THE VISION OF MIRZA.

ON the fifth day of the moon, which, ac­cording to the custom of my forefathers, I al­ways keep holy, after having washed myself, and offered up my morning devotions, I ascended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the the day in meditation and prayer. As I was here airing myself on the tops of the mountains, I fell into a profound comtemplation on the vani­ty of human life; and passing from one thought to another, "Surely," said I, "man is but a shadow, and life a dream." Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the summit of a rock that was not far from me, where I discover­ed one in the habit of a shepherd, with a little musical instrument in his hand. As I looked [Page 4] upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether dif­ferent from any thing I had ever heard, they put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are play­ed to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise; to wear out the impres­sions of the last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place. My heart melted away in secret raptures.

I had been often told that the rock before me was the haunt of a genius; and that several had been entertained with the music, who had passed by it, but never heard that the musician had be­fore made himself visible. When he had raised my thoughts by those transporting airs which he played, to taste the pleasures of his conversation, as I looked upon him like one astonished, he bec­koned to me, and by the waving of his hand di­rected me to approach the place where he sat. I drew near with that reverence which is due to a superior nature; and as my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating strains I had heard, I fell down at his feet and wept. The genius smiled upon me with a look of compassion and affability, that familiarized him to my imagina­tion, and at once dispelled all the fears and ap­prehensions with which I approached him. He [Page 5] lifted me from the ground, and taking me by the hand, "Mirza," said he, "I have heard thee in thy soliloquies; follow me."

He then led me to the highest pinnacle of the rock, and placing me on the top of it, "Cast thine eyes eastward," said he, "and tell me what thou seest." "I see," said I, "a huge valley, and a prodigious tide of water rolling through it." "The valley that thou seest," said he. "is the vale of misery, and the tide of water that thou seest, is part of the great tide of eternity." "What is the reason," said I, "that the tide I see rises out of a thick mist at the one end, and again loses itself in a thick mist at the other?" "What thou seest," said he, "is that portion of eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation. Examine now," said he, "this sea that is bounded with darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it." "I see a bridge," said I, "standing in the midst of the tide." "The bridge thou seest," said he, "is human life; consider it at­tentively." Upon a more leisure survey of it, I found that it consisted of three score and ten en­tire arches, with several broken arches, which, added to those that were entire, made up the number about an hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that this bridge [Page 6] consisted at first of a thousand arches; but that a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now beheld it: "But tell me further," said he, "what thou discoverest on it." "I see multitudes of peo­ple passing over it," said I, "and a black cloud hanging on each end of it." As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the passengers drop­ping through the bridge, into the great tide that flowed underneath it; and upon further exami­nation, perceived there were innumerable trap­doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell through them into the tide, and immediately dis­appeared. These hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud, but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the middle, but multiplied and lay closer together towards the end of the arches that were entire.

There were indeed some persons, but their number was very small, that continued a kind of hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through one after another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.

I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful structure, and the great variety of ob­jects which it presented. My heart was filled [Page 7] with a deep melancholy to see several dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and catching at every thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some were looking up to­wards the heavens in a thoughtful posture, and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that glittered in their eyes and danced before them; but often when they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing failed, and down they sunk. In this confusion of objects, I observed some with scimitars in their hands, and others with urinals, who ran to and fro from the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have escaped had they not been thus forced upon them.

The genius seeing me indulge myself in this melancholy prospect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it: "Take thine eyes off the bridge," said he, "and tell me if thou seest any thing thou dost not comprehend." Upon look­ing up, "What mean," said I, "those great sight of birds that are perpetually hovering about the bridge, and settling upon it from time to time? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants, and among many other feathered creatures several lit­tle winged boys, that perch in great numbers [Page 8] upon the middle arches." "These," said the genius, "are envy, avarice, superstition, despair, love, with the like cares and passions that infest human life."

I here fetched a deep sigh; "Alas," said I, "man was surely made in vain! how is he given away to misery and mortality! tortured in life, and swallowed up in death!" The genius being moved with compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a prospect. "Look no more," said he, "on man in the first stage of his exis­tence, in his setting out for eternity; but cast thine eye on that thick mist into which the tide bears the several generations of mortals that fall into it." I directed my sight as I was ordered, and (whether or no the good genius strengthened it with any supernatural force, or dissipated part of the mist that was before too thick for the eye to penetrate) I saw the valley opening at the far­ther end, and spreading forth into an immense ocean, that had a huge rock of adamant running through the midst of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The clouds still rested on one half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing in it; but the other appeared to me a vast ocean planted with innumerable islands, that were cov­ered with fruits and flowers, and interwoven with a thousand little shining seas that run among them. I could see persons dressed in glorious habits [Page 9] with garlands upon their heads, passing among the trees, laying down by the sides of fountains, or resting on beds of flowers; and could hear a confused harmony of singing birds, falling wa­ters, human voices, and musical instruments. Gladness grew in me upon the discovery of so delightful a scene. I wished for the wings of an eagle, that I might fly away to those happy seats; but the genius told me there was no passage to them, except through the gates of death that I saw opening every moment upon the bridge. "The islands," says he, "that lie so fresh and green before thee, and with which the whole face of the ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in number than the sand on the sea shore; there are myriads of islands be­hind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further than thine eyes, or even thine imagination can extend itself. These are the mansions of good men after death, who, according to the degree and kinds of virtue in which they ex­celled, are distributed among these several islands, which abound with pleasures of different kinds and degrees, suitable to the relishes and perfec­tions of those who are settled in them; every island is a paradise accommodated to its respec­tive inhabitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contending for? Does life ap­pear miserable, that gives thee opportunities of [Page 10] earning such a reward? is death to be feared, that will convey thee to so happy an existence? think not man was made in vain, who has such an eternity reserved for him." I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these happy islands. At length, said I, "shew me now I beseech thee, the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds, which cover the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The genius making me no answer, I turned about to address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had left me; I then turned again to the vision which I had been so long contemplating; but instead of the rolling tide, the arched bridge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep and camels upon the sides of it.

BENEVOLENCE URGED FROM THE MYSERY OF SOL­ITUDE. AN EASTERN STORY.

CARASAN, the merchant of Bagdat, was eminent throughout all the East for his avarice and his wealth: His origin was obscure, as that of the spark which by the collision of steel and adamant is struck out of darkness; and the [Page 11] patient labour of preserving diligence alone had made him rich. It was remembered, that when he was indigent he was thought to be generous; and he was still acknowledged to be inexorably just. But whether, in his dealings with men, he discovered a perfidy which tempted him to put his trust in gold, or whether in proportion as he accumulated wealth, he discovered his own im­portance to increase; Carazan prized it more as he used it less: he gradually lost the inclination to do good, as he acquired the power; and as the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, the freezing influence extended to his bosom.

But though the door of Carazan was ne­ver opened by hospitality, nor his hand by com­passion, yet fear led him constantly to the mosque at the stated hours of prayer; he performed all the rites of devotion with the most scrupulous punctuality, and had thrice paid his vows at the temple of the prophet. That devotion which arises from the love of God, and necessarily in­cludes the love of man, as it connects gratitude with beneficence, and exalts that which was mor­al to divine, confers new dignity upon goodness, and is the object not only of affection but rever­ence. On the contrary, the devotion of the self­ish, whether it be thought to avert the punish­ment which every one wishes to be inflicted, or to insure it by the complication of hypocrisy with [Page 12] guilt, never fails to excite indignation and abhor­rence. Carazan, therefore, when he had locked his door, turning round with a look of circum­spective suspicion, proceeded to the mosque, and was followed by every eye with silent malignity; the poor suspended their supplication when he passed by; and though he was known by every man, yet no man saluted him.

Such had long been the life of Carazan, and such was the character which he had acquired, when notice was given by proclamation, that he was removed to a magnificent building in the cen­ter of the city, that his table should be spread for the public, and that the stranger should be wel­come to his bed. The multitude soon rushed like a torrent to his door, where they beheld him distributing bread to the hungry, and apparel to the naked, and his eye softened with compas­sion, and his cheek glowing with delight. Every one gazed with astonishment at the prodigy; and the murmur of innumerable voices increas­ing like the sound of approaching thunder. Ca­razan beckoned with his hand; attention sus­pended the tumult in a moment, and he thus gra­tified the curiosity which had procured him audi­ence.

To Him who touches the mountains and they smoke; the Almighty, and the most Merciful, be everlasting honour! he has ordained sleep to be [Page 13] the minister of instruction, and his visions have reproved me in the night. As I was sitting alone in my haram, with my lamp burning before me, computing the product of my merchandise and exulting in the increase of my wealth, I fell into a deep sleep, and the hand of him who dwells in the third heaven was upon me. I be­held the angel of death coming forward like a whirlwind, and he smote me before I could dep­recate the blow. At the same moment I felt myself lifted from the ground, and transported with astonishing rapidity through the regions of the air. The earth was contracted to an atom beneath; and the stars glowed round me with a lustre that obscured the sun. The gate of para­dise was now in sight; and I was intercepted by a sudden brightness which no human eye could behold; the irrevocable sentence was now to be pronounced; my days of probation was past; and from the evil of my life nothing could be taken away, nor could any thing be added to the good. When I reflected that my lot for eternity was cast, which not all the powers of nature could reverse, my confidence totally forsook me; and while I stood trembling and silent, covered with confusion and chilled with horror, I was thus addressed by the radiance that flamed be­fore me.

[Page 14] ‘Carazan, thy worship has not been accept­ed, because it was not prompted by the love of God; neither can thy righteousness be re­warded, because it was not produced by love of man; for thy own sake only, hast thou ren­dered to every man his due; and thou hast approached the Almighty only for thyself. Thou hast not looked up with gratitude, nor round thee with kindness. Around thee, thou hast, indeed, behold vice and folly; but if vice and folly could justify thy parsimony, would they not condemn the bounty of hea­ven? If not upon the foolish and vicious, where shall the sun diffuse its light, or the clouds distill their dew? where shall the lips of the spring breathe fragrance, or the hand of autumn diffuse plenty? remember, Cara­zan, that thou hast shut compassion from thine heart, and grasped thy treasures with a hand of iron: thou hast lived for thyself; and therefore, henceforth for ever thou shalt sub­sist alone. From the light of heaven, and from the society of all beings, shalt thou be driven; solitude shall protract the lingering hours of eternity, and darkness aggravate the horrors of despair.’ At the moment I was driven by some secret and irresistable power through the glowing system of creation, and passed innumerable worlds in a moment. As I approached the verge of nature, I perceived [Page 15] the shadows of total and boundless vacuity deep­en before me; a dreadful region of eternal si­lence, solitude and darkness! unutterable horror seized me at the prospect, and this exclamation burst from me with all the vehemence of desire: ‘O! that I had been doomed for ever to the common receptacle of impenitence and guilt! there society would have alleviated the tor­ment of despair, and the rage of fire could not have excluded the comfort of light. Or if I had been condemned to reside on a comet, that would return but once in a thousand years to the regions of light and life; the hope of these periods, however distant, would chear me in the dreary interval of cold and darkness, and the vicissitude would divide eternity into time.’ While this thought passed over my mind, I lost sight of the remotest star, and the last glimmering of light was quench­ed in utter darkness. The agonies of despair every moment increased, as every moment aug­mented my distance from the last habitable world. I reflected with intolerable anguish, that when ten thousand thousand years had car­ried me beyond the reach of all but that power who fills infinitude, I should still look forward into an immense abyss of darkness, through which I should still drive without succour and without society, farther and farther still, for [Page 16] ever and ever. I then stretched out my hands towards the regions of existence, with an emo­tion that awakened me. Thus have I been taught to estimate society, like every other bles­sing, by its loss. My heart is warmed to liberali­ty; and I am zealous to communicate the hap­piness which I feel, to those from whom it is de­rived; for the society of one wretch, whom in the pride of prosperity I would have spurned from my door, would, in the dreadful solitude to which I was condemned, have been more highly prized, than the gold of Afric, or the gems of Golconda.

At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became suddenly silent, and looked upward in an extacy of gratitude and devotion. The multi­tude were struck at once with the precept and example; and the Caliph, to whom the event was related, that he might be liberal beyond the power of gold, commanded it to be recorded for the benefit of posterity.

COVETOUSNESS ITS OWN PUNISHMENT. A TALE.

IN the city of Mexico, as we are told, by that famous and much to be depended on historian Father Giardino, there lived a cer­tain gentleman, called Don Cavanilla Quignata Lorenzano, who had once followed the pro­fession of a scrivener, but had now betaken himself to that honorable and useful employ­ment, the assisting of his fellow-creatures with a portion of his own wealth at cent. per cent. interest, vulgarly denominated usury. This worship­ful person in the fiftieth and fourth year of his age, entered into a contract of matrimony with the virtuous Donna Estifania Montenella, in the eight and thirtieth year of hers. To this transaction he was the rather induced, not more on account of the beauty of her person and the qualities of her mind, than because she was very rich, and as careful of her money as he was of his. Already had Lorenzano passed ten good years with his dame in the honorable state of holy matrimony, without how­ever enjoying the comforts of a family of chil­dren; for the want of which blessing he com­forted himself in public, by expressing his thank­fulness to Providence for being thus freed of a [Page 18] multitude of cares, and in private by the thoughts of the great expence he was thus saved; for as the prudent Lorenzano hardly allowed himself the necessaries of life, wisely considering that his riches, great as they were, might make to them­selves wings and fly away, you may judge whether he would have relished the expence attending the feeding, the cloathing, and educating a numerous family. He was wise from observation; for his father disinherited his elder brother, because he was a thoughtless, gay, extravagant youth, and left his fortune to Lorenzano, whose dispositions were similar to his own. Of this he had many proofs; but one in particular determined him; for, when a favourite dog which was warmly at­tached to Lorenzano, having grown up with him from his infancy, had became too old to go abroad to find its food in the dung-hills or on the streets, he had shut it out of the house, and allowed it to die for want.

When Lorenzano had not occasion to go to market for the purpose of victuals, an expedition which he took perhaps twice a month, he seldom left the house. When he appeared in the street, the children used to run after him, and a mis­chievous little rogue would often pick an onion out of his pocket through the holes of his old cloak as he was travelling homeward loaden with vegetables.

[Page 19] His coat was so ancient, and had been so of­ten patched, that few people in Mexico remem­bered its original colour, the thrifty Donna Es­tifania had exerted her skill on it with such suc­cess, that it not only fortified her good man from the inclemency of the weather, but might have defended him from the effect of a bullet had it been aimed at him. Of similar or superior strength were a pair of jack boots which he constantly wore; these by frequent accretions of contribu­tory leather to the legs, and of tinplate nailed to the souls, became so strong, that they might well have served as buckets to the most frequented well in Mexico. But that he might not be quite born down with the weight of his apparel, he uniformly carried in his right hand a thick knob­bed stick, which not only served him for support, but as a defence against the noisy curs of the city which always barked at him as he went along. At his left side he likewise wore a sword, which resembled as one egg does another, that of the renowned Sir Hudibras, as friend Butler describes it. Notwithstanding this miserable armour and sorry apparel, he never forgot to display the en­signs of an order of knighthood conferred on him by a late Viceroy of his Catholic Majesty, for certain services rendered to the revenues of the state of Mexico, or rather to the emoluments of the said Viceroy. Certainly the insignia of that [Page 20] celebrated order had never hung on the breast of a more miserable subject; but it convinced the people of Mexico, that a dung hill cannot receive lustre even from a diamond.

It [...] fine morning in the Spring, that Lovenzano set out for the fields in the neigh­bourhood of the city to gather simples for a pec­toral draught, more salutary than tea, to his con­sort; and to regale himself with a fresh salad, made luxurious by the thought that he should pay nothing for it. As he passed some magnifi­cent country seats without the town, he observed below a tree an Indian servant, whom sleep had overtaken, and beside whom lay a pair of delicate new boots, which attracted the eager gaze, and excited the covetous desires of our noble knight. He spoke and coughed aloud, and when he saw that the sleeper did not awake, he considered this as a charming opportunity to possess himself of a pair of new boots at no expence. He quick­ly disincumbered himself of his own old servants, which he laid down beside the Indian, and hav­ing made free with the new ones, he scampered off with as much celerity as if he had been run­ning for a wager.

With what joy, when he got home, did he re­late in secret to his spouse his successful trick, and with what rapture did he survey his well­dressed feet!

[Page 21] "God knows, said he to himself, it was a lucky hour when I first thought of going out to gather simples."

Next day he went to church, assisted with much devotion at a mass, and gave a few coun­terfeit maravedis in charity. But scarcely had he turned his back on the church, when he felt himself suddenly seized by the shoulder, and looking about, saw an Indian servant in the li­very of the Viceroy, crying aloud, "this is the thief, this is the thief"

"What do you mean, rascal?" said Lorenza­no, somewhat confidently.

"Sennor Caballero, replied the Indian, you have stolen these boots, which belong to the Viceroy. They are a present from the king of Quizzimoro, who to pass the tedious hours, and to drive away melancholy, diverts himself with the making of boots. I will prove it, for the king stamps under the instep of all his boots his own mark, which is a golden sun,"

At this instant by chance there was passing an Alguazil, and Lorenzano was immediately car­ried before the judge; the boots were discovered to be his Majesty of Quizzimoro's own make, and to be the identical boots that were sent by him to the Viceroy The bystanders, well ac­quainted with the covetous disposition of Loren­zano, [Page 22] rejoiced to hear him condemned to pay a fine of a thousand doubloons, with costs of suit. The Alguazil called a hackney coach, made Lo­renzano enter it, mounted after him, and driving to his house received from the trembling hands of the petrified knight the whole money, gave him a discharge for it, and leaving his own old jack-boots, laughed in his face and bid him good morrow.

Ah! merciful God! cried Donna Estifania, tearing, like another Medusa, a handful of hair out of her head, what an infamous rogue have I for a husband! a thousand doubloons! I am ru­ined and undone!

"God knows, said Lorenzano, with loud la­mentation, it was an unlucky hour when I first thought of going out to gather simples."

With a look, furious as Othello's, he cast his eyes on the jack-boots which the Alguazil had left in the middle of the room, and springing up, he threw them both out of the window into the lake.

It happened that about this time two fisher­men, his neighbours, who had spread their net in the morning, were now preparing to draw it, and finding an unusual weight in it, "Neigh­bour, said one of them, God has been good to us this morning, the net is so heavy that it is impossible it can be with fish; who knows but we [Page 23] have found a treasure? some box of money or jewels, or something as valuable, is certainly in the net.—Accordingly they set to with all their might to haul the net on shore; but what was their grief when, instead of the treasure they had flattered themselves with finding, they saw only the monstrous jack-boots which had torn more than an hundred holes in their only net. Full of indignation at their misfortune, and chag­rined at their disappointed hopes, they took up the boots and threw them in at the window of the disconsolate knight, as he sat ruminating on his late disaster. Unluckily one of them hap­pened to strike upon a cabinet containing a mag­nificent service of porcelaine, given to Lorenzano, in pawn for a large sum of money, which it brought to the ground with a hideous crash, and the whole contents were shivered to atoms.

"O these cursed jack-boots, cried Donna Estifania; would they and that old villain, who will bring me to a bit of bread, were both at the devil! God pity me, and forgive all my sins."

"Alas! sobbed Lorenzano, miserable man that I am! how unlucky has been the hour that first led me out to gather simples."

"Out of the house this instant, cried Estifa­nia, with your vile boots, and let me never see an atom of them more"

Lorenzano took up the unfortunate boots, and [Page 24] at night went into his garden, where, by the light of a farthing candle which glimmered through an old broken lantern, he dug a hole, and com­mitted his ill-fated boots to the cold ground.

A neighbour of his, by trade a joiner, had once been employed in mending some old furni­ture for our honorable knight, but had been paid so scurvily for his labour, that he still bore the old man a grudge—This man happened to see Sennor Lorenzano so late at work in his garden, suspected that something unlawful was going on, and therefore he called his neighbours about him.

In the mean time Lorenzano had gone to ano­ther spot, where, without the knowledge of his lady wife, he had concealed a little casket with some jewels, to see if they were still safe, and he found them so. He sat himself down beside the casket, which he opened, and with such secret joy contemplated his hidden treasure, that he al­most forgot his late misfortunes.

The following day the joiner waited on a ma­gistrate, and related to him what he and his neighbours had seen. It was immediately sus­pected that Lorenzano, had found a treasure; and as by the law of the country every valuable thing found under the earth belongs to his Ca­tholic Majesty, a deputation was forthwith dis­patched, headed by the joiner and a notary, to the garden of Lorenzano, who soon dug up the casket with the jewels.

[Page 25] "You know, I presume, Sennor, said the no­tary, that all treasures in the bowels of the earth belong of right to our liege lord his Catholic Majesty; and that when they are found they must be delivered up to the council of state."

"I know it well, said Lorenzano, trembling; but this casket is my own private property."

"Your own private property!"

"Yes, upon my honest word it is."

Why would you bury it, then, said the nota­ry, if it were your own private property? no, no, that is but a pretence. These jewels must have been deposited in the earth by some of the inhabitants at the time of the siege of the town by Cortez, and our valient ancestors; it could not be you who buried them."

"By the blessed virgin, said Lorenzano, they were wore by my own mother."

Do not call the blessed virgin, said the notary, to palliate your crime, or to witness your impo­sition; she is better employed than to vouch for your falshoods. I hereby seize and confiscate these jewels in the name of his Catholic Ma­jesty and of the council of state."

"Ah! wretch that I am!" exclaimed Lo­renzano. "And to punish you, continued the notary, for having attempted to embezzle this treasure, by concealing it, I hereby further de­cree, that you immediately pay a fine of one thou­sand [Page 26] doubloons, together with the expences of this deputation."

It was in vain that Lorenzano protested and swore, and raved like one possessed; he was ob­liged to pay the money; and the casket with the jewels was carried off by the deputation in pro­per form.

When Donna Estifania was made acquainted with these proceedings she fell into fits, she seized a knife with which she was going to finish her own existence; but reflecting better upon the business, her rage took another turn, and she vented it on the unhappy Lorenzano with such effect, that he retained the marks of it in his flesh for many a day.

The poor wretch went out full of anguish into his garden, dug up his jack-boots, and threw them when it was night into the canal that ran through his street. It is well known that canals run through all the streets of Mexico, which are furnished with grates in particular places.

In the morning, nobody in the neighbourhood could get out of their house; for the mon­strous jack-boots had planted themselves against the grate of that street, like a pair of dragons be­fore an enchanted castle; and so prevented the water from passing, that the whole street was overflowed. The officers of the police immedi­ately went to visit the grate, and finding the jack-boots [Page 27] of the unhappy Lorenzano choaking it up, they took them out and proceeded with them to his house. Sore from the bruises of yesterday, Lorenzano could hardly move from his bed; but upon hearing an alarm without he crawled to the window, and seeing the inundation, his fears gave him a true foreboding of what was to hap­pen.

The waters were no sooner let off than a body of city officers approached his house, bearing the jack-boots like trophies on a long pole before them.

"Ah! God pity me! cried Lorenzano, they are bringing back those damn'd boots that I last night threw into the kennel."

"Into the kennel did you throw them? said Estifania, with a voice not much calculated to sooth his sorrows, or allay his apprehensions; O thou stupid wretch! didst thou not know how strictly it is forbidden to throw any thing there. Certainly the boots have stopt up the grate and caused the overflow of the water. We are un­done."

It is as I feared, "sighed Lorenzano" The officers entered the house, threw down the jack-boots, and led Lorenzano on before the judge.

Here he was accused of contempt of the law, by throwing his jack-boots into the canal, and of preventing the whole inhabitants of the street [Page 28] from going about their lawful occupations, by the inundation he had occasioned. He was fined in a thousand doubloons, and ordered to pay damages and expences.

No sooner had he paid the money than he ran to his kitchen, made a fire upon the hearth, and threw in his jack-boots. "If the water will not keep you, said he, I will make fire finish you." The boots which had lain all night in the water, were so wet that they put out the fire when they were thrown into it. What, said he, do you de­fy even the flames? What witches and magi­cians cannot resist, will you a pair of infernal jack-boots, think to escape? No, if you are sa­lamanders, or asbestos itself, you shall burn, With these words, he brought all the dry wood he could find, and made such a fire, that at last the flames reached the roof, and set fire to the house. Immediately the cry of fire resounded through the city. Estifania fainted; and had not Lorenzano thrown a whole pitcher of water about her ears, she would probably have given up the ghost.

In the mean time, the fire was got under without doing any considerable damage; but Lorenzano for his carelessness, and the alarm he had given to the city, was fined in another thou­sand doubloons, and to pay all expenses. He was obliged to submit and pay the money, and a [Page 29] sigh and a tear dropt on every piece as he count­ed it.

"Since the unhappy day that I went to ga­ther simples—

"Hold your tongue, cries Estifania, vile wretch."

"For God's sake, dear Fanna, replies the Knight, allow me to speak, or else my heart will burst with vexation. Since that unhappy bo­tannical expedition, misfortunes have fallen thick upon me! those infernal boots—4000 doubloons with costs, and a box of jewels! The boots of my whole family, since the expul­sion of the Moors from Granada, never cost half the sum."

"I am the most miserable of all miserable women, cried Estifania! Little joy have I had in my married state; but I desire you once for all to take these hateful boots from my sight. Would to God I had never seen either you or them, for they will bring me to beggary."

"I have thrown them, says Lorenzano, into the kennel, into the fire, and have buried them in the earth. I shall try if all the elements are in league against me. I shall hang them out in the free air, that they may rot like a thief on the gallows.

[Page 30] He immediately went and secured them upon a nail on the wall of his house near the window of his own chamber; and when they had hung there several days, he congratulated himself on his invention, and he rejoiced that at last he got these cursed boots disposed of, that had wrought him so much vexation and distress.

In a short time, the boots were observed by the boys in the street, who began to divert them­selves by throwing stones at them, and happy was he who was lucky enough to hit them. The boys were often indeed chased away by Loren­zano, who did not relish their sport; but the boots were so excellent a mark, that they soon returned. One day as the Knight was sitting ru­minating on his losses, an unlucky stone, that had been aimed at the boots, took a wrong di­rection, and entering the window, struck poor Lorenzano on the mouth, and drove out two of the few teeth he had remaining. Smarting with pain, and mad with resentment, he hastily armed himself with his knobbed stick, and ran into the street—but the boys more nimble than he, were soon out of his reach, and he was obliged to re­turn into his house unrevenged. He concealed himself behind the door, however, to be in rea­diness to bolt out upon the first attack made on his boots. Some other boys, who did not know of the accident which had just happened, soon [Page 31] began to take their accustomed diversion, when suddenly Lorenzano quitting his hiding place, sallied out to the street, and blind with rage, mis­took the object of his resentment, and unfortu­nately struck one of the Viceroy's pages, who was accidentally passing, such a blow on the head, that the blood gushed at once from his mouth and nostrils.

The boys run away, and Lorenzano, who saw his mistake, slunk back to his house trembling.

Estifania, who was looking out of the window when this unhappy qui pro que took place, grew instantly frantic, sunk into a chair, and fell into a fit. In a little time, a knocking was heard at the door, and Lorenzano judging rightly that it was an officer of justice who demanded admit­tance, had not courage to face him, but retreat­ed for protection to the chamber of his wife.—Reader, you may have heard of the unhappy Orestes, who, when flying from the vengeance of his frantic mother found his retreat cut off, and the furies themselves obstructing his escape. But had Tisiphome or Megera, or their other sister, whose name I have forgot, been present in their proper persons, they could not have offered a more horrid sight to the view of the ter­rified Lorenzano than did the countenance of his own wife. I shall not attempt to describe the scene that followed. Lorenzano attended the [Page 32] officer to the presence of the judge, and was, upon a deliberate investigation of the whole af­fair, condemned to pay a fine of a thousand doubloons to the page for the injury he had sus­tained, and a thousand more as a satisfaction to the public for so flagrant breach of the peace.

Scarcely had he crawled home, and paid the money, than his ears were saluted with a dread­ful uproar in the street; an hundred women's voices were discernable that struck the heart of our Knight with apprehension and dismay. Es­tifania approached the window, and saw a crowd gathered round a woman whom they were car­rying into a house.—This was the wife of an eminent baker in the city, who was passing by the house of Lorenzano at the very moment when, as ill luck would have it, the string that sup­ported the eventful boots gave way, and down they came upon the head of this good lady, whom they brought along with them to the ground.

"Oh the old hunks, cried the women! must he hang out his boots over the street to murder people as they pass along—poor Mrs. Sesame, she was three weeks gone with child, heaven knows if she will get over it. If the old Jew is not well soused for this, there is neither law nor justice in Mexico."

Lorenzano found to his cost, that there was no want of either; for he was fined in another [Page 33] thousand doubloons, and the money given to the baker for the injury done to his wife.

"Was ever man so punished, said Loronza­no for a pair of old boots! I beseech you, said he to the judge, for the love of God, to rid me of these accursed instruments of my ruin; they have made me now the poorest man in Mexico. I leave them with you, and implore you to keep them, and preserve me from utter destruction.

The judge consented, upon paying a certain sum for the trouble of the deposit; and those famous jack-boots are now to be seen among the curiosities of Mexico, hung up as a monument of the baneful effects of Covetousness and Dishon­esty.

THE PUBLIC SPIRITED COBLER.

THERE is a sort of enthusiasm in pub­lic spirit, which renders it politically prudent in corrupt statesmen to discourage it; and yet there is something so great and so divine in this enthu­siasm, that statesmen of a better turn, though they dare not encourage, yet cannot but admire it. We have a shining and surprising ex­ample [Page 34] of this in the cobler of Messina, which hap­pened in the last century, and is at once a proof that public spirit is the growth of every degree.

This cobler was an honest man, and, I was going to say, poor; but when I consider that he maintained his family, and was above depend­ence, I cannot prevail upon myself to make use of the expression. He was also a man of reflec­tion; He saw the corruption, luxury, and op­pression, the private frauds, the public robberies, the enormous violation of justice, under which his country laboured. He saw rapes unpunish­ed, adulteries unreproved, barbarous murders either screened by church sanctuaries, or atoned for by money; in a word, he saw universal de­generacy of manners, partly from the want of power in the government to chastise offenders. In this situation he resolved to undertake the arduous task of reforming these disorders, and thought it both lawful and expedient to assume the authority of avenger of the innocent, and the terror of the guilty.

Full of this romantic resolution, he provided himself with a short gun, which he carried un­der his cloak; and equipped with a powder pouch on one thigh, and a bag of balls on the other, he sallied out in the evenings, and as pro­per opportunities offered, he dispatched such as he knew to be incorrigible offenders to that tri­bunal, [Page 35] where he was sensible they could not elude justice; and then returned home full of that sa­tisfaction, which is the sole reward of public spi­rit. As there were in Messina a great number of these overgrown criminals, the cobler in the space of a few weeks, did a great deal of execu­tion. The sun never rose without discovering fresh marks of his justice; here lay an usurer who had ruined hundreds; there an unjust ma­gistrate, who had the curse of thousands; in one corner a nobleman who had debauched his friend's wife; in another, a man of the same rank, who through avarice and ambition, had prostituted his own; but as the bodies were al­ways untouched, with all their ornaments about them, and very often with considerable sums in their pockets, it was visible they were not dis­patched for the sake of money: and their num­bers made it as evident that they did not fall vic­tims to private revenge.

It is not in the power of words to describe the astonishment of the whole city; things came at last to such a pass, that not a rogue of any rank whatever durst walk the streets; complaints upon complaint was carried to the viceroy; and magistrates, guards, spies, and every other en­gine of power, were employed to no manner of purpose. At last, when no less than fifty of these examples had been made, the viceroy took [Page 36] a serious resolution of putting a stop to these mischiefs, by the only method that seemed capa­ble of reaching the evil; he caused public pro­clamation to be made, that he would give the sum of two thousand crowns to any person who should discover the author or authors of these mur­ders, promising at the same time the like reward, with an absolute indemnity, to the person who had done them, if he would discover himself; and as a pledge of his sincerity, he went to the cathedral, and took the sacrament, that he would punctually perform every tittle of his proclama­tion.

The cobler having either satisfied his zeal of justice, or being now in a temper to secure his own safety, after having, in his own opinion, done so much service to the state, went directly to the palace and demanded an audience of the viceroy, to whom, upon his declaring that he had something of great importance to commu­nicate, he was admitted alone. He began with putting his excellency in mind of his oath, who assured him he meant to keep it religiously. The cobler then proceeded to the following harangue: "I, Sir, have been alone that instru­ment of justice, who dispatched in so short a time so many criminals. In doing this, Sir, I have done no more than what was your duty to do. You, Sir, who in reality, are guilty of all the of­fences [Page 37] which these wretches committed, deserve the same chastisement, and had met with it too, had I not respected the representative of my prince, who, I know, is accountable to God alone." He then entered into an exact detail of all the murders he had done, and the motives upon which he had proceeded. The viceroy, who was thoroughly convinced that he told him no more than the truth, repeated his assurances of safety, and thanked him very affectionately for the tenderness he had shewn him, adding, after all, he was ready to pay him the 2000 crowns.

Our cobler returned the viceroy his compli­ments in his rough way; but told him, after what had passed, he believed it would be but pru­dent in him to make choice of some other city for his habitation, and that too in some corner of Italy not under the jurisdiction of his Catholic majesty. The viceroy thought his reasons had weight, and, therefore, after thanking him in the most gracious terms for supplying that power which the government wanted, he ordered a tar­tane to transport him, his family, effects, and 2000 crowns, to one of the ports in the territory of Genoa; where this extraordinary person pass­ed the remainder of his days in ease and quiet, and the city of Messina felt, for a long time af­ter, the good effects of his enthusiastic zeal for the public good, and for the first execution of justice, without respect to persons.

