AT a visit Alicia and some ladies of her acquaintance, paid Belinda at her country seat, a motion was made to put the horses to the coach and take an airing. The season of the year admit­ted of getting out early, and their journey was to a meadow by a river side, with a large wood at the end. On one side of this wood was a pretty steep rock, on the top of which stood an hermitage, and at the foot of the rock ran a pretty broad stream, which seemed to forbid a farther passage. This wa­ter rises from a torrent, which falls from the hill on the rocks. The murmuring noise it makes, to­gether with the natural cascades it forms, in the gloom of the wood, presents the eye with as agree­able an entertainment as the most cultivated spot of ground can do.

"This is my usual walk, says Belinda, I like the silence of the place—It inspires a soothing melan­choly. [Page 4] Hither I often repair alone, or without any company but my thoughts."

"But do you never meet with the Hermit, and have you not yet ventured into his habitation?" said one of the ladies. "I have not had a sight of him yet," answered she.

Well, said Alicia, I love these hermits, and should be glad of a little talk with one of them. A way of life so much out of the common course makes me fancy, that they must needs be either vastly su­perior to, or very much below other men.

Here the company alighted, and walked over a green, close by the side of a brook. On going fur­ther they came to a place, where the tall poplars which grew on the banks of the river hung very much over, and by their bending, formed a kind of a bridge, at the foot of which appeared a small path in the rock, by which the ascent was easy to the top; but whether made by nature, or contrived by art, is uncertain.

The ladies, guided by their curiosity, followed this small track, and soon got to the door of the hermitage. They saw at the same time a tall hand­some woman hastily enter this rural habitation, and pull the wicket after her; upon which, said they, since women are admitted here, we may also claim the same right. Accordingly they knocked at the door, but nobody would answer. Continuing how­ever to make a loud noise, and giving thereby to understand that they would not be denied, the same person they had seen before, came out, and told them, that her little dwelling was not worthy the notice of ladies of their fashion. They made an­swer, that their business was with the Hermit who lived there, and that they must see him; upon which the woman, perceiving it would be in vain to make any further resistance, opened the door, but at the [Page 5] same time told them that they would find nobody there but herself. The company stepped in hastily, and having soon looked over the little cottage, which was plain and homely, but neat, were indeed much surprized to find no other person but the woman.

"Our curiosity increases, says Belinda:—How can you live here by yourself? What an odd sort of life is this for a woman, and what could make you embrace it? The more I view you, the more my astonishment increases. By your age and ap­pearance you seem unfit for so wild a dwelling, you might be an ornament to cities."—And indeed through a dejected air, and a sweet modest coun­tenance, she discovered much beauty. "Alas! re­plied the Solitary, I am unable to answer such compliments. I am almost a stranger to the usual language of the world, neither have I, during four years abode in this retreat, seen or conversed with any human creature."—Who then supplies you with the necessaries of life? asked they.—"A young woman, returned she, who had an affection for me, would fain have accompanied me hither, but, hav­ing a family, she could not leave it. However, she is settled in a neighbouring town, whence she brings me twice a week more than is sufficient for the support of a life, which I wish I had, and which I ought to have lost long ago."

These words were followed by a flood of tears, which, together with her appearance and distress, soon gained her the compassion of her fair guests. "In seeing you, cried they, it is impossible to avoid pitying you, whilst the interest we take in your misfortunes intitles us to their recital. Let their cause be what it will, we shall still pity you. If you are wretched through the fault of others, we [Page 6] will join in your resentment; if by your own, for­tune only shall be to blame, and you shall never ap­pear guilty in our eyes."

"Your indulgence and good-nature, ladies, re­plied she, will not reconcile me to myself. I have quitted the world to shun my own being, but am still always present to myself. I thought that, when I should no longer have witnesses to my follies, I might then possibly forgive and forget them.—But, merciless to myself, I am ever condemning and punishing them. The silence of these woods brings them fresher to my mind, and adds new feel­ing to their sting. Disengaged from all things else, they alone are the employment of my whole leisure time."—"Perhaps, fair lady," resumed Alicia, "it is an over delicacy only that makes you thus cruel to yourself. However, you cannot well refuse the recital of your misfortunes to people that already take so large a share in them."

She would have excused herself, but the ladies, whose curiosity was greatly raised, assuring her they would not leave her till she had acquainted them with her unfortunate history, she began thus.

"Since, then, ladies, you insist upon it, I shall give you a plain narrative of my life, in which, though I may not have the merit of appearing in­nocent in your eyes, I shall at least have that of be­ing sincere.—I am born of a noble family. My father had the happiness of having served his king and country well, in many important occasions, and enjoyed great places at court; but, meeting after­wards with some injustice in having a rival preferred to a pose he thought his due, he grew highly dis­gusted. At that very time he had done the king of S—a considerable piece of service, so that, thinking all his obligations to his country, and an ungrateful prince, cancelled by the unjust treatment [Page 7] he had met with, he engaged in a rebellion that was raised against him. As he had the chief command in a great province, it was an easy matter for him to bring about a change of masters amongst the people of his government; he was very indifferent about making terms for himself. The services he was doing the cause, and a large province he was subduing, were his hostages and securities for the promises they made him, whilst on our part we had nothing but bare words to depend upon. In the meanwhile all our estates and preferments were for­feited; in lien of which we had only fine promises, which were but indifferently performed. I was then very young, had lost my mother, and was the delight of my father. I had an only brother, some years older than myself, who went to the army with my father, and learned the art of war under his direction.

As for myself, I was to be sent to one of those houses that are destined for the education of young ladies, but the princess Zaide, whose husband had formerly commanded in our province, being very intimate with my father, begged of him to leave me with her, which he consented to. This lady was fond of children, they were her chief diversion, and she had but one son. I was brought up with as much care as if I had been her own daughter: she appointed me governesses and proper masters, who cultivated all my good inclinations. She took a kind of pleasure and amusement in dressing me, and often gave little entertainments to the young children of my age. I had the good luck to please in them, and always strove to out do even what was thought [...] in the rest.

The prince Camillus (that was her son's name) was [...] years older than I. He had a noble and [...]. We lived together, and whenever [Page 8] he had done with his masters, he would seek my company with great fondness. In all his actions he gave me a remarkable preference over my com­panions. As I advanced in age, the graces, I am told, were not wholly unmindful of my person, and his liking to me increased every day. I too early experienced the pleasure of being loved, and found a satisfaction in it. It is an unhappy thing to con­tract such an habit from our infancy.

Prince Camillus's friends had designed him for the duke of * * *'s daughter. Her name was Va­leria: she was the heiress of the family, so that an ample fortune and distinguished titles made her a match worthy of him. He was often conducted to pay his court to her; she likewise came to wait on the old princess, and we often met together at our little plays and entertainments. She was hand­some, and could not bear the remarkable preference our young lover gave me: in revenge she would of­ten reflect with scorn and contempt on my fortune; but the prince's commendations and my glass made me perfectly easy; for I was already of an age to find a satisfaction in being handsome.

His reluctance to visit the lady Valeria soon grew remarkable. Hitherto we had lived together with­out any manner of constraint, and his attachment to me had been looked upon as of no consequence; but as it increased every day, it began to grow se­rious, and he was therefore forbid to enter my apartment.

His love quickened by this prohibition. He grew sad and melancholy, and as he was of a hot and fiery temper, the restraint that was laid upon his inclinations acted upon his health in such a man­ner, that he fell sick. His mother was greatly a­larmed at the accident. Valeria came too several times to visit him, but he paid her regard with so [Page 9] much coldness, that she was prodigiously nettled at the return. In the mean while his illness gamed so much upon him, that other considerations were laid aside to apply to the saving of his life. He was therefore allowed to see me, and I was accordingly conducted to his apartment by the women who had the care of me. The sight of me had a speedier effect upon him than all the art of the physicians, and his health returned in proportion to the liberty he had of being in my company. His mother, however, was revenged on me for the necessity she was reduced to of allowing an intercourse, the con­sequences of which were so much dreaded. She no longer retained the same tender friendship for me; the commendations that were bestowed on me, and with which she was formerly so well pleased, now grew offensive to her, and I was often punish­ed for being liked too much.

The prince, having at last perfectly recovered his health, became in a short time the most accomplish­ed lord in the court. He began now to assume an air of haughtiness and independence, and slight the assistance of his masters, but retained still an infinite respect for his mother; though I was the limit of his obedience. He obeyed her in every thing ex­cept in what related to me.

At length she expostulated the matter one day with him, and asked what he meant at last to do by his attachment for me? "Every thing, madam, answered he; for when I meet with birth, virtue and beauty in the object of my affections, I think I may, without blushing, own my passion and fur­ther intentions." So smart and resolute an answer made her tremble: she represented to him the great distance there was between him and me, the mis­fortunes of my family, the loss of our preferments, and the forfeiture of our estates; to all which he [Page 10] replied, "There fortune only is to blame, not she; and may you not too, madam, be a little in fault, to set so high a value on that sort of advantages which do not depend on us?"—"But, answered the princess, you find in Valeria both those you are taken with, and the others you reproach me with making too great an account of." "Oh, madam! replied the young prince, my heart and your eyes are widely different in their judgments. You see, but I feel; and whatever inequality there is be­tween persons, love brings them all to a level."

