IN the province of Catalonia, which forms the north-west corner of the kingdom of Spain stood formerly the monastery of St. Mark,—(at the commencement of this story, which was in the 12th century, it is well known what an uni­versal spirit of depravity and licentiousness, per­vaded every sacred rank without exception,)—situated on a rock which looked into the wide ocean. This retreat, whether at one time the hissing waters awed, or at another their mirrored surface calmed the brea [...] into devotion, seemed formed by the hand of nature for the abode of contemplation. On the other side, the fearful tops of the Pyrenees appeared to penetrate the skies, and brooded over the scene in shapeless grandieur. Rhodolpho was the owner of a large track of territory, which lay in the same province. His ancestors had inhabited these for several ages signalizing themselves in civil as well as military [Page 2] capacities. Rhodolpho fell in one of the last battles that effected the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, and left behind him an only daugh­ter to succeed to his possessions. The lovely El­mira had just completed her 18th year at her fa­ther's death. Her qualifications every way ami­able, had attracted the notice, and won the af­fections of Bernard, only son to the Count of Ar­ragon, a young nobleman equivalent in all res­pects to the pretensions of her merit. She was betrothed to him, and to their union there re­mained no other obstacle, than the respect, on her part, due to a father's memory. In conse­quence of this, it seemed proper to her guardi­ans, that a twelve month should elapse before the consummation of their nuptials, and that this she should devote to religious observances for the departed spirit. She was accordingly removed to the monastery of St. Mark. She had a last in­terview with her Bernard before she bade a tem­porary adieu to the world, when, after the most solemn protestations of mutual regard, and after she had pledged her faith to acquaint him if any illness should befal her, they took a ten­der farewell of each other. She then retired to the cloister, where eleven long months were spent in the society [...] saints, whose night­ly vigils, tears, abstinence, and wretched appa­rel, bore every mark of penitence and sanctity. Her time passed on in a round of melancholy rites by day, and slumbers interrupted by the mid­night bell.

[Page 3] Bernard, to be near the idol of his heart, had been the lowly inhabitant of a cottage hard by. He used to wander in the silent hour of night a­long the shore, and when a light from above darted its beams upon the stillness of the scene a­round him, imagination carried him to the quar­ter from whence it came. He fancied his bride then occupied in the solemn offices of religion, and his soul arose with her's to the throne of their common Preserver. In these nocturnal watchings, he had frequently imagined at the intervals when the waves ceased to break upon the rocks, that he heard a distant confused sound. similar to that of revelling. At first he thought it might have been some illusion of his senses; but at length, when it was frequently repeated, it began to disturb his quiet, and make him think within himself that all was not right. He wished Elmira away from the abbey. He re­quested access to her, but it was denied him. This increased his anxiety. As the time, howe­ver, drew nigh, being now but a few weeks dis­tant, in which she should come forth from he [...] sad residence, he determined within himself to wait with patience the fulfilling of it. His con­jectures were right. In Peter, abbot of the c [...] vent, beneath the garb of abstinence and humili­ty, was concealed a wretch of the most flagitious nature. He and some others of the monks, at the dead hour of night, used to steal out pri­vately by a subterraneous passage, to a place a­part from the abbey, and there to waste the hours [Page 4] in debauchery and rioting. ^* But this was not all, Peter was a monster capable of more enor­mous actions: in the heat of his intemperance, he had conceived a brutal passion for Elmira, and he scrupled not to accomplish his purpose by the most villainous means.

There was a dungeon in the recesses of the rock on which the Monastery stood, and to which it was joined by a long and winding vault. This had in former times been a lurking retreat for its owners, the lords of that place, when in times of trouble they were driven to the last re­sort. Hither then, Peter determined to have her dragged, that he might the more easily attain his horrid ends. He imparted his intentions to Francis, a monk as abandoned as himself, and who had formerly assisted him in many a black transaction. Little delay was necessary. The second night after their plot was laid, they went softly to Elmira's apartment, and tapped gently upon the door; Elmira was on her knes; cros­sing herself; she started up, and demanded, who knocked? She was answered by a voice which cried in a low whisper, "Sister, art thou alone?" Thinking that it was a nun, come to require her attendance at the sick bed of one of the sisterhood, she hastened to admit her when Francis rushed furiously in upon her. With one hand he st [...]pt her mouth, and with the other presented a dag­ger to her breast threatning to put her to an in­stant [Page 5] death, if she should make the smallest dis­turbance; Elmira, terrified, sunk senseless to the ground.

The inhuman fathers, instead of succouring, took an advantage of her illness, and their first business was, to bind a scarf they had prepared, so hard round her face, as to prevent her calling but if she should recover, on seeing whither they were going to take her. They then carried her along several galleries, nor met with any opposi­tion, till they arrived at the secret door which led into the vault. Here they set her down till one of them should open it. She had now com­pletely recovered her senses. She attempted re­sistance, but resistance was in vain. She uttered a saint shriek; but the binding confined the found, and its echo was hardly perceived along the vault through which they were now leading her. They at length came unto the iron gate of the dungeon; it was secured by a bolt, which was removed, and the unfortunate Elmira pushed in. She then heard the gate creak upon its hinges, the bolt once more fastened without; and a while after, the distant sound of the key turning cautiously in the further door, died away upon her ear; and she was left in all the agony of silent horror. The monks now hastened to the completion of their infamous plot. They laid along upon the bed of her they had remov­ed, a block of wood, which Francis [...]ad prepa­red, and disfigured, so to represent a dead body; with her lamp, yet burning, they set fire to the hangings and bed-cloaths; this they extinguish­ed [Page 6] when it had half consumed them; the lamp was set at a distant corner of the apartment, so as to cast a glimmering light upon the objects in it, and every thing so artfully disposed, as to give it the appearance as if Elmira had been ac­cidentally scorched to death.

These matters being arranged, Francis spread the alarm. This he did by stating shortly—That as he and the abbot had been retiring to their chambers, they were struck with the smell of fire;—that they had traced it to the chamber of El­mira;—that they had arrived too late to rescue, but had by their exertions prevented the [...] from spreading any further.

They lady abbess and several of the sisters came forth to the apartment, but the thick smoke which yet hung round it, and the two monks re­maining close at the bed-side, prevented them from approaching near enough, or discovering the deception. "Hope is at an end," said the wicked abbot, "her pulse has ceased to beat, and her spirit has sought the mansions of the blest. Let me entreat you all then to retire. All aid is now fruitless. On the morrow at noon let us all here re-assemble, and the bell shall then toll to the sad ceremony of her interment. Fa­ther Francis and myself shall watch all the night, and put up our prayers for the saint that is gone. Once more then retire." Elmira had been beloved in the convent. Her melancholy end was bewailed by the sisterhood, and they all sadly and slowly retired to their respective cells, [Page 7] with eyes that were streaming in unfeigned tears. When all was quiet, Francis conveyed a coffin from his chamber, in which they laid the ficti­tious body, and nailing it down, they slipt softly out to the distant retreat set apart for their revel­ling. There they saw the morning hours come round in wine and merriment, with as little un­concern as if nothing unusual had happened. At the appointed hour every inhabitant of the abbey assembled to the doleful business of the day. Vir­tue is respected, even by those that are most lost to it; and the early fate of the beautiful Elmira, melted alike the upright and the abandoned, and wrung sympathy indiscriminately from the pious and the profligate.

After the prayers for the deceased were fi­nished, the bier was raised from the ground on the shoulders of eight friars, and the proces­sion began in slow solemnity. First went six monks, each carrying a flambeaux in his hand; then the lady abbess, followed by her nuns, two and two, with black vails drawn over their faces; next moved the coffin, covered with a cloth; and the wicked Peter, attended by the other brothers came last of all. They marched in deep silence till they arrived at the chapel, when the organ swelled an anthem, which the nuns sang as they went along; and for some time after the music had stopped, the sound rolled along the arches above till it was lost in repetition. They now reached the aisle, where they deposited the body; and after singing a requiem to the interred re­mains of Elmira, returned to the chapel, where [Page 8] divine service employed them the remainder of the day; service in which the abbot and his accom­plice joined in all the ferver of apparent enthu­siasm.

The imprisoned Elmira had passed the hours in melancholy conjecture, and trembling anxiety, that some still more dreadful calamity awaited her. She feared, from the manner in which this [...]ad befallen her, she was at the mercy of two sa­vage fathers, who might harrass, might starve, might murder her. No help was nigh. She was far from the sound of mortal step. Her Bernard—. Fancy never carried her that way, but her streaming eyes confessed what a wretch­ed prospect was before her. Thus was spent a night and day, which the impenetrable darkness prevented her from counting; and her gloomy solitude made her imagination lengthen. At mid-night, Peter, with a little water in a flag­gon he had hung round his neck, and a scanty allowance of the coarsest bread, repaired to the dungeon. A lamp which he held in his hand discovered to Elmira the recesses of her darksome prison. She could cast her eyes along several rows of arches, built of thick stones, down which the damps trickled on the sides. Beneath her feet was the cold and solid rock. Near the iron gate, which was the only entrance to it, was a little round aperture, crossed with two bars of iron; this served to transmit the little circulation of air which breathed along the vault. At the other side of this aperture she perceived her hood­ed persecutor. The lamp cast its pale rays upon [Page 9] his haggard countenance, and showed his eye­balls, which intemperance had reddened and sunk in their sockets, rolling in passion. Stretch­ing out his withered hand, he set down the bread and water within the iron bars. Then, in a sof­tened tone, addressed the wretched Elmira.—"Thou wilt doubtless wonder, sister, at the seem­ingly cruel, and unaccountable manner in which thou hast been conveyed hither. But lend an ear a few moments to my defence, and I trust sur­prise will subside into pity. Preamble then is needless. Fair Elmira, I love thee. Consent to my wishes, and thou shalt be instantly removed to a place where pleasure shall court thee in eve­ry varied form. ^*

Till this time to-morrow thou shalt have to re­flect on it:—If, then, thou shalt prove obstinate, and spurn me, wo be unto thee. Meantime be assured, that all hopes of escape are vain.—Thy dirge was this day chanted, by weeping virgins, and thy supposed body laid low in the ground. Let no false expectation then elate thee. Here is wherewithal to sustain nature. This shall to-mor­row be renewed to thee—Farewell!"

Having said these words, he retired, leaving Elmira in a state of mind not to be described. Astonishment, fear, contempt, grief, and des­pair, [Page 10] possessed her by turns, or rather, tore her breast together; and the hours glided on, in an agony, that no one was nigh, to pity or to soften.

The accounts of Elmira's death had now spread beyond the monastery, and at length reached the cottage of Bernard. He hurried in frenzy to the abbe, and found the mournful report was too true For a while at first, he raved in wild­ness. "Barbarians," he wou'd cry, "where have ye taking her? Wherefore did I not get on—one look of her, before the cold ground receiv­ed her? Scorched and disfigured as she was, her remains would, to me, have still been lovely; her delicate features, though the prey of the de­vouring flames, to me,—to me, would have still retained all their former symmetry."

These emotions were too violent to be lasting. They soon abated, into a silent, settled, melan­choly; and Bernard knew, that the only object was gone, that could give the world to smile upon him. Determined to forsake it, to live and die in that spot, where she, in whom his every wish, his every hope, had centered, had lived, and di­ed before him. This design, he communicated to the monks; and next day, with the usual [...]o­emnities, he was admitted into their order.

During the foregoing night, Peter had as usu­al, descended to the dungeon, with the food of Elmira. Setting it down, he called her by her name; he was answered by a deep fetched [...], [Page 11] [...] was continued along the vault. "Hast thou," said he, "been pondering on my words? Beauteous Elmira, what answer shall I expect? speak, I am all patience." "Peace wretch!" re­plied Elmira, "nor add to my sufferings by thy horrid importunities. To one so far sunk in the abyss of vice, to aim to drag the innocent beside thee;—so abandoned to impiety, as to imagine all around thee, equally unprincipled with thy­self. Integrity almost forbids reply—Begone, then, and disquiet me no more. Away; I defy thy utmost malice."

The virtue and dignity of Elmira stuck a mo­mentary awe into that breast, which had long, till that instant, been a stranger to every finer feeling Muttering curses within himself, he slowly departed, nor presumed the harsh reply, which at another time his corrupt heart would have gloried in.

We must now suppose him, for several ensuing nights, stealing out with Elmira's sustenance. She continued as inflexible as before, and Peter, though determined upon taking some step, as yet hesitated what that step should be.

It happened once, that walking across her pri­son, she treaded on something hard, that was de­tached from the pavement. She took it up, and at night, when the abbot came, by the light of his lamp she cast her eyes with horror on a skull. This inflicted on her a deeper shock than any thing she had yet undergone. But to speak her fears could serve no purpose, and she was accord­ingly [Page 12] constraind to silence. This appearance will be explained in the sequel.

One night, when stillness reigned thro' all the convent, one of the monks, whose name was Henrique, softly opened the latchet of Bernard's door, whose griefs kept him waking, "Bernard," said he, advancing. "I have somewhat of impor­tance to communicate; but, if now you seek the pillow of repose, we will defer our conference to another occasion." "Alas!" said Bernard, "there is no repose for me. Sir, I beseech you, sit, and proceed: I am well-rivetted in attention." "Let us not, then, waste our moments," answered Henrique, "first, then, [...] abbot of this place is a fiend unfit for the society of even the worst of men. "Peter! nay start not, the same;—I have resided within these walls five long years, and I could rehearse such things as would freeze thy blood in silent horror—would swell thy breast in fiercest indignation. The nightly rioting which thou must already have been invited to partake of, is the smallest of his offences. If thou wouldst know to what extent his guile can stretch,—fly—fly this place. He and his accomplice, Fran­cis, seek your life." "I will believe, and yet, alas! what cause have I given them—what is it should tempt them to so wonton—so unprovoked an outrage?" "The answer to that is short and easy," interrupted Henrique, "they have two motives to gain by your destruction. First, se­cretly dispatching you, they will give out, that you have died a natural death. This they will do in the hope that your father, having no other heir, will, in a mistaken devotion, bequeathe his [Page 13] lands to that monastery which contains the body of his son. In the second place, given altoge­ther to licentiousness themselves, can you not see how necessary it is for them to be rid of one, who may detect, and at length disclose their ways. I would not have escaped so long, did I not some­times seem to give into their intemperance, that I might one day have an opportunity of bring­ing them fully to light. That opportunity has now arrived; I have heard of thy virtues Bernard, before thou didst relinquish that world, they once did honour to; and since I saw thee, I have marked them, and satisfied myself. Thou art, as yet, untainted with the manners of this place, thou art, as yet, a man whom I can trust. Say then, wilt thou assist me in a project I have form­ed, by which an innnocent person may be reliev­ed from distress, and justice overtake the hooded hypocrite" "Go on, go on, Henrique," cried Bernard eagerly,—"secretly dispatching, and [...] natural death! Oh! my friend, these words have struck deep into my soul, Elmira, Elmira, thus have they done with thee:—Oh! cruel that they were. Could not thy purity, thy cherub in­nocence, plead for a little mercy at their relent­less hands?

"Henrique," said he, a little more composed, ‘forgive these transports of dispair.’

"I am more interested than thou conceivest in thy narrative; hasten then, hasten to the conclu­sion of it. By every sacred tie that these mon­sters [Page 14] have violated, I swear there is not a peril I will not encounter, to sift the records of this scene of bloodshed to the bottom."

"There are here then," resumed Henrique, "some distant concealed places, which we must first discover. My apartment is in the farthest end of several galleries, and in a remote part of the convent. At different times, since I first came hither, I have heard low noises at mid­night, like the locking of doors. I never could discover what they meant exactly, or the pre­cise part whence they proceeded. I once hinted it in presence of Peter, whose countenance was instantaneously and visibly altered, to a livid paleness. He in vain endeavored to conceal his emotion from me. I did not, however, then seem to notice it, nor broached the subject a­gain, lest I should give him cause to perceive my suspicions, when a further and a stricter conceal­ment on his part, might prevent detection upon mine. Some little time ago, in the middle of the night, I heard a distant noise of two persons struggling, from one of them I distinctly per­ceived a faint scream, and presently the locking of the door I had formerly observed."

"Ah!" exclaimed Bernard, "it is too true. It was, it was Elmira."

"There is a woman here in distress," resum­ed Henrique, "I am sure of it, and now is the time to rescue her. Through a chink, I yester­day remarked the abbot and his partner in ear­nest [Page 15] conversation. It was then I marked, a­mong other broken sentences, these words: "What shall we do with her," cried one. "Let her starve," replied the other. "Ha! sayest thou," cried Bernard in extreme agitation, while a thousand thoughts flushed a­cross his brain; "what then is to be done?" "Put off your shoes," said Henrique, "give me that lamp, and follow me." They now went without the smallest noise to the cell of Henrique.

Henrique and Bernard were going to proceed in their search, when the former quickly extin­guished the lamp, and laying hold on Bernard's arm, "Stand," said he softly, "I hear a noise." A light struck [...]cross the gallery, and in a little time after, they sew Peter glide before the cell without observing them. In a few minutes they heard a door opened. Henrique instantly ven­tured out, and went as swiftly as caution would allow him, to the place whence he guessed the noise came. He applied his ear close to the wall. He heard the sound of footsteps, which reverbe­rated along the vault. He called on Bernard, who joined him. "Remain here," said he, "till I go and follow him."

He groped for the door, which he found at length half open. He went forward along seve­ral passages, and down three or four flight of stairs, till he at last came to a turn of the vault, where he perceived the beam of rays from Pe­ter's light; he judged it prudent to go no farther. [Page 16] He awaited the breaking of the silence, with a beating heart. At length he heard the abbot be­gin with these words: "Most wayward of wo­men still to reject thy happiness; but it is well, and thou hast roused my vengeance,—prepare thyself. Three days longer thou shalt have to deliberate. If thy resolve be still the same, the next morning, Elmira, thou shalt die."

Henrique had now learned enough. He hur­ried back to his friend. They resought the cell of the former. There they remained till the abbot returned, locked the door of the vault, and measured back his steps till they were lost in silence. Henrique now repeated to Bernard the words he had heard. Bernard insisted upon in­stantly awaking the monks; but was prevailed by the other to restrain his motions, and reflect how strong a party they had to contend a­gainst.

"Here," added he, "I have procured some cords; tying these together, we can let ourselves down from the window, and trust to Providence to guide us safely down the rocks. We may, then, easily procure horses, and be to-morrow early at the castle of the Count your father. There we will speedily assemble as many vassals as will serve our purpose, and the justice of our cause shall give us strength to force our march back to the monastery, ere the time expire for Elmira's destruction." The proposal inspired with ardour, they set about the execution of [...], and soon found themselves on the tops of the rocks.

[Page 17] The full moon shone forth in all her splendor, not a breath of wind glided along the stillness of the waters, and the moon-beams sporting on their bosom, displayed all nature arrayed in sable ma­jesty. After a little search, they sound a descent sloped more gradually than the others, this they attempted, and assisting each other, arrived at length upon the shore. Bernard cast a wishful look on the Abbey. A sudden chillness ran through him. Something whispered within his breast that he should see Elmira no more; but to re­turn was now impossible. They, therefore, bent their way to the cottage where Bernard used to reside. Having awaked the faithful peasant who was the owner of it, they were furnished by him with horses. They made him promise to have the neighborhood assembled on the second night, that they all might join in their cause, for these were attached to Benard while he dwelt a­mong them, and their honest hearts would prompt them to shew their gratitude, by risquing their lives for him.

After a little refreshment, which the cottager brought out to them, and being provided by him with money, they set out full speed; they had to travel the whole breadth of Catalonia. They ex­pected to meet fresh horses in the way, which they did not despair of, as the Saracens had left in every part of Spain their breed of Arabian coursers, which were the finest in the world. They flew then swiftly along a beautiful valley at the foot of the Pyrenees, where nature had [Page 18] lavished her bounties on the plain. The still moon rode above, and pointed out their way with her silver lamp.

The beasts of the field, the fowls of the air, the very elements were hushed in repose. No sound was heard but the clattering of their horses hoofs.

The poor animals had now exhausted their last remains of strength. Bernard, who knew every bit of the road, seeing a light at a little distance from it, said, it came from the castle of a friend of his, and dismounting, went quickly on, requesting Henrique to follow with the hor­ses. Bernard rouzed a servant, who knowing him, instantly procured him the best horses in the stable. Henrique did not make his appearance, but the time was too precious to be spent in seek­ing him. Bernard set out alone, charging the servant that if his friend should arrive, his mas­ter should receive him. He now proceeded with incredible velocity, being better mounted than before.

The purple streaks along the heavens proclaim­ed the break of day. The mists were gradually dispersing. The birds began to chirp their greet­ing to the opening dawn, and at length the sun burst from the horizon behind him, and poured a stream of glory on the world. Last of all, the peasants came forth to their daily toil, and began to lead their cattle to the brook. Bernard in­quired of one of them, how far it was to the cas­tle [Page 19] of Arragon, and found he had as yet but a little more than half completed his journey. He exchanged horses with the peasants as he went along, making up to them with money the dis­proportion, where there was any, and he at length arrived two hours before noon at his fa­ther's house, which stood upon the eastern fron­tiers of the province.

He briefly told his errand to the Count, who gave instant orders, that an hundred horse should assemble in the court with all precipitation. Meanwhile, Bernard was prevailed on to retire to rest.

He threw himself on a couch, but the agita­tion he laboured under made sleep a stranger to his eyelids. He started up, and with a hurried step walked up and down the room, often look­ing out if the horses were arrived. At length, worn out with the excessive lassitude his long journey had occasioned, he sunk to the ground, and was visited by a deep slumber. But even there, his busy imagination refused to be a [...] peace; it presently carried him to the prison-house of Elmira; he saw the malignant arm of Peter raised, grasping a knife to point it at her breast. In rushing between them in a fit of des­peration, the fancied effort awoke him. He went once more to the window, and saw with pleasure that all was ready. He flew down to the court, bade an affectionate adieu to his fa­ther, and mounted his proud courser, which stood rearing his head on high, and impatient to be gone. He let loose the reigns and led the way.

[Page 20] An hundred fiery steeds, snorting in the height of blood, bounded together from their con­fines, and rushed impetuous o'er the plain.—Their angry hoofs disdain the ground they paw; and, rapid as the whirlwind's progress, they quickly vanished from the straining sight. They pursued their road, till the shade of night des­cending, and the exhausted spirits of their horses, warned them to seek some place of shelter. This they found in the castle where Bernard had the former night obtained the relief he wanted, but lost the partner of his way. Here they remained for the night, but could get no intelligence of Henrique. Conjecture was fruitless, and search was delay. In the morning then, early refresh­ed with new vigour, they resumed their route, nor halted till they arrived within sight of St. Mark's. Here they were joined by the peasants collected by the faithful cottager, who gave them the following information:—That the Abbot, fearing, as they supposed, the design of the fu­gitives, had obtained, from a tow [...] at a little distance, an armed force to defend his cause. That this he had represented as a just one, that the troops had entered the abbey the foregoing day, and that in appearance, their numbers were superior to those of Bernard.

This statement was a true one, and Peter ob­serving, from the walls of the convent, the com­parative fewness of his adversaries, and consider­ing that, after so long a march, he might now take advantage of their being feeble and fati­gued, judged that he would be the most politic [Page 21] step, to send out his fresh troops immediately up­on them, in order to cut them off before they gathered new strength either in men or in spirits. This he did accordingly, and the gates being thrown open, Bernard perceived, with anxiety, a long train of disciplined forces, march out, and advancing towards him. He was now however forced into an engagement. Drawing up his men therefore on the advantageous station, he first ad­dressed them in a short speech; he stated shortly the justice of their cause, from which they might rely on having on their side the avenging hand of Heaven, which they could trust would exert itself to the destruction of impiety. His little line was formed by setting the peasants in the middle, with fifty of his own horsemen on each side. He thought by this stratagem, that if the enemy should fall upon the weakest part, the o­thers might inclose, and thus gain the advantage over them.

After giving them directions so to do, he took his post at the right end, and they all waited the coming up of their opponents in a silent expecta­tion. These at last arrived, and the onset began. Both parties ran furiously on each other, swords clashing on swords, clouds of dust arising up on high, the hissing of javelins, the impetuous plunging of horses whose eye-balls were red with fury, and who dashed out beneath their feet the brains of fallen heroes; clamours of exultation, mingled with the groans of expiring wretches, presented a scene of ruin and of horror.

[Page 22] Bernard was wading in blood through the thickest of the fight. Love and vengeance arm­ed him with Herculean strength, and he spread terror and destruction wherever he went. At first, the troops of Peter astonished, yielded to the fiercness of the attack; rallying, however, the overpowered him with their numbers, fell on his men, now weary and worn out, and obliged them to retire in every direction. They were now reduced to the last extremity, and in a short time would have all inevitably perished, had not the attention of both parties been arrested by a troop of horsemen who were advancing rapidly towards them. The arm of [...]aughter was sus­pended for a moment, and they stood both anxi­ously awaiting the issue. These galloped into the middle between the two contending bands, and after looking earnestly first on the one, and then on the other, they fell with violence on the troops of Peter, whom they routed with a great carnage, and were left entire masters of the field.

Bernard and their leader now ran into each o­ther's arms. It was Henrique. Having lost his way on the night that Bernard left him, he wan­dered onward unknowing where he was till the morning, when he was directed to the very town whence the troops were obtained for the defence of St. Mark. This was a considerable way off, and he arrived in it but a few hours af­ter the troops had set out for the monastery. He [...] formerly been know and revered in that place. He went [...] the chief magistrates, to whom he explained the matter as it really stood. [Page 23] of men from a neighbouring garrison were called in. These he headed, and with these it was he rescued the sinking soldiers of his friend. They now found that their loss had been inconsi­derable, and they entered the monastery with a shout of victory.

A shout of victory! Ah! little thought they how soon it should be changed into woe unparal­leled, and wretchedness irremediable.

We must now relate what happened to Elmira, after the departure of Bernard and Henrique. Peter and Francis finding, or at least fearing they were discovered resolved to visit Elmira no more, but to leave her to starve where she was already confined. The damps of the cavern had fallen on her tender limbs unused to hardship; a chillness ran thro' her veins, and she felt that her latter end was approaching; her scanty provision was gone, and the hard-hearted Peter had never renewed it. Overwhelmed with sick­ness, and hunger, and despair, she fell upon the flinty pavement, she put up a prayer for forgive­ness to her persecutors, for blessings on her Ber­nard, then stretching her body at full length, a mist gathered upon her heavy eyes, she heaved a deep sigh, and all the rest was oblivion.

Bernard, as soon as he entered the monastery, ordered the abbot and his partner to be secured and put in chains. He then took a key from the breast of the former, which opened to the entrace of the dungeon, and seazing a taper he had or­dered to be brought, he rushed to the relief of [Page 24] Elmira. Before he unbarred the iron gate, he called on her by name; a cold shivering seized on every joint: with a tremulous voice he called again; but not the smallest stir was heard within, save the mournful echo of his own-words. He burst open the gate, and entering, beheld Elmira on the bare ground, pale and lifeless. In agony he sunk beside her, and lay senseless for some moments; then starting up, he flew to the apart­ment where the two monks were guarded, He upbraided them in the language of distraction. Monsters, murderers, was it not enough to be­tray, to persecute, to murder, helpless innocence; but your callous breasts could see her pine in fa­mined misery. But let me not waste the time in words, which is the due of vengeance and of jus­tice; drag them instantly, my soldiers, hence; away with them, and follow me.

Bernard, now, and one half of his followers, proceeded to the capital town of the province, leading Peter and Francis bound in chains, amid the hootings and execrations of a concourse of people. Its judges were in court. They de­manded an immediate trial. The dark annals of the monastery in many a former year were reveal­ed. Multitudes of witnesses appeared, not only from thence, but also from the adjacent county, who, with many empty coffins, brought from the aisle of the chapel, bloody instruments of death from the cell of Francis, and sculls and other bones from the dungeon, all conspired to accuse and to convict them. The guilt was evident, and they were condemned to die on the morrow.

[Page 25] Bernard passed a sleepless, joyless night; at some moments he would start up, st [...]e wildly round him, and rave in all the madness of des­pair. At others he would lay down his head in speechless anguish, and after [...] his eyes long on one spot, burst into a flood of tears. The bustle which had lately buoyed up his spirits, had subsided in melancholy; and he now had nothing left but death to wish for.