[Page 38] This story, however strange, is exactly true, and, as Philip of Macedon kept a page, who to moderate his ambition, and to put him in mind of his duty, as a prince, was wont to awake him in the morning with this salutation, "Remem­ber, Philip, that thou art a man;" so, I think, it would be happy for the ministers, who are ei­ther entrusted by their masters, or acquire to themselves a boundless authority, supported by boundless influence; if they would write in a table book, and from thence refresh their me­mories frequently with this sentence, "What if the cobler of Messina should revive?"

A CURIOUS COURTSHIP.

A YOUNG Gentleman and Lady happen­ing one Sunday to sit in the same pew.—During the course of the sermon, the youth read some­thing in the eyes of the fair, which made a much deeper impression on his soul, than the pious lecture of the parson: as love is seldom at a loss for an expedient, he presented her with the fol­lowing verse in the second epistle of John: "And now I beseech thee, Lady, not as though [Page 39] I wrote a new commandment unto thee, but that which we had from the beginning, that we love one another." After perusal, she in answer, opened at the first chapter of Ruth, and 16th verse—"And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my peo­ple, and thy God my God." Thus was the treaty proposed, which in a little time was fully ratified by the parson.

THE CIRCLE OF HUMAN LIFE.

THE seven stages of man, from the first dawn of life, to the gates of death, are thus described by Gratian, under the influence of the seven planets.

Childhood is governed by the moon, and with her influences receives her perfections. Its light is faint and watery, without heat enough to pro­duce distinct ideas. It is changeable too, and neither knows whatagrees or what appeases it—Yielding like wax to all impressions, and mould­able as paste, it passes gradually from the dark­ness [Page 40] of total ignorance to a twilight of apprehen­sion.

From ten to twenty, Mercury succeeds to the charge, inspiring that docility with which the boy takes the learning that is given him, and too often that which he will wish to unlearn. He rises in the school, and fills his understanding with truth or falshood, as chance determines the place of his education. At twenty Venus takes the sceptre and reigns with tyranny till thirty, making cruel war against the youth, breathing unto him her hottest fires, and feasting his imag­ination with ideas of gallanty and love.

At thirty, the sun rises, and diffuses that light and heat which warms and irradiates the meridi­an man, and makes him pant for worth, fame, and distinction. He undertakes honourable em­ployments with spirit, becomes solar orb to his family and country, and illuminates, ripens and perfects every thing.

At forty, Mars owns him for his subject, in­fuses into him courage rightly tempered, and gives him command in the field. He is punc­tilious, mettlesome, haughty, fierce and boister­ous: apt to quarrel, and ready to repel or re­venge an injury.

At fifty, Jupiter succeeds the lord of his as­cendant, conferring state and sovereignty. Man is now master of his actions, he speaks and acts [Page 41] with authority, does not take it well to be con­trouled by others, but aspires after universal do­minion; takes his resolutions upon himself, and executes his own suggestions. In this stage rea­son and virtue are triumphant.

At sixty, the melancholy Saturn makes its night with man; his morning returns no more; but disease and sullenness succeed. He sees his own end near, and he wishes that the world may end with him. He lives tired by, and tiring every body, peevish and snarling, like an old cur, gnawing the present, and licking over the past. Languid and faultering in his speech, slow to un­dertake, and ineffectual in his endeavours, sordid and narrow in his expences, disgustful in his per­son, careless of his dress, destitute of sensibility, complaining at all hours and of all things. Thus he lives on till seventy, and may perhaps some­times languish till eighty; but from thencefor­ward all is pain and misery, not life but living death.

After the expiration of the reign of Saturn, the moon resumes her influence over his second childhood. Now returns the drivelling, totter­ing, helpless condition of infancy with all the pains of decripitude. His time is come round, like a wheel, to the same point; and, ending as he began, he may be figured by the serpent bit­ing his tail; ingenious hieroglyphic of the circle described by human life.

THE STORY OF CLARINDA; Containing many Remarkable Adventures.

CLARINDA was neither born to a for­tune, nor possessed of the smallest share of beauty, but in the early part of life applied herself so steadily to reading and the improvement of the mind, that it appeared she designed to atone by the excellence of her understanding, for the de­fects of her person. But when she arrived to years of maturity, and became conversant with the world, either the flatteries which her wit procured her, or her natural vanity, engaged her to imagine her eyes had as much power as her understanding.

She had naturally a great inclination for po­etry, and her success in one song attracted the notice of a young gentleman of very considera­ble fortune, who soon became enamoured of her happy talents in ballad writing. Clarinda attrib­uted the impression, not to her poetry but her beauty; however, she continued to furnish him with such productions as flattered his vanity and humoured his caprice; till at length, that she might no longer mistake the cause of her mighty influence over him, he presented her with a purse of an hundred guineas, and settled on her fifty [Page 43] pounds a year, in token of his regard to her poe­tical genius.

This greatly enhancing her opinion of her own capacity, she determined on quitting the country where she then resided, and repaired to London, the rendezvous of the gay, the young and the fair. Thus resolved, she sent a person to Cambridge (from whence she was distant but two miles) to take a place for her in the coach. It was her fortune to go up with a young student of the university, whom we shall call Urbanus, who was himself an admirer of the muses, and acquainted with most of the beaux esprits in Lon­don of either sex. Clarinda, by repeating some of her verses, and her attracting deportment, per­fectly engaged the young student in her service.

Being arrived in town, she took leave of her new acquaintance at the inn, having been inform­ed before how she might send to him as soon as she was settled, which she designed to do by his advice, as near Covent Garden as possible, that being a place whether the wits generally resort. Accordingly, in a few days she took a gen­teel lodging in Southampton-street, where, when she was fixed, Urbanus had soon notice, and as soon repaired to her abode. He gallanted her about to the female wits, and introduced all the male whom he thought worthy of her acquaint­ance. It was not long before her lodgings were [Page 44] the daily resort of many who really had wit, and of more who desired to be thought to have it, insomuch that in the space of about six months, she had ingratiated herself into the favour of many of her own sex of quality, as she knew how to flatter them exquisitely well; and the men of figure and quality, as well as those of wit, con­stantly paid their attendance on the ladies at her apartment. Among the rest, there was a gen­tleman of great fortune, who was a person of in­tolerable vanity, that without either parts or per­son set himself up as a prodigy for accomplish­ments both of body and mind. Clarinda deter­mined to avail herself of these foibles, in order, if possible to secure so valuable a prize, and as no method appeared so effectual as that of persuad­ing him she was in love with him, she sent him a song to that effect, which pierced him through the very soul; and a mixture of vanity and compas­sion made him resolve to make the poetess his wife, whatever might be the consequence. The wedding day was therefore appointed, and to make as little noise as possible, it was resolved the nuptials should be celebrated at a place between thirty and forty miles distant from London.

Thus Clarinda by the force of her wit, from a state of obscurity rendered herself respected by the most sensible part of the town, and laid such a foundation for happiness in life, as nothing but the same cause could possibly destroy. She was [Page 45] now mistress of a reputable husband, and a very good estate, which are two necessary ingredients in the composition of a woman's felicity. They lived in tolerable satisfaction in the country for about two months; but the season of the year and Clarinda's extreme love of conversation, ren­dered this sequestered life very disagreeable, so that they repaired to London, and having taken an elegant house in Pall-mall, were visited by the gay and airy from all quarters of the town.

Would-be, (for that was her husband's name) though possessed of so high an opinion of himself, was of a very jealous disposition, and of conse­quence soon grew weary of such a promiscuous concourse of men and women as his wife Clarin­da drew together. He likewise fancied that those freedoms she permitted to some of her male visit­ors, whom she called platonic lovers, was only a specious pretext to cover more criminal concerns, and therefore first admonished his lady, that her conduct was not agreeable to him; and when that would not prevail, he flatly informed her, that for the future his doors should be shut against all manner of company.

It would be tedious to recount the daily alter­cations which this resolution of Would-be pro­duced: suffice it therefore to observe, that from words the surly husband proceded to blows; from blows to a separation of beds, and from thence, in a few months, to a separation of families.

[Page 46] Clarinda, however, applied to Doctor's Com­mons, and having obtained a very handsome sep­arate maintainance, fixed herself in new lodgings, which soon became the resort of the gay and the witty.

Urbanus, her first acquaintance, had been some time out of town, and therefore ignorant of the most important revolutions of her life, especial­ly of the unsettled and various parts of it, since matrimony. He retained his love for her, and frequently expressed it; she received it as her cus­tom was, and permitted him to be her platonic admirer.

Would-be, notwithstanding the separation, sometimes visited her, and happening to come at a time when Urbanus was kissing her, and she ad­mitting his embraces with all the patience that she could a husband, the jealous madman, fired with indignation, drew his sword, and at one pass slew the unfortunate student. Clarinda, expecting the same fate, fled out of the room, and whilst her husband's rage pursued her, the house was alarmed, and Would-be taken into custody for the murder of Urbanus.

This was a melancholy effect of her follies, but the consequence was most dreadful, since she was compelled to be an evidence against her own hus­band, and he was cast by her evidence chiefly, the other being only circumstantial.

[Page 47] The rash Would-be was condemned, and suf­fered the sentence of the law, declaring his entire aversion to Clarinda, cursing the day on which he had first seen her, and that day above all in which he was so infatuated as to wed her.

This fatal accident struck Clarinda with some serious reflections on the dire event of her obsti­nacy and coquetry, so that burning all her books of wit and poetry she retired into the remotest part of Wales; where contenting herself with her annuity of fifty pounds, she led a miserable life till death put an end to her troubles; afford­ing a melancholy proof, of how little consequence mere wit is, when compared with the accomplish­ments of a wife.

THE CRUEL OFFICER PUNISHED.

IN the reign of Queen Anne, a soldier be­longing to a marching regiment, which was quar­tered in the city of Worcester, was taken up for desertion; and being tried before a court mar­tial was sentenced to be shot. The colonel and lieutenant colonel being at that time in London, the command of the regiment descended in course to the major, a man of a most cruel and inhu­man [Page 48] disposition. The day on which the desert­er was to be executed being arrived, the regiment, as is usual on these occasions, was drawn out to see the execution.

It is the custom on these occasions for the sev­eral corporals to cast lots for this disegreeable office: and when every one expected to have seen the lots cast as usual, they were surprised to find that the major had given orders, that the prisoner should die by the hands of his own brother, who was only a private man in the same company; and who when the cruel order arriv­ed was taking his leave of his unhappy brother, and with tears fast slowing, that expressed the anguish of his soul, was hanging for the last time about his neck

On his knees did the poor fellow beg that he might not have a hand in his brother's death; and the poor prisoner, forgetting for a moment his pe­titions to heaven, begged to die by any hands but those of a brother. The unrelenting officer, however, could by no means be prevailed on to revoke his cruel sentence, tho' intreated to do so by every inferior officer of the regiment; but on the contrary, he swore that he, and he only, should be the executioner, if it was merely for example sake, and to make justice appear more terrible. When much time had been wasted in fruitless endeavours to soften the rigour of this [Page 49] inhuman sentence, the prisoner prepares to die, and the brother to be the executioner.

The major strict to his maxims of cruelty, stands close to see that the piece was properly loaded, which being done he directs that the third motion of his cane shall be the signal of his dis­charge, and at the third motion receives (instead of the prisoner) the bullets through his own head.

The man had no sooner discharged his piece, than throwing it on the ground, he exclaimed as follows:—"He that can give no mercy, no mercy let him receive. Now I submit! I had ra­ther die this hour for his death, than live an hundred years and take away the life of my brother." No person seemed to be sorry for this unexpected piece of justice on the inhuman ma­jor, and the man being ordered into custody, many gentlemen present, who had been witnesses of the whole affair, joined to intreat the officers to defer the execution of the other brother till the queen's pleasure should be known.

This request being complied with, the city chamber that very night drew up a very feeling and pathetic address to her majesty, setting forth the unparalleled cruelty and character of the de­ceased officer, and humbly intreating her majesty's pardon for both the brothers.

The petition was granted, the brothers were pardoned and discharged from their service in the [Page 50] army, and the queen received from the city a most grateful address of thanks for her well timed mercy.

THE CRUEL GOVERNOR PUNISHED.

A Governor in Sweden, being disgusted at a certain Swiss, commanded him to be yoked with oxen that drew burthens in a cart. But when neither by fair nor foul means they could force him to this vile condescension, he com­manded his eyes to be put out; which was done accordingly. This was murmured at. But being the first essay of his cruel disposition, they winked at it.

A while after, the same governor commanded a woman, in her husband's absence, to prepare a hot bath for him. Which the chaste mat­ron refused to perform, till the husband came home, he struck her dead with an axe. This also, though heightening the cholar of the Swiss, was passed by in meditation of future revenge.

At last he grew so foolishly proud and impe­rious, that walking one day in the streets of the city, he struck his cane in the ground, and pla­ced [Page 51] his turban or bonnet thereon; commanding all that passed by to give honour to it: which, when a certain honest Swiss refused, he then commanded him to strike off an apple from his son's head with a shot from his cross-bow. The good father for a long time refused thus to haz­ard his son's life; but being overcome by the ty­rant's importunate menaces, he rather ventured to trust to Providence the life of his son, than to sacrifice both that and his own to the impla­cable malice of a barbarian: so he shot, and hit the apple off, without touching his son's heads The governor seeing this, and taking notice that he had brought two arrows with him, asked him the reason of it. To whom the Swiss answered, "If I had shot amiss and hurt my son with the first arrow, I was resolved to have pierced thy heart with the second." Upon this, all the peo­ple gave a shout, and running together, seized upon the governor, and tore him to pieces. Neither would they afterwards endure or admit any man into their cities, from the emperor, unless he came in the quality of an ambassador.

THE REWARD OF AVARICE.

MONS. Foscue, one of the farmers gen­eral of the province of Languedoc in France, who had amassed a considerable wealth by grind­ing the faces of the poor within his province, and every other means however low, base, or cruel, by which he rendered himself universally hated, was one day ordered by the government to raise a considerable sum; upon which, as an excuse for not complying with the demand, he pleaded ex­treme poverty; but fearing lest some of the inhab­itants of Languedoc should give information to the contrary, and his house should be searched, he resolved on hiding his treasure in such a man­ner, as to escape the most strict examination.—For that purpose he dug a kind of cave in his wine cellar, which he made so large and deep that he used to go down to it with a ladder; at the en­trance was a door with a spring lock on it, which on shutting would fasten of itself. All at once Mons. Foscue was missing; diligent search was made after him in every place; the ponds were drawn, and every method, which human imagina­tion [Page 53] could suggest, was taken to find him, but all in vain.

In a short time after, his house was sold, and the purchaser beginning either to rebuild it, or make some alteration in it, the workman discov­ered a door in the cellar, with a key in the lock, which he ordered to be opened, and on going down they found Mons Foscue lying dead on the ground, with a candlestick near him, but no candle in it, which he had eat; and on searching farther, they found the vast wealth that he had amassed. It is supposed that when Mons. Foscue went into his cave, the door by some accident shut after him, and being out of the call of any person, he perished for want of food. He had knawed the flesh of both his arms, as is supposed for subsistence. Thus did this miser die in the midst of his treasure, to the scandal of himself, and to the prejudice of the whole state.

A MEMORABLE INSTANCE OF REAL LOVE.

PHILARIO was the son of an English merchant, who had resided long at Cadiz; he had been sent young to England for the advan­tage of his education, at the royal college of Ea­ton, and while there, fell in love with Isabella, the only daughter of a gentleman of good fami­ly and estate, who had promised this lady to a distant relation of his own name; but she had an aversion to the proposed match, and openly avow­ed her passion for Philario, which the father was so far from approving of, that being provoked by her opposition to his orders, he commanded her, under penalty of his displeasure, never more to converse with her lover.

Isabella, notwithstanding this restraint found means to escape, and dressing herself in boy's cloaths, embarked with Philario, in a Spanish ship belonging to Bristol, bound for the Cana­ries. But alas! human resolutions are vain.—During the voyage they were taken by a Moorish ship belonging to Sallee; and 'tis easier to con­ceive than express, the affliction, the despair, the astonishment of Philario. He saw the beloved object of his affections now his partner in slavery, and he suffered more than death, every time that [Page 55] his eyes all swimming with tears, stole a glance of his beloved Isabella. But what aggravated his sorrow, to the most piercing extremity, was an information he received of his father's death, and that all his effects had been seized by the Span­iards.

They passed about a week with the rest of the ship's company, in a dungeon, where they were in continual expectation of that summons which must separate them for ever. The moon one night shone clearly through the grates of the pris­on windows, and Philario, whilst the others were asleep, took notice of something concealed in a corner of the room. He went and pulled it out and to his great surprise found seventy moidores, besides small pieces.

He approached Isabella, and awaked her in all the extacy of a man who considered himself as distinguished by Providence. He whispered his new hope of an immediate redemption, and found means, by the help of an honest Jew, to be carried to the Alcaid; and trusting his gold with the Israelite, proposed to ransom himself and his beloved Isabella, whom he called his broth­er; but the conflict of passions had so visible an effect on his looks, that the magistrate took the advantage, and insisted on the whole sum as the ransom for one only, which was offered for both He bid him name either his brother or himself; [Page 56] but advised him to lose no time, as an English ship was to sail out of the harbour in a few days with ransomed captives. Philario trembled with fear, he knew not what to do; either he must go into slavery himself, or the dear partner of his life must be confined within the walls of a serag­lio.

He went out with the Jew, and took a sudden resolution. But what was it? to pay the money for the ransom of Isabella, and remain in slavery himself. He communicated the fatal news to the person dearest to him in the world; but what tongue can express her agony; she fell into strong convulsions; but let mankind attend to the inter­positions of Providence.

A Jew had lately arrived from Gibraltar, and having met with his brother Israelite, the conver­sation turned on the two captives, and it was agreed upon betwixt them to pay the ransom, and accompany the lovers to their native coun­try.

This affair being settled, they arrived in Eng­land; the sons of Jacob were amply rewarded, the young lady was reinstated in possession of her father's fortune, and her husband has now the honour to represent an opulent county in parlia­ment.

INSTANCES OF TRUE AND FALSE COURAGE.

DURING Oliver Cromwell's pro­tectorship, a noisy young officer, who had been bred in France, came to the ordinary at the Black Horse in Holborn, where the person that usually presided at table was a rough old­fashioned gentleman, who, according to the cus­tom of those times, had been both major and preacher of a regiment. The young officer was vending some new-fangled notions, and speaking, in his gaiety, against the dispensations of Provi­dence. The major, at first, only desired him to speak more respectfully of one for whom all the company had an honour; but finding him run on in his extravagance, began to reprimand him in a more serious manner. "Young man," said he, "do not abuse your Maker while you are eating his bread. Consider whose air you breath, whose presence you are in, and who it is that gave you the power of that very speech which you make use of to his dishonour" The young fellow, who thought to turn matters to a jest, asked him. If he was going to preach? but at the same time desired him to take care what he said, when he spoke to a man of honour. "A man of honour!" says the major—"thou [Page 58] art an infidel and a blasphemer, and I shall use thee as such." At length the quarrel ran so high, that the young officer challenged the ma­jor. Upon their coming into the garden, the old fellow advised his antagonist to con­sider the place into which one pass might drive him; but finding him grow upon him to a degree of scurrility, as believing the advice pro­ceeded from fear: "Sirrah," says he, "if a thunderbolt does not strike thee dead, before I come at thee, I shall not fail to chastise thee for thy prophaneness to thy Maker, and thy sauci­ness to his servant." Upon this he drew his sword, and cried with a loud voice, " The sword of the Lord, and of Gideon;" which so terrified our young gentleman, that he was immediately disarmed, and thrown upon his knees. In this posture he begged for life, which the major re­fused to grant, before he had asked pardon for his offence, in a short prayer, which the major dictated upon the spot, and which his proselyte repeated after him, in the presence of the whole ordinary, that were now gathered about them in the garden.

THE OLD PROVERB, Take a Wife down in her Wedding Shoes, exemplified in a pleasant STORY.

A GENTLEMAN in Lincolnshire had four daughters, three of which were early mar­ried very happily; but the fourth, though no way inferior to any of her sisters, either in per­son or accomplishments, had from her infancy, discovered so imperious a temper (usually called a spirit) that it continually made great uneasiness in the family, became her known character in the neighbourhood, and deterred all her lovers from declaring themselves. However, in pro­cess of time, a gentleman of a plentiful fortune, and long acquaintance, having observed that quickness of spirit to be her only fault, made his addresses, and obtained her consent, in due form. The lawyers finished the writings (in which by the way, there was no pin-money) and they were married. After a decent time spent in the fa­ther's house, the bridegroom went to prepare his seat for her reception. During the whole course of his courtship, though a man of the most equal temper, he had artificially lamented to her, that he was the most passionate creature breathing. By this one intimation, he at once made her un­derstand warmth of temper to be what he ought [Page 60] to pardon in her, as well as that he alarmed her against that constitution in himself. She at the same time, thought herself highly obliged by the composed behaviour which he maintained in her presence. Thus far he with great success sooth­ed her from being guilty of violences, and still resolved to give her such a terrible apprehension of his fiery spirit, that she should never dream of giving way to her own. He returned on the day appointed for carrying her home; but in­stead of a coach and six horses, together with gay equipage suitable to the occasion, he appear­ed without a servant, mounted on a skeleton of a horse (which his huntsman had the day before bought in to feast his dogs on the arrival of his new mistress) with a pillion fixed behind, and a case of pistols before him, attended only by a fa­vourite hound. Thus equipped, he in a very obliging (but somewhat positive) manner, desired his lady to seat herself upon the cushion; which done, away they crawled. The road being ob­structed by a gate, the dog was commanded to open it; the poor cur looked up and wagged his tail; but the master, to shew the impatience of his temper, drew a pistol and shot him dead. He had no sooner done it, but fell into a thousand apologies for his unhappy rashness, and begged as many pardons for his excesses before one for [Page 61] whom he had so profound a respect. Soon af­ter their horse stumbled, but with some difficulty recovered; however, the bridegroom took oc­casion to swear, if he frightened his wife so again he would run him through; and, alas! the poor animal being now almost tired, made a second trip; immediately on which, the careful husband alights, and with great ceremony, first takes off his lady, then the accoutrements, draws his sword, and saves the huntsman the trouble of killing him. Then, says he to his wife, "child, prithee take up the saddle;" which she readily did, and tugg'd it home, where they found all things in the greatest order, suitable to their for­tune and the present occasion. Some time after, the father of the lady gave an entertainment to all his daughters and their husbands, where, when the wives were retired, and the gentlemen passing a toast about, our last married man took occa­sion to observe to the rest of his brethren, how much to his great satisfaction, he found the world mistaken as to the temper of his lady, for that she was the most meek and humble woman breath­ing. The applause was received with a loud laugh; but as a trial which of them would ap­pear the most master at home, he proposed they should all by turns send for their wives down to them. A servant was dispatched, and answer was made by one, "tell him I will come by and [Page 62] by;" and another, "that she would come when the cards were out of hand; and so on. But no sooner was her husbands desire whispered in the ear of our last married lady, but the cards were clapped on the table, and down she comes with, "my dear, would you speak with me?" He received her in his arms, and after repeated caresses tells her the experiment, confesses his good nature, and assures her, that since she could now command her temper, he would no longer disguise his own.

A GENOESE STORY.

LUCHIN Vivalde, a wealthy Genoese, and a married man, cast his eyes with an evil de­sign, upon the virtue of the beautiful Jaquinette, a poor young maid, and tried every means to se­duce her to his embraces; but she resisted, and was proof against all his attempts and devices; she married an honest labouring man, by whom she had several children, and lived with him con­tented in her station. However, Luchin did not cease his intrigues; he feigned to be very friend­ly to the husband, and actually shewed him many civilities and favours, to corrupt the wife, and [Page 63] not without hopes of prevailing with him to yield to his request, and to force his wife to submit to his solicitations. Even this could work nothing upon the chaste and resolute Jaquinette, whose immoveable resolution made him in some sort give up the pursuit of his adulterous design.

But, her husband being taken by the pirates, and the city of Genoa being oppressed with a great dearth, and five small children crying about the good woman for bread, without her capaci­ty to provide for them, Jaquinette, oppressed with extreme want and despair, having no hu­man means to help herself and children, she, in a fit of frenzy goes directly to Luchin's house, and, being introduced to him alone, gave her­self up to his power, on condition of his provid­ing for the distresses of her family.

Luchin was ravished to see her, but was more amazed at her countenance than her words.—She, prostrate at his feet, submitted herself whol­ly to his will, and only begged he would relieve her poor children, dying with hunger. Luchin agitated by contrary emotions, was at last con­quered by reason, and directed by a good spirit; "Rise up, Jaquinette," said he, "your offer is an act of necessity and distress, not voluntary, and of desire. I will take no advantage of your misery. I will now vanquish myself; I will preserve your honour, which I have, contrary [Page 64] to my duty, and the peace of your mind, so long sought to violate; and henceforth I will look upon you as my own sister, and relieve and assist you with a sincere affection." Then tak­ing her by the hand, led her to his wife, report­ed the whole affair unto her; and that good la­dy contributed all in her power to reward the virtue, and to relieve the family of poor Jaqui­nette.

STORY OF TRANQUILITY; OR, AN OLD MAID'S APOLOGY.

IT is not very difficult to bear that con­dition to which we are not condemned by ne­cessity, but induced by observation and choice; and therefore I, perhaps, have never yet felt all the malignity, with which a reproach, edged with the appellation of old maid, swells in some of those hearts in which it is fixed. I was not con­demned in my youth to solitude, either by ne­cessity or want, nor passed the earlier part of life without the flattery of courtship, and the joys of triumph. I have danced the round of gaiety, amidst the murmurs of envy and gratulations of [Page 65] applause; been attended from pleasure to plea­sure by the great, the sprightly and the vain, and seen my regard solicited by the obsequiousness of gallantry, the gaiety of wit, and the timidity of love. If, therefore, I am yet a stranger to the nuptial happiness, I suffer only the consequences of my resolves, and can look back upon the suc­cession of lovers, whose addresses I have rejected, without grief, and without malice.

When my name first began to be inscribed upon glasses, I was honoured with the amorous pro­fessions of the gay Venustulus; a gentleman who being the only son of a wealthy family, had been educated in the wantonness of expence, and soft­ness of effeminacy. He was beautiful in his per­son and easy in his address, and therefore soon gained upon my eye at an age [...] it is very lit­tle over-ruled by the understanding. He had not any power in himself of pleasing or amusing, but supplied his want of conversation by treats and diversions; and his chief act of courtship was to fill the mind of his mistress with parties, rambles, music, and shows. We were often en­gaged in short excursions to gardens and seats, and I was for a while pleased with the care which Venustulus discovered, in securing me from any appearance of danger, or possibility of mischance. He never failed to recommend caution to his coachman, or to promise the waterman a reward [Page 66] if he landed us safe; and his great care was al­ways to return by day-light for fear of robbers. This extraordinary solicitude was represented for a time as the effect of his tenderness for me; but fear is too strong for continual hypocrisy. I soon discovered that Venustulus had the cowardice as well as elegance of a female. His imagination was perpetually clouded with terrors, and he could scarcely refrain from screams and outcries at any accidental surprise. He durst not enter the room where a rat was heard behind the wainscot, nor cross a field where cattle were frisk­ing in the sun-shine; the least breeze that wav­ed upon the river was a storm, and every clam­our in the street was a cry of fire. I have seen him lose his colour when my squirrel had broke his chain; and was forced to throw water in his face on the sudden entrance of a black cat. I was once obliged to drive away with my fan a beetle that kept him in distress, and chide off a dog that yelped at his heels, to whom he would gladly have given up me to facilitate his own es­cape. Women naturally expect defence and pro­tection from a lover or a husband, and therefore you will not think me culpable in refusing a wretch, who would have burdened life with un­necessary fears, and flown to me for that succour, which it was his duty to have given.

[Page 67] My next lover was Fungoso, the son of a stock­jobber, whose visits my friends, by the importu­nity of persuasion, prevailed upon me to allow. Fungoso was indeed no very suitable companion, for having been bred in a compting-house he spoke a language unintelligible in any other place. He had no desire of any reputation but that of an acute prognosticator of the changes in the funds; nor had any means of raising merriment, but by telling how somebody was over-reached in a bar­gain by his father. He was, however, a youth of great sobriety and prudence, and frequently in­formed us how carefully he would improve my fortune. I was in no haste to conclude the match, but was so much awed by my parents that I durst not dismiss him, and might perhaps have been doomed for ever to the grossness of igno­rance, and the jargon of usury, had not a fraud been discovered in the settlement, which set me free from the persecution of grovling pride and pecuniary impudence.

I was afterwards six months without any par­ticular notice, but at last became the idol of the glittering Flosculus, who prescribed the mode of embroidery to all the fops of his time, and vari­ed at pleasure the cock of every hat; and the sleeve of every coat, that appeared in fashionable as­semblies. Flosculus made some impression upon my heart by such compliments as few ladies can [Page 68] hear without emotion: he commended my skill in dress, my judgment in suiting colours, and my art in disposing ornaments. But Flosculus was too much engaged by his own elegance, to be suf­ficiently attentive to the duties of a lover. He expected to be repaid part of his tribute, and staid away three days because I neglected to take no­tice of a new coat. I soon found that Floscu­lus was rather a rival than an admirer, and that we should probably live in perpetual struggle of emulous finery, and spend our lives in stratagems to be first in the fashion.

I had soon after the honour, at a feast, of at­tracting the eyes of Dentatus, one of those human beings whose only happiness is to dine. Denta­tus regaled me with foreign varieties, told me of measures that he had laid for procuring the best cook in France, and entertained me with bills of fare, the arrangement of dishes, and two sauces invented by himself; at length, such is the un­certainty of human happiness, I declared my opinion too hastily upon a pye made under his own direction; after which he grew so cold and negligent, that he was easily dismissed.

Many other lovers, or pretended lovers, I have had the honour to lead a while in triumph. But two of them I drove from me by discovering they had no taste or knowledge in music; three I dis­missed because they were drunkards; two, be­cause [Page 69] they paid their addresses at the same time to other ladies; six, because they attempted to influence my choice by bribing my maid; two more I discarded at the second visit for obscene allusions; and five for drollery on religion. In the latter part of my reign, I sentenced two to perpetual exile, for offering me settlements by which the children of their former marriage would have been injured; four for misrepresent­ing the value of their estates; three for conceal­ing their debts; and one, for raising the rent of a decrepit tenant.

After all that I have said, the reproach ought not to be extended beyond the crime, or either sex to be condemned, because some women or men are indelicate or dishonest.

THE SURGEON AND MALEFACTOR.

IT is a custom with some surgeons who beg the bodies of condemned malefactors, to go to the gaol and bargain for the carcase with the criminal himself. One of the Faculty went ac­cording to custom, and was admitted to the con­demned men on the morning they were to die. [Page 70] He communicated his business and fell into dis­course with a little fellow, who refused twelve shillings, and insisted upon fifteen for his body. An undaunted fellow who was condemned for murder, very fondly, and like a man who was wishing to deal, told him, "Look you, Mr. Surgeon, that little dry fellow, who has been half starved all his life, and is now half dead with fear, cannot answer your purpose. I have ever lived highly and freely, my veins are full, I have not pined in imprisonment; you see my crest swells to your knife, and after Jack Ketch has done, upon my honour you'll find me as sound as any bullock in the markets. Come, for twenty shil­lings I am your man."—"Done," says the Sur­geon, "there's a guinea."—This witty rogue took the money, and as soon as he had it in his hand, cries, "A bite, I am to be hanged in chains."

LOVE'S INGENUITY; OR, CUPID'S CUNNING.
Before the Marriage-Act took place a remark­able nuptial ceremony was performed in a pleasant village not far from Exeter.

IN this village, one Mr. Placid occupied a pretty paternal seat, and a well cultivated fam­ily estate. His spouse was what the world calls a good woman, that is, she was neat, careful, and an excellent housewife; but if we consider the petulancy of her temper, she was not so great a blessing as one might imagine.

Mr. Placid had been blest by this lady with a beautiful daughter, named Juliana, adorned with every exterior charm, and embellished with ev­ery polite accomplishment; happy in the ex­cellence of her temper, and the benevolence of her heart; replete with all that could inspire men with love, but devoid of that coquetish acrimo­ny which creates envy in the bosom of a wo­man

Mr Placid had for his near neighbour, one Doctor Prig, who possessed two fat livings in that part of the country, one of which was the parish where he resided.

[Page 72] Doctor Prig was the son of a dignified ecclesias­tic. In his childhood he had been spoiled in the nursery, by the indulgence of his mother, who dying when he was about ten years of age, left him to the care of his surviving parent, who was too much wrapt up in his own importance, and the study of the father's to descend to the consideration of his child's future welfare. He was therefore, to prevent trouble, sent to a board­ing school in the neighbourhood, where he was whipped into stupidity by the careful Mr Slash­am, in order to make him a classical scholar. At the proper age he was removed to one of the universities, where he was lectured into pedantry, which, added to the profound respect he always entertained of his own abilities, very frequently rendered his company insupportable.

As Doctor prig visited at Mr. Placid's, it is no wonder that the charms of Miss Juliana made an impression on his heart. He was forcibly smit­ten—declared his passion in form to the parents, and after due deliberation, it was affirmed by Mrs Placid, that the proposal was too lucrative­ly elegible to be slighted. As Mr. Placid and his wife, were but one, according to the matrimo­nial law of nations, they never has but one opi­nion, that is, Mr. Placid was always obliged to a­dopt the opinion of his spouse and call it his own, which prevented disputes. Mrs. Placid [Page 73] then being of opinion, that it ought to be a match, the hymenial plan of operations was settled with­out once consulting the young lady's inclinations, who happened to despise Doctor Prig with as supreme a contempt as her benevolent heart was capable of conceiving.