The princess now saw that there was no time to be lost, but that I must be sent out of the way, and accordingly I was put into a house designed for a retreat from the world. The prince was no sooner apprised of the news, but he flew to the place, and threatened the persons appointed for my keepers to have recourse to the last extremities, if they did not produce me. His menaces were of no effect; they persisted in their refusal, and protested they would let no body see me without an order from the princess, his mother. He went to her next, and spoke with a transport of heat, which offended her. He said, that he was not obliged to her for a life she was endeavouring to make so wretched; that the happiness of his days would be to unite his fortune with mine, and that her power did not extend to an empire over the mind; and, upon her attempting to set before him her authority and his duty, he told her smartly, that the heart had rights and dues of its own, apart from all others.

The princess was prudent: she saw it would be in vain to struggle against the stream: and therefore told [...] that she would sacrifice her [...] to her regard for him, that she looked upon him as a person out of order, who claimed her pity; but that he could not refuse [...] to be six month with­out [Page 11] seeing me, since such a compliance would cost him the less, as the campaign was approaching, and he must set out to take upon him the command of the troops the king had thought sit to trust him with; and that she was persuaded the passion that possessed him, had not quite extinguished the love of glory in his soul.—This, indeed, was true; ne­ver man enjoyed those two sentiments in a higher degree; neither did the one in the least take from the other.

He could not well deny the princess, but assured her withal that his passion was not to be lessened by time, and that reflection, which never fails curing ordinary flames, would but increase his.

Whatever he could say to the contrary, she was still in hopes that time and absence would do much for her, and therefore now bent her thoughts on endeavouring to divert one idea by another. She procured him a most magnificent equipage, and pro­vided for his retinue the most pompous attendants that could be found, and joined to these several old officers who had behaved best in the king's service, to train him up to greatness. Nothing was for­gotten that might inspire him with the love of glo­ry, and, as he had a vast share of honour, he did not hesitate to embrace a course so much becoming his birth. He prepared therefore to set out for the army, where his sense of glory was equalled by the shining opportunities he had to pursue it.

A young man of merit who belonged to his re­tinue soon became his confidant. He was born of a good family, and could take the liberty of often discoursing him about his present situation, and pi­tying his being abandoned to a passion, which, as it distracted his mother, so it might likewise cast a stain upon his own reputation. Love, he told him, was not justifiable in great men till they had paid [Page 12] the tribute due to glory, and that it might indeed be a state of passage in the life of an hero, but that glory was a qualification that claimed a lasting place therein. "Descended from the blood you spring from, continued he, and with the merit you possess, you have vast expectations of courage and magna­nimity to answer."

This was in vain, he was not to be heard yet.—The prince was abandoned to a despair, from which every thing might be feared. He had often re­paired to the place of my confinement, and, not having been able to obtain a sight of me, had with difficulty been withheld from the last violences.—His confidant Timander, who soothed his anguish by his gentleness, and the complaisant discharge of the trust he placed in him, promised him at last to bring me a letter from him. Accordingly he wait­ed on the princess, and represented to her, that it was necessary to compound a little with the prince's grief; that were she to insist upon a strict compli­ance with her orders, and exact obedience with too much rigour, she might drive him to the greatest extremities; that she ought not to put her power in competition with the force of love, nor set up her rights against those of the heart, for neither were to be controuled by authority; that the prince ought to be pitied and diverted by some great object, without being made sensible of their design; and that in exalted and haughty souls there were great resources to be found to work them to our ends. He concluded by acquainting her, that the prince had desired him to bring me a letter, that he was accordingly come to receive her orders, and that as to himself, she might rest assured she had nothing to fear from the confidence her son placed in him.

[Page 13] The princess having yielded to these arguments, Timander came and found me melancholy and thoughtful. Your beauty, madam, said he, makes strange work already. Is this the first trial of your skill? I gave him no answer, but what he could read in my confused countenance and bashful looks. However, continued he, here is a letter the prince has ordered me to deliver into your hands.—I must not take it, said I, and am extremely sorry for the effect, what you are pleased to call beauty, has had upon him. I know what I am, and at how great a distance the misfortunes of my family place me from him. I am bound by the ties of gratitude and respect to the princess, his mother; and if my eyes have had the misfortune to please him, my heart has had no share in the design. Therefore tell him I beseech him to forget me. Timander here again pressed me to receive the billet he had obtained leave to bring me; and the person whose care I was under, bidding me take and read it, I accordingly opened it, and found these words:

"Nothing, madam, but the passion you have in­spired in me can exceed the affliction I am under. Expressions are too poor for what I feel. You are persecuted for my sake, and your sufferings alone cause all the tortures that distract me. I now dis­cover my love without disguise or reserve, a boldness I borrow from the innocence of my intentions;—and as every thing opposes my designs, my desires become the more inflamed, and my resolutions the better confirmed. Are not you formed, madam, to be loved? In you I find all my excuses.—When a man loves as much as I do, the greatest pleasure he can feel, is to find that he loves with the justest reason: and this, madam, is a satisfaction I must owe you all the moments of my life."

[Page 14] Well, madam, says Timander, will you not fa­vour us with an answer to this billet?—I do not think it at all proper, answered I.—Why so, add­ed he, you are not forbid it?—My duty to myself, returned I, forbids it.

After an hour's conversation he took his leave, and desired to know what he should tell the prince? Tell him, said I, that I have a grateful heart, and am moved with his sorrow; but that, in the circum­stances we are in, the best thing for him to do is, to think no more of me, and for me to forget him, if I can. He went back to the prince with this answer, which did not seem to displease him.

Returning to my chamber, I read the prince's letter over again with a concern of tenderness, which would have given him the highest satisfaction.—Not long after this message, I heard he was upon his departure for the army. His mother had pro­cured him the most splendid equipage in the world, and purchased him one of the first posts in the army. She was, by this, opening a door to honours, and he was setting out with distinction in the road to glory. Timander called once more upon me be­fore his departure, and brought this second letter.

"I am departing for the army, madam. I must answer the call of glory to reach the throne of love, and become worthy of you. I therefore fancy you are the prize I am going to conquer.—But alas! love is not to be merited, and I must abandon my­self to a grief worthy of your absence and my heart. Do but think, madam, that I am without you: that will be sufficient to deserve your pity.—I would sacrifice my life to my evil stars, but that I know it is consecrated to you, and love will claim an account of it at my hands."

Timander painted, in the liveliest colours, the distress the prince was in. The picture affected me [Page 15] prodigiously. I felt my bosom rent by a thousand different agitations. I thought myself vastly in­debted to him: I had hopes, fears, and even desires; yet all these passions were not well distinguished in my soul. I was flattered with the prince's love; but then again I was too much reminded of the distance between him and me. This startled my pride, and, when self-opinion took up the scales to weigh our merits, I own I did not find myself so vastly beneath him. It is true, I might indeed have renounced an alliance I was made to buy at too high a price, but in the attempt the prince's love and distress stopped me short.—He was sacri­ficing his greatness to me, and I my pride to him. He had not been long in the army before he gave proofs of his bravery. In him courage was joined with a great share of sense and prudence (though the latter was still confined to his head, and had not yet reached his heart) whilst reading and re­flection supplied his want of experience; all which gave reason to hope he would one day be a great general.

There was a great battle fought a few days after his arrival. The enemies finding themselves hard pressed in the post they occupied, and fearing to be attacked in their intrenchments, resolved to be be­forehand with us. Accordingly having made all the previous dispositions to a battle, they fell upon us at a time, when by their situation we would have thought they should only have kept on the defensive. However, they came up like desperadoes, determin­ed to sell dearly their lives, and victory had long remained doubtful, when the left wing, which my father commanded, began at last to give way.—The prince, who was at the head of the infantry, flew immediately to his assistance. He found him wounded, fallen under his horse, and all about him [Page 16] either dead, or put to flight. He ran to him, lift­ed him from the ground, re-mounted him on a spare horse, bound up his wound with his handker­chief, and rallying the troops, charged briskly the enemy, routed them entirely, and obtained a com­plete victory, which cost them all their artillery and baggage, besides a great number of prisoners.

My father began to feel his hurt after he was out of the heat of the action, and was obliged to be carried to his tent, where the surgeons searched his wound, and found it very considerable. The first thing he did was, to enquire after the person to whom he owed his life, and being told that it was the prince who had thus saved him, he could not conquer his concern for being so greatly obliged to him: is it possible, said he, that I must be so infi­nitely in his debt? All the time of his illness, the prince never ceased his generous offices; he sent for the most eminent surgeons to dress his wound; had his own officers to wait on him, and more than once offered him his purse, which he constantly re­fused to accept. Word was sent me of my father's wound, how I owed his life to the prince, and of all the kind offices he had received from him during his illness. On this, the infinite regard and affec­tion I had for so dear a parent, made me think I might send the prince my acknowledgements, with­out trespassing against the rules of decency. Ac­cordingly, without consulting any body, I wrote him the following letter.

"I don't think I transgress the laws of decency, by thus expressing the grateful sense of my obliga­tions to you for having preserved a life so precious to me as is that of a father, whom I honour beyond all expression.—Alas! Sir, must esteem, gratitude, and natural sentiments all join to force a heart, which would have chosen to yield only to its incli­nation [Page 17] and your tenderness? Fame is already wholly taken up with you. For this am I to thank glory alone, and must not love claim some share of the debt?"