Next day, many thousands were collected to behold the execution of Peter and Francis. The scaffold on which they were to suffer was hung with black, and erected on a plain behind the town. Thither the train proceeded. Before, marched a troop of the soldiers of the place, to slow martial music, trailing their spears along the ground. The coffins of the monks followed, mounted on carriages, and drawn by horses. Se­veral of the priests of the town came next, in their pontifical robes. Then the Abbot and Fran­cis guarded by soldiers, with their hands tied behind them, their feet bare, and labels on their backs declaring their crimes; they were follow­ed by men carrying sculls and daggers from the abbey. Chief magistrates and officers of the town were next in order, and Bernard, at the head of his horsemen, brought up the rear.

The monks, hardened in iniquity, had deter­mined to brave their fate to the last. They con­sidered, that as Elmira was now no more, little inquiry would be made concerning the manner of [...] [Page 26] the death; they therefore denied this, and every other accusation against them, as a conspiracy to effect their ruin. They persisted in the assertion that Elmira had been burnt to death, and prepar­ed to meet their fate with this lie upon their lips.

Bernard, whose head had hung all the while in desponding anguish, raised it in won­der, that such depravity existed upon earth. At that moment Henrique appeared on the scaf­fold, leading in an object which attracted every eye: "'Tis she, 'tis she herself," exclaimed the transported Bernard, and clasped the living Elmira to his heart. The effort was too much; he fell back in an excess of joy in the arms of Henrique. The violence of his passion soon aba­ted, and recovering, he led his charming bride from the scene of execution.

Henrique had carried her from the cavern gent­ly in his arms, and laid her on a bed, where he discovered some signs of returning breath; these, with care, he fostered, and gradually restored her to life and joy. Anxiety to meet her Ber­nard gave her strength, and feeble as she was, she ventured forth to join him.

Shame now overwhelmed the abbot and the companion of his infamy. Seeing themselves de­tected, they confessed every thing, and disclosed a catalogue of enormities they had been guilty of too long, and too shocking to suffer relation. Elmira had prevailed with Bernard to intreat a remission at least an alleviation of their sentence; [Page 27] but their offences were now too general, and too glaring to be forgiven; their gloomy souls did not dare to raise a thought to heaven; they laid their heads upon the block amid the curses of the populace, and they died impeninent and unpitied. They found in their last moments, that no hypo­crisy, however artful, can long conceal a wicked heart; and that the perpetrators of guilt are, in the days of their utmost affluence, despised, and in those of their utmost need, deserted by all, e­ven by their accomplices.

Bernard now prepared to set out with Elmira for the castle of his father. He beseeched his friend to accompany him; but this Henrique de­clined, assuring him, that he should be ever near­est to his heart, but that it was long since he had learned to mortify, within his breast, all de­sire of tasting the pleasures of this scene of uncer­tainty; that his only wish was now to retire to some sequestered spot, where he might dedicate the remainder of his days to heavenly contempla­tion. Bernard accordingly obtained for him that place which the impious Peter had disgraced, and he was accordingly elected to the abbacy of St. Mark.

The nuptials of the happy lovers were now so­lemnized with every mark of joy. Henrique ti­ed the knot that united them forever; and after taking an affectionate farewell of him, they pro­ceeded by easy journeys to Arragon. There they were received with tenderness by their common father, and there they dwelt in uninterrupted [Page 28] peace for many years, happy in the affections of all their vassals, and blest with a numerous off­spring.

Henrique repaired to take possession of his new office. He effected a thorough reformation in St. Mark, and under his government the con­vent long retained a reputation for the purity of its morals, and the sanctity of its inhabitants.

At the desire of Bernard, he had this narrative written over its gates, with the following inscrip­tion in letters of gold:— ‘HAPPINESS IS EVER IN STORE FOR INNOCENCE AND INTEGRITY; ITS ARRIVAL MAY BE LATE, BUT IT IS CER­TAIN.’

EDGAR, the Sovereign of England, was brave, generous, and humane; but nature, as if to prevent the portrait from being too per­fect, flung into his composition pride, rancour and revenge.

Those passions which in their blossom might by self-exertions, the admonitions of the worthy, or the prevalence of a good education, have been checked, were now by neglect sprung to a bane­ful luxuriance, and cast a dark shade around him.

While the wise saw from many acts of his vir­tues what might have been expected from him; they also beheld from the opposite extremes of his character the sad infirmities of human nature. Humbled by the conviction, the arrogance of self­boasted strength was vanished, and prostrate with pious awe they cast the beseeching eye to that power whose hand could alone wipe away the stig­ma of error, and who with benignant mercy [Page 30] could alone uphold the sinking heart, and save it from the contamination of illicit pursuits.

Virtue and vice thus blended in his disposition, and each bounding each, prevented his being beloved or dispised. The latent influence of vir­tue cast a varnish over the enormities of vice; he was therefore obeyed, but it was without respect; accused, but without malice.

Misguided by a superstitious and enthusiastic set, who tarnished the religion they professed, he appeared as an implement in their hands to execute the most flagrant excesses.

To be the scourge of iniquity, the rewarder of virtue, the guardian of his people, the patron of every polite and beneficent art, had no charms for Edgar.

Reflection never stepped in to bear him up a­gainst the tide of corruption; his hands never wreathed the laurel to twine around the brow of steady rectitude; he seduced innocence from its path, and stung the soul of gentleness with per­fidy and woe.

Edgar's every feature marked the impetuosity of his passions; his eyes darted forth the fire of youth; his hardy cheek was crimsoned with the glow of conscious majesty; his person was ele­gant, striking, and insinuating; his air was suf­ficient to announce his rank, he moved as if words were at his command, and spoke as if they [Page 31] were to pay him homage; the refinement of lux­ury, the duplicity of an hypocrite, and the so­phistry of a courtier, rendered him skillful in eve­ry specious wile; he was, in short, in his form, exquisitely lovely, and in those hours when desir­ous to please, his manners were irresistable.

Had he united to those accomplishments the wish of doing right, he would have been adored. The brave intrepid generous nature of Britons would have paid him that heart-felt homage which power can never exact; from the bright promise of his youth they would have anticipated the maturity of years, and beheld him gliding down the vale of time encircled with honour, veneration and gratitude.

The latitude he gave to the vices of the monks was returned by their extenuating his, and while he commited acts marked by the names of profli­gacy and sacrilege, declared him worthy to be enrolled amongst the martyrs celebrated with re­nown, and to be canonized as a saint.

The innocent and the coquette were alternate­ly his prey; beauty for him never spread her net in vain, and the court was a scene of depravity.

The most distinguished of his male favourites was Ethelwald, a noble Baron, now in the meri­dian of his manhood. Nature seemed to have formed him in her fairest mould. He had happi­ly escaped the total corrosion of vice; but misled by custom, and bribed by self-intrest, he often [Page 32] joined in the revels of the night, and mixed a­mongst the bachanalian crew of Edgar, flatter­ing those excesses which he secretly beheld with detestation.

He appeared equally formed to ornament a court, to command with ardour and succss in the battle, or join with fleetness in the rapid chace; his manners were cultivated to refinement; his soul had that intrepidity which led him into dan­ger, yet there was that gentleness in his dispo­sition which rendered him sedulous to diffuse peace and benevolence on all within his reach.

His nerves were strung with elasticity, the fire of his eyes was tempered by lambent beams of gentleness, his sun-burned cheek was tinged with the peach's bloom, and like his royal master he was ever successful in the field of love.

But the beauties of the court now no longer pleased them, for at this period love swelled the wings of fame, and wasted to the ears of Edgar the charms and accomplishments of the Earl of Devon's daughter, the lovely Elfrida.

She was unknown to the sons of riot and daugh­ters of dissipation; beneath her father's roof she attainad the utmost elegance, and bloomed and flourished encompassed within his woods.

Edgar prone to variety, fickle as the winds, and ever eager in pursuit of pleasure, panted to behold this fair being, and personally know whe­ther [Page 33] she merited those encomiums, bordering on extravagance, which were lavished on her.

He no longer revelled in delight, his ear re­ceived the loud uproar of mirth with disgust, the banquet was unrelished by him. After indulging his thoughts a few days, he dismissed the crow­ded levee, and taking Elthelwald with him, re­tired to his closet where he unbosomed his soul:—"I burn, I die," said he, "to behold the fair Elfrida, I am a stranger to rest, my soul is occupied with undescribable emotions, imagina­tion, selecting all the loveliness of the species, centers it in one object, and presents it continu­ally to my views as if to tantalize my wishes. Even in my slumbers so much is my mind obsor­bed with the idea of her cha [...]s, that the image of an angel hovers around my couch.—Should I myself go to try whether fame has exaggerated her charms, or whether such a master-piece of nature really exists, I might perhaps be disap­pointed in my expectations, and experience that ridicule which points its envenomed shafts even against the monarch's peace.—Her rank, her family, render a connection with her even to me not undesirable.—Do thou then, my friend, my faithful Ethelwald, repair privately to the Earl of Devon's castle and behold whether discription has adhered to truth, and whether Elfrida is for­med to bless the arms of her sovereign, and with brighter lustre gild his crown."

Ethelwald's heart beat high at the confidence reposed in him by the King; he immediately pre­pared [Page 34] for his excursion, and the next morning was destined for it.

Ere morning had unlocked the gates of light, Ethelwald, with a few chosen domestics, private­ly left the court.

They travelled with such expedition, that the second day the awful woods of Devon appeared in view; its lofty turrets, with its towering and ivy-covered spires, from rich amphitheatres of woods, the castle rose in conspicuous majesty; the sublimity of ancient grandeur, and the elegance of a more refined architecture, were displayed in it; the dark foliage of the trees was contrasted by the light green of pastures and shrubberies, amongst which were scattered shade grottos, and arborous recesses; rivers here wantoned in divi­sious meanders; here streams rushed down the scraggy sides of mountains, their impetuous fall came with hoarse murmurs to the ear, while cal­mer by degrees they flowed in tranquil currents along the woody vale.

Ethelwald made his domestics stop near the Abbey of—, where they were to find shelter for the night, while he proceeded on his embassy with one faithful servant.

The sky was now shaded by the clouds of even­ing—the birds were warbling their closing lays—the peasant whistled o'er the way to his peaceful cottage—the flocks faintly lowed as they reposed under various shades—the forests rustled to the [Page 35] breeze—the air, tempered into coolness, gave to the senses delight and energy—the glow-worm lights its little lamp, as if vainly wishing to emulate the stars which glittered in the firmament—from innumerable brakes appeared the faint taper of the peasant, while eminently conspicu­ous was seen the castle blazoning an artificial day.

But every busy sound that fluctuated on the gale soon died away, and Ethelwald, in passing through a glin, found the castle and the cots hid from his view by the obscurity of woods. Not a noise disturbed the profound silence, save one solemn knell from a neighbouring abbey, calling the monks to the orisons; it [...] upon the heart of Ethelwald, the remonstrance of whose imagination accorded with all a round him.

He stopped the career of his courser, the reins wore gentley slacked, and sudden awfulness took possession of his soul; he gazed, admired, and meditated on the scene.

Raising his eyes he at length exclaimed: [...] Almighty Being, hail; Equally sublime [...] mild splendour of evening, as in the blazing re­fulgence of the morning.—Oh Being, benevo­lent and wise, how prodigal have been thy fa­vours to this capacious globe; where'er the eye turns it witnesses a profusion of blessings.—Why will the wayward heart of man repine for the luxuries of art, while nature like a kind parent pours forth every gift that can conduce to health or temperate pleasure. Immured in a court, we [Page 36] turn from the fair page of creation, and confine ourselves to the dark volumes of avarice, pride, and ambition. Delightful are the lessons of wis­dom, and sweet to the soul those annals beautified by nature, and illustrated by time.

And shall I, said Ethelwald, blushing as he asked his heart the question, shall I (sensible of the truth of what I have said) be again seduced to the vortex of a court—shall I.

As he spoke his stred climbed a gentle ascent, and Ethelwald found himself at the gates of the castle; he [...] sounded the suspended horn, and its [...] the turr [...].

The porter immediately appeared to enquire who came at that late hour; two travellers, Ethel­wald replied, astray on their way and seeking a shelter from the damps of the night.

Courtesy presided with a benignant sway in the Earl of Devon's breast, and his domestics [...]ere taught from him to feel, an exquis [...] plea­ [...] in soothing the stranger's woe, and cheering, with the cup of hospitality, the wearied traveller.

The gates were instantly flung open; the mien, the habit of Earthwald announced him of a no­ble rank, and the servants conducted him to a magnificent hall gilded with varied lamps, where at a splendid banquet the family were assembled.

[Page 37] The Earl of Devon had now attained the cen­ter of the vale of years, but it was that green old-age which nature bestows on the children of temperance; like the hardy ever-green he bloom­ed in the winter of his day, health preserved her glow upon his cheek, his limbs retained their elasticity, and his eyes beamed with the lustre which expressed the feelings of his soul. His noble dame, to all the softness of the matron united the dignity of illustrious descent, and the complacency of benevolence.

Ethelwald apologised for his intrusion. The Earl interrupted him: Welcome cried he, to our hospitable, roof, and thrice welcome the chance which conducted you [...] it.

The baron was placed in a chair near Lady Devon, who smiled with the benignancy of po­liteness and hospitality upon him.

The heart of Ethelwald panted as he raised his eyes to look for Elfrida.

Three young ladies were sitting at the [...] but all so equally and so exquisitely lovely, that Ethelwald was struck with astonishment. Which e'er she is, thought he, why has fame, in boast­ing of her charms, been silent in the praises of those so equally lovely. Should discord again fling forth her golden apple, like the boy Paris, I should be at a loss to determine.

[Page 38] Harmony, presiding at the repast, encreased its pleasures, and diffused social and sweet content around. The Earl and his noble Lady insisted on retiring early, from consideration of their guest whose fatigued frame required the refresh­ment of balsamic sleep. He [...]as conducted to a magnificent apartment, and after dismissing the attendants, his fancy began to ruminate on all he had beheld.

He could not possibly imagine which was Elfri­da, or who those young ladies were. Such matchless perfection, exclaimed he, reigns amongst them all, that even the caprice of taste cannot fix on one as the most interesting object. The chords of sensibility [...] with gratitude to the courtesy of Lord and Lady Devon, to that unaffected warmth which spoke the sincerity of the welcome he received. The rising esteem he felt for this amiable couple was returned in a re­ciprocal degree by them; his high rank (for he had announced his name on his entrance) the es­timation in which above all other courtiers they [...] he was held by their sovereign, his exalt­ [...] bravery, his tender compassion even in the ve­ry moment of conquest, above all his courteous manners and engaging aspect, both adorned by the hands of nature, and smiling virtue, with all that could please the eye and charm the un­derstanding, attracted their regard, and by eve­ry possible attention resolved on rendering their mansion agreeable, and binding him in the fetters of hospitality and friendship, detain him for some days their captive.

[Page 39] The Baron early awoke, and arose. Aurora now looked down benign on the children of this world, and shed her sweetest influence upon it at once to regale every sense.

Ethelwald from his window viewed an exten­sive and beautiful demense, and longing to par­take of the sweets of morning, he opened a little door in his chamber which led him into a closet, that by another door, with a gentle descent of steps, conducted him into a shaded and sloping avenue.

The flowers glowing in the prime of beauty diffused their choicest odours, the birds, flitting form bough to bough, swelled their little throats with responsible warblings; while at periods he distinguished the rude yet harmless whistle of the peasants: perceiving through many brakes and opening, in a surrounding grove some of them driving their lowing flocks to pasture, or others tilling that earth from which they were to sup­port a fond and helpless blooming progeny.

Ethelwald walked on, for all was new and en­chanting to him; art, that wretched imitator of what is perfect, had long cast his mists before his senses, the delusions were now vanishing, and he worshiped Nature the hand-maid of the creation.

Say ye, gay scenes, he cried, where have ye been so long bid, or why was I so long absorbed in the vortex of dissipation as to be insensible to your pleasures.—Hail, scenes, that at once give [Page 40] delight and energy to the soul; every gale is re­freshing, every spot strikes with beauty, and e­very bough is alive with the melody of nature. As he spoke, he found himself at the termination of the avenue, in a valley encompassed with woods of an awful and majestic appearance. This he immediately concluded was the peculiar spot the Earl and his family chose for the scenes of recreation, as pavillions were scattered around, intermixed with arbours of sweet and clustering shrubs. A clear river glided along with gentle murmuring, which would sooth a romantic or melancholy diposition; but an object the Baron now perceived at once excited surprize and rap­ture.—A young female was dancing to the soft sound of a flute on which a boy played, whose loveliness rendered him a proper attendant for her.

She realized all those ideas of beauty which Ethelwald had before painted to his imagi­nation; the charms he beheld last night with transport were now faded or only discerned in the back shade. Her robes were of white and [...]ure; and their light drapery did not disguise a [...] moulded with the softest symmetry; the lily and the rose fresh culled (dew yet glittering on their balmy bosoms) formed an ornament for her waving tresses, as she often, with the sportive gaiety which generally results from innocence, bent over the reflecting surface of the water, it gave her back her own image with all that earth or heaven could bestow to make her amiable. Tell me, said Ethelwald, starting forward with the involuntary impetuosity of surprize, are you hu­man [Page 41] or divine; are you a young shepherdess who sings blithsome at return of day, or as I am more inclined to believe the genii of those woods.—She fixed her blue eyes on him for a few moments with less astonishment, than archness.—Stranger, said she, if you suppose me a shepherdess, why was I disturbed, or if a genii do you not dread my resentment for your intrusion? As she spoke she looked towards a pavillion; Ethelwald let fall the hand he had snatched, and beheld with wonder (proceeding from their unexpected ap­pearance) Lord and Lady Devon followed by a numerous, retinue approaching.—

They greeted him with cordiality. We did not suppose you were so early a riser, Baron, said Lord Devon, accustomed as you have been to scenes far different, we purposed however soon sending for you to enjoy with us the freshness of the morning; let me introduce to you another branch of my family—Elfrida. Elfrida! cried the Baron, retreating a few steps, and is it her—his heart smote against his bosom—for a moment the flutterer ceased to throb—oh! Edgar, Edgar, he silently exclaimed, why, why was thy Ethel­wald sent on such an embassy. Lead on Lady Devon, said the Earl; she presented her hand to the Baron, and they repaired to the pavillion where breakfast with an elegant sumptuousness was spread, while the artless sounds of pipes and tabors stole from behind.

Here, said the Earl, my family and I enjoy the cool, the silent, and the fragrant hour; here [Page 42] we offer up prayers to that Power who dispenses those gifts around us—When I view you bright refulgent orb of day, methinks it calls upon the sons of affluence to contribute with benevolence to the happiness of others; and sweet, surpassing sweet, is that office above all others, gladsome to the heart that hour which with blissful consci­ousness it can say I have aided to the felicity of one of humankind.—I have long, Baron, retir­ed to this seat of my ancestors, for serene tran­quillity is required for those powers which in the morning of life have been busily employed—El­frida is my only daughter, and those three young Ladies kinswomen to Lady Devon.

Oh, happy society, cried Ethelwald, where every moment is worthy of being recorded on an­nals that shall never be erased; where virtue in her most celestial from (here his eyes involuntary turned to Elfrida) appears in view.

From the pavillion they roamed through the contiguous part of the demesne; all was contri­ved to diversify the prospect, the rudeness of one spot setting off the elegant cultivation of another, and an air of simplicity presiding over the whole, rendered it fit for the peculiar residence of bene­volence and peace.

A bell at length summoned them to a magnifi­cent banquet in the hall; which the quaint jest, the jovial laugh, the winning politeness that reigned, made more delectable.

[Page 43] In the evening the Earl conducted Ethelwald to a spacious saloon blazing with the variegated lustre of innumerable lamps. The ladies he found habited in a stile of more splendour, though not less taste than in the morning. Here were assem­bled a gallant shew of neighbouring barons with their noble dames and daughters. Ethelwald had the supreme felicity of being seated next El­frida, who shone above her gay companions with a surpassing loveliness. A large curtain, which hung at the termination of the saloon, softly a­rose to the sound of an invisible minstrelsey, and discovered a luxuriant and romantic scenery.

The entertainment consisted of a youth com­mencing his pursuit after happiness, in which Prudence and Pleasure severally solicit to be cho­sen for a guide. Fascinated by the shewy exte­rior of the latter he puts himself under her tute­lage; the trying vicissitudes to which such a choice necessarily exposed him were strongly ex­emplified; worn out by his afflictions, and on the point of plunging into the gulph of despair, he is prevented by the interposition of Patience, who brings at her right hand her gay attendant Hope; they calm his perturbations, and assure him if he relies on religion, a power whose autho­rity they all own, he will shortly discover the retreat of Prudence who will be his smiling guide to the region inhabited by happiness. He finds her as they promised; she leads him to the desired dome, which was adorned with all that could charm without dazzling the eye; Virtue who presided over the entrance immediately gave [Page 44] him admittance, introducing him to the bright inhabitant of the place, who was surrounded by the powers of innocent festivity, ornamented with all that could gain upon the soul; her first smile gave him a fore-taste of the bliss he is about en­joying—Cheerfulness now enters with her bright bugle-horn, announcing a banquet the most de­serving of partaking it; Virtue immediately gives her a commission to invite those she pleases—Cheerfulness immediately tripping forward ap­proached Elfrida and Ethelwald; she bound his temples with laurel, and placed on the snowy forehead of Elfrida a garland of roses.

Elfrida blushed—'twas a blush of pleasure; the Baron was in extacies, every sense was intoxica­ted; his cheeks burned with the fire of his soul; he grasped her hand, he spoke inarticulate—'tis transport, 'tis happinesa—Elfrida she called us to her court.

He led her on; the company followed. The young domestics who had supported the allegori­cal play ranged themselves around and sung al­ternately.

The party at last separated; Ethelwald began to be roused from the tumults of pleasure.—He sighed in wishing for a power to detain them all, since by their means he would have an opportu­nity of gazing yet a little longer on Elfrida; but he was obliged to retire to his chamber, where he speedily dismissed the attendants.

[Page 45] Here in the silence of night forgotten thoughts began to obtrude; the active powers so delight­fully called forth were sinking into calmness, and he recollected the occasion of his visit to the cas­tle of Devon.

Oh Edgar, cried he, with a voice wildly dis­turbed, into what a situation have you thrown me; this is a trial indeed, could you not have foreseen if beautiful as pictured, Elfrida could not be viewed by the fire of youth, the sensibility of a feeling mind, without danger? My sove­reign, you have blasted my peace; your hitherto kind hand has uplifted the dagger for my heart—she must be your's—the tongue of Ethelwald even eloquent as it will be on such a subject can­not paint her beauties. My queen, must then those thrilling emotions be covered with cold respect? I shall behold you too when withdrawn from the bustle of a court, I shall witness the se­rene joys of happy love,—Distraction is in the thought; Edgar, the moment of thy union dis­troys me, for earth has no counterpart of Elfri­da. He sat down, his head resting sullenly on his hands.

A sudden sensation seemed at length to rouse him; he started up, transports gleaming from his eyes; they were however quickly succeeded by a profound gloom.

Fly from me, he exclaimed, yet thoughts fraught with horror, shall I violate his confidence? shall I, so late unblemished—oh never, never, [Page 46] shall the fair bloom of honour be blighted by an act of Ethelwald's.

The night waned apace; he hastily undressed and flung himself into bed; he slept, but his slumbers were disturbed by an inconsistent fancy, he wandered through wilds haunted by spectres; fit emblems of every woe which tortures man; he now beheld Elfrida in his view, he strained her to his panting breast, anon she was torn from him and encircled in Edgar's arms.

He started from his pillow, and cold dew broke upon his cheek—Visions of night, cried he, how you torture me; Edgar, by my hopes of felicity, I cannot relinquish Elfrida to you.

A heaviness again stole upon him from which he was shortly roused by the sound of an horn; be beheld the sun beaming into the apartment with an inviting radiancy, and dressing precipi­tately descended to the hall where the family prepared for the chace were taking refreshments.

The Earl chose Ethelwald Elfrida's knight for the day; he assisted her to mount; the proud steed neighed and pawed, and appeared as from in­stinct to know the treasure he carried. Her long tresses escaping from the artless enclosure of a ribbon, waved with a soft motion of the breeze; her heightened colour gave greater lustre to her eyes. She was more an angel—the Baron more undone.

The stag soon yielded its transient life; and the heat now becoming oppressive, the steeds [Page 47] were forsaken, and they entered a boat which conveyed them to a small island in the midst of a large lake. A sudden whirl in the water fright­ened (or at least had the appearance of doing so) Elfrida; she caught the Baron—what throbbing emotions rushed upon his heart from the faint pressure of her hand. His dark eyes beaming on her seemed to swear eternal love and loyalty to her.

A grotto, in the centre of the island, was their recess; here domestics habited as re­cluses greeted their entrance, and a white flag which served for a table displayed their store, much fitter indeed for the palace of luxury than the cell of a dervise; but being served in a pecu­liar stile made those impressions which were de­sired. The grotto was lined with moss; firs and old-oaks waved around it; and the smaller, though more gay progeny of nature, impregna­ted the sportive gales. The flitting birds, by gladsome notes, appeared declaring their joy for such a retirement; soft music stealing along the water completed the delights that were here assem­bled.

All is enchantment, exclaimed Ethelwald, with an involuntary air of amazement—yes, ye gay scenes, ye smiling beings, my astonished mind regards you as the beautiful prodigies of creation.—Why, oh (continued he with a more serious air) not sooner known? my past life appears like a blank, 'tis only now existence opens upon me.

Thus, said the Earl, do my family enjoy those recreations which heaven most graciously has al­lowed [Page 48] us, without deeming it an infringement of its right. After a performance of the first great duties, I wish to unbend their minds, and by so doing give them a higher relish for those amuse­ments of which they thus innocently partake.—Alas! Ethelwald was unable to attend to him; he was distracted by conflicts, the lasticity of his soul seemed to himself for ever broken; he long­ed for the midnight hour of privacy and silence. His fame, his honour, stood upon a precipice, and he wanted resolution to preserve them; his love for Elfrida was passion in excess; a passion encreased by the apparent obstacles between them; hurried on by its impetuosity, [...]e recoiled from the voice of reason. Generosity, the early and hitherto constant inhabitant of his soul, was banished by the impulse of self-gratification; he forgot his obligations; Edgar was no longer re­garded as an indulgent master, but one who would blight his happiness. Images of deceit for the first time sullied his probity; he felt all their horrors, but there was the prize in view, and Ethelwald consented to be a traitor to possess Elfrida.

He now began to do as all those who err, to call on sophistry and speciousness to palliate his crime; he represented to himself the inconstancy of Edgar's disposition, which was too habitual to suppose would be conquered even by Elfrida; knowing this, cried he, shall I not endeavour to save her from destruction, from the misery her gentle soul would feel when neglected by the most changeable of mankind. I can easily deceive him by saying same has exagerated; but though un­worthy [Page 49] of him, too glorious a prize to be aban­doned by a subjected desirous of aggrandisement. In every other respect I vow the most inviolable fidelity to him; my tale believed, each obstacle is removed. There is a language in Elfrida's eyes—the Baron blushed with rapture at the thought which flatters hope—her parents anticipate her wishes: with me she has nothing to dread from the instability of love, or the capriciousness of my disposition. In my castle she shall enjoy all those domestic pleasures she has experienced from her infancy. Our children will bloom like the young shrubs of the forest beneath the shelter of parental indulgence.

Ethelwald now panted to execute his project; besides, he knew the impatient monarch, ill brook­ing a delay, might dispatch a courier after him, and another courier the Baron said might be more faithful than me.

By the declining beams of the next day's sun he determined on departing; when he declared his intention, he watched Elfrida as he spoke; her cheeks were overspread with paleness, her eyes turned to the ground, she seized the first op­portunity of retiring in silence.

Noble Ethelwald, exclaimed the Earl, my dame and I will often request the repetition of your visit; ye be assured we will never encroach on your politeness by urging your stay longer that is agreeable to you; no, believe me, I think a [Page 50] retreat like this would be too inglorious for you now in the zenith of youth and its active powers. May the favourite of Edgar pursue the course of honour with success, and may he use each inter­val of unfolding with wisdom to the soveriegn the beauty of virtue, and the delight resulting from the amity of the subject.

Ethelwald's grateful heart dictated a thousand things for the urbanity of his entertainments; but its fullness oppressed him, and his lips quivered vainly to speak. There are moments when silence is most expressive of what we feel.

He sought Elfrida; she was in a sequestered bower in the garden, whither his eyes had traced her from an arched window.

Pardon, lady, said he, my intrusion, but I come to bid adieu. Elfrida looked, (an uncon­cerned spectator would have imagined she had a conscious knowledge of something particular he was about to say) she interrupted him, mention­ed hesitatingly the prospect.

