, (said she,) I am glad to see you; where is your lady, and how do you all do? We are all well, Madamoiselle (he replied,) my lady is still at Paris. I am sorry (cried JU­LIA,) for that, (and she wondered that he did not open the gate,) when do you expect her? We do not know when; but we heard from her yesterday (he said in a sulkey tone,) and she sent down word, (he added,) and an order, that you should not be admitted at the Villa; not ad­mitted (said JULIA,) then I am undone! I cannot help that (cryed he with great indiffer­ence,) you won't enter here, and you had best leave the gate. Good Heaven, (said JULIA,) where can I go? And what will become of Col­wort? That is your look out, (said the brutal [Page 221] fellow,) but I advise you to leave the gate im­mediately.

It would be impossible to describe the state of JULIA'S mind at this instant, but amidst her own destitute and forlorn situation, the fate of her lover, was uppermost. The brutality of this man, added ingratitude to his baseness, and oc­casioned a pang, she had never felt before; a few days before, she had left the Villa, this fellow had been dismissed, for some high misdemeanor; but at the intreaties of JULIA, he had been re­ceived and forgiven; he professed the utmost gratitude for her intercession; and such was her opinion of the human heart, that she imagined, he would have died to serve her; his conduct o­pened her eyes, and the hasty retrospect she now took of her short and unfortunate life, she found many instances that led her to suspect those merits, she had been tenacious in supposing inhabited every bosom, were but the visionary phantoms of her own imagination, or the garb that veil from mortal ken, the vices or follies of mankind.

She did not however wait for another order to quit the gate, but with a bursting heart she turn­ed down the country road; she knew not where to go, nor which way to proceed, but walked with hurried steps, until she came to another avenue, that led to the house, she had loved so well; a little seat had been raised out side the walk, it was now covered with jasmine, and woodbine; and she remembered how often she had been seated upon it, with the Countess; she recollected too, for memory now became a cruel and faithful intruder, that the very day before she left that charming retirement, she had read Mil­ton, [Page 222] in English to the Marquis; she recollected that upon that very seat, the Countess had ex­pressed her pity for the first offender, "and yet (said she,) she drives me from her presence, and sends me out an helpless wanderer, to a world that I do not know, and to which I am a strang­er; I shall never more enter this walk again; never again taste the pleasure of being beloved by this best of women, or hearing her instructions; deserted by the only friend I ever knew; lost to my wretched lover; an helpless, friendless orph­an; what will become of me?" As she indulged these thoughts, a thousand tender recollections rushed upon her mind, and almost overpowered her senses: She sunk on her knees before the seat and would have prayed, but the hurricane in her bosom, prevented her connecting her ideas. In this situation, wishing for death as her only friend, she continued for a short time; until she was aroused from this stupor, by a person who in a sweet, persuasive, but manly voice, begged to know what had reduced her to such distress; she just looked up and waved her hand for him to leave her.—"What, leave you, (said he) in this situation? No, Heaven forbid. Put it in my power, to serve you; let me see you composed, for I cannot leave you." Oh, (said JULIA) I am wretched and undone; you cannot help me; leave me to that fate that follows me. "No, (replied he) lady, I will not leave you; if you are undone by the frailty of human nature, for who is exempt from frailty, I will pour into your wounded heart the balm and oil of symphathy, I will assist your steps to regain the paths of virtue; if you are unhappy by the baseness or ingratitude of ano­ther, [Page 223] I will symphathize with you in all your sor­rows, and be a companion in all your griefs; if you have lost your friends, I and mine will sup­ply their place; if you are poor, my fortune is at your command; but desire me not to leave you." Thank GOD, (said JULIA,) I have no great error to accuse myself of; but, I am deserted by my friends; I have, no relations, no fortune; no house; no home; and know not where to lay my head. "The Saviour of mankind, the King of all the earth, (cried the stranger,) knew not where to lay his head; I profess myself his follower; an humble follower; but a sincere believer in him, who died for sinners; my religion bids me to as­sist those who are distressed; confide in that re­ligion then; and let me be your protector; un­til we can find one, who better deserves that name." JULIA looked at him, and in his inter­esting countenance, and intelligent, though plain features, read such a collection of virtues as al­most silenced every doubt; he spoke with all the energy of an honest, though enthusiastic heart. She observed he had a chaise in waiting; his di­alect, though he spoke good French, convinced her he was a foreigner, his tall and manly person almost awed her anxiety to peace. Alas, (said she,) what shall I do? "Let me convey you lady, to a place of ease, and safety, (he replied,) a few miles from hence lives a country woman of mine; she is the daughter of sorrow and has drank all the cup of affliction; misfortune has become fa­miliar to her; but still she preserves every virtue, and cherishes every charity. I will carry you to her, and if a doubt still remains, let this remove it. I love and am beloved by one, of the best of [Page 224] her sex; in a few weeks I shall receive her hand at the altar, as a pledge of lasting happiness; if she is what I think her, she would not receive me with a transport of ardent welcome, were I capa­ble either of betraying one, who confided in me, or leaving one in distress; but if you will not be prevailed upon to go with me, tell me to what asylum I shall convey you, for see the sun is now verging to his repose, and I will not leave you."

This last argument prevailed, and she suffered herself to be put into the chaise, and the servant drove off.

This young gentleman was one of those few, who at the early age of twenty four was possessed of every virtue; his name was Roswell, he was the eldest son of a worthy man, who cultivated a large unincumbered estate of his own, in the North of England; he had received all the ad­vantages of a good education; his person was good; his mind improved; his heart open; his temper frank, and his disposition benevolent; early in life, he became attached to religion, and wished at his quitting college, to take orders im­mediately; but his father who in the last three years had lost all his children, thought this the scheme of monkish superstition, and to divert him from it, had insisted upon it, that he should spend four years in France and Italy previous to this step. This was a great self denial, to the young man, who knew that the profession he wished to embrace, did not exclude the social charities, innocent pleasures, or real gratifications; he knew that it embraced them all in a most exten­sive point of view; for he was sure that a consci­entious Clergyman was the father of his people, [Page 225] the friend of the poor, and the protector of all the children of sorrow; besides he had with extreme avidity from his childhood cultivated an acquaint­ance with a lovely little orphan, who was left un­der the protection of his father; in mind and sen­timent alike, they loved their own virtues in each other; early accustomed to love each other, se­paration was to them the greatest afflicton, and to meet, the greatest joy they were capable of tasting, they both discovered, while very young, that their happiness would consist in living for each other, and when Roswell acknowledged his attachment, the blushing Lucretia, owned a similar affection.

His father had long known the virtues of this charming girl, he approved his son's choice, and engaged that in four years, Lucretia should be his; Lucretia had prided herself upon her penetration for she had at a very early age discovered those qualities, that now began to mature; and she not only loved but reverenced them; painful was the idea of four years' absence, yet when Roswell knew, that Lucretia was to be the sure, and am­ple reward of his obedience, he entered upon it with as much avidity, as the patriarch did, when he began his seven years servitude for the beaute­ous Rachel. And this attachment was perhaps necessary to preserve a youth of his fire and en­ergy, from the vices and follies with which he was surrounded. Half the term of probation was e­lapsed, when he was summoned home upon a melancholy errand; to close the eyes of his fa­ther, and comfort a widowed mother, was the of­fice that was assigned him; and he undertook it with resigned alacrity. But when he arrived in England, the lamp of life was not so far extin­guished [Page 226] in the father, but that he beheld his son's improvements with pleasure, and fondly anticipat­ed that period when the talents and genius of Ros­well, expanded by the hand of time, would aston­ish as well as better mankind; this idea pursued him in his dying moments, and ambitious for ev­ery improvement, he conjured his son to contin­ue his travels, for two years longer before he set­tled in life.

Young Roswell would, to sooth and comfort a dying parent, have promised any thing, within the verge of possibility, and a few weeks after his decease, left his native country, and returned to France; there with an heart full of his mother, and his Lucretia, he pursued every study that was either useful, or ornamental, and practiced every virtue that can do honor to human nature. His term of probation was nearly expired, and he meant to spend the last six weeks in France, with an old lady, that he reverenced and support­ed; this was the time of his meeting JULIA.