At this critical period arrived Captain Affable, a distant relation of Mr. Placid's upon a visit of a month. He had never seen Juliana since her childhood; he was struck with the angelic bloom of her ripening beauties, a mutual tenderness swam in the eyes of each, and a sympathetic in­tercourse of speaking glances gave intelligence to each of the situation of the other's heart; they were both, allowing for the difference of sex, equally beautiful, and equally accomplished—And a second sighted seventh son of a seventh son would have sworn that the recording angel of the Fates had written both their names in the same connubial line. As they were unsuspected, they soon found an opportunity of speaking to­gether in private. Captain Affable had the char­acter of sincerity, Juiliana knew nothing of the distant ceremonial of modish coquetry; he de­clared his passion; she confest her situation; they vowed a mutual constancy, and equally la­mented the avariciously absurd intention of her parents. After determining upon their future conduct they parted.

[Page 74] Capt. Affable next morning feigned an abso­lute emergency to be absent for the space of four days; he rode post to London, procured a spe­cial licence, and returned at his promised time.

A few evenings after his arrival, Dr. Prig threw out several illiberal reflections and sar­castical sneers on the gentlemen of the army, which the captain [...]torted with some jokes on the pride and incapacity of the clergy. The dispute grew warm, till after many assertions in disfavour of each party, the captain offered to wager the pedant that he could not repeat the requisite official ceremonies of the church with­out a book. The Doctor accepted the chal­lenge, and desired him to mention any cere­mony in which he was not perfect, without Rub­ric Assistance. The Captain named the marri­age ceremony, at the same time with a sneer in­sisting, that he did not believe he knew in what part of the ceremony to put on the ring. The Doctor, in his own justification, began to repeat the ceremony. A plain gold ring was produced, which Dr. Prig, impatient to vindicate his ho­nour, and win the hundred guineas, in the agi­tation of his spirits, placed on Juliana's finger, without reflecting on the consequence. Mr. Placid, whose brain was not designed by nature for the discovery of plots, thought proper to of­ficiate as father, imagining it would be unkind [Page 75] to baulk the Doctor in his repetition, by suffer­ing him to want so essential a personage in the ceremony. The Captain repeated those parts appointed for the bridegroom, to prove that he did not design to baffle the Doctor by the double ceremonial's being omitted. And Juliana pur­sued each sentence of the voluble ecclesiastic as bride, to shew herself disinterested in the affairs The ceremony was completed. The Captain owned his wager lost, and entreated pardon for having supposed that so complete a gentleman could be deficient in any point whatever. All things were amicably adjusted, the Doctor, after taking leave, retired to his own house, and the Captain seemingly to the apartment assigned him at Mr. Placid's; seemingly I say, for if the rea­der does not already suppose, it may not be im­proper for me to inform him that he that night took possession of his lovely bride.

The next morning the whole affair was un­folded to the parents; the special licence pro­duced; the validity of the marriage elucidated; and a blessing craved. Mrs. Placid, finding there was no alternative, gave it as her opinion that it would be proper to forgive the young people, as she said, for doing such a trick, since it could not be undone. And Mr. Placid gave it (according to custom) as his opinion, that her opinion was exactly right. A card was then dispatched to [Page 76] Dr. Prig, by which he understood that in the height of his cleverness he had married his in­tended bride to another. It enraged him so much, to think that a man of his consummate wisdom should be so easily imposed upon, that he fell sick with passion, and did not again ascend the pulpit for upwards of three months, when his flock was edified with several elaborate dis­courses, tending to censure the army in general and coquets in particular.

A REMARKABLE STORY OF THE AFFECTION OF TWO BROTHERS.

IN the beginning of the sixteenth century the Portuguese carracks sailed from Lisbon to Goa; a very great, rich, and flourishing colony of that nation in the East-Indies. There were no less than twelve hundred souls, mariners, merchants, passengers, priests, and friars on board one of these vessels. The beginning of their voyage was prosperous, they had doubled the Southern ex­tremity of the great continent of Africa, called the Cape of Good Hope, and were shaping their course North East, to the great continent of In­dia; [Page 77] when some gentlemen on board, who hav­ing studied geography and navigation (arts that reflect honour on the possessors) found in the lat­itude in which they were then sailing, a large ridge of rocks laid down in their sea charts. They had no sooner made this discovery, but they ac­quainted the captain of the ship with the affair, desiring him to communicate the same to the pi­lot; which request he immediately gratified, re­commending him to lie by in the night, and slacked sail by day, until they should be past the danger. It is a custom always among the Por­tuguese, absolutely to commit the sailing part, on the navigation of the vessel, to the pilot, who is answerable, with his head, for the safe conduct or carriage of the king's ships, or those belong­ing to private traders; and he is under no man­ner of direction from the captain, who commands in every other respect.

The pilot being one of those self-sufficient men, who think every hint given from others, in the way of their profession, as derogatory to their understanding, took it as an affront to be taught his art; and, instead of complying with the cap­tain's request, actually crowded more sail than the vessel had carried before. They had not sailed many hours, but just about the dawn of day a terrible disaster befel them, which would have been prevented if they had laid by:—the ship [Page 78] struck upon a rock. I leave to the reader's im­agination, what a scene of horror this dreadful accident must occasion among twelve hundred persons, all in the same inevitable danger, behold­ing, with fearful astonishment, that instantaneous death which now stared them in the face!

In this distress, the captain ordered the pin­nance to be launched; into which having tossed a small quantity of biscuit, and some boxes of marmalade, he jumped himself, with nineteen others; who, with their swords, prevented the coming in of any more, lest the boat should sink. In this condition, they put off into the great In­dian ocean, without a compass to steer by, or any fresh water, but what might happen to fall from the heavens, whose mercy alone could deliver them. After they had rowed four days, to and fro, in this miserable situation, the captain, who had been for sometime sick and weak, died; this added, if possible, to their misery; for, as they now fell into confusion, every one would govern, and none would obey. This obliged them to elect one of their own company to command them, whose orders they implicitly agreed to fol­low. This person proposed to the company to draw lots, and to cast every fourth man overboard; as their small stock of provision was so far spent, as not to be able, at a very short allowance, to sus­tain life above three days longer. They were [Page 79] now nineteen persons in all; in this number were a friar and carpenter, both of whom they would exempt, as the one was useful to absolve and com­fort them in their last extremity, and the other to repair the pinnance, in case of a leak, or other accident. The same compliment they paid to their new captain, he being the odd man, and his life of much consequence. He refused this in­dulgence a great while, but, at last, they obliged him to acquiesce; so that there were four to die out of the sixteen remaining persons.

The three first, after having confessed, and re­ceived absolution, submitted to their fate. The fourth whom fortune condemned was a Portu­guese gentleman that had a younger brother in the boat, who seeing him about to be thrown overboard, most tenderly embraced him, and with tears in his eyes, besought him to let him die in his room; enforcing his arguments, by telling him, that he was a married man, and had a wife and children at Goa, besides the care of three sisters, who absolutely depended upon him; that as for himself, he was single, and his life of no great importance; he therefore conjured him to supply his place. The elder brother astonished, and melting with this generosity, replied, "That since the Divine Providence had appointed him to suffer, it would be wicked and unjust to per­mit any other to die for him, especially a brother [Page 80] to whom he was so infinitely obliged." The younger, persisting in his purpose, would take no denial; but, throwing himself on his knees, held his brother so fast, that the company could not disengage them. Thus they disputed for a while, the elder brother bidding him be a father to his children, and recommended his wife to his pro­tection; and as he would inherit his estate to take care of their common sisters; but all he could say did not make the younger desist. This was a scene of tenderness that must fill any breast susceptible of generous impressions, with pity.—At last, the constancy of the elder brother yield­ed to the piety of the other; he acquiesced and suffered the gallant youth to supply his place, who being cast into the sea, and a good swimmer soon got to the stern of the pinnance, and laid hold of the rudder with his right hand, but be­ing perceived by one of the sailors, he cut off the hand with a cutlass; then dropping into the sea, he caught again hold with his left, which receiv­ed the same fate by a second blow; thus dismem­bered of both hands, he made a shift, notwith­standing, to keep himself above water with his [...]ect, and too stumps, which he held bleeding up­wards.

This moving spectacle so raised the pity of the whole company, that they cried out "he is but one man, let us endeavour to save his life," and [Page 81] he was accordingly taken into the boat; where he had his hands bound up as well as the place and circumstances would permit. They rowed all that night, and next morning, when the sun arose, as if heaven would reward the gallantry and piety of this young man▪ they descried land, which proved to be the mountains Mozambique, in Africa, not far from a Portuguese colony.—Thither they all safely arrived, where they re­mained, until the next ships from Lisbon passed by, and carried them to Goa; at which city Lins­chotten, a writer of good credit and esteem, as­sures us, that he himself saw them land, supped with the two brothers, that very night, beheld the younger with his stumps, and had the story from both their mouths, as well as from the rest of the company.

STORY OF THE GRAND DURE OF TUSKANY.

COSMO de Medicis, Grand Duke of Tuscany, concerning whom, on account of his prodigious wealth, it was rumoured, that he had the art of transmutation. A noble Venetian, who, though he had but a small for­tune, was extremely well recommended to his Highness (and by his polite behaviour, added daily to his credit in that court) one day fairly put the question, and asked the Duke if he had the Philosopher's Stone, or not? "My friend," said the Duke, "I have; and because I have a regard for you, I will give you the receipt in few words. "I never put off till to-morrow what may be done to-day; nor do I think any matter so trivial as not to deserve notice." The Venetian thanked his Serene Highness for the secret; and by observing his rules, acquired a great estate.

A WONDERFUL STORY.

TOWARDS the latter end of Queen Ann's wars, Capt. John Beams, commander of the York merchant, arrived at Barbadoes from England. Having disembarked all his lading, which consisted chiefly of coals, the sailors, who had been employed in the dirty work, ventured into the sea to wash themselves; they had not been long in the water before a person on board spied a shark making towards them, and gave them notice of their danger, upon which they swam back, and all of them, except one man, reached the boat in safety: him the monster overtook, and griping him by the small of the back, soon cut him asunder and swallowed the lower part of his body: the remaining part was taken up and carried on board. The deceased had on board a dear and intimate friend, who no sooner saw the remaining part of the lifeless trunk of his much lov'd companion, than he vowed to make the devourer disgorge the other, or lose his life in the attempt; then plunged instantly into the sea: the shark beheld him, and made furiously towards him. Both were equally ea­ger, the one of his prey, the other to revenge his friend's untimely death. The moment the [Page 84] shark opened his rapacious jaws, his adversary dexterously diving, and grasping him with his left hand, somewhat below the upper fins, successfully employed his knife in his right hand, giving him repeated stabs in the belly: the enraged shark, after many unavailing efforts, finding himself overmatched in his own element, endeavoured to disengage himself; sometimes plunging towards the bottom, sometimes rolling on the surface of the waves. The crew of several surrounding vessels beheld the unequal conflict, uncertain from which of the combatants the streams of blood had flowed: till at length the shark, much weak­ened by the loss of blood, made towards the shore. The sailor now flushed with the hope of victory, pushed his foe with redoubled ardour, and by the help of an ebbing tide, dragged him on shore, ripped open his bowels, and having united the severed carcase of his friend, laid both parts of the body in one hospitable grave.

THE PRAISE OF LAZINESS.
[In a humourous Letter to a Lady.]

YOU expect, perhaps, madam, in this, an apology for laziness; but behold a panegyric, and a panegyric in form it would be, if I was not too lazy to write one. However, buried in a well bolstered downy elbow chair, with my legs canted over one of the arms, between whistling and yawning, I ordered my emanuensis to set down some indigested thoughts that occurred to me towards the plan of such a work.

A REMARKABLE STORY OF A MURDER.

A FARMER on his return from the market, at Southam, in the county of Warwick, was murdered. A man went the next morning to his house, and enquired of the mistress if her husband came home the evening before; she re­plied no; and that she was under the utmost anxiety and terror on that account. "Your terror," added he, "cannot equal mine; for last night, as I lay in my bed quite awake, the apparition of your husband appeared to me, shewed me several ghastly stabs in his body; told me he had been murdered by such a person, and his carcase thrown into such a marle pit." The alarm was given, the pit searched, the body found, and the wounds answered the description of them. The man whom the ghost had accused, was apprehended and committed on a violent suspicion of murder. His trial came on at War­wick, before the lord chief justice Raymond, when the jury would have convicted, as rashly as the justice of peace had committed him, had not the judge checked them. He addressed himself to them in words to this purpose: "I think, gentlemen, you seem inclined to lay more stress on the evidence of an apparition, than it will [Page 89] bear. I cannot say I give much credit to these kind of stories; but be that as it will, we have no right to follow our own private opinions here; we are now in a court of law, and must be de­termined according to it; and I know not of any law now in being which will admit of the tes­timony of an apparition; nor yet if it did, doth the ghost appear to give evidence—Crier," said he, "call the ghost," which was thrice done, but to no purpose, it appeared not. Gen­tlemen of the jury," continued the judge "the prisoner at the bar, as you have heard by unde­niable witnesses, is a man of the most unblem­ished character, nor hath it appeared in course of the examination, that there was any manner of quarrel or grudge between him and the party deceased. I do believe him to be perfectly in­nocent; and as there is no evidence against him either positive or circumstantial, he must be ac­quitted. But from many circumstances which have arose during the trial, I do strongly suspect that the gentleman who saw the apparation, was himself the murderer; in which case he might easily ascertain the pit, the stabs, &c without any supernatural assistance; and, on suspicion, I shall think myself justified in committing him to close custody, till the matter can be further enquired into" This was immediately done, and a war­rant granted for searching his house, when such [Page 90] strong proofs of guilt appeared against him that he confessed the murder, for which he was exe­cuted.

AVARICE MISTAKEN.

A YOUNG fellow, whose person was very handsome, addressed a wealthy old widow, who after a little application consented to have him. Boasting of his success amongst his com­rades, he spoke with the utmost contempt of the lady, and professed that it was not her that he de­signed to marry but her money. She had notice of this declaration, and resolved to be even with her pretended lover. Accordingly on the wed­ding day, she drest as gaily as if she was really going to be made a bride, and hung a purse of gold at her side, of which she made an extraor­dinary use on the occasion. She gave her hand to the deceiver with a seeming alacrity; and he led her to the ceremony with the appearance of sincere affection, while he was inwardly exulting with the hope of the rich prize that he was base­ly betraying into his possession. He went through his part, we may believe, without the least hesita­tion [Page 91] but it was quite otherwise with his partner, for when she was desired to repeat her's after the minister, she continued some time silent, holding forth her purse only. The parson pressing her to speak, and demanding the reason of such an odd behaviour, she said, "Sir, the scoundrel, who stands here with me, is an impostor, who comes not to espouse me, as he openly vowed, but my fortune. Here is its proxy," pointing to the guineas at her girdle, "and he may persuade it to contract with him, if he can; but I will by no means intrude myself into the place of that which is the beloved and real object of his pursuit—This villian, who hates my person, would make himself master of my estate, and being me to ruin; I hope therefore you will justify my con­duct, in disappointing his vile intention, and ex­posing him to the shame he deserves."

AN AFFECTING STORY.

A POOR, idle drunken weaver in Spit­alfields, had a faithful and laborious wife, who by her frugality and industry, had laid by her as much money as purchased her a ticket in a late lottery. She had hid this very privately in the bottom of a trunk, and had given her number to a friend and confidant, who had promised to keep the secret, and bring her news of the suc­cess. The poor adventurer chanced one day to go abroad, when her careless husband, suspecting she had saved some money, searches every corn­er, till at length he finds this same ticket, which he immediately seizes, sells, and squanders away the money, without the wife suspecting any thing of the matter. A day or two afterwards, this friend, who was a woman, comes and brings the wife word, that she had a prize of five hundred pounds. The poor creature, overjoyed, flies up stairs to her husband, who was then at work, and desires him to leave his loom for that evening, and come and drink with a friend of his and her's be­low. The man received this chearful invitation, as bad husbands sometimes do, and after a cross word, told her he would not come. His wife with tenderness renewed her importunity, and at [Page 93] length said to him, "My love, I have within these few months, unknown to you, scraped to­gether as much money as has bought us a ticket in the lottery; and now here is Mrs. Quick come to tell me, that it is come up this morning a five hundred pound prize" The husband re­plied immediately, "You lie, you slut, you have no ticket, for I have sold it. The poor woman, upon this, fainted away in a fit, recovered, and immediately run distracted As she had no de­sign to defraud her husband, but was willing only to participate in his good fortune, every one will naturally pity her, but think her husband's punish­ment but just,

THE HAUNTED HOUSE, OR BEAUTIFUL APPARI­TION.

A YOUNG gentleman going down from London to the west of England to the house of a worthy gentleman, to whom he had the honour to be related; it happened the gentleman's house at that time was full, by reason of a kinswoman's wedding that had lately been kept there; he there­fore told the young gentleman, that he was very [Page 94] glad to see him, and that he was very welcome to him; but, said he I know not how I shall do for a lodging for you; for my cousin's marriage has not left a room free, but one, and that is haunt­ed; you shall have a very good bed, and all other accommodations. Sir, replied the young gentleman, you will very much oblige me, in let­ting me be there, for I have often coveted to be in a place that was haunted. The gentleman, very glad that his kinsman was so well pleased with his accommodation, ordered the chamber to be got ready, and a good fire to be made in it, it being winter time. When bed time came, the young gentleman was conducted up into his cham­ber, which, besides a good fire, was furnished with all suitable accommodations; and having recommended himself to the divine protection, he goes to bed, where having kept some time awake, and finding no disturbance, he fell asleep; out of which he was waked, about three o'clock in the morning, by the opening of the chamber door, and the coming in of something in the ap­pearance of a young woman, having a night­dress on her head, and only her shift on; but he had no perfect view of her, for his candle was burnt out. And though there was a fire in the room, yet it gave not light enough to see her dis­tinctly. But this unknown visitant going to the chimney, took the poker and stirred up the fire, [Page 95] by the flaming light whereof, he could discern the appearance of a young gentlewoman more distinctly; but whether it was flesh or blood, or any airy phantom, he knew not. This lovely appearance having stood some time before the fire, as if to warm her, at last walked two or three times about the room, and came to the bed-side, where having stood a little while, she took up the bed-cloaths and went into bed, pulling the bed­cloaths upon her again, and lay very quietly. The young gentleman was a little startled at this unknown bed-fellow, and upon her approach, lay on the further side of the bed, not knowing whether he had best rise or not. At last, lying very still, he perceived his bed-fellow to breathe, by which, guessing her to be flesh and blood, he drew nearer to her, and, taking her by the hand, found it warm, and that it was no airy phantom, but substantial flesh and blood; and finding she had a ring on her finger, he took it off unper­ceived; the gentlewoman being all this while asleep, he let her lie without disturbing her, she flung off the bed-cloaths again, and getting up, walked three or four times about the room, as she had done before; and then standing some time before the door, opened it, went out, and shut it after her. The young gentleman, per­ceiving by this in what manner the room was haunted, rose up, and locked the door on the in­side, [Page 96] and then lay down again, and slept till morning; at which time the master of the house came to him to know how he did, and whether he had seen any thing, or not? He told him, there was an apparition appeared to him, but begged the favour of him that he would not urge him to say any thing further, till the whole fa­mily were all together. The gentleman compli­ed with his request, telling him, as long as he was well, he was very well satisfied. The desire the whole family had to know the issue of this affair, made them dress with more expedition than usual; so that there was a general assembly of the gentle­men and ladies before eleven o'clock, not one of them being willing to appear in her dishabille. When they were all got together in the great hall, the young gentleman told them, that he had one favour to desire of the ladies before he could say any thing, and that was, to know whether any of them had lost a ring? The young gentlewoman from whose finger it was taken, having missed it all the morning, and not knowing how she lost it, was glad to hear of it again, and readily owned she wanted a ring, but whether lost or mislaid, she knew not. The young gentleman asked her if that was it, giving it into her hand, which she acknowledged to be hers, and thanking him, he turned to the gentleman, the master of the house; "Now, Sir," said he, "I can assure you," ta­king [Page 97] the gentlewoman by the hand, "this is the lovely spirit by which your chamber is haunted." And thereupon repeated what is related. I want words to express the confusion the young gentle­woman seemed to be in at this relation, who de­clared herself perfectly ignorant of all that he had said; but believed it might be so, because of the ring, which she perfectly well remembered she had on when she went to bed, and knew not how she had lost it. This relation gave the whole com­pany a great deal of diversion; for, after all, the father declared that since his daughter had al­ready gone to bed to his kinsman it should be his fault if he did not go to bed to his daughter, he being willing to bestow her upon him, and give her a good portion: this generous offer was so advantageous to the young gentleman, that he could by no means refuse it; and his late bed­fellow, hearing what her father had said, was ea­sily prevailed upon to accept him for her husband.

THE GAMESTER.

AT Tunbridge, in the year 1715, a gentleman, whose name was Hedges, made a very brilliant appearance; he had been married about two years to a young lady of great beauty and large fortune; they had one child, a boy, on whom they bestowed all that affection which they could spare from each other. He knew nothing of gaming, nor seemed to have the least passion for play; but he was unacquainted with his own heart; he began by degrees to bett at the tables for trifling sums, and his soul took fire at the prospect of immediate gain; he was soon sur­rounded with sharpers, who with calmness lay in ambush for his fortune, and cooly took advantage of the precipitancy of his passions.

His lady perceived the ruin of her family ap­proaching, but at first, without being able to form any scheme to prevent it. She advised with his brother, who at that time was possessed of a small fellowship in Cambridge. It was easily seen, that whatever passion took the lead in her hus­band's mind, seemed there to be fixed unaltera­bly; it was determined therefore, to let him pursue his fortune, but previously take measures to prevent the pursuits being fatal.

[Page 99] Accordingly every night this gentleman was a constant attendant at the hazard tables; he un­derstood neither the arts of sharpers, nor even the allowed strokes of a connoisseur, yet still he played. The consequence is obvious; he lost his estate, his equipage, his wife's jewels, and every other moveable that could be parted with, except a repeating watch. His agony upon this occa­sion was inexpressible; he was even mean enough to ask a gentleman, who sat near, to lend him a few pieces, in order to turn his fortune; but this prudent gamester, who plainly saw there was no expectations of being repaid, refused to lend a farthing, alledging a former resolution against lending. Hedges was at last furious with the continuance of ill success; and pulling out his watch, asked if any person in company, would set him sixty guineas upon it—the company were silent. He then demanded fifty—still no answer. He sunk to forty, thirty, twenty—finding the company still without answering, he cried out by G—d it shall never go for less, and dashed it against the floor, at the same time, attempting to dash out his brains against the marble chimney-piece.

The last act of desperation immediately excited the attention of the whole company; they in­stantly gathered round, and prevented the effects of his passion; and after he again became cool, [Page 100] he was permitted to return home, with sullen discontent, to his wife. Upon his entering her apartment, she received him with her usual ten­derness and satisfaction; while he answered her caresses with contempt and sternness; his dispo­sition being quite altered with his misfortunes. "But my dear Jemmy," says his wife, "per­haps you don't know the news I have to tell; my mama's old uncle is dead, the messenger is now in the house, and you know his estate is set­tled upon you." This account seemed only to encrease his agony; and looking angry at her, cried, "There you lie, my dear, his estate is not settled upon me." "I beg your pardon, says she, I really thought it was, at least you have al­ways told me so." "No," returned he, as sure as you and I are to be miserable here, and our children beggars hereafter, I have sold the rever­sion of it this day, and have lost every farthing I got for it at the hazard table. "What, all," replied the lady, "Yes, every farthing, return­ed he, "and I owe a thousand pounds more than I have to pay." Thus speaking, he took a few frantic steps across the room. When the lady had a little enjoyed his perplexity, "No, my dear, cried she, you have lost but a trifle, and you owe nothing; our brother and I have taken care to prevent the effects of your rashness, and [Page 101] are actually the person who have won your for­tune; we employed proper persons for this pur­pose, who brought their winnings to me; your money, your equipage, are in my possession, and here I return them to you, from whom they were unjustly taken; I only ask permission to keep my jewels, and keep you, my greatest jewel, from such dangers for the future." Her prudence had the proper effect, he ever after retained a sense of his former follies, and never played for the smallest sums, even for amusement.

THE REWARD OF BRAVERY.

IN the reign of queen Ann, captain Har­dy, whose ship was stationed at Lagos bay; hap­pened to receive undoubted advice of the arrival of the Spanish galleons under the convoy of 17 men of war, in the harbour of Vigo; and with­out any warrant for so doing set sail, and made such expedition that he came up with Sir George Rook, who was then admiral and commander in chief in the Mediterranean, and gave him that intelligence, which engaged him to make the best of his way to Vigo, where all the before mention­ed galleons and men of war were either taken or [Page 102] destroyed. Sir George was sensible of the im­portance of the advice, and the successful expe­dition of the captain; but after the fight was over, the victory obtained, and the proper ad­vantages made of it, the Admiral ordered Capt. Hardy on board; and with a stern countenance, "You have done, Sir, said he, a very important piece of service to the queen; you have added to the honour and riches of your country by your diligence; but don't you know you are at this instant liable to be shot for quitting your sta­tion?" "He's unworthy to bear a commission under her majesty, replied the captain, who holds his own life as aught, when the glory and in­terest of his queen and country requires him to hazard it." On this heroic answer, the admiral dispatched him home with the first news of the victory, and letters, of recommendation to the queen, who instantly knighted him, and after­wards made him a rear admiral.

Another instance of the reward of bravery, was of the prince of Conte, who being highly pleased with the intrepid behaviour of a grenadier at the siege of Phillipsburgh, in 1734, threw him his purse, excusing the smallness of the sum it con­tained, as being too poor a reward for his cou­rage. Next morning the grenadier went to the prince with a couple of diamond rings and other jewels of considerable value, Sir, (said he) the [Page 103] gold I found in your purse I suppose your High­ness intended me; but these I bring back to you as having no claim to them." "You have, sol­dier, answered the prince, doubly deserved them by your bravery, and by your honesty; there­fore they are yours."

THE FATAL EFFECTS OF IMPRUDENCE AND RE­VENGE IN A PARENT, Illustrated by a Story taken from real Life.

THE dreadful consequences of an abso­lute subjection to any of the baser passions, are al­most daily obvious to those who remark the com­mon incidents of human life. Indeed all the ills which befal mankind arise from their vices; and however partial we may be to ourselves, if we ex­amine candidly into our conduct and behaviour, we shall find that our errors or follies have been the principal source of any disagreeable circumstan­ces that do or have attended us. The irregularities of youth generally produce a train of evils through­out succeeding years, and that may be done in a single hour, which may afford cause of repent­ance till, and at the very day of death. It is ob­servable, [Page 104] that passions are more absurdly and ri­diculously indulged by persons past the meridian of life, than by those in its bloom and vigour though the latter must feel them more sensibly and have certainly more justifiable pleas for ex­cuse.

I was led into this subject by reflecting on an occurence, which happened some few years ago to two persons of my acquaintance, for whom I had a very great esteem. In tracing this affair, we shall see the complicated effects of an inordi­nate affection, and undue revenge, which for want of being kept under by the check of reason, turn­ed against themselves, and proved the ruin of a very worthy family.

Mrs. Foible, a widow lady, had one only daughter, to whom she was greatly attached, as she not only possessed many mental and personal charms, but was remarkably dutiful to her par­ent, and polite and affable in her general behav­iour. As her fortune was very small, she had no reason to think of matching her daughter with any person above the degree of a reputable trades­man; nor indeed, were her views exalted beyond the bounds of reasonable probability. In pro­cess of time the daughter, Maria, received the ad­dresses of a young man of much honour and in­dustry, just out of his time, but whose circum­stances were not sufficient to set him up in busi­ness [Page 105] Mrs. Foible, therefore, objected to a mar­riage between two people who could have noth­ing but poverty before them; because the inter­est of her money was hardly sufficient to main­tain her decently, and therefore would not ad­mit of any reduction by a disbursement in favour of her daughter. However, as it was their first love, the young people kept up an intercourse, and their affection growing with their acquaint­ance, after some time they vowed eternal and mutual constancy.

The young man sincere, and industrious, pro­posed marriage, and offered his best endeavours to maintain the darling of his soul with decency and comfort; before they had fixed on the day it for­tunately happened, that a relation of Mrs. Foi­ble's died, and bequeathed her 1000l. and Maria, 500l. The mother elated by this increase of fortune, began to set a higher value on herself; and endeavoured to dissuade her daughter from the proposed match, representing it not only as beneath her, but that it might obstruct some more advantageous and honourable connection. But the generous girl, endued with much more noble sentiments than her mother, was deaf to all her dissuasions; urged, that she was bound by the ties of honour and justice, to marry the man who would have taken her without a shilling, and used such powerful arguments, in vindication of [Page 106] her resolution, that they were soon married with consent of all parties. The behaviour of the new married couple greatly pleased Mrs. Foible, insomuch that the son-in-law, having occasion for an additional sum to carry on a very extensive branch of business in which he had embarked, applied to his mother for the loan of 200l. with which she most chearfully complied, assured him that she would never demand the capital provid­ed she received the interest for her support. But this turn of mind in the widow soon changed; for in a short time she became want only enamour­ed of an Irish fortune hunter, and married him contrary to the advice of all her friends. She was now totally changed, and from the tender mother, had degenerated into the thoughtless woman of dissipation and indulgence, without the least rule of reason or restraint.

An expensive course soon reduced the state of her finances, which occasioning her son-in-law, as well as daughter, to intimate to her their disap­probation of her conduct; she began to conceive a most violent resentment against them. The poor young fellow, on his mother's assuring him she should never demand the money, had dispos­ed of it in trade, in such a manner that he could not return it immediately without injuring him most essentially in his business, and therefore ap­prehended a most distressful scene from its being called in.

[Page 107] Nor were his fears without foundation; for the frantic mother, distressed through her own follies, and the extravigance of an abandoned husband, not only demanded the money to be immediately restored, but determined to heap her revenge on the young couple; gave out that she had been ruined by supporting her son-in-law in his ambitious, expensive undertaking. This disingenuous report alarmed his creditors; a stat­ute of bankruptcy was brought into the house, on the very day that his wife was delivered of a child; and affected her in so poignant a manner, that she died in a few hours after that doleful event. But it appearing on a review that there was more than sufficient to satisfy the legal demands of his creditors, the unhappy young man was treated with great generosity, and enabled to purchase a commission, and depart honourably for the East-Indies. The weak and vicious mother atoned most amply for her vice and folly, as being con­scious of her own guilt, her peace of mind was sacrificed; and her husband, when all was spent, treated her with the utmost cruelty, upbraided her with her ridiculous fondness, and at length left her to shift for herself. Thus situated she had no other resource than that of a workhouse, where she expired with grief, about a year after she had, at the instigation of the basest of pas­sions, involved her dutiful children as well as her­self in remediless woe and ruin.

[Page 108] Nothing surely can afford a more lively repre­sentation of imprudence and revenge, than this narrative. If Mrs. Foible had continued in a sit­uation becoming her years and connections, she would have been happy in her own reflections, and might have rendered those happy who should have been deemed the only objects of her care and attention.

THE PREVALENCE OF LOVE, AND OF PASSION.

DON Guzman, a wealthy merchant in the city of Madrid, was father to Juan, a youth of sense and honour, and guardian to the Lady Leonora whose beauty was only exceeded by the virtues of her mind.

The son and ward conceived for each other in their earliest years, a friendship which, in process of time, terminated in the sincere love and most cordial affection, and such were their res­pective dispositions, as to afford the agreeable prospect of a series of uninterrupted happiness. But an event occurred before the consummation of their wishes, which cast a gloom over all their pleasing hopes, and produced the most exquisite [Page 109] pain and anxiety, that can possibly torture the hu­man mind.

The Marquis de Mendosa saw the beautiful Leonora, and was so struck with the lustre of her charms, that he determined at all events to ob­tain her in marriage. As he was extremely rich and had very great influence at court, he prevail­ed with Guzman to permit his addresses to the lady, notwithstanding her prior engagement with his own son Juan, for whom it was suspected he had procured a person of much greater fortune than his fair and virtuous ward.

Though Guzman determined to sacrifice Le­onora to the will of the Marquis, he was at a loss whether he should acquaint his son, that he had changed his mind concerning the match, or whether he should impart it to him by some com­mon friend. At length, however, thinking him­self the properest person to disclose the affair, he took an opportunity of telling him, that for di­vers weighty reasons he must resign all thoughts of possessing Leonora. Don Juan was thunder­struck, at the information, and gave his father to understand, that though he owed him all duty and obedience, he could by no means relinquish a claim to which he was entitled by every pre­tension founded on justice or honour. Having hinted this, the generous youth retired to his chamber to avoid the pressing instances of his [Page 110] father, who afterwards sent for Leonora, and ac­quainted her with the passion that the noble Marquis had conceived for her, and his design of aggrandizing her name by a speedy marriage into so ancient and honourable a family. Leonora started at the proposal, and solemnly vowed eter­nal celibacy, unless she gave her hand to the gen­erous and constant Juan, who was sole possessor of her heart, which therefore could not admit the smallest place for the greatest monarch upon earth. Guzman, incensed at the resolution of his ward, proceeded to more vigorous measures, and after a very severe reprimand for her obstinacy, order­ed her to prepare herself to receive a visit from the Marquis of Mendosa, as a person with whom she was allotted to spend the remainder of her life, and further enjoined her to deny the addresses of Juan. This last injunction completed her despair, and her grief was almost turned to fury, insomuch that she departed from her guardian's apartment, in order to give full vent to the sorrow which overwhelmed her faithful bosom. She had for some time past observed a coolness between Juan and his father, and now perceiving the cause, de­termined to write to him, wisely judging that a personal interview at this critical juncture would inflame the old man's resentment, and excite him to such a conduct as would be productive of much disquiet both to herself and lover. Accordingly [Page 111] she acquainted him of the injunction laid upon her not to receive his addresses, and painted the state and condition of her mind in the most strik­ing and affecting colours. The domestic who delivered the letter brought back an answer, in which Don Juan conjured her by the love she had for him not to forget him, and assured her that his life was in her hands, nor would he hold it by any other tenure than her constancy.