I feared a long while for my father's life; but at last he gave some hopes of a recovery, to hasten which he caused himself to be carried into the coun­try, whither I followed immediately to wait on him, and employ my cares for a health that was so dear to me.

The prince returned covered with glory. He often came in a friendly manner to visit my father, and I found him still the same towards me as when we parted. I acknowledged the obligations I lay under, and the sentiments of gratitude he could claim from me; but these expressions offended him. I must have no returns but from your heart, said he: delicacy of sentiments is an attendant of love, which quickens all its pleasures, though it often prepares us many vexations. But what must be­come of me, if with sentiments so natural, so strong, and so fond as mine, you should not answer them, and I could inspire you with nothing but thoughts of gratitude?—Yet, replied I, I must not entertain any others.

There began now to be some talk of peace, and the prince, notwithstanding his youth, held so dis­tinguished a rank, that he was called into all the consultations held upon that subject. They ended at last in a general pacification, and the prince took particular care to have my father included in the treaty. Accordingly, by virtue of a general am­nesty, and a separate article for our family, our estates were to be restored to us as well as the places my father held before the war, which he was left at liberty either to take possession of again, or to accept of an equivalent in lieu thereof.

[Page 18] My father's health returned with the satisfaction of once more seeing his family in a flourishing con­dition. The peace occasioned an universal joy throughout the kingdom, and nothing was thought of at court, but the celebrating of it by festivals and rejoicings. My father now left the country to take a house in town, and set up an equipage suitable to his birth. As I was already passed my childhood, he took me home, but desired a lady of his acquaintance, who had lost her husband, and had suffered from the frowns of fortune, to come and live with us, and have an eye over my conduct. Her name was Leonora: I was ordered to show her as much obedience as if she were my mother: she had a great share of understanding, had seen the world, and took care that I did not stir a step with­out her.

Very soon after, I was presented to the queen. Her majesty received me with great kindness, treat­ed me with distinction, and said very handsome things of my person.

The whole winter season was spent in diversions. The queen was young, and had a taste for pleasures. There was not an assembly but what she was so kind as to admit me into, and I showed away with pretty good success. Prince Camillus made likewise one at every ball that was given. He danced exceeding well; his person was above any lord's at court, and the glory he had acquired in the late campaign, seemed to cast a new lustre on him. I had the sa­tisfaction of hearing him praised, and he the plea­sure of finding his choice universally approved.—Whenever we were dancing together, busy whis­perings behind us declared how every body agreed in pronouncing us made for one another.

The princess Valeria bore with impatience the figure I made at court, and the queen's kindness to [Page 19] me, but much more the prince's fondness. She fell into so deep a melancholy, that I could not help pitying her condition. Her passion glowed in her eyes; a secret langour was spread over her whole person; grief preyed upon her beauty; and, though Nature intended her fair, Love had now ordered it otherwise. She had handsome features, but a wan and pale look robbed them of all their charms.

She comforted herself by easing her mind to a young relation who lived with her, and had her confidence. One day as I was walking in the pa­lace garden with Leonora, we espied the princess and her confidant entering into a pretty dark grove, upon which I proposed to my friend to follow them. Accordingly we stept after, and entered a side alley next to that where she was sitting with her com­panion. She spoke with heat enough to be heard. What, said she, would you have me do with myself? I live but for him, and yet I shall never gain his love.—Forgive him this piece of levity, said the other, he will soon return to you. How? replied Valeria, you would have me not concerned at his usage! And you call levity a natural passion which he cannot resist! A passion, to which he sacrifices his love to me, his glory, his fortune, and all he owes to the best of mothers! My heart has too often found his excuses: when we love, we forgive long; but you do not see him with eyes as interest­ed as mine. What cold insensibility has he not shown for my pains!—There is a kind of meanness in feeling and suffering for those that do not feel for us. I can no longer bear the rackings of my heart, and the stinging reproaches of my pride; I must, I will silence them, and fall upon some me­thod worthy of me. What may that be? answered her relation. Why, to retire forever from court, [Page 20] replied she;—She could not proceed further, a flood of tears interrupting her speech.—Strange resolu­tion! answered her confidante; you would punish yourself, because another is guilty! Here, night coming on, they withdrew.

I seemed so affected with the princess's affection, that Leonora could not help expressing her surprize. What! said she to me, must one enter into a rival's grief?—I never feared her, replied I, and, as I have had nothing to dispute with her, I cannot now en­joy the ill-natured pleasure of triumphing in her distress. The prince's heart was tendered me with­out my wishing or desiring it; and therefore, as she gives me neither fear nor uneasiness, I cannot hate her. I have some share of good-nature, and must pity her condition.

At my return home I found one of the queen's gentlemen, who brought me word, that she had en­gaged me to an entertainment the king was to give, on account of the marriage of the princess Flavia, one of her majesty's relations; that in case I had not jewels enough, she would send me some, and desired to know what I might want. I told him I had a suit of green velvet and gold, which would do very well with a set of rubies, if I could get them. I withdrew afterwards to prepare my dress, and, out of complaisance to her majesty, took more pains about it than otherwise I would have done.

The day appointed for this magnificent enter­tainment, was spent in all manner of diversions.—There was a play acted in the evening, which was followed by a grand supper and a ball; and nothing in the world could be more gallant and better con­ducted. The princess Flavia looked perfectly charming: for, though she is not a regular beauty, she has so much youth and bloom, with so beautiful [Page 21] a colour, that she may surpass others handsomer than herself.

About the middle of the ball there was a great stir at the door, which engaged the attention and eyes of the whole company. It was the duke of Praxede who was just arriving from the army. His coming was quite unexpected; he had made a shining campaign, had beaten the enemy, and en­tered the room with an air of confidence, support­ed by his natural valour and good mein. I had never seen him before: he was not better acquaint­ed with me; and, in casting his eyes towards me, I heard him say some very fine things. His words, his looks, and the very found of his voice threw my soul into an agitation, which I had never felt before. The prince and he were then at variance; they were both driving towards the same goal, and each other's rival in glory and merit; upon which account they had been separated, and the court had not thought fit to employ them both in the same army.

As soon as he arrived, the princess Flavia offered him her hand to dance: he took me next, but I was so confused, that had I dared, I would have refused his civility.

All the time the ball lasted, he kept his eyes constantly on me: I turned mine from him, and would fain refuse him my looks, as a favour he had no right to. However, he took me several times to dance, and made himself so remarkable, that it was thought he did it on purpose to spite the prince. You may be sure I had no share in the design, and indeed, as soon as the ball was over, I ran home in great haste, and the prince left the company to conduct me.

"Your charms, madam, said he, (when at liber­ty to speak) operate on every body, and the duke [Page 22] of Praxede comes to swell the number of your con­quests. Indeed, Sir, replied I, his affecting to take me so often to dance, and his staring at me, has given me a great deal of uneasiness.—But why so, madam? answered he. So much care, never to cast a look towards him, shows that you dreaded his eyes, and was diffident of your own. A person that feels nothing, is always free and open; and over-acting our part, on certain occasions, often betrays a consciousness of not being always right. But, replied I, what would you quarrel with me about? I never saw him before in my life.—That may be, answered he again, but he has seen you, and you were handsomer than usual to-day: nay, he loves you, and that alone, even though you were not guilty, is enough to make me wretched."

Ever after this the prince watched me with a caution that gave me offence. The duke on his part followed me every where, and I always found him ready to catch my looks in all public places. The prince was informed of all his steps; he be­came peevish and suspicious, and, though he could lay nothing to my charge, yet he was not satisfied with me. He thought the duke very insolent to pretend to a person, to whom he had been so long engaged; but for my part, I own I fancied he wanted only to teaze and alarm the prince, and be­lieved, that, he thought if I could not serve the purpose of his heart, I might at least gratify his vanity. Such a notion was highly offensive to me, and therefore I shunned him carefully. The prince himself took notice of this; whereupon I opened my mind to him one day, telling him I could not believe I was any ways concerned in his grief, since, were it so, it would be doing me the highest in­justice; to which he answered, "You do not in­deed seem to join with the duke against me; you [Page 23] avoid him, and show me even a greater regard than ever, and yet you are guilty: nay, you are so with­out knowing it, and you would fain, by an in­crease of kindness, make amends for the wrongs you are doing me.—Good Heavens, cried I, what then is my crime!—You love the duke, answered he: yes, Mademoiselle, you doat on him, and 'tis I that must inform you thereof. I know I am going to appear whimsical and ridiculous, and justify all your wrongs. I provide you with weapons against myself, which you will turn to a proper use. I see and feel the whole of my wretchedness, but I am driven to it." All this was attended by a flood of tears, and taking leave he told me further, that he was going to conceal his distraction and despair from my sight.

He left me in a greater confusion than I can well describe: I found I wanted to shake off my­self, and durst not yet enquire into the cause of the various emotions I felt raised in my breast; when having thrown myself on a couch, Leonora entered the room.