For some time after they had commenced their little journey; lost in grief, wonder and fear, unaccompanied by hope, she rode several miles without speaking, and Mr. Roswell was too well acquainted with the human heart to interrupt this silence; he knew by experience, that com­fort comes in vain, that comes too soon; and he forbore one word either of sympathy, or remark; satisfied that he was performing a benevolent ac­tion; he was laying plans to be still more useful, and anticipating a pleasing reward he should meet with in his Lucretia's augmented love; more than half their little ride was performed, when he began a conversation by some remarks [Page 227] upon the twilight, that were so much like what she had heard drop from the lips of Colwort, that they occasioned a deep sigh, and after a few moments silence, she asked him his country; when informed that he was an Englishman, she felt something like the revival of those hopes, that had been so cruelly blasted at the Villa; Do you know a young gentleman of your coun­try, by the name of Francis COLWORT, she in­quired? "Only by report (he returned;) pray what of him?" Oh, (said JULIA) he is miserable, and I am the wretched cause; when I found you were his countryman, I did not know, I was so foolish as to admit hope. "Hope, (said he) entertain it still; it is a delightful visitor; make it so wel­come that it become a constant inhabitant of your bosom." Alas! said JULIA, my fate has been so wayward, that it almost totally excludes the charming visitant. "When you can without re­newed pain, young lady, favour me with a recit­al of your sorrows, you will oblige me, and per­haps, put it in my power to serve you; but un­less that can be done without the sacrifice of a moment's quiet, I will not ask the pleasure."

JULIA in a frank, and concise manner, inform­ed him of the events of her life, and her real sit­uation, and in the course of her little narrative, discovered so much good sense, and so much re­al merit, as insured her the admiration, as well as esteem of Roswell. He assured her, that he would the very next day, take active measures in behalf of COLWORT, and see the Countess, as soon as possible, as he was sure, she had been im­posed upon; in the mean time, he begged her [Page 228] to be easy▪ and again assured her of the comfort and honor of the place she was going to.

Few Englishmen were better qualified, than Mr. Roswell, for this undertaking; he had been in France so long, that he was well acquainted with its laws, customs, and manners; but his temper was so sanguine, that he always looked upon the bright side of every picture, and he doubted not of his success in spite of the Bastile, which fancy had conjured up to torture him; but he carefully avoided to mention his fears, and only spake of hope; his conversation, was such a combination of good sense, genius, and solid piety, that every word he spake was full of consolation; it calmed the tumults of her troub­led mind, and soothed her into peace.

It was near ten o'clock, at right, when they arrived at a little, neat mansion, that stood in the suburbs of a village, he lifted her from the car­riage, and with every expression of comfort, led her into the house; here they were met by a ven­erable woman, who had counted more than sev­enty years. "My good Madam, (cried Roswell,) how do you do? Here I have brought you [...] charming companion: she is unhappy, you must teach her to be otherways." I think (said the old lady,) she must be good, as you recommend her; I will endeavour to render her cheerful, at least." She conducted them into a little parlour, and tho' she was pleased with the person and manners of JULIA, yet she was grieved at the evident marks of illness, that sickness had impressed up­on her face. Indeed the tumults of her mind, the fatigues of her person, and want of rest, af­fected her so much, that she found herself sinking [Page 229] beneath them; after a slight repast, her kind hostess conducted her to her chamber, where she helped undress, and put her to bed.

With a deep and heavy sigh, JULIA laid her aching head upon the pillow, and endeavored to compose herself. But how different was her situ­ation, to what it was a few days before, accom­panied by her lover on her way to her benefact­ress, a thousand gay visions fluttered before her eyes, and dazzled her in prospect. She was now deprived of that lover who would in all proba­bility suffer an ignominious death; discarded by that benefactress; in the care of strangers; at a distance from any place she had ever seen. These reflections did not serve to close her eyes, nor sooth the tumultuous agitations of her heart; but she lay apparently resigned, and patient, until near day, when a transient slumber shut out the past, and to come, from her view, and she did not awake until morning, dressed in all its splendor, appeared to drive the drowsy god, from scenes so light and charming.

"How are you my dear, (said Madam de Shong) who stood by her bed side? JULIA gave her hand, which was dry and hot, and replied she was better than she had been the night before, and would rise directly. Do not rise my love, (said the kind woman,) you are too ill; she left the room and returned in a moment with a medicine; she then bathed her throbbing temples, and in a short time she became composed, and after a few hours rest, became refreshed and better.

She did not see Roswell until near night, when he came in, he found her in conversation with the old lady, who had engaged her friendship and [Page 230] esteem, by her mildness and benevolence; Ros­well assured her that if she had been well e­nough to have given him particular directions, he should have set off that morning, in pursuit of Mr. Colwort; "but (said he) I will go tomorrow, and only leave this injunction upon you, that you will be as easy as possible until my return; hope for every thing that you wish; but remember if those wishes are not gratified, that he who de­nies them has not only infinite power, and infinite wisdom, but infinite mercy." JULIA promised obedience to his directions, and after again ex­pressing her sense of the obligation, she was un­der to him, retired to her apartment to write to COLWORT, and when she had finished her letter to him, wrote a few lines to the Countess DE LAUNA, in which she expressed her gratitude for past favours; her sorrow for having offend­ed her; and her prayers and wishes for her hap­piness; she set the affair between the COUNT and COLWORT, in a true light, and implored her mercy and interference in behalf of that un­fortunate young man. In this letter she did not mention the place of her abode, nor drop one hint which would lead to a discovery of her real situation. The exertion that was necessary to the writing these letters, exhausted her so much, that as soon as they were finished, she went to bed, as she could there indulge her feelings, with more freedom, than in any other place. She a­rose early, and sound Roswell ready to set out upon his benevolent journey; the fire of genius that was expressed upon his countenance, was so softened by the expression of humanity, so mild­ly mixed with benevolence, that JULIA could [Page 231] not help thinking him one of the most interest­ing men she had ever seen. He attended to all her directions; received her letters, and promis­ed to do all within the power of a mortal, to re­store her lover, and happiness; he bade them a­dieu, and was followed by their prayers and good wishes.

CHAPTER, XXII.

WHEN he was gone, she determined not to sink into unavailing melancholy, and to avoid it, sought for employment; Madam De Shong complied with her request, and as she employed all her moments to some useful purpose, presented her with some linen that she had taken to make; JULIA pleased that she could be of service, work­ed with niceness and alacrity, and gave her wor­thy landlady pleasure and satisfaction.

The third day after her arrival, they were at work in a little parlour; JULIA could not help making an observation, that had often occured to her that the manners of her entertainer were so polished, that she must have moved in a situa­tion [Page 232] different from her present sphere. Your re­mark is just, my dear, she replied, and as my mis­fortunes I think will convince you, that you are not the most unhappy person in the world, I will, if my loquacious egotism will not tire you, I will tell you my story. JULIA assured her, that no­thing could oblige her more, and she began as follows:

Here she ended; and JULIA with a look of mingled admiration and sympathy, thanked her for a narrative so full of instruction, and promis­ed to profit by her example, and to acquiesce with a cheerful resignation with the will of Prov­idence.

CHAPTER, XXIII.

A FEW days after Madam De Shong had made the above communications of her life and sorrows, to JULIA, the latter took from her pock­et book, the paper that Olivia had given her, the night she left the Chatteau; she recollected that she had desired her to read it, and then de­liver it as directed; it was directed to the Che­valier St. Armand, of the order of the Knights [Page 241] of Malta; she hesitated a moment, to whom should she send it, or who would convey it to the Chevalier; and recollection told her that Mr. Roswell would take that care upon himself, and she read as follows:

JULIA turned with disgust from the picture Olivia drew; with pity from the wretched writer; to look with admiration upon Madam DE SHONG; she was mild, meek, and humble, at the same time, she was active, and always cheerful; with that excellent woman, we will leave her, and go back to the Countess, of whom we have heard nothing since she sent for JULIA, into Spain.