As Don Juan, who was at this time on his fa­ther's business, absent from Madrid, could not af­ford her immediate assistance, Leonora deter­mined to go into a convent; and having impart­ed her design to her waiting maid, a coach was prepared, which soon conveyed her to an abbey, of which the abbess was her relation and partic­ular friend. Guzman no sooner heard of his ward's elopement and the spot of her residence, than through the interest of the Marquis, he ob­tained permission to place in the convent a wo­man that was one of his creatures, in order to be a spy upon Leonora: the nuns were likewise ordered to prevent any correspondence between her and Don Juan. The Marquis sent to her re­peatedly to desire permission to visit her at the grate, but she always refused, and not without tokens of scorn. Incensed at this behaviour, he determined to marry her merely to gratify his re­sentment, and after deliberating on the means of [Page 112] accomplishing his design, thought no expedient so effectual as that of removing Juan to a considera­ble distance from Leonora, nor was it long be­fore fortune presented a favourable opportunity. The lover, notwithstanding the precautions of his father, and the vigilence of the woman placed by him in the convent as a spy upon his ward, had found means to correspond with her by let­ter, so that it was agreed through the assistance of the nun who was her confident, that Juan should come in the night time over a particular part of the garden wall, that was not so high as the rest, and return after his visit the same way.

The enraptured youth eagerly repaired to the spot appointed, but to his confusion and aston­ishment had no sooner mounted the wall than he espied a person walking with two attendants be­hind him, in the street next to the garden. This person anxiously desirous of knowing who had got into the convent, sent for the watch, which he posted at the very place where he imagined he was to come back. Having made this dispo­sition, the Marquis de Mendosa, for he was the person, sent to acquaint the nuns that there was a man in the garden. While the lovers, little sus­pecting the fresh misfortune that was ready to fall upon them, were giving each other the most re­ciprocal marks of their affection, they heard a confused noise in the convent, which obliged them [Page 113] to separate. Don Juan hastened over the wall, but was no sooner down, than two men rushed upon him, took away his sword, and in the king's name charged him to follow them. The captain of the guard caused him to be committed to pri­son, and drew up an information against him, which was next day laid before the solicitor general.

Don Juan now imagined that his ruin was un­avoidable, the violation of the walls of a convent being in Spain considered as a capital offence. His death indeed appeared inevitable, and the affair became the common topic of discourse through­out the metropolis, where Don Juan was gene­rally beloved; all men of honour pitied his case, and solicited for him, but with small hopes of success. Don Guzman and the Marquis now came to a resolution of proposing to Leonora, as the king favoured the design, this alternative; either to save the life of Juan by consenting to wed Mendosa, or hasten his death by an obstinate refusal. A proposal of so delicate and import­ant a nature could not but greatly embarrass the distressed fair one, who evinced every token of doubt and anxiety, and at length burst into this exclamation: "If this is the only way of saving the life of Don Juan, I rather chuse to die with him, as I am well assured he loves me too well to consent to live upon such terms, and would grieve that I had prevented his death by such a concession!"

[Page 114] The Marquis, enraged at her perseverance, de­clared, that as she was willing that Don Juan should die, he would join with the nuns in pro­secuting him, and assist those who sought his ru­in. This declaration touched Leonora in the most sensible part, insomuch that her resolution failing, she consented, in order to save the life she held most dear, and having slowly uttered, "Save the life of Don Juan, I will obey," faint­ed. The Marquis procured her relief, and when she recovered, she desired to be carried to her chamber.

The pardon was accordingly procured for Juan, but, previous to the delivery, Mendosa be­ing for concluding the marriage, the unfortu­nate Leonora was wedded to his mortal enemy, whom nevertheless she considered as his deliverer.

Don Juan heard nothing of these transactions in the prison, where he was abandoned to the most melancholy reflections, so that he waited with impatience the time of his death; and the thoughts of its approach was the only comfort he had, when the news was brought that the king had signed his pardon. On his being acquaint­ed with the terms, description cannot paint the agitation of his soul, as the various impressions consequent upon it seemed as it were to have broken the very springs which put it in motion.

[Page 115] The person who acquainted him with Leono­ra's marriage, endeavoured to pacify him by a vindication of her conduct, giving him a particu­lar detail of what his unfortunate mistress had suffered, and of the necessity to which she was reduced, of giving her hand to the Marquis of Mendosa.

The generous youth stood motionless for some time, till at length the passion he had for Leono­ra having recovered entire possession of his soul, he cried out in a plaintive tone, "Alas! why has she loved me to such a degree? or rather why did she not let me die? what shall I do with a life I so much hate?"

While Don Juan was thus complaining, the officers of Justice came to set him at liberty; and he no sooner reached his own habitation, than he wrote to Leonora, expressing the greatest con­cern for the late transaction, and his unfeigned desire of the satisfaction of dying at her feet. She returned an immediate answer, modestly vindicat­ing her late conduct, and representing the inex­pediency of granting the favour requested.

The unfortunate Juan was so affected by this circumstance, that he resolved to indulge melancholy till it put an end to his misfortune, and accordingly shut himself up at home, spend­ing all his time in venting the bitterest complaints against the severities of his fortune.

[Page 116] While he was in this situation, a stranger de­sired to speak with him, and was no sooner ad­mitted into his apartment, than he declared him­self to have been the servant of the Marquis of Mendosa, that his master had discovered him when he got into the convent, sent him immedi­ately to give notice of it to the nuns, and posted the watch under the wall, by whom he was ar­rested.

The injured Juan, who could not stifle his re­sentment a single moment, immediately sent the Marquis a challenge, couched in such terms as he could not refuse without bringing an eternal stig­ma on his character; it being therefore accept­ed, the antagonists met, and without any parley drew their swords and fought most furiously. After a strenuous encounter, Juan determining to put an end by one push, to a duel which had lasted so long, made a full pass at the Marquis, and run him into the breast; but received at the same time a stab in the bottom of his belly, which was altogether as dangerous. Both of the com­batants lost so much blood that they could no longer stand on their feet, but fell down toge­ther the moment that a coach came up to them. This proved to be the carriage of Leonora, who having seen the challenge upon the table, had hastened with all speed to prevent the fatal con­sequence. Words cannot express the divided [Page 117] state of the unfortunate Leonora's mind in this critical situation. Duty engaged her to support her husband; affection diverted her attention to­wards her lover; she shed tears in abundance while she was stopping the blood that flowed from the wounds of her husband; nor were the tears less sincere that were shed for the wounds of Don Juan, which continued bleeding. But the principal source of her grief was the necessity she was under of leaving her lover in that condition: love, however, at length prevailed over decorum; and she staid till a servant whom she had sent to the convent of the Carthusians, brought some of the nuns attendants, who carried Don Juan to the convent.

Though no audible converse passed upon this occasion between Leonora and Juan, the Mar­quis could not but perceive the cause of his wife's delaying her return home, nor could any thing but the langour consequent on the duel prevent him from reproaching her in the severest terms. The duel was well known at court; but as nei­ther of their wounds proved mortal, justice took no cognizance of the matter, and there was no prosecution.

When the Marquis recovered from his wounds, such continual disputes happened between him and his spouse, who could not bear the least in­dignity offered to the name of her beloved Juan, [Page 118] that a separation being agreed upon, Leonora betook herself to a solitary retirement in order to indulge her reflections on the extraordinary for­tunes through which she had passed, before she had attained to the age of five and twenty years. Don Juan, whose love though passionate was honourable, and therefore would not suffer him to make the least indign proposal to its object, determined to quit Madrid, and had almost finish­ed the necessary preparations for his departure, when he received the news that the Marquis, in a fit of jealousy, rage and despair, had plunged a fatal javelin into his breast, and in a moment put a period to a more wretched existence. This cir­cumstance so affected old Guzman, that sensible of his error in preventing, for a time at least, a union designed by heaven, he hastened to his son, and himself conducted him to his beauteous bride, and soon after joined their hands to the general joy of the family, and the whole city of Madrid.

THE FOLLY OF DISCONTENT.

I AM inclined to think that the misfor­tunes, as they are termed, of life, are not so of­ten owing to the want of care, as the having too much, and being over sollicitous to acquire, what nature, the great substitute of heaven, would ef­fect for us, if we would be contented to follow her dictates. The brutes, led on by that inward impulse we call instinct, never err in their pursuit of what is good for them; but man, enlighten­ed by reason, and particular marks of Providence, which distinguishes him from the rest of beings, obstinately refuses to be conducted to happiness, and travels towards misery with labour and fa­tigue. 'T would be absurd to say a rational crea­ture would voluntarily chuse misery, but we too frequently do it blindly. Every thing, as the philosophical emperor observes, is fancy; but as that fancy is in our own power to govern, we are justly punished if we suffer it to wander at will; or industriously set it to work to deceive us into uneasiness. The most sure and speedy way to detect any mental impostor, is by soliloquy or self­examination, in the way laid down by our great restorer of antient learning: if our fancy stands the test of this mirror, which represents all ob­jects [Page 120] in their true colours, 'tis genuine, and may be accepted by the mind with safety; but if it recedes from the trial, or changes in the attempt, 'tis spurious, and ought to be rejected. This will inform us, that the great mistake of man­kind in their pursuit after happiness, is casting their looks at a distance for lands of paradise, whilst the prospect, so much sought after, blooms unbeheld around them.

At Ispahan in Persia, there lived a young man of a noble family and great fortune, named Ach­mot, who from his infancy shewed the earliest signs of a restless turbulent spirit; and though by nature endowed with an understanding supe­riour to any of his age, was led away with every gust of passion to precipitate himself into the greatest dangers. After having experienced the misfortune, that [...] from such a disposi­tion, he became somewhat more diffident of his own abilities, and determined to take the advice of those who had been more conversant with hu­human nature, how to proceed for the future. There dwelt not far from the city, in a little cell among a ridge of mountains, an old hermit, who many years before had retired from the world to that place, to spend the rest of his days in prayer and contemplation. This good man became so famous through the country for his exemplary life, that if any one had any uneasiness of mind, [Page 121] he immediately went to Abudah, for so he was called, and never failed of receiving consolation, in the deepest affliction, from his prudent coun­sel; which made the superstitious imagine, that there was a charm in the sound of his words to drive away despair and all her gloomy attendants. Hither Achmet repaired, and as he was entering, a grove, near the sage's habitation, met, accord­ing to his wishes, the venerable recluse; he pros­trated himself before him, and with signs of the utmost anguish, "Behold, said he, O divine Abu­dah, favourite of our mighty prophet, who re­sembleth Allha, by distributing the balm of com­fort to the distressed, behold the most miserable of mortals." He was going on, when the old man, deeply affected with his lamentations, in­terrupted him, and taking him by the hand, "Rise, my son, said he, let me know the cause of thy misfortunes, and whatever is in my power shall be done to restore thee to tranquility." "Alas!" replied Achmet, "how can I be res­tored to that which I never yet possessed! For know, thou enlightened judge of the faithful, I never have spent an easy moment that I can re­member, since reason first dawned on my mind; hitherto even from my cradle, a thousand fancies have attended me through life, and are contin­ually, under the false appearances of happiness, deceiving me into anxiety, whilst others are en­joying [Page 122] the most undisturbed repose. Tell me then I conjure thee by the holy temple of Mec­ca, from whence thy prayers have been so often carried to Mahomet by the ministers of Paradise, by what method I may arrive, if not at the sa­cred tranquility thou enjoyest, yet at the harbour of such earthly peace as the holy Koran hath promised to all those that obey its celestial pre­cepts; for sure the damned, who remove alter­nately from the different extremes of chilling frosts and scorching flame, cannot suffer greater torments than I undergo at present." Abudah perceiving that a discontented mind alone was the source of the young man's troubles: "Be comforted, my son," said he, "for a time shall come, by the will of heaven, when thou shalt receive the reward of a true believer and be freed from all thy misfortunes; but thou must still undergo many more, before thou canst be num­bered with the truly happy. Thou enquirest of me where happiness dwells. Look round the world, and see in how many different scenes she has taken up her residence; sometimes, though very rarely, in a palace; often in a cottage. The philosopher's cave of retirement, and the soldier's tent amidst the noise and dangers of war, are by turns her habitation; the rich man may see her in his treasures, and the beggar in his wallet. In all these stations she is to be found, [Page 123] but in none altogether Go then and seek thy fortune among the various scenes of the world, and if thou shouldst prove unsuccessful in this probationary expedition, return to me when se­ven years are expired, when the passions of youth begin to subside, and I will instruct thee by a re­ligious emblem, which our great prophet shewed me in a dream, how to obtain the end of all thy wishes." Achmet, not understanding Abudah's meaning, left him as discontented as he came, and returned to Ispahan with a full resolution of grati­fying every inclination of pleasure and ambition, imagining one of these must be the road to felicity. Accordingly he gave up his first years entirely to those enjoyments which enervate both body and mind; but finding at length no real satis­faction in these, but rather diseases and disap­pointments, he changed his course of life, and followed the dictates of avarice, that was con­tinually offering to his eyes external happiness seated on a throne of gold. His endeavours suc­ceeded, and by the assistance of fortune he be­came the richest subject of the east. Still some­thing was wanting. Power and honour pre­sented themselves to his view, and wholly engaged his attention. These desires did not remain long unsatisfied, for by the favour of the Sophy he was advanced to the highest dignities of the Persian empire. But alas I he was still never the nearer [Page 124] to the primary object of his most ardent wishes, fears, doubts, and a thousand different anxieties that attend the great, perpetually haunted him and made him seek again the calm retirement of a rural life; nor was the latter productive of any more comfort than the former station. In short, being disappointed, and finding happiness in no one condition, he sought the hermit a se­cond time, to complain of his fate, and claim the promise he had received before the beginning of his adventures. Abudah seeing his disciple return again after the stated time, still discontent­ed, took him by the hand, and, smiling upon him with an air of gentle reproof, "Achmer, said he, cease to blame the fates for the uneasiness which arises alone from thy own breast; behold, since thou hast performed the task I enjoined in order to make thee more capable of following my future instructions, I will unfold to thee the grand mis­tery of wisdom, by which she leads her votaries to happiness. See (said he, pointing to a river in which several young swans were eagerly swim­ming after their own shadows in the stream) those filly birds imitate mankind; they are in pursuit of that which their own motion puts to flight; behold others, which have tired themselves with their unnecessary labours, and sitting still, are in possession of what their utmost endeavours could never have accomplished. Thus, my son, hap­piness [Page 125] is the shadow of contentment, and rests or moves for ever with its original."

THE HUMOROUS INTRUSION.

MR. Dyer, who was remarkable for face­tiousness and drollery, happened one day to be alone at the Flask at Hampstead, in a venison time, when the Cordwainers company kept their annual feast there. Dyer observed two glorious haunches roasting at the fire, and made it his business to learn who they were for. Being told for the Cordwainers company, he determined to dine with them. He knew it was the custom up­on those occasions for every member to bring his friend, and consequently that several, as well as himself, would be strangers to all but one in the company; and that questions are never ask­ed, when once admittance is obtained and people are seated; he therefore watched his opportuni­ty when dinner went up, and seated himself among the rest, as near as he could to one of the haunches, where he did not fail to play his part. He was very pleasant and cheerful, and those that sat next him were highly diverted; no exceptions [Page 126] were taken, and all passed off as he had imagin­ed. After dinner when the bottle and song be­gan to move briskly round, he sung in his turn, and was much applauded. But when the time came that he thought of departing, he shifted his seat, and placing himself next the door, he began a story. He had already drawn the atten­tion of the company upon him by his uncom­mon humour: so, upon the word story, all were silent. "Gentlemen," said he, "I am always pleased when I have an opportunity of remark­ing the flourishing condition of trade; I remem­ber a wonderful operation for the [...] in this very company of yours within these forty years, and I think I can give you a remarkable instance of it. When I was a young fellow," continued Dyer, gravely, "I was but low in the world, myself; and I observed that the nearest way to wealth was through the road of frugality; and therefore I pitched upon a chop-house, in Grub­street, where I could dine for two-pence. The mistress of the house was remarkably neat and civil, particularly to those who were her constant customers; and the room where we dined was, by means of a curtain, or more properly a blanket hung upon a rod, partitioned off into two divi­sions, the inner and the outer; the inner division the good woman kept for the better sort of folks, of which I had the honour to be accounted one, [Page 127] and the outer was for the casual and ordinary sort. It happened one day, however, as I was drawing the blanket to go in as usual, the mistress of the house pulled me hastily by the coat, and whispered in my ear, 'You must not go in there to-day, Sir,' 'Why so?' said I in some heat. 'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said the woman; 'but indeed you can't be admitted' What the devil's the matter, that I can't be admitted? said I, swag­gering. 'Why,' said the woman, with joy in her countenance, 'the master and wardens of the Cordwainers company do me the honour to dine with me to-day, and I must keep my best parlour empty for their worships reception!' I thought it indeed but decent to give place to that worthy body, and so was pacified.' The compa­ny upon hearing this story, began to lay their heads together, to know who this gentleman was, which Dyer observing, took that opportunity to slip away.

THE GOLDEN HEAD.

SOON after the burning of the stately palace of Whitehall, one Holmes, a tradesman, who lived in George-yard, the spot on which Great George street now stands, passing over the ruins stumbled on something which, attracting his curiosity, he minutely observed, and discov­ered to be a kind of distant resemblance of a burst, but as it was greatly effaced by the effects of the fire, he could draw no certain conclusion from it.

However, he carried it home, and having ham­mered off the drossy mass which adhered to it, his wife scoured it, and placed it as an ornament upon an old chest of drawers. As Goody Holmes was particularly industrious in rubbing the bust, whenever she cleaned her furniture, it soon became so bright, that upon com­parison it was found to be an exact like­ness of the celebrated Cardinal Wolsey. One of Holmes' customers, by trade a founder, having been shewn the bust, and conceiving it to be brass, agreed to purchase it by the weight, and carried it home.

When the found, in the course of his busi­ness, had occasion to melt, the head was put [Page 129] amongst other metal; but as he discovered some­thing very extraordinary in the ore, he carefully abstracted the brighter and more refined parti­cles, and offering them to the inspection of a neighbouring goldsmith, was transported with his pronouncing it to be the purest of gold.

He immediately disposed of his valuable pur­chase, relinquished trade, and commenced gentle­man at large; but made not the least acknow­ledgement to Holmes, though once his intimate companion; so dead are some breasts to every sentiment of justice and gratitude. This circum­stance is related on the testimony of a friend of the editor, whose father was a living witness of its authenticity.

INDOLENCE CHARACTERIZED.

INDOLENCE deprives men of all that ac­tivity which should call forth their virtues, and make them illustrious. An indolent man is scarce a man; he is half a woman. He wills, and un­wills, in a breath. He may have good intentions [Page 130] of discharging a duty, while that duty is at a dis­tance; let it but approach, let him view the time of action near, and down drop his hands in lan­gour. What can be done with such a man? He is absolutely good for nothing. Business tires him, reading fatigues him; the service of his country interferes too much with his pleasures, and even attendance at court, though for the time of advancement, is too great a constraint upon him. His life should be passed on a bed of down If he is employed, moments are as hours to him; if he is amused, hours are as moments. In general, his whole times eludes him: he lets it glide unheeded, like water under a bridge Ask him what he has done with his morning? he knows nothing about it, for he has lived without one reflection upon his exist­ence. He slept as long as it was possible for him to sleep; dressed slowly; amused himself in chat with the first person that called upon him; and took several turns in his room till dinner. Dinner is served up; and the evening will be spent as unprofitably as the morning, and his whole life as this day. Once more, such a wretch is good for nothing. It is only pride that can support him in a life so worthless, and so much beneath the character of a man.

THE IMPOSTORS. A TALE.

VULGAR errors maintain their ground, because men have not spirit enough to detect them. It is common for us to praise or con­demn against our own conviction; and to adopt idle opinions, lest we appear to have less taste and discernment than those who invent or pro­pagate them Imposture, however, has but its day, and perhaps it may be a long one; but it must give way at last, and truth will shine out with redoubled lustre.

Three sharpers, having found means to be in­troduced to a king, told him that they could weave a brocade of exquisite workmanship, and of so rare a property, that it would be invisible to any person who was either base-born, dishonour­ed by his wife or had been guilty of any villainy. The king, desirous to possess so great a rarity, gave them a kind reception, and allotted them a palace to carry on the manufacture. He fur­nished them with money, gold, silver, silk, and all other materials. They fixed up their looms, and reported that they were employed all day upon the web. After some time, one of them [Page 132] waited upon the king, and acquainted him that the work was begun, and that the brocade would be the most beautiful in the world, as his majesty might be convinced, if he would condescend to come and see it alone. The king, to prove the reality of their pretensions, instead of going him­self, sent his chamberlain, but without dropping any hint of the danger of an imposition. The chamberlain went; but when the weavers told him the property of the brocade, he had not courage enough to say that he did not see it, but told the king that the work went on, and that the piece would be of unparalelled beauty The king sent another nobleman, who, from the same mo­tive, made the same report. After that he sent many others, who all declared they had seen the piece. At length the king went himself, and upon his entrance, observed that all the weavers were diligently employed, and that their whole conversation turned upon the success of their work; one saying, "Here is a noble foliage!" another, "What a grand design!" a third, "How beautiful is this colour!" But as he could see nothing all this time except the loom, and as he could not suspect the report which had been brought him by so many courtiers without any variation, he was struck to the heart, and began to doubt the legitimacy of his own birth How­ever, he thought it most prudent to disguise his [Page 133] sentiments; and when he returned to court he began to express himself highly pleased with the goodness and beauty of this master piece of art. At the end of three days, he sent the steward of his houshold, who, that he might not loose his honour, praised the work even more extravagant­ly than the king had done. This redoubled the king's vexation; and he and all his courtiers re­mained in the utmost doubt and perplexity; no one daring to confess, that this famous piece was a non-entity to him. In this state the affair con­tinued, till upon occasion of a great festival, some courtiers pressed his majesty to have a robe made of this silk in honour of the day. When the weavers came to the presence chamber, and were acquainted with the king's purpose, they insisted that none could make up the brocade so well as themselves, pretended they had brought it with them curiously wrapped up, and busied them­selves as if they were unfolding it. They also took measure of his majesty, handled their scissors, and practised all the motions of persons busy in cutting out. On the festival day they returned, pretended they had brought the robe, made as if they were trying it on, and at length told his majesty that it fitted and adorned him beyond imagina­tion. The king, credulous and confounded, walked down stairs, mounted his horse, and be­gan the solemn cavalcade, in which he was to [Page 134] shew himself to his people; who having heard, that he who did not see the brocade must be a villain, a bastard, or cuckold, unanimously de­clared, that they saw it, and extolled the magni­ficence of it. At length a Moor, who belonged to the king's stables, could not help crying out, "The king is in his shirt, the king is naked." The ice was now broke. The next person to him said the same, and the confession of not see­ing this imaginary brocade was soon made by ev­ery mouth; till at last the king himself, and all his courtiers, encouraged by the multitude, dives­ted themselves of their fears, and ventured to own the deception. Upon this, orders were giv­en to apprehend the sharpers; but they had very wisely taken care of themselves, and made off with the money, gold, silver, silk, and other val­uable materials, with which the king had supplied them. Thus many erroneous opinions prevail in the world, from the dread of incurring the cen­sure of singularity, though that singularity should be ever so reasonable.

THE MOCK DOCTOR.

HELVETIUS, physician in ordinary to the Queen of France, had a coachman whose in­tellects did not very much exceed those of the beasts he drove. John, however, one day took it into his head to tell his master that he was weary of being no better than a coachman at small wages, and hard work, and that he had a great mind to be a doctor of physic, which he observed was a much more easy way of getting money; and that possibly, with a little good luck, he might come to ride in a chariot of his own, instead of driving another's. "A physician, John!" says his master, "but how are you qual­ified?" "Oh! as to that, master, you need ne­ver fear," replied John, "if you will give me some of your instructions, teach me a dozen cramp words, and let me visit a few patients with you, I'll warrant you I will do and say as you do, and I shall be bound to pray for you the longest day I have to live."

Helvetius humoured the fellow's project, and told him, he would take him out the next day upon a visit to one of his patients. According­ly John, after providing an occasional coachman, and being equipped by his master, with a volumi­nous [Page 136] wig, and all the formal exterior of his new profession, went with him to a patient, with whom the plan had been concerted the night before.—Being admitted, the Doctor, after the usual pro­cess of feeling the gentleman's pulse, and the like which was heedfully remarked by the candidate, desired to know how many stools he had had, and what was the condition of them. Upon this a pan was brought to him of chantily porcelain, virgin ware out of the shop, when the Doctor gravely called for a spoon, and by way of tasting, eat two or three spoonfuls, assuring his patient that it was very laudable matter; and so in fact it was, being no other than an excellent marmal­ade of apricots prepared for carrying on the jest. John, whose stomach had turned at first, recov­ered a little at seeing his master eat so favourous­ly. The Doctor took his fee and they left the patient. The next day John was sent alone, where after mimicking as near as he could what his master had done on the proceeding day, he came in course to the state of the stools. The pan and spoon were then produced, and John, who had resolved to act his part throughout, took a spoon­ful, and was properly affected both by the taste and smell of the contents, being real, unadulter­ated, fecal matter. This disconcerted John's prescription so much, that the patient pretending to be affronted, dismissed him without the conso­lation [Page 137] of a fee. John returned home cured of his ambition of being a Doctor; and requested as a great favour, to be reinstated on his coach box.

THE FATAL FROLIC.
Trifles like these to serious Mischiefs lead.

DURING the hard frost, in the year 1740, four young gentlemen of considerable rank rode into an inn, near one of the principal ave­nues to the city of London, at eleven o'clock at night, without any attendant; and having ex­pressed some concern about their horses, and overlooked the provision that was made for them, called for a room, ordering wine and tobacco to be brought in, and declaring, that as they were to set out very early in the morning, it was not worth while to go to bed. Before the waiter re­turned, each of them had laid a pocket pistol up­on the table, which when he entered they appear­ed very solicitous to conceal, and affected some confusion at the surprise. They perceived with great satisfaction that the fellow was alarmed at his discovery; and having, upon various preten­ces [Page 138] called him often into the room, one of them contrived to pull out a mask with his handerchief, from the pocket of a horseman's coat. They discoursed in dark and and ambiguous terms, af­fected a busy and anxious circumspection, urged the man often to drink, and seemed desirous to render him subservient to some purpose which they were unwilling to discover. They endeav­oured to conciliate his good will by extravagant commendations of his dexterity and diligence, and encouraged him to familiarity by asking him many questions. He was, however, still cautious and reserved; one of them therefore, pretending to have known his mother, put a crown into his hand, and soon after took an opportunity to ask him at what hour the stage coach set out in the morning, whether it was full, and if it was attend­ed by a guard.

The waiter was now confirmed in his suspic­ions; and though he had accepted the bribe, re­solved to discover the secret. Having evaded the questions with as much art as he could, he went to his master, Mr. Spiggot, who was then in bed, and acquainted him with what he had ob­served.

Mr. Spiggot immediately got up, and held a consultation with his wife what was to be done. She advised him to send immediately for the con­stable, and secure them; but he considered, that [Page 139] as this would probably prevent a robbery, it would deprive him of an opportunity to gain a consid­erable sum, which he would become entitled to upon their conviction, if he could apprehend them after the fact; he therefore very prudently cal­led up four of his hostlers that belonged to the yard, and having communicated his suspicions and design, engaged them to enlist under his command, as an escort to the coach, and to watch the motions of the high waymen as he should di­rect. But mine host also wisely considering that this expedition would be attended with certain expence, and that the profit which he expected was somewhat doubtful acquainted the passen­gers with their danger, and proposed that a guard should be hired by a voluntary contribution; a proposal to which (upon a sight of the robbers through the window) they readily agreed. Spiggot was now secured against pecuniary loss, at all events. About three o'clock, the knights of the frolic, with infinite satisfaction, be­held five passengers, among whom there was but one gentleman, step into the coach with the as­pect of criminals going to execution; and enjoy­ed the significant signs which passed between them and the landlord, concerning the precautions tak­en for their defence

As soon as the coach was gone, the supposed highwaymen paid their reckoning in great [Page 140] haste, and called for their horses; care had already been taken to saddle them; for it was not Mr. Spiggot's desire that the adventurers should go far before they executed their purpose; and as soon as they departed he prepared to follow them with his possee. He was indeed greatly surprized to see them turn the contrary way when they went out of the inn yard; but he supposed they might chuse to take a small circle to prevent suspicion, as they might easily overtake the coach whenever they would; he determined, however, to keep behind them; and therefore, instead of going af­ter the coach, followed them at a distance, till to his utter disappointment, he saw them persist in a different rout, and at length turn into an inn in Piccadily, where several servants in livery appear­ed to have been waiting for them, and where his curiosity was soon gratified with their characters and names.

In the mean time the coach proceeded on its journey. The panic of the passengers increased upon perceiving that the guard which they had hired did not come up; and they began to accuse Spiggot, of having betrayed them to the robbers for a share of the booty; they could not help looking every moment from the window, though it was so dark that a waggon could not have been seen at the distance of twenty yards; every tree was mistaken for a man and horse, the noise of [Page 141] the vehi [...]le in which they rode was believed to be the trampling of pursuers, and they expected ev­ery moment to hear the coachman commanded to stop, and to see a pistol thrust in among them, with the dreadful injunction, "Deliver your money."

It happened that when the coach was got a­bout two miles out of town, it was overtaken by a horseman who rode very hard, and called out with great eagerness to the driver to stop. The wife of the gentleman in the coach was so terri­fied, that she sunk down from her seat; and he was so much convinced of his danger, so touched at her distress, and so incensed against the ruffi­ans who had produced it, that without uttering a word, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and seeing the man parley with the coachman, who had now stopped his horses, he shot him dead upon the spot

The man, however who had thus fallen the victim of a frolic, was soon known to be the ser­vant of a lady who had paid earnest for the va­cant place in the stage; and, having been by some accident delayed till it was set out, had followed it in a hackney coach, and sent him before her to detain it till she came up.

The next day, while the bucks were entertain­ing a polite circle at White's, with an account of [...] farce they had played the night before, news [Page 142] arrived of the catastrophe. A sudden confusion covered every countenance; and they remained some time silent, looking upon each other, mu­tually accused, reproached and condemned.

TWO THIEVES ODDLY DISCOVERED.

TWO young thieves in the disguise of country girls knocked one night at the door of a farmer, who lived in a village composed of strag­gling houses, and was reputed rich. They beg­ged the liberty of lying in his barn, pretending they were going to a distant village, but being benighted and fatigued could not proceed on their journey. The farmer, though he had but a maid servant in the house, suspecting nothing from their dress, opened the door to them; and as the weather was cold and damp, charitably in­vited them to warm themselves at the fire. When they came in and sat down, something in their voice and manner gave him the first suspi­cion, but not daring to satisfy himself with his hands, he only stood on his guard, and bethought himself of the following stratagem to discover their sex. He took some nuts, and beginning to [Page 143] crack them, threw each of his guests a handful into their laps, when the motion they made let him know what they were; for the women, when any thing is thrown them in that manner, open their legs, but the men close theirs. The farmer pretending some business, went out and alarmed his neighbours, who soon entered the house well armed, and secured the rogues.

VALOUR AND MAGNANIMITY. AN ANECDOTE.

IN 1702, Peter the Great, having made several ineffectual attempts on Noteborg, a Sweedish fortress, now called Schlusselburgh, sent prince Galitzin, colonel of the guards, at the head of a select corps, to take it by storm. That officer having, by means of rafts, landed his soldiers close to the fortifications, which ad­vanced almost to the edge of the water, they were received with such cool intrepidity by the garrison, and exposed to such a dreadful carnage, that Pe­ter conceiving the assault to be impracticable sent immediate orders for the Russians to retire. Prince Galitzin, however, refused to obey: "Tell my sovereign," said he, "that I am no [Page 144] longer his subject; having thrown myself under the protection of a power superior to him," Then turning to his troops, he animated them by his voice and example, and leading them to the attack, scaled the walls, and took the fortress. Peter was so struck with this exploit, that upon his next interview with Galitzin, he said to him, "Ask what you will, except Moscow and Catha­rine." The prince with a magnanimity, which reflects the highest honour upon his character, instantly requested the pardon of his ancient ri­val prince Repnin, who had been degraded by Peter, from the rank of marshal, to that of a common soldier. He obtained his request; and with it the confidence of his sovereign, the es­teem of prince Repnin, and the applause of the public. Few circumstances can give more plea­sure to a generous mind, than the contemplation of such exalted traits of a great and noble spirit, and our pleasure is heightened, when we behold the descendants of such persons, enjoying all the honours, as well as the virtues of their ancestors.

HISTORY OF THE SIEGE AND SURRENDER OF CALAIS, IN THE YEAR 1347.