I was surprized at her coming, and ashamed she should be witness of my disorder. Which she per­ceiving, Come, said she, recover yourself: I see you would conceal your uneasiness and sentiments from my knowledge; but you are to blame. Don't take me for a severe censor, that would condemn all your motions, but look upon me as a friend on whom you may depend, and one capable of comforting and conducting you in the most delicate circum­stance of your life. Do not fancy I shall make a crime of your sensibility. A heart may be sensible and innocent too; and, to merit your confidence, by my example, I am willing to let you into mine. Here she paused a while, and seemed to repent hav­ing gone so far; but I pressed her with so much [Page 24] tenderness to proceed in her story, that she con­tinued thus:

I am acquainted with love, and have but too dearly paid the tribute due to that little god.—You have no doubt heard of the misfortunes of my family, and how I lost my husband and brother both at the same time. The one was the support, and the other the hope of our house. My brother was taken in arms against his sovereign, and left his head upon a scaffold. Soon after my husband paid with his life a victory he gained over the enemies of the state. Thus was I in one moment stript of all my present advantages and hopes to come; re­duced to lament a dead husband in place, and much esteemed, and to sue for a brother's life and honour. But alas! he forfeited both together, with his es­tates, so that I was left without wealth or fortune. The notions of greatness disappeared, and all the charms that are the attendants of a distinguished station in life, vanished in an instant. I found my­self forsaken and without support, and my only hopes were, that, having been exposed to the frowns of fortune, I should at least be forgotten by love; but both joined forces to persecute me. Dispense me, madam, with the rest—

And now, ladies, though every thing she said is still fresh in my memory, from my having been ve­ry attentive to this mark of confidence she gave me (wherein she acted very artfully to come at my heart and secret) yet as she is unknown to you, the repetition will not perhaps be thought very mate­rial, therefore you will give me leave to drop her history here—By no means, said we all, pray let us know the rest of Leonora's adventures: where­upon the Solitary continued in these words:

—We like to be let into the weaknesses of peo­ple we esteem. We always long to resemble them [Page 25] in something; if their eminent qualities leave [...] far behind, their foibles bring us to a nearer [...]. That is no small comfort, and in my particular cir­cumstance, it was too important for my repose, to find a friend in a person who had been set as a watch over my actions. The confidence she was going to place in me, was a kind of security that answered for her, and I was in those moments, when a secret lies so heavy on the heart. I longed to speak to her of what I felt, and was too happy to find in her, not only advices for my conduct, but the same dear weaknesses which render us more indulgent towards those of other people. I pressed her there­fore to proceed.

You will then, said she, have the full extent of my secret. I am very much afraid the recital will make all my wounds bleed afresh, and give new life to my passion; but however, that shall not prevent my complying with your request. My sentiments being the only pleasure left me, I will indulge them in their full career. They are indeed of a quite new nature. Olindo in Tasso is quoted as a model of sentiments. He is made to say, that he desires much, hopes little, and asks nothing; but for my part I neither wish, hope, nor ask at all. My pas­sion is supported by nothing; it subsists, feeds, and increases by itself: and thus have I for a long time been taken up with a sentiment most singular in its kind.

I saw at a friend's some years ago, the count * * *, you will excuse me telling his name. To me he appeared a most amiable person, though, with so great share of the qualifications of the mind, personal advantages would be less requisite. From the first moment I beheld him he engaged my at­tention, (which is doing a great deal with me) [Page 26] and I continued seeing him both at my friend's and my own house. There was at that time a gentle­man that laid some pretensions to my heart. We had formerly been on the point of marriage, and, when my family had disposed of my liberty in fa­vour of my late husband, he had been afflicted be­yond expression. His stars had decreed he should ever love me; therefore, unable yet to resolve to give me over, he still diverted his sorrow with the notion that my heart did not go along with my hand. His esteem and respect for me had indeed stopped and repressed his sentiments, but he was ever watching mine, and telling me every day, that if I disposed of them to another, he should die with grief.

He soon observed, that my regard for the count was changing into tenderness; my eyes had inform­ed against me, and revealed my secret: and upon this he vented himself in reproaches that very much offended me.

All this was yet unperceived by the happy man. Not but that he seemed to have some slender incli­nation for me, and I was ready prepared to reject his declaration, if he should make any. He has since been fully revenged for my idle resolution.—If he had any sentiments at all, they have stopt short, whilst mine have had their full run. It was long before I could be clear in what I felt. Hea­vens! how artfully doth the heart in those cases conceal its inclination, not to alarm our reason and modesty? It is a bare nothing at first: it is the mind we are taken with; and, in short, till love has got the mastery, he remains almost always un­known. He soon discovered himself to me in all his power; and the disorder, which the presence of the count always threw me into, made me sensible of my defeat.

[Page 27] About that time all my misfortunes came shower­ing upon me, and, as I have told you, I lost my husband and brother. It was the most complete and strongest felt distress in the world. My friend, who often came to comfort me, used to bring the count with her at a time when I saw no body; and I found, to the shame of my grief, that he alone was able to suspend it.

I was afterwards plunged into a world of affairs; my family ruined; my brother perishing with all the infamy of guilt and rebellion, and none but I to assist him, and save all I could out of the ruins of the family. I was in hopes that so many trou­bles would at least wear out the sentiment I nou­rished in my heart, but my misfortunes ever kept up a strong remembrance of it.

After many years vexation, time, without the help of reason, effected what the latter had not been able to compass; for we must own, to the shame of our affliction, that it doth not last forever. In short, having made the most of the wrecks of my fortune, I hoped to enjoy a little quiet. But I had lost the repose of the heart, and, when restored to myself, I found I was wholly sunk in love. An active hurrying life had, indeed, encroached on its rights; but I have paid dear for it since. I could no longer mistake my situation; I was forced to own it, and begin to settle with myself.

Most women, void of thought or design of action, are hurried away by the first sentiment that pleases them. But for my part I considered what I had to do, and, after weighing the count's character and my own, found that I must absolutely avoid him: and, to show you that my resolution was grounded on knowledge, I will draw you his pic­ture.—But no: I am not in a condition to paint him such as he is. Love would needs conduct the [Page 28] pencil, and I could not suffer any want of merit in the object of my affections.

But, said I, interrupting her, how is it possible that with a heart, overflowing with so great a pas­sion, you should have made no attempts towards ei­ther inspiring the same in his, or expressing your own to him?—I have my answer ready, replied she.

I was born with a heart greatly susceptible of tenderness, but yet at the same time with a deal of pride. The one cannot be gratified but at the ex­pense of the other. To make me happy, they ought both to agree, which is a difficult matter; and my condition is still more miserable when my glory is wounded, than when my heart bleeds; and I have therefore resolved to gratify it. Had I shown my sentiments, and they been slighted, I should have died with grief; and that was my reason for avoid­ing him. I was sure of my lips, but could not an­swer for my eyes; and yet, whilst I was shunning his looks, I was ever seeking for them. What storm would they not raise in my soul, when my eyes happened to glance on him! My tenderness and pride always stepped in between him and me. The one forced me towards him, the other with­held my fondness; and these different impressions gave me a confused and bashful air, which I was afraid might betray me. Yet there is not one mo­ment of my life, wherein my heart doth not require, and I refuse him to its eager desires. My senti­ments are as violent now, as when new; and more than once an increase of tenderness has exhausted the whole stock of courage I had collected by re­flection. My thoughts are still on him without in­termission. He falls in between every object and me; in all the projects I form, I have him still in view: I fancy his esteem is to be the reward of all the good I do, and I prize it yet more than all the [Page 29] tender sentiments I am able to suppose in him. I have set myself the hardest task in the world, a strictness of behaviour that denies me even the plea­sures of imagination; but especially, I have pro­mised to avoid him, and accordingly keep my word with myself.

One heart alone is unequal to so mighty a strug­gle; and a friend who visited me often, seeing me pensive and melancholy, at last wrested my secret from me. The confession cost me as much as if it had been something criminal. He endeavoured to quiet my timorousness, and said—Do you think we owe as much fidelity to this whim of honour im­posed by custom, as to the other which is the real attendant of virtue? Believe me, madam, the world is not too hard, you owe it but the appearances of decorum, no more is required of you.—I cannot be of your way of thinking, answered I, and I have never met with a woman good for any thing, after once throwing off the prejudice of honour. Besides, I have more regard for myself than for the world: I stand in need of my own good opinion, and the testimony of my conscience is more neces­sary to me, than all the suffrages of the public.—But will you, said he again, fall a sacrifice to your passion? You must either get the better of, or yield to it.—If my heart could have obeyed me, replied I, I should have got rid of it long ago, but I can bring it to no manner of terms. Nay, scarce can I forgive my sensibility, and it is you that have re­called me to the attention I owe myself.

But after all, madam, an inclination is not a thing that depends on us; it insinuates into our hearts without our leave: passions seize and hold us in their power as long as they please, and the whole guilt lies in the use we make of them. What [Page 30] have I not done to tear him from my heart? I at­tempted to leave my native country, and go over to a foreign court. I thought change of place and objects, might give a new turn to my ideas; but love, more diligent than me, flew and overtook me on the road. Seeing therefore, that all my precau­tions were useless, and my affairs requiring my pre­sence at home, I returned back. Next I endea­voured to force myself into a liking to some persons that made their addresses to me, hoping to weaken one passion by another, and thus at last to give them both the slip. But alas! all to no purpose. I have sacrificed every thing to my imaginary love, and my fidelity to this phantasm of a passion, is proof against all. It is really wonderful what lengths I have gone with this mere idea. I have personalized it, so that I keep a social intercourse with it; nay, we have our quarrels and reconcilia­tions: at other times again we are upon easier terms, [...], my melancholy being then more soothing, I [...]uld not barter it for the highest gratifications of [...]easure. It is love alone that can give those en­ [...]earing fits of sadness which we enjoy with thanks. My ideas are so strong, that there are moments when I fancy him near me, and love wears away the whole space that separates us.