That lady expected her beloved ward, until the arrival of the carriage with her servants; her surprize at the account they gave of her being taken away, could only be equalled by her con­cern, and as she did not suspect her nephew, she applied to him to assist the Marquis in pursuit of her; this artful man pretended equal distress with herself, and appeared ready to take the [Page 245] most active measures, to discover JULIA; all Paris and its suburbs were searched, every Con­vent in the Kingdom examined; until worn out with unsuccessful enquiries, they gave up in des­pair what appeared so vain and fruitless; and the Count concluded to visit his Chatteau, mak­ing use of the death of Leonora, as an argument for his going down at that time; he had for some time kept Donna Olivia, and though he support­ed her in great magnificence, neither his father or aunt knew of his connection; he had held up the tenets of the Illuminati to her view; he had dazzled her understanding, and imposed upon her vanity; but though she sacrificed to vice, her soul bowed to virtue; and when she looked in upon herself, she was shocked at the folly of her proceedings; she accompanied him to the Chat­teau, and from her arrival, was viewed with jea­lousy and suspicion; they would not confide to her half their secrets; until she had taken the oaths, and as she hesitated, they became still more uneasy; what she had known of them, shocked her to the soul, and she could not help viewing them as fiends from the infernal regions; and she did not fail to remonstrate to the Count against the iniquity of his proceedings; but tho' the understanding of Olivia, was superior to ma­ny, she had by becoming a slave to a vicious propensity, overthrown her own arguments, and she saw that he turned from her with disgust; she found her once ardent lover, cold, and insen­sible; anxious to discover the reason; she sought the cause with avidity, and found that JULIA was confined in the house; she was no longer surprized, and her pity for the unfortunate girl, [Page 246] was heightened by her admiration of those vir­tues which Philada extolled so highly. She was sensible of the danger to which she was exposed, and after laying a plan for her escape, retired, and wrote the letter that is mentioned in this chapter, and was hastening to her apartment when she met her descending with Colwort.

As soon as they were gone, she went to the Count, whom she found insensible, his arm bleed­ing, and his temple, which he had struck in his fall, swollen to an amazing degree; it was seve­ral hours before he recovered his recollection, and when he did, after consulting a surgeon, who sup­posed him in no danger; he enquired for JULIA and her deliverer, when informed of their escape, his rage knew no bounds, and summoning some of his associates, they took different routs in pur­suit of the fugitives. COLWORT they overtook, and conveyed to a private prison. JULIA escaped them, though some of them delivered an order in the name of the Countess, that she should not be admitted at the Villa; while a party laid wait for the unprotected girl; this part of their scheme was rendered abortive, by the humane care of Mr. Roswell, and they retired to the Chatteau with an account of their achievement.

In the mean time, Jaques faithful to his prom­ise, had delivered JULIA'S letter to the Countess; who read with amazement its contents, and hearing from Jaques every circumstance that had occured at the Chatteau, took him into her ser­vice, and then accompanied by the Marquis, and a retinue too numerous to fear the Count, and his myrmidons set out for the retreat of the Count; they travelled with all the expedition that the in­firmities [Page 247] of the Marquis would permit; but when within a few leagues of the end of their journey, were met by a messenger, who informed them that the unhappy man, was at the point of death, they pushed forward, and arrived but a few hours before the closing of a life, filled with guilt and iniquity. The change in the Count was observ­ed directly after the return of those who went in pursuit of JULIA, and COLWORT; and was oc­casioned by an accident, that proves the retribu­tion of Providence. The Count had always kept with him the doctor, who, officiated at the illness of his mother in law; he had administered the cordial that quickened her passage from scenes of mortality and pain, to those of joy unfading; finding it necessary to open a vein; notwith­standing the loss of blood had been great, he applied by mistake a lancet diped in a most deadly poison; his whole mass of blood was in­fected, and symptoms of approaching death ap­peared; the doctor's agitation betrayed his se­cret, and he applied every art of medicine, in vain; it was then that his associates, his falsely named friends, left him; but his servants secur­ed the surgeon, until the Marquis should arrive. He was then left only to the unfortunate Olivia, and his servants. The desertion of these people seemed to convince him of his errors; he begged Olivia to write the Marquis; to intreat he would hasten to him, for indeed he had a dreadful ac­count to settle with him. This unhappy woman obeyed his directions; and was surprized to find they arrived so much sooner than they could ex­pect.

She left the Count in a partial sleep, and met [Page 248] them in the parlour, the Countess was surprized to find her there; and her distress and confusion told them how much she felt her humiliating state; in a concise manner, she told them the e­vents that had shortened the life of the Count, and as soon as he awaked, they went to his bed chamber, were they found him in his last ago­nies; he stretched out his hand to his father; begged his forgiveness for all his vices; owned they had been many, and aggravated; lamented his early departure from virtue; his connection with her opposite, and attributed it to the ex­ample and pernicious doctrine of the vile sect with whom he had associated; he begged every one would leave the room, but his father, his aunt, and Philada, and when his request was com­plied with, he began to remark the retribution of that power, whose existence he had denied; who had chosen that very hand, as the instru­ment of his death, that he had employed to fin­ish the days of the amiable Marchioness, while the Marquis heard this recital, his agony and ag­itation was so great, that his unhappy son became more bewildered; he was forced to take a cor­dial, and when he endeavoured to proceed, he was evidently dying, his voice was thick and difficult to be understood; but the name of the Marchi­oness, was again pronounced, of a child, and of a servant; at length he found he could not make himself intelligent, he stopped as if to recollect himself, and then added, I am too weak to say what I wish; send to the house of Monsieur Nancrede in Paris; there is confined a woman, whose testimony is true, believe her; confide in her; she will unravel a scene of iniquity; she [Page 249] will direct you to find a lost—his words died upon his lips; he fell into convulsions, and died without pronouncing another syllable.

When they saw he was really gone; the un­happy father with the Countess retired into ano­ther apartment, and left the wretched remains to the care of his domestics.

As soon as he was interred, which ceremony was performed without pomp or parade; the Marquis prepared to examine the doctor, but he had es­caped amidst the general confusion; Donna Oli­via now urged them to send to Paris, as she as­sured them that some important secret, hung up­on the release of a woman whom the Count had since his confinement, several times mentioned; and had assured her that she had been confined several years; at the same time she gave such an account of the deliverer of JULIA, as convinced them it was Colwort; upon inquiry of the keep­er of the prison, not a doubt remained; and they sought to find out the place of his confinement; determined to release and make him happy. As for JULIA they did not hesitate to suppose she was at the Villa, and the Countess sent off a serv­ant, to inform her of all that had happened at the Chatteau; but the man returned in a few days, with an account of her having been denied admit­tance, and that they had heard nothing of her since; this was distressing to the affectionate heart of the Marquis and his sister; who feared she was betrayed again into the hands of the Illumi­nati; and both entertained so dreadful an idea of this sect, that they dreaded the thoughts of her sufferings and danger.

Within a few days the person who had been [Page 250] sent to Paris, returned with intelligence from Monsieur Nancrede, that the woman who had been intrusted to his care, had corrupted the man who attended upon her, and with him made her escape; thus was a secret of apparent great import­ance, still enveloped in clouds of mystery; this perplexed and distressed the Marquis and his sister; the former of whom was now bending be­neath the accumulated weight of sorrow and in­firmity, and the latter suffering all the pains of sin­cere friendship for a beloved object.

Several weeks passed off in this manner, when one afternoon a servant informed the Countess, that a young Englishman wished to speak to her. The servant added a second time, he is an En­glishman, Madam, and the Countess whose imag­ination dwelt upon JULIA and Colwort, imme­diately supposed it must be him; she ordered him to be admitted, and the moment he enter­ed the door, she saw indeed that it was not her young friend; she was disappointed, for though his air was elegant, his person genteel, and his countenance expressive, and prepossessing, it bore no resemblance of her deliverer; with a sigh of chagrin, she asked his business; I have presumed to wait upon you, Madam, in behalf of a very lovely, but a very unfortunate young woman; could I flatter myself my embassy, would be suc­cessful, I should be very happy. If unfortunate in other respects, (said the Countess,) she has been fortunate, in her ambassador, for I am convinced I cannot deny any thing to your intreaties. I have been taught to expect every thing from your philanthropy, Madam, and I am convinced mis­fortune never sued in vain. The writer of this [Page 251] letter, (he said, and he laid it upon the table by her, bowing). The eye of the Countess was caught by the direction, surely, surely I am not deceived (said she,) it is the character of my beloved JULIA; it is indeed, (said Roswell,) for it was himself, the character of the amiable JULIA VALLACE, and it is upon her account, that I wait upon you. She needs no intercession, she cried, as she opened the letter, and I thank heaven that I have a pros­pect of seeing my amiable friend again; tell me sir; tell me where she is, and where I shall find her; my arms, my heart, are open to receive her.—This will be a rich, a reviving cordial to her af­flicted spirit, (cried Roswell) I will hasten on the wings of impatience, to bear these tidings of joy. Amiable young man, (said the Countess) how I venerate the warmth, the generosity of your feel­ings; but I will read, what she says, I am sure you will excuse me. In perusing this letter of JULIA'S, the tears of the Countess bore witness of her affection. When she ended, she made a thousand enquiries of Roswell, and though he spake with modesty of his own services, yet he painted her distress in true colours. Madam DE LAUNA expresed her gratitude, for his goodness and explained the treachery that had given the appearance of cruelty to any part of her conduct; She then asked if he had been successful, with respect to Colwort Rosewell informed her that he should have been with her three weeks since, but for an alarming indisposition with which he was seized upon his journey; that he had made every possible search for his countryman, hither­to without success; but if he was aided by her and the Marquis, he had no doubt but his next [Page 252] attempts would be more effectual. The Coun­tess assured him of every possible assistance from herself and brother; and when the Marquis came in, informed him of the pleasing business of Roswell, and presented him as the deliverer of JULIA. The venerable man received him with every expression of regard, and gratitude; and Ros­well found by his manner as well as looks, how dear JULIA was to him. They concluded to set out the next morning for the habitation of Mad­am De Shong, as they both declared that they would run no farther risque of disappointment, to themselves; or of her safety, by trusting her in less affectionate, or less interested hands, than their own.