AFTER the memorable battle of Cressy, the victorious Edward the third, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in such an impregnable manner, that all the efforts of the French to raise the siege or to throw succours into the city, proved ineffectual. The citizens, how­ever, animated by their gallant governor, John de Vienne, made an admirable defence; and the siege was protracted to the second year, when the inhabitants were reduced by famine to the most deplorable extremities. In a desperate sally, the governor was taken prisoner; and the command then devolved upon Eustace de St Pierre, the may­or of the city, a man of humble birth, but of ex­alted virtue, who soon found himself under the necessity of capitulating, and offering to sur­render the city, with all the effects of the inhab­itants, provided they were permitted to depart with life and liberty. As Edward had long be­fore expected to ascend the throne of France, he was exasperated to the last degree against these people, whose valour had defeated his warmest hopes. He determined, therefore, to take an exemplary revenge, although he wished to avoid [Page 146] the imputation of cruelty. He answered by Sir Walter Mauny, that they all deserved capital punishment, as obstinate traitors to him, their rightful sovereign; that, however, in his wonted clemency, he consented to pardon the inhabitants, provided they would deliver up to him six of their principal citizens with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion with which they had inflamed the common people. All the remains of this desolate city were convened in the great square, anxiously expecting the sentence of their con­queror. When Sir Walter had declared his message, consternation was impressed on every face; each looked upon death as his own inevi­table lot; for should they desire to be saved at the price proposed? Whom had they to deliver up, save parents, brothers, kindred, or valiant neighbours, who had so often exposed their lives in their defence? To a long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace de Saint Pierre, ascending a little eminence, thus ad­dressed the assembly: "My friends and fellow-citizens, you see the condition, to which we must either submit, to the terms of the cruel conqueror, or yield up our tender infants, our wives and daughters, to the brutal rage of the soldiery. We well know what the tyrant intends by his specious offers of mercy. It does not satiate his [Page 147] vengeance to make us merely miserable; he would also makes us merely criminal; he would make us contemptible; he will grant us life on no other condition, than that our being unwor­thy of it. Look about you my friends, and six upon the persons whom you wish to deliver up as the victims to your own safety. Which of these would you appoint to the rack, the ax, or the halter? Is there any here who has not watch­ed for you, who has not bled for you? Is there any here, who has not suffered fatigues and mise­ries a thousand times worse than death, that you and yours might live to see days of peace and prosperity? Is it your preservers, then, whom you would devote to destruction? You will not, you cannot do it. Justice, honour, humanity, make such a treason impossible. Where then is our resource? Is there any expedient left, by which we may avoid guilt and infamy on the one hand, or the horrors of a sacked city on the other? There is, my friends, there is one expe­dient left; an excellent, a godlike expedient! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life? Let him offer an oblation for the safety of the people! He shall not fail of a blessed appro­bation from that power, who offered up his only son for the salvation of mankind"

He spoke; but an universal silence ensued. Each man looked around for the example of that [Page 148] virtue and magnanimity in others, which all wished to approve in themselves, though they wanted the resolution. At length St. Pierre resumed:

"I should have deemed it dishonorable, my fellow-citizens, to propose to others that sacrifice, to which I could not submit myself But I thought it ungenerous to deprive any man of that honourable renown, which might attend a first offer of so signal an occasion; for I doubt not that there are many here who are as zealous for this martyrdom as I can be, however modesty, and the fear of imputed ostentation, may pre­vent them from being foremost in the offer. Indeed, the station, to which the captivity of the governor has unhappily raised me, imports a right of being the first in giving myself for your sakes. I give it then freely, I give it cheerfully. Who comes next?—Your son! exclaimed a youth. "Ah, my child!" cried St. Pierre, I am then twice sacrificed. But no, I have rather begotten thee a second time. Thy years are few, but full, my son. The victim of virtue has reached the goal of honour. Who next, my friends? This is the hour of heroes."—"Your kinsman," cried John de Aire!—"Your kins­man," cried James Wissant!—"Your kinsman," cried Peter Wissant!—"Ah, exclaimed Sir Wal­ter Mauny, bursting into tears, Why was I not a citizen of Calais?"

[Page 149] The sixth victim was still wanting, but was quickly supplied, by lot, from numbers who were now emulous of so ennobling an example.

The keys of the city were delivered to Sir Walter. He ordered the gates to be opened, and gave charge to his attendants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their families, through the camp of the English.

Before they departed, however, they desired permission to take their last adieu of their deliv­erers. What a parting! What a scene!" They crowded with their wives and children about St. Pierre, and his fellow-prisoners. They embraced, they clung around, they fell prostrate before them. They groaned; they wept aloud. At length St. Pierre and his fellow victims, appeared under the conduct of Sir Walter and his guard. All the tents of the English were instantly emp­tied. The soldiers arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to contemplate, to admire this little band of patriots as they passed. They mur­mured their applause of that virtue which they could but revere even in enemies; and they re­garded those ropes which they had voluntarily assumed about their necks as ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter.

As soon as they had reached the royal pre­sence, "Mauny," said the King, "Are these the principal inhabitants of Calais?" "They are," [Page 150] said Mauny; "they are not only the principal men of Calais; they are the principal men of France, my lord, if virtue has any share in the act of ennobling."—"Were they delivered peaceably? said Edward, "Was there no re­sistance, no commotion among the people?"—Not in the least my Lord. They are self-deliv­ered, self-devoted, and come to offer their inesti­mable lives, as an ample equivalent for the ran­som of thousands."

The King, who was highly incensed at the length of the siege, ordered them to be carried away to immediate execution; nor could all the intreaties of his courtiers divert him from his cruel purpose. But what neither a regard to his own character, nor the feelings of humanity could effect, was happily accomplished by the more powerful influence of conjugal affection. The Queen who was then pregnant, being informed of the particulars respecting the six victims, flew into her husband's presence, threw herself on her knees before him, and, with tears in her eyes, besought him not to stain his character with an indelible mark of infamy, by committing such a barbarous deed. Edward could refuse nothing to a wife whom he so tenderly loved; and the Queen, not satisfied with having saved the lives of the six burghers, conducted them to her tent, where she applauded their virtue, regaled them [Page 151] with a plentiful repast, and having made them a present of money and cloathes, sent them back to their fellow-citizens.

THE MONKEY'S TOOTH.

IN the island of Ceylon, the natives for­merly paid their adoration to the most fantastic deities; amongst others a magnificent temple was erected, and daily sacrifices offered to the all powerful spirit supposed to reside in a monkey's tooth; on the continuance of any drought, or the prevalence of any epidemic disorder, the sac­red tooth was still brought forth, and borne in solemn procession, and the return of rain and health was constantly attributed to its powerful interpo­sition; but shortly after the Dutch had taken pos­session of the island, by one of those accidents against which no human prudence can guard, the hallowed tooth was mislaid, and baffled the most dilligent search, both of the priests, its guar­dians, and the natives. This calamity occasion­ed a general mourning, and the negligent priests, were decreed to suffer death; when a crafty Hollander who had seen the deity, produced to the natives a tooth-entirely similar, which he as­sured [Page 152] them the God Whyang had presented to him in a dream. It was received with the most rap­turous gratitude, and the Dutchman rewarded with goods to the value of 20,000l. with which he returned to his own country. He ever after­wards spoke of the deity with becoming venera­tion and gratitude, and his first toast each day after dinner, was constantly—"the monkey's tooth."

HOSPITALITY REWARDED.

THE Czar Ivan, who reigned over Rus­sia about the middle of the sixteenth century, frequently went out disguised, in order to disco­ver the opinion which the people entertained of his administration. One day, in a solitary walk near Moscow, he entered a small village, and pretending to be overcome with fatigue, implor­ed relief from several of the inhabitants. His dress was ragged; his appearance mean; and what ought to have excited compassion of the villagers, and ensured his reception, was produc­tive of refusal. Full of indignation at such in­human treatment, he was just going to leave the [Page 153] place, when he perceived another habitation, to which he had not applied for assistance It was the poorest cottage in the village.—The Emperor hastened to this, and knocked at the door; a peasant opened it, and asked him what he want­ed.—"I am almost dying with fatigue and hun­ger." answered the Czar, "Can you give me a lodging for one night?" Alas! said the peasant, taking him by the hand, "You will have but poor fare here; you are come at an unlucky time; my wife is in labour; her cries will not let you sleep; but come in, come in; you will at least be shel­tered from the cold; and such as we have, you shall be welcome to."—The peasant then made the Czar enter a little room full of children; in a cradle were two infants sleeping soundly; a girl three years old, was sleeping on a rug near the cradle; while her two sisters, the one five years old, the other seven, were on their knees, crying, and praying to God for their mother, who was in a room adjoining, and whose piteous plaints and groans were distinctly heard.—"Stay here," said the peasant to the Emperor, "I will go and get something for your supper."—He went out and soon returned with some black bread, eggs and honey.—You see all I can give you," said the peasant, "Partake of it with my children, I must go and assist my wife."—"Your charity your hospitality," said the Czar, "must bring [Page 154] down blessings upon your house; I am sure God will reward your goodness."—"Pray to God my good friend." replied the peasant, "pray to God Almighty, that she may have a safe delivery; that is all I wish for.—And is that all you wish to make you happy?—"Happy! judge for your­self—I have five fine children; a dear wife that loves me; a father and mother both in good health; and my labour is fully sufficient to sup­port them all."—"Do your father and mother live with you?"—"Certainly, they are in the next room with my wife." "But your cottage here is very small!"—"It is large enough to hold us all."—The good peasant went to his wife, who in an hour was happily delivered. Her husband in a transport of joy, brought the child to the Czar: "Look," said he, look, this is the sixth she has brought me! What a fine hearty child he is! May God preserve him as he has done my others!" The Czar, sensibly affected by this scene, took the infant in his arms; "I know," said he, from the physiognomy of this child, that he will be quite fortunate; he will arrive, I am certain, at great preferment."—The peasant smiled at this prediction, and that instant the two eldest girls came to kiss their new-born brother, and their grand mother came also to take him back. The little ones followed her; and the peasant, laying himself down upon his bed of straw, invited the [Page 155] stranger to do the same. In a moment the pea­sant was in a sound and peaceful sleep; but the Czar, sitting up, looked around and contemplated every thing with an eye of tenderness and emo­tion—the sleeping children and their sleeping father. An undisturbed silence reigned in the cottage.—"What a happy calm! What delight­ful tranquility!" said the Emperor, "Avarice and ambition, suspicion and remorse never enter here. How sweet is the sleep of innocence!"—In such reflections, and on such a bed, did the mighty Emperor of all the Ruffias spend the night! The peasant awoke at break of day, and his guest tak­ing leave of him, said, "I must return to Moscow, my friend: I am acquainted there with a very benevolent man, to whom I shall take care to mention your kind treatment of me. I can pre­vail upon him to stand god-father to your child. Promise me, therefore, that you will wait for me, that I may be present at the christening; I will be back in three hours at farthest."—The pea­sand did not think much of this mighty promise; but in the good nature of his heart, he consent­ed, however, to the stranger's request.

The Czar immediately took his leave—the three hours were soon gone, and nobody appear­ed. The peasant therefore followed by his fam­ily, prepared to carry his child to church; but as he was leaving his cottage, he heard on a sud­den, [Page 156] the trampling of horses, and rattling of ma­ny coaches. He looked out and presently saw a multitude of horses, and a train of splendid car­riages. He knew the Imperial guards, and in­stantly called his family to come and see the Em­peror go by. They all run out in a hurry, and stand before the door. The horsemen and car­riages soon formed a circular line; and at last, the state coach of the Czar stopped, opposite the peasant's door. The guards kept back the crowd, which the hopes of seeing their sovereign had collected together. The coach door was opened: The Czar alighted, and advancing to his host, thus addressed him: "I promised you a god­father; I am come to fulfil my promise; give me your child, and follow me to the church"—The peasant stood like a statue; now looking at the Emperor with mingled emotions of aston­ishment and joy; now observing his magnificent robes, and the costly jewels with which they were adorned; and now turning to a crowd of nobles that surrounded him. In this profusion of pomp he could not discover the poor stranger, who had laid all night with him upon straw. The Em­peror for some moments silently enjoyed his per­plexity, and then addressed him thus: "Yester­day you performed the duties of humanity; to day, I am come to discharge the most delightful duty of a sovereign, that of recompensing virtue. [Page 157] I shall not remove you from a situation to which you do so much honor, and the innocence and tranquility of which I envy. But I will bestow upon you such things as may be useful to you. You shall have numerous flocks, rich pastures, and a house that will enable you to exercise the duties of hospitality with pleasure. Your new­born child shall be my ward; for you may re­member," continued the Emperor, smiling, "that I prophesied he would be fortunate."—The good peasant could not speak; but with tears of grate­ful sensibility in his eyes, he ran instantly to fetch the child, brought him to the Emperor, and laid him respectfully at his feet. This ex­cellent sovereign was quite affected; he took the child in his arms and carried him himself to the church; and after the ceremony was over, un­willing to deprive him of his mother's milk, he took him to his cottage, and ordered that he should be sent to him, as soon as he could be weaned.—The Czar faithfully observed his en­gagement, caused the boy to be educated in his palace, provided amply for his future settlement in life, and continued ever after to heap favours upon the virtuous peasant and his family.

LOVE AND CONSTANCY.

A NEOPOLITAN being at work in a field bordering on the sea shore, his wife who was at some distance from him, was seized by the corsairs of Tunis, and carried on board their vessel.

The Neopolitan threw himself into the sea, swam to the ship and intreated the captain to take him in.

The good man well knew he would be sold as a slave, and the consequent misery and hardships he should undergo; but love for the object who had hitherto shared in his labours, and enjoyed with him the fruits of his industry, predominated over all other sensations. While the Turks were astonished at his temerity, he continued, supplica­ting to be taken on board; he told them that the woman they had taken from the field was his wife; "we have," continued he, "long shared happi­ness, and we can bear misery together, grant us only the consolation of being sold to the same master, is all I ask; deny me that, and one grave will, I trust, soon contain us."

The Turks admiring the man's affection, on their return, told it to the king of Tunis, who be­ing pleased with this singular instance of conjugal [Page 159] fidelity, not only gave them their liberty, but each a place in the palace.

THE BEES, A FABLE.

A YOUNG prince, in that season of the year, when all nature shews itself in the greatest degree of perfection, took a walk one day through a very delicious garden; he heard a great noise, and looking about perceived a hive of bees. He approached that object which was entirely new to him, and observed with amazement, the order, care and business of that little commonwealth. The cells began to be formed into a regular figure, and one party of the bees were storing them with nectar, while another was employed in supplying them with thyme, which they gathered from among all the riches of the spring. Laziness and inactivity were banished the society; every thing was in motion, without confusion or disorder—The more considerable gave out their orders, and were obeyed by their inferiours without any manner of murmur, jealousy or unwillingness—The prince was extremely surprized, as having never seen any thing equal to their polity before; [Page 160] when a bee who was considered as queen of the hive, addressed him thus. "The view you have before you, young prince, must be entertaining, but may be made instructive. We suffer noth­ing like disorder, nor licentiousness among us; they are most esteemed, who by their capacity and diligence can do most for the public weal.—Our first places are always bestowed where there is most merit; and last of all, we are taking pains day and night for the benefit of man. Go, and imitate us, introduce that order and discipline among men, you so much admire in other creatures."

THE STRIKING FATE OF GUILT. AN EASTERN TALE.
Translated from the French of the celebrated Author of Les Saisons.

THREE inhabitants of Balck travelled together. They found a treasure, and they di­vided it equally amongst them. They continued their journey, and entertained each other with their different schemes of employing the riches they had so suddenly acquired. The provisions [Page 161] they had along with them were consumed: They therefore agreed that one of them should go to a town and buy some, and that the youngest should execute the commission. He accordingly went.

As he was upon the road he said to himself, "Now indeed I am rich; but I should have been richer, had I been alone when the treasure was found.—These two men carried off two-thirds of my riches.—Cannot I fall upon a way of recovering them?—That I think may be very easy.—I have only to poison the provision which I am going to buy, and on my return to say that I have dined in town. My companions will eat without suspicion, and die. I have at present but one third of the treasure; I shall thus have the whole of it."

In the mean time the other two travellers con­ferred together in these terms: "We had little occasion for this young fellow's company at such [...]ncture.—We have been obliged to give him a share of the treasure. His part of it would have encreased ours, and we should have been truly rich.—He will be back to us soon.—We have good poignards.

The young man returned with the provisions. His companions assassinated him; They then eat, and died; and none of the three enjoyed the treasure.

ALEXANDER'S TRIUMPH. A MORAL TALE.

GREECE and the East, at their con­querors feet, enjoyed the calm of profound peace. Alexander seemingly contented amidst this tranquility of the world, devoted unreserv­edly his heart to his appetites for pleasure Ban­quets and all the sports of festive joy within the walls of Ecbatana, filled up his time; varied his delights. Statira, Thais, and Roxana, by turns, shared and accumulated his desires. But from the banks of the Hydaspes, a more charming object introduced at his court, was soon likely to fix his love. Alexander at first sight was en­tirely devoted to Campaspa; and what other beauty, could deserve his complaisance and as­pect? The hand of nature, and the work of art, had never formed so perfect a model. So soon as with admiring eyes he had surveyed her over, he ordered Apelles to be sent for: "From thy art I require a new master-piece; of mortals, said he, "come and paint the most beautiful—she is a subject worthy thy pencil; go and pre­pare thy colours and canvass; from her bed I will have her conducted before us, that thy eyes may see her without garb and without veil: all [Page 163] her features are charming, thou must paint them all—but I fear for thy heart the power of her charms"—"Ah! my good lord, banish thy ap­prehensions; heretofore enamoured of an In­dian slave, I just touched the moment, replied Apelles, of beginning to deem myself happy. The fierce Scythian having extended his arms beyond the banks of the Hydaspes, severed us, and it may be for ever: but nothing for the fu­ture can deface her from my heart, nor keep my tears from flowing."

He spoke, departed, and returned. The ra­dient lustre of the sun illum'd the saloon where Campaspa, blushing like the morn, had entered; and the sparkling splendor of its azure canopy seemed to invite forward every eye to the specta­cle. "Contemplate," said the King, "what I present to thy sight, admire, paint, and do not [...]."

With downcast eyes, Campaspa naked, blushes again, turns aside her head, nor dares she step forward. On her bosom she holds one hand ex­tended; and the other stealing down, covers other charms. "Ah! what see I?" cried Apelles, "Ye gods! I am not mistaken, it is herself"—His languishing looks wander long about her; run from his rival to consult his eyes: he sees pleasure in them; he trembles; he sighs. Transports of the most tender love, joy, and sor­row, [Page 164] agitate him by turns. He groans, he adores, he detests, he desires. She, raising her eyes, knows her lover, fetches a cry, sighs, retires, looks fondly on Apelles, sees her danger, and dissembles. These sighs of an inflamed heart, these cries are heard. Apelles perceived that he is loved. "Ah!" said he, then is my rival even in the lap of pleasure, less happy than I am, being less beloved."

Campaspa, placed opposite Appelles, would fain shew herself to the eyes only of her lover; but Alexander is near her, and wants to see her every moment in a new attitude. On the most secret charms he often glances an uneasy eye. But the canvass is stretched out, the pencils are ready, and in spite of his inward regret, the painter has began to strike the outlines of the features.

"To my misfortune," says he, "I likewise add myself; I am going to prepare pleasures [...] my rival; I am going to multiply the object of his desires. In sight at all times, will he have what I love; and I ever, constrained by cruel respect, shall hide from her, both my tears and my despair. More affectionate than prudent, each instant does he direct his eager eye on the object, seldom on the work; and a thousand times his arm towards the canvass stretched, stops short and holds in the air the pencil suspended.

[Page 165] Alexander standing close by her with wistful eyes, is scarce able to command over the irrita­tion of his senses: he impresses kisses on a bo­som and beauties which Campaspa, trembling would be glad, yet dares not to defend. She, however, in the silence of her heart, invokes all the gods against any further attempt of an impi­ous master, casting at the same time on her lover the most tender of looks, but seeing him grow pale and turn from her his eyes, south with like a dart she flies into his arms.—Both bathed in tears, fall at the king's feet: "This is that beau­tiful slave, to whom, on the confines of India, I pledged my troth. Not one word more did Apelles speak to his rival. Campaspa would fain speak; fear and sobs shut up the passage of her enfeebled voice. With faces bent towards the hero's feet, by tremulous hands they embrace his knees; in his eyes they read his jealous rage; in their blood, perhaps, it will be allayed. They fill up with love those moments of terror, and bestow at least on each other the remainder of life; they stretch to one another the arms which fear has frozen, and at length become closed in a mutual embrace.

Alexander, now long a motionless spectator, suffers his looks to dwell upon them; he seems to meditate on the distressed situation, and to res­train his resentment from breaking out. But his [Page 166] brow suddenly becoming more calm, he bends forward to, and holding out to them his hand: "I have conquered all," said he, "and shall I not conquer myself. By robbing thee of her, O Appelles! my enjoyment would be dull; the image of thy tears would follow me into her arms; and Campaspa in mine, would bewail the man she loves."

EGYPTIAN ANECDOTE.

WHEN the Egyptians embalmed their kings, they always took out their brains first. Their notion for preserving the bodies was, that after a certain term of years they were to be re­animated with the same souls again. Might [...] one be led to suspect, that the English King was but one of those moving mummies, gutted by the ancient viziers, to be made use of as a machine by their descendants, the British ministers.

RICCIARDO AND CATHARINA.

CATHARINA, according to Boccase, was a beautiful young lady; the hope and com­fort of her aged parents, and as good as she was handsome. Ricciardo was a cavalier of honor on the other hand, and had a fair reputation with the father and mother of this lady, that he was as free in the house with them as a child of the family. They were both well descended, and by the fre­quency of visits and interviews, had contracted such an agreement of inclinations and manners, that they thought they could not place their af­fections better than mutually one upon the oth­er. It was very rarely that they could get a pri­vate word together, and their time was so short too, that their talk was rather hint, than discourse.

Such an occasion presenting itself to Ricciardo Well,! Madam, says he, in a soft whisper, as he passed by her; I am dead if you do not love me; And that is my case too, says she in the same way of mystery; But how shall we meet? Do you but get leave, says he, to lodge in the garden gal­lery, and let me alone for the rest. And there the dialogue broke off.

Catharina took occasion next day to tell her mother that her chamber did not agree with her; [Page 168] she was hot in it and out of order, for want of rest. Now the gallery chamber, she said was open and airy, and the very chirping of the birds would be some sort of relief to her, when she could not sleep. They reasoned the matter a while, till her mother promised to move her fath­er about it, and so she did, but the old man was so froward and cross grained, that there was no enduring him. Here is a stir indeed with a fan­tastical fop, says he, as if the girl could not sleep without a fiddle.

The peevishness of this reply kept Carharina waking the next night, in good earnest; and she fell so ill upon it, that the mother pressed her husband yet once more about it, Why what are you doing, my dear, says she? We have but one poor child in the world, you see, and that is to be cast away it seems. What is it to us, I prithee, whether the girl lies in one chamber or in another? At this rate she lay teasing of him, till at last, all in a fret, Well! says he, young lasses are like watermen, they look one way and row another.—But if nothing else will serve, let but me have the locking of her up a nights, and letting her out again next morning, and you may e'en lodge her where you have a mind to.

Ricciardo, understanding that his mistress had gained her point, mounted the garden wall that night, and so got up to the chamber window, [Page 169] where he posted himself upon duty till towards break of day, and then drew off again. This went forward, night after night, till at length having quite over watched themselves they fell fast asleep, hand in hand, at the window.

While they were in this posture, in comes the master of the house, before any of the family were stirring, with the tidings to his wife, that his daughter had turned bird catcher, and had caught a Nightengale, prithee says he, come along with me now, and tell me if the girl was not much in the right to take the gallery chamber for the bet­ter sleeping room. This put the mother into such a freak, that the whole town would have rung of the story, if her husband had not given a time­ly stop to it. Come, come says the old man, some wiser than some. In such a case as this, the less noise the better. Here is an innocent love carried on, without either fraud or dishonour; the attempt indeed is capital to the poor fellow, but by my faith, I should be loth to take the forfeit­ure I see no exception at all to the young man ei­ther in matter of years, blood or fortune; and for the rest, what have we more to do, than to call a priest immediately, and make a match of it. The wife was of the husband's opinion. And their resolution was no sooner taken but the young [...] awakened in the greatest confusion imag­inable. There passed, however, some necessary [Page 170] decencies of supplication and submission, to the father and mother, and all was afterwards made up by the solemnity of a formal marriage, to the satisfaction of all parties.

REMARKABLE ANTIPATHY OF THE TENTARYTES TO THE CROCODILS: related by STRABO.

"THE inhabitants of Tentyra, abhor the crocodile, and wage continual war against him, as the most dangerous of animals. Other men look upon him as pernicious, and avoid him; but the Tentyrites industriously seek after him, and kill him wherever they meet with him. It is known that the Psylli of Cyrene have a cer­tain empire over serpents, and it is generally believed that the Tentyrites have the same power over Crocodiles. In fact, they dive and swim boldly in the middle of the Nile, without any injury. In the spectacles given at Rome, several crocodiles were put into a bason. There was an opening on one of the sides to allow them to es­cape. One saw the inhabitants of Tentyra throw themselves into the water amongst these monsters, take them in a net, and draw them out. After [Page 171] exposing them to the Roman people, they took hold of them intrepidly, and carried them back into the bason."

This fact, attested by a judicious historian an ocular witness of it, cannot be called in ques­tion. In our days, do not the Caribs, armed, only with a knife, fight advantageously with the shark, one of the most dreadful monsters of the sea? Determined men are still to be found in Egypt, who dare to attack the crocodile. They swim towards that formidable animal, and when he opens his mouth to swallow, thrusts into it a plank of fir, to which a cord is fastened. The crocodile, by violently shutting his jaws, buries his sharp teeth into it so far that he cannot disengage them. The Egyptian holding the cord with one hand, then regains the banks of the river, and several men draw the monster on shore, and kill him. This attack is not without danger; for if the swimmer is not skilful, he is immediately devoured. I never was myself a witness to this transaction, but many persons at Grand Cairo have assured me it was true.

A HUMOUROUS STORY.

AT an annual hunt held at the Lion in the town of S—y, where all the neigh­bouring sons of Nimrod attend, to tire horses, kill foxes and drink bumpers, was a certain co­alition 'squire, remarkable for having an excel­lent kennel of fox-hounds, a very fine stud of horses, and a very considerable fortune; but more remarkable for being married to a most beautiful and accomplished woman, who, he had thought himself extremely fond of, during the time of his courtship; but, married, was too much of a sportsman to regard the game, the chace being ended. Yet, tired as he was of his lady, he was not tired with the sex. He had long looked with the eye of affection at the chambermaid of the inn. He had made her many offers, for the girl was really pretty; but his offers had been always rejected—for, wonderful as it may seem, she was virtuous. This night he was determined should crown his wishes; and deeming all wo­men, like patriots, had their price, he gave her twenty guineas on condition of being made hap­py. Tempted with the gold, she appointed to meet him in the farthest room in the gallery as the clock struck twelve, but prohibited his bring­ing [Page 173] a light, or speaking a word. In this room she knew he would meet with somewhat to damp his spirit of enterprize. The aunt of her mis­tress, having died the day before, was quietly lock­ed up in her bed room till the feast was over, and, grief giving way to interest, the circumstance was carefully concealed, lest it might diminish the number of guests. Supper was scarcely over, before the lover, punctual to the moment, stole to the chamber, silently and in the dark; but when he found so cold a companion, retired with precipitation, and made but one step from the top of the stairs to the bottom. His friends, alarmed at the noise, came round the unfortunate hero, who, having lost all sense and motion, ap­peared to have taken his last leap. The girl ter­rified at the sight, and apprehensive of his resent­ment, confessed the trick she had played him; when the 'squire recovering, found all his com­panions laughing at his misfortune, and com­mending the girl for her contrivance—as a re­ward for which they agreed to add twenty pounds more to her newly made fortune, with which she and the oftler, whom she immediately married, set up an inn for themselves, which they now keep in the same town.

THE LEARNED COUNTRY JUSTICE.

THE worshipful Simon Simple, Esq. one of his majesty's justices of the peace for the county of Kent, being one day at dinner with much oth­er company, at the house of a neighbouring gen­tleman; after dinner, their kind host, imagining that they had not eaten heartily enough, demanded if any of the company would eat a slice of cold neat's tongue; but being answered in the nega­tive by every person present, "Come, come," cries he, "perhaps you only say so, because it is not here; fetch the tongue, Thomas, and bring a slice of butter with it,"—The Servant obeys, but coming into the room, his foot slipped, and the tongue falling from the dish, come rolling in before him. Whereupon the master of the house began to scold at Thomas for his careless­ness. On which the Servant replies, "You know, Sir, it was only lapsus linguae, and there­fore no error of the mind." This reply not only produced his pardon, but set the company in a roar of the loudest applause. Mr. Simple, before-mentioned, laughed as loud and as long as the best of them; though being quite ignorant that lapsus linguae, was latin for a slip of the tongue, the could by no means guess where the cream of [Page 175] the jest lay. Determined, however, that so ex­cellent a piece of wit, as he conceived it to be should not be thrown away upon him; he was no sooner come home, but he informed his lady what a fine joke he had heard, and that he was determined to play it off again as soon as possible. He therefore orders a shoulder of mutton to be roasted, and set by, till it was cold; and inviting a number of gentlemen to dine with him on the following day, he employed all the intervening time in instructing his servant how to throw down the mutton, and make the Latin apology—which he conceived would produce excellent sport.—His company came at the time appointed, and having dined, our worshipful justice cries—"I am afraid, gentlemen, you have made but an indifferent dinner, will you eat a slice of cold mutton?—Being answered in the negative, he says, "Come, I know you only say so, because it is not here; Robert fetch the mutton, and be sure you bring a slice of butter with it." Robert obeys his orders, and blundering in at the door, let fall the mutton; on which the justice began to scold at him, and Robert (as before instructed) excuses himself by saying, "It was only slapsum slingum, and therefore no terror of the mind." Which answer produced a most immoderate fit of laughter from the justice; who, wondering that [Page 176] the company did not join in his mirth, exclaims, "Zounds, gentlemen, why don't you laugh; I am sure that Robert has made an excellent an­swer, and such a one every body thought it, the other day at 'squire Freeman's; and to tell the truth, I had the shoulder of mutton roasted on purpose to show you the trick."

MODESTY AND ASSURANCE. A FABLE.

MODESTY, the daughter of Knowl­edge, and Assurance, the offspring of ignorance, met accidentally upon the road; and as both had a long way to go, and had experienced from former hardships, that they were alike unquali­fied to pursue their journey alone, they agreed, notwithstanding the opposition in their nature, to lay aside animosities, and, for their mutual ad­vantage to travel together. It was in a country where there were no inns for entertainment; so that to their own address, and to the hospitality of the inhabitants, they were continually to be obliged for provision and lodging.

Assurance had never failed getting admittance to the houses of the great; but it had frequently [Page 177] been her misfortune to be turned out of doors, at a time when she was promising herself an ele­gant entertainment, or a bed of down to rest upon. Modesty had been excluded from all such houses, and compelled to take shelter in the cot­tages of the poor, where, though she had leave to continue as long as she pleased, a truss of straw had been her usual bed, and roots, or the coars­est provision, her constant repast. But as both, by this accidental meeting, were become friends and fellow travellers, they entertained hopes of assisting each other, and of shortening the way, by dividing the cares of it.

Assurance who dressed lightly, and who had something commanding in her voice and pres­ence, found the same easy access as before to the castles and palaces upon the way; while Modesty, who followed, speaking low, and casting her eyes upon the ground, was, as usual, pushed back by the porter at the gate, till introduced by her companion, whose fashionable appearance and familiar address got admission for both.

And now, by the endeavour of each to sup­port the other, their difficulties vanished, and they saw themselves the favourites of all com­panies, and the parties of their pleasures, festi­vals and amusements. The sallies of assurance were continually checked by the delicacy of Modesty; and the blushes of Modesty were fre­quently [Page 178] relieved by the vivacity of Assurance, who, though she was sometimes detected at her old pranks, which always put her companion out of countenance, was yet so awed by her presence, as to stop short of offence.

Thus in the company of Modesty, Assurance gained that reception and esteem which she had vainly hoped for in her absence, while Modesty, by means of her new acquaintance, kept the best company, feasted upon delicacies, and slept in the chambers of state. Assurance, indeed, had in one particular, the ascendency over her compan­ion; for, if any one asked Modesty, whose daugh­ter she was, she blushed, and made no answer, while Assurance took the advantage of her silence, and imposed herself on the world as the offspring of knowledge.

In this manner did the travellers pursue their journey; Assurance taking the lead through the great towns and cities, and apologizing for the rusticity of her companion; while Modesty went foremost through the villages and hamlets, and excused the odd behaviour of Assurance, by pre­senting her as a courtier.

It happened one day, after having measured a tedious length of road, that they came to a nar­row river, which by a hasty swell had washed away the bridge built over it. As they stood upon the bank, casting their eyes upon the oppo­site [Page 179] shore, they saw at a little distance, a magnifi­cent castle, and a crowd of people inviting them to come over. Assurance, who stopt at nothing throwing aside the covering from her limbs, plunged almost naked into the stream, and swam safely to the other side. Modesty offended at the indecency of her companion, and diffident of her own strength, would have declined the danger; but being urged by Assurance, and de­rided for her cowardice by the people on the other side, she unfortunately ventured beyond her depth, and oppressed by her fears, as well as entangled by her cloaths, which were bound tightly about her, immediately disappeared, and was driven by the current no one knows whither. It is said, indeed, that she was afterwards taken up alive by a fisherman on the English coast, and that shortly she will be carried to the metropolis, and shewn to the curious of both sexes.