Would you know what has led me to this excess of passion? It is my extreme severity to myself.—It is not those that yield, who love most, but those who resist. All you deny the senses, adds to the hoard of tenderness. I was let loose to the exag­gerations of my mind, and, as possession seldom furnishes all the gratifications our desires lend it, I have loved not in proportion to the merit I have found, but to that which I imagined.

I heard much, about that time, that the count had an affair with a lady; a new addition to my [Page 31] grief, My passion, I fancied, gave me a right over his. When we love dearly, we would fain be loved again, and always fancy ourselves worthy of such a return. I was as much piqued at his amour, as if he had really been guilty of an infidelity to me, and his affection for another raised a barrier be­tween him and me. From his engagement he shifted to another. From thence I fancied he was inconstant, and neither serious nor respectful of love, and I found I was doomed to the laborious task of effacing from my heart a sentiment that was deep­ly engraven in it. But alas! even now, a hundred times a day I say I will forget him, and say it, but to think still more of him. What must I do with the vast stock of love thus swelling in my heart?—Lovers are often cured by reflections; but mine distemper me the more, and reason is too weak to assist me against my passion.—But it is too much expatiating upon what I feel. What, madam, must you now think of me? Or what impressions does my madness make upon you?—Think! replied I, why, that it is a sort of consolation to find so esti­mable a person as you, in some shape, partaking of my weakness.—

After all this, now suffer me, madam, resumed she, to do my office, (for it is what we must do sometimes) by desiring you to consider, that, though I have not fallen into the greatest precipi­ces of love, I have nevertheless been excessively mis­erable. From a conduct tolerably laudable, what advantages have I reaped? Myself the only wit­ness of so many difficulties and strugglings. In love every thing of this nature is lost, because un­known, besides that the heart is never well com­posed again after having been once agitated with that passion. How amiable and desirable is virtue, even barely with regard to our repose! Take the [Page 32] most fortunate passions, and sum up, if possible, all the alarms, the pangs, the anxieties, the fears, the jealousies that attend them: lay all these aside, and leave to love none but its pure joys; how few will they appear? Yet, for the shadow of these few pleasures, we vitiate our taste, and lose the relish of true pleasures for all our lives. Pardon, madam, this small touch of morality. If, by laying myself open to you as I have now done, I have forfeited the privilege of giving advice, I hope by a mutual confidence to regain a new right to your heart, and make myself believed a friend free from suspicion.

Here I was going, in return, to unbosom my soul to her, in full liberty, in regard to my situa­tion, when we were told that my father wanted us. Having waited on him, he asked me in a rough angry tone, what I had done to prince Camillus? "His mother has been telling me this moment, continued he, that he grieves most terribly, and you are taxed with being the cause of it: it is very cutting, says she to me, first to bear so much against my will, my son's passion for your daughter, and then to find that very passion serves but to make him unhappy. I believe you too much my friend, not to join with me in breaking an engagement which is not at all agreeable to me, and you are too much a man of honour not to think rather of ful­filling the duties of gratitude, than of aggrandizing your family at the expense of the friendship you owe me. Since, therefore, your daughter helps us by her ill-treatment of my son, let us, concluded she, complete a rupture, which we durst not have attempted without her concurrence; and for this purpose I beg of you to carry, or send her down into the country. I answered, that I desired her to be persuaded that no interests were dearer to me than her own; that I had nothing more at heart [Page 33] than to give her satisfaction, and that I should im­mediately order you away. Therefore, Mademoi­selle, get yourself ready to set out for my country seat in two or three days. The gratitude and fi­delity I owe the princess prevent my talking to you in the strain of an offended father, but I had rather serve her than you. Certainly, pursued he, turning to Leonora, who had followed me, no­thing can come up to my daughter's ingratitude to an amiable prince, who has a violent passion for her, who sacrifices the greatest advantages to his love, and is the support of our tottering family. When the princess, his mother, out of indulgence to him and kind regard to me, is going to give a consent which costs her so much, she, my daughter, alone raises an obstacle to an affair, which the ought to buy at the expense of half her life!—Oh! in spite of resolution, I shall lose my temper, anger resumes its rights, and will have vent! Begone, and never more appear in my sight." I would have answered, but he was too much exasperated, and I found the best way was to withdraw imme­diately to my chamber. Leonora staid however some time behind, to try to pacify him, but his passion ran so high, and his rage was so violent, that she found it a hard matter to calm him.

That very moment the prince came to pay him a visit, and finding him prodigiously ruffled, asked him the reason of his discomposure: "My daugh­ter, replied the old gentleman, has been unhappy enough to displease you, for which I cannot pun­ish her too much, and therefore have just now or­dered her away into the country." The prince immediately threw himself at his feet to beg I might be allowed to stay, but my father replied, that his word was too strongly engaged to the princess ever to go from it. The prince assured [Page 34] him I was no ways guilty: "Must parents, said he, interfere in the quarrels of lovers, which have often no other foundation but their delicacy? It is I, sir, that am in fault. Love is never satisfied, and often unjust. But at least give me leave to see your daughter.—You have it, my lord, replied my father.—Well, then, continued the prince, I will go to my mother, and entreat her to desire you herself to break off this cruel journey.—Were she even to order it, answered my father, it would be all to no purpose. She might think you and I are of a party in it; and I owe more to my honour than to any consideration whatever."

Leonora had withdrawn, when she saw the prince enter my father's closet, though not so far but she overheard this part of their conversation, after which she came up to my room, where she found me sinking under a dejection of spirits that cannot be expressed. "O my dear, cried I, my father's anger distracts me; but what afflicts me most is, that he is not angry without a cause. Alas! but a moment ago you were talking of the trials of love: could I have thought I was destined to be so soon an instance of them?" Leonora on this re­peated to me what the prince had said to my father, but his generosity and virtue served only to add to my guilt and affliction.

The prince that moment entered my room, and finding me drowned in tears;—Though I am ig­norant of the cause of those tears, said he, and dare not flatter myself they are meant for me, yet, madam, you are afflicted, and that is a sufficient motive for me to partake in your sorrow.—My lord, replied I, abandon a wretched creature that disturbs the tranquillity of your family: do not add your constancy to my load of misfortunes. You have already done too much for me and it is time [Page 35] to think of yourself, and what you owe the prin­cess your mother.—Why will you, madam, answer­ed he, ever take upon you the care of my duty? It no longer becomes you to affect such a generos­ity. This last speech offended me.—What, sir, do you mean by this, said I, and what am I accu­sed of?—I accuse you of nothing, replied the prince, and you will never find a persecutor in me. In the piques of lovers, the delicacy of the person in fault is always sufficient revenge to the injured; I ask no other: but at least, Mademoiselle, help us not to lose you. I have not been able to prevail with your father. It is the first time in my life I have seen him angry with you, and I must die with grief, if he continues much longer in the same temper.

Here I was told that one of the princess Flavia's gentlemen wanted to speak with me. He brought me word that her highness had engaged me for a party of hunting the next day. I desired Leonora to go and know my father's pleasure what I must do. His answer was—To be sure she must obey the princess: since she has done her the honour to name her for the party, she ought to go.—I there­fore sent the gentleman back with my thanks to the princess, and to assure her I would not fail to com­ply with her orders.

I was now obliged to get my things ready and think of my dress, but indeed I was very little dis­posed for joy. One of the inconveniencies of a court is, that we must have the sentiments that reign there, or do as if we had them; so that, of ten under an outward appearance of mirth, the inward anguish of the heart is concealed.

I joined the company the next day—a very heavy heart, but dissembled my uneasiness by saying I had had a violent head-ache. Nothing in the world could be more gallant than our hunting match, [Page 36] which was to conclude with an entertainment at a pleasure seat in the country. The ladies made a very fine appearance on horseback. My father, who neglected nothing that could give an addition of graces to my person, had made me learn to ride, and my dress was blue, trimmed with gold. I was liked better than I could have wished, and the princess, who was very obliging, complimented me upon it in the handsomest manner in the world.—The first persons my eyes glanced on were the prince and the duke, very regularly paying their court to her highness. My confusion was inex­pressible: I was at a loss how to dispose of my looks; the prince was observing me, and that in­creased my disorder.

The chace began at last, and the duke contrived means to get near me. When he came up, I ex­pressed so much uneasiness at his sight, that he with­drew very respectfully, saying, I hope, then, ma­dam, you will take for done, all the services I do not render you.

When the sport was over, the company repaired to a country seat, which was finely illuminated; and, as soon as they arrived, the ladies withdrew to the apartments prepared for them, in order to re­fresh themselves, and shift their dresses. Here, pulling out my handkerchief, I found a letter in my pocket, without being able to know how it came there; and, just as I was reading it, the prince stepped into my chamber. I hid it in a great hur­ry, but he perceived my confusion, and said to me, I find, madam, I am troublesome, and shall there­fore withdraw. The time was now come for my evil destiny to prevail over my life.