There is now but one prospect, replied the Ba­ron, smiling, I can view with pleasure. Yes, Elfrida, he exclaimed, throwing off the studied formality of his air, there is but one lovely work in the creation I now regard with transport. The Earl and his lady solicit me to repeat my visit, but I dare not without thy permission; say shall I again be welcome, or will you give me cause to rue your father's hospitality.

[Page 51] She blushed, she looked round, she looked down; her eyes met the ardent ones of Ethelwald; Baron, at length, exclaimed she with a glowing ingenuity, if you return, you shall find Elfrida, like her parents, can distinguish merit. Ethelwald was at her feet; her hands were seized in his, they were pressed to his heart, to his lips. If I re­turn—can it be called life when from thy sight.

The moment arrived for his departure; he sighed adieu to the castle of Devon; his steed though swift beyond idea, kept no bounds to his impatience; he at length reached the palace, and gained an instantaneous interview with Edgar.

That monarch, whose striking characteristic was being carried away in an impetuous pursuit after whatever obtruded itself on his fancy, had, since the idea of an union with the Heiress of Devon, pictured an angel to him; no relish for any amusement, and he experienced an uncon­querable lassitude 'till the period of Ethelwald's arrival.

Well, my Baron, cried he, his tongue falter­ing through an excess of impatience, has fame been just, is she more or is she less than we expect.

Edgar stammered—he felt all the shame and a­gonies of dissimulation but he could not retreat from the intended scheme, without the resigna­tion of Elfrida; yet most gladly did he screen his eyes under the dark plumage of his helmet [Page 52] from the quick glances of the king.—Less, f [...]r less than we expected is Elfrida, said the Baron. Is this possible, was thrice repeated; most true, my fire, nor ever would she bring pleasure to thy arms. Edgar expressed his mortification by a sul­len silence of a considerable duration. Never, cried he, shall I believe the babbling nonsense of a few individuals, who probably never beheld her they described a prodigy.

Ethelwald, fearful of exciting suspicion post­poned the moment of declaring his intention of wedding her. Almost trembling with anxiety, he at length divulged his purpose, and intreat the sanction of his sovereign.

Edgar remonstrated against such an union; he mentioned many of illustrious descent, of splen­did fortunes, with appearance far more pleasing than that which Ethelwald had painted Elfrida, who might be happy to accept his hand.

The Baron pleaded the capriciousness of their choice, the uncertainty of his being the object, above all the favourable sentiments of the family of Devon owing their origin to the kindness graciously shewn to me by you my royal master.

Since thus resolved, replied Edgar, you have our free permission to unite at pleasure your des­tiny to that of the house of Devon; from our protection expect every emolument; thy worth, thy valour, merit this return; thou wilt not, Ethelwald, be ever less acceptable for wanting a [Page 53] handsome wife, though a pleasing circumstance in our eyes. Baron, said he, resuming his seri­ousness, believe me tenderly interested in thy welfare; thou art now entering upon n [...]w con­nections, but never afford them an opportunity of weakening the esteem thy sovereign still wishes to conciliate.

This language almost over-powered Ethelwald—his soul recoiled at its own idea—the black and hideous fiend of ingratitude swam before his view—my master, my king, he cried—he paus­ed, his knees smote each other—the image of Elfrida rose in the mildness of beauty—she must, she must be mine, he cried within himself. He bent one knee to the ground; he cought the ex­tended hand of Edgar, his own shaking at his touch; he arose, and fled with precipation from the presence.

Kneeling in his chamber, he imprecated des­truction on his head if ever again he violated that faith due to a sovereign, who unbending from the height and haughtiness of power, conde­scended to him with the familiarity of a friend. Speedily did he trace the road leading to the re­gion of his happiness. He stopped at the abbey, from whence he viewed the spires and battlements of Devon castle. He dispatched a courier for it with a letter declaring all his wishes. He reck­oned the moments for his return; the diary told him they were of the accustomed length, but he counted by the throbbings of an impassioned heart. The domestic returned—he brought a summons, yet more a letter fraught with amity.

[Page 54] The Baron vaulted on his courser—he was breathless when he reached the castle-gate—he rushed into the Hall—the Earl received him.

Thy return is indeed unexpected, said he, but more welcome (if possible) for being so.

Ethelwald looked at him with a wishful eager­ness—the Earl interpreted it. Far be from me, he cried, to sully the native garb of sincerity (which has ever marked my days) disavowing the pleasure I received from the prospect of thy alliance, which thy noble birth and high estima­tion with thy sovereign render desirable even to our ancient house.

But mark me, Baron, when I say these advan­tages fade into insignificance before me if not supported by virtue; assured of thine from the acclamations of the exalted, and the less clamor­ous voice of the retired, I sanction thy hopes.

Lady Devon entered at this instant; the tears sparkled in her eyes, and extending her white hands, my heart, noble Ethelwald, said she, bows yeilding to thy request, and when the virgin reserve of Elfrida candidly allows her to speak, she will declare her acquiescence to our wishes.

Ethelwald would have uttered the ebullitions of his soul, but all was rhapsody and inconsist­ence; he attempted to bend his knee to the ground, but was prevented; they conducted him to their daughter; she met him with a beauti­ful [Page 55] disorder; she was desired to welcome him; her tongue faultered, but her dark blue eyes were eloquent.

Her father witnessed her confusion, and wish­ed to terminate the period of suspense.

Though the commencement of our acquain­tance has been short, said he to the Baron, yet our friendship appears strong as if the growth of years; but sympathy is the cement of souls; fame united mine to your's long since. The blushes of Elfrida confess the dear secrets of her soul. I am an enemy to the frigidness of puncti­lio; each moment of the swift period of existence should I think, be usefully employed and inno­cently enjoyed. Receive then youth my daugh­ter; secure of thy honour, the last branch of the house of Devon is intrusted to thy care; sweet will be the shade thou shall afford to guard it from each blight, nor will the parent stream itself lack nourishment from the—he stopped, a tear trickled down his reverend cheek. Lady Devon sobbed—oh, Ethelwald, my newly adopt­ed son, said she, with uplifted hands, if thou ever cease to cherish my darling expect to forfeit the smiles of heaven.

He withdrew his enfolding arms from Elfrida and bent his knee to the ground, the fire of his soul darting from his eyes—yes, lady, said he, may I forfeit the smiles of heaven, and may the hour in which Ethelwald ceases to regard Elfri­da, as the first object in the creation, be his last.

[Page 56] The nuptuals were soon solemnized with that splendour befitting their rank. The peasantry, whom the Earl considered as one great family, were made to rejoice on the occasion, an infant lips were taught to hail that hour with blessings in which Ethelwald and Elfrida united their fates.

They soon repaired to the Baron's castle; it had long been forsaken by him; he now beheld it with an awful transport; he led with an en­thusiastic glow its blooming mistress round the spacious apartments once inhabited by many a noble dame, their hovering spirits he imagined [...]igh, and called for the sanction of their bles­sings.

The nobles thronged around to pay their tri­bute of respect; the vassals exerted their artless skill in rural sports; and many young and gal­lant knight displayed his skill in tournaments to gain a smile from the fair bride.

Intoxicated with the completion of felicity, Ethelwald forgot the danger of exposing Elfrida to view; he recollected it not till too late; then assuaged his alarms by the hopes the king would no more make enquiries concerning her. But an alarming thought suggested is not quickly dis­pelled; the joys of Ethelwald now diminished before his apprehenssions; he fully proved that the heart conscious of an error taints the liveli­est scenes; nay, every blessing is oppressive if convinced of not deserving its possession; vainly would nature court him to be blest whose soul knew the pollution of vice.

[Page 57] A change of the saddest kind now stole upon the bridal pleasures of Elfrida. Her noble father, on his return to his ancient seat, was seized with a malignant disorder, which lady Devon caught by her attendance on him. They wished to avoid disturbing the happiness of their children; they delayed sending till her presence would have been unavailing; they committed their parting benediction for her to a trusty domestic; they survived each other but a short time, and expir­ed with no other sorrow on their souls than that proceeding from not beholding her.

Blameless throughout life, retrospection with them was attended with hope and serenity; they had cherished religion and benevolence, and they sound them supports when this world was fad­ing away.

The thoughtless they had reclaimed by ex­ample, and the precepts of tender wisdom; of­ten had they replenished the pilgrim's scrip, and cheared the penurious cottage of the peasant.

Altered were the shades of Devon, its hospi­table gates were closed, nor did the casements admit the chearing rays of the sun; no longer the gay shepherd revelled in its meads, nor echo return the blythsome nots of joy.

Many years after the name of Ordun, Earl of Devon, or his noble dame, could not be mention­ed without the tribute of tears.

[Page 58] Elfrida's anguish surpassed description. Ethel­wald strove not to controul its tumults; the voice of nature he knew must first be heard; he con­signed her to the melioration of time, her good sense and religion. When her mind began to regain some degree of its wonted calmness, she wept upon the Baron's breast—now, spouse of my affections, she exclaimed, thou art the only guardian left Elfrida. And by that sacred title, he replied, by every endearing tie may I watch over the most precious gift of Heaven.

Time now rolled on and fond Ethelwald still fascinated to the confines of his castle; he for­got what the departed Earl had said of his be­ing now in the zenith of his youth and its ac­tive powers, when those laurels are to be acquir­ed whose bright foliage shall shade the ebbing period of mortals existence. Laid in the inglo­rious lap of indolence, its enervation impercep­tibly stole upon him; love, or rather the idolatry of passion, took wholly possession of his mind, and made him forgetful of the duties incumbent on him. Even love itself was hurt by such a con­duct. Elfrida, whose soul breathing the genu­ine emanations of vivacity, required scenes fit to feed its fires; a wearisome lassitude she now be­gan to feel at the uniformity of all around; per­putually accustomed to the sight of Ethelwald, her eyes lost the delight of novelty, nor did her breast beat tumultuous responses to his voice. She began to think of other pleasures, she knew not how to obtain them, and sig [...]ed for the want­ing them.

[Page 59] The king at first was surprised at the seclusion of his favourite—he felt hurt—he enquired, and heard too much. In the first paroxisms of rage and disappointment, he vowed by the spirit of offended loyalty to punish the perfidy of Ethel­wald. Even in his cooler moments, he was still determined. After some little deliberation he dispatched a courier to inform the Baron he pro­posed taking the amusement of the chace in the forest of Harwood, and would pass a few days at his castle.

'Twas now the storm burst tremendous on his head; he shuddered, he experienced the dire horrors of an illicit plot; he beheld the gulph of destruction yawning before him, and saw no re­treat. He fled to the apartment of the Baroness—he caught her to his bosome—he even wept over her—he saw the prospect of losing her. She was amazed at his emotions, and eagerly enquir­ed the cause.

In a distracted and inconsistent manner he in­formed her of all. He fell at her feet—her robe was enfolded in his trembling arms—his cheeks were dyed in paleness—he besought her to for­give the impetuosity of that love which tempted him to tarnish the lustre of his honour.

My wife, my beloved, the hand of violence, he exclaimed, may wrest thee from me. Oh, do thou, I conjure thee by all our hopes of happi­ness, endeavoured to lessen thy attractions. Alas! I have still no hopes, My Elfrida must be ever too exquisitely lovely.

[Page 60] When recovered from her first astonishment, she quickly comprehended his meaning; she de­sired him to fear nothing from her want of pru­dence; then expressing a wish to be alone, he retired.

Elfrida continued a considerable time in pro­fround meditation; then suddenly starting from the seat, Bertha, cried she, to her most favoured attendant, are you not a little surprised at what we have just now heard. The Baron has played us rather false; yes, said she, traversing with hasty steps her chamber, then stopping before a mir­ror, a diadem would not have been unbecoming this brow, nor would this hand looked very ill in wielding a sceptre.

Yes, madam, I really think the Baron has played a truant game; Oh, surely, Queen would have been much better than a simple Baroness; besides, I should have been your majesty's maid of honour, the Lady Bertha, and my two little brothers pages—Queen Elfrida, a most beautiful title, we should have had our envoys, our pleni­potentiaries, our state days, while all the people would be shouting, long live the glorious Queen Elfrida.

The Baroness flung herself in a musing poster on a sofa—her mind never before was under the in­fluence of such agitations—brought up in the im­mediate presence of her parents, her vanity had hitherto been controuled, but now all passions of particularly ascribed to her sex were roused even [Page 61] at the dangerous period, when lassitude had weak­ened the stronger faculties, and the first ardour of love was deadened by the continual presence of Ethelwald.

She was informed she might have been united to a sovereign, brave, generous, beautiful; with him have shared the glory of conquest, the ho­mage of nations, and the admiration of mankind.

House of Devon, she exclaimed, how little art thou indebted to Ethelwald—but for him thou might have been elevated to regal pow­er, perhaps immortal fame; but his shackles have bound my hands, and the daughter of Ordun shall support them with calmness; yet never shall her high-born soul assist his mean design; she will at least prove to the royal Edgar she was not so un­worthy as depictured of sharing his honours.

Ethelwald was compelled to set forward to re­ceive his sovereign. Edgar panted for revenge, but dissimulation was now necessary for the black­ness of his intentions. He met the Baron with a smiling aspect, chid him with gentleness for his long seclusion from the court, but vowed for the future to break in upon his domestic system of tranquillity.

The faint heart of Ethelwald was cheered by this reception, but it again smote its tenement when leading to the Baroness's apartment. To sequester her he knew would have been impossi­ble; [Page 62] even a pretext of illness must have excited suspicion.

The folding doors were flung open by two fair boys. Elfrida rested on a sofa, the youngest of her attendants ranged around; but what horrors blasted the eyes of Ethelwald on beholding her surpassing loveliness. Her habit conveyed an idea of splendor without heaviness; a robe of pale blue carelessly spotted with silver fell far beneath her feet; the delicacy of her waist was displayed by a confining girdle of pearls: her bosom polish­ed and white beyond compare was faintly shaded by the decorating lace; her shining tresses un­bound to shew the luxuriance of their growth, had now no other covering than a light veil, which falling back in seemingly artless folds dis­covered a face the model of human beauty.

She arose with a kind of dignified disorder, she stept forward, her knee touched the ground to pay her first obeisance to her King; the resist­less glow of modesty mantled quick upon her cheek; her lips scarce emitted a sound; nor was one articulate save the tremulous word of wel­come.

Edgar gazed upon her with astonishment, he was transfixed like a statue, and his eyes alone evinced his animation.

All is lost, cried Ethelwald to himself—his crimsoned cheek changing to the hue of death.

[Page 63] The King recollected himself; he could have fallen prostrate to implore Elfrida's forgiveness, for permitting her continuance in such a posture; he raised her, reseated her on the sofa, himself beside her. Lady, said he, we and our court can scarcely pardon the Baron for concealing in in­vidious shades such perfections. If anxious for a reconciliation, he must no longer monopolize from the world so valuable a treasure—he glanc­ed at Ethelwald—the hand of dismay was busy with his features, and marked too legibly the emotion of his soul.

Thou art my victim, said the king to himself, thou shall no longer triumph in treachery, the soft hand I have touched shall yet be mine.

It was his wish, however, to dissipate the fears he excited; he only therefore treated Elfrida with the politeness due to her station. To the Baron, he behaved with aditional complacency; repeatedly assured him he would no longer allow him to be retired from court.

The Baroness called forth every charm. Af­ter a few trifling excuses her voice accompanied the lute—'twas thrilling melody—nor did her manner less delight; and Edgar felt in being robbed of the heiress of Devon he lost the most perfect of her sex.

Ethelwald at night attended him to his apart­ment—Baron, exclaimed the King, (when alone with him) you have not acted quite well to me, yet imagine not, he continued, (perceiving his [Page 64] agitation) my nature so severely harsh as to re­fuse pardon to a crime of love; it is what a man oft will in his own breast find a pal [...]ation for; but if you desire I should be reconciled to you, you must conduct the Baroness to court; her charms should not be concealed from the world, nor can I longer bear thy enstrangement from me.

My most gracious fire, my too kind, too in­dulgent master, said Ethelwald, sinking at his feet, I have not merited this clemency; 'tis an agravation of my crime—but if the strictest vows, the sincerest resolutions of unshaken fidelity can extenuate my conduct, Ethelwald for ever shall not be recorded in the black volumes of perfidy and guilt.

The King appeared affected, he raised him, he pressed his hand, he reiterated his professions of kindness. The night waned away; the chace was to commence early the ensuing morning, and they separated.

Elfrida, who dreaded the remonstrances of the Baron for acting so contradictory to his wishes, pretended to be asleep when he entered her apart­ment, and when he rose by the first dawn of light her eyes were closed by its balsamic influence.

Ethelwald's happiness now seemed supreme; he had flung off that weight of apprehensions so long oppressive; the bright effusion of returning peace tinctured his brown cheek; the fire of his eyes was re-lightned; the chords of his soul re­sumed [Page 65] their elasticity, with flattering prognostics of vibrating no more but to the sound of gladness—he resembled a wretched mariner, who, tossed by the whirl of winds and waters, attains at length the haven of security.

A numerous retinue attended the King and Ethelwald, and in the mazy winding of the forest of Harwood they pursued the timorous stag.

The King at length declared his fatigue; and expressing a private wish to the Baron of seeking a place for repose, they soon dropt the party and penetrated into the tangled and obscure paths. Dismounting from their steeds they proceeded into the centre of the forest, where the interwo­ven branches of old oaks hid the pure light of day.

Here the King stopped, and withdrawing his arm from Ethelwald's, Baron, said he, this is a moment for private conference I have sighed for.

My sire does honour to his vassal, he replied. Yes, resumed he, I have longed, I have almost died to tell you, you are a base, perfidious traitor; did'st thou suppose I would suffer thee to enjoy the fruits of thy deception? I thought you had known the high and vindictive soul of Edgar bet­ter. Ignoble Ethelwald I triumph over thee; that wife on whom thy eyes for the last time have feasted shall be mine ere thy clay-cold coverlet is green—thus, exclaimed he, drawing a dagger he had concealed beneath his habit, may this [Page 66] hand destroy all who shall dare to diminish the happiness of Edgar.

Ethelwald staggered at the blow which pierc­ed his breast; tis just, he groaned—but oh, my wife! my El—frida, he would have added, but a convulsive writhing closed his lips, and senseless he dropped back.

The ensanguined steel fell from Edgar—his hand seemed nerveless—he would have fled, but the entangling brambles fastening in his gar­ments, impeded his progress—he stopped pant­ing—his eyes involuntary fastened on the pale visage of the youthful Baron.

'Tis a bold deed I have atchieved, he cried, 'twas deserved;—yet, how horrible is death—so unprepared too; how gaily tinged was his cheek by that blood my dagger drank.

He extricated himself with precipitation from the baneful shades, leaving the bosom of the once gallant Ethelwald to be covered by the falling verdure of the forest.

The King was breathless as he gained his at­tendants; they surrounded him with astonishment, and supported him from the steed he could no longer sit. In faltering accents he answered their enquiries; they were suddenly assaulted by va­grants, he escaped with difficulty; Ethelwald—he was unable to proceed, the horrid rest was guessed.

[Page 67] The piercing cries and lamentations of the do­mestics row smote his ears. Oh where, they cri­ed, distractedly flying about, where are the mon­sters that spilled the blood of gallant Ethelwald.

The King desired to be borne to the castle; there Elfrida was devising new schemes to give a permanency to that admiration she perceived kindled in his eyes.

A murmuring noise now resounded through, the castle, by degrees it approached nearer to her apartment; the most aged of the domestics rush­ed wildly in. He is gone, they exclaimed; he is lost forever. Oh, Lady, the hand of violence and barbarity has despoiled thee of thy Lord.

Ghastliness and horror overspread the features of the Baroness; a kind of conscious guilt per­vaded her soul; she screamed faintly, and fell without sense upon the bosom of Bertha.

She was soon restored to reason, and the bitter­ness of sorrow, yet not that excruciating bitter­ness of sorrow which would have been her por­tion had her love for the Baron continued with its first ardour; she wept his fate, but her tears flowed not from the springs of agony.

Edgar remained at the castle; propriety might have forbidden his stay, but he hearkened not to its pleadings; there was a guilty transport felt under the roof with Elfrida.

[Page 68] He had it reported to her that the body of Ethelwald was vainly sought for by his desire, and as soon as decency would permit solicited and obtained an interview.

The surpassing loveliness of the Baroness amaz­ed his enthralled heart; her waning colour, her tears that incessantly flowed, the solemness of her habit all worked upon the dormant powers of sensibility.

He experienced a trembling confusion; his eyes were averted; but with horror they fastened on some scattered habiliments of Ethelwald; the deed however was accomplished, nor could he feel compunction with the prize in view; he re­covered his composure and endeavoured to sooth her. At length he imperceptibly led her into the path he desired, and mentioned, though with hesitation, his wishes.

Elfrida hung back at the proposal; the reserve of female modesty revolted at this speedy mention of another choice; she refused to answer, lost in an anxious embarrassment.

Lady, cried the ardent monarch, I wish not to encroach on the rites due to the memory of Ethel­wald, but surely when fulfilled I may expect you to listen to my suit. Know, Lady, I have a pri­or right to thee, and but for his deceptions might have tasted the sweets of thy virgin affections; he is gone, however, and let it not be said, Ed­gar displays the faults of him who moulders to [Page 69] primeval dust. Oh! raise thy benign eyes upon me, nor let me find that the daughter of Ordun has be­held the vassal with more approbation than a King.

He was stopped by the rising impetuosity of his emotions.

The idea of Ethelwald was fading from Elfri­da's soul; she beheld at her feet a suppliant in a young lovely sovereign; she forgot what was due to her departed lord; to the proud virtues of her parents; ambition and vanity like tor­rents bore upon native delicacy; she promised to be Edgar's when the term of mourning was ex­pired, and in that moment sullied the hitherto pure brightness of her fame.

Let the young and blooming daughters of her sex; from her example, beware how they suffer an inordinate passion to gain admittance into their bosoms; insinuating its entrance, but diffi­cult its expulsion; and may in one moment pre­cipitate them from that height of virtue which an unblemished adherence of her rules had ele­vated them to. To unite again was not proper, but this speedy contract; there was the wound to fair propriety.

The king left the castle. The perturbations of Elfrida's mind subsiding; unoccupied, it strik­ingly pointed out to her the solitariness of her present condition; a dull silence reigned through­out the castle; the domestics she imagined re­garded her with a gloomy respect; in her pre­sence the gay pipe of the shepherd ceased; joy, [Page 70] fleeted from before her, and the old battlements she thought often shook with an ominous vi­olence.

Unable to support those ideas, she resolved on repairing to the seat of her nativity, taking with her only those servants particularly belong­ing to her. Here other emotions were awaken­ed; the remembrance of the parents she had lost, of her lord cut off in the bright bloom of manhood, rushed upon her heart, and with it an agonizing shame at the idea of the little respect she paid their manes in so soon entering upon a new engagment. Her sacred word however was pledged to Edgar. To dissipate her melancholy she strove to rouse the passions of vanity and am­bition; fruitless were those efforts; an oppres­sive sadness marked her as its own, and Elfrida, like a young flower blown on by untimely winds, daily faded.

One evening's close she prostrated herself be­fore the portraits of her parents; the wildness of sorrow agitated her fancy, and she thought the brave Ordun, and his chaste dame, bending down with an indignant wafture, desired her de­parture; she screamed, the cry drew the af­fectionate domestics; they raised her from the ground, and wiped off the chilling dews which stole upon her cheek.

Fraught with the superstition of the times, the Baroness resolved on endeavouring to quiet her agonies in fulfilling an awful duty, by repair­ing to an abbey two leagues from the castle, and [Page 71] getting the holy fathers to offer up prayers for the souls of her departed friends.

As she made a merit of undertaking this pri­vately, she commanded her attendants not to ap­proach her apartment till summoned; from which, by a small door, she descended at the first glimmer­ing of day, attired in a plain, though coloured robe, to avoid the suspicions of passengers of be­ing what she really was.

Absorbed in the profoundest meditations, she unwittingly turned unto a wrong direction; the path was through a wood wild and perplexed, and she vainly strove to extricate herself.

Unused to sojourn alone, fears of dire nature encompassed her. She fled forwards with preci­pitation, the clearness of the atmosphere chang­ing, she expected the violence of the impend­ing storm would burst on her unsheltered head.

In this moment of dismay her sight was blessed with the view of a female gathering faggots.—Sister, said the panting Elfrida, flying to her, hast thou the possibility of affording me refuge till the storm is passed over?

The female, whose back was to her, now has­tily turned round, and by a start seemed to ex­press her astonishment at the object before her; nor was Elfrida's less. She was habited in the weeds of a pilgrim, but the coarse guise had not the power to hide t [...] beauties of her form; a [Page 72] gentle fire played in her dark eyes; the winning graces of truth and simplicity overspread her face, while her colourless cheek, with a fra­gile delicacy, seemed to declare her though in the first dawn of youth, the daughter of af­fliction.

Gentle lady, cried she, in a sweet voice, wel­come to the refuge I can afford you.

She turned down a little sheltered path which brought them to a kind of grotesque hut, com­posed of unpolished planks covered over at the top with the foliage of the forest.—Father, said the stranger, entering first, you will not chide the chance which led hither this fair guest.

Elfrida beheld a man of an emaciated though majestic form; a resistless sweetness was cast over a countenance where care sat deeply en­graven; nor could the tear of pity be with-held on viewing those white looks that seemed to re­quire a softer pillow than sorrow for repose. A little boy stept on a bed of rushes on whose face the mildest beauties of his early state were painted.

The female recruited the fire with her small bundle of fresh gathered faggots; involuntary sighs broke from the Baroness—were those deli­cate hands, she cried, formed only for that rude office, ye Powers!—but who shall dare to murmur at the destiny of thy creatures?

[Page 73] She was pressed to partake of a vegetable feast. The old man expressed his surprize at her wan­dering in that lonesome forest unprotected. In her turn she assured him that she could not have sup­posed such valuable inhabitants concealed in it, and that she believed their days had not always rolled on in the obscurity of retirement.

And yet, lady, he replied, contentment often dwells in the bosom of obscurity—though rude our station yet virtue spreads a polish around. The bleak winds of winter often strip us of cur leafy covering, but there is a soul to warm and support. Lady, thou will perhaps wonder at an old man who avers he would not change this mi­serable hut for many of the proudest palaces. The tortures too often incurred by a splendid station would be a poor recompence for poverty united to quietness. Can the possession, think you, of a neighbouring seat, known by the title of the Castle of Devon, assuage the guilty hor­rors of its too beautiful mistress.

Ha! cried Elfrida, with irrepressable emo­tions, then suddenly checking herself for fear of a discovery, I thought fame had given her an unsullied character.

Alas! replied the old man, 'twas well the no­ble Ordun and his Lady lived not to witness the declension of her worth; her virtues resisted not the assailments of vanity and ambition, and she consents to wed the murderer of Ethelwald.

[Page 74] What sayest thou, cried Elfrida?

'Tis rumoured, answered he, that the Baron fell by the hands of Edgar in the forest of Har­wood: his deception perhaps merited some pun­ishment, but not one of this barbarous nature—unhappy Ethelwald, thou fell like a towering pine of the forest in thy gayest prime, unmourn­ed too by those most dear. These eyes, which never beheld thee, weep thy fate; oh may the profligate Edgar, he continued, awfully raising his eyes, find every promised joy be blasted; [...] destruction snatch the diadem from his head.

Oh father, oh beloved, refrain, said his daugh­ter, call blights upon the head of Edgar; he is false, but still must Elflida—tears and kindling blushes spoke the rest.

Elfrida in a moment comprehended the myste­ry, and saw one whom the artifices of Edgar had undone.

Thy emotions, he rejoined, have betrayed thee; yet am I mistaken, looking at Elfrida, if contumely will ever proceed from those lips; Thou indeed meritest no shame, the purity of thy soul is unstained, and 'tis on Edgar alone its accumulation should fall. Lady, 'tis true, we have not always been secluded in the bosom of this mean retirement. I shall not enumerate the name or valourous atchievements of my pro­genitors; right noble was their lineage. I was early left an orphan, hereditary fires animated [Page 75] my breast, though fortune had denied her gifts. I saw with admiration, I pursued with ardour the fairest work of nature; the young and art­less Maude listened to my suit, and the sacred benediction ratified our vows. A young baron, highly exalted, promised to patronize my for­tunes; but, alas! his heart was fascinated by the charms of my wife, and on her dishonour the fabric of prosperity was to have risen—oh! thought of horror and agony. What furies smote me, I caught her to my fond distracted heart, and vowed that that hand now tremblin [...] with excess of tenderness would sooner plung [...] a dagger in her breast than consign her to infa­my. We fled from him who would have proved the serpent of our peace; but poverty was our weeping hand-maid, and Maud, like a flower blasted, withered away. In her expiring mo­ments she took the infant Elflida in her feeble arms—Spouse of my heart, cried she, Oh calm the last agony of Maude, and listen to the adjura­tion of her who dies for involving you in woe; let this fair blossom be devoted to the service of her Creator, nor let her know ought of the fol­lies and depravities of life; within the pure and peaceful walls of a convent she escapes the pur­suits of the licentious, and with the calmness of happiness walks forward to eternity.—She heard my solemn vows of compliance; a faint joy flushed over her cheek. 'twas the last ebb of na­ture, and the seal of death was imprinted on her. With a sacred enthusiasm I flew to execute her desire; Elflida was borne by me to a convent whose superior was a relation of mine, that re­ceived [Page 76] her, though portionless, with transport from me.