Assurance, not in the least daunted, pursued her journey alone; and though not altogether as successfully as with her companion; yet having learned in particular companies, and upon parti­cular occasions, to assume the air and manner of Modesty, she was received kindly at every house; and, at last, arriving at the end of her travels, she became a very great lady, and rose to be the first maid of honour to the queen of the country.

A PRUSSIAN ANECDOTE.

THE Count de Peltzer, an officer in the Prussian service, was the only son of a widow near sixty years old. He was handsome, brave to an excess, and deeply in love with mademoiselle de Benskow. She was in her eighteenth year, gentle, pretty, and born with an extreme sensibil­ity. Her lover just turned of twenty, was loved with a passion equal to his own, and the day was fixed to make them happy. It was the 20th of June, 1778.

The Prussian troops are always ready to take the field; and the 19th of June, at ten o'clock at night, the count's regiment received orders to march at midnight for Silesia He was at Berlin and his mistress at a country house four leagues from the town He set off consequently without seeing her; and he wrote to her from the first place where he stopped, that it was impossible for him to live without her, that it was essential to his happiness that she should follow him imme­diately, and that they should be married in Sile­sia. He wrote at the same time to her brother, who was his most intimate friend, to plead his cause with her parents. She set out accompa­nied by this brother, and by her lover's mother. [Page 181] Never did the sands of Brandenburg appear so heavy as to this charming girl; but at length the journey ended, and she arrived at the town of Horstadt:—It was in the morning, and "nev­er" said her brother to me, "did my eyes see a woman lovelier than my sister. The exercise of her journey had added to her bloom, and her eyes painted what passed in her heart." But, O human prospects! how deceitful are you? How near is the moment of wretchedness to the moment of felicity? The carriage is stopped to let pass some soldiers, who advancing by slowsteps, bore in their arms a wounded officer. The tender heart of the young lady was affected at the sight: she little expected that it was her lover. Some Austrians had approached this town, and the young count went out to repulse them. Burning to distin­guish himself, he rushed with ardour before his troop, and fell the victim of his unhappy impet­uosity.

To describe the situation of this unfortunate, young woman, would be to insult at once your heart and your imagination. Her lover is placed in his bed; his mother is at his feet, and his mistress holds his hand. "O Charlotte," cried he, opening a dying eye—he wanted to speak; but his voice broke, and he melted into tears. His tone had pierced the soul of his mistress; she [Page 182] lost her reason, and—"No—I will not survive you," cried she, quite frantic, and seizing a sword. They disarmed her; and he made a sign with his hand that they should bring her to his bed side. She came;—he grasped her arm; and after two painful efforts to speak, he says with a sob, "Live my Charlotte, to comfort my mother,"—and expired.—When I passed through Berlin, in July 1779, the unfortunate lady had not recov­ered her senses.

A REMARKABLE STORY.

PHILIP the Good, Duke of Burgundy, walking about one evening at Bruges, found in the market place, a man stretched on the ground where he slept profoundly. He ordered him to be taken up, and carried to his palace, where, af­ter being stripped of his rags, a fine shirt was put on him, a rich night cap on his head, and he was laid in a bed of the prince. This drunken sot was mightily surprised, at waking, to see himself in a superb alcove, surrounded by officers, some more richly clad than others. He was asked, with great respect, what cloaths his Highness [Page 183] would please to wear that day. This question put him in very great confusion; but after a thousand protestations made them, that he was only a poor cobler, and in no degree a Prince, he at last assented to be paid all the honors they seem so industrious in conferring upon him. He suffered himself to be dressed, appeared in Public, assisted at Mass in the Ducal chapel, kissed there the Missal, and was made to go through all the usual ceremonies. He now passed to a sumptu­ous table, afterwards to divert himself at games of hazard, then walk to the concert of musick in the palace gardens, and a variety of other di­versions. After supper he was entertained with a ball. The good man never in all his life found himself at such a feast; he drank liberally of the wine that was presented to him, and so copiously that he was drunk in good earnest, and fell fast asleep.

The Duke ordered him to be cloathed with his tatters, and carried back to the same place he had been taken from. After having spent there the whole night in sound sleep, he awoke, and re­turned to relate to his wife what had effectually happened to him, which himself imagined to be all a dream.

ALCANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. From Goldsmith's Essays.

ATHENS, long after the decline of the Roman empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, and wisdom. Theodore, the Ostrogoth, repaired the schools which barbar­ity was suffering to fall into decay, and continued those pensions to men of learning, which avaricious governors had monopolized. In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septi­mius were fellow-students together. The one, the most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum; the other, the most eloquent speaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration soon begot a friend­ship. Their fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of the two most celebrated cities in the world: for Alcander was at Athens, Sep­timius came from Rome.

In this state of harmony they lived for some time together, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his youth in the indolence of philoso­phy, thought at length of entering into the busy world; and, as a step previous to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquisite beauty. The day of their intended nuptials was fixed; the previous ceremonies were performed; and noth­ing [Page 185] now remained but her being conducted in­triumph to the apartment of the bridegroom.

Alcander's exultation in his own happiness, or being unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to introduce Hypatia to his fellow­student; which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally happy in friend­ship and love. But this was an interview fatal to the future peace of both; for Septimius no sooner saw her, but he was smitten with an invol­untary passion; and, though he used every effort to suppress desires at once so imprudent and un­just, the emotions of his mind in a short time be­come so strong, that they brought on a fever, which the physician judged incurable.

During this illness, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in those amiable offices of friend­ship. The sagacity of the physicians, by these means, soon discovered the cause of their patient's disorder was love; and Alcander being apprized of their discovery, at length extorted a confession from the reluctant dying lover.

It would but delay the narrative to describe the conflict between love and friendship in the breast of Alcander; the Athenians were at that time ar­rived at such refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess. In short, forgetful of [...] [Page 186] own felicity, he gave up his intended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance, and this un­looked for change of fortune wrought as unex­pected a change in the constitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of those talents which he was so eminently possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted the city-judge, or praetor.

In the mean time Alcander not only felt the pain of being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a prosecution was also commenced against him by the relations of Hypatia, for hav­ing basely given up his bride, as was suggested, for money. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own de­fence, were not able to withstand the influence of a powerful party. He was cas [...] and condemn­ed to pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raise so large a sum at the time appoint­ed, his possessions were confiscated, he himself was stripped of the habit of freedom, exposed as a slave in the market-place, and sold to the highest bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Alcander, with some other companions of distress, [Page 187] was carried into that region of desolation and sterility. His stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious master, and his success in hunting was all that was allowed him to supply his precarious subsistence. Every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of season served but to aggravate his un­sheltered distress. After some years of bondage, however, an opportunity of escaping offered; he embraced it with ardour; so that travelling by night, and lodging in taverns by day, to short­en a long story, he at last arrived at Rome. The same day on which Alcander arrived, Septimius sat administering justice in the fortun, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be instantly known, and publicly acknowledged, by his former friend. Here he stood the whole day, among the croud, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of, but he was so much altered by a long succession of hardships, that he contin­ued unnoticed among the rest; and, in the evening, when he was going up to the praetor's chair, he was brutally repulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; for night com­ing on he found himself under a necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet he knew not where to apply. All emaciated, and in rags as he was, none of the citizens would harbour so much [Page 188] wretchedness; and sleeping in the streets might be attended with interruption or danger: in short, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and despair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries a while in sleep; and found on his flinty couch, more case than beds of down can supply to the guilty.

As he continued here, about midnight, two robbers came to make this their retreat; but happening to disagree about the division of their plunder, one of them stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the en­trance. In these circumstances he was found next morning dead at the mouth of the vault. This naturally inducing a further enquiry, an alarm was spread; the cave was examined; and Alcander was apprehended and accused of rob­bery and murder. The circumstances against him were strong, and the wretchedness of his ap­pearance confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. He detested a world where he had found only ingratitude, falshood, and cruelty; he was determined to make no de­fence; and thus lowering with resolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribu­nal of Septimius. As the proofs were positive [Page 189] against him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignominious death, when the attention of the multitude was soon divided by another object. The robber who had been really guilty, was apprehended selling his plunder, and struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and acquitted every other person of any partnership in his guilt. Alcander's innocence therefore ap­peared, but the sullen rashness of his conduct re­mained a wonder to the surrounding multitude; but their astonishment was still further encreased when they saw their judge start from their tribunal to embrace the supposed criminal: Septimius re­collected his friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and joy. Need the sequel be related? Alcander was ac­quitted; shared the friendship and honours of the principal citizens of Rome; lived afterwards in happiness and ease; and left it to be engraved on his tomb, That no circumstances are so des­perate, which Providence may not relieve.

THE ADVENTURES OF PEDRO AND CELESTINA, A TALE.

CELESTINA, at seventeen, was the most admired beauty in Grenada. She was an or­phan and heiress to an immense fortune, under the guardianship of an old and avaricious uncle, whose name was Alonzo, and who passed his days in counting ducats, and his nights in silenc­ing serenades nocturnally addressed to Colestina. His design was to marry her for the sake of her great fortune, to his son, Henriquez, who had studied ten years in the university of Salamanca, and was now able to explain Cornelius Nepo [...] tolerably well.

Almost all the cavaliers of Grenada were in love with Celestina. As they could only obtain a sight of her at mass, the church she frequent­ed was filled with great numbers of the hand­somest and most accomplished youths of the country.

One of the most distinguished among these was Don Pedro, a captain of cavalry, about twenty, not very rich, but one of the first famil­ies. Handsome, polite, and witty, he drew on [Page 191] himself the eyes of all the ladies of Grenada; though he himself paid attention to none but Celestina: while she, not insensible to his attach­ment, began, on her part, to take considerable notice of her admirer.

Two months passed away without the lovers daring to speak, though, nevertheless, they silent­ly said a great deal. At the end of that time Don Pedro found means of conveying a letter to his mistress; which informed her or what she knew before. The reserved Celestina had no sooner read this letter, than she ordered it to be sent back to Don Pedro; but she possessed an excellent memory, she retained every word, and was able to return a very punctual answer a whole week afterwards.

A correspondence was now settled between the two lovers. Don Pedro was desirous to be still more intimate. He had long solicited per­mission to converse with Celestina through her latices; such is the custom in Spain; where the windows are of much more use during the night than the day. They are the places of rendez­vous. When the street is vacant and still, the lover wraps himself up in his cloak, and, taking his sword, invoking love and night to favour him, proceeds to some low latice, grated on the side next the street and secured on the inside by shutters.

[Page 192] He waits not long before the window opens, softly, and the charming maid appears. She asks, in a tremulous voice, if any one is there. Her lover, transported at her condescension, en­deavours to dispel her fears: they talk in a whis­per, and repeat the same thing a hundred times. The gratings cannot hinder their interchanging vows; though they may prevent their kisses. The lover curses the envious bars, while his mistress thanks them for their friendly interposition. Day, at length, approaches, and they must separate. They are an hour in taking leave; and part, at last, without having said half the tender things they intended.

Celestina's latice was on the ground floor, and opened into a narrow passage, where the houses were ill built, and only inhabited by the lower class of people. Don Pedro's old nurse happen­ed to occupy a tenement directly opposite the window of Celestina. Pedro, therefore, repaired to his nurse. My good woman, said he, I have been much to blame to suffer you to live so long in this miserable habitation; but I am determined to make you amends by giving you an apartment in my own house. Come and reside in that, and leave me to dispose of this.

The honest women could not refrain from tears: and, for a long time, refused; but, at last, over­come by his solicitations, she consented to the [Page 193] exchange, with every expression of gratitude for the kindness of her benefactor.

Never did any monarch enter his palace with more satisfaction than Don Pedro took possession of the hovel of his nurse.

Early in the evening Celestina appeared at her latice. She promised to repair thither every other day, and she kept her word. These delightful inter­views served only to increase the flame of love; and, very soon the lovers' nights were passed in pleasing conversation, and their days in writing passionate epistles.

At length they both arrived at that intoxica­tion of delight and anxiety which is the last peri­od of the passion of love.

Just at this time Henriquez, the intended hus­band of Celestina, arrived from Salamanca; bring­ing with him a declaration of his passion in Latin, which had been written for him by the head of the college.

The lovers consulted each other on this event at the latice; but in the mean time the old guar­dian had drawn [...] contract of marriage, and a day was fixed on for the celebration of the nuptials of Celestina and Henriquez.

Every one must perceive that, under such cir­cumstances, the only remedy was to fly into Por­tugal. This was determined on, and it was also settled that the two lovers, on arriving at Lis­bon, [Page 194] should first marry, and afterwards have re­course to the law against the guardian.

Celestina was to carry with her a box of jew­els, which had been left her by her mother. These were very valuable, and would be suffici­ent to maintain the happy couple till the law-suit should be decided in their favour. No plan could ever be laid with more prudence.

Nothing was now wanting but to contrive how to effect this escape; and for this purpose, it was necessary to procure the key of the latice. In this Celestina succeeded.

It was therefore resolved that the next night, at eleven, Don Pedro, after having ordered horses to wait without the city, should come and fetch Celestina; who should descend from the window into the arms of her lover, and immedi­ately set off for Portugal.

Don Pedro spent the whole day in prepara­tions for his departure. Celestina, on her part, was equally busy in getting ready the little box she was to take with her. She was very careful not to omit securing in it a very fine emerald, which had been given her by her lover.

Celestina and her box were ready by eight in the evening; and before ten, Don Pedro, who had already provided carriages on the road to Andalusia, arrived at the appointed spot; his heart beating with perturbation and hope.

[Page 195] As he approached the place, he heard persons calling for help, and perceived two men attacked by five assassins, armed with swords and bludge­ons. The brave Pedro forgot his own affairs to defend the lives of the assaulted. He wounded two, and put the other three assassins to flight.

What was his surprise, on more attentively considering those he had delivered, to perceive they were no other than Henriquez and Celesti­na's guardian, Alonzo! Some desperate young cavalier of the city, who was in love with Celes­tina, knowing it was intended that Henriquez should espouse her, had hired bravoes, a species of rascals but too common in Spain, to assassinate them; and had it not been for the valour of Don Pedro, the young scholar and the old miser would have found it no easy matter to have es­caped with life.

Pedro did his utmost to avoid their grate­ful acknowledgements, but Henriquez, who piqued himself on having learned politeness in Salamanca, swore he should not leave them that night. Pedro, in despair, had already heard the clock strike eleven. Alas! he knew not the mischief that had happened.

One of the bravoes whom he had put to flight, had passed, muffled up in his cloak, near the la­tice of Celestina. The night was extremely dark, and the unfortunate fair, having opened the win­dow, [Page 196] imagining him to be Don Pedro. She pre­sented him the box with joyful impatience.

Take our diamonds, said she, while I descend.—At the word diamonds, the bravo suddenly stopped, took the box, without speaking a word, and, while Celestina was coming down from the window, fled with the utmost precipitation.

Imagine the surprise of Celestina, when she found herself alone, in the street, and saw noth­ing of him whom she had supposed to be Don Pedro. She thought, at first, he had left her to avoid raising suspicion or alarm. She, therefore, hastily walked to a little distance, looked round on every side, and called in a low voice. But no Pedro could she see; no lover could she hear.

She was now seized with the most alarming apprehensions. She knew not whether it was most adviseable to return home, or endeavour to find the horses and attendants of Don Pedro, that were [...] out of town. She continued to walk forwards, in the utmost uncertainty and distress, till she had lost herself among the streets; while her fears were redoubled by darkness and silence.

At length she met a person, whom she asked if she were far from the gate of the city. The stranger conducted her thither, but she found no body waiting as she expected.

[Page 197] She dared not yet accuse her lover of deceiv­ing her: still she hoped he was at no great dis­tance. She therefore, proceeded along the road, fearful at every bush, and calling Don Pedro at every step; but the farther she walked the more she was bewildered; for she had come out of the city on the side opposite the Portugal road.

In the mean time, Don Pedro found himself unable to get away from the grateful Henriquez and his father. They would not suffer him to leave them for a moment, but obliged him to en­ter the house with them, to which Pedro, fearful of betraying his intent, and frustrating his dear­est hopes, and imagining too that Celestina might be soon satisfied why he thus delayed, most re­luctantly consented.

Alonzo hastens to the chamber of his ward, to inform her of the danger he had just escaped. He calls, but receives no answer: enters her apartment, and finds the latice open; his cries collected the servants, the alarm is immediately given, Celestina is missing.

Pedro, in dispair, immediately offered to go in quest of her. Henriquez, thanking him for the concern he expressed, declared his resolution of accompanying him. Pedro suggested that the probability of finding her would be greater if they took different roads. Accordingly, he has­tened to rejoin his domestice; and not doubting [Page 198] but Celestina had taken the road to Portugal, put his horses on at full speed. But their swift­ness only removed him farther from the object of his love; while Henriquez galloped towards the Alpuxarian mountains, the way Celestina had ac­tually gone.

In the mean time Celestina continued to wan­der disconsolate, along the road that leads to the Alpuxares, seeking her lover. Anon she heard the clattering of approaching horses; and, at first, imagined it might be her beloved Pedro; but, afterwards, [...] of discovery, the vio­lence of travellers, or, perhaps, robbers, she con­cealed herself, trembling behind some bushes.

Here she presently saw Henriquez pass by, fol­lowed by a number of servants. Shuddering at the danger of being again in the power, and dreading a second time to submit to the redoubled tyranny of Alonzo, if she continued in the high road, she turned aside, and took refuge in a thick wood.

The Alpuxares are a chain of mountains which extend from Grenada to the Mediterra­nean. They are only inhabited by a few peasants. To these fear and terror conducted the unfortun­ate maiden. A dry and stony soil, with a few oak trees, thinly scattered, some torrents and echoing cataracts, and a number of wild goats, leaping from precipice to precipice, are the only objects [Page 199] which present themselves to the eyes of Celestina, as soon as the day begins to break. Exhausted, at length with weariness and vexation, her feet being torn by the rugged stones over which she had passed, she sat down under a rock, through the cliffs of which a limpid water gently ouzed.

The silence of this grotto, the wildness of the landscape around, the hoarse and distant murmur of several cascades, and the noise of the water near her, falling drop by drop into the bason it had hallowed beneath, all conspired to convince Celestina she was alone in the midst of a desart, abandoned by her lover, who to her was the whole world.

She sat herself down on the edge of this stream, to vent her grief in tears, reflecting on the miser­ies that seemed to threaten her; but, above all, her lost Don Pedro, whom, at moments, she still flattered herself she should one day regain.

It certainly was not him, said she, whom I saw carry off my diamonds. I must have been mis­taken. Yet, how was it possible that my heart should not have informed me of the truth? No doubt he is now far hence, seeking me with anx­ety and distraction; while I, as far distant from him, here am perishing.

While mournfully thus she ruminated, she heard, at the bottom of the grotto, the sound of the rustic flute.

[Page 200] Upon searching, she found a young goat-herd fitting at the foot of a willow, his eyes bedewed with his tears, and fixed on the water as it issued from its rocky source. In his hand he held a flageolet, and by his side lay a staff and a little parcel.

Shepherd, said Celestina, have pity on one abandoned, and shew me my way among these mountains, to some village, or habitation, where I may procure, though not repose, at least sus­tenance.

Alas! madam, replied the goat-herd, I wish it were in my power to conduct you to the vil­lage of Gadara, behind these rocks; but you will not ask me to return thither, when you are informed my mistress is this day to be married to my rival. I am going to leave these moun­tains, never to behold them more: and I carry nothing with me but my flute, a change of dress, which I have in this parcel, and the memory of the happiness I have lost.

This short account suggested a new project to Celestina.

My friend, said she to the goat-herd, you have no money, which you will certainly want, when you have left this country. I have a few pieces of gold; these I will divide with you, if you will let me have the dress you say is in your parcel.

[Page 201] The goat-herd accepted the offer. Celestina gave him a dozen ducats, and, having informed herself which was the road to Gadara, took her leave of the despairing lover, and returned into the grotto to put on her newly purchased dis­guise.

She came out habited in a vest of chamois skin, with a shepherd's wallet hanging by her side, and on her head a hat ornamented with ribbons. In this attire she appeared yet more beautiful than when adorned with brocades and jewels. She took the road to the village, and, stopping in the market-place, enquired of the peasants if they knew of any farmer who wanted a servant.

The inhabitants surrounded her, and surveyed the stranger with admiration. The girls express­ed their surprise at the beauty of her flowing ringlets; her elegant form, her graceful manner, the brilliancy of her eyes, even though dejected, their superior intelligence and mild benignity, astonish and delight all beholders. No one could conceive from whence came this beautiful youth. One imagines him a person of high distinction in disguise; another, a prince, in love with some shepherdess; while the school-master, who was at the same time the poet of the village, declared it must be Apollo, sent down, a second time, to keep sheep among mortals.

[Page 202] Celestina, who assumed the name of Marcelio, was not long in want of a master. She was hired by an aged alcade of the village, esteemed one of the worthiest men in the whole province.

This honest countryman soon contracted the warmest friendship for Celestina. He scarcely suffered her to tend his flocks for a month before he gave her an employment within his house, in which the pretended Marcelio be­haved with so much propriety and fidelity, that he was equally beloved by master and servants.

Before he had lived here half a year, the al­cade, who was more than eighty, left the entire management of all he possessed to Marcelio: he even asked his opinion in all the causes that came before him, and never had any alcade decided with so much justice as he, from the time he per­mitted himself to be guided by the advice of Mar­celio. Marcelio was beloved, and proposed as an-example to all the village: his affability, his pleasing manner, and his good sense, gained every heart. See the excellent Marcelio, cried the mothers to their sons, he is continually with his master, he is perpetually employed in rendering his old age happy, and never neglects his duty, like you, to run after the shepherdesses.

Two years passed away in this manner. Ce­lestina, whose thoughts were continually employ­ed on her lover, had sent a shepherd, in whom [Page 203] the could confide, to Grenada to procure information concerning Don Pedro, Alon­zo, and Henriquez. The shepherd brought word back, that Alonzo was dead, Henriquez married, and that Pedro had not been seen or heard of for these last two years.

Celestina now lost all hopes of ever again be­holding her lover, and, happy in being able to pass her days in that village, in the bosom of peace and friendship, had resolved to bid an etern­al adieu to love, when the old alcade, her master, fell dangerously ill. Marcelio attended his last moments with all the affection of a son, and the good old man behaved to him like a grateful fa­ther; he died, and left all he possessed to the faithful Marcelio. But his will was by no means a sufficient consolation to his heir.

The whole village mourned for the alcade, and, after his funeral rites had been celebrated with more sorrow than pomp, the inhabitants of the place assembled to chuse a successor. In Spain, certain villages have the right of nominat­ing their own alcade, whose office it is to decide their differences, and take cognizances of greater crimes by arresting and examining the offenders, and delivering them over to the superior judges, who generally confirm the sentence of those rus­tic magistrates; for good laws are generally per­fectly consonant to simple reason.

[Page 204] The villagers, being met, agreed, with one voice, that no one could be so proper to succeed the late alcade as the youth whom he seemed to have designed for his successor. The old men, therefore, followed by their sons, came with all the usual ceremonies to offer Marcelio the white wand, the ensign of the vacant office. Celestina accepted it, and sensibly touched by such a proof of esteem and affection from these good people, resolved to consecrate to their happiness a life she had formerly intended to dedicate to love.

While the new alcade is busied with the du­ties of her office, let us return to the unfortun­ate Don Pedro, whom we left galloping towards Portugal, and continually removing farther from her he so anxiously sought.

He arrived at Lisbon, without obtaining any intelligence of Celestina, and immediately return­ed by the same road, to research every place he had before in vain examined; again he returned to Lisbon, but without success

After six months ineffectual enquiry, having assured himself that Celestina had never returned to Grenada, he imagined she might perhaps be at Seville, where he knew she had relations. Im­mediately he hastened to Seville, there he found the relations of Celestina had just embarked for Mexico.

[Page 205] Pedro no longer doubted but his mistress was gone with them, and directly went on board the last ship which remained to sail. He arrived at Mexico, where he found the relations, but, alas, no Celestina; they had heard nothing of her, he, therefore, returned to Spain. And now the ship is attacked by a violent storm, and cast on the coast of Grenada: himself, and a few of the passengers, save themselves by swimming; they land, and make their way to the mountains, to procure assistance, and, by chance or love, are conducted to Gadara.

Don Pedro, and his unfortunate companions took refuge in the first inn, congratulating each other on the danger they had escaped. While they were discoursing on their adventures, one of the passengers began to quarrel with a soldier, concerning a box, which the passenger asserted belonged to him.

Don Pedro, desirous to put an end to the con­tention, obliged the passenger to declare what it contained, opening it at the same time to discover whether he spoke truth.

How great was his surprize to find in it the jewels of Celestina, and, among them, the very emerald he had given her. For a moment he stood motionless, examining attentively the cask­et; and fixing his eyes, sparkling with rage, on the claimant, How came you by these jewels? said he, with a voice of terror.

[Page 206] What does it signify, replied the passenger, haughtily, how I came by them! it is sufficient that I am in possession of them.

He then endeavoured to snatch the casket from Don Pedro; but he, pushing him back, instantly drew his sword.

Wretch, said he, confess your crime, or you die this moment.

So saying he attacked him with great fury: his antagonist defended himself with equal brave­ry, but presently received a mortal wound, and fell.

Don Pedro was immediately surrounded, and seized by the people of the house. They take him to prison, and the master of the inn sends his wife to fetch the clergyman of the parish that he may administer spiritual comfort to the dying man while he runs himself to the alcade, to carry the casket, and inform him of the whole adven­ture.

How great was the surprize, the joy, and the anxiety of Celestina, on perceiving her diamonds, and hearing the behaviour of the noble stranger.

She immediately hastened to the inn, the min­ister was already there, and the dying man, in­duced by his exhortations, declared in presence of the alcade, that, two years before, as he was one night passing through a street in Grenada, a lady had given him that box, through a latice, telling [Page 207] him to hold it till she came down, but that he immediately made off with the jewels; for which theft he asked pardon of God, and the unknown lady, whom he had injured.

Immediately after this confession, he expired, and Celestina ran to the prison.

How did her heart palpitate with expectation! she could no longer doubt but she should again see Don Pedro, but she feared she should be known by him; she therefore pulled her hat over her eyes, wrapped herself up in her cloak, and, preceded by her clerk and the gaoler, entered the dungeon.

No sooner had she got to the bottom of the stairs than she perceived Don Pedro. Her joy almost deprived her of speech; she leaned against the wall, her head sunk on her shoulders, and the tears streamed down her cheeks. She wiped them away, stopped a moment to take breath, and endeavouring to speak with firmness, ap­proached the prisoner.

Stranger, said she, disguising her voice, you have killed your companion.—What could in­duce you to so horrid an action?

These few words were all she could utter, and seating herself on a stone, she concealed her face with her hand.

Alcade, replied Don Pedro, I have committed no crime; it was an act of justice; but I beg for [Page 208] death. Death alone can end the continual mis­eries of which the wretch I have sacrificed to my revenge was the first cause Condemn me, I wish, not to make a defence. Deliver me from a life which is hateful to me, since I have lost what alone could render it delightful; since I can no, longer hope to find—

He was unable to conclude, and his voice faintly expressed the name of Celestina.

Celestina trembled on hearing him pronounce her name. She could scarcely conceal her trans­ports, but was ready to rise and throw herself into the arms of her lover. The presence, however, of so many witnesses, restrained her. She there­fore turned away her eyes, and faintly requested to be left alone with the prisoner; she was obeyed.

Giving a free course to her tears, she advanced towards Don Pedro, and, offering him her hand, said to him, in a most affectionate tone, Do you then still love her who lives for you alone?

At these words, at this voice, Pedro lifts his head, unable to believe his eyes. Oh, heaven! is it—is it my Celestina! or is it some angelic being assuming her form? Yes, it is she. I can no longer doubt it, cried he, clasping her in his arms, and bathing her with his tears. It is my love, my life, and all my woes are ended.

[Page 209] No, said Celestina, as soon as she could recover speech, you are guilty of bloodshed, and I cannot free you from your fetters; but I will repair to­morrow to the superior judge, will inform him of the secret of my birth, relate to him our misfor­tunes, and, if he refuses me your liberty, I will return and end my days with you in this prison.

Marcelio immediately gave orders for the re­moval of Pedro from the subterraneous dun­geon, to a less hideous place of security; took care that he should want for nothing, and after­wards returned home to prepare for his journey, the next day, when a most alarming event pre­vented his departure, and hastened the delivery of Don Pedro.

Some Algerine galleys, which had for several days pursued the ship on board of which Don Pe­dro was, arrived on the coast some time after the shipwreck; and willing to repay themselves for the trouble they had taken, had determined to land during the night. Two renegadoes who knew the country, undertook to conduct the bar­barians to the village of Gadara, and fulfiled their promise but too well.

About one in the morning, when labour en­joys repose, and villainy wakes to remorse, the dreadful cry of to arms, was heard.

The Moors had landed, and were burning and slaughtering all before them. The darkness of [Page 210] the night, the groans of the dying, and the shrieks of the terrified inhabitants, filled every heart with consternation. The trembling wives caught their husbands in their arms; and the old men sought succour from their sons. In a moment the village was in flames, the light of which dis­covered the gory scymitars and white turbans of the Moors.

Those barbarians, the flambeau in one hand and the hatchet in the other, were breaking and burning the doors of the houses; and making their way through the smoaking ruins, to seek for victims or for plunder, returned covered with blood, and loaded with booty.

Nothing is held sacred by those monsters. They force their way into the temples of the Most High, break the shrines, strip off the gold, and trample the holy relics under foot. Alas! what avail to priests their sacred character, to the aged their grey hairs, to youth its graces, or to infancy its innocence? Slavery, fire, devastation, and death, are every where, and pity is fled.

On the first alarm and tumult the alcade made all possible haste to the prison to inform Don Pedro of the danger. The brave Pedro demand­ed a sword for himself and a buckler for the al­cade. He takes Celestina by the hand, and makes his way to the market place. There he addres­es the fugitives.

[Page 211] My friends, cries he, are ye Spaniards, and do ye fly and abandon your wives and children to the fury of the infidels?

He stops them, collects them round him, in­spires them with his own valour, and, more than human, for he is a lover and a hero, rushes, sa­bre in hand, on a party of the Moors, whom he breaks and disperses. The inhabitants recover their recollection and their courage, and enraged behold their slaughtered friends, and hasten in crowds to join their leader.

Pedro, without quitting Celestina, and ever solicitous to expose his life in her defence, attacks the barbarians, at the head of the brave Spaniards, and, dealing destruction to all who make resist­ance, drive the fugitives before him, retakes the plunder and the prisoners, and only quits the pur­suit of the enemy to return and extinguish the fires.

The day began to break, when a body of troops, who had too late received information of the descent of the infidels, arrived from a neigh­bouring town. The governor had put himself at their head, and found Don Pedro surrounded by women, children and old men; who, weeping, kissed his hands, with unfeigned gratitude for having preserved their husbands, their fathers, or their sons.

[Page 212] The governor, informed of the exploits of Don Pedro, loaded him with praises and caress­es; but Celestina, requesting to be heard, de­clared to the governor, in presence of the whole village, her sex; giving, at the same time, a re­lation of her adventures, the death of the brave by Don Pedro, and the circumstances which ren­dered him excuseable.

All the inhabitants, greatly affected with her story, felt at the feet of the governor, intreating pardon for the man to whom they were indebted for their preservation. The request was grant­ed, and the happy Pedro, thus restored to his dear Celestina, embraced the governor, and blessed the good inhabitants. One of the old men then advanced. Brave stranger, said he, you are our deliverer, but you take from us our alcade; this loss, perhaps, outweighs your bene­fit. Double our blessings, instead of depriving us of our greatest; remain in this village; con­descend to become our alcade, our master, our friend. Honour us so far as to permit nothing to abate our love for you. In a great city, the cowardly and wicked who maintain the same rank with yourself, will think themselves your equals; while here, every virtuous inhabitant will look on you as his father; next to the Deity himself, you will receive from us the highest honour; and, while life remains, on the anniversary of [Page 213] this day, the fathers of our families will present their children before you, saying, behold the man who preserved the lives of your mothers.

Pedro was enchanted while he listened to the old man. Yes, cried he, my children; yes my brethren, I will remain here. My life shall be de­voted to Celestina, and to you. But my wife has considerable possessions in Granada. Our excel­lent governor will add his interest to ours, that we may recover them, and they shall be employed to rebuild the houses which have been burnt by the infidels. On this condition alone will I accept the office of alcade; and though I should expend in your service, both my riches and my life, I should still, be your debtor; for it is you who have re­stored me my Celestina.

Imagine the transports of the good villagers, while Don Pedro spoke. The governor was a person of great power, and undertook to arrange every thing to his wish; and two days afterwards the marriage was celebrated between Celestina, and her lover.

Notwithstanding the late misfortunes nothing could exceed the joy of the inhabitants.

The two lovers long lived in unexampled feli­city; and, happy and virtuous themselves, made the whole district happy and virtuous likewise.

MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE OF EDWARD DRINKER.

EDWARD Drinker was born on the 24th of December, 1680, in a small cabin near the present corner of Walnut and Second streets in the city of Philadelphia. His parents came from a place called Beverly, in Massachusetts Bay. The banks of the Delaware, on which the city of Philadelphia now stands, were inhabited at the time of his birth by Indians, and a few Swedes and Hollanders. He often talked to his compan­ions of picking wortleberries, and catching rab­bits, on spots now the most populous and impro­ved of the city. He recollected the second time William Penn came to Pennsylvania, and used to point to the place where the cabin stood, in which he and his friends that accompanied him were ac­commodated upon their arrival. At twelve years of age he went to Boston, where he served an apprenticeship to a cabinet maker. In the year 1745, he returned to Philadelphia with his fam­ily, where he lived till the time of his death. He was four times married, and had eighteen chil­dren, all of whom were by his first wife. At one time of his life he sat down at his own table with fourteen children. Not long before his death, he heard of the birth of a grandchild to one of his grandchildren, the fifth in succession from himself.