When I had changed cloaths, I was obliged to go down to the company. How difficult a matter it is to put on a pleasant air with a bleeding heart! [Page 37] In the course of the conversation I told the princess I was going down into the country. She asked me upon what account; I replied, my father was wil­ling to spend a few weeks of the spring at his seat, and assured her I should carry with me the most grateful sense of the obligations I lay under to her goodness. She inquired likewise how far the house might be; and upon my telling her that it was but two or three leagues off, she had the complai­sance to promise to come down and see me. I re­ceived all these marks of distinction as I ought.—The duke was present when I mentioned my jour­ney, and seemed to express a concern. But as for the prince, he did not appear the whole evening, which gave me much uneasiness. The company went to cards; there was also a concert in the drawing-room, whither I followed the princess, be­cause I found my account better with the music: for there I had nothing to do but feel and be silent. Supper was served up; every thing was in the most magnificent taste; and there was a grand ball after.

The duke made the most brilliant and graceful appearance in the world at this entertainment, and I own I found myself possessed with quite new sen­timents, which I perceived very well were those the prince had been so long requiring of me in his be­half, but which till then I had been utterly unac­quainted with. Though I was very sorry not to see him, because his absence was a sure sign of his discontent. Yet I could not help finding myself more at case for a moment: my looks and senti­ments had a greater liberty of action, and I saw with sorrow, though not without a mixture of joy, the most violent passion written in the duke's eyes. Whenever I happened to be his partner, he was thought to dance better than usual, and the prin­cess [Page 38] made us repeat together several dances, which she fancied we performed better than the rest.

In short, he was endeavouring to please, and was, perhaps, very sensible that he did so.

After the ball was over, I hurried home to my apartment, whither Leonora, who had been so kind as to keep always with me, also followed. As soon as I saw her, I ordered my maids to retire, and then she began to tell me, how dearly I was like to pay for the moment's pleasure I had had. I gave her an account of all that had passed, but she knew it better than myself, having observed me all the time. I showed her the letter I had received, and told her how the prince had surprized me reading it, and that no doubt he suspected it came from the duke of Praxede. Indeed, answered she, you are to be pitied, madam; but what can be done for you? We spent part of the night in consulting upon the different methods I could take, but day­light appearing before we could fix on any, we went to our beds unresolved.

The prince called upon Leonora betimes in the morning: It is perhaps ill-mannerly, madam, said he, to come so early to disturb people that go to bed by day-light. He had, it seems, passed the night on a terrace that lay under my window, and had seen how late we had sat up together; he knew also all that had happened at the ball, having been present in disguise. He expressed a lively and deep concern to Leonora, telling her how he had caught me reading a letter, which upon sight of him, I had put up with a disorder that had be­trayed me, and, upon my friend's endeavouring to dissuade him from the notions he had formed of that letter, he answered, I do not seek to accuse her, and should be very sorry to have any cause to do it. Alas! far from it: so great was my good [Page 39] opinion of her sincerity, that she might have at­tempted any thing upon the strength of my con­fidence.—What then is it you complain of, replied Leonora, what hath she done more than common civility required? (for, as to the letter affair, she made him believe he was mistaken, and folks in love are easily deceived). I cannot, answered he, ground either my suspicions, or even my discontent, on any thing certain; but a secret foreboding dis­turbs my heart: my fears are not quieted by her love, and, when she is with the duke, methinks I see in her eyes a something she never hath with me. Leonora was not wanting in her endeavours to calm those apprehensions. He begged her to ob­tain leave of my father to visit me in the country, and assured her at parting, that his suspicions and uneasinesses on my account should never reach him, and that he would owe nothing to paternal author­ity, nor accept of my hand if my heart did not tender it.

The prince having obtained the liberty he desired, I sat out without daring to take leave of my father, and under his displeasure I found myself more easy in the country. Our seat was a noble building, though not in the modern taste: there was a large park, fine woods, and pleasant water. Nature seem­ed every where at liberty, without being forced by art. I was in hopes that the calm tranquillity that reigned in this place might diffuse itself into my soul: but, alas! the passions delight in silence, they increase and strengthen by solitude. I found myself with dispositions till then unknown, and in a disorder and agitation, which nevertheless had a secret charm.

Leonora often intruded upon my solitary mo­ments to rouze me out of my reveries, and oblig­ingly reproach me with shunning her. Then, said I, [Page 40] I must also shun myself, for you are my sole com­fort. But the truth is, that all my time is not suf­ficient to bestow on what I feel of late.—Your re­flections, answered she, might be better employed on the misfortunes love has in store for you. I know my advices will be in vain against a growing passion, but, though useless, I still owe them to you: consider, madam, continued she, that you are wanting to every thing that is most sacred, to your­self, to your father, and what is still more, to the most lovely prince in the world, and to the truest and best proved passion that ever was; and for whom? For one you do not know, and who will most assuredly render your life miserable. You must not fancy, that all passions carry their excuses with them.—Here we were interrupted and part­ed. I was very sensible she was in the right, but her reason and mine were both too weak to help me. She was threatening me with misfortunes, and troubling my life, without effectually arming me against my evil destiny.

I do not know by what enchantment every thing about me served the duke. I cannot tell whether he had bribed any of my people, but I met with marks of his passion in every place. Once I found a letter on my toilet; at other times verses would be offered to my view in the woods and most bye places, whither I liked to retire. Here is the let­ter I have spoken of. At first I made a scruple of unfolding it; and, had it been possible, would have sent it back whence it came, unopened: but we can hardly deny ourselves a pleasure that presents itself, and the receiving of which is to be unknown. I therefore opened it, and read these words:

"I tremble, Mademoiselle, to appear before you, and am under a dread of your displeasure; yet what makes my crime, ought to be my excuse—I can­not [Page 41] forbear telling you that you have taught me to love, without knowing yourself those tender senti­ments you have taught me. Though, were you to judge of yourself only by the passion you have in­spired in me, you could not be ignorant that you are the most adorable creature in the world. But by the infinite sense I have of your worth, methinks I am still placing you at a greater distance from me. I have a love and respect which you only can inspire, and which no one but myself is capable of feeling."

The next day as I was going to sit down by a large canal in a grove, I found this other letter on a seat of green turf, on which I used to rest myself.

"You need not be under any fear on my account, Mademoiselle. The sentiments you have raised in me have all the warmth of passion, with the inno­cence of virtue. I dare glory in the avowing them, and will believe I have no other merit but what is derived from them. Let the disinterestedness of my affection plead in its behalf; since there can be no greater proof of love, than to be more eager to love than to be loved again. For my part, I am rewarded for my passion by what I feel, and am pleased with the expectation of happier days:—Judge, then, madam, if I can ever fail of honour­ing and respecting you."

Another day this third billet was offered to my view in a closet, whither I used to retire.

"I pass the days and nights under your walls, and, though I cannot live from the place that holds my bliss, I know not how to approach; all the ways that lead to my charmer appear full of diffi­culties. But even this becomes an advantage, since finding you at last, must claim some merit.—I can­not return to court; I have not power to discharge my duty there:—and think, wherever you are not, [Page 42] I am obliged to no duty but that of regretting your absence. Much less can I seek for pleasure. Can any be found without you? I find at least there is none for me in the world but where you are. In you alone, love has centered all my hopes, my wishes, and my pleasures.—Will you not then, through pity, relieve what I suffer through love?"

Thus every thing spoke in his behalf, and was ever reminding me of what I could not forget. I believed easily the agreeable truths that closed with my desires. He was by degrees using me to hear him talk of his passion, and insensibly gaining upon my delicacy and bashfulness, whilst I allowed and forgave my loving him.

A few days after my arrival in the country, the countess Emilia came to see me. She was a friend of the family's, and had always expressed a high friendship for me. She brought with her a very amiable daughter, who, after the first acquaintance, observing that I was alone, and might be glad of company, offered very kindly to stay behind with me, if I would but ask her mamma leave. At any other time I should have been very glad of such an offer, but I was now so melancholy, and so much taken up with my passion, that, though sometimes I endeavoured to divert my thoughts, I still fell into my old way, and my tenderness made me believe that I owed myself wholly and entirely to my sen­sations of love, and that to deviate from them was no better than an infidelity. However, I could not well decline asking her of her mother, and there­fore made the proposal, which she readily came into.

I diverted my new companion as well as I could. We soon contracted a familiarity with one another, and yet she was not open with me, but seemed rath­er pensive and taken up with something at heart. [Page 43] I did not choose to let her know I perceived it, for fear of giving her uneasiness, nor press to be let in­to her secrets, because I was glad her reservedness towards, gave me a right of behaving in the same manner to her. She would often be alone, which pleased me much, as I had thereby the liberty and opportunity of being so too.

Going one day into her apartments, I was great­ly surprized to find the duke with her, and I be­lieve they both perceived the disorder his presence threw me into. At first I had a great mind to re­sent it, but contained myself upon reflection, that, not being acquainted with the secret of my heart, she could mean no harm in introducing the duke. I could not hinder her from seeing her friends at my house, and the duke, knowing nothing of what I had suffered upon his account, could have no no­tion of disobliging me by a visit to a lady of his acquaintance. These reasons calmed my resent­ment.—I made but a short stay with them, and ran immediately after to Leonora. I told her I had just seen the duke in my friend's apartment, and what concern it gave me, lest my father and the prince should think I had an hand in it, begging her to tell me what I had best do. She knew me too well to suspect any artifice in my conduct. My fears answered for me; and she knew I could feel, but that was all. She therefore told me she would wait on my father with an account of the whole of the matter, and would take his orders how to act, but that she was pretty sure he would suspect no­thing further.