Lady, I will not trespass on thy patience [...] by painting the tedious years of sorrow. Peace was an alien except at distant periods of visiting my child. I beheld her grow up with all her mother's beauties; my heart felt a holy transport at the fair offering I had made my crea­tor.—Supreme! I cried, many are the mansions in thy court; Oh may our little group yet meet even in the lowest of them, and feel the beatitude of thy glory.—A severe distemper seized me, which confined me many months to my solitary home. Musing one night on the constant subject of my thoughts, a wailing murmur stole upon my ears, and I beheld my child beside me—wild­ness and horror were cast around her; vainly her out-stretched arms would have clasped me; her fixed eyes looked dimless on me. Elflida, I ex­claimed—no, her spectre, say how have thy sa­cred vows been broken? Why hast thou left the convent walls?—The hand of violence—fits stop­ped her furthet utterance.—Oh, lady, I lived to hear the sacrilegious Edgar had violated my child. Where, ye professors of religion and virtue, where were the denunciations of thy wrath for this impious deed; alas! the regal power of the abandoned wicked wretch withheld thy coward tongues, and the vices of the sovereign pallia­ted or burried by them in oblivion—Edgar, and his gay companions, from a frolic habited themselves as pilgrims, and repairing to the convent solicited alms. Elflida was amongst the [Page 77] daughters of piety who listened to the fictitious tale of distress; the unhallowed Edgar sighed for the possession of her charms; by violence she was that night carried off to a palace some leagues distant; here Edgar, in his proper ha­biliments, appeared and endeavoured to calm her fears. Lady, perhaps you know nature has adorned him with the most estimated of her gifts; Elflida found her terrors subsiding, yet solemnly vowed not to survive the deprivation of honour.—Daughter of innocence, cried the accomplished villain, do you imagine I would lead thee into improper connections? no, the fond Edgar wooes thee to his arms by honourable methods. A private ceremony took place. El­flida was his victim. Yet, amidst the bliss she imagined she possessed, she sighed for me. At length the hour drew nigh in which, expecting to be a mother, she besought to preserve her fame to be acknowledged.—Arrogant Elflida, exclaimed the enraged king, didst thou imagine I would submit to such a bondage, or raise thee queen of my people? Presumptuous girl! retire to thy father, the patron of wisdom, he will toll thee such folly is not to be found in the world.—I fled with the betrayed innocent to this lonesome spot; here the rightful heir of En­gland was born; a sovereign's wife stooped to the lowest offices.—Oh, lady, thou canst not won­der if a parent's wrongs call down imprecations; I foresee the period when his long catalogue of crimes shall he held to his view by the fiends of conscience. Remorse too shall seize Elfrida; her [Page 78] charms fading through its influence cease to please, the tottering diadem drop from her head, and the last branch of the house of Devon shall be held up to future ages a dire example of the fu­tility of female ambition.—

Oh, say not, cried the baroness, with wildness, the blasts of heaven will thus fall upon me. I am the monster you have cursed—I am Elfrida! She fell panting on the earth. I am weak, I am ill, will you not assist me.—Astonishment prevented their utterance.

Old man continued she, springing up, with re­turned strength, thou hast roused the dormant feel­ings of remorse; you raised a whirl wind in my breast; wilt thou refuse to give it peace? Here strike, let the daughter of Ordun perish by thy hand, life is not to be borne.

Alas! said the old man to his weeping child, we are undone—this violence of passion is not the true fruit of repentance, and she who caused the blood of an husband to be shed will strike a dag­ger to Elflida's bosom and England's heir.

What, cried Elfrida, disengaging her hold, her eyes cast up, am I that wretch, is guilt so stamped on my forehead? Oh! noble Ordun, thou livest not to hear thy offspring loaded with infamy: Am I that wretch that would raise the assassin's hand? but learn to know the height of that soul thou hast wronged.—Listen to my vow, continued she, bending on her knees, that by [Page 79] every thing sacred, even by the murdered Ethel­wald himself, I never will change my widowed state, but with all the fervor of my power aid Elflida and her infant son.

Lady, cried the old man, I have wronged thee; the right noble blood of Devon lodges in thy veins; for this may heaven shed its ease upon thy troubled mind, and the spirit of Ethelwald regard thee with the mildness of mercy.—While I, cried Elflida, thus lowly bending, promise to cherish my gartitude for her who will become the friend of Edgar's banished wife.

The good Norluff now accompanied Elfrida to the abbey, where the requiems were to be per­formed for the souls of the departed.

Elfrida was now divested of an oppressive weight; the consciousness of acting right diffu­sed a tranquility over her, and in those many hours she spent in Norluff's cottage she was strengthened by the consolations of religion and arguments of reason. Here she endeavoured to devise some project for restoring Elflida to her right.

The expected moment of Edgar's arrival at last came, as announced; the mangled form of Ethelwald seemed to weep before her; her revolt­ing heart could ill support her in dissembling a welcome to his murderer, the inarticulate sounds died away, and she fainted in his arms eagerly opened to embrace her.

[Page 80] The King was shocked at her confusion; he strove to asswage it, and apparently succeeded; no longer period would he allow to vain scruple or delays, and in two days his happiness was to be completed.

Early the destined morning they met in the great hall; Elfrida agreeable to the time covered with a long veil; Edgar seized her hand, that hand which had to lately ratified the youthful Ba­ron's hopes.

The priest proceeded to his office—the bene­diction was pronounced—the impatient monarch snatched off the veil to salute his bride; what fu­ries flashed from his eyes when he beheld a face far different from Elfrida's, a face too well remembered.

Oh! save me, cried Elflida, sinking to the earth, oh! save me from his rage.

The Baroness at that instant rushed in.—Base ingrate, exclaimed the distracted monarch, what have you done? Has the spirit of the deceit­ful Ethelwald arisen from its darks confines to tempt you to this deed?—but thou wert, thou shall be mine.—Power shall obtain what love could not.

Imperious Edgar! said Elfrida, haughtily push­ing him from her, know the blood of Devon mantling at this heart guards it from the fear thy threats meant to inspire; yet even this proud [Page 81] spirit shall bend to supplications if Edgar will listen to the voice of reason.—Chance, or ra­ther the hand of Providence, conducted me to the cot where worth and silent injuries were concealed; could I violate the dear chastity that descended hereditarily from the noblest of mo­thers to me by usurping another's rights? El­flida was thy betrothed, thy truly lawful wife—with her you will experience a reciprocal pas­sion—with me (her soul softening by the remem­brance of Ethelwald's affection) thy joys must have been blasted; let thy pride too, instruct­ing thee to forget the woman indifferent to thy love, make thee accept one repaying it with ardour; thy misguided eye alone could find new beauties in me, for in what is not Elflida my equal?

Edgar turned from her in a sullen musing. She continued—let the voice of nature assist my suplications. Here Bertha entered with the young Edward whom she placed in her arms. Behold the babe of Elflida's affection, the smiling miniature of its sire.

Edgar was touched, his arms involuntarily ex­panding received the child, it lisped in his [...], twisted his chubby fingers in his hair, and [...] soft cheek next his.

All powerful nature touched those chords she had strong upon the human soul.— [...]! he exclaimed—his eyes glanced [...] child to the mother—she still knelt, [...] [Page 82] hands were pressed on her bosom, her dark eyes were suffused in tears, and the paleness of despair rested on her cheek. And can I by a word ani­mate this woman to primeval beauty?—he look­ed at the Baroness—alas! grief was despoiling her of bloom, and her eyes had no longer radi­ance to dazzle.

Rise, Elflida, cried he, till we acknowledge thee partner of our heart and realm.—She heard the extatic words, but they deprived her of the power of obeying them.

Elfrida ran to her—rise, Elflida, said she, noble even in thy sorrows; rise, acknowledged queen, and let the most affectionate of thy subjects pay thee her obeisance.

She was enfolded in the arms of Edgar, the pa­rent and the child—unutterable emotions la­boured in his breast, he felt the pure and native feelings of man; the sweet glow of acting right, a luxury hitherto unknown, nor could he in that blissful hour refrain exclaiming,—to what joys have I been a stranger.

The venerable Norluff now entered the hall; he knelt down in the midst of it; he besought heaven with uplifted hands and eyes to encircle with glory that woman who had redressed their injuries; he implored peace for her widowed days, and some portion of that balm she ministered to o­thers so benignantly,—He was raised and saluted by the King.

[Page 83] The retinue of Edgar now requested to be ad­mitted to their Queen. The blushing Elflida was presented, and their loyal hearts dictated the sincerest congratulation. From her they tur­ned to the baroness; their plaudits broke forth for the nobleness of her conduct.

A costly banquet was prepared—alas! how un­like the feasts once given in Devon castle, of joys departed never to return; the remembrance oc­cupied Elfrida's mind; her gushing tears, her wan cheek, disturbed the reigning festivity, and called forth ten thousand horrors within Edgar at the cruel deed he had prepetrated on the unfor­tunate Baron.

She stole towards the close of evening to the chapel, where the monument of her parents was erected; she flung herself on the cold marble, and implored that power who witnessed her self exer­tions, her return to propriety, to obliterate her errors.

Here the last branch of the house of Doven mourned with sad laments the vicissitudes of life; possessed of sufficient wealth to gratify the most extravagant desires, she was an example to the ambitious and the vain, that felicity cannot be purchased by a mere external station—her sweet­est ties were severed, and what could prove a re­compence.

Say, ye children of sensibility, can the gifts of fortune yield comfort to your souls, if the bonds of death enclose your most endeared connections

[Page 84] While Elfrida wept she heard a door creak, and looking up perceived a figure enter; [...]he screamed and clung to her parents effigies, feeling a kind of protection in so doing—Art thou come at last, she cried, from the confines of the dead to call Elfrida hence?

The figure walked round in sullen silence. The [...] [...]endered objects still discernable, she [...] the visage of Ethelwald; wildly [...] from the tomb she would have grasped [...] fled before her; she pursued with a [...] he rushed through the winding [...] gained the apartment where the [...] and Norluff were sitting.

[...] now felt the full horrors of guilt.— [...] was the soul of fire that braved embattled legions?

Elfrida had not power again to move, she could only exclaim, Oh! beloved, fleet not from me, let me fly with thee to other scenes than these.

Edgar, uttered the pale form of Ethelwald with a solemn voice, know thou smote a heart that hea­ved with the most duteous loyalty to thee; my deception, however, merited the blow, and it came from the proper hand. My tale, recorded to future ages, may perhaps convince the unthink­ing sons of mortality that even one illicit action shall poison the cup of joy. Elfrida! how I lo­ved thee, the ministering angels who preside o­ver [Page 85] human thought, could only tell. I am regar­ded with horror, know I am not a phantom esca­ped from the regions of the dead; Edgar's dag­ger was not successful; I endured existence that I might render my punishment complete by the union of Edgar and Elfrida; that period is now arrived, and this dagger shall take a surer aim than Edgar's.

The King, with a piercing cry, rushed on his uplifted arm—for this righteous heaven be prai­sed, he said, my hands are unstained by the pol­lution of his blood.

Oh! spouse of my soul, cried Elfrida, whose sobs her painful excess of joy expressed while her feeble arms were stretched to him. He repulsed her with averted looks. Mistaken Ethelwald, exclaimed the King, she is true and loyal—be­hold my bride.

He gently disengaged himself from Edgar. Daughter of Ordun I have wronged thee, he said, a gush of tears, tears of exquisite joy burst from him, and he sunk upon her bosom.

The astonished, the affectionate domestics, rush­ed tumultuous in; they wept aloud, they kissed their robes, they blessed the almost miraculous re-union.

The Baron was now eagerly called upon to in­form them of his escape.

[Page 86] To Him, he cried, whose shield was cast over me, be the voice of thanksgiving and gratitude raised. Providence, Edgar, rendered thy blow unsuccessful. The sun was departing when I re­gained my senses; here in the bitterness of my soul I implored heaven to appease the just resent­ment of my sovereign by my death. A rude ca­rol resounded near me, and in a few moments I beheld a young peasant who in my boyish days had often attended me in my sports; dismayed by my ghastly appearance he was retreating with horror, when my voice withheld him. He flew forward, he bent over me—the gay, the gallant Ethelwald thus mangled! I perish, I cried—Oh, never, while I can succour or assist. He left me with precipitation, and shortly returned with his mother, who helped to convey me to their cot­tage. Henry offered to fly to my castle. Oh, stop thy rashness! I exclaimed, would you sink me in distruction; 'twas the most dear, the most esteemed, that struck; a delirium seized me, and with the wildness of sorrow I divulged my secrets. The old woman applied healing herbs to my wound, and in their sequestered cottage she and the faithful Henry watched over me with unaba­ting tenderness; 'twas they, when reason retur­ned, withheld my hand from terminating life; I sometimes thought of rushing to my castle, of dy­ing a willing victim at your feet; again, of pri­vately seeking Elfrida, if constant, and escaping to foriegn shores. Henry was at last prevailed on to visit the castle; there from the afflicted ser­vants he learned the Baroness had consented to wed the King when the mourning period was ex­pired. [Page 87] The measure of Ethelwald's woes was now completed; I resolved to endure life as a pe­nance for my crime till your union, then ex­pire in your presence. The faithful Henry's ser­vices I only accepted as means of daily informing me of what I wanted; this hour I imagined would be my last; this hour I am possessed of ultimate felicity. Oh! who shall not acknowledge the benignancy of Heaven. Humbled to the dust let the children of mortality adore that power whose rewards so infinitely exceed their deserts.

Mirth once more presided through the castle of Devon. From far and near the nobles and pea­sants flocked to witness the amazing change.

AN amiable young lady was one day walking with her little dog, on the banks of a ri­ver which bordered on a delightful wood: and as she was there musing on the verdant turf, this little beast, which was rambling about, entered the wood, which he had no sooner done than he set up a great cry, and returned seemingly terri­fied towards its mistress. Eliza, (for this is the lady's name) paid scarce any attention to it at first; but finding it would not quit the place from which it incessantly came and returned bark­ing, her curiosity led her to see what occupied the attention of this little animal. She imagin­ed it to be nothing of any moment, as it always returned without receiving the least injury, and likewise that what seemed to concern it, appeared to be on one side the wood; the lady therefore went there to inform herself of the reason of it: but how great, how vast was her surprize, when she saw behind a large bush, a young cavalier ly­ [...]ng motionless on the ground, weltering in his [Page 89] blood, which had dyed the adjacent turf: his face was pale, and disfigured, seeming still desir­ous to conclude its unfinished speech. At this so horrible a spectable, the hairs of Eliza's head stood on end; her legs failed her, and being seized with a cold sweat, had almost dropped into a swoon. But the first emotions being past, and the lady returning to herself, she conjectured it might be some one that had been attacked by thieves, and who in his present condition, stood in need of immediate assistance.

Resuming fresh courage, she approached the wounded person, and spoke to him: but alas! he had neither ears to hear, nor eyes to see. Eliza, therefore, judged it expedient to hasten all possi­ble succour. She therefore began searching for the wounds, in order to bind them as well as she could, and stop the blood which proceeded from them. One was on the chest, one on the right breast, and one on the left thigh, from the latter of which ran a greater quantity of blood than from the two others. As her handkerchief, and that of the cavalier's, were only sufficient to bind two of them, she was obliged to tear her [...] dress for the third, as her gown, which was of silk embroidered with gold would have inflamed them.

After she had done this, she went in search of some one, to carry the wounded person to her castle; and luckily, in her way she met with two men and a woman, who were going to a neigh­bouring [Page 90] village. She immediately called to them, and having related what she had seen, she sent the woman to her castle, to desire the servants to go in immediate search of some physicians and surgeons in different places. She then returned with the two men to the cavalier, that they might bring him away without delay. Fortunately one of them had an empty sack with him, so that by cutting two strong poles, which was passed through it, they made a very convenient litter. They cavalier was placed thereon, and carried gently to the castle, where the lady, who ac­companied him, ordered him to be put in her own bed, her chamber being nearer than either of the others. As the surgeons were not as yet arrived, she gave some cordials to this unhappy man, who began to show some signs of life.

Nevertheless the cavalier was as yet insensible. Eliza having a desire to know the name and qua­lity of this new host, she searched his pockets, to see whether she could find any papers or letters which might inform her in some degree who he was. There were some for different persons at Paris; but as they were all sealed, she did not chuse to open them, as she would rather have re­mained in suspence, than to have done it; but in a short time, she found in another place two pa­pers, which were not sealed, the one was direc­tions for a particular road, and the other a bill of exchange, addressed to a banker at Paris; in the latter of which she learned that the name of the young cavalier was Alvar, and that he came from Germany.

[Page 91] Some time after the physicians and surgeons ar­rived, they examined and probed the wounds, and unanimously agreed that they were not dan­gerous; which gave inexpressible joy to the lady. She desired a physician and surgeon to stay; she treated them generously, and begged them re­peatedly to pay every possible attention to the young cavalier. As the loss of blood was the only occasion of his weakness, they made no doubt but they should soon be able to recover the strength he had lost. And indeed the were right, for the prudence of the physician, the skill of the surgeon, rest, and good nourishment, re-establish­ed the cavalier in less than five days. The lady over-joyed to see that her great care for Alvar would be the means of her restoring him to his life, frequently came with extreme anxiety to mi­tigate as much as she possibly could, the state which he was in. She related nothing but what was agreeable during his illness, and caused vo­cal and instrumental music to be played before him, which greatly assisted his spirits. As soon as he was able to eat, she ordered the table to be placed by his bed-side, and two of her compani­ons, with the physician and surgeon to keep him company. But it is very remarkable, that the lady never asked the cavalier, how it had happened he was so ill-treated. It was now six weeks since the fatal day of his misfortune, when Eliza, who was in the parlour with Alvar (and whom she knew to be well enough not to fear a relapse,) asked how, and by what means he had been so barbarously treated: Alvar began thus:

[Page 92] "This accident, says he, "is in consequence of an adventure that befel me at Cologne, and which has been the occasion of my quitting that pl [...]ce for ever." Eliza would not ask him what that adventure was; but Alvar, perceiving it was only through politeness, explained himself, con­tinuing thus: "This adventure, Madam, is by no means unworthy your curiosity, and though it calls sad ideas to my mind, it is nevertheless highly necessary that I should often think of it, as it is the subject of my consolation. I was," added he "in love with one of the first, and, without flattery, the most amiable young lady in Germany. I was prefered before all [...] rivals, who had great estates; I had almost obtained a person, whom I should have valued more than the whole universe. Judge yourself my inexpressible hap­piness! she was granted me; they looked upon me not as her lover but as their son. One day as I was in the country, walking in a little park, I heard some one speaking in a low voice to ano­ther, and as I approached nearer behind a thick bush, I heard very distinctly these words. "No; I tell you, as long as love shall favour us, assure that I will never marry Alvar; neither will I con­sent to be his wife, unless you abandon me." Guess, Madam, my astonishment, and how much it was augmented, when I perceived that an in famous valet was the Medor, of this angel; and that whilst she was speaking to him in this strain, her head was reclined on him, and her bosom polluted with the hand of this [...] wretch. I cannot describe my feelings; I experinced every thing that rage could inflict the most cruel on me [Page 93] I sat down on the grass, and heard my perfidious love repeat, with a thousand oaths, that she would forever adore this monster, even in case her lot should oblige her to be another's. This valet exhorted her not to break them: and, af­ter having spoken in ill terms of me, he kissed her incessantly. I was not able to contain the rage I was in. I cried out, O! perfidious wretch­es: and drawing my sword, rushed into the wood, the entrance was on the other side, the cursed valet had time to make his escape; and as for my traitress, I neither deigned either to stab or speak to her.

I then mounted my horse (for her father's sta­bles were close by), and returned to the city, informing the master of the house, that I was not well. My countenance made it visible to every one; when I arrived at Cologne I went to bed; but the despair and grief that agitated my heart, would not permit me to remain there, I soon arose again, remounted my horse, and went out of the city attended only by one servant, and travelled without knowing whither I was going; till be­ing worn out with lassitude and sorrow, I arrived at a vallage, whose name I have forgot, and went to bed, without eating or drinking. As soon as I laid down I shed a flood of tears, when sleep surprised me in that state; but it continued but a very short time, for being interrupted by sudden agitations and ghastly dreams, the image of my misfortunes presented itself before me, and awaked me immediately. I was neither fatigu­ed or weakened, I felt nothing but sadness and [Page 94] despair: I got up and ordered my servant up likewise, and took the road to Aix la Chapelle, where I expected that the distance would allevi­ated my trouble. I had scarce arrived there, before I fell dangerously [...], that my life was greatly despaired of. When I began to grow better, I received a letter from the father of my traitress. "I am not surprised at your proceed­ing," says he to me, "that I do not know what to think of you, in granting you my daughter, I should never have expected to have been treat­ed in this manner. Justify your conduct to me, and know with whom you have to deal." This letter threw me into a great embarrassment. The respect which I always had for the father of this unworthy girl, and that friendship joined to the esteem, which we should always shew for the sex, made me extremely uneasy, as I knew not how to justify myself, without discovering to him the infamy of this detestable woman. For some days, as I was considering an answer, two cavaliers from Cologne arrived at Aix la Chapelle. They came after me, told me, that I was not ignorant that they had been the lovers of Chione (for that was the name of my traitress); they added that they came to revenge her, and to be revenged themselves, for the contempt which I had shewn her, after having been preferred before all my rivals. "What kind of revenge do you desire?" said I to them: "will you assassinate me here, or will you fight any where else like brave men?" "We will," answered they, "meet you with sword and pistol, when and where you please."

Well, gentlemen," said I, "you will find me [Page 95] to-morrow morning at three o'clock, at the back of the city, where he who shall be conquerer, shall escape where he thinks proper. They ac­cepted the offer; and the pleasure I felt in being killed or revenged of my rivals, for the wicked­ness of my traitress seemed to instill into me so much bodily strength, that I forgot that I had been ill.

The time being come they drew lots, which of them should engage first; for the worthy person, for whom they came to find me, was to be given in marriage to him who should kill me. The first contest was with the sword, and I had the happiness to give such a stroke to my enemy, that he fell as though dead on the ground. The second was with pistol, when my other enemy did not fare much better; I broke his left shoul­der, the ball entering towards the breast, and, to complete his misfortune, the horse missing his bridle, [...] him, and one of his feet catching in the [...], dragged his vanquished master some paces into a fresh plowed field. As we had no other witnesses than our servants. I sent one of them for a litter; and having put both the ca­valiers thereon, I ordered them to be carried to my [...]. I was sure of the confidence of my host, his family and my own servant. I told them not to let the domestics of [...]e two gentlemen go out till the next day; and whilst they were gone for a surgeon, I [...] to a scrivener for him to draw up a letter of attorney, to authorise one of my friends to [...] had at colonge. I sent him this writing, which the honesty of the [Page 96] scrivener had antedated by six days by reason of my giving a few crowns extraordinary. My friend made so good use of it, that all my estates were secured two days after he had received my letters. As for me I left Aix la Chapelle, after having taken the measures which we thought ne­cessary to keep both him and myself from trial, and from that time I never have known what be­came of my two rivals.

I went to another of my friends, which was [...] days journey from Aix la Chapelle; I remained there incognito for some time, where I was so oppressed with grief, that it rendered me like one stupid. At last, I embraced this faithful friend, and shed in his bosom a flood of tears, without his being able to get any thing more from me. I soon after set out for France, and went disguised through bye-roads (for notwith­standing my precaution, the affair was discover­ed), when one evening I arrived at a tavern, where I refreshed myself a little, and joined in conversation with the landlady, who, though she was a little swarthy, knew very well how to draw people in. As she was a fat merry dame, and one who seemed to know how to fell her pro­visions, I endeavoured but in vain to ease my mind, by discoursing with her. In the interim, my servant going to the stable, overheard two men talking, when one whispered to the other, and said, "was not that him?" And as soon as he went in, they followed after. He observed without seeming to take any notice, that they examined him in several things, and he did not [Page 97] doubt but it concerned me, for which reason he came and informed me of it. I immediately con­sidered of the means to avoid the snares that were laid for me. My valet entrusted a maid-servant with the whole affair, and she promised us we should get away safe, and have a guide to con­duct us to Limberg. She kept her word, for she had previously sent the horses and guide, to the end of a bye lane, where she conducted us. I ar­rived at that town, and made three days stay; and the fourth, as I was going out on some post horses, my servant saw the very same men he had seen in the stable; he came and informed me of it. About the middle of the day, I alighted at an inn, and went to sleep in a pleasant orchard, close by the road side; when I awaked I saw four men well mounted armed, two of whom seemed to be the servants of the others, and they appear­ed to be the men in question. I thought at first they were going to dismount at the same inn, and by that means I could view them the better, but they persisted in their journey. From this place I went to Cambray, to see an aunt, where I staid two days, and the third I mounted my horse, and came to Rheims, where I remained a whole day; during which time my servant saw these four sneaking fellows again, of whom I have just been speaking: he told me of it, but I did not believe him; and leaving that town I set out for Meaux, where I have an uncle; and in passing through the wood where you found me, I saw these envious cowards discharge their pistols at me.

[Page 98] Two of them fired without speaking a single word. One wounded me on the chest, the other missed me. My servant was so frightened, that he made off with all speed; when I was immedi­ately surrounded by four men. I laid hold of my pistol, and making to one of the four with a de­sign to be revenged at least of him, for the cow­ardice of his gang; but I had no sooner fired than my horse threw me, and having dashed me a­gainst a tree, I felt such a terrible pain in my sto­mach, that I fell prostrate to the ground. I had nevertheless strength enough to get up again, and post myself against a tree, near the place where you found me. Then the person at whom I had fired desired the others not to meddle with me, saying, that he alone would shew them the merits of each of them. The villain saw that my life was at his pleasure, he came to me sword in hand; I parried some thrusts which was all I could do, at last I received one on my thigh, and I fell. The outrageous man immediately leapt on me; put one of his feet on my breast, and laid hold of my wrist with both his hands, in which I held my sword, and took it from me, using at the same time the most abusive language; he then took off the ring which I had on my little finger, and af­ter he had got it (for I had not power to speak) he ran my own sword into my body, saying, "know that I am James, the lover of Chione."—I can assure you, madam, continued Alvar, that notwithstanding the condition I was in, I made this reflection, that such a lover was well worthy such a traitress. After this I know not what be­came of my assassins, or of myself; and I most [Page 99] certainly should never have seen the light, had not your great and unwearied care for me resto­red me to life."

When Alvar had finished this adventure, he cast his eyes on Eliza, and perceived that those of that generous lady were bathed with tears, and that her face was full of fire. "No one can feel," said she, "more indignation than I have at the recital of your misfortunes; but you will not be less surprised, Sir, than I have been, when I tell you that there has happened to me an ad­venture, very similar to what you have been re­lating. I will give you a faithful narrative of it: the more I think of it the more I am surprised at the resemblance.

I was born at Blois, of a rich and ancient fami­ly. I lost my father and mother before I attain­ed thirteen years of age; and was entrusted to the care of an uncle, who was as fond of me as of his own child. I was in my eighteenth year, when the nephew of one of the greatest noble­men in Germany, came, with his uncle into France, to an estate which bordered upon that which my father had left me. I was there at the time with my uncle. The vicinity of our habi­tations, having given the young nobleman (whose name was Beraldus) frequent opportunities of conversing with me, I soon gained his affection; and his uncle also was so fond of me that he wish­ed me for his niece. He spoke to mine, who received the proposal with the utmost pleasure. I was informed of it, and as Cupid's darts had [Page 100] already pierced me, my consent was readily granted. The time was almost come, when the marriage was to be consummated. The uncle of my intended husband was gone to take a short voyage, and we only waited his return.