[Page 215] He retained all his faculties till the last years of his life; even his memory, so early and so generally diminished by age, was but little im­paired. He not only remembered the incidents of his childhood or youth, but the events of later years; and so faithful was his memory to him, that his son informed me that he never heard him tell the same story twice, but to different persons, and in different companies. His eye sight failed him many years before his death, but his hear­ing was uniformly perfect and unimpaired. His appetite was good till within a few weeks before his death. He generally ate a hearty breakfast of a pint of tea or coffee, as soon as he got out of his bed, with bread and butter in proportion. He ate likewise at eleven o'clock, and never fail­ed to eat plentifully at dinner of the grossest solid food. He drank tea in the evening, but never ate any supper. He had lost all his teeth 30 years before his death (his son says by drawing ex­cessive hot smoke of tobacco into his mouth) but the want of suitable mastication of his food did not prevent its speedy digestion, nor impair his health. Whether the gums, hardened by age, supplied the place of his teeth in a certain degree, or whether the juices of the mouth and stomach became so much more acrid by time, as to per­form the office of dissolving the food more speed­ily [Page 216] and more perfectly I know not; but I have often observed, that old people are more subject to excessive eating than young ones, and that they suffer fewer inconveniences from it. He was in­quisitive after news in the last years of his life; his education did not lead him to increase the stock of his ideas in any other way. But it is a fact well worthy to be attended to, that old age, in­stead of diminishing, always increases the desire of knowledge. It must afford some consolation to those who expect to be old, to discover that the infirmities, to which the decay of nature ex­pose the human body, are rendered more tolera­ble by the enjoyments that are to be derived from the appetite for sensual and intellectual food

The subject of this history was remarkably so­ber and temperate. Neither hard labour, nor company, nor the usual afflictions of human life, nor the wastes of nature, ever led him to an im­proper or excessive use of strong drink. For the last 25 years of his life he drank twice every day a draught of toddy, made with two table spoon­fuls of spirit, in half a pint of water. His son, a man of fifty-nine years of age, told me he had never seen him intoxicated The time and man­ner in which he used spirituous liquors, I believe, contributed to lighten the weight of his years, and probably to prolong his life. "Give wine to him that is of a heavy heart, and strong drink [Page 217] to him that is ready to perish" [with age as well as with sickness.] "Let him drink and forget his sorrow, and remember his misery no more."

He enjoyed an uncommon share of health, in­somuch that in the course of his long life he was never confined more than three days to his bed.

He often declared that he had no idea of that distressing pain called the head-ach. His sleep was interrupted a little in the last years of his life, with a defluxion in his breast, which pro­duced what is commonly called the old man's cough.

The character of this aged citizen was not summed up in his negative quality of temper­ance; he was a man of a most amiable temper; old age had not curdled his blood; he was uni­formly cheerful and kind to every body; his religious principles were as steady as his morals were pure; he attended public worship above thirty years, in the Rev. Dr. Sproat's church, and died in a full assurance of a happy immor­tality. The life of this man is marked with sev­eral circumstances which perhaps have seldom occurred in the life of an individual; he saw and heard more of those events which are mea­sured by time, than have ever been seen or heard by any man since the age of the patriarchs; he saw the same spot of earth in the course of his life covered with wood and bushes, and the re­ceptacle [Page 218] of beasts and birds of prey, afterwards become the seat of a city, not only the first in wealth and arts in the new, but rivalling in both many of the first cities in the old world. He saw regular streets, where he once pursued a hare; he saw churches rising upon morasses where he had often heard the croaking of frogs; he saw wharfs and warehouses where he had often seen Indian savages draw fish from the river for their daily subsistence; and he saw ships of every size and use in those streams where he had been used to see nothing but Indian canoes; he saw a stately edifice filled with legislators, astonishing the world with their wisdom and virtue, on the same spot probably where he had seen an Indian council; he saw the first treaty ratified between the newly confederated powers of America, and the ancient monarchy of France, with all the for­malities of parchment and seals, on the same spot probably where he once saw William Penn ratify his first and last treaty with the Indians, without the formalities of pen, ink, or paper; he saw all the intermediate stages through which a people pass from the most simple to the most complica­ted degrees of civilization; he saw the begin­ning and the end of the empire of Great-Britain in Pennsylvania.

He had been the subject of seven crowned herds, and afterwards died a citizen of the newly [Page 219] created republic of America. The number of his sovereigns, and his long habits of submission to them, did not extinguish the love of liberty, which is natural to the mind of man in its healthy state. He embraced the liberties and independ­ence of America in his withered arms, and tri­umphed in the last years of his life in the salva­tion of his country. He died Nov. 17, 1782; aged 103.

REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE.

MR. C—, assuming the name of Jones, some years since, purchased a small piece of land, and built on it a neat house on the edge of a common in Wiltshire. Here he long resid­ed, unknowing, and almost unknown, by the neighbourhood Various conjectures were form­ed respecting this solitary and singular stranger; at length a clergyman took some notice of him, and occasionally inviting him to his house, he found him possessed of intelligence and manners, which evidently indicated his origin to have been in the higher stations of life. Returning one day from a visit at this clergyman's, he passed the [Page 220] house of a farmer, at the door of which was the daughter employed at the washing-tub. He looked at the girl a moment, and thus accosted her—My girl, would you like to be married?" "Sir!" exclaimed the girl—"I asked you, young woman, whether you would wish to be married: because if you would, I will marry you." "Lord, Sir! these are strange questions from a man I never saw in my life before." "Very likely," replied Mr. Jones; "but how­ever, I am serious, and will leave you till ten o'clock to-morrow to consider of it; I will then call on you again, and if I have your and your father's consent, we will be married the follow­ing day."

He kept his appointment, and meeting with the father, he thus addressed him: "Sir, I have seen your daughter; I should like her for a wife: and I am come to ask your consent." "This proposal," answered the old man, "is very extraordinary from a stranger: Pray, sir, who are you? and what are you?" "Sir," replied Mr. J. "you have a great right to ask these questions: my name is Jones; the new house on the edge of the common is mine, and if it be necessary, I can purchase your house [...] farm, and half the neighbourhood"

Another hour's conversation, brought all par­ties into one mind, and the friendly clergyman [Page 221] afore-mentioned united the happy pair. Three or four years they lived in this retirement, and were blessed with two children. Mr. J. employed great part of his time in improving his wife's mind, but never disclosed his own origin. At length, upon taking a journey of pleasure with her, while remarking the beauties of the country, he noticed and named the different gentlemen's seats as they passed; and coming to a very magnifi­cent one, "This, my dear," said he, "is B—house, the seat of the earl of E. and if you please, we will go in and ask leave to look at it: it is an elegant house, and probably will amuse you."

The nobleman who possessed this mansion was lately dead. He once had a nephew, who, in the gaieties of his youth, had incurred some debts, on account of which he had retired from fash­ionable life on about 200l. per annum, and had not been heard of for some years. This nephew was the identical Mr. Jones, the hero of our story, who now took possession of the house, title, and estate, and is the present earl of E—!!!

TACITURNITY. AN APOLOGUE.
Translated from the French of Abbé Blanchet.

AT Amadan was a celebrated academy, the first statute of which run thus:

The Academicans are to think much, write little, and, if possible, speak less.

This was called the Silent Academy, nor was there a sage in Persia, who was not ambitious of being admitted a member. Zeb, a famous sage, and author of an excellent little book, intitled The Gag, heard, in the distant provinces where he lived, there was a vacancy in the silent academy. Immediately he departed for Amadan, and, ar­riving, presented himself at the door of the hall where the academicians were assembled, and sent in the following billet to the president:

Zeb, a lover of silence, humbly asks the va­cant place

The billet arrived too late; the vacancy was already supplied. The academicians were almost in despair; they had received, somewhat against their inclination, a courtier, who had some wit, and whose light and trifling eloquence had be­come the admiration of all his court-acquaint­ance; and this learned body was now reduced to the necessity of refusing the sage Zeb, the scourge of bablers, the perfection of wisdom.

[Page 223] The president, whose duty it was to announce this disagreeable news to the sage, scarcely could resolve, nor knew in which manner best, to per­form his office. After a moment's reflection he ordered a flagon to be filled with water, and so full that another drop would have made the water run over. He then desired them to introduce the candidate.

The Sage appeared, with that simple and modest air which generally accompanies true merit. The president rose, and, without speak­ing a word, pointed, with affliction in his looks, to the emblematical flagon so exactly full.

The Sage understood from thence, the va­cancy was supplied, but, without relinquishing hope, he endeavoured to make them compre­hend that a supernumerary member might, per­haps, be no detriment to their society. He saw on the floor a rose-leaf, picked it up, and with care and delicacy placed it on the surface of the water, so as not to make it overflow.

All the academicians immediately clapped their hands, betokening applause, when they beheld this ingenious reply. They did more, they broke through their rules in favour of the sage Zeb. The register of the academy was presented him, and he inscribed his name.—Nothing remained but for him to pronounce, according to custom, a single phrase of thanks. But this new, and [Page 224] truly silent academician, returned thanks. But without speaking a word.

In the margin of the register he wrote the number one hundred (that of his brethren) then put cypher before the figures, under which he wrote thus:

0100

Their value is no more nor less.

The president, with equal politeless and pres­ence of mind, answered the modest sage, by plac­ing the figure 1 before the number 100, and by writing under them thus:

1100

Their value is ten-fold.

THE PERFIDIOUS FRIEND. A TALE.

ABASE act perpetrated under the mask of friendship, excites double abhorrence, and the injury inflicted is, from the hypocrisy by which it is accompanied, much more injurious and detest­able.

John Stephens and Charles Murray had been brought up at the same school when boys, and, though not precisely of the same disposition, be­came inseparable companions. Stephens was cunning, passionate, and somewhat selfish; while Murray was unsuspicious, mild, and generous.

Connections early contracted, often endure through life, in despite of every forbidden circum­stance; and thus the intimacy and friendship be­tween Stephens and Murray continued till they had both entered on the busy stage of the world; though the difference of their characters, and with it that of their circumstances and situation, increased every day. Stephens grew rich, while Murray continued in that humble mediocrity in which he had been originally born.

The familiar intercourse however, that had so long subsisted between them, still continued; though Stephens would occasionally give himself airs of superiority, which the mild temper of [Page 226] Murray induced him to overlook, and nothing occurred to interrupt their friendship and good understanding.

At length Murray married an elegant woman of small fortune, and went to reside in a com­modious, but not superb house, on an estate which the wealth of Stephens had enabled him to pur­chase. Here he enjoyed the real happiness of life without the fatiguing ostentation of luxury, and felt that he could not have purchased more with all the riches of his affluent neighbour.

But Stephens had surveyed Mrs. Murray with a passion which he would perhaps have called love; he was therefore more attentive than ever to his friend, more assiduous in his services, and more frequent in his visits than ever he had been.

As he gained nothing, however, by what he considered as fair means, determined at length to employ others which he trusted he should find more effectual, and therefore planned an artful and diabolical scheme to carry off Mrs. Murray by the means of hired bravoes, and satisfy his brutality in disguise, so that she should never know by whom she had been injured. Accord­ingly, one morning, when Mr. Murray was out, the villains who had watched their opportunity for the purpose, forced into the house, and finding her dressing, attempted to carry her off half na­ked, but being met by her husband at a small dis­tance [Page 227] from the house, they severely wounded, and left him for dead, and would effectually have secured their prize, had not they supposed they heard the noise of some persons on horseback, which, striking them with a kind of panic ter­ror, they fled precipitately without accomplishing their purpose.

The distress of this unhappy woman may be better imagined than described. Mr. Murray, however, after languishing long, recovered from his wounds. Mr. Stephens, of whom no sus­picion was entertained, still continued his appar­ent friendship and his visits; he seemed to feel the greatest concern for the sufferings of his wounded friend, and professed his willingness to do every thing in his power for his recovery and relief.

Not long after, it happened that Mr. Murray (being now nearly well of his wound) walked out in the evening with his friend Stephens, when they were assaulted by two footpads, who rushed suddenly on them from behind a hedge, but Mr. Stephens being a resolute man, knocked down one of them, and the other ran away. They se­cured their prisoner, and took him to a cottage at a small distance, when Mr. Murray im­mediately recognized him to be the very man who had wounded him in the attempt to cary off his wife; the fellow likewise knew his employer [Page 228] Stephens, who was so struck with confusion at this incident, that he immediately confessed the whole of his villainous plot, and hypocritical conduct; forcing him at the same time to accept of the house in which he lived, and a large piece of land near it, as a slight recompence for the in­jury he had intended to do him; after which he sold his estate in that place, and went to reside in a distant part of the kingdom, where no person had ever heard of the base act of which he had been guilty.

THE DANGER OF A KISS.

THERE is nothing so dangerous to a young woman, as suffering a man she does not dislike, to approach her lips; which too often, when most silent, betray the feelings and the dic­tates of the inmost soul. This caution is not pe­culiarly confined to the maiden, but equally ex­tends to the wife. And so sensible were the wis­est and greatest Romans of the danger of this indelicacy, that Manilius was [...] from the list of senators, for daring to salute his wife in the presence of his daughters.

[Page 229] It is not that there is any immediate criminal­ity in a mere kiss; but it is a freedom which, when allowed, leads to greater familiarities. It is an introduction to something more capital; it is the first page of the preface to seduction and a­dultery. If a married woman would reflect up­on the dignity and honour of her condition, she would be as cautious of yielding a kiss to a stran­ger (for all men should be strangers but the hus­band to her lips) as yielding her virtue; for the woman who suffers any kind of dalliance from a man, reduces her consequence, and gives crude suspicions to the world of her character. Wo­men may be chearful and gay, without giving their hands and mouths to testify their good na­ture and ease. It is the same with the virgin. If she suffers herself to be pulled about and toyed with, and kissed, she would find those very gal­lants the foremost to blow up her fame. It is an idle frippery custom and practised by no people publickly, but the English.

If ladies would in general attentively attend to this observation, we should see fewer unhappy marriages; for I am confident, that the woman who returns a kiss, means to give a silent assent to the man's desires. It is a circumstance which rarely fails, when the man is ungenerous enough to pursue the encouragement.

EPITAPH ON DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Written by himself, many years previous to his death.

THE BODY of BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, Printer, (Like the cover of an old book, Its contents torn out, And stript of its lettering and gilding) Lies here food for worms; Yet the work itself shall not be lost, For it will (as he believed) appear once more, In a new And more beautiful edition, Corrected and amended by The Author.

THE FOUR VIRTUOUS WOMEN.
(From Curiosities of Literature.)

MAHOMET informs us, that among men many have been found perfect; but among women only four. This is an incivility which is [Page 231] not even excusable in a prophet. He even men­tions the four fortunate ladies: Asa, the wife of Pharaoh; Mary the daughter of Imran; Kha­dijah the daughter of Khowailed; and Fatima, the daughter of Mahomet. How it happened that the prophet felt such a partiality for the wife of Pharaoh, and of whom the world knows noth­ing, is a mystery not for us to penetrate. But there is good reason to know why he was so fa­vourable to the other three perfect ladies; one was his nurse, one his wife, and the other his daughter! Should a wit offer the slightest raillery on this absurdity in, Constantinople he would there cease to be a wit, and would become a he­retic. The opinions of men are not less distant from each other than their residence.

TREACHEROUS GUARDIAN.

SOMEWHERE in the great wilderness of Augusta, in an obscure hole, dwells an old, over-grown he-serpent, whom men call Viperly, in every part resembling man; but his internals seem the true copy of his ancestor, first seen in the garden of Eden; many a widow and or­phan he had devoured, whose shadows are still walking up and down the streets of a famous city; yet this much I must needs say for him, he never meddled with the poor, unless it were to thrust him from his gate. This creature had once a friend named Kindman, a person of some wealth, but richer far in his only child Constantia, whom with all his estate he left to the guardian­ship and trust of his friend; and, dying, be­queathed also to his care young Heartly, his dearest friend's son, to whom Kindly was guard­ian; with a positive injunction that he should marry his daughter when she came to the age of sixteen. Heartly was about that age when Kind­man died, and had a handsome estate left him by his father's will, which he was to possess at tweenty-one. Constantia, wholly left to Viper­ly's care, was educated from eight years old till fourteen, at a boarding school, where she had the good fortune to be instructed in the princi­ples [Page 233] of true virtue, which her own natural incli­nation improved to a miracle, nor was she less a proficient in all her other ornamental exercises. Add to these the beauty of her person, which was as extraordinary as those of her mind, and you may believe she might bless any mortal man in a marriage with her. Heartly in the mean time led an academic life about four years, and then made a trip into foreign countries for another twelvemonth, whence he returned at age to take possession of his estate. He soon went to visit Constantia, at the boarding school, and the oft­ener he visited her the more desirable he found her. 'Tis true, at first he loved her very well in her infancy, as it were; but the thoughts of being in a manner confined to marry her, made him less eager of the proffered happiness: yet she always passionately loved him, at least with as much passion as her tender years were capa­ble of, though she knew he was designed for her lord and master. In short they loved each other perfectly. Heartly therefore made it his request to Viperly, that he would please to remove her from the school to his own house, which did not in the least displease him. To Viperly then she was brought, where, for her sake, Hartly took lodgings and lived with her in a pure state of in­nocence and love for about a year and a half. But mark now the instability of human affairs.

[Page] Heartly, when abroad, had contracted as he thought, an inviolable friendship with one Rich­more, a young gentleman of a very great estate, though much inferior to him in parts and per­son. This Richmore, one day to his misfor­tune, he invites to dine with him at Viperly's, in order to shew him the beautiful creature whom he was designed to marry. At the first sight of her, Richmore could hardly make her any compli­ment, or so much as tell her she was beautiful, because he knew it too well. To speak plainly, he fell wickedly in love with her. However, he had the grace, or rather the cunning to conceal it for about a quarter of a year; when finding that his friend's happiness grew nearer and near­er every hour, and that his own passion encreased every minute, he bethought himself of a most damnable expedient to prevent Heartly's bliss, and put an end to his own torments.

Ever since his first entertainment at Viperly's, he had as easy an access to the lady, as Heartly himself, though in Heartly's absence; but now his business was not so immediately directed to her. He came now to tempt the serpent, whom he luckily found at home; and after some compliments enticed from his hole to the tavern, where he began to tell him, that it was in his power to damn or bless him; and that if he would endeavour the last, he [Page 235] would give him two thousand pounds. The old one you may imagine, would not easily let go so fair a proffer; however, he told him, that if there were any thing wherein he might do him ease, and his own conscience no hurt, he might com­mand him, without any reward. Said Richmore then, 'tis only to break off the designed marriage between Heartly and Constantia, for I cannot live without her. Here are two propositions in one, interrupted Viperly, their marriage must be broken off, and you enjoy her. Right, replied Richmore, but if the last be done, 'tother will fall of course; perform but this, and the money is yours the next hour.

In short, the villainous miser promised to effect it: accordingly, with some shew of reason, he soon after persuaded Heartly to go near an hund­red miles from the town to look after some part of his estate, making it so seemingly necessary, that the young gentleman was forced by his in­terest, to leave the town in less than ten days time. And yet not before he had occasion to observe the great intimacy and friendship so lately contract­ed between the old and young gentleman. Where­fore, fearing the worst, he taught Constantia to arm herself against all misfortunes, by an expedi­ent that is not frequently practised, because there are but few young lovers about this town that know how to write a quite contrary thought with [Page 236] a black ink, in a manner, on the same lines on which they had written their true meaning in a white liquid matter, which will appear, the black being obliterated by washing the paper with a third water or mixture.

When Viperly-thought that Heartly was far enough from him, not to see and hear his devil­ship's designs, he brought Richmore one night with him, and was pleased to be very seemingly drunk; or, perhaps, he was really something near it: and then took the liberty to tell Con­stantia, that he had provided a better husband for her than her father's description of her fortune could give her reason to hope. The lady was modestly pleased to answer, that she did truly be­lieve such a person as Richmore, was infinitely beyond the merits of her person or fortune. Richmore replied, by the way of compliment, well enough for a spark of his estate; which he thought, without the help of words, might be suf­ficient to answer the lady's expectation; and, to say truth, he made a very good figure, which no doubt he was desirous to copy. Of this he made her partly sensible that very night; thence she began to be as apprehensive of danger from the young man's love, as she was from the old man's avarice: for within a very few days after, Viper­ly let her know, that it was his determinate plea­sure she should marry Richmore, unless she would [Page 237] make Heartly happy without a groat to her por­tion; which we may imagine, was none of the most obliging discourses that she had ever been entertained with. However, the discourse was not all; for he gave Richmore such villainous opportunities, that none but a virtue like her's could have frustrated his designs.

Once he was concealed in her bed-chamber till she went into bed, and had dismissed her ser­vant; and then all the darkness that her pres­ence could suffer, added something more than a confidence to his desires; which yet, I am apt to think, had been lawful, were it not for her pre­engagement to his friend: but this wicked op­portunity was his sinister friend, and at that first time he took his last leave of those lips which would have cursed him had they been taught; at least they happily deceived him, when she beg­ged of him not to take the advantage of the night, since she would willingly meet his love in a lawful honourable bed; but she was confident, she ad­ded, this could be the contrivance of none but Viperly, or the devil. And continued she, that you may be assured of my truth in this matter, procure a light, and I will immediately write to Mr. Heartly all the most disobliging things that you yourself shall desire me, and with all send to him under my own hand, that I will marry you within these ten days; for if I could not love [Page 238] you, sir, she pursued, I find I must not expect any part of my fortune. This sudden thought of hers, had its desired effect upon him; so tel­ling her that he would expect the performance of her promise before the next day noon he left her. Next morning when he understood he might be admitted, he came again to the cham­ber where he found her writing these words to Heartly, upon a sheet of paper on which she had before written in white ink, a hasty summons to him to come to her rescue.

This little epistle, next to her beauty and for­tune, both which he doubted not to possess, was most obliging to Richmore; he immediately shewed it to Viperly, upon which the young la­dy had the liberty of going out, to buy her in­tended bridal apparel. Meanwhile her new lover took all possible care that her letter might come safe to Heartly's hands; in which, when he re­ceived [Page 239] and washed it over with the proper water, under those hard lines he found these more ten­der words.

The day came, and Heartly had walked in that place from half an hour past one, till the hour appointed, when he saw Constantia led by Richmore. Upon the first sight of Heartly, she forced her hand from the other, and gave it to him. Richmore, said he, I must see you to night at the tavern over the way, if thou canst, without this lady, the hour is seven; till then farewell. Saying so, he walked off with her, and put her into a coach, which carried them to the house of a friend of his not far off. At seven he met Richmore, of whom he designed to have taken satisfaction, for the injuries he had done him in his absence: but Richmore, who was conscious of his guilt, and had really a friendship for him, which renewed at his sight, told him, that possibly he would give him better [Page 240] satisfaction than he could expect from him. At that word, instead of drawing his sword, he drew the writings delivered to him by old Viperly, which concerned all Constantia's estate, and with some confusion begged his pardon, charging his infidelity on the excess of his passion; and now, continued he, I thank heaven, you have returned time enough to preserve both my friendship and honour, though I have lost a mistress by it. Within a few days after, Heartly and Constantia married, as you may well think, without so much as ever calling old Viperly to the wedding, though not long after they called him to an ac­count concerning both their estates, which they obliged him to make good to them to the utmost farthing.

THE ABANDONED INFANT. A TALE.

THE benevolent heart which persists in an act of beneficence, notwithstanding all the mali­cious censures of meaner minds, incapable of un­derstanding its noble and disinterested conduct, is doubly praiseworthy; and it sometimes hap­pens that it does not loose its reward in the sense even of the votaries of self interest, independent of that which it receives from the consciousness of doing good to others.

Lucinda Harvey was a young lady of a most amiable person, and a truly generous and suscep­tible heart. She had lost her father in her early youth, and had lived with her mother, who re­sided in a village at no great distance from Lon­don, on a small jointure. They were not rich, but they were satisfied and happy; and the pro­priety of their deportment procured them the esteem and friendship of all their neighbours.

It happened, that, one evening, as she walked out in a little close behind the house, she found a female infant of about a twelvemonth old, ly­ing on the ground, and crying piteously. The child had evidently been deserted a few hours before, by some person, who had left it there to perish, or be preserved by chance. Lucinda [Page 242] took it up and brought it in to her mother. Ev­ery enquiry was made to discover the person who had thus deserted it, but every enquiry prov­ed fruitless. The child, however, by its beauty, and helpless situation, won so much on the feel­ing heart of the tender Lucinda, that she persuad­ed her mother not to resign it to the rigours of a parish maintenance; but let it be brought up with them, as if it were her sister. "It can re­quire but little," said she, "and who can say how amply providence may repay us." The infant had hanging round its neck, when it was found, the miniature portrait of a gentleman, with the air and countenance of which Lucinda felt herself much impressed, and frequently noticed to her mother the elegance of the figure, and how ably the painter had displayed his art.

As the child grew up, her beauty became every day more apparent; and it was manifest that the strength of her understanding, and the goodness, gentleness, and generosity of her disposition must, in her riper years, give additional force and lus­tre to the charms of her person.

But in the world in which we live, it is not to be supposed that so good, so generous a deed, should entirely escape the insinuations of the mean, or the censures of the malignant. The tea table tattlers, miss Vapid, miss Restless, miss Prattle, and miss Sneer, met on the occasion, and [Page 243] decreed, nem. con. that there was something pro­digiously dark and suspicious in the transac­tion; that it was monstrously incredible that any young lady should maintain a child from mere good nature, tenderness, or generosity; and on breaking up of their convention, immortal, scan­dals stretched their eagle wings, and it soon be­came the firm, unshaken creed of the fashionable gossips of the village, that Lucinda had deigned to lie privately in, and that the child she protected and cherished was no other than her own.

As Lucinda's personal and mental accomplish­ments had given much secret offence to many of her female acquaintances, the destruction of her character became a delicious treat to them, and more than one gentleman of fortune, who was on the point of making honourable and advantage­ous proposals to Lucinda, were deterred from it by these buzzing slanders. Still, however, she remained firm; she still treated the child as her sister or daughter; deigned to give no answer to the base insinuations of little minds; nor would she as her mother wished, consent to leave the place where such base reports had been circulated.

In the mean time, ten long years had rolled away, and Lucinda had not even received any se­rious offers of marriage; and as she was now eight and twenty, though her charms yet shone in all their lustre, her envious rivals enjoyed their [Page 244] triumph, and began to hope the time approach­ing, when they might confer on her the title of Old Maid.

About this time it chanced that a Mr. Horton, a gentleman who had gone out to India some years before, and rapidly made a fortune, returning home to enjoy the fruits of his good success in his native country, purchased a house and estate in the neighbourhood of the village in which Lu­cinda and her mother resided. He met with Lu­cinda at the assembly, and being pleased with her conversation, made several visits to her and her mother. Lucinda had remarked, the first time she saw him, the strong resemblance there was between his features and those of the portrait she had found on the deserted Laura, for by that name she had called the child she had found and pro­tected: and this resemblance excited in her breast a kind of esteem for him, before she became acquainted with the good qualities of his heart and understanding.

But the scandalous reports that had been so long circulated to the discredit of Lucinda, were soon industriously transmitted to Mr. Horton's ear; the consequence of which was, that his vi­sits became much less frequent, and his behaviour to that lady sensibly different from what it had hitherto been.

[Page 245] Lucinda, now, for the first time, felt that the venomed shafts of slander could reach her, and destroy her peace: though Mr. Horton had too much politeness to give even the slightest hint of the cause of alteration in his behaviour towards her, she easily conceived from what source it arose, and the first opportunity that presented, related to him with equal candour and emotion, the story of finding the child, and the subsequent at­tacks made on her character by malicious scandal. This she declared, and declared with truth, was the first time she had felt any pain from these in­sinuations, and the first time she had ever at­tempted to defend herself, and she had only done it now because she could not bear to lose the es­teem of a gentleman, of whose good sense and generosity she had too high an opinion, to ima­gine he would listen for a moment to such false and malicious suggestions, when he had heard the truth. She ended by showing him the picture she had found with the child.

Mr. Horton viewed the picture with equal sur­prise and emotion; he instantly knew it for his own portrait, and the child for his own daughter. "Madam," said he, "your innocence is appar­ent indeed; suffer me to confess my folly and my fault. This picture is my portrait; it has marks on it which preclude all doubt, and your Laura is my daughter. Before I went to India, I had a [Page 246] connection (not greatly to my honour) with a woman of mean character, by whom I had this child. I left her with what money I could spare, and made several remittances, but could never learn what became of her. Since my return I have made every enquiry, but have only been able to learn that soon after I left her, she went to live with some fellow of a character similar to her own, and has not been heard of since. It is probable they abandoned the child as an embar­rassment. Your tenderness and generous kind­ness have preserved it! and if I am so fortunate as to be agreeable to you, my hand, my fortune, and my heart, shall be your's."

In a short time after, Lucinda was married to Mr. Horton, and, triumphing over every scanda­lous suggestion, became, by law, the mother of her adopted child.

A SINGULAR STORY OF MR. STANLEY.

CAPTAIN James Stanley, who had been an officer in the king's army, during the civil wars which began in the year 164 [...], and had lost by the sequestration succeeding them the largest part of his estate, retired to spend the remnant of his days on one of his farms, which he had found means to preserve in the name of a relation of the contrary party, and which was seated in that part of Glocestershire which borders on the Severn.

He survived but a little the ruins of his cause, and dying in retirement, left his wife a young widow, with that farm for her jointure, whose rent, when last lett, had been about 5001. per annum: she had a son under nine years of age, whom she took from a school he was sent to in the life-time of his father, and kept him at home, as a means to divert or alleviate her sorrow.

Robert Stanley, this son, discovered a genius much bent to a love of the country. He would often delight to be present at the plowings, the threshings, and such other business of the ser­vants, and was every year diligent in picking up acorns, as they fell from some trees which grew about his mother's house which acorns he would [Page 248] be whole days employing himself in making holes for, and planting up and down in the banks of the hedge-rows or enclosure.

The mother, however, was advised, when her son reached fifteen, to send him to London, where the law was believed the most hopeful employment he could follow. He was therefore recommended to the care of an attorney, with whom he lived several years; and afterwards setting up for himself, miscarried in the business, and either through fear of his mother's displea­sure, or the weight of some debts he had con­tracted, procured recommendations for some small preferment abroad, and went over to Jamaica, which was then newly settled by the English.

In Jamaica, from a very narrow beginning, he obtained by the success of his industry a consi­derable plantation, and lived in that island al­most twenty years; at the end of which time he grew desirous to visit England again, and there settle near his mother, who was still alive and impatient to see him.

In pursuit of this view, he fold his plantation, and freighted a ship with his effects, put himself and his family on board her, and set sail for Bris­tol; to which he was so near as the island of Scilly, by the Land's End off Cornwall, when the ship by a storm in the night unfortunately split upon a rock, where nothing at all of her cargo, [Page 249] was saved; and with very much difficulty some few of the passengers, among whom was Mr. Stanley himself, thus restored to his country in a condition more naked and miserable than he left it.

He found means, however, to get soon to his mother, who received him with that mixture of sorrow and joy which was natural to the occa­sion; and when her first emotions were over, and her passions grew calm enough to hear him at large give an account of his shipwreck and the particulars of his loss by it, she answered him with a sigh—That she feared some misfortune would befal him wherever he was, because a few days before, an unusual high wind had blown down above a hundred of those oaks which she had cherished for his sake, and which he might remember when a boy, he had planted from the acorn all about the estate; but she thanked God, there were many yet left standing, which she hop­ed was a good omen, that he would overcome his misfortunes.

A good omen indeed, cried Mr. Stanley, if in nigh thirty years growth they are so large as I wish them; for but a day or two ago, in the city of Bristol, I met with a person who was pur­posely employed, and is making enquiry, with a great deal of earnestness, after sound, young oak timber, a great parcel of which sort he is commissioned to purchase.

[Page 250] The end of the story is, that upon examina­tion they found above seventeen hundred such oaks as they sold for forty shillings a-piece, with which stock Mr. Stanley began a new trade, and became as considerable a merchant as any in the West; and, in memory of this fortunate acci­dent, he preserved from the axe about twenty of the trees which grew nearest the house, which trees (though the estate is now fallen to another family) are known to this day by the name of 'Save-all Remnant.'

This example of a gentleman preserved from such ruin, in the middle of his life, by the inno­cent and unmeaning diversion of his childhood, together with what is told us by the famous Sir Richard Weston, of a merchant of his acquaint­ance, who planted with his own hands so much wood that he sold it in his life-time for fifty thou­sand pounds sterling; these examples, we say, are sufficient to excite a new vigour in our Country Gentlemen, who might easily improve upon the hint, so far as to ease their estates of a burden which often oppresses, and sometimes destroys them: we mean where a gentleman leaves many daughters, for whose fortunes the estate is the fund, and stands mortgaged to provide for them.

[Page 251] How easily were the inconvenience prevented, if at the birth of a daughter but ten acres of land were set out from the estate, and, after be­ing carefully enclosed, were well planted with timber-trees.

Suppose, for example, they were fir-trees, which are found to thrive readily in all parts of England: four thousand such trees would grow twenty years together on ten acres of land without galling each other; at the end of which term they would, one with another, be worth twenty shillings a-piece for small masts for vessels, and many other good uses; so that here were (almost without loss or expence) a fortune of four thou­sand pounds provided for the young lady by that time she grows marriageable, and her father's estate not charged with a penny towards raising it.