It fell out accordingly. He was persuaded that it was a mere chance accident, and, that as it was not possible to turn out of doors a young lady of my friend's quality, so was it likewise impossible to prevent her receiving what visits she pleased in her [Page 44] apartment; but he desired her never to be one mo­ment from me. They agreed also that he should now and then take a trip down to us, to conceal from the world the knowledge of my disgrace with him, and prevent people's talk about it to my dis­advantage.

Leonora's return made me easy as to my father, but I was certain all our precautions would avail nothing with the prince, and that he wou'd not hearken to reason like the old gentleman. Going into my room, I found a letter laid upon a couch, and indeed few days passed without my receiving some, one way or another. I opened it, and read these words:

"I appear no more at court, Mademoiselle, out of regard for my love. I cannot help thinking my passion is legible in my eyes, and by looking at me I fancy every body can discover that you are the person I adore.—What! must I make a secret of loving you? The only merit I would boast of is a high sense of your value, and a respect equal to your worth.—My sentiments, madam, want only to be felt, and I words to express them."

Ever after I avoided going into my friend's apartment, but she was fonder of my company than ever. You shun me, said she, one day, you have found out the duke's inclination to you, and fancy me deep in some plot against you; but do me the justice to believe, that though he is very much my friend, I am incapable of acting any part unworthy of you, or myself.—But, said I, where did you get acquainted with this man, for I am sure I have ne­ver seen him at your house!—I have known him a long while, replied she, and the reason of your not seeing him was, because he was at the [...] at the time you [...] us. I became acquainted with him at the marchioness * * *, and shall one day or an­other [Page 45] tell you the history of our friendship; but at present give me leave to inform you, that he feels the strongest passion for you. What part therefore will you have me act? Will you not take it amiss if I receive his professions to deliver them to you? Tell me how I can serve you. If this doth not please you, and his love is offensive, I will have no­thing more to say to him. My friend was much too hard for me. She wanted to know the disposi­tions of my soul, and people in love are apt to be communicative, for these two sentiments always go hand in hand. Besides, she was a sister person to make a confidante of, than Leonora, our ages agreeing better with one another. I therefore un­bosomed my soul, and told her my secret upon honour not to mention a word of it to the duke, which she promised, and I am willing to believe she has kept her word with me. I informed her without reserve of all I have related to you: my story surprized and affected her much, and she gave me new assurances of doing nothing but what I should think sit.

The next day we took a walk at a small distance from our seat. It was a very fine place. Whilst we were abroad, prince Camillus came to pay us a visit, but was told I was gone out. He thought, I suppose, that in the country one was always to be met with at home, and could not conceive, that having so large and fine a park, we should go to seek a walk abroad. Yet, had he thought proper, he might have been satisfied of the truth. If he had but asked the servants, they could have told him, where I was. But, without making the least inquiry he went away in a passion, and the next day sent me the following letter.

"Love led me yesterday to your solitude. Ma­demoiselle, but even Capid [...] met with a dis­appointment. [Page 46] I found nothing but a melancholy solitude, every thing that could please was fled with you. However, do not fear that my complaints shall ever more come to disturb your pleasures. No; I value them as your's: though I cannot taste any, where you are absent, may you still partake of a great deal where I am far off; proofs of love be­come offensive when we are not in a disposition to make them a return."

That very evening we took a walk by ourselves; my friend made me vast protestations of friendship, and spoke with great sensibility of all I had men­tioned to her. Our conversation was long and ten­der, but at last it grew late, and we were obliged to return homewards.

As we were walking back to the castle, I heard a noise near me, and was mightily surprized to find myself stopped by somebody that lay at my feet.—I gave a shriek, upon which a voice, which I soon knew for the duke's, said—Do not be frightened, madam, I am no enemy.—Yes, sir, answered I, you must be one, cruelly thus to expose me.—You will not be exposed, replied he; nobody can know I am here, and your reputation is dearer to me than my passion: but what can I do with the mighty store of love you have inspired me with?—I now turned to my friend, and asked whether she had a hand in this piece of treachery?—No, ma­dam, answered he for her, she has no manner of share in what I do, and it is from the innocence and purity of my sentiments alone I have borrowed this presumption. He then threw himself again at my feet, and said the most passionate things in the world. I would have got from him, and called my friend, but could not stir, something invisible, un­known, too prevailing, seized my soul, and my legs refused to perform their office. Fortunately I had [Page 47] not power to speak, and therefore only answered him with my heart, but my eyes would easily have betrayed their meaning, could he have seen them. In short, he persuaded me of his passion. Heavens! what did he not say, and how did it not affect me? But, at last, my friend informing us that day-light was approaching, and that we must part, he asked leave to return again the next day. I had not power to deny him, and withdrew in a disorder and agitation that cannot be expressed.

I passed the remainder of the night awake, and was never taken up with such a variety of senti­ments: for joy, grief, hopes, fear, and remorse, took their turns, and raised such a storm in my breast, that day appeared before sleep could approach my eyelids.

I went very early to my friend's apartment, and finding her pensive and sorrowful, enquired into the reason. I shall be loth to tell it you, answered she, but yet I cannot betray the confidence you repose in me, and should think myself wanting in my obli­gations to you, if I did not acquaint you with the duke's engagements. What! cried I, has he then placed his affections elsewhere? Perhaps that is all over, replied she▪ you are capable of effacing the deepest impressions; but, however, hear me out if you can: I am going to reveal to you his secret and my own.—Sure, said I, it is not you that he is in love with?—No, madam, replied she hastily, compose yourself and hear me; for you must know the bottom, in order to take the course that can sit you best.

I have known the duke some time. He was somewhat forward in courting an acquaintance with me, and got one of my relations to introduce him. I was astonished that a man of his youth, and so taken up with gay pleasures, should come to seek a [Page 48] person much retired, and who thought more of leading a rational life, than one diversified with mirth and gaiety. I enquired therefore into his views, and self-love made me believe, that, not being a bad match as to fortune, they might relate to me. But I was not long in that error. You know there's a friendship between madam L* * * and me. She is very amiable. I suspected his assiduity at our house might be meant for her, and accordingly, by often talking to him about her, and telling him all the handsome things I could think of her, I was soon convinced that his fondness was all intended for that friend. The discovery nettled me a little; I avoided some time enquiring why, and my heart would fain have spared me an insight into my weakness; but, as I feared its surprizes, I was not deceived, and thought I must apply the necessary remedies.

At first I made a resolution never to see him more. Alas! it would have proved more for my satisfac­tion, had I followed this, than the conduct I after­wards imposed upon myself.

Indeed, fancying I could do still better, I set about wresting his secret from him, and was even at the advance of the whole expense of the confi­dence, by telling him the misfortune I had had to lose the Marquis * * *, with whom my family had entered into some engagements relating to a match between us; how sensibly I had been affected with the breaking off of the intended alliance; with what regret I forbid him my doors, when decency and the commands of my relations would no lon­ger allow of his visits; how much this conduct in­creased my passion; and how I found by experi­ence, that severity serves love, and strengthens the impression. I made him this confidence, with a view of placing an eternal obstacle between him and [Page 49] my own heart. I likewise gave by this a pretence and excuse to my sorrow, and ascribed to another, the effects of my passion for him.

This confidence displeased him; whether it was contrary to his designs, or that his vanity had been flattered with the belief that my heart inclined to him; but yet I thought I perceived he had some secret views, and would have it in his power to at­tempt me when he should think fit.—It is pretty much the way of the men to have some object in reserve, after letting their imaginations rove, and losing their taste for their present pleasures.

My confidence had quite a contrary effect to what I imagined, for he became eager and fond.—He was inconsolable, as he said, at my having such sentiments for another; and when I told him, that it took nothing from him, he thought me guilty of want of delicacy in not understanding there were passions of esteem infinitely above those of the senses. The truth was, I wanted no other from him, but the difficulty lay in convincing me that his was of that kind. Whatever he could say, I did not believe him the more for it, and there were even some moments when I esteemed him the less on that account. He continued always in the same strain, and, had I been willing to flatter my self-love, I might have believed that I had inspired him with a very sublime passion. But this did not satisfy me; I wanted to come to some conclusion, and fix my situation by his.

Many ways offered to that end. I was mistress of his secret. He had intrusted me with his repose, had desired me to direct him; and I could without treachery, act a part consistent with my interest, by refusing to serve him in his amour. Another would have taken the opportunity to be revenged of the [Page 50] preference given to a rival, and nothing was easier than this, for my friend was timorous; she was afraid of the world and her family; she feared the duke himself, and I had nothing to do but to in­dulge her in her own way.

A more worthy conduct, however, presented itself at the same time. I kept off all the low resent­ments we women are susceptible of. I examined his case and my own, and did not find him guilty in feeling for another, what I could have wished he had felt for me. I thought it was my business to punish myself for a misplaced affection, by turning it to his advantage, and that my affection ought to be pure and powerful enough to be assisting in mak­ing him more happy in another. I laid aside all my tenderness, and forgot my own interest, in or­der to impose upon myself the most difficult conduct in the world, which, however, I have hitherto been able to keep up to. I fancied, that if he could be touched by an honourable behaviour, I should thereby make a worthy friend of him; and that, however, if it was all lost upon him, it would not be so for me. In short, my deluded imagination has served him so well, that it has been able to per­suade me, that nothing would be more worthy of me than to conquer myself.