As I was one evening in my chamber, reading the nineteenth book of Telemachus, I heard Be­raldus coming up; I immediately hid myself be­hind the curtain in order to disquiet him. He came in, looked about, and not seeing me, asked the chamber-maid (who came up with him) where I was, she told him she thought I was in the arbor in the garden. "There let her stay, (said he)—my dear Martina, let us profit by a happy moment, which Heaven has sent us; come my dearest life! into the arms of a man who love and adores you more than any one else in the world." He was going to place her on his knee, when she seated herself by him, and began to reproach him for the manner in which he con­ducted himself towards me, and for attending too much to the things which concerned me; for casting his attractive eyes too often on me, and that the day before, he had eat an orange which I had peeled, though she had forbid him to do it: "You know (said she) what I have done for you, and the condition into which I am brought, for having loved you too much; I have ruined myself and you also." When she had said this she wept: and Beraldus throwing him­self at her feet extricated himself as well as he could, from the reproaches she had cast on him. He kissed her feet a thousand times, and swore, [Page 101] with execrable oaths, that he, from his soul, loved her infinitely better than he did me; and that was he his own master, he would marry her in spite of every thing: but he was grieved to think it was his misfortune, to depend on an uncle whom he durst not contradict, who had already thought of making him marry a person whom he hated to the greatest degree, and that it was to avoid such a lot, that he determined to marry me, as he had no great aversion to it: "For though I may have loved her, (said he) yet you may as­sure yourself, I shall no more." He promised to give her evident marks of it when he had marri­ed me, as he should then be master, and that af­terwards she might rest assured she should be his greatest favorite.

After all this excellent discourse, Beraldus clung round Martina's neck, and after having comfort­ed himself anew with uninterupted kisses, and fresh protestations of love, he carried her to a couch. As I was not able to withstand such a scene, I made a rustling behind the curtain, which Beraldus no sooner heard, than he took flight; but the coquette had the assurance to come and look, and, upon seeing me, endeavoured to strike me with a dagger, which she had with her, but I parried the blow, and she immediat [...]ly swooned away. I took the poignard from her, hid it, and called some women to carry her out of my room, and take care of her. But she esca­ped in the night, without my ever knowing what became of her after. As for my part, after ha­ving [Page 102] well weighed the affair, I thought it neces­sary my uncle should know it. You may judge his surprize when I told him of it; but I cannot describe to you his indignation. Old as he was, he mounted his horse, and went in search of Be­raldus, but, luckily for him, he was not to be found. The next day my uncle wrote to his son, who was at Paris, to repair to him immediately, to go with him to demand reparation for the in­sults he had made me, if the uncle of my traitor, at his return, did not give him sufficient restitu­tion.

During the time that Beraldus was at his uncle's, he had learnt, and was acquainted with the manners and customs of our house: he knew my uncle slept several hours about noon, and that most of the family did the same, except myself, who went generally into a little bower, which was situated at the farther part of the gar­den, to keep me from sleeping, and likewise the heat. As I was one day there, occupied with reading the life of a sacred personage, I was sud­denly surprized by two men masked, who imme­diately laid hold of me, and stopt my mouth with a handkerchief, covered my body with a cloak, and carried me over a low wall, where they had placed a ladder on each side. They put me in a coach and four, and drove me off, accompanied by two other men on horseback. I endeavoured to cry out, but they paid no regard to it; for the horses went full speed till we came to a kind of wood, which was about three leagues from my house, where there were relays; and soon after [Page 103] they were put in, one of the men, unmasked him­self, and I perceived it was Beraldus. I was not at all surprized at it, for I thought on my way, that he was the author of this cruel action. The villain looked at me obliquily, and with as much impudence as though I had been a prostitute, with whom he wanted to divert himself; and those looks made my whole body tremble, for the dan­gers which I expected to encounter. After ha­ving looked at me some time without saying any thing, he was going to speak, but he knew not how, or where to begin. However, with a great deal of difficulty, he very coolly asked par­don for what he had done, and making but a bungling preamble, made me understand that it was merely for want of opportunity, that he did not explain himself more fully to me. I made no reply. He then assured me that every respect possible should be paid me, and that I should be as secure where they should conduct me, as in my own house: that by marrying me, he made no doubt but he should satisfy me of the regard he always had for me, and afterwards, he would let me see, by the most inviolable friendship, and the greatest submission, that he wished nothing so ardently, as to repair the faults for which he had given me so just reason to be incensed against him, I told him that his conduct in its present situation, might, in part, remove the bad opinion I enter­tained of him; but as for marrying him, that should never come to pass, though it was at his pleasure to save, or take away my life, which­ever suited him best. "You will soon change [Page 104] your mind," replied he. "No," replied I, "I never shall."

After having travelled the remainder of the day, and part of the night, we came to an anci­ent castle, which had no other building near it, where there was a woman, whose features old age had shrivelled up, of an olive-coloured complex­ion, a curved and sharp pointed chin, an aquiline nose hung over her mouth, and fine red purple eyes; she had a daughter who appeared to be as old as herself, and I am sure as ugly. They gave me a very friendly reception; and it was at that time (and not before) that I saw all the persons that came with me: there were two of Beral­dus's friends, and the son of the old woman I have just been speaking of.

They led me into a room, which smelt so strong of herbs, that it was enough to turn any body's brains; there were scarce any chairs one could sit on; the wall was full of chinks, though it was the best room in the house, and the best furnished. On one side of this, I saw another, which I imagined was allotted for Beraldus; I was not mistaken. But notwithstanding the condition I was in, I resolved to arm myself with courage, and to be revenged, though at the expence of my life. Fortunately I happened to have the dagger I took from Martina.

They brought me chocolate, tea, coffee, sweetmeats, and excellent wines; all which I ac­cepted.

[Page 105] I shall pass in silence the exhortation which the old woman, her daughter, Beraldus, and his friends, made me, to determine me to marry him.

A sly priest was also amongst them, who find­ing it in vain to talk to me, had the impertinence to say, "that if he was in Beraldus's place, he would soon find out a method of obliging me: "think where you are," said he, "and do not force us to use violence, when we wish to treat you with lenity."

These words were as a prediction of what was to happen, and which really did. I had often times a mind to stab myself, in order to avoid violence, which I so much dreaded, and which I expected would be used. After having shed a torrent of tears, and sent my prayer to Heaven, I opened my bosom, and after having put the point of the dagger to it, I was going to pierce my heart, that I might rid myself of the trouble I was in, and the danger to which I was expos­ed: but a divine hand had stopped me and pre­vented we from committing such a rash action. At the same time, I regretted having hindered Martina from putting an end to my life. As I could sleep neither night or day, it brought me so low that I dreaded as much again the sight of the barbarous Beraldus.

As I was one day praying to Heaven with great fervency, and with many tears, to deliver me from the wretched situation. I was in, and that I might not be the occasion of grief and [Page 106] shame to my family, Beraldus came in: his eyes soon informed me of the wickedness of his heart; and seeing the confusion I was in, he immediate­ly took advantage of it, telling me, without the least ceremony, "that if I made the least resist­ance to [...] proprosals, he was determined to spare nothing;" and was going, at that very mo­ment, to carry himself to the last extremity. I was ready to faint away; but Heaven furnished me with surpizing vigour. I looked at my trai­terous villain with so much indignation, that he was obliged to keep his eyes on the ground. Nevertheless, he had the assurance to lay hold of me, and being in great rage, he carried me up­on the bed; but while he was seeking to disho­nour me, I disengaged one of my hands, and having dexterously armed it with my poniard, I pierced his back so suddenly, that it penetrated his heart; I have still the dagger by me stained with the blood of my traitor, and which I will one day show you.

"How rejoiced I am," said Alvar, "but what became of you afterwards?"

Having thus murdered him, I went to the head of the stairs, to listen if I could hear any thing; I went down without meeting with any body, and renewing my courage, I hastened in­to a craggy and dry road, which the sun imme­diately darted its rays on. I expected to find no­body here; but after going three hundred yards, I met a countryman, who was as surprized at see­ing me, as I was sorry to see him. After h [...] had [Page 107] passed me, he turned about several times to look at me, and as he was going towards the castle, I made no doubt but he would relate what he had seen. In this thought I called to him. "You appear to be a good sort of a man," said I, "pray will you do me a service?" "With all my heart," said her "Where are you going?" replyed I; "I am going to the castle, said he, to fetch some nets for some gentlemen who are fishing at the end of this road." "Well, my friend, said I, "if you will conduct me secretly to a town which I shall name to you, here is a purse of gold which I will give you; but you must come immediately." The poor countryman, who had never seen so much money in all his life, was transported with joy: "Very willingly," said he, "but let me go home and fetch my mule, which you shall ride on, and afterwards I will go with you to Rome." "Can [...] you get a mule without going home?" said I [...] You are afraid," said he, "but I will not [...] you; I am of the ancient Christians," said he, [...] by St. Peter, (for he is my protector, and that of our parish also), I hope not to live another hour if I do not come and take you away immediately. I must let my wife know that I must leave her for a little while." "Where is your house?" said I: "It is near the river," answered he; "I shall take my mule, and send my son to carry the nets to the gentlemen; and without making any stop, I will return to you" I gave him some du­cats for his wife, and told him; that he must go, and return as soon as possible; that I should go and sit in the shady part of the road." The poor [Page 108] man flew like lightning: I reposed myself a little in the place I had marked to him. What else could I do? I could not stop him; and if I had not put confidence in him, I should certainly have been betrayed. After I had stayed here a little while, I quitted it, and went even out of the road, upon a rising ground, from whence I discoverd a house, which I imagined to be the countryman's. It was a little time after I had been on this emi­nence, I saw a man on a mule coming from the house, and this was the person I ardently wished for. He came with all speed, and, as soon as he had joined me, I got his mule, and told him he must conduct me on one side of Blois, through bye roads, that I might not be discovered: and when we had passed through a few fields, I told him more absolutely, the name of the place I wanted to go to: and he promised me I should be there before eight o'clock in the morning.

What was my joy when on the mule? and how much must it be increased, when I was within sight of my own house, which you yourself may suppose, after all the dangers I had met with, and the misfortunes I had undergone!

As soon as I reached home, I flew into my un­cle's room; but his countenance, far from shew­ing the least marks of joy, represented to me a mournful sadness.

[Page 109] "Has nothing happened to you?" said he. "Nothing," said I, "which can render me unworthy of you." The good man threw himself round my neck, shedding tears of joy, calling me repeatedly, his dearest niece. Soon after I related to him the whole of my adventure. He then told me what he had done to find out what was become of me: and whilst we were in the most affectioned emotions, Beraldus's uncle came in; he was just returned from his voyage, and knew nothing of his nephew's conduct. My uncle desired me to relate it.

He paid such attention to it, that it was nei­ther interrupted by speaking, or by the least ges­ture; except when I came to the death of his ne­phew; I wanted to explain to him the reasons which had actuated me to it. He told me to re­late it simply; as he was only sorry at his suffer­ing so easy a death: for had he been alive (as he wished he had), he should have expiated his crime with the greatest torments.

After I had related every thing, he asked my pardon, and also my uncle's, for all that had happened to me. He desired to know what other satisfaction we required; and assured me, that he looked upon the affair in the same light as if it had been done to his own daughter.

He afterwards had a pen and ink, and with drew into another room, to-write to the go­vernor of Blois, to desire him to give precise or­ders, [Page 110] for all those persons who favoured the enter­prize of the infamous Beraldus, to be immediate­ly arrested.

The governor; who took care not to disoblige so great a nobleman, gave such strict orders, that all the villains were taken, as well as the old wo­man and her daughter, put into prison, and part of them hanged. The priest himself was taken, and sent to his bishop, who punished him se­verely.

My uncle set out a few days after for Versailles, to ask my pardon of the king, which he did in the presence of the queen. This amiable prin­cess condescended to say, that if the king par­doned me, she would bestow on me her greatest encomiums, and likewise a mark of her esteem; giving my uncle at the same time a ring, which she took off her royal hand, she desired he would present me with. Here it is, said Eliza, show­ing it Alvar. He looked at it, but his eyes were more fixed upon her hand, which, till then, had only beheld in the lovely Eliza, a benefactress; but now began to see an amiable person. The resemblance of their adventures, had awakened his imagination: those eyes which were still be­dewed with tears, and that fire which he had observed in Eliza, had made a great impression on him. In fine, this conversation produced the moment in which that pleasing sympathy was to display itself, which unites, better than any thing, two bodies which are made to love one another.

[Page 111] I pass by the rest of Eliza's adventure, she re­lated in what manner she was sent for to court by the queen, after having obtained her pardon; but as she was ill, it served as an excuse for her not going. Soon after, having sold all her estate to her first cousin, after her uncle's death, she retir­ed with a great sum of money into a convent; but being tired with the foolishness of the nuns, and hearing there was an estate to be sold in the neighbourhood of Meaux, she bought it. "And I am very glad I have it," said she, looking at Alver, "since it has been the means of my doing you a service." They were then interrupted by some persons coming in, which was disagreeable to neither, as they were both at a loss what to say more.

Eliza soon after Alver had been at her house, had conceived a passion for him which was daily increasing, and which she was afraid he would perceive; and Alvar was in the same situation. For as he not only saw in her his benefactress, but a woman of the greatest virtue and the most amiable qualifications, he found it was not in his power to stifle a passion he was no longer master of. What! said he to himself, am I then born to be the continual victim of love? Into what misfortunes has it thrown me? Scarce am I saved from shipwreck, but I am thinking to reimbark? But after having well weighed these past reflec­tions, the merit, the virtue, the beauty, the cou­rage, and the generosity of Eliza, present them­selves to him. How can he refuse her esteem, accompanied with so many excellent qualities? [Page 112] how happy would he have been, had they been placed in Chione, nothing could have equalled his felicity? but since he has found them in Eli­za, who has also inspired him with sentiments of tenderness, why should he oppose a love which may cause the happiness of his life, and serve as a recompence for what he has already endured? The similitude of their adventures, and his life saved by the cares of this amiable lady, is not all this (I say) a mark that heaven has designed them, the one for the other?

These are the reasonings which Alvar's good-sense and gratitude suggested, and those reason­ings increased his tenderness greatly. Still he had determined to make Eliza believe he was go­ing to leave her, and early the next morning he went into her room to sound her upon it, telling her "that he thanked her for the many favors she had conferred on him, and to ask her permission [...]o continue his travels?" Eliza giving Alvar a mis­chevious, though tender look, answered him, smiling, "Surely you are in a great hurry! do you think that after being here so long a time [...]ill, we are not to have the pleasure of your com­pany now you are well? No, no, Sir, I am sen­sible you are too polite to leave us so soon." "Ah!" said Alvar, casting a piercing glance on Eliza—"What," replied Eliza, "you seriously intend to leave us?" "No, Madam, answered he, falling at her knees, and embracing them tenderly, "no, I will never be separated from you, my life shall be entirely devoted to you, for my heart is not able to testify so much as you de­serve, [Page 113] the love I bear you. I adore you, and if you will accept of me, such as I am, I shall es­teem myself the happiest of men." Eliza then seating herself on a sofa, said, "I have shewn you too much already, to prevent me from concealing the rest. I have a great regard for you, and the desire, I have to be your's is too strong to resist: is heaven still laying snares for fresh misfortunes? I hope not; but if it is, I love you too much not to run the risk of it: esteem the freedom I have taken in declaring my sentiments to you, by a natural confession: time will let you see, that to the purity of my inclinations there is joined a constancy and chastity, which nothing can change; so I shall make your happiness, provided you know how to enjoy it."

One would have in writing all that they repre­sented to each other, to express what they said, tender, sweet, and pleasing; as for me, I cannot describe all the affection, or joy, which diffused itself through their souls: I can neither represent to you those looks, those airs, and those sweet eyes, which speak better than words can express, and which a perfect and happy love alone, knows how to spread itself on those it inflames; whoever has thoroughly loved, will easily conceive it: but nothing can inform the others.

They were married soon after; he went to Pa­ris to receive his money, and they now live in the sweetest harmony in the world, the more they know each other the more they love one another; and Eliza has given to her happy spouse, the fin­est children in the universe, as the fruit of their marriage.

M. De Cursol returned one day from taking a ride round his grounds. As he passed by the wall of a burying-place, adjoining a small village, he heard some groans which seemed to come from that quarter. This worthy gentle­man had too tender a heart to hesitate one mo­ment to fly to the assistance of the unhappy per­son who seemed to be in distress. He instantly alighted, gave his horse to the servant who at­tended him, and at one leap sprung over the wall of the burying-place. Standing on his tip­toes he looked every where about him, and at last perceived in the farther corner a grave which seemed to have been lately covered with earth. Upon this grave was stretched a boy, about five years of age, who wept bitterly. M. de Cursol came up to him, with an air of tenderness, and said to him, what are you about there, my little friend?

—I am calling upon my mother. They laid her here yesterday, and she don't rise again.

—It is probable that she is dead, my poor child.

—Yes, they say that she is dead; but I cannot believe it. She was in good health the other day, when she left me with our neigh­bour Susan! She told me that she would come back again, and she has not done so, My father and little brother are going, and the other chil­dren of the village will have nothing to do with me.

—They will have nothing to do with you? And for what reason, pray?

—I don't know; but when I want to join them, they drive me away, and leave me quite alone. They likewise say much ill of my father and mother. This gives me still the great­est pain. O my mother, rise! rise!

The tears trickled down M. de Cursol's cheeks.

You say that your father and brother are like­wise gone. Where are they gone to?

—I don't know where my father is; but my little brother went away yesterday to a­nother village. There came a gentleman as black as our curate who took him away with him.

—And where do you live at present.

—I live with our neighbour Susan. I shall stay with her till my mother returns, as [Page 116] she promised me. I love Susan much; she is a second mother; but I love still more the mother who is here (pointing to the grave). Mother! mother! what makes you lie so long? When will you get up?

My poor boy, you may call her as long as you please, but she never will get up.

—Well, then, I shall lie here, and sleep by her. Ah! I saw them put her into a great chest. How pale she looked! and how cold she was! I shall lie here and sleep by her.

M. de Cursol could not refrain long from weeping. He took the child in his arms, em­braced him tenderly, and said to him, what is your name, my dear friend?

—They call me Jacquot when I be­have well; and at other times they call me Jack.

M. de Cursol smilled in the midst of his tears.

Would it be agreeable that I should take you to Susan?

O! yes, yes, my dear gentleman.

Jacquot ran before M. de Cursol as fast as his little feet could carry him, and led him to Susan's door.

[Page 117] Susan was not a little surprised at seeing the gentleman come into her cottage with little Jac­quot, who pointing towards her with his little finger, and running to lay his head upon her lap, said, "Here she is; she is my second mother." She could not have expected so extraordinary a visit. M. de Cursol did not suffer her to remain long in doubt. He told her the situation in which he had found the little boy; expressed to her the pity with which the sight had inspired him, and begged that she would inform him concerning the child's parents.

Susan presented him with a seat close by her own, and thus began her narrative:

The child's father is a shoemaker, who lives in the next house. He is an honest, sober, industri­ous man, well made, and still young. His wife was a good figure, but had bad health; she was industrious and frugal. They were married se­ven years, lived very well together; and would have been a most happy couple, had they been in somewhat circumstances. Julian had nothing but his trade; and Madeline, who had been an orphan, brought her husband very little money, which she had saved in the service of a worthy curate, who lives about nine miles from this place. This little money was applied towards purchasing a bed, a few articles of furniture, and a small stock of leather, for him to carry on his business. Notwithstanding their poverty, they made a shift to live during the first years after marriage, by their industry and frugality. But they [...] chil­dren; [Page 118] and this brought them into difficulties. They would however have been still able to sub­sist, had it not been for some misfortunes which befel them. Poor Madeline, who worked daily in the fields, that she might bring home a little money to her husband at night fell sick in conse­quence of fatigue; and her illness continued the whole harvest and winter. Medicines were ex­pensive. On the other hand, work did not go so well on as formerly: for many of Julian's customers dropped off, from an apprehension that they would not be well served in a house where there was a sick woman. At length Ma­deline recovered, but her husband's business be­came no better. They were under the necessity of borrowing money to pay the physician and apothecary. A total stop was now put to Julian's business; he had lost all his customers; and Ma­deline could gain nothing by work, because her strength was diminished, and no body would em­ploy her. In this situation, the rent of the house, and the interest of the borrowed money, entirely ruined them. They had hardly bread to their teeth; but they were happy if they could get a bit to give their children.

On hearing these words little Jacquot retired to a corner, and began to sigh.

It now happened that an unfeeling man, who was landlord of the house, finding that they were not in a condition to pay him the two quar­ters rent which they owed threatened Julian that he would arrest him. They begged him to [Page 119] have patience till the harvest; because then they might earn some days wages by working in the fields; but neither their entreaties nor their tears cold have any effect upon him, though he was the richest person in the village. It was with great difficulty that they prevailed with him to spare them only one month; but he swore, that if at the expiration of that time, they did not pay him the whole sum, he would expose all their effects to sale, and have Julian cast into prison. Nothing was then to be seen in this poor family but such sadness and distress as might have soften­ed a heart of stone. You may be assured, Sir, that my heart was often pained within me, when I heard the lamentation of these poor neigh­bours, and could give them no assistance. I once went to their creditor, and begged that he would have compassion on their distress, I told him, that if it was necessary, I would pledge my shift for the payment of his debt, though it was the only one I had. But this had no effect upon him. You are a miserable wretch as well as them; replied he; this is what I get by letting tenements to such a parcel of blackards. Ah! Sir (here the tears trickled down Susan's cheeks), I could patiently endure that reproach, if that were all; but how much greater is my suffering to be only a poor widow, and not able to afford a­ny comfort to these honest people! But to return to our unfortunate neighbours: I advised Made­line to go and throw herself at the feet of the curate, whom she had served some years as a faithful servant, and beg that he would advance her a little money. She said that she would [Page 120] speak of it to her husband; but that he would have great reluctance to apply to the curate, be­cause he might imagine that he had fallen into all this distress by bad conduct. Three days a­go she brought me as usual her two children, and begged that I would take care of them until the evening. She was going herself to the neigh­bouring village, to apply to a weaver about the spinning of some flax for the payment of their debt. She never could think of having recourse to the curate, her old master; but her husband re­solved to make the the application instead of her; and he is gone for that purpose this very day. I have taken the charge of the children whom I love much, having been present at both their births. Madeline, at parting clasped them in in their arms, and embraced them as if it was for the last time she should ever see them. I think I see her at this moment! Her eyes were full of tears, and she said to the eldest: don't cry, Jac­quot, I shall soon be back again, and will come to take you home. She took me by the hand, thanked me for promising to take care of her children, embraced them once more, and went away.

Some time after, I heard a noise in their house; but thinking she was gone out, I suppos­ed it to have been occasioned by a faggot that had fallen on the floor; and therefore was not uneasy about it. However the evening came on and afterwards the night; and still I saw nothing of my neighbour's return. [...] thought of going to her house, to see whether she had gone home [Page 121] to lay aside her flax, before she should come to take away the children. I found the door open, and went in. My God! how I was struck with astonishment at seeing Madeline lying dead at the foot of a ladder! I stood motionless, and as cold as a stone. I knew not what I should do. At last, after endeavouring in vain to raise her up, I ran for the surgeon, who immediately came, felt her pulse, shaking his head in the mean time, and sent for the magistrate. The people belonging to the police and the surgeon examin­ed in what manner she had died; and their vir­dict was, that either she had been killed by the fall, or that not being able to call for assistance, she had expired in a fainting fit.

I easily conceive how the accident may have happened. She had gone home to take out of the garret a sack for holding the flax; and her eyes being dim with weeping, she had not seen clear­ly to place her foot upon the uppermost step of the ladder in going down, and so had fallen with her head foremost upon the pavement. Her sack, which lay by her, shews that this had been the case. The magistrate, however, view­ed the matter in a different light. He gave or­ders that the body should be intered next morning before break of day, without any ceremony, at the extremity of the burying-ground: and he would issue a proclamation for discovering what was become of Julian. I offered to keep the two children with me: for though I find difficulty enough to earn my own subsistence, I said to my­self: [Page 122] God Almighty knows that I am a poor widow, and if I should have the charge of these hapless children, his gracious providence can en­able me to support them. The little brother of this one has not continued with me long. So late as yesterday, some hours after Madeline was buried, the worthy curate, in whose house she had served, called to see her. He knocked for some time at the door; and nobody opened it, he came to my window, and asked me where Ju­lian the shoemaker was, who lived in the next house. I answered that if he would take the trouble to come in for a moment, I had many things to say to him. He came in, and sat down just where you are. I told him all that had hap­pened. He immediately burst into tears. At length I told him, that Julian had expressed a de­sign of applying to him in the present difficulty. He appeared surprized, and assured me that he had not seen Julian. The two children came to­wards him; he embraced them affectionately; and Jacquot asked him whether he could not a­wake their mother who had slept so long a time. On hearing the child speak in this manner, the tears rushed again into the eyes of the worthy curate; and he said to me: Good woman, I shall send to-morrow for these two children and keep them about my house. If their father returns, and should be in a condition to support them, I shall resign them whenever he desires it. In the mean time I shall take care that they be proper­ly educated. I was not much pleased at this I have the affection of a mother for these little children; and should be much distressed to see [Page 123] them taken away from me so soon. Sir, answer­ed I, I cannot consent to be separated from these children; I am accustomed to them, and they are likewise to me. Very well, good woman, said he; then you must give me one of them, and I shall let you keep the other, because I know that you will be very careful of it: I shall now and then send you some little matter for its sup­port. I could not but readily comply with the good curate's proposal. He asked Jacquot if he was willing to go with him. To where my mo­ther is! replied Jacquot; oh! yes, with all my heart. No, no, my little friend, I don't mean where she is; it is to my pretty house, and my pleasant garden. No, no, leave me with Susan; I shall go every day to visit my mother; I'd ra­ther go there than to your garden. The worthy curate immediately desisted from vexing the child, who went and hid himself behind the curtains of my bed. He told me that he should send his servant to take away the younger one, who would have given me more trouble than the elder; and he left me a little money for the support of this one.

This, Sir, is all that I have to inform you concerning Jacquot's parents. What increa­ses my uneasiness is, that Julian is not re­turned, and that a report has spread that he has gone to join a band of smugglers, and that his wife killed herself out of vexation. These lies have so circulated through the village, that they are the common talk even of the children; and when my Jacquot wants to join them, they drive [Page 124] him away, and threaten to beat him. The poor child vexes his heart perpetually, and he now on­ly goes out to throw himself down upon his mo­ther's grave.

M. de Cursol listened to Susan's narrative with­out speaking a word, but not without feeling the strongest emotions of sympathy. Jacquot now came back to her. He looked at her with an air of affection, and frequently called her his mother. At length M. de Cursol said to Susan, Good woman, you have behaved very generously to this unfortunate family; God will surely re­ward you for it.

—I have done nothing but what I ought. We are placed in this world to assist each other. I always thought that I could do nothing more acceptable in the sight of God for all the mer­cies I have received of him, that by endeavour­ing as much as was in my power to alleviate the distress of my poor neighbours. Ah! if I only could more effectually do it! But I have nothing in the world except my cottage, a small garden, which produces me a few herbs, and what I can earn by the toil of my hands However, during eight years I have been a widow, God has sup­ported me decently, and I hope he will all my life-time.

—But if you should keep this child with you, you must incommode yourself much by the expence of maintaining him until he be able to gain his own bread?

—I shall endeavour to manage matters so that there will be enough for him. We shall share the last morsel of bread with each other.

—But how shall you be able to find him in cloaths?

—I shall leave the care of that to him who cloathes the field with flowers, and the trees with leaves. He has given me hands to sew and spin; I shall exert them to clothe our little orphan. When people know how to pray and work, they never want for any thing.

Then you are determined to keep Jacquot with you.

—Certainly Sir. I could not live with the thought of having sent away this little orphan, or of shutting him up in a house of charity.

Probably you are related to his family.

—There is another sort of relation be­tween us than that, of neighbourhood and re­ligion.

And I am related to both par­ties by religion and humanity. So that I shall not allow you to have the whole honour of doing good to this orphan, when God has bestowed up­on me more means than you for that purpose. [Page 126] Trust me with the care of Jacquot's education; and since that you are so accustomed to each other, and that you deserve for your benificence, all the kindness which has attachment to his mother in­spires me with, I shall take both of you home to my house, and become your protector. Sell your garden and your cottage, and come and live in my family. You shall have bed and board all your life time.

Do not put yourself to any trouble about me, Sir. May God reward you for all your goodness! But I cannot accept of your offer.

And for what reason?