The same thing being done, only charging the kind of tree, planted at every new birth of a daughter or son, would effectually provide for them all as fast as they grow up, like a plow kept at work for their benefit, even they were sleeping; there is, we may hope, no elder bro­ther in England who will dislike this particular part of this essay, whatever his opinion may be of the other.

AN INTERESTING NARRATIVE.

AT the dreadful epoch of the unfor­tunate affair of Nancy, twenty-two soldiers of the regiment Chateau-Vieux were condemned to condign punishment. As the fatal procession was passing through a narrow street, one of the soldiers condemned, contrived, amidst the press, to slip unobserved into a passage, the door of which was open. It was the house of his mis­tress. Conceive her transport to find her lover in her arms, at the moment she was bewailing his death.

One victim at the place of execution was found wanting to the number. Search was every where made for the fugitive, but in vain. It was re­newed with all the keenness, and all the sa­gacity of blood-hounds; but the destined ob­ject of vengeance eluded the utmost penetration and diligence of his pursuers. He was all this while concealed in a corn-loft, where he had been secreted by his mistress, and where she found means to nourish him for three months unknown to her parents.

A rich farmer of Basle, who had heard no­thing of his son since the carnage of Nancy, and the horrible execution of the Swiss, could no [Page 253] longer resist his uneasiness, and the desire he felt to be ascertained of his fate. For this purpose he undertook a journey to Nancy, but though his concern excited pity, and his enquiries interested all to whom they were addressed, there were none who could afford him the desired information. At last he learned with transport that his son had escaped the fate of his companions, and was di­rected by a soldier to the house of his mistress, as a place where it was probable he might obtain farther intelligence.

He repaired immediately to the house, but the mistress of his son pretended an entire igno­rance; and notwithstanding the particulars of his family, which he mentioned in their conversation; preserved the most cautious silence. She pro­mised, however to make enquiry, and desired him to call in an hour. The soldier immediately recognized his father, from the description given of him by his mistress. The farmer returned to a minute.

The father and son flew into the arms of each other with all the ardour such a meeting might produce. As soon as the first transports were over, the father joined the hands of his son and his mistress, and pronouncing over them a pater­nal benediction—"You have preserved his life, said he to her; the only recompence I can offer you is himself!"

THE HILL OF LIFE. A VISION.

A GENTLE ascent led to a lofty emi­nence, and on the summit was a level plain, of no great extent. The boundaries of it could not indeed be easily ascertained: for as the ascent on one side was easy and gradual, so the slope on the other continued almost imperceptible till it terminated at once in an abrupt declivity.

At the first entrance of the hill I observed great numbers of infants crawling on beds of primroses, or sleeping on pillows formed by the moss. They frequently smiled, and their sweet countenances, seemed to express a complacency and joy in the consciousness of their new exist­ence. Many indeed wept and wailed, but their sorrow though pungent, was short, and the sight of a pretty leaf or flower would cause a smile in the midst of their tears; so that nothing was more common than to see two drops trickling down cheeks which were dimpled with smiles. I was so delighted with the scenes of innocence, that I felt an impulse to go and play with the little tribe, when, just as I was advancing, I felt a wand strike my shoulder, and turning my eyes on one side, I beheld a venerable figure, with a white beard, and a grey mantle elegantly thrown round him.

[Page 255] My son, said he, I see your curiosity is raised, and I will gratify it; but you must not move from this place, which is the most advantageous spot for the contemplation of the scene before you.

You hill is the Hill of Life, a pageant which I have raised by the magic influence of this wand, to amuse you with an instructive picture.

The beauteous innnocents whom you see at the foot of the hill, present you with the idea of angels and cherubs, and of such indeed is the kingdom of Heaven. Simplicity and innocence are their amiable qualities, and the more of them they retain in their ascent, the happier and love­lier shall they be during the whole of their jour­ney.

But raise your eyes a little space. You see a lively train intent to learn, under the sage instruc­tors who accompany them, the easiest and safest way of ascending and descending the hill which lies before them. They often run from the side of their guides and lose themselves among the shrubs that blossom around them. Some give no ear to instruction, and consequently are con­tinually deviating among thorns, thistles, nettles, and brambles. Their errors are at present re­trievable, and few fall in the pitfalls with which the hill abounds. Joy illuminates their counte­nances. Theirs are the ruddy cheek, the spark­ling eye, lively spirits, and unwearied activity. [Page 256] They retain a great share of the innocence with which they set out, and therefore they are cheer­ful. Enviable age, if reason were mature! But folly, wantonness, frowardness of temper, and ignorance, greatly interrupt and spoil their en­joyments. Fruits of delicious taste grow around them, and flowrets of the sweetest scent and most beautiful colour spring beneath their feet. But they soon grow tired of this lower part of the hill, and ambitiously aspire at higher eminences.

Behold them a few paces higher. They ad­vance with eagerness, and many of them forsake the guides which have conducted them thus far in their ascent. They hasten in their course, nor do they adhere to the direct road, but deviate without scruple. Some indeed return, but the greater part climb the hill by paths of their own choice, full of difficulty and danger. The pit­falls which are placed in every part of the hill are in this part very numerous, and not easily to be avoided by those who forsake the high road. There are, indeed, no parts of the hill in which a guide is more necessary than here, nor any in which travellers are less inclined to seek his assistance.

You see the beauty of the blossoms—you hear the music of the birds—all nature seems to con­spire in affording delight; but too many of the travellers preserve not that innocence and simpli­city which are necessary to give a taste for the [Page 257] pleasures which are allowed. Instead of pluck­ing the flowers which are known to be safe and salutary, they desire none but such as are poison­ous. The aspiring nature of the travellers leads them to continue the ascent, and by this time you see they have reached the level summit, where you observe a prodigious crowd, all busy in pur­suit of their several objects. Their faces are clouded with care, and in the ardour of pursuit they neglect those pleasures which lie before them. Most of them have now lost a great share of their original innocence and simplicity, and many of them have lost it entirely.

And now they begin to descend. Their cheer­fulness and alacrity are greatly abated. Many limp, and some already crawl. The numbers di­minish almost every step; for the pitfalls are multiplied on this side of the hill, and many of the travellers have neither strength nor sagacity to avoid them. Many delightful scenes remain. Fruit in great abundance grows around them. But the greater part, you may remark, are care­less of the obvious and natural pleasures which they might reach and enjoy, and are eagerly dig­ging in the earth for yellow dust, on which they have placed an imaginary value. Behold one who has just procured a load of it, under which he is ready to sink. He totters along in haste to [Page 258] find a hiding-place for it; but before he has found it, himself is hidden from our eyes: for lo! while I speak, he is dropping into a pitfall. Most of his companions will follow him; but you see no one is alarmed by the example. The de­scent is become very steep and abrupt, and few there are who will reach the bottom of the hill. Of those few, not one advances without stumb­ling on the edge of the pitfalls, from which he can scarcely recover his feeble foot. Ah! while I speak they are all gone!

And is this a picture of life? said I: Alas! how little do they seem to enjoy it! Surely some error must infatuate them all. O say! that I may avoid it and be happy.

My son, said my benevolent guide, do not has­tily form an opinion derogatory from the value of life. It is a glorious opportunity afforded by the Creator for the acquisition of happiness. Cast your eyes on yonder plain, which lies at the bot­tom of the hill, and behold the horrizon.

I looked, and behold a cloud, tinged with pur­ple and gold, parted in the centre, and displayed a scene at which my eyes were dazzled. I closed them a while to recover the power of vision, and when I opened them, I saw a figure in which ma­jesty and benevolence were awfully united. He fat on a throne with every appearance of triumph, and at his feet lay a cross;—and I heard a voice [Page 259] saying, "Come again, ye children of men."—And lo the plain opened in more places than I could number, and myriads of myriads started into existence, with bodies beautiful and glorious. And the voice proceeded, "In my father's house are many mansions. Ye have all fallen short of the perfection for which ye were created; but some have been less unprofitable servants than others; and to them are allotted the more exal­ted places of bliss; but there remain mansions appropriated to all the sons of men. I have re­deemed the very worst of them from the tyran­ny of death. Rise therefore to your respective mansions, enter into the joy of the Lord." He said—when the sound of instruments, sweeter than the unpurged ear ever heard, rang through­out heaven's concave; and the glorified bodies beneath rose like the sun in the east, and took their places in the several planets which form what is called our Solar System. I was trans­ported with the sight, and was going to fall on my knees, and supplicate to be admitted among the aspiring spirits, when to my mortification, I thought I was suddenly placed on the side of the hill, where I had to climb a steep as­cent. I wept bitterly when my guide remons­trated with me on the unreasonableness of my tears, since none were to be admitted to glory who had not travelled the journey which I had [Page 260] seen so many others travel. Keep innocence, said he, do justice, walk humbly. He said no more, but preparing to depart, touched me with his wand, and I awoke.

AN AFFECTING NARRATIVE.
From "The OBSERVER," a series of Essays upon different Subjects, Written by R. CUMBERLAND, Esq.

THE following story is so extraordi­nary, that if I had not had it from good au­thority in the country where it happened, I should have considered it as the invention of some poet for the fable of a drama.

A Portuguese gentleman, whom I shall beg leave to describe no otherwise than by the name of Don Juan, was lately brought to trial for pois­oning his half-sister by the same father, after she was with child by him. This gentleman had for some years before his trial led a very solitary life at his castle in the neighbourhood of Mon­tremos, a town on the road between Lisbon and Badajos, the frontier garrison of Spain. I was [Page 261] shewn his castle, as I passed through that dismal country, about a mile distant from the road, in a bottom surrounded with cork trees, and never saw a more melancholy habitation. The cir­cumstances which made against this gentleman were so strong, and the story was in such general circulation in the neighbourhood where he lived, that although he laid out the greatest part of a considerable income in acts of charity, nobody ever entered his gates to thank him for his boun­ty, or solicit relief, except one poor father of the Jeronymite convent in Montremos, who was his confessor, and acted as his almoner at discretion.

A charge of so black a nature, involving the crime of incest as well as murder, at length reach­ed the ears of justice, and a commission was sent to Montremos, to make enquiry into the case. The supposed criminal made no attempt to es­cape, but readily attended the summons of the Commissioners. Upon the trial it came out, from the confusion of the prisoner, as well as from the deposition of witnesses, that Don Juan had lived from his infancy in the family of a rich merchant at Lisbon, who carried on a considera­ble trade and correspondence in the Brazils. Don Juan being allowed to take the merchant's name, it was generally supposed that he was his natural son, and a clandestine affair of love hav­ing been carried on between him and the merch­ant's [Page 262] daughter Josepha, who was an only child, she became pregnant; and a medicine being ad­ministered to her by the hands of Don Juan, she died in a few hours after, with all the symptoms of a person who had taken poison. The mother of the young lady survived her death but a few days, and the father threw himself into a con­vent of Mendicants, making over, by deed of gift, the whole of his property to the supposed murderer.

In this account there seemed a strange obscu­rity of facts; for some made strongly to the crim­ination of Don Juan, and the last mentioned cir­cumstance was of so contradictory a nature, as to throw the whole into perplexity; and therefore to compel the prisoner to a further elucidation of the case, it was thought proper to interrogate him by torture.

Whilst this was preparing, Don Juan without betraying the least alarm at what was going for­ward, told his judges that it would save them and himself some trouble, if they would receive his confession upon certain points, to which he would truly speak, but beyond which all the tortures in the world could not force one syllable. He said he was not the son, as it was supposed, of the merchant with whom he lived, nor allied to the deceased Josepha any otherwise than by the ten­derest ties of mutual affection, and a promise of [Page 263] marriage, which, however, he acknowledged he had not solemnized: That he was the nso of a gen­tleman of considerable fortune in the Brazils, who left him an infant to the care of the merch­ant in question: That the merchant, for rea­sons best known to himself, chose to call him by his own name; and this being done in his infan­cy, he was taught to believe, that he was an or­phan youth, the son of a distant relation of the person who adopted him; he begged his judges therefore to observe, that he never understood Josepha to be his sister: That as to her being with child by him, he acknowledged it, and pray­ed God forgiveness for an offence, which it had been his intention to repair by marrying her: That with respect to the medicine, he certainly did give it her with his own hands, for that she was sick in consequence of her pregnancy, and being afraid of creating alarm or suspicion in her parents, had required him to order certain drugs from an apothecary, as if for himself, which he accordingly did; and he verily believed they were faithfully mixed, inasmuch as he stood by the man whilst he prepared the medicine, and saw every ingredient separately put in.

The judges thereupon asked him, if he would take it on his conscience to say, that the lady did not die by poison? Don Juan, bursting into tears for the first time, answered, to his eternal [Page 264] sorrow he knew that she did die by poison—Was that poison contained in the medicine she took?—It was—Did he impute the crime of mixing the poison in the medicine to the apothe­cary, or did he take it on himself?—Neither the apothecary nor himself was guilty—Did the lady from a principle of shame (he was asked) commit the act of suicide, and infuse the poison without his knowledge?—He started into horror at the question, and took God to witness, that she was innocent of the deed.

The judges seemed now confounded, and for a time abstained from any further interrogatories, debating the matter amongst themselves by whis­pers; when one of them observed to the prison­er, that according to his confession he had said she did die by poison, and yet by the answers he had now given, it should seem as if he meant to acquit every person on whom suspicion could possibly rest: there was however one interrogatory left, which, unnatural as it was, he would put to him for form's sake only, before they proceeded to greater extremities, and that question involved the father or mother of the lady—Did he mean to impute the horrid intention of murdering their child to the parents?—No, replied the prisoner in a firm tone of voice, I am certain no such in­tention ever entered the hearts of the unhappy parents, and I should be the worst of sinners, if I [Page 265] imputed it to them. The judges upon this de­clared with one voice, that he was trifling with the court, and gave orders for the rack; they would however for the last time demand of him, if he knew who it was that did poison Josepha? to which he answered without hesitation, that he did know, but that no tortures should force him to declare it, and they might dispose of him as they saw fit; he could not die in greater tor­tures than he had lived.

They now took this peremptory recusant, and stripping him of his upper garments, laid him on the rack; a surgeon was called in, who kept his singers on his pulse; and the executioners were directed to begin their tortures. They had giv­en him one severe stretch by ligatures fixed to his extremities and passed over an axle, which was turned by a windlass: the strain upon his mus­cles and joints, by the action of this infernal en­gine was dreadful, and Nature spoke her suffer­ings by a horrid crash in every limb; the sweat started in large drops upon his face and bosom; yet the man was firm amidst the agonies of the machine, not a groan escaped, and the fiend who was superintendant of the hellish work, declared they might encrease his tortures upon the next tug, for that his pulse had not not varied a stroke, nor abated of its strength in the smallest degree.

[Page 266] The tormentors had now began a second oper­ation with more violence than the former, which their devilish ingenuity had contrived to vary, so as to extort acuter pains from the application of the engine, to parts that had not yet had their full share of the first agony; when suddenly a Monk rushed into the chamber, and called out to the judges to desist from torturing that innocent man, and take the confession of the murderer from his own lips. Upon a signal from the judges, the executioners let go the engine at once, and the joints snapped audibly into their sockets with the elasticity of a bow. Nature sunk under the re­vulsion, and Don Juan fainted on the rack. The Monk immediately with a loud voice exclaimed, Inhuman wretches, delegates of hell, and agents of the devil, make ready your engine for the guilty, and take off your bloody hands from the innocent; for behold! (and so doing he threw back his cowl) behold the father and the mur­derer of Josepha!—

The whole assembly started with astonishment; the judges stood aghast; and even the demons of torture rolled their eye-balls with horror and dismay.

If you are willing, says he to the judges, to receive my confession, whilst your tormentors are preparing their rack for the vilest criminal ever stretched upon it, hear me! if not, set your [Page 267] engine to work without further inquiry, and glut your appetites with human agonies, which once in your lives you may now inflict with justice.

Proceed said the senior judge.

That guiltless sufferer, who now lies insensible before my eyes, said the Monk, is the son of an excellent father, who was once my dearest friend; he was confided to my charge, being then an in­fant, and my friend followed his fortunes to our settlements in the Brazils: he resided there twenty years without visiting Portugal once in the time; he remitted to me many sums of money on his son's account. At this time a hellish thought arose in my mind, which the distress of my af­fairs and a passion for extravagance inspired, of converting the property of my charge to my own account. I imparted these suggestions to my unhappy wife, who is now at her account; let me do her the justice to confess she withstood them firmly for a time. Still fortune frowned upon me, and I was sinking in my credit every hour; ruin stared me in the face, and nothing stood be­tween me and immediate disgrace but this infa­mous expedient.

At last persuasion, menaces, and the impending pressure of necessity conquered her virtue, and she acceded to the fraud. We agreed to adopt the in­fant as the orphan son of a distant relation of our own name. I maintained a correspondence with [Page 268] his father by letters pretended to be written by the son, and I supported my family in a splendid extravagance by the assignments I received from the Brazils. At length the father of Don Juan died, and by will bequeathed his fortune to me in failure of his son and heirs. I had already advanced so far in guilt, that the temptation of this contingency met with no resistance in my mind; and determining upon removing this bar to my ambition, I proposed to my wife to se­cure the prize that fortune had hung within our reach, by the assassination of the heir. She re­volted from the idea with horror, and for some time her thoughts remained in so disturbed a state, that I did not think it prudent to renew the attack. After some time, the agent of the de­ceased arrived in Lisbon from the Brazils, and as he was privy to my correspondence, it became necessary for me to discover to Don Juan who he was, and also what fortune he was intitled to. In this crisis, threatened with shame and detection on one hand, and tempted by avarice, pride, and the devil on the other, I won over my reluctant wife to a participation of my crime, and we mix­ed that dose with poison, which we believed was intended for Don Juan, but which in fact was destined for our only child.

She took it; Heaven discharged its ven­geance on our heads, and we saw our daughter [Page 269] expire in agonies before our eyes, with the bit­ter aggravation of a double murder, for the child was alive within her. Are there words in lan­guage to express our lamentations? Are there tortures in the reach of even your invention to compare with those we felt? Wonderful were the struggles of nature in the heart of our expi­ring child: she bewailed us, she consoled, nay she even forgave us. To Don Juan we made immediate confession of our guilt, and conjured him to inflict that punishment upon us which justice demanded, and our crimes deserved. It was in this dreadful moment that our daughter with her last breath, by the most solemn adjura­tions, exacted and obtained a promise from Don Juan not to expose her parents to a public exe­cution by disclosing what had passed. Alas! alas! we see too plainly how he kept his word: behold, he dies a martyr to honour! your in­fernal tortures have destroyed him.—

No sooner had the Monk pronounced these words in a loud and furious tone, than the wretched Don Juan drew a sigh; a second would have followed, but Heaven no longer could tole­rate the agonies of innocence, and stopped his heart for ever.

The Monk had fixed his eyes upon him, ghastly with terror; and as he stretched out his mangled limbs at life's last gasp, Accursed mons­ters, [Page 270] he exclaimed, may God requite his murder on your souls at the great day of Judgment! His blood be on your heads, ye ministers of dark­ness! For me, if heavenly vengeance is not yet appeased by my contrition, in the midst of flames my aggrieved soul will find some consolation in the thought, that you partake its torments.

Having uttered this in a voice scarce human, he plunged a knife to his heart, and, whilst his blood spouted on the pavement, dropped dead upon the body of Don Juan, and expired without a groan.

NOURADIN AND FATIMA. AN EASTERN TALE.

IN one of the most beautiful vallies that lies upon the borders of the capital of the East, lived Jezdad, an innoffensive shepherd; he had but one child, and having been bereft of his wife for many years, his whole stock of tenderness was bestowed on Fatima. Though fortune had not been lavish of her gifts to the father of Fati­ma, yet he wanted not the necessaries or com­forts, [Page 271] of life; his cottage was clean, and furnish­ed with every thing useful; his fields and flocks supplied them with food and raiment. Fatima was coarse in her person, but she was chearful and good-natured: She rose with the feathered songsters, and, while performing the duties of her station, carolled forth some simple ditty in wild untutored notes. Her whole study was to please her father, and to prepare his meals. She never repined at hard labour, and a smile from Jezdad was like a cordial to revive her spirits. When oppressed with fatigue, she would assist, unasked, in the most laborious employments; and at eve, by the pale light of Cynthia, she would lightly trip with her young companions, while her fath­er played on the flagelet. The mind of Fatima was as calm as the delights of Paradise.

One day she was sent to the grand visier's with fruits for his favourite, and was conducted by an eunuch into the garden, where the beautiful Se­mira was reposing on a bed of roses, clad in all the pomp of eastern magnificence, while two slaves were fanning her to rest. Fatima had never be­fore seen aught but simplicity. She was filled with wonder and astonishment at the surprising beauty and grandeur of Semira, and as she gaz­ed, envy and discontent crept into her hitherto guileless bosom.

[Page 272] She returned home with a mind totally chang­ed from what it was; her rural pastimes no more delighted—labour was now a trouble. She had been a witness to the case and indolence of Semira; if she caught a glimpse of her own sha­dow in the stream, she turned from it with hor­ror and disgust. Her days were joyless, and her nights spent in moaning and bewailing her un­happy lot. The colour fled from her cheeks, and she became the picture of despair.

One evening, deaf to the solicitations of her young companions, she retired to a thick grove, and, inattentive to the distant notes of the flage­let, thus found vent for her grief:

"Oh! wretched Fatima, unhappy maid! Why was I born to know so hard a fate, to eat the bread of labour, and sleep upon a peasant's home­ly couch; while Semira is surrounded with splen­dour, is served by kneeling slaves, and sleeps on a bed of down!—And why has nature denied me those ravishing beauties it has so bountifully showered on her; her eyes so sparkling, her lips so tempting red, and then her hand and arm so finely turned, so delicately white!—Oh! why was I not lovely as Semira, and favourite to the grand visier?—But my own being is intolerable, I will no longer bear it, but in yon limpid stream lose at once myself, and the remembrance of Semira."

[Page 273] She rose from the ground, and was hastening towards the brook, when the genii Nouradin ap­peared, and thus addressed her:

"Thy complaints are just, O Fatima! and if thou wilt relinquish thy home, and forsake thy father, thou shalt enjoy the utmost extent of thy wishes."

Fatima complied, and the genii touching her with his wand, and sprinkling her with mystic water, she was transformed into a beautiful vir­gin, and was conveyed into the garden of one of the palaces belonging to the grand visier.

The beautiful Semira had the day before of­fended her lord, and was no longer a favourite. Fatima attracted the notice of the visier; he took her into the palace, he clothed her with rich silks, adorned her with jewels, and she supplied the place of the degraded Semira.

Fatima now thought herself the happiest among the happy; but the visier was passionate, caprici­ous, and exceedingly cruel. It was not long be­fore she found that the favourite of the grand vi­sier lived only in splendid slavery. But though said she often to herself, though the grand visier's favourite is miserable, how superlatively happy must be the favourite sultana of my lord the em­peror. Oh! could I but fill that envied place, how soon should the imperious visier suffer for his barbarity to me. Again did the bosom of Fa­tima [Page 274] experience all the miseries of discontent;—the vaulted roofs, spacious gardens, and rich pres­ents of the visier no longer charmed; she sighed for the ensigns of royalty, and her pillow was nightly bedewed with her tears.

One evening she retired to an arbour at the extremity of the garden, and throwing herself on the bank where she had first seen Semira, thus poured forth her complaints.

"Oh! miserable Fatima! how hard, a lot is this!—Condemned to drag out a wretched life with a man who studies only his own gratification, and expects me to be the slave of his caprice and passion.—Oh! could I but get from this detested place, I would fly to my lord the emperor, and bow myself low in the dust before him;—my charms might captivate his royal heart, and I might nobly reign empress of the East.

As she spoke these words a sudden light en­tered the arbour, and the genius Nouradin ap­peared before her.

"Beautiful Fatima," said he, "forbear your complaints; the prophet permits you to enjoy your wish; then rise, and instantly follow me."

The genii instantly transported her to the em­peror's palace, and placed her along with a num­ber of beautiful virgins, which were the next mor­ning to be shewn to the emperor, that he might chuse a favourite.

[Page 275] In the morning, the emperor passed through the apartment, and his choice fell upon Fatima. She was clothed in all the ensigns of royalty, led in state to the mosque, and in a few hours after, heard herself proclaimed empress of the East.

But deluded Fatima, to the idea of royalty had connected the ideas of youth and beauty. How surprized was she to find the emperor old, ugly, and deformed in his person, morose in his dispo­sition, and jealous to an extreme. She shrunk from him with horror, and contracted so settled an aversion to his person, that it was not all the grandeur and pomp that atttended her could com­pensate for her being obliged to suffer his loathed embraces.

Among the slaves that attended on Fatima was the beautiful Zynina, who had long with envious eyes beheld the ensigns of royalty bestowed on others, and only watched an opportunity to ingra­tiate herself with the emperor; to this end she artfully cultivated the friendship of the new queen, and, by degrees, drew from her the reason of her tears and dejection. This intelligence was instant­ly conveyed to the emperor, with the addition of Fatima's heart being dedicated to another. The emperor, willing to be convinced of the sincerity of Zynina's declaration, desired to be concealed in an apartment adjoining to the queen's, where he might easily hear any thing that passed between [Page 276] her and the deceitful slave, who immediately re­turned to her mistress, and renewed the conver­sation. Fatima, glad to unburthen her almost breaking heart, was easily led to confess her set­tled aversion to her lord; and that death itself would be preferable to her present situation.—"Then death be thy portion!" cried the enraged emperor, furiously rushing into the room, and lifting his glittering scymitar.

Fatima fell upon her knees, and, bursting into a flood of tears, cried, "Oh! that I was an hum­ble cottager, and had never known the pangs that wait on greatness!" At that instant she found herself clad in her former homely apparel, stand­ing by her father's cottage, when the genius again appeared, and thus addressed her.

"Fatima, I have shewn you the vanity of hu­man wishes; learn from hence to be content with the allotments of Providence. Whatever be your situation in life, submit to it without repin­ing, and know, that our holy prophet, who or­dereth all things in this terrestial globe, knoweth what is best for mortals; therefore, fulfil the re­spective duties of thy station to the best of thy power; envy not the wealth or splendour of ano­ther, but humbly take the blessings within thy reach, enjoy them, and be thankful."

THE HAPPY COTTAGER; or the REWARD OF VIRTUE. A TALE.

A REMOTE village in Oxfordshire, famed for its rural beauties, was possessed of a poor yet industrious cottager, who had a lovely daughter and his only child. The innocent sim­plicity of her manners, blended with paternal af­fection for an aged and only parent, rendered her charms peculiarly fascinating and amiable.

Sylvia was so extremely beautiful, and the symmetry of her features so exquisitely delicate, that a young gentleman in the same village, en­dowed with a liberal fortune, refined accomplish­ments, and engaging condescension, was so vio­lently attached to her person, that he was con­tinually dispatching his servant with present [...] her—at the same time, wishing to conceal [...] rank, desired him not to acquaint the object of his admiration from whom such tokens of esteem were sent. The servant of Mr. Norman (which was the gentleman's name) made such frequent visits to the humble cottage of our fair heroine, that the fond protector of his female offspring became alarmed for the safety of his affectionate child.

[Page 278] Three days had scarcely elapsed, before the faithful messenger was again sent to relieve the distressed father of his beloved Sylvia; a purse of gold was presented to the rustic cottager, with a letter to the following purport:

Sylvia perused the letter with great attention, and pathetically exclaimed, "My dear father, the numerous presents I have received from an unknown friend, proves to be from Mr. Nor­man of our village—the assistance you have like­wise experienced, comes from the same kind benefac­tor!—How shall we thank him enough?" Upon [Page 279] which her aged parent replied, "My dear child, it is not in our power to make Mr. Norman the smallest acknowledgment for the favours he has bestowed on us. Alas! may heaven be the re­ward of his goodness, is my ardent prayer." He had scarce uttered the last sentence when a flood of tears, the result of gratitude, bedewed his wrinkled cheeks.

A short time had only expired, before Mr. Norman and his servant rode up to the cottage door, upon which he beheld his lovely Sylvia dil­igently sitting at a spinning-wheel. He immedi­ately alighted, when she with the modest blush of nature accosted him, and begged he would be seated under their humble roof; upon which he sat down with apparently more real satisfaction than in his own superb mansion.

The following is a short delineation of his conversation to the father of Sylvia:

"My good and worthy cottager, I have long entertained a secret and tender passion for your most virtuous daughter; I am now come to de­clare my honourable intention; my future hap­piness and comfort depends entirely on your ap­probation for me as a son-in-law; the remainder of your days will, I hope, be made happy through the medium of my fortune, which shall be at your daughter's disposal on the day of marriage.

[Page 280] The honest cottager replied, "My good sir, my daughter is not worthy of so good a gentle­man as you are; it distresses me to think you will have so poor a relation as me—my heart is too full of gratitude to say more."

Mr. Norman and Sylvia were happily united a short time after this interview; and from the obscure roof of a cottage, she removed to a splen­did mansion, where she was universally respected as the wife of Mr. Norman; her fond parent was also made comfortable for life.

ACCOUNT OF A REMARKABLE TRIAL BY COMBAT.

THE Chevalier John Carouge, vassal of the count d'Alencon, who was married to a young and beautiful lady, was obliged to make a sea-voyage on some occasion, in which his for­tune was at stake; he accordingly left his wife at his castle, where she was observed to comport herself with great prudence. It happened (says the historian Froissard, who relates this affair) that the devil entered into Jacques le Gris, ano­ther vassal to the count d'Alencon, and by his wicked temptations inspired him with a desire to enjoy the lady of the chevalier Carouge.

[Page 281] Accordingly, as the witnesses at the trial de­posed, on a certain day, and at a certain hour, he mounted one of the count d'Alencon's horses, and rode to Argenteiul, where she resided. His reception was such as was due to the friend of her husband, and the adherent of the same noble family. She shewed him the castle; and upon his requesting to see the tower, she conducted him thither, without being accompanied by any of her domestics. When they were there, Ja­ques le Gris shut the door, took the lady in his arms, and, as he was a powerful man, presently satisfied his desires. The lady seeing herself thus dishonoured, said to him, "Oh Jaques, Jaques! you have not done well: the blame shall not rest upon me; assure yourself, that if ever my hus­band returns, it shall light upon your own head." Jaques seemed not to notice her menace, but re­mounted his horse, and rode back to the count d'Alencon's castle full speed.

He had been seen at four o'clock in the morn­ing at the castle, and at nine the same morning he was at the count's levee; which particular circums;tance it is necessary to remark.

The lady's husband at length returned, and she received him with the utmost tenderness. The day passed away, and the night came; the chevalier went to rest, and his wife walked about the chamber, crossing herself at intervals, [Page 282] till such time as every body was gone to bed. She then went to her husband's bedside, fell on her knees, and related what had happened to her, with great grief. At first he could not cre­dit what she told him; but after some time, persuaded by her tears and protestations, he be­gan to think of vengeance. The friends and relations of himself and lady were accordingly assembled and consulted; and the general opinion was, that the decision of the affair should be re­mitted to the count d'Alencon.

The parties were quickly summoned; the count sat to hear their depositions; and after many arguments on both sides, concluded, that the lady had dreamed the transaction; for he thought it impossible, that a man could ride 23 leagues, and commit the crime, with all its cir­cumstances, of which the defendant was accused, in four hours and a half, which was the sole interval that Jaques le Gris was missing from the castle. They were therefore forbidden to men­tion the matter any further.

The Chevalier Carouge, however, who was a person of courage and delicate sense of honour, was not satisfied with this decision, but brought the cause before the tribunal of Paris; by which it was ordered to be decided by single combat: and the king who was then at Sluys in Flanders, sent a courier to defer the day of combat till his [Page 283] return, it being his desire to be present. Among many others, the Dukes of Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon, came also to Paris, to be witnesses of this interesting spectacle.

The place appointed was St. Catherine's; scaf­folds were erected for the public; and the com­batants were armed cap-a-pee. The lady, dressed in black, was seated under a kind of throne; her husband, as he entered the lifts, approached her, and said—'Madam, from your recital, and in your quarrel, I am going to expose my life in mortal combat against Jaques le Gris; it is best known to you whether or not my cause is just and good.' To which she replied—'Monsieur, assure yourself it is; and therefore fight in full security.' The Chevalier then took her hand, kissed it, made the sign of the cross, and mounted.

The lady continued in prayer during the whole combat: her situation was truly critical; if her champion was vanquished, she was condemned to be hung and burnt without mercy.

The advantages of ground and sun were di­vided, as was the custom, between the two com­batants; each ran his-career with the lance; but as they were both skilful, neither of them receiv­ed any wound at this kind of attack; they there­fore dismounted to fight on foot.

The Chevalier Carouge received the first wound in the thigh; his friends trembled for him; and [Page 284] his poor lady was more dead than alive: but he recovered, and fell upon his enemy with so much impetuosity and address, that he threw him to the earth, and plunged his sword in his body. He then turned towards the spectators, and asked them if he had done his duty; to which they answered with one voice 'Yes!'

The body of Jaques le Gris was abandoned to the executioner; who hung it on a hill near Paris, where it was left to perish.

The conqueror, after the victory, went and threw himself at his Majesty's feet; who praised him for his valour, instantly gave him a thousand livres, with a pension of two hundred per annum, and appointed him one of the gentlemen of his chamber. He then ran to his lady, kissed her, and went with her to the cathedral, where they mutually returned thanks, and left their offer­ings.

Thus was an accusation of this serious nature supposed to be proved. The historian who re­lates the combat, makes no reflections on the pos­sibility of error; for it was not permitted to doubt of the guilt of Jaques le Gris after he had been thus solemnly vanquished.