CHAPTER XXIV.

WE will now return to JULIA, whose fate seemed to draw towards a crisis, dreadful indeed! For two of the four weeks, that Roswell had been absent, she and her venerable friend had looked for him, with increasing impatience. When they beheld the sun arise in the morning, they hoped, that he with them, would greet its exit; [Page 253] but every evening brought a new disappointment. For every morning found them flushed with hope.

Working and reading divided their time; and conversation supplied every interval, with some­thing new and interesting. After sitting up late one night, and talking over again, every topic that they loved to dwell on; they retired to their seperate apartments, and a gentle slumber, had sealed up their senses, when they were awoke by the cry of fire. JULIA, who was first alarmed by finding her apartment enveloped in flames, which had caught the curtains, that were around the bed, sprang up, and rushed immediate­ly through the fire, into Madam DE SHONG'S room; she had presence of mind, to pull too the door, and though that and every other apart­ment was in a blaze, it had not reached the chamber of her hostess, who was that moment aroused by the smoke, and the cries of the people without, who were just collected.

JULIA saw she was bewildered, and besought her to get up, and endeavour to save herself; the little Maria was running about, in great dis­tress; and a person entered the window, by a ladder; come Madamoiselle, (he cried,) we will save you; trust yourself to me. Not before Madam DE SHONG, has escaped the fire (said JULIA with firmness) save yourself, my dear children, (cried the old lady;) my life is nearly at an end; your's is just beginning. The person declared, this was no time for argument, and as he found JULIA would not go, until her friend was safe, with the assistance of a young, and ac­tive man, he lifted her from the window, and in a [Page 254] moment she was upon the ground; JULIA next insisted that Maria, should descend the ladder; and though frighted, the little girl was too active to need much assistance; a young gentleman who had before persuaded JULIA to go down, caught her in his arms, and forced her from the window, and in less than a minute the roof sunk in. The maid servant who laid below stairs had awaked the first, she had attempted to ascend the stairs, to inform those above, but found the staircase an intire body of fire; she then alarmed the neighbourhood, with her cries, and though every one was safe, not one article of cloathing, or furniture, was preserved from this most devour­ing element.

The young man, who had at the risque of his own life saved that of JULIA, still stood by her, he had wrapped her in a large cloak of his own; for she was only habited in her night cloaths, and by every soothing attention, endeavored to keep her spirits from fainting; but her concern was wholly occupied by Madam, and she seemed to lose every personal concern, in her anxiety for her.

The confusion had in some measure subsided, and they were carried into a neighbouring house and put to bed; but the most painful ideas, drove off every thought of sleep; Madam reflected that perhaps some accident, had happened to Roswell which might prevent his return, and that in this helpless, unfriended state, she should be left to suffer all the evils attendant upon poverty, and old age. JULIA'S reflections were not of a more pleasing nature; she recollected that but for her, Mr. Roswell would have been with them at the [Page 255] time of this dreadful accident; and that perhaps the spark that caught the house, had fell from her candle; her purse that was by no means ex­hausted had fallen a prey to the fire, and her cloaths had perished with it. This last want, was supplied the next morning by the charity of some neighbours, and for several days their kind­ness was continued; but it then seemed to cease, and every hour their impatience to hear from Roswell increased; the fifth day after their mis­fortune, the young gentleman who had saved JU­LIA, called upon them, and after lamenting the evil to which he had been a witness, expressed his admiration of the young lady, and without any hesitation proposed that they should all re­side with him, at his house which was large and convenient. While Madam and JULIA express­ed their gratitude for this offer, which the latter was about to accept, when he turned to JULIA and with an assurance unequalled, offered to settle an annuity upon her for life, and take the care of her friend, and the little girl upon himself, if she would consent to live with him as a mistress.

Her astonishment at this affrontive proposal, arose to anger that she had never felt before, and in the most spirited terms she refused him, and told him that she should in future value her life much less than she had ever done before, because it had been saved by a man, that she so sincerely despised; she concluded by desiring him to leave the [...] and Madam repeated her commands, in a void of decided authority, that was not to be trifled with.

He had but just left them, when the person to whom the house belonged, entered, and informed [Page 256] them that they must quit the apartment that very night, as they expected some friends that rendered it necessary.

Madam was really sick, and JULIA knew no­thing of the neighbourhood; they knew not what to do, nor which way to turn when Callista, the girl, who had lived with Madam, and who was much attached to her, called to see them, she resided with her sister, who occupied only one room; and supported herself by labour; this girl told them she believed they could get lodgings, or at least a room, for a few days, at a tavern, about a mile from their old residence.—It was now afternoon, and JULIA accompanied by Callista, walked immediately there; she tried several houses on the way, but met with no success, and when she arrived, found herself so fa­tigued, as convinced her the distance must be treble what she had been informed. She told the tavern-keeper, that they expected a friend who would pay all their expences, and that if any thing should prevent his coming, Madam would send to her banker, at Paris, for her annuity, which would become due in a month. The man made many objections, but at last her per­suasions, aided by the intreaties of Callista, pre­vailed; and he set out in a chaise, for Madam, who immediately lest the house she was at, and arrived just as it grew dark; JULIA who had not returned, had busied herself in preparing the apartment, which was up two pair of stairs, was surprized to find Maria was not with her, and heard with much satisfaction, that a person who lived near, had invited the little girl to spend a week with their children, who were a­bout [Page 257] her age; this lessened their expences, and JULIA assured Madam of her alacrity, in supply­ing the want of an attendant.

For several days, they were supplied with pro­visions from the landlord's table; but after that the resource failed, and JULIA who began to be apprehensive of extreme want, proposed to Mad­am, that she would walk to a Convent, and endea­vour to procure some employ, for she had tried in vain, in the neighbourhood, and every person was obliged to do their own work. The walk was long and tiresome, and when JULIA inform­ed the Abbess of her situation, that lady, though liberal of her advice, refused her any employ­ment, and suffered her to depart, without that refreshment, of which she certainly stood in need.

She had scarcely set forward on her return, when she was overtaken by the very man, whose insolence had so added to her affliction, and so much offended her; she started when he joined her, and was irresolute whether to return, or go on, but reflection told her that it was not proba­ble he would insult her on her way; she kept forward, and gave no answer to his inquiries, until the began to ask her pardon, for the insult he had dared to offer her, in his late visit. JU­LIA then told him, if he really wished her to think of him with less anger than she then did, he must leave her, as she could not enter into a­ny conversation with a man who had treated her so ill; but he replied he was then on his way to find her, to offer her all the reparation in his pow­er; I have been wretched, since I left you (said he,) that I dared to insult so much virtue and delicacy; and as I can never love or honor any [Page 258] woman as I do you, I have now come to beg you will accept my hand, and become the partak­er of that ample fortune, which Providence has bestowed upon me; he hesitated and JULIA lost her anger, but with firmness she informed him, that her vows of tenderness and fidelity, had long been given to another; and if they were still divided by that fate that had been so cruel to them, she should never transfer her af­fections to another; but she should always con­sider his proposals as an honor that she should reflect upon with pleasure; as it convinced her, her conduct had not been reprehensible. He then lamented his attachment, but begged, tho' she could not love him, she would give him a claim upon her esteem, and oblige him by accept­ing that assistance of which he was sure she stood in need; he besought her with so much earnest­ness to accept at least a temporary supply, that for a moment her wants and those of her venera­ble friend, made her hesitate; but prudence got the better, and with a grateful but modest firm­ness, she refused every assistance, however trifling. He appeared distressed at her refusal, and left her, chagrined and unhappy; a consciousness of having done her duty, now became her only support; before she arrived at her temporary abode, the weather became tempestuous, and night came on with additional horror and darkness. She went immediately to her friend whom she found faint for want of nourishment, as she had not taken a­ny for the day; this was likewise the case with JULIA; and her walk had so exhausted her, that it was with difficulty she could go through the unpleasing task of relating her ill success; but tho' [Page 259] sick and faint to the heart, Madam held her hand with tenderness to her lips, embraced her with affection, and assured her that her con­duct had been exactly consistent with female de­corum.