—It is chiefly because I am attached to the place where I was born, and where I have lived so long a time: and besides, it would be impossible for me to suit myself to the ways of a great house, and to the sight of all the people in it. I am not accustomed to ease, or delicate liv­ing; I should fall sick if I had nothing to do, or if I should eat of finer meat than I have been us­ed to Let me therefore remain in my cottage with my little Jacquot. He will be nothing the worse that he lead a life somewhat hardy. But if you will assist him from time to time with a little money to pay his fees at the school, which he may follow, our gracious God will not fail to repay you a hundred fold: at least Jacquot and I shall make it constantly a part of our daily prayers. I have no children; Jacquot will be one to me [Page 127] and the little that I have I shall leave to him, when it pl [...]ases God to call me hence.

—Very well. I should not wish to make you unhappy by my proposal. I shall let Jacquot live with you, since you are so well together. Speak to him often of me, and let him know that I have taken upon me the charge of a father, as you have, on your part, that of the mother whom he so much regrets. I shall send you every month what will be necessary for your support: I shall frequently come to see ye both; and my visits will be as much on your account as on his.

Susan lifted up her eyes to heaven, and touch­ed the skirt of M. de Cursol's coat with her lips: then she said to the child: Come, Jacquot, kiss the hand of this gentleman; he will be your father.

Jacquot kissed M. de Cursol's hand, but said to Susan; how can he be my father? he has got no apron before him.

M. de Cursol smiled at the natural simplicity of Jacquot's question; and laying a purse down upon the table: Adieu, excellent Susan, said he: adieu, my little friend; it will not be long be­fore you see me again. He then mounted his horse, and rode directly to the curate who had taken the younger of the orphans.

[Page 128] He found the curate employed in reading a let­ter, which drew tears from his eyes. After the usual civilities, M. de Cursol informed the wor­thy pastor of the cause of his visit, and asked him whether he knew any thing concerning the father of the unfortunate children.

Sir, answered the Curate, it is not more than a quarter of an hour since I received from him this letter, written to his wife. He has addressed it so me, with this paper containing some money, that I may send them to his wife, to console her tor his absence. His wife being dead, I have opened the letter: here it is, be so good as to read it. M. de Cursol snatched the letter with eagerness and read what follows:

M. de Cursol's eyes were filled with tears dur­ing the reading of this letter. As soon as he had finished: here, cried he, is one who may be cal­led a good husband, a good father, and an honest man! Mr. Curate, we ought to take great plea­sure in doing good to such excellent people. I shall go and purchase the freedom of Julian; I shall pay his debts, and give him as much as may set him agoing in his business decently. These fifty crowns will remain for the use of the chil­dren. They have cost their father dear! They shall be divided between them on the day when they begin to do for themselves. Keep that mo­ney in your hands, and speak to them sometimes of it, as a convincing proof of their father's af­fection. I shall pay you the interest, that it may be added to the capital.

The worthy Curate was too much oppressed to be in a condition of replying to M. de Cursol. The latter understood the cause of his silence, took him by the hand and went away. All his projects in favour of Julian have been executed. Julian, restored to tranquility, and in a state of ease, which he had never before experienced, would have been the happiest of men, were it not for the loss of Madeline. He found no relief [Page 132] from sorrow but in the conversation of Susan. That worthy woman considers herself as a sister, and acts as the mother of his children. Jacquot never lets a day pass without [...] his mother's grave. He has profited so [...] by the assistance of M. de Cursol, that this excellent gentleman has an intention of making [...] advantageous es­tablishment for him. He [...] taken the same care about the youngest of [...] children, and he never mounts his horse [...] [...]lling to mind that affecting adventure. [...] any thing trou­bles him he goes to see the people whom he has made happy: and he always returns home in bet­ter spirits.

TO pourtray one's own life with impartiali­ty, and to lay open with candour the movements of the heart; to dare to confess its merits; is perhaps as difficult a task as can well be conceived; but, actuated by a regard for the happiness of those who have not yet determined on their future course of life, and hoping that my story may serve either to direct or to deter, I venture to lay it before the public.

I was born in a distant country in a remote cor­ner of the kingdom. My parents were above indigence, and their honor above imputation. A family pride, which had been handed down through a succession of generations, prevented them from stooping to the drudgery of trade: while their hereditary estate, being insufficient to secure a genteel independence to themselves, was of course too limited to enable them to provide for the contingency of a numerous offspring.

[Page 134] I was the third son, and of course had but lit­tle to expect. My father early intended me for the church, and I was placed under an approved master, at a celebrated grammar-school. My di­ligence, let me say it, since I can without vani­ty make the assertion, soon procured me the good-will of my master; and the meekness of my disposition, the favor of my school-fellows, of whom I was in a few years considered as the chief, and on every public occasion selected by my mas­ter, to prove his own diligence, and display my acquisitions. In seven years I finished my career of classical education, and left the good old gen­tleman with tears of filial affection; who height­ened my feelings by the sympathetic regard which was conspicuous in his own looks.

And here I cannot forbear fondly indulging my fancy with a retrospective view of those hap­py days, those years of unmingled felicity, when care has not planted her sting in the human breast, or thought launched out into scenes of fu­ture action, where misery so often dashes the cup of life with her better draught!

There are, I Believe, but few persons, howe­ever happy they may have been in their progress through life, who have not made the same reflec­tions; and recurred with pleasure to those cloud­less hours, when the task, or the dread of cor­rection, were the worst ills that could befall them: when the joys of the heart were pure and unalloyed, the tear soon forgot, and the mind indifferent to what events might occur. If the fortunate have made these reflections, well may [Page 135] I; who have journeyed on one dreary road, since I first entered the path of life, and scarcely have known those intervals of bless which the mendi­cant himself is not forbidden to taste!

From the grammar-school I was removed to the university of Oxford, and entered on the founda­tion of Exter-college. The diligent appli­cation which had marked my former studies soon rendered me conspicuous in the university; and I was complimented on every occasion, as a youth of uncommon genius, and unwearied assiduity. My heart began to be elated with the applauses which were so lavishly bestowed upon me; I was animated to get farther exertions of application; and in four years, took my batchelor's degree, and with an eclat which has seldom distinguished a less diligent scholar. I soon became the object of universal admiration in the university; my future greatness was prognosticated in the most flattering terms, as one who would be an honor to literature, and a luminary in the church; but these compliments, however soothing to the youthful [...], only operated to distress me. The less assiduous could not endure me to bear away the palm of genius on every public occa­sion; and the proud, the honored, and the great, began to affect a supercilious contempt in my presen [...] which I am confident was neither sanctioned by their situations, nor deserved by my con [...]ct; but as our harmonious Pope says—

[Page 136] The charms of science, and maxims of philo­sophy, could neither inspire me with fortitude, nor lull my sensibility. Too partial, perhaps, to my own merit, I was impatient of the slightest appearance of disrespect; and my feelings were, about this time, put to a most severe trial, by the death of my father, after so short an illness, that I was prevented from receiving his last benedic­tion. This calamity more deeply affected me than all my subsequent misfortunes; it was the first I ever suffered, and the keen edge of delicate sensibility had not yet been blunted by a frequent repetition of misery. I resigned myself into the arms of melancholy; and secluding myself from the impertinent or affected condolers of my own loss, indulged that exquisite kind of sorrow which shuns the obtrusion of the world.

By my father's will I found myself entitled to 5001. which was all I had to combat the world, and established myself in life; but had I been ren­dered by my patrimony what the prudent call perfectly easy, my grief would not have been less poignat, or my feelings less acute.

As my finances would no longer decently sup­port me at college, and my affliction for the loss of a beloved parent stifled every throb of ambi­tion, and forbade me to launch into a more ac­tive course of life, I embraced the first opportu­nity of an ordination, at once to seclude myself from secular employments, and to gratify my se­dentary and studious disposition.

[Page 137] To engage in the most sacred offices, without a more laudible view, may be excused in the eyes of an unthinking world, but must certainly ren­der a man highly culpable in the sight of hea­ven: and, thought I am not conscious of ever dis­gracing my profession, except my poverty and misfortunes may be thought to have degraded it, I have often reflected with shame that I was not influenced by worthier motives.

Having assumed the sacred habit, I set out for my native place with a pain and reluctance I had never before experienced. I reflected, that I was now not only bidding adieu for ever to the seats of the muses, and leaving behind me some valuable friends, to whom I was attached by a similiarity of studies; but had likewise the me­lancholy consideration to support, that I had no longer a father to receive me in his longing arms, or a faithful friend to guard me from the decep­tions of the world. At the sight of my native mansion, the tears gushed involuntarily from my eyes; I was overcome with contending passions: and could scarcely support myself into the room where my relations were ready to receive me, before I fell lifeless on the floor, and enjoyed a temporary suspension of thought, and a conse­quent relaxation from misery.

On recovering, I found the whole family anx­iously attentive to my welfare: and my mother, from her apprehensions for me, was in a state lit­tle better than that from which I was restored. [Page 138] She, however, soon regained strength to bless God that I was safe, and that she had lived to see me in holy orders.

Regardless of securing any little advantage that might have accrued to me from my acceptance of accuracy, I continued some time with my mother and elder brother, prosecuting my theological studies with much application, and only allowing proper intervals for exercise or company. Time, the grand restorer, assisted by those doctrines of christianity which are peculiarly comforting to the afflicted, brought me by degrees to a neces­sary camposure of mind. I gradually regained my wonted serenity; and was ardently looking forward to my future destination, when a fresh accident plunged me into the depths of misery, and not only taught me to despair of finding friendship in a heart where the maxims of virtue are not inherent, but convinced me that the ties of blood may be burst asunder at the instigations of passion, and a brother with less reluctance sacrifi­ced than a sensual appetite abandoned.

To alleviate the grief occasioned by a beloved partner's loss, my mother had requested the com­pany of a young lady, named Olivia, the daugh­ter of a neighbouring clergyman. She had so often visited in our family; and being nearly of my age, was my constant companion in every childish pursuit; but as the impression on the breast of infancy is evanescent as the morning dew, or the bloom of the rose, her remembrance had been almost effaced from my mind; and, [Page 139] during the time which we had recently spent to­gether, I had not left a single emotion in her fa­vor, nor treated her with more attention, than the fair, the lovely, and the young, have always a right to expect from the manly and unpolished heart.

It being now the vernal season, I happened, one fine serene evening, to rove, with a book in my hand, to a considerable distance from home; till finding the shades of night suddenly surrounding me, I hastened to return. My nearest way was through tangled woods and unfrequented paths, and on this I gave the preference; but before I proceeded far, a female voice resounded from a neighbouring copse. Shrieks, entreaties, and prayers, which became more languid as I ap­proached, seemed to be poured out in vain, and the voice died away in broken murmurs. With all the expedition the humanity could inspire, I flew towards the place; but, judge my surprise and sensations, when I beheld Olivia struggling in my brother's arms, and seemingly overcome by her exertions! At the sight of such an unwel­come intruder, my brother seemed confounded with shame; he instantly forsook his lovely prize; and, with eyes darting indignation, quitted the spot without uttering a single word.

Wounded to the soul with his baseness, and melted by the piteous situation of the lovely object who lay stretched on the earth in a state of insensibility, I was scarcely master of my­self. However, I soon summoned a sufficient de­gree [Page 140] of reason to attempt her revival; and I had the happiness to find that my exertions were not in vain. As she opened her fine blue eyes, and looked me full in the face, I felt an emotion which I had never before experienced. She started back at the fight of such an unexpected deliver­er; and notwithstanding my utmost endeavors, re­lapsed into the same melancholy state. At length I again found means to restore her; when burst­ing into a flood of tears, "Eugenius," says she, ‘may every blessing attend your life! May hea­ven shower its choicest favors on your head! and may some lovely and fortunate fair reward your virtue for preserving mine!’— ‘My dear­est Olivia!’ exclaimed I, with all the enthusi­asm of love, ‘the hand of heaven seems conspi­cuous in this deliverance: and, if I may pre­sume to express the wish that lies nearest my heart, may the same power make me the ever­lasting guardian of that virtue which I have been so miraculously enabled to save!’— ‘My deliverer,’ sweetly returned the ingenuous fair, ‘is entitled to every acknowledgment I can make; conduct me to my father, and lodge under his sheltering roof the child who is at his disposal.’ With this requisition I immediately complied; and as we agreed that it would be prudent to con­ceal the rude assault of my brothr, which the malevolent world might have represented more fatal than it really was, we resolved to ascribe the lateness of our arrival to the fineness of the [...]vening, and the charms of the season, which had attempted us to linger beyond our intended time.

[Page 141] The apology was easily admitted; and as I was invited to stay, I eagerly embraced the offer, as well to pass more in the company of Olivia, as to recover sufficiently from my perturbation of mind before I met a guilty brother's eye.

Next morning I took leave of Olivia and her father; and during my walk; felt a dejection of spirits, and heaviness of heart, which could not have been exceeded, if I had been the perpetra­tor of villainy, and not the protector of inno­cence. The mind seems often prophetic of its own fate, and intuitively to foresee the storm that futurity is about to disclose. I approached my brother with looks of indignation and pity; but, before I could utter a single word, unlocked his bureau, "Receive," says he, ‘your patrimony, and immediately quit the house! I disclaim for a brother the wretch who can frustrate my wishes merely to gratify his own, and this un­der the more detestable mask of sentimental hypocrisy!’ Stung to the soul, I replied, ‘The power who sees the rectitude of my views, and by means has defeated, the villainy of yours, will abundantly provide for me! I renounce an alliance with your ignominy, with the same pleasure as you disclaim me for a brother: but let me caution you to beware, left your passions precipitate you into irretrievable ruin!’ With these words I rushed into my mother's apart­ment; and, falling on my knees, besought her benediction, before the opportunity was forever closed. Too well acquainted with what had pas­sed, she bathed my face with her tears; and be­wailing [Page 142] wailing her hapless situation, encouraged me to hope for a speedy reconciliation, bidding me re­ly on her unalterable love.

Alas! she lived but a very short time to real­ize her wishes; for within three weeks, she fell a matyr to her grief, occasioned by the brutal in­solence of my brother, in consequence of her partiality to me.

An outcast from my family, and equally dis­qualified by the delicacy of my feelings, and narrowness of my circumstances, from elbowing my way in the world, I scarcely knew which way to direct my steps. Love, however, which can illumine the darkest hours of life, prompted my return to Olivia, that I might tell her how much my misfortune attached her to my heart. I revealed to the dear charmer my true situation, and concluded by asking her advice respecting my future conduct. She immediately referred me to her father's superior experience; and I ac­cordingly communicated to him my fixed resolu­tion of engaged in accur [...], without assigning the most distant reason for quitting my brother's house. In consequence of this communication, I had in a few days the happiness to be informed, that an old gentleman, the rector of Crowan, a village near Falmouth, was in immediate want of a clerical assistant.

To him I presently applied, and without hesi­tation closed with his offer of allowing me twen­ty pounds a year; but as this sum would barely [Page 143] find me in board, my patrimony began rapidly to decrease.

Olivia, I need scarcely say, in the mean time engaged all my thoughts. Our love was mutual and sincere; and interest, that powerful incen­tive to modern contracts, was entirely overlook­ed by both, as her fortune was still inferior to my own. In a few months she consented to be irrevocably mine, and then I thought my felicity beyond the reach of fate. From this pleasing de­lusion, however, I had the misfortune soon to be awaked; for finding my income very inadequate to my expences, I began to shudder at the tho'ts of involving a beloved wife in want and misery. These gloomy presages were too soon realized by the death of my aged patron; an event which wholly deprived me of employment. This stroke was followed by the birth of a son; which, tho it ought to have taught me economy, and sti­mulated my exertions, only tended to lull my cares, and deaden my sense of want.

After vainly endeavoring to obtain another cu­racy, and being disappointed in my expectations of a small living by the machinations of my aban­doned brother, Olivia's father was attacked with a paralytic stroke, which compelled him to re­sign the care of his cure to me. The whole a­mount of his living did not exceed fourscore pounds a year, and consequently little could be allowed for the maintenance of a curate. My Olivia was again pregnant; when I found that, exclusive of some trifling articles of furnature and [Page 144] books, I had scarcely 100l. left: and, to add to my distress, a second paralytic stroke, and soon after a third, deprived me of a valuable friend; whose effects, when disposed of and his debts discharged, produced only about threescore pounds for his daughter's portion.

Being now destitute of every friend, my bro­ther remaining irreconcilably inveterate, and a native bashfulness of disposition for which the world is not always candid enough to make pro­per allowances, having prevented me from ex­tending my connections, or securing many friends, I was in such a distressful situation, that my mind began to sink beneath its burden, and to become weary of struggling with its fate.

The prospect, however, again brightened; and I obtained a very desirable curacy of thirty pounds a year, by the interest of a young baro­net, who had accidentally seen Olivia and her two infant children, and expressed the warmest desire to serve us. As a present proof of his friendship, he applied to the rector of his parish, of which he was himself patron, to accept my services in the room of a young man, whom an unfortunate and ill-requitted attachment had just hurried to an untimely grave.

To Padstow I immediately removed with my dearest Olivia, whose kind solicitude for me was the only consolation of my life: and who, far from blaming for that anxiety which continually clouded my aspect, kindly sympathized in my griefs, and endeavored, by the most endearing [Page 145] fondness, to reconcile me to life. Sir Thomas Smith, by whose interposition I had obtained my present establishment, likewise contributed all in his power to render my situation easy; continu­ally loading the children with presents, and of­fering me the loan of any sum I might have oc­casion for. Of this offer I too imprudently and fatally availed myself, by borrowing two hun­dred pounds. To corroborate our good opinion of his generosity, he bade me make myself per­fectly easy in my situation; for, on the present incumbent's death, the living should be instantly mine. I thanked him with an ardour that mock­ed the expressions of form. But, alas! I had to deal with a man of the world; and found too soon that I had placed my dependence where I had nothing to hope, and poured forth my grati­tude where my execrations only were due.

This unprincipled young man was our constant visitor, and encouraged our extravagance merely that he might have an opportunity of supplying our wants. My Olivia was charmed with his con­descension; and as virtue cannot readily suspect that artifice which it never practised, she congra­tulated me—she congratulated herself and chil­dren—on the advantages we were likely to de­rive from a friendship which neither of us could suppose to be interested. The contrary, howe­ver, soon appeared! Olivia, whose beauty was rather improved than diminished, was invited to celebrate with me a christmas festival at Sir Tho­mas's. A blameable politeness to my supposed [Page 146] friend easily induced me to drink more plentiful­ly of the wine, with which his board was profuse­ly covered, than my constitution would bear; and as I soon felt its effects, I was conveyed to bed in a state of ebriety and stupefaction. On Olivia he likewise had the same shameful design; but guarded by the laws of delicate propriety, she resisted his most earnest solicitations. Howe­ver, as he attached himself entirely to her, his parasites and dependents, who saw plainly that he had views upon her virtue, retired one after a­nother, leaving Olivia and him alone together. Immediately on this he shut the door; and be­seeching her attention for a few minutes to an [...] ­fair which nearly concerned his happy [...] began to insult her with the m [...]st [...] [...] ­tations of love; and swore [...] not return his passion, she would [...] another hap­py hour; adding, that [...] command his fortune and his life, and that what he had alrea­dy conferred was only a prelude to what he meant to do.

Awakened from her dream of happiness, she sprung up; and, animated with that cou­rage which indignant virtue will ever feel when it comes in contrast with vice, she da [...]ed him again to wound her ears with his unhallowed vows; protesting, his conduct should be made known to an injured husband, who would make him severely repent of his temerity. With all the insolence of conscious superiority he then o­pened the door, and with a smile of contempt informed her that since she refused his friendship, [Page 147] his fortune, and his love, she should feel the ef­fects of his resentment. These threats, it is e­vident the base villain must have prepared to put in execution previous to his diabolical invitation; for, before I descended next morning to break­fast, I was arrested at his suit on my note for two hundred pounds, which I had pressed him to ac­cept on his lending me that sum; and that it was not in my power to satisfy one half of the demand, I was hurried away to prison.

My prospects were now entirely blasted. What, ignominy, and disgrace, presented themselves to my view, in the most hideous aspects; and I could have laid down my life without a sigh, had not a faithful and affectionate wife, with two infant children, bound me to them with ties of indissoluble regard. My confinement I was truly sensible could only add to their misery; yet the most unfortunate cannot, without reluctance, let go those attachments which are so firmly rooted in the soul, or bid farewell to mortality with a stoical apathy.

But, O God! my heart bleeds afresh at the re­collection of the scene I am now going to describe—My Olivia, unable to support this separation from me, requested leave to make my room her habitation.

The fatal request was granted. For a few days I was surrounded by my wife and children: they cheared the prison gloom—But, can I proceed!—I was soon deprived of these comforts for ever! [Page 148] In three short weeks after my commitment, they were carried off by an epidemical fever: and these eyes, which never beheld the misery of a strang­er without bestowing the alms of pity's tear, were doomed to behold a wife and two innocents press the same untimely bier.

The pathos of language is too weak to express my sensations; I became delirious, and my own hands had nearly perpetrated a deed my soul ab­hors—for now I had no more to lose! And, gra­cious heaven! if at that trying junction I ar­raigned thy justice, forgive me! for affliction laid its iron hand too heavy upon me.

Be degrees I fell into a settled despondency; and since I entered this miserable room, four years have rolled away their melancholy hours, in which I have hardly beheld the face of a friend, or been soothed by the voice of a relation. The machinations of my unnatural brother, who leagued with Sir Thomas on account of his cruel­ty to me, have prevented me from obtaining my release, and seem to shut the gates of mercy on my fate. My only expectation of deliverance is by the hand of death, for whose speedy approach my prayers are continually offered up. When that happy period arrives, my soul shall taste that fruition for which my misfortunes here will give it the higher relish.

[Page 149] From my melancholy tale, which I have ar­dently desired to publish before its authenticity could be disputed, let the sons of pleasure learn to reflect, while they roll in the abundance of riches, and enjoy the completion of every wish, that there are many wretches, like me, whom their licentiousness ruins, and whom their bene­volence might save!—Let those then whom the charms of science allure to ascend the summit of fame, timely consider, that learning is not always the path to preferment, and that silent merit may sink unnoticed to the grave! From my fate, too, the defects of our boasted establishment in church and state may be evidently traced; and the great be brought to allow, that some regard ought to be paid to the virtuous and the modest in every sphere of life, and that the road to honors and emoluments should not always be thro the gate of superior address and unblushing assurance.

BY a youth of toil, of activity, of danger, De Rivieres, a French officer, had obtained an honorable old age, and a moderate competence of the gifts of fortune. With the exulting reflec­tion of having deserved the gratitude of his coun­try by the blood he had shed in its defence, he re­tired to a distant province, to prepare his mind for that moment in which he should be required to set out on his journey to a bourne whence no tra­veler returns. The solace of declining years he sought in the dutiful endearments of an only daughter; and he found them. Pauline De Ri­vieres would be allowed by every one, but an antiquary, to possess a form equally perfect with that of the Venus of Cleomenes, and a face infinitely more pleasing, by a superior expression of sweet­ness and sensibility. Pauline had a heart feeling­ly alive to every tender emotion, and entirely devoted to her father. She watched his every look,—prevented his every wish,—and secluded herself from the world, in order that she might [Page 151] not neglect any one of the duties a child owes to the author of its existence. The blessings, the af­fection of a father, amply recompensed her for this attention; and De Rivieres often exclaimed with rapture, that the sun of his life would set calm, peaceful, and serene.

The autumn of the fourth year of their retire­ment, and the completion of the seventeenth year of Pauline's life, had now arrived, and the father resolved to celebrate the event with a rural fete.—Dancing formed a part of the joyous entertain­ment; and Pauline was selected by the Count De B—as partner for the evening. The Count's re­marks on the exquisite grace with which she ac­quitted herself in the dance were, from the lips of a man of fashion, very flattering to a fond father; and Pauline herself was not without certain sensa­tions, as agreeable as they were novel. From this period an acquaintance commenced between the family of De Rivieres and the Count, who was per­petually forming parties of pleasure to entertain them. With all the openness, the generosity of a soldier, De Rivieres, imputed this conduct to civility; and consequently admitted the Count to intimacy and friendship.

The Count was not blind to the favorable im­pressions he had made: he saw that the father e­steemed him; and from the delicate confusion, which his sudden appearance always spread over the cheek of Pauline, he drew a very fair infer­ence, that he had created in her breast a sentiment in its nature more tender than that of friendship.

[Page 152] The utmost freedom of intercourse subsisted now between De Rivieres and the Count, who, in an excursion to the borders of a beautiful lake, threw out in the most delicate manner a supposition of the confined circumstances of the former. De Ri­vieres, incapable of any reserve with a friend, gave a very candid account of his fortune, declar­ing in conclusion, that tho his circumstances were not affluent, they afforded the means of easy and comfortable subsistance. An air of thotfulness was diffused over the Count's features during the remainder of the walk. He did not, for some days afterwards, visit the habitation of De Ri­vieres, who was at a loss to find a reason for his absence. Pauline too had her fears; but these she kept within the silent solitude of her own bo­som.

At length the Count banished the aprehensions of the family by his presence. His countenance no longer wore a pensive or melancholy air:—it beamed with pleasure and satisfaction.—The cause he disclosed in an evening walk with De Riviers. "It had afforded him," he declared, "infinite uneasiness to find that a man, who had served his country with honor, should be so scantily reward­ed. In looking forward to futurity, he had also beheld how adequate the fortune he could leave his daughter would be to her support."—This was touching on the tenderest string. A father's sorrow betrayed itself in strong emotions, and sh [...]wed that the idea had never struck him so for­cibly before. The Count continued his discourse—"Under the impression of the suggestions he [Page 153] had stated, he had taken the liberty to make use of his interest at Paris, which he had every reason to believe would be of the highest advantage to him, if he should honor him by the acceptance of it."—De Rivieres was overwhelmed with grati­tude at the proposal: he comprehended all the benefits which might result to Pauline; and he therefore did not hesitate a moment in accepting it. The Count appeared delighted with his rea­dy acquiescence; and an early day was fixed for the departure of De Rivieres for the metropolis.

Pauline was soon made acquainted with the plan; and however distressing the separation from her father might be, she could not but feel the most grateful sentiments for the Count. How lit­tle could the innocence of the daughter, or the generous soul of the parent suspect, that the dark­est designs of villiany lurked under the angel form of a benefactor!

The day for the departure of De Rivieres at length arrived. Pauline melted with affliction; nor was the heart of the old soldier free from the most sorrowful emotions. He embraced his daughter, and blessed her. Then leading her to the Count, "Generous friend," he exclaimed, "I commit to your charge, during my absence, a treasure infinitely dearer to me than life. A fa­ther has nothing, save his God, more sacred than his child. Count! may I have no reason to re­pent the confidence I repose in you!" The Count received Pauline with the warmest assur­ances of protection; and De Rivieres, after one more tender embrace of his daughter, and an ex­pressive [Page 154] squeeze of her new guardian's hand, tore himself away.

Pauline, after the departure of her father, re­signed herself wholly to the influence of affliction. The Count, while he endeavored to pour the balm of comfort into her wounded heart, was plea­sed with this exercise of sensibility.—Critical judge of human nature, he knew that in the moment of sorrow the heart is more feelingly alive to tender sensations; and, if the expression may be allow­ed, more porous than in the hour of festivity and joy. In the first flow of grief, he told her not "the tale of love;" but his attention so unweari­ed, his assiduity so delicate, could not fail to produce sentiments of gratitude, of friendship— ‘A Friendship in Woman is sister to Love.’

The lenient, assuasive power of time, her own endeavors, and the Count's diligence, at length restored her to some degree of tranquility, which received additional strength from her protector's repeated assurances of the speedy return of her father.

It was on one of those evenings when the wind, as if unwilling to disturb the lulling stillness and serenity, steals through the groves in gentle sighs, scarce touching the leaf that softly whispers re­sponsive to the breeze, Pauline was tempted to enjoy the universal calm, the Count accompany­ing her. A bosom of apathy indeed must he pos­sess, who on such an evening feels no increase of [Page 155] sweet emotion. It was not so with Pauline—Every [...]ibre of her heart thrilled with delight and harmony. Will it derogate from her virtue to say, that, for a moment her father was forgotten? The Count felt that the time was favorable; and he was resolved that it should not escape him—he disclosed a tale, "soft as the zephyr's sighs." It was heard without anger—it was answered with a permission to hope.