I therefore set about advancing his interest with my friend, as if on their happiness the whole of mine had depended. I spoke to lady L * * * of the great passion he had for her. I painted it in the strongest colours, and drew a picture, sketched by truth, but ornamented by love. My friend was somewhat prepossessed against him, but I found means to combat her prejudices. I calmed her fears; I answered for him; I took all upon myself; I touched her heart; I moved her inclination to tenderness, and relieved her modesty. In short, [Page 51] when he came to see her, he had nothing to do, but to finish what I had so well begun. He found the impression ready made to his hands.

There were, indeed, some moments when I could not help thinking the part I had acted very much out of character. "I am wanting to every thing, said I; I act against my own principles; I forget the regard I owe to myself, and know no other duty, but that of expressing my attachment to him. What a scene is this for indifferent people to see?"—Yet, when I consulted my heart and affections, I thought there could be nothing greater than to give him up to another. I judged of the merit of my conduct by what it cost me. Thus, without regard to myself, without the least tender concern for my own situation, I have admitted no thought, but that of effecting his happiness.

There was a time when I hoped to enjoy the sad comfort of seeing him no more: he seemed to have taken some disgust, and I advised him to break off with my friend and me. That was less cruel, in my opinion, than the laborious task I had taken upon me. Indeed I suspected he was at this time in love with madam C * * * *, but he would not own it.

In the mean while I was attentive to every thing that happened. I watched all his steps and mo­tions, and was ready to magnify every fault he committed, through the desire I had of finding him guilty; and indeed I was not in humour to invent excuses for him.

But, at last, after an eclaircissement, he was re­conciled, and became fonder than ever of my friend. I now found how cutting it was to know the object of our affections attached to something perfect; yet, far from allowing my interest to encroach on the justice I owed my friend, my delicacy, and fear [Page 52] of being wanting to her, increased her merit with me. Ever since they admitted me into their con­fidence, I cannot reproach myself with having once thought of what would have been for my own ad­vantage. All my advice has been sincere, and has served their interests against my own heart; so that the greatest passion that ever was, has all along been subservient to friendship. I have thought on­ly of conquering my inclinations, and punishing my­self for a passion, which it was not in my power to suppress, since the heart involuntarily yields to im­pressions.

On a time, the duke would fain have persuaded me he had changed his mind, and was always tell­ing me things very much to my friend's disadvan­tage. This lost him my esteem. He redoubled his complaisance to me: when she was present, he would seem fonder of me, than of her: he offered me a preference which might have flattered my vanity. He followed me in all places; he grew jealous of every thing that came near me, and his jealousy was real, for he would have been very un­willing to lose me. But he conducted a passion and a design alike; a person less upon her guard might have mistaken the one for the other, but my mind could see all his faults, though my heart was not yet sensible of them.—

If I had not spoke, during this long narrative, it was because I really had not power to do it; and my friend, quite intent upon her story, had not taken notice of the condition I was in all the while. But now, unable to bear any longer, I gave a shrick, and cried out—It is enough. Oh! tell me no more;—and with that, the violent constraint I had put upon myself, having quite exhausted my spirits, I sunk down in a swoon, and was a long while in the arms of my women without recovering from [Page 53] my fit; but, to my misfortune, they recalled me at last to life.

Scarce had I opened my eyes, and began to re­cover my spirits, but a great noise and bustle was heard about the house, and some of my maids left me to run and see what it might be. But as they did not return, and the loud cries continued, I leaned upon the arm of one of them, and staggered towards the place from whence they proceeded.—Just as I got to the hall, I saw four men bringing in another bathed in his blood, whom, as he turned his head towards me, I knew to be the prince.—This sight almost rivetted me to the ground; but, making an effort, I moved forwards to follow the mournful spectacle. They laid him on a couch in the parlour, and I made signs to the servants to run for help, for I could scarce speak. The prince seeing me, turned his expiring eyes towards me, and said—I have not been able to touch your heart, madam, nor convince you of my love: I shall, however, die contented, if in my last moments I can persuade you that no one ever loved you so truly as I have, though a more happy man puts me in the condition I am now in.—At this instant the eyes of all present, who were not a few, flashed up­on me with indignation, but I was yet more hate­ful to myself than to them; and Leonora, who came running at the noise, seeing my condition, dragged me away from this dismal sight.

I was led up to my chamber. I begged of her, however, to go and take care of the prince, and to send away with all expedition for the ablest sur­geons that could be got. They had already taken care of that, and as we were not at a great distance from town, they were not long in coming. They examined his wounds, and found them mortal.—I [Page 54] sent every moment to know his condition, but could see very well by the looks of my women that there was no hopes of him.

My friend came at last, and, by the grief she ex­pressed, I guessed the prince's condition.—It is the duke, said she to me, that has fought him.—Can you, answered I, be the bearer of such cruel news!—Why, replied she, you must be informed of what is become a public talk, that you may be able to regulate yourself accordingly.—Though she was in the right, I could not help thinking her cruel to talk so; but grief is often unjust. I begged her to return to the prince's assistance, and not to leave him.

I then withdrew to my closet, with one of my women, in whom I confided most, and, throwing myself on a couch, said, "I have nothing more to do in this world, and yet am not allowed to bring death to my relief! What a cruelty to be obliged to support life under such circumstances!—But, come; I have always depended upon your attach­ment to me; follow me. I can no longer endure the sight of human kind.—Whither, madam, must we go? replied she.—No matter where, answered I, provided I avoid the eyes of all my acquaintance." The girl endeavoured to oppose my design, but to no purpose. I opened a door on the back stairs that led to the garden, and was going out, when she stopped me, by telling me how improper it would be to go away with the cloaths I had on, and all my jewels about me, desiring me to stay at least till she had dressed me in one of her plainest suite. I was persuaded, and bid her make haste, not being able to tarry a moment longer in this fatal house. "But, will you not wait the utmost of the prince's fate, resumed she again, and must not that, madam, regulate your destiny'"—Alas, [Page 55] answered I, dost thou not hear the dismal shricks of the whole family, too expressive of his not having one moment longer to live.

Saying these words, I flew down stairs. We passed the garden without meeting any body, and got out by a back door that opened into a large wood. The day was beginning to close: I walked some time without uttering a word: shame and fear sunk all my spirits. At last, quite spent and over­come, I fell to the ground, and leaned my head on the lap of the woman that attended me. The poor creature was inconsolable to see me in that condi­tion. She spoke, but I neither answered nor hearkened to her. The night grew dark and dis­mal. Overpowered by grief and weariness, I fell asleep as I lay, for nature will take care of herself, and will lose nothing of her dues.

I opened my eyes just as the day began to break, and my misfortunes glaring afresh with the light, I was filled with horror when I saw them distinctly. I recalled them all to my mind. I lose an accom­plished prince, said I; I have not loved him, when his passion, meeting with a return of mine, might have made us happy, and I adore him now I am on the point of losing him! Merciless love means to revenge him, and make me the object of its most cruel persecutions.—And by what hand do I lose him? By the hand of a perfidious man, who perhaps, has never loved me. I have been the vic­tim of his vanity. My life, my reputation, all is to be enveloped in the odium of guilt. I shall be confounded with those of my sex, who have forsak­en glory and forfeited their honour. What a heart­breaking story for a father, whose delight and darling I once was! But in what condition must the prince's mother be, she who lived but for him? Must it be my fate to involve so many people in [Page 56] my misfortunes? Why do I fly? It would be too happy for me to be sacrificed to their just re­sentment.—And, indeed, in some moments, I was for going back to offer myself to their fury, but then again, shame getting the better of my despe­rate resolution, I could think of nothing but hid­ing myself from their eyes, and seeking some for­lorn cave, where I might spend the remainder of my days.—"But after all, said I again to myself, what is my crime, good God! thou knowest the bottom of all hearts. An involuntary passion hath entered my soul. I have rejected and opposed its gratifications. I never have transgressed my duty nor modesty. What then am I punished for?"

The young woman that bore me company, was all this while melting into tears. "Alas, madam, said she, what resolution are you taking? So fair and so young, what are you not going to expose yourself to?—Perhaps, replied I, I shall meet with, some friendly villain who will deprive me of a life, which the Deity orders me to retain as a punish­ment. No, answered she, you can find no enemies amongst men; but if you will be ruled by me, I have a sister settled in a small town not far off; I will conduct you to her; you will not be known, and will be less disagreeable there, than thus wander­ing about from place to place."

I took her advice; we set out, and in a little time arrived at the place, whither she designed to carry me. Her sister received us very kindly;—I went for her friend, as it had been agreed between us; I found them busy in marrying one of their children. But, on the wedding-day, as I did not choose to be seen by the company, I went out ear­ly in the morning, with my companion, under pre­tence of taking an airing, and, walking by the edge of a little hill, I saw a wood. I took a fancy [...] [Page 57] go into it, and perceiving a hut, which my friend told me was an hermitage, I went up to it, and found it open. A shepherd, that was attending his flock near the place, informed us, that the hermit, who used to inhabit it, was thought to be lately dead in going his rounds about the country. Up­on this information, I stepped in, and finding it convenient for my purpose, cried out immediately to my maid—"This is a dwelling kind fortune of­fers me; here I am determined to spend the re­mainder of my sorrowful days." I have according­ly put my project in execution, and, to this day, ladies, no body but you have been here to interrupt my solitude and grief.