For some time, they conversed upon their un­happy situation, and endeavoured to inspire each other, with that fortitude which was so necessa­ry; when a girl who attended at the Hotel came up for some chairs, for Madamoiselle (said she) we have a power of company below; we may thank the storm for that however. JULIA then recollected a miniature picture, that her mother had hung around her neck when quite a child, it was richly set in gold, and surrounded by two rows of diamonds; she looked at it for a moment, her own wants however pressing, would never have tempted her to part with it, but when she reflected that Madam DE SHONG was really suf­fering for hunger, she took it from her neck, and pressing it to her lips, with a deep drawn sigh, she followed the girl out of the chamber, and putting it in her hand, requested her to en­deavor to dispose of it to some of the guests below. The girl who really pitied them, and whose heart was truly sympathetic, looked at JULIA'S pale face with tears, and delivering her a candle which she was carrying away, assured her she would sell it to the best advantage, and return to her immediately.

JULIA returned to the chamber, with the light, and upon the inquiries of her friend was obliged to confess what she had done; tho' Ma­dam felt the full force of the sacrifice JULIA had made, yet she could not wish her to recall it, [Page 260] and listened with a palpitating heart for the re­turn of their messenger.

The girl went directly to the room that was appropriated to the guests, and having set down the chairs, advanced to a lady, who sat with a gentleman by the fire, and who was examining with critical scrutiny the face of an old gentleman and a lady, who had just entered; a young man was busied with several attendants, in getting refreshments, and wiping the wet from the la­dy's habit. But when the girl presented the picture and begged to know if none of their hon­ors would please to buy it; she held out her hand, and having examined it for a moment, and turning a spring discovered two miniatures instead of one, and with a kind of frantic aston­ishment demanded to see the person, who sent it, as she was sure it was stolen; the girl declared the innocence of the young lady, who had, de­sired her to sell it, and after some time offered to conduct her to the chamber; and the gentlemen declared they would accompany them, with a view to succor that distress, that the girl had in simple, but pathetic language, delineated.

It would be impossible to describe the confu­sion of the whole party, upon entering the cham­ber, the affrighted girl whose sprightly activity left the others far behind her, entered just time to say, that a lady with a great many others were coming up to secure JULIA as a thief, and was sure, the picture was stolen.

JULIA was supported by a consciousness of her innocence; but Madam already weak, almost fainted with apprehensions; and JULIA on her knees at the bed side begged her to be composed, and held a smelling bottle to her nose.

[Page 261] In this affecting situation, pale as death, and her heart throbbing with a variety of sensations; in a mean chamber almost without furniture, her eyes fixed upon her almost dying friend, JULIA heeded not the entrance of the strangers, but in a moment the silver toned voice of Ros­well, caught her ear. Good Heavens, (he cried) what do I see, Madam DE SHONG, JULIA VAL­LACE? What has brought you here, why have you left …. but before he proceeded, the Countess held JULIA fast locked in her arms, and called her by all the tenderest names, that love and friendship could dictate. Half frantic with joy, her emotions became too powerful, and pressing the Countess to her bosom, she faint­ed. Madam was nearly in the same situation, and the humane maid declared they were both dying for want of food, as they had eat nothing for near two days. Roswell, almost distracted, flew down stairs and returned in a moment, with some cake and cordial from the coach; JULIA was now recovering, and the persuasions of the Countess prevailed on her to take a bit of the cake, and drink some of the liquor. Madam was supplied by Roswell, who with all the tenderness of a son, whole bosom glowed with a fond and respectful affection towards an indulgent mother, persuaded her to take the refreshment he had brought.

In less than half an hour, they became com­posed enough to communicate the cause of their removal, and the Countess declared it the work of Heaven, for if the storm had not obliged them to seek a shelter at the Inn, they should not have stopped until they arrived at the lately destroyed [Page 262] dwelling, and they should not have found them until morning, when help in all probability would have come too late.

JULIA now began to recollect the cause of their being together, and desired to see her ac­cuser, and that her miniature might be returned, the lady who had stood quite back, but who had observed all that had happened, now came for­ward. Tell me, (said she,) if JULIA does not remember the woman who protected her as a mother; who saved her infant life, and who de­voted herself to her and ….. but before she could finish the sentence, JULIA exclaimed, it is my mother! good Heavens it is my mother! and she sunk upon her knees before her; re­member you, Oh yes! and rejoice to see you; rejoice that you are restored to me. The lady embraced her with tears and affection. I am my dear and honored young lady, (said she) not your mother; she has long since fallen a victim to cruelty and vice; but I can restore you to a parent that deserves so great a blessing; here, sir, (said she) turning to the Marquis, I restore to you a daughter, the daughter of your much lov­ed Marchioness, who with her dying breath, bade me preserve her for you. Surely, (said the Marquis) you deceive me; I can never be so blest, I never had a daughter. I do not deceive you, (said the woman,) as sure as you stand there, this young lady is your daughter. Look at me, sir, view me well, has twenty years so altered me, that you have forgotten that Isabella, who fol­lowed your beloved Marchioness from Italy.—What, (cried the Marquis,) are you indeed that faithful Isabella, whom my wife esteemed so [Page 263] much; Oh! I no longer doubt, and with grati­tude and joy, I embrace the blessing that you preserved for me; but how preserved, I cannot yet divine; my lovely daughter, come to the arms of a fond, and affectionate parent; whose greatest blessings are comprized in you. JU­LIA embraced her father with a transport that was new to her heart, but so pleasing, so exquisite, that she would not have exchanged it, for all the joys of the sensualist, and all the riches of the East. It was not that she knew herself the daughter of a Nobleman of the first wealth and respectabili­ty in the Kingdom; but that she had found a parent, whose virtue had rendered him beloved and esteemed by all. That she could attend to him all hours; watch his declining years, and sooth the infirmities of old age; it was this, that gave so sincere a joy to her heart; that her trans­port defied the power of expression; that she could claim as a right the protection of those friends who loved her as such, before they knew of her relationship; her bosom had been so un­used to sensations delightful as these, that now rushed in a full tide of prosperity upon her, that it needed the abatement of not seeing COLWORT amongst the friends that now surrounded her; to prevent its effects being too strong, too mighty, to be supported; but wonder and aston­ishment suspended for a while, the transports of all.

The Countess was the first to ask an ex­planation; she did not doubt the truth, the pleasing truth, but she wished to know by what wonderful means this daughter, had been preserv­ed; she recollected the countenance of Isabella, [Page 264] and after embracing JLUIA, as a lovely and be­loved neice, she begged that her curiosity might be satisfied. I will with pleasure obey you, Mad­am, after the tumults of this dear child's heart have subsided; I think the attendant declares that neither she nor this venerable woman, have taken any nourishment for twenty-four hours; until the slight one that has been presented; and though her agitated spirits are now insensible to every thing but joy, at finding friends so beloved; yet nature must be exhausted. After supper, which is now preparing, I will unfold all my story, by that time, we shall all be more composed; more fitted to receive some alloy, than we are at present.

Every one approved of her motion, and they went immediately below; Madam DE SHONG felt the renovation of her youth, and desired to be assisted down, if what was to be told was not a secret. The Marquis declared that he so re­spected, and revered her character, that he had not a wish to conceal any thing from her; and Roswell, with all the nervous strength of youth, and the tenderness of an amiable heart, without difficulty, assisted her below stairs.