The Count had now laid a foundation, on which his future schemes were to be erected.—Next day a letter came from De Rivieres to his daughter—replete with the obligations which the Count had conferred on him—and with the pro­mises he had received from the minister, in con­sequence of so powerful a recommendation.—Pauline was in rapture, and the Count was not less enchanted with the smiles she bestowed on him. A short elysian month succeeded; and each day was now expected to restore a beloved father to his daughter's longing arms. One morning, after the expiration of the month, the Count paid his accustomed visit earlier than usual; his brow was clouded—melancholy was strongly marked in every expressive feature. Pauline beheld the change, and her bosom panted with quivering fear. "Any new intelligence from my father?" she exclaimed in an eager, yet tremulous tone of voice: "I have letters, Pauline, from Paris; but"—"Oh! give them me—my father—no ac­cident has happened to him!" The Count was silent, but taking from his pocket a letter, deli­vered it to her trembling hands. For a moment [Page 156] she held it, fearful of breaking the seal—a tear fell on the superscription. At length, with a kind of wild impatience, she tore it open. Scarce, however, had she cast her eyes on the first line, when she sunk lifeless on the floor, Some hours elapsed ere she was restored to reason and to woe. On opening her eyes, she threw them round the room—"My father! Oh! my father in prison!" The exclamation produced a return of fainting fits, which continued during the remainder of the day. At night "tired nature's sweet restorer" closed her eyelids; and the next morning she awoke with somewhat more calmness, tho with a heart still overwhelmed in the depth of sorrow.

Pauline read the lines with sensations of ecsta­cy, and desired to see the Count immediately.—He came—she pressed him to explain himself—he obeyed with some hesitation;—offered to pay her father's debts;—but the return he demanded was her person. She started with horror at the infamous proposal,—cast a most indignant frown at the Count,—but remained silent. His former softness, his wonted delicacy, seemed now to have vanished.—With the most supercilious air, he exclaimed, "Triumph then, madam, in your virtue, since it keeps a father in prison;" and immediately walked out of the room.

Pauline, who had with difficulty restrained her tears from flowing, now gave them copi­ous vent Lamentable, indeed, was her situation! [Page 158] separated from an imprisoned father, and con­vinced that she had given her affections to an ob­ject totally unworthy of them, yet in the mise­ries which her father endured, her own disap­pointment was almost forgotten, or seemed a tri­fle " light as air." The departing words of the count sunk deep into her heart: she weighed her own happiness with that of her father; she doubt­ed whether to neglect any means of setting him free deserved the name of virtue; and this doubt, by the frequent indulgence of it, was at length reduced to a certainty. With a mind agitated, distracted, she wrote a short billet to the count, in which she acquainted him, that she was pre­pared to acquiesce in his proposal. He had ex­pected this effect, and therefore was not surprised at it. On the wings of impatience he flew to his afflicted protegee—he found her on her knees—hardened as his heart was, he felt a momentary sensation of pity.—Stifling it however, he seiz­ed the hand of Pauline, and poured forth a tor­rent of grateful acknowledgments. She did not answer them; but disengaging her hands, lifted them up to heaven—her eyes streaming with tears—"God of all!" she lobbed out, ‘thou know­est the purity of my intentions:—thou art able to penetrate into the motive of my conduct:—on my afflicted head, Oh! therefore lay not the heavy hand of thy displeasure!’

Of what callous materials must that man have been composed, who could have heard this awful appeal unmoved! yet it did not deter the count from his purpose; and the ruin of the hapless [Page 159] Pauline was in consequence completed. Her fa­ther's ransom thus dearly paid, she insisted on his immediate liberation. The count affected an in­stant compliance, and soon after informed her that the debts of De Rivieres were discharged; but that he intended to remain a short time in Pa­ris on business of importance. This was not ac­tually what she wished: she had expected a let­ter from her father: she wept, but was obliged to appear contented.

Two months had now elapsed since the fatal day on which she had surrendered her honor. The count's tenderness had for some time gradu­ally decreased. Her tears that flowed incessant­ly, her uneasiness at her father's long delay, be­came tiresome and offensive to him. He resolv­ed to get rid of them—The task to such a heart was not difficult. In the most unfeeling manner, he disclosed to her the villainy of which he had been guilty;—and informed her, that her father was still in prison, where she was now at liberty to visit him. To describe Pauline's sensations at this discovery would require the utmost efforts of a Sterne's genius, and is perhaps beyond the powers of language. After a long series of con­vulsive fits, she lost entirely the faculty of reason. In this situation, by means of that imposing subtlety which the insane often possess, she stole out of the house with an intention of travelling on foot to Paris. How her tender frame endured the fatigues of such a journey, or how she accom­plished it, is known to him only, who " tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." She arrived in the [Page 160] metropolis on that memorable day, in which the Bastile was stormed and taken by the people. In­sensible to the firing of the cannon, and to every object around her, she seated herself on a stone at the gate of the prison. Her attention was at last somewhat roused by the shouts of the peo­ple.—She lifted up her head.—Two soldiers were supporting an old man, whom they had just libe­rated from one of the dungeons. Pauline glanc­ed her eyes towards him, and immediately re­cognised her father. Her reason returned in an instant—she darted through the crowd, and fell at his feet—"Oh my father! behold your Pauline." His ear quickly caught she well-known sound—he threw his arms round his daughter's, and sank down with her in that fond embrace.

The crowd, affected at the sight, withdrew to a respectful distance. Every tongue was hushed into silence, while every heart melted with sym­pathy. As soon as De Rivieres could speak, he enquired how she came there.—"The count De B—informed me that you were in prison."—De Rivieres hastily interrupted. "Oh! execra­ble villain!—Oh, son of infamy—To him I flat­tered myself I should owe riches and honors.—How cruelly was I deceived!—I arrived in Paris with fond hopes of obtaining future happiness for my child—I was seized, and sent to the Bastile. The count, the perfidious count, was the occasion of it."—Pauline started with horror—"But the letters,"—she exclaimed, "they contained intel­ligence far different from the present."—"What letters? I sent none." Pauline shuddered— [Page 161] None!—Oh God!" She rested her head upon her father's neck, scarce able to breathe. On his repeated enquiries in the meaning of her last exclamation, she briefly related to him the deep­laid treachery, which the count had practised; informed him of the letters, and the subsequent proposal—"But, my Pauline" said the father, with eager interruption, "rejected it"—Oh! pardon—pardon! acquiesced▪ to release a father from prison."—De Rivieres eyes flashed fire:—he clenched his hand, and held it to his forehead, but spoke not a word. He surveyed his child with looks of anger and reproach. Pauline trembled, and fell on her knees, clasping, her hands for pardon. The flood of tenderness returned immediately into the father's breast. He raised Pauline, and folded her in his arms—"My God!—my God! thou, hast filled up the measure of my woes—but—but thy will [...]e done."

De Rivieres, supported by his daughter, now walked, on, the crowd following [...] pray­ers and tears. An officer, who had been engaged in storming the Bastile, led them to his house, and endeavored to assuage the violence of their anguish.—The chords of life were too far sever­ed. De Rivieres felt his end approaching fast:—he called his child to his bed side—"Pauline! I am very near that moment, in which we are taught the weary rest from their labors.—I could have wished to live to punish the despoiler of my child's honor; but perhaps, heaven in its mercy has prevented me. To the stings and arrows of [Page 162] his conscience I must leave him. My Pauline may the Almighty take thee under his protection!—may he bind up thy wounds, and give thee that happiness, the want of which has hastened the period of my dissolution [...].

Pauline, oppressed, convulsed with grief, could not utter a word. De Rivieres too had now lost the powers of looks of inexpressible affection;—and, clasped in each others arms, in a few mo­ments the souls of both winged their flight to the regions of immortality.

The infamous cause of all this woe is still liv­ing; and at this moment, an exile from his coun­try, exists within the walls of London!—This is one of the monsters engendered by the old government of France!—This is a royalist!—This is an emigrant!—"Ex hoc uno dis [...]e omnes."—

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 praise-worthy; and it sometimes happens that it does not lose 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 [Page 164] of their deportment procured them the es­teem and friendship of all their neighbours.

I 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 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 brot up with them, as if it were her fasten. "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 minature 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.

[Page 165] 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 decreed, n [...]m. 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 the 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 honorable 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 [Page 166] offers of marriage; and as she was now eight and twenty, tho her charms yet shone in all their lustre, her envious rivals enjoyed their 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 very 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 neighborhood 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 qualites of his heart and understanding.

But the scandalous reports that had been so long circulated to the discredit of Lucinda, were 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 167] Lucinda, now, for the first time, felt that the venomed shafts of slander could reach her, and destroy her peace tho Mr. Horton had too much politeness to give even the slightest hint of the cause of the 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 candor and emotion, the story of her finding the child, and the subse­quent attacks made on her character by malicious scandal. This she declared, and declared with the 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 [...] of a gentleman, of whose good sense [...] too high an opinion to [...] me he would listen for a moment to such false and malicius 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 connection (not greatly to my ho­nor) with a woman of mean character, by whom I had this child. I left with her what money I [Page 168] could spare, and made several remittances; but could never learn what become 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 yours."

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.

WHILE yet the hardy sons of Britain groan­ed beneath the Danish yoke, long ere the immortal Alfred rose, like the resplendent God of Day, to animate his drooping nation, and warm each patriotic bosom with ardour, to seek [Page 170] the emancipation of its country, on an elevated and advantageous spot, near which the majestic Frome now winds its way thro the fertile Dorse­tian meadows, Harold, a potent and ambitious Dane, held a strong and well-fortified castle, and stretched over all the adjacent country the iron rod of unfeeling despotism. In the plenitude of unopposed power, he became notorious for those acts of violence and oppression, which rendered his unhappy vassals ever uneasy and insecure, even in possession of the simple rights of na­ture.

On the verge of his ample dominions, in the most distant and intricate recess of an extensive and gloomy forest, the oppressed Edmund—tho descended from a long race of worthy Britons—fixed his humble residence, removed as far as pos­sible from the vicinage of his imperious lord, to whom he failed not to pay due homage and custo­mary tribute. But tyranny is ever the same, rest­less and insatiable; not content with wresting from its victims their rightful possessions and dearest privileges, it is ever ill at ease, while they en­joy the least, the meanest domestic comfort or consolation!

Among the peasants, who preferred this re­tirement with Edmund, was his only brother [...], a youth of the most manly figure, and en­gaging deportment. Harold had selected all the finest youth of his domains, of whom where com­posed the guards of his castle. Edgar therefore was enrolled in the number; and with the great­est reluctance, doomed to waste his prime, confin­ed [Page 171] within the fortress, subservient to the man­dates of the wretch he despised. The aroused indignation of the honest plebeians was scarcely restrained from bursting forth into action, by the whispers of caution, or the admonitions of pru­dence. Yet cruel destiny waited to inflict a deep­er wound on the peace of Edmund! Drusilla, the adored partner of his bed, was confessedly one of the most lovely women of her day: in her, to a beautiful face, an intelligent mind, and a sweet disposition, were united a superiority of fi­gure, and the most exact symmetry of features—

The fame of this accomplished female could not fail to reach and interest the ear of such a vo­luptuary as Harold. By his authoritative com­mand, the fair victim was torn from the arms of her distracted husband, in order to gratify the lawless appetite of that tyrant. On her arrival at the castle, the beauties of her person and the firmness of her behavior, impressed a kind of re­verential awe and astonishment on all who saw her. Such dauntless and intripid virtue con­founded even Harold himself, who sought in vain to win her to his desires, by the most specious arts and seductive promises, determining, if possible, to conciliate her favor by kind and gentle means, rather than force her inclination by austerity and violence. Day after day he repeated his inter­views, and redoubled his fruitless solicitations; during which time she experienced the greatest marks of respect, and was allowed every indul­gence, [Page 172] save that of liberty, and the society of a beloved husband, whose de [...]r idea was ever pre­sent to her mind, and those whose fate she mourn­ed with inconsolable anguish.

Meanwhile the generous Edwin, unknown to Drusilla, with great difficulty and danger, had found means to give information to Edmund, and concert a scheme for the delivery of the fair cap­tive. Many of the guard were in his interest; and, as their lord was held in equal detestation, many others waited only for an opportunity to do justice to themselves, their friends, and their country, by launching the bolt of vengeance on the devoted head of the common enemy.

Edmund was much esteemed by the little cir­cle of his friends; and, fired with resentment for the injuries he had sustained, they vowed to es­pouse the cause and assist his enterprize.

Things at the castle now began to wear a more serious aspect. Impatient of repeated repulses in his illicit pursuit, Harold, growing irritated and enraged, commanded Drusilla to be confined to the dungeon, with a view to enforce that com­pliance, which kindness and artifice had attempt­ed in vain; and she was given to understand, that he had fixed a time, beyond which his forbear­ance would be no longer dallied with.

The important day, destined for the sacrifice of virtue, at length arrived. Drusilla had pre­pared herself for the issue. She had concealed, under her flowing robe, a daggar which she had [Page 173] fortunately secured, and resolved to have recourse to, if reduced to such an exigence, in defence of her honor. The evening closed dark and tempes­tuous; the country was hushed to rest; not a sound was heard, save that of the driving storm, howling thro the surrounding elms, and beating against the gloomy battlements, when she receiv­ed the dreaded, tho not unexpected, summons, She was conducted, in respectful silence, to the great hall of the castle, where the haughty chief­tain waited to receive her. He was seated on a throne of state; and the apartment was hung a­round with all the pompous insignia of war, the victorious trophies of his conquering ancestors. Every appearance seemed adapted to impress ter­ror, and demand submission. The guards were ordered to withdraw; when, with his own hand, he bolted the massy folding-doors, while his eyes sparkled with libidinous triumph.

As the long-pursued stag, after having forded the rapid river, scaled the lofty cliff, and pene­trated the thickest wood, finding every expedi­ent ineffectual, stands at bay, and fiercely turns his antlered front on his blood-thirsty foes; so stood the dauntless heroine, alone, collecting all her fortitude to oppose the assailant of her virtue.

"Rash and inconsiderate fair one! (cried Ha­rold), you are not unacquainted with the purport of this interview. You have hither experienced my clemency only; consider me, now, no more in the character of an amorous suppliant, but of [Page 174] [...] absolute lord. I will be no longer the dupe of equivocation; if you judiciously yield to my wishes, you and your family shall share my pro­tection, and taste my bou [...]ty; but, if you re­main inflexible, take the consequences of your folly; This night your boasted virtue expires; and, before to-morrow's sun has run his course, the solicitudes of your beloved Edmund cease for ever!"—"Tyrant! (exclaimed the fearless fe­male), I despise thy threats, as I scorn thy fa­vors! Let sordid souls strike at thy frown; know, I have a mind superior to either! I dare—" "Enough, bold woman! (interrupt­ed Harold); power and opportunity are mine: by the gods, I will no longer abuse them!" He said; and rushing forwards to seize her, she snatched the fatal weapon from beneath her robe, and plunged it in his bosom. He recoiled a few paces; planted his hands on the wound; sunk down; and, with a deep groan, expired.

As stood the patriotic Brut [...]s over the murder­ed body of the mighty Caesar, on Rome's ever memorable day; so stood the well-avenged Dru­silla over her prostrate enemy, from whose mortal wound the crimson tide yet freely flowed: for—

She had scarcely leisure to reflect on her criti­cal situation, before her ears were assailed with sounds of tumult and confusion; from which she immediately conjectured, that the catastrophe was by some means discovered, and she expected [Page 175] no less than to be dragged to instantaneous execu­tion. The sounds approached still nearer: the doors were violently agitated, and, in a moment, flew open. A number of armed men rushed in. With an exultant mein, and a mind superior to dread, she exclaimed—"Vassals of a tyrant! behold your lord! My triumph is complete! Here—here, wreck all your rage! But spare my Edmund! Spare—" "Best, and bravest of women! (cried Edmund, rushing forward, and clasping her to his breast), spare thy solicitudes; even in this place thou art safe. These, all these, are our common friends; they are no longer the panders of vice, but the protectors of virtue: to these I owe my introduction to this impregnable fortress. Edwin's courage and conduct inspired them with ardour to let down the draw-bridge, and force the strong doors; and, had not thy va­lorous hand anticipated the deed, even now the tyrant had fallen, amidst his own guards, by the arms of those on whom he relied for protection. This very spot is now become the seat of liberty! On these walls WE fix her flowing banners!"

Mutual joy, congratulations, and unfeigned vows of eternal concord and amity, concluded the scene; when, loaded with spoils, and exult­ing in their recorable recesses of the forest; and, in defiance of every opposition, long enjoyed the blessings which their heroism had so nobly pro­cured.

[Page 176] So may the hand of Providence ever interpose in the cause of oppressed virtue and injured in­nocence—

SERENA Granville, with a figure lovely as if formed by the fingers of Love, possessed a mind fraught with every accomplishment, of the most refined and delicate taste. To these beauties, she added the fascinating charms of a faultless temper, and a height of spirits, some­times arising almost to an excess. Whenever she moved, she attracted and fixed the wandering eyes of the beholders; whenever she spoke, she enchanted the senses, and won the hearts of her hearers. Among the train of her numerous ad­mirers, none shone so greatly pre-eminent, for the graces of his figure, and the beauties of his [Page 178] mind, as the youthful Frederick Cavendish. The soul of Serena was above affectation. She des­pised the cruel despotism of tyrannizing over a generous heart; and she hesitated not to confess the power which he possessed in her bosom. For family-reasons, two months were to elapse before the day could be appointed for their union. During the intermediate time, a party was form­ed for the theatre: Cavendish held a commission in the guards; and, some unexpected military business occurring, it prevented him from attend­ing his fair Amante to Drury Lane. But Lady Granville wished not to be disappointed; and therefore, with her daughter, and niece Julia Cecil, she went alone. During the play, Miss Cecil observed an elegant young man, in naval uniform, enter the next box: she pointed him out to Serena, whose eyes encountered his as she gaz­ed on his lovely countenance. The accident em­barrassed her, and she hastily looked down. At the finale of the after-p [...]ece, a gentleman entered their box; who, suddenly springing from his seat, and stretching over, shook the young officer cor­dially by the hand, exclaiming—"Ha, Richard Wade! what brot you here? Where are you?"—"At St. James's Hotel, where I hope you will sup with me." His friend consented, and they both sprung out of the box. "A young puppy!" exclaimed Serena. "not to give us one parting glance!"—"Never mind," interrupted her cou­sin; "they are not worth wishing for."

When the two girls arrived at home, and had entered their own chamber, from a critique on [Page 179] the actors, their discourse fell, insensibly, on the charms of the graceful sailor. They admired his uncommon beauty; and laughed at each other, for the little notice which he appeared to have ta­ken of [...]ither. "I would venture my life," cri­ed Serena, "that he is a conceited fellow; a creature who can admire none but himself. I have a strong inclination to play him a trick."—"How do you mean? you do not know him."—"That is of no consequence. I will write to him, that I am violently in love with him, &c. &c. subscribe a false name; and desire him to direct to the Salopian Coffeehouse, where my servant shall call for his reply."—"Good heavens, Sere­na! what an instanteneous arrangement! You are surely not serious?"—"Yes, serious as when I shall my give hand to Frederick, and vow to be his for ever, I will write the letter this moment:" She seized a pen, and immediately began to scrib­ble. Julia was thunderstruck. "What is your intention? The young man will certainly answer your letter."—"That is what I want. I will re­ply again; and so on, till I have worked him up almost to madness with curiosity! and then I throw away my quill, and leave him like an a­mazed knight, dropped by the fairies in a wilder­ness. Discovery is impossible."

When she had finished her epistle, she read it to her friend. It contained an eloquent avowal of a fervent attachment, which she could no longer conceal; that her heart, hand, and fortune wait­ed his acceptance; and that she should anticipate, with trembling anxiety, his reply, addressed to [Page 180] Miss Lucretia Manners, to be left at the Salopi­an Coffeehouse. In vain were all the remon­strances of Miss Cecil against the imprudence and dangers of this scheme. Her cousin persist­ed in her design; declaring, that it was only a frolic; and there could no evil consequences en­sue, as he could never find them out; and they would surely not be such fools as to betray their own secret. Accordingly, the next morning, she sent off her billet-d [...]uxe, directed to Richard Wade, Esq. St. James's Hotel.

The following day, at noon, she ordered her servant to call at the Salopian, and inquire for a letter, addressed as she had desired. The two girls, from different motives, were equally anx­ious for the return of the footman. At last he entered, and gave into the impatient hands of his young lady the wished-for scroll. When he left the room, she tore open the seal, and perus­ed, with a greedy eye; then read, with a voice almost suffocated with laughter, a long string of rhapsodies. He commenced with an inundation of praises of generosity of her disposition, that could so nobly burst thro the disgraceful shackles bound round her sex, by the united efforts of all mankind, to render him happy by the confession of a passion so flattering to his warmest wishes. He concluded by saying, that if the beauty of her person but half equalled the charms of the mind which dictated her letter, he should for ever es­teem it the most blissful moment of his life that presented him to her view. He ended by re­questing as immediate interview. Serena was [Page 181] mad with joy at the success of her plot, and in­stantly sat down to scribble an answer. Julia a­gain urged her to desist; but all to no purpose: she would plague him yet a little longer. In this imprudent conduct she continued for near a fort­night, writing and receiving letters every day; and, in almost every one of them, inventing new excuses for denying a personal conversation. Richard Wade's impatience, in each succeeding epistle, increased so much, that he could hardly find reasons for her refusals, which could appear of any consequence, as in his replies she had ar­guments to combat, and conquer them all. Miss Cecil grew more alarmed; and begged her, for Heaven's sake, to give it up; for she dreaded the most disagreeable effects, should it be dis­covered: but Serena was obstinate, declared that it was impossible, and continued the correspon­dence.

One morning, when Miss Granville sat alone in the drawing-room, waiting the return of her ser­vant from the Salopian, she insensibly fell into a reverie; and, leaning her blooming cheek on her white arm, which rested on the sopha, her thots wandered from the anticipation of that day which was soon to give her to her dear Frederick, to the elegant sailor, and his disappointment, when she should drop answering his letters. At this moment, the gentle Cavendish entered; he had stolen the first instant from military duty, to spend a few blissful minutes in the society of his adored Serena. He approached her unperceiv­ed; [Page 182] and, tenderly taking her hand, in a voice, sweet as the softest sigh of love, demanded what was the subject of her reflections. She started at the sound of his loved accents, and blushed at the question. The idea that any other man than himself should for one instant possess her thots, struck a chill to her heart: the vivid glow of shame, which diffused itself over her cheek, flash­ed a ray of truth on her understanding; and her soul acknowledged, with gratitude and self-re­proach, the rejected remonstrances of her friend.

As the heavenly orbs of Frederick were bent on her's with ineffable tenderness, he beheld with wonder and anguish, the confusion into which his question appeared to have thrown her. "Have I given you pain, my Serena? I was impertinent; but, believe me, I did not intend it. Will you pardon me?" He pressed her hand, to give force to his assevaration. "I have nothing to pardon; you did not hurt me: I was only ashamed to speak the truth; for I was realy thinking of no­thing." She blushed still deeper, as she uttered this falsehood, and cast her eyes down to conceal her embarrassment. The penetrating orbs of Cavendish were fixed on her [...]: he observed its changes with an unaccountable anguish; and unconsciously drooping her hand, with a deep sigh, rose from his chair, and advanced to the window. At this instant, the door burst open, and a young man rushing in, flung his himself at the feet of Miss Granville, exclaiming—"Have I found my mysterious love! By Heaven, no earth­ly power shall tear your lovely form from this [Page 183] faithful bosom!" Suddenly rising, he clasped her to his breast. Cavendish, who stood petrified with astonishment and indignation, now rushed for­ward; and, seizing Wade by the arm, rudely pulled him from his hold, and demanded who he was.

"This lady's lover and protector, Sir," repli­ed he, in a threatening tone. Serena, wild and dumb with terror, threw herself into the arms of Frederick; who smothering his passion cried—"You are certainly mad, Sir! This is a woman of virtue, and my betrothed wife; I therefore desire you to leave this house instantly." "No, Sir, I shall not, without she accompanies me. I have letters under her own hand, declaring her love for me, and her abhorrence of all other men. She will not deny it; but I suppose, you are the persecuting coward she complains of." The azure eyes of Cavendish stashed all heaven's lightings; he cast the frantic Serena from his arm; and rushing forward—"Intruding, insolent villain! your blood shall blot the falsehood." So saying, he drew, and made a furious pass at him with his sword. Wade expected it; and, parrying the thrust, made a lounge at him, and ran him thro the side. The unfortunate Frederick fell; [...] he advanced to Serena, who stood rivetted like a statue of Despair. "Come, my Lucretia! let us fly this place, my life is in danger." "Monster! murderer!" screamed she; and giving him a vi­olent push from her, threw him to the ground, and flew shrieking out of the room. In this fall, he stumbled over a part of Frederick's sword, as it leaned against the lifeless form of its master. [Page 184] before he could recover himself, it ran him quite thro the thigh; and he dropped, bleeding and faint, beside the body of him he had slain. All the horrors of his situation rushed on his mind. He knew not him he had killed—perhaps an in­jured man; and he had forfeited his own life for, perhaps, an abandoned woman!

[...] In a few minutes, the room was crowded with people. Julia flew into the apartment; and, seeing the breathless form of Cavendish on the floor, and near him the young sailor bleeding to death, an explanation of the whole affair rushed on her memory. She flung herself between the two bodies; and, tearing off her white drapery, attempted to staunch the wounds of both; while she besought, for God's sake, that some one would fly for a surgeon. Her commands were in­stantly obeyed. Serena was held in a state of madness at the door, by her mother and two ser­vants, begging that she might be suffered to go in, and die on the bosom of her Frederick. The surgeon arriving, ordered her to her cham­ber—to which she was hurried, raving of her folly and misery—and immediately proceeded to the assistance of the two unfortunate officers. Mr. Wade was yet sensible; the bandages of Miss Cecil had stopped the effusion of blood: but poor Cavendish lay without motion or sensation. As the surgeon advanced to the side of the young sailor, he by a strong exertion repulsed him, and begged that he would first examine the wound of his antagonist, which he hoped was not mortal. Mr. A—obeyed his desires; and, ordering the [Page 185] servants to lay Cavendish on the sopha, command­ed every one, but his own assistants, to leave the room. When the surgeon had examined and dressed the wounds of the young men, he saw them carefully put to bed, and ordered them to be kept in profound quiet. As he was going down stairs, Lady Granville, in a state of dis­traction, sent for him into her boudoir, and in­treated him to tell her if there were any hopes for Mr. Cavendish. Mr. A—said he would not flatter her: his wound was not mortal; but his loss of blood had been so great, that the most fatal consequences might be expected. "But the other gentleman, (continued he), if he is kept free from a fever, will certainly recover." "Th [...] other gentleman, (replied she), I know nothing about. Indeed, I am ignorant of the whole af­fair. My daughter flew into my chamber, screaming—"He is killed! Cavendish is kil­led!" and this is all I know of the terrible scene, as she has ever since been in a state of delirium. At these words, the physician, who had been sent for to Serena, while Mr. A—was with her lo­ver, entered the room, and told Lady Granville that her daughter was in a high fever, and must be kept composed, else he could not answer for her life.

In this state of distress and anxiety things con­tinue for three days. Miss Cecil, who knew well the thotless transaction of her cosin, imagined too truly the cause of this fatal catastrophe; and, while all the parties yet lived, she earnestly [Page 186] sought an opportunity of explaining so sad a mys­tery. She tenderly loved her friend: she mourn­ed the wild vivacity of disposition that had seduc­ed her into so imprudent an action; and her heart was wrung with agony for her present, and if she lived future sufferings. The insinuating gen­tleness of Frederick Cavendish had made too deep an impression on her esteem, not to draw down the bitter tears from her eyes, when she contem­plated his unhappy fate. But the beautiful, the deceived Wade! when his lovely idea shot acrose her distracted fancy, her whole soul was torn with torture: the thot of his dying, of his recover­ing, and of that recovery's disgraceful, horrid consequences, almost bereft her of her reason; and, impelled by the anguish of the moment, she flew to the entrance of his apartment, with what design she knew not. As she gently opened the door, she found that he was in a profound slumber; and, commanding the nurse to go and lay down for a few hours, promised to watch by her charge till her return. She remained near half an hour in the room; Richard awaking from his sleep, and heaving a deep sigh, stretched forth his arm and drew aside the curtain. When his dark eyes met those of Miss Cecil, he felt an unusual emotion at his breast: an emotion of gra­titude, hope, and dread.