When seated at the supper table, JULIA look­ed around her, with tearful eyes, and an happy heart, her sensations were so exquisite; pressed by her father to partake of this or that little del­icacy; that she asked if it was indeed real, that she was so blest! so happy!

CHAPTER, XXV.

WHEN the cloth was removed, the husband of Isabella reminded her of her promise, and she began as follows:

Here Isabella finished her narrative, which had she followed the dictates of her own heart, she would have rendered it more lengthy and affecting; but in pity to the Marquis, she surpress­ed many circumstances, that she knew would on­ly serve to distress him. But the intelligence, excepting what related to JULIA, was not new to him; Philada had before given her opinion, and indeed the Count's confession, had rendered the matter certain. The Marquis could never think of his wife's untimely end, without grief of heart, nor of his son, without agony; yet to find a [Page 270] daughter, the exact resemblance of her mother, who inherited with it all her beauties, her virtues, and her accomplishments, was a balm, to his wounded heart, and soothed all his sorrows; he embraced her, with tears of tender love, and as­sured, her he found in her, a rich reward for all his sufferings. And then turning to the faithful woman, who had thus preserved her; it is not in my power, (said he,) to repay the debt I owe you, for your unceasing love, to my amiable, la­mented wife; and for preserving this inestimable treasure, my child; but I shall consider you, and your husband, as my best friends, and will as soon as I arrive at my sisters, make such a settlement as shall secure ease and affluence to yourselves and heirs. And you Madam, (said he) addressing himself to Madam De Shong, may from this mo­ment bid adieu to every difficulty, that wealth can remove. Stop, stop, my good brother, (said the Countess) and do not in your joy discover so engrossing a disposition, I demand this venerable, and worthy woman, as my share of blessings, she shall have an equal right with myself to ev­ery thing I possess; and I request that she will leave this village with us tomorrow, to reside with me, an honored friend, and respected com­panion; I shall consider myself accountable for the education, and fortune of her grand-daughter. Ah my friends, (cried Madam) how greatly is my old age blessed, beyond my desert, or expecta­tions. I shall grow too fond of life; but I de­sire to be grateful to you all, and grateful to Hea­ven who has given you wealth and hearts to ren­der it so beneficial to your fellow creatures.—But (said Roswell) I find I am to be cheated intire­ly, [Page 271] and you Madam are looking out for others to make happy, and quite neglect your poor coun­tryman; but I acquiesce, and rejoice in this gene­ral joy. A joy, (replied JULIA) we should never have known but for you, and amidst all these friends, so honoured, so beloved, and to whom I am so obliged, not one has a stronger claim on my gratitude, and esteem; for I was an outcast, and you took me in; distressed, and you relieved me; afflicted, and you comforted me; but tho' I want words to speak my gratitude of all these fa­vours, yet my heart feels all, and is now bursting with a sense of them.

But we must leave a conversation, that we can­not give at full length, and let the imagination conceive the feelings that cannot be described. It was late when they parted for the night; and when JULIA laid her head upon the pillow, a va­riety of contending sensations, concurred to pre­vent rest. Her joy that she had found a father, noble, rich, and worthy, whose heart was over­flowing with tenderness towards her; that she had in the Countess met a friend that had long loved her as a child, and was happy to acknow­ledge her as a kinswoman, who approved of all her conduct, and cleared her of the shadow of blame. She had found too the woman, who had been a mother to her in her infancy, who had saved her life, and had implanted in her bo­som the love of virtue, and hatred of vice. The wealth of her father put it in her power, to repay every favor she had received; to assist the poor; to comfort the afflicted; and to cheer the aching heart; but amidst all these new found blessings, she was unhappy, and she found that in the arms [Page 272] of affluence, in the lap of luxury, and in the bo­som of benevolence, she could be wretched; for COLWORT was not found; he was probably suffering a rigorous confinement, that his affec­tions for her had occasioned; and perhaps death would be the sad, the dreadful consequence; these reflections prevented her enjoyment, and with a sigh, she acknowledged she could never know quiet.

CHAPTER XXVI.

EARLY the next forenoon, they left the Village, after satisfying every demand, that could be made upon Madam De Shong; and JULIA liberally rewarded the humanity of the girl, who had presented the picture for sale, and whose feel­ings were so powerfully operated upon, by the sufferings of herself and friend; the old maid serv­ant, who had been much attached to her mistress, was again taken into her service, and followed in a carriage, with the waiting woman of the Count­ess. They called and took up the little Maria; and though Mr. ROSWELL longed to be on his way to England, yet he accompanied them to the Villa, as he was anxious to see Madam De [Page 273] Shong settled in her new habitation, and JULIA was so earnest in her persuasion to see him there; the rewards were so ample to all that had been kind to the late suffering, now wealthy Madam De Shong and JULIA, that the mean and little minded, regretted that they had been want­ing in generosity.

Before evening they arrived safely at the Villa, and were greeted by all its inhabitants with ac­clamations of joy. Annet hung round JULIA, with a joy that her little heart had never known before. The porter had before this been asham­ed of his brutality to JULIA; the reflection and taunts of his fellow servants had punished him; but before her arrival the message from the Count­ess, had convinced him how unacceptable his conduct would be to that lady; he now asked her pardon, with a servility that always proves the little mind, and JULIA who never felt anger for an hour together, assured him it was forgot­ten.

One of her first cares was to enquire for the Chevalier St. Armond, but the letter from Oli­via had been burnt with her cloaths, though she recollected the contents; but her father removed her difficulties, and thought it not necessary to apply to the Chevalier; he presented Donna Olivia, with an estate that supplied her with ev­ery wish of her heart. By this time Convents in France were nearly annihilated, and in a few months she disposed of that estate, and returned to England, where the remainder of her days are passing in ease and retirement.

The Marquis put Isabella and her husband in possession of a sum that rendered their lives easy, [Page 274] affluent, and free from anxiety. Madam De Shong chose, with her little girl, to be a depend­ant upon the bounty of the Countess, and that lady and JULIA, continued to pay her every at­tention that her merits and her misfortunes en­titled her to. The Marquis, at the request of his daughter, sent for Philada, that she who so well loved his wife, might spend her old age, in the same house with her daughter, freed from the cares and business that she had so faithfully per­formed, and Jaques became what he so much wished to be, a footman to JULIA, who took care that his wages should be so large, as to ena­ble him to save a moiety every year; his services were easy, and he was treated rather as an hum­ble friend, than a domestic; while his mother was happy in being always near the child of her beloved Marchioness.

Roswell, spent only a few days with them, im­patient to embrace his mother and his Lucretia; he left the friends he loved and esteemed, (and of whose happiness he had been so instrumental,) with regret, and established a correspondence with them, which they agreed, should last forev­er.

Blessed in the society of a parent and aunt, that esteemed her their choicest blessing; the pride and ornament of them both, with full power to gratify the benevolent feelings of her heart; se­cured of ease and affluence, in the full enjoyment of friendship, and the possession of every virtue, JU­LIA wondered, she was not happy, but whenev­er her thoughts turned towards COLWORT, which they did continually, she was conscious of the most agonizing feelings. Every search had been [Page 275] made for him, without effect; letters from Eng­land informed them, he had not been heard of, and every enquiry proved equally fruitless. One whole year, had passed off in this state of uncer­tainty, and in that time, JULIA's hand was sought by some of the first men in the kingdom. Her beauty, goodness, and talents were of a nature so alluring, so charming, that it was impossible not to love and admire her; but considered as the only child, of the Marquis, heiress of the vast possessions of him, and the Countess; she was an object of such importance, as to draw the wealthy and the noble from the remotest parts of France; but she did not hesitate to confess herself engag­ed, and in her refusal of their love, possessed her­self of their esteem.

It would have been pleasing to the Marquis and her aunt, if she could have made an election from her numerous admirers; they did not press her to do a thing that could for a moment add to the pangs she evidently suffered, though she strove to conceal them.

Just a year had expired, when the Countess received a letter from the daughter of Madam Gyron, informing her that lady was rapidly de­clining, and the physicians had ceased to flatter her with the hopes of recovery, and one of her last wishes was, to see Madam DE LAUNA, before her death, whom she now besought to visit her at Paris. Though the Countess had no wish to leave her charming retreat, she could not refuse a request, that was evidently the fruits of af­fection. The Marquis chose not to leave the Villa at so warm a season of the year, yet he in­sisted, that his daughter, should accompany his [Page 276]sister, and leave him, in the care of Madam de Shong, and Maria; though JULIA felt unwill­ing to quit a parent, she so revered, yet she o­beyed his wishes, and set out with the Countess.

They arrived at Paris, but three days before the death of Madam Gyron, who was consoled to have an opportunity, to see, and take leave of her friends, and directly after her interment, they left Paris and set out for the Villa.

At the close of the second day, they put up at an inn upon the road; the evening was uncom­monly charming; a bright and lovely moon, had arisen, just as the sun had withdrawn its rays; the day had been remarkably warm, but a soft and delicious coolness entered at two large win­dows, and refreshed the air. In a frame of mind rather formed for pensive sadness, than conversa­tion, the Countess had ordered the candles to be taken away, that they might enjoy the moon, and in a few moments they were so occupied by their own reflections, as not to heed the entrance of some persons, who came in to an adjoining apartment which was only separated from that in which they sat, by a callico curtain, that hung suspended from the ceiling. After a short time however, their attention was forcibly drawn by the following conversation.

My friend, (said one of the strangers,) is now enjoying a sweet, and profound sleep; the first he has been blest with for some days; while that is the case, do satisfy my curiosity and tell me, what has brought you to France in these times of trouble, and confusion; to satisfy a dying friend, (replied the other,) I have left London, and to satisfy you, I will give you an account of [Page 277] the cause of my journey. It is now near thirty years since the Earl of Ormond, sent his eldest son, to spend some time in France; an antient friendship had subsisted between the family of Ormond, and Maravalda; the young gentleman was recommended to the Marquis, and treated with the utmost hospitality at his Chatteau, where the family then resided, and which he was desired to consider as his home, while he contin­ued on the Continent; the Marquis had an only daughter, a very lovely girl, of about fifteen; a mutual attachment, was the consequence of a constant intercourse, and the young people got married, without consulting friends, on either side; shortly after these private nuptials, the young Lord was recalled, and when he informed his father of the connection, he had formed, he found him absolutely averse to his proceedings, upon the account of the young lady's being edu­cated in the Roman Catholic Religion, and as he found his endeavours, to alter his son's mind but vain, he imposed upon him with an account of her death. Lord William, the second son, went to France himself, and in concent with the young lady's mother, who was equally averse to the match, as she had been by her parents engag­ed to the Count DE LAUNA, she was likewise deceived, and led to believe that Lord Henry had died, soon after his arrival in England; but the lady was pregnant, and the fruits of this im­prudent attachment, was put into Lord William's hands, that he might be educated in England. In the course of the voyage, the idea was suggest­ed to him, to bring up the little boy, a stranger [Page 278] to his birth, and conceal, if possible, the whole af­fair; he was well acquainted with his brother's strong attachment, and he thought it probable, that he would never marry, and by concealing the child, he secured to himself, without dispute, his brother's fortune, as well as title. The boy, was delivered to a wealthy merchant, who was intrusted with the secret, and who brought him up as the son of a deceased brother; thus he has grown up in ignorance of himself; but de­ceits are seldom prospered; Lord William, by the death of his father and brother, without heirs, came into quiet, and undisturbed possession of the fortune, and honors of his family; tho' he has been twice married; he has never had a child. He is now in a very alarming state of health, his conscience, has become a troublesome monitor, and I am sent over to visit the Countess DE LAU­NA, for she is the mother of the young man, and to ask her pardon for the deception that has been practised upon her.

It was with the utmost difficulty, that the Countess restrained herself, but her agitation was so great as to betray her, for her impatience was incontroulable; with hands clasped together, she arose, and exclaimed, where is my son, tell me if I have a child; Oh tell me. She could walk but a few steps, and sunk into a chair, while her quick, and convulsive sobs, declared the agitated state of her mind; JULIA with trembling hands was rubbing her temples, and in a faint voice beg­ging her to be calm. The servant entered with lights, and the gentleman who had heard the ex­clamation, came into the room; it was some time [Page 279] before she appeared to take any notice of those a­round her, and JULIA dreading the intire loss of her reason; informed the persons, who she was, and begged them to give her an account, as fa­vorable as possible, when she recovered her recol­lection. Indeed, she had struggled so long with contending passions, it was no wonder that a variety of painful emotions bursting at once up­on her, reduced her to an alarming situation; by degrees she came intirely to herself, and for some time seemed to be endeavouring to recollect herself. How are you my dear Madam, (said JULIA?) Why, well my child. Has any thing been the matter, (cried the Countess in a weak voice?) Oh, now I remember; where are those persons, JULIA, that were in the next room, for surely, I have not dreamed? No, (my dear Ma­dam,) you have not, and when you are compos­ed, those gentlemen will inform you of every thing you can wish to know. I am calm, I am composed my dear; Oh tell me, if indeed I am so blessed as to have a son. After some hesita­tion, the gentleman informed her, his errand was intirely to her, and begged to know if she could forgive the Earl. If my son is living, (said she) from my soul, I can forgive that cruel family all the evils I have received at their hands. He was living a few months since, said the gentle­man, his nominal uncle, received a letter from him; then he is not dead she interrupted? I hope not, Madam, (he replied,) he left England some time ago, to visit this country; I have promised his uncle, if possible to find him, and present him to you, one of the most amiable [Page 280] young men, and one of the most accomplished in the world. A thousand blessings on you, for this kind, benevolent intention, (cried the Count­ess;) but tell me, some clue by which I may find him, what name does he bear? by what ti­tle shall I address him, except by that of my son? His uncle, Madam, (said the stranger,) called him Francis Colwort. Gracious Heaven, exclaimed the Countess, it was my son! Oh, my dear Mad­am, reiterated JULIA, Mr. COLWORT was your son. COLWORT (interrupted the other gentle­man,) COLWORT, did you say, Frank. I did; Oh, I have known him, (cried the distracted mo­ther;) known him to be the best, and worthiest of men; Heaven sent him to save his mother's life, and even then my heart acknowledged him, as mine, but gracious Heaven, I have lost him forever. Do not thus mistrust the goodness of Providence, (said the stranger,) how long since you have seen him? It is now two years since he left the Villa; a year ago he was living, but I have too much reason to form the most dreadful fears. Take courage, Madam, it is not one fort­night since he was living; and the Countess DE LAUNA, and a Madamoiselle Vallace where the constant themes of his hopes and fears. Then he is still alive, (cried JULIA, smiling through her tears,) and we shall yet be happy. Put an end to my suspence, (said the Countess) for I can bear it no longer; tell me where he is. The gentleman then begged her to be calm, and with great caution informed her that about two months since, he had found COLWORT, who was his most dear and intimate friend, a close [Page 281] prisoner in the carmagnole, that he had found his way to him, and by the power of gold, and a little flattery to the keeper; he had effected his escape; that they were on their way to the Villa when he was taken sick, and had not yet recover­ed. Where is he, (interrupted the Countess,) tell me where he is, that I may fly to attend him, for who is so fit as a mother, to be about the sick bed of her son? Not to night, Madam, he is too weak, such a meeting would overcome him, and undo all that my care has effected; he is in this very house, in the care of people whose duty, and business it is to attend upon him; but great cau­tion must be used to introduce you to his cham­ber. When the Countess heard that her son was in the same house with her, she would have gone directly to him, but for the prudence of his friend; and after a few moments reflection, she consented to be guided by him.

But nothing could prevent her from spending the night in an apartment next to his chamber, with JULIA; when the door was opened she could hear him turn upon his bed, distinguish his breath, and his faint voice when he asked for the medicine. It was near day when he seemed to be quite awake from a refreshing slumber; his friend who had set by him, then informed him that an Equipage with many attendants had ar­rived there the night before, and the servants were informed, it belonged to the Countess DE LAUNA; he paused, and COLWORT, with some impatience inquired if he saw the persons who came in the carriage. His friend told him, he had seen two ladies, and had reason to think one [Page 282] was the Countess, but the other appeared young and handsome. The agitation of COLWORT, rendered him so inquisitive, that he at length owned JULIA was with the Countess, in the house, and that he would at their rising, request them to pay a visit to the sick chamber; it was then that the returning pride of COLWORT, gave his friend new hopes, he was anxious to appear well, and even handsome, before JULIA; per­haps his illness had weakened his mind, as well as his person, for could a man be vain; could he wish to be handsome?

When the sun arose, the gentleman left the room, and COLWORT kept his eyes fixed on the door, and waited his return, with great impa­tience; in less than ten minutes he beheld him enter with those persons so beloved, so long wish­ed for; he stretched out his hand to them, and the Countess and JULIA stationed themselves at the sides of his bed, and endeavored to articulate some kind enquiry, or some affectionate question; but their lips refused to do justice to the feelings of their hearts, and their tears and looks could on­ly express their emotion. In a few moments the physician arrived, and in a modest, but decisive manner, pronounced the patient out of dan­ger, but declared him still so weak as to require great care, and attention; the ladies laid an em­bargo upon their lips, lest he should be injured, but sat by him the whole day, and though the Countess longed to call him son, longed to press him to her maternal bosom, her discretion over­came her impatience, and she waited until con­firmed health should authorise such a discovery.

[Page 283] The next day he was amazingly better, for to the kind attentions of friendship, was added the soothing cares of love, and his medicines opera­ted more kindly when presented by JULIA, or her aunt, then when given by his friend; he sat up some time, and enjoyed their society. In three days the gentleman from England made his appearance, COLWORT was rejoiced, but sur­prised to see him; asked a thousand questions respecting his friends at home, and as he was par­ticularly attached to him, related every occur­rence, that had happened to him. In answer to this information, the gentleman told him, he had a very wonderful story to relate respecting himself, which required steady attention, and more fortitude, than he appeared at present to possess. Thus prefaced, he told him every cir­cumstance, concealing only the name of the Countess, and at the end, told him he had been so fortunate, as to discover his mother, who was rich, and amiable, and would with joy receive him as her son, on one condition, which, was that he consented to marry her niece, that she tend­erly loved, and who would be heiress to a noble fortune. If that is the condition, (said COLWORT, with energy,) she will never acknowledge me; my faith is pledged; and if this change, in my situa­tion, has effected a change in JULIA VALLACE, I will never marry, I would die to serve or please a parent; the name of mother vibrates upon my ear, and is dear to my heart, but if a mother, I have never known, can wish the only pledge of an unfortunate attachment, to violate his most sacred engagement, I fear I could never love her [Page 284] as I ought. But (said the gentleman,) if Madam­oiselle should happen to be the niece, and the Countess the mother. Ah, (said COLWORT,) am I so blessed, can I have such a mother? Have I such a son, said the Countess? (Embracing him with tenderness.) Yes my son, you are my child, and without one condition, I receive you to my heart, and thank Heaven for so great a blessing; but to the reader's imagination, the remainder of the scene must be referred.

In a few days, Mr. COLWORT, now Francis Ormond, was able to leave the inn; his two friends at the invitation of his mother, accompa­nied him to the Villa, where they found the Marquis impatient to receive his sister's son. Smiles of real chearfulness, and heartfelt satisfac­tion, once more revisited the countenance, and animated the features of JULIA; the whole family participated in her joy, and her nuptials were solemnized directly after her return. By this time the troubles in France had gained such a crisis, that it was necessary for every friend to order, for every lover of peace and religion, to leave that ill-fated nation. The principles of the Illuminata triumphed; anarchy, confusion, cru­elty, and bloodshed succeeded; and the Mar­quis was, though old and infirm, pitched upon as a victim; but being nearly related to some persons, then in power, who had not yet lost ev­ery sense of humanity, he was so fortunate as to leave the kingdom, and with the Countess DE LAUNA, having disposed of their estates much under their real value, transmitted the money to England, whither they retired with all their servants, Madam DE SHONG, Isabella, and her husband.

[Page 285] The care and attention of their son, and daughter, softened the fatigues of the voyage.—And the philanthropy which reigned in their bosoms, rendered them literally citizens of the world; they regarded France despoiled of all her virtues, no longer as their country, and carrying with them, all they held dear, London soon be­came agreeable.

They were received by the Earl of Ormond, with a mingled pleasure and remorse; he now approached the confines of the grave, and gave up those possessions without regret, which he had been guilty of deceit to obtain. The Countess was too happy in her son's merits and accom­plishments, to harbour any resentment against his uncle, and a perfect reconciliation preceded his death, which event took place in less than one month after their arrival; he left the whole of his estate, and ample possessions to his nephew; his title descended to a distant branch of the family, as the marriage of the Countess, and the father of her son, was certainly illegal; and Or­mond and JULIA preferred the claim of virtue and benevolence, to that of rank, and the title of plain Mr. and Mrs. Ormond was more pleasing, and vibrated with more delight upon their hearts, than Earl and Countess, with half a dozen right honorables at the end of them. Old Mr. COL­WORT, who had acted rather as a parent, than an uncle, to his nominal nephew, was one of the first who greeted them with a welcome in Eng­land; the affection which he felt for him, was returned, and gratitude for reciprocal favours had bound the ties of friendship so closely, that [Page 286] nothing but the last sigh can extinguish it. His daughter whom Ormond had brought from A­merica, accompanied her father; anxious to see one, whom she considered as her best friend and deliverer; and to pay her respects to that JULIA whom she had admired and loved from his descrip­tion; nor was her pre-sentiment in her favour les­sened by acquaintance; for JULIA ever fond of the unfortunate, carressed, and cherished her with affection, that increased every hour,

As soon as ROSWELL heard of the arrival of his friends, he left his parish and family, to bid them welcome, and certainly no one out of their own circle was more deservedly dear. His Lucretia had crowned his happiness; his mother was well, and both longed to see and embrace those whose virtues they estimated so highly. He informed them, that a large estate which lay within two miles of his neat and convenient parsonage, was now to be sold, and as the Ormond seat was in its vicin­ity, he urged them so strongly to purchase it, that the prospect of being his neighbour pre­vailed; and the Marquis immediately conclud­ed the purchase; they then retired, and the two houses became alternately the residence of the family; the husband of Isabella, as he was the friend of the family, now became their joint stewart; Madam DE SHONG was insured all the conveniencies of life, and all its elegancies; and the constant intercourse that was kept up be­tween ROSWELL, and his amiable wife, as it in­creased all their pleasures, sweetened the remain­ing days of that excellent woman.

[Page 287] Not long after their settlement JULIA was sur­prised to receive a visit from CARLOS; she found that young man, as good as ever, delighted with her happiness, and cured of a passion, that he had [...] found hopeless. The daughter of Mr. COLWORT was at that time on a visit at the grove; she had recovered her beauty and her spirits, and the generous Spaniard felt the force of her charms, he frankly confessed that he had once loved JU­LIA, and now offered a heart that had been sen­sible of the power of a tender attachment; as this had been the case with the lady, she could make no reasonable objection; and urged by her father, by ORMOND and JULIA, persuaded by the Countess, and her brother, she consented that Mr. ROSWEL should perform the ceremony of marriage at the grove; a ceremony that render­ed the succeeding days of both, as happy as is consistent with a state subjected to the changes of mortality.

Just at the time of this wedding, Mr. Ormond was summoned up to London, to visit a convict that had received sentence of death for a murder; when he was introduced to the unhappy man, he found a person he had never seen before; but the mystery was soon unravelled; the wretch con­fessed he was the physician who had presented a poisoned cup to the Marchioness, and who by mistake had been the cause of the Count's death. He declared himself innocent of the crime for which he was about to suffer, but thought the vengeance of heaven had overtaken him, for his former iniquities. The confession he made re­specting the Illuminata and their horrid designs [Page 288] upon the Marquis; set their characters and prin­ciples, in a light too shocking to be delineated. ORMOND justly struck with their enormities, thanked heaven, that he had escaped with those he loved, from a country, that had become the nursery of this horde of vipers. He assured the unhappy man of his, and the family's forgiv­ness, and left him to suffer the sentence of the law. Once more fixed at Ormond-grove, we will leave him, and his JULIA, delighting to do good, and to spread around them the blessings they enjoy; to render happy the unfortunate; to soften the sorrows of the afflicted; to clothe the naked; to feed the hungry, and to diffuse cheerfulness and plenty, is the business of their lives.

The Marquis and his sister are happy in the society of the most affectionate, and most duti­ful of children, and already have the pleasure to see the blooming and amiab [...]le JUIA the mother of two [...]ine children, and while ORMOND thinks he sees the beauty of his wife in her lovely little girl, she fondly perceives the manly graces of her husband, in her sprightly boy.