She arose; and, gently advancing nearer to him, inquired in a tremblig voice—which too plainly expressed the interest which she took in his situation—how he found himself. He replied, that he was better than he wished to be; for the [Page 187] feelings of his mind were more than he could endure with fortitude. "If my adversary dies," continued he, "and I survive, even should I es­cape the punishment of the law, I shall over be wretched at the recollection of so dreadful an ef­fect of my credulity and rashness." He was pro­ceeding to give Miss Cecil a narrative of the cor­respondence between him and Miss Granville; first, expressing his anxiety and doubts about the mystery which enveloped the whole affair; when Julia interrupted him, by saying, that she knew it to well, and long ago had warned her cousin of its evil effects. "But," continued she, "had I felt the distant foreboding of this its fatal con­clusion. I would have used commands, instead of entreaties, to have stopped the deception." "De­ception! How, Madam, was it deception? Sure­ly I am a stranger to your friend! What could be her meaning?" "An idle frolic, without design or end, but to entertain herself. She thot to a­muse her whimsical moments with an adventure, which certainly was innocent, tho imprudent. She conceived, that she could lay it aside when­ever she pleased; but, alas! how agonizingly otherwise has been its termination!"—Agoniz­ing, indeed! Most probably, she has tendered both her own heart and mine miserable for life. Horrid as must be my feelings, yet how much more racking must be hers, when she recollects that it was her conduct that put the sword in my hand, and plunged it into the bosom of her affi­anced husband! Could she imagine, that any man would receive such letters as those which she wrote to me, and not feel his whole soul fired [Page 188] with curiosity? At least, the impetuosity of my nature spurned at restraint; and my impatience hurried me to the coffeehouse, where I watched till her servant called for my letter: when he re­turned home, I followed him; and these, these, are the overwhelming consequences!" His strength was exhausted, and he sunk back on his pillow. Julia, conscious that she was hurting the man, for whom—the feelings of her heart too forcibly told her—she felt that in reality which her cousin so fatally feigned, hastily arose; and, entreating him to compose his mind, said she would snatch the first opportunity to impart the truth of the melancholy story to Cavendish; whose principal danger, she believed, rested on the tor­tured state of his spirit. He caught her hand; and, fervently pressing it, she darted out of the room, the soft touch of his hand thrilling to her inmost soul. In the evening, she sent up her af­fectionate compliments to Mr. Cavendish; and, if he would admit her, she would be happy to watch an hour by him alone. He replied, that he wished to see her. She ascended the stairs, her heart beating with hope and fear of the ef­fects of what she was going to reveal

When she entered his chamber, and drew near his bed, she beheld the late blooming Frederick pale as marble: the effulgent lustre of his azure eyes was almost extinguished; the last gleams of its fading light seemed resting on the dark horizon of death, as if to take a last view of the world, and [...]ink for ever. He laid his burning hand on [...]ers; and gazed at her with an expression that [Page 189] needed no explanation: it penetrated to her heart, and she, burst into tears. Recovering herself, she said, "Mr. Cavendish, will you—can I hope for your pardon? I have been, in a great part, the cause of the dismal scene that is now before me." "You, Julia! How? For Heaven's sake, explain; and either dissipate my suspicions, or convince me they are true, and end my tortures by killing me. O! is Serena unwor­thy of my love?" Miss Cecil, with a faultering voice, interrupted by many showers of tears, re­vealed the whole transaction; only a little alter­ing the truth, by as much as possible meliorating the folly of her friend, and taking the blame on herself. When she ended, the dejected orbs of Frederick beamed with renovated radiance; he clasped his hands in an extasy of joy. "O! my God, I thank thee! Julia, my kind friend! fly to my unhappy Serena: tell her that I forgive her; speak peace to her suffering soul; and tell her to live for me. To know that my dear girl is innocent, and yet fondly loves me, has infused new life into my dying frame. Fly, my dear Ju­lia, and render your sweet friend as happy as my­self!" She rose, her eyes overflowing with tears of rapture; and, advancing to the door, turned back two or three steps, and faintly breathed, in a trembling voice, "And may I not also tell the unfortunate Wade, that you forgive the rashness which, endangering your existence, has brot him­self to the verge of the grave?" "Yes, Julia; tell him every thing that you would wish me to say."

[Page 190] Julia flew to the chamber of Miss Granville: her delirium was subsided; but it had left on her languid frame a slow fever, and on her mind a deep and settled melancholy. Miss Cecil, with some difficulty, gained her cousin's attention. Nowithstanding her utmost precaution, the un­expected and blissful intelligence rendered her al­most frantic with joy. Nothing now was want­ing, but the recovery of all parties, to make them perfectly happy. A few weeks gave once more strength to their limbs, and beauty to their features: Health cast her dazzling rays around their forms; so powerful an effect had the sereni­ty of their minds over the composure of their frames. Frederick Cavendish, and Richard Wade, entered the drawing-room together. Se­rena, overwhelmed with consciousness, burst into tears, and [...]ung herself on the breast of her cou­sin. Her lover flew forward; and, gently rais­ing her from her bosom, encircled his graceful arms around her yielding waist; and, while his tears mingled with hers, imprinted the hallowed kiss of pardon and affection on her trembling lips.

The sympathising heart of Julia heaved almost to bursting, and the lucid drops of extatic emo­tion fell on her ivory arms; when the well-known touch of the soft hand of Richard Wade, roused her from her blissful trance. She raised her swimming eyes, and behold the man whom she adored kneeling [...] her feet. His eloquent eyes spoke a thousand tender things; his tongue could only utter, "Beloved Julia!" The crimson blush of delight and confusion suffused her face and [Page 191] panting bosom. She felt sick; and fell almo fainting, on the arm of the sopha. "Are yo [...] offended?" asked he, in a scarcely articulat [...] voice. "O, no!" was all she could utter, a [...] she gently returned the fervent pressure of hi [...] hand.

A week after this happy eclaircissement gav [...] the hand of Serena to Frederick Cavendish; an [...] that of Julia to the enraptured Richard Wade.

I shall not attempt to point out the moral [...] this little tale; it is too obvious to require a [...] explanation. I shall only add, that as imprudence is almost a constant property of youth, [...] is a frailty of disposition which ought to be mo [...] carefully corrected. A little reflection will convince the mind, that from the slightest failures o [...] that side, the greatest and most dreadful, consequences have frequently proceeded.

VIRGIN innocence is an inchanted tower; its strength consists more in that awful res­pect which the fight of it creates in the breasts of virtuous men, than in its innate fortitude. Those breasts which possess no respect for virtue, those men who inherit no regard for honor, are the daring assailants. The charms they employ to break the enchantments, are flattery, false­hood, protestations to the Deity to witness their love! The spell succeeds: the tower, with all its gilded turrets, shakes, and tumbles in ruins!

Let me behold the consequences of this crimi­nal conduct. A lovely daughter is brot up un­der the care of, what is commonly called, the fondest parents. She is deluded under the pro­mise of marriage, or, allow that the delusion succeeded without such promise: the fond pa­rents tear their hair and weep bitterly; but [Page 193] they order their daughter to be driven from the house. They weep for the dishonor that has hap­pened to their name; and to cure this dishonor they spread the infamy; and drive out their des­cendent to repeat the crime.

The history of the countess, is not sufficiently known. I [...] contains an awfully interesting lesson to parents, and displays the fatal effects of a ri­gorous treatment of their offspring. It was the apprehension of a rigorous treatment from a pa­rent of a violent temper that occasioned the mi­series of Maria Feodorovna. She was a lady of distinguished rank and fortune, the only daugh­ter of a nobleman.

During the early period of her life, her edu­cation was anxiously attended to by the best of mothers, whose soul bore upon it the impression of every noble feeling and virtue. The mother, while she held her favorite daughter before the glass, saw an exact copy of herself in form of body; and the never-ceasing smile upon the cheeks and lips of Maria seemed to bespeak an equally beautiful copy of her mind. The mo­ther died: and the youthful Russian countess, from the love and care of her mother, from the polite and elegant round of a court, and from the society of her dear Markoff, who was enrap­tured with this amiable female, was hurried by the haughty baron to a distant estate amid the wilds of Russia.

[Page 194] Here, surrounded with deserts, nor viewing one object that could bring some happy compari­son in thot between them and past scenes, the lovely Maria exhausted her bosom in sobs, and watered her pillow with tears.

The society of count Markoff could have lighted up this desert, and dispelled those tears. Disappointed ambition had occasioned a misun­derstanding between the two families, and the name of Markoff was forbid even to be mention­ed in the house of the baron. His fondness for his lovely daughter could not overcome his ab­horrence of his successful rival, the father of young Markoff; nor permit him to entertain the most distant idea of that connection which he knew was the ardent wish of the youthful pair. His brows darkened with rage, when he saw one of his blood who wished not destruction to the house of Markoff.

Maria was kept in perpetual agony by this unfortunate disposition in her parent, yet forced to affect an indifference to all she loved, while she daily drooped and pined in silent melancholy. But no affectation could bring back the [...] health which had lately painted her cheeks; and her languid smiles and action were diseased co­pies of that lively manner which had distinguish­ed her in happier days. The innocent mirth, unmixed with care, born in the lap of childhood, and expiring with it, was never again to return. Maria was not even destined to enjoy that hap­piness to which her virtue entitled her. In vain [Page 195] had a mother inspired her with every noble and virtuous sentiment; in vain had nature endowed her with a person the model of beauty, and with an exalted soul; in vain had fortune lavished riches, extensive domains, and thousands of slaves ready to kneel at her feet whenever she appeared.—The meanest of these slaves was to posses Ma­ria.

Count Markoff, disregarding every dictate but that of love, and the dangers which Maria had represented to him as the certain consequen­ces of any attempt to visit her, left his residence near Moscow, and journeyed toward that spot, which was to give him an interview with his lovely angel. Disguised in the habit of a pea­sant, he arrived within sight of the baron's pa­lace, and saw the roof which contained within it all his heart panted for! The breast of Markoff until this instant felt not the idea of disappoint­ment: a soldier, he had been accustomed to cut his way thro every difficult pass with his sword. The parent of Maria guarded the avenue he was now approaching.

With money he purchased the services of some persons who frequented the baron's house. He got, by their means, a letter conveyed to Maria. Upon reading this epistle, love overcame in her too every dictate of prudence; she lost recollec­tion of her father being at that instant in the house; and hurrying on her cloak, she ran down stairs, and into the fields then covered with snow. Her recollection returned—her heart [Page 196] failed within her—her limbs refused to do their office—she stood trembling before the wintry storm! She called to her assistance a slave; and pretending some other cause for her illness, was assisted to reach her chamber without the know­ledge of the awful parent who had occasioned her distress.

Maria, overcome with grief, and now giving up every thot of viewing her beloved Markoff, sunk upon her bed in sits of despair and madness, Reason again resumed her feat; a letter was dis­patched to Markoff at a neighboring village, de­siring him, if he valued his own and her life, to leave the place, and return to Moscow, where there might be still a possibility of their meet­ing. Having signed and sealed this letter, she held it in her hands, without know what she did. She broke the seal of her letter, and, seizing the ardent pen, gave that utterance it afforded to her passion; and amid the effusians of ardent love she mentioned the attempt she had made to see him.

Markoff's bosom could not contain the emotions of his soul on reading this letter. The cool, pru­dential, first part was overturned by the conclud­ing postscript.

Maria stood at the window, looking toward the village. "No," said she to herself, "he must not come.—I have forbid him, as he values my life. Let me endeavor to compose myself. Having resolved, and executed my resolve by [Page 197] that letter, we must wait for a happier period, why this fever of desire in my soul yet to behold him? I will avert my eyes from the village—Oh, how I shake!—Can he leave me, and obey my mandate? Will he not stand upon that snowy plain, and wave his handkerchief? The village is surrounded with woods—can Markoff be gone without making me one signal of love! Ungrate­ful man! No! no! no! Where am I? Did I hear him speak? Maria! Markoff!"

The night closed: the distracted Maria walk­ed in her chamber, still searching thro the gloom for Markoff—still wishing to see, not him, [...] rather some friendly spirit bearing his shape and air. A peasant near to the windows held out a letter. Maria anxiously enquired, but with a soft voice, from whom it came. It was the count Markoff himself! "Where is the count?" said Maria; and stretching out her hand for the letter. "My Maria!" replied the count; and lay­ing hold of the branches of a tree which stood near the window, he climbed up, and entered it.

The young lady stared wildly at him, unable to refit or to speak. He assured her, he would instantly depart, when he had once impressed up­on her lips the seal of love. He threw his arms eagerly around her, and held her to his panting breast.—The hours glided away unseen; nor were they awakend from their dream, but with the stepes of the baron approaching to the chamber door. The imagination of a woman, which [Page 198] is ever quick, either to her relief, or to her dis­truction, suggested to Markoff to hide himself in an empty chest, which happened to be in the room. The baron's visit was to enquire, as he often did, after his favorite child; as he had heard something of her indisposition. At times, when the recollection of the family of Markoff was lost, he behaved as a fond father, but this dreadful recollection was never lost for a day's con­tinuance.

The baron left his daughter, without the least suspicion of the presence of the son of his rival.

Maria approached the fatal chest. She opened it. The count was asleep, or affected to sleep. He was asleep, to wake no more! The head of the chest had been in a hurried moment, shut close upon him, or had fallen so. There remains no doubt that the count, upon feeling the incon­veniency, and want of air, could have relieved himself, and perhaps had gently attempted to do it; but finding his attempt attended with some noise, which might have betrayed a woman whom he valued more than life, to the rage of a father, he had summitted to death.

It is impossible for the imagination to conceive the situation of Maria when she found the lifeless corpse of Markoff! She continued for some time to believe that the count was affecting sleep, re­proached him for playing the fool. At last she pulled him with some violence and anger: the body fell again into the chest. She screamed; [Page 199] and fortunate would it have been had the baron heard this cry of horror. Dreadful as her situa­tion was, the idea of her father's wrath added to her misery. Mad with agony, she clasped the body of the count, calling upon his name, and, at calmer intervals, using every endeavor to res­tore him to life in vain.

The silence of the night was disturbed with the sighs, the shrieks of Maria, now re­clining upon the corpse, now at her window tear­ing her hair, and imploring heaven to end her existence. The morning began to dawn—she roused from her distracted melancholy, and thot­ful of what the light of day and her furious fa­ther were to discover. The slave who is appoint­ed watchman to every house thro out Russia is the only person readily to be procured during the night, and is generally and elderly man. He is employed in the meanest offices during that part of the day not alloted to sleep.

To this wretched domestic, whose lodging is a sort of crib within the gates, the unfortunate Maria applied. The slave at her coming kneel­ed, and touched her shoe with his forehead, crav­ing her protection. She desired him to rise, and informed him he should have it, as well as a sum of money, if he would keep a secret, and faith­fully serve her: she discovered her misfortunes, and desired that he would remove the corpse, and bury it in the adjoining forest. The slave felt a consequence he had never felt before. She gave him money, but he knew that the baron would [Page 200] give him more to betray her. That slave, who but a moment before had never dared to look up at the daughter of his lord, and who was accus­tomed to esteem both as deities. on whom his all, his very life depended: that wretch, who was happy to find a bed in the corner of her father's stable, and daily receiving chastisement from the care of his surly master and fellow servants, who look down upon the watchman as an inferior be­ing, dared at once to posses the person of Maria! He began, without much ceremony, to use free­dom with the countess. Overpowered as she was with despair and grief, she struck the villain: for a moment she forgot her sorrows, and, resuming the dignity of her rank, she bade him begone. But it was too late: the slave knew her secret, nor was they any other assistant to be had. The villain knew this: and, pretending to go to the baron to inform him, Maria called him back. He obeyed with sullen importance. He took the silver and gold trinkets which she now added to the first present—he followed her toward her chamber—he stopped suddenly, and swore if she did not come to his embraces, he would directly acquaint the baron with all. Maria, in her turn, fell upon her knees to the slave: she entreated and besought him, with every soothing expression, and with a promise of freedom and wealth. She hold the slave, while he endeavored to rid him­self in order to proceed to the baron's bed-room. She fainted in the struggle to detain him.

[Page 201] The villain turned, beheld his prey, and seized upon it.

The savage resorted to the chamber, where lay the corpse of Markoff. He carried it to the woods, and cutting the throat, and otherways disfiguring it, left it a prey to animals less feroci­ous than himself.

Maria awoke to a new scene of woe. The baron observed the melancholy brooding upon her mind, and guessing that the cause related to the detested family of Markoff, abused her with his usual rudeness. The slave renewed his ad­dresses, and with the same threats of informing the baron, adding, that he would accuse her of the murder of the count.

Maria, as yet guiltless, committed a fault un­becoming of her rank and innocence: but the ac­cusation against her is solely for the want of forti­tude. A crime once committed, appears less hide­ous: this lady had as yet committed none; but she knew of her disgrace, and felt herself degraded, and in her own eyes, an outcast of society. The slave not only threatened to accuse her of mur­der, but of prostitution with count Markoff.

Maria might have perhaps got over the dread of her father's wrath; but the accusation of mur­der and prostitution, not merely to the count, but to the vilest of her father's domestics, was a stumbling-block that she had not strength to pass.

[Page 202] It is always dangerous to imagine ourselves past recovery in any situation. To avoid a public, she submitted to a private shame. Familiarity made the slave now insolent: he forced her even to come to his wretched hovel, and dismissed her with contempt.

The wretched Maria never again beheld with a smile the morning dawn. Her eyes dejected, her color pale; she started from her glass, and, throwing her clothes carelessly about her, she supported with pain, while with her father, the appearance of ease and happiness.

The slave to multiply his gains, dragged her to some neighboring cottage, where were gene­rally assembled, at the dead hour of night, se­veral of the wealthy inhabitants of the country. The hour arrived when Maria was to be freed from contamination; and it must be supposed that she had before entertained the idea of extri­cating herself, and this idea had supported her sinking mind, and had prevented her too from freeing herself by suicide. Reflection had paint­ed the shameful course that she walked in, and she saw no end to her sorrows. The pride of rank, roused with repeated insult, determined upon re­venge. Famale nature yet revolted, and she al­lowed several opportunities to escape.

The brutal ravishers formed themselves into a club. Maria was the sacrifice at their feasts, and was treated with every shameful indignity.

[Page 203] The moment of vengeance at last comes. Her tyrants, overwhelmed with liquor, slept npon the benches of the cottage. Maria saw, and her good angel approved the period of freedom and justice. She trembled as she approached the slave. She invoked Heaven to give her resolution, and, pulling the knife from the belt of the savage, plunged it into his heart. Her fortitude rekind­led with the stroke. She proceeded on to the o­ther villains, who belched their drunken fumes in their slumbers, and planted a dagger in every breast.

Maria had no sooner completed the work of vengeance, than she fled home. She beheld from her windows the rising sun, and she imagined herself in a new world! "Mark [...]off," said she to herself, "will be here! These are the elysian fields: I will go out and met him." She wander­ed in the forest which covered his body. She knew the spot, and kneeled upon his tomb. Her voice denied utterance; her tears watered his grave, and she strewed upon it her flaxen hair. Still awed by her father, she concealed from him her sorrow, and affected ease and mirth.

The idea of having committed murder often threw her into fits of despair. She thot to ease her conscience by making a confession to her priest. The astonished priest had never witness­ed such a confession. The wretch betrayed the secret to his wife. The minions of justice were soon in search of Maria. The relation spread thro out all the empire. Her Imperial majesty, having ordered a strict examination into the par­ticulars, [Page 204] acquitted this unfortunate lady, and took her under her immediate protection.

Tired of life, now that her shame was public, she would have preferred death to all other pro­tection. She begged the empress to allow her to retire to a monastery; and here, secluded from a world where [...]he sound no rest, she endeavors to forget all but her God and her Markoff. Her cell is small but neat. A few religious books compose her library. The picture of Markoff hangs upon her lovely bosom.—She calls it her saint, and kisses it with servent devotion. Her first office in the morning is prayer: she then goes to the bath, repeats this in the afternoon. She seldom wanders beyond the monastic walls; or, if she does, she traverses the gloomest wood, or sits by a rivulet which encircles her abode; and here, with folded arms and downcast eyes, implored the forgiveness of heaven. The even­ing bell, the shepherd's evening horn, warns her to return to prayers and repose.

This story, however romantic it may appear, is yet authenticated beyond all doubt, and is ge­nerally believed and known to be true in Russia Let those who doubt it, recal to mind what won­derful vicissitudes are common in nations of Asia­tic origin, customs and manners, and living under the capricious influence of despotic governments

IN a village in the south of France, lived a pea­sant, whose only wealth consisted in those mental possessions which adorn greatness and dig­nify poverty. He had acquired, by his integri­ty and Industry, the approbation of the master whom he had long served as under-bailiff, and the esteem of all his neighbors. In his hours of leisure, he delighted in the discharge of his parental duty, by cultivating the native graces of an only child. Emma, at the age of eighteen, was lovely in her person, gentle in her manners, and virtuous in her principles. Their cottage was the scene of rustic peace, and their little gar­den a bower of intermingled sweets.—Bernard had long served, with fidelity and zeal, the Mar­quis of Clairville, who possessed a sumptuous chateau, and extensive domains in the neighbour­hood.—Justice, generosity, and innate excellence of heart, were his characteristics; and he was the idol of the surrounding country.—Emma as­sisted [Page 206] her father's honest toils, by employing her­self in spinning and netting, which contributed to acquire those comforts, that rendered them happy and contented.

The duty and affection of Emma was unpa­ralleled: oft would she climb the verdant steep, or wander in the silent [...], to wait the return of her father from his daily labours, when the even­ing sun casts its faint gleams upon the summer scene.—Sometimes seated by this venerable fire, she discoursed with him on the virtues of her de­parted mother, whom fate had summoned from the world in the early infancy of her daughter; and they shed tears of sorrow and regret to her loved memory. Sometimes, in the seasons of fes­tivity, Emma would join in the rural dance with the villagers, or chaunt her melodious notes to the soft flutes of the youthful peasants.

Such was the life led by Emma and her father; but they were soon to experience a fatal calamity, in the death of the Marquis de Clairville, whose loss was universally lamented. For some days af­ter his disease, the eyes of his tenants and depen­dents ceased not to flow with tears of gratitude and sorrow. At the funeral of the Marquis, [Page 207] conducted with all the pomp due to his rank, the inhabitants of the surrounding hamlets attended; grief was imprinted on every countenance, as they followed the body in mute dejection. A young stranger, returning to Swisserland from a tour, chanced to strike out of the road as he ap­proached [...] beauty of the long avenues which led to it. He reach­ed the gates just as the mournful procession was beginning to move. Enquiring the name of the deceased, one of the peasants informed him, that in their master, the Marquis de Clairville, they had lost the best of lords, and most generous of patrons; the tears which rolled down his cheeks as he spoke, gave evidence of his feelings: Al­bert dismounted from his horse, and giving charge of it to his servant, mingled with the pea­santry, and, moving slowly, arrived with them at the church, about half a mile distant, where the remains of Clairville were to [...] in the vault of his ancestors. He placed himself near the grave: before the ceremony was ended, and while a solemn dirge was chanting, he ob­served the mourners to fall back, and form on each side an opening, thro which he beheld ad­vancing a group of village maidens, with bas­kets of flowers on their arms, which they strew­ed in profusion over the coffin. Albert's atten­tion was soon attracted toward the loveliest ob­ject he had ever beheld; she was distinguished from her companions by a superior elegance of mien and grace of features, she wore a vest of white stuff, fitted to her shape, and round her [Page 208] slender waist was bound a scarf of black gaus [...]; a small cap, whiter than Alpine snows, attempt­ed vainly to confine her flaxen tresses, which sell in waving ringlets on her shoulders, and strayed over her fair forehead. When she had emptied the fragrant contents of her basket, she bent up­on one knee upon the brink of the grave, then raising her tearful eyes of celestial blue to heaven, she seemed to breathe a silent prayer for the soul of the departed Marquis; then, accompanied by the village maidens, she retired from the spot, passing thro the vacancy which again was formed for them. Albert followed the sweet mourner, who, bidding adieu to her associates, moved down the church, looking around with anxious eyes, as if in quest of some object interesting to her affections.—Suddenly, she sprang toward a venerable old man, who was tottering to the porch, and throwing around him her fair arms, she supported him to a seat, where, placing her­self by him, they passed some moments in the elo­quent silence of unaffected grief. Never had Albert beheld so beautiful a picture.—It was Em­ma, supporting on her bosom the silver head of Bernard, while from her eyes tear after tear, in quick succession, dropped on his furrowed cheek!—The stranger respected too much their mutual grief to interrupt it, and perceiving the funeral train returning from the grave, he accosted one of the peasants who was nearest to him, and ea­gerly inquired the name of the maiden who seem­ed to lead the young group that strewed flowers at the grave. The peasant gave Albert every [Page 209] information which he desired, and as the day was declining fast, he offered the traveller a bed at his cottage, which being contiguous to that of Bernard, proved a temptation not to be resisted. Honest Pierot led Albert a short cut thro some fields, and after having recommended his guest to the attentions of his wife, he hastened to the castle gates, in quest of the servant whom Albert had ordered to wait there his return.

In this humble but neat dwelling, the young stranger determined to reside some days, under pretence of exploring, at his leisure, the exten­sive domains of the castle, but in reality to intro­duce himself to the lovely Emma and her father. The impression, which her artless beauty made on his heart, was of so serious a nature, that he indulged the hopes of making her his wife, if he found, on acquaintance, her mind as charming as her person, and she would accept his proffered vows.

We must make a short digression while we re­turn to the state of the family affairs of the late Marquis, for some years before his decease.—He had been married, late in life, to an amiable wo­man, by whom he had an only son: having pas­sed the winter at Paris, he was unexpectedly cal­led away to attend some important business at Clairville-castle: he set off immediately, leaving his lady and infant son, then about three years▪ old to follow. After the fatigues of a busy day, on the evening that he expected the [...] [Page 210] to arrive, he was waiting her approach upon a terrace which commanded his fine park. As his anxious eyes were turned toward the grand ave­nue, which led to the castle, he perceived one of the domestics who had been left to attend her, advancing, with as much speed as the tired state of his horse would allow. The Marquis hasten­ed toward him, to receive tidings of his belov­ed wife, but what were his sensations, when the servant informed him, that the carriage of the Marchioness and her ritinue, had been attacked by an armed banditti, who rushed out of a castle. The attendants, who were likewise armed, sur­rounded the carriage, and for sometime made a stout resistance, but he had every reason to fear, that, overpowered by numbers, they had scarce a chance of defending their mistress from the fu­ry of these assassins, and in all probability they had fallen victims with her to the murderous swords of their assailants. The messenger of these dreadful tidings had been tempted by an early flight to escape to the castle, impelled by the feeble hope of gaining them some assistance; but the road being solitary which led to the cha­teau, he had met no human being on his way. The Marquis lost no time in useless lamentations, but instantly arming himself and several of his brave domestics, who were ready to encounter any danger for so beloved a master, they mount­ed their horses, and in a short time reached the fatal spot. They here found a spectacle of hor­ror: the mangled bodies of the servants lay life­less round the carriage, in which the murdered [Page 211] Marchioness and here two women remained, with wounds yet bleeding! In the midst of this deso­lation, the Marquis sought in vain his infant son, whose absence inspired, amid his sorrows, a se­cret and presaging hope, that he had been either rescued or preserved. He placed himself and his followers in ambuscade in the wood for the re­mainder of the day, with a view to surprise the villains should they return at night, and either revenge this horrid massacre, or fall in the at­tempt: his hopes were vain: the wretches, sated with their bloody deeds, approached no more the fatal spot. Early on the ensuing morning, they began to remove the slaughtered victims: they had been joined by all the neighboring villagers, who assisted in the sad office. As they were raising some of the lifeless attendants, they were startled by a groan from one of the bodies: on an imme­diate search, they found a dying stranger, whom they concluded to be one of the banditti, who had probably, from being concealed under seve­ral dead bodies, escaped the recollection of the villains. They raised and supported the wound­ed wretch, hoping if he recovered, by the assist­ance of a surgeon, who had followed the Mar­quis, by his orders, to this scene of death, and had in vain attempted to restore the Marchioness and her unfortunate suite, they might obtain in­formation of the fate of the young Marquis.

[Page 212] He seemed to revive a little by an effect which the attention had upon him. The Mar­quis assisted in supporting him, while the surgeon poured a cordial down his throat.—His facul­ties in some degree appeared to return, he gazed on the Marquis and attempted to speak, but in vain.—Clairville then addressed him thus;—

"I conjure thee by the hopes of mercy here and hereafter, tell me, if thou hast power to speak, where is my son?— does he survive? An­swer that question only for the present, and I will wait the event of thy recovery for further in­formation."

The dying man, made repeated efforts to ar­ticulate, but for some moments he remained speechless: at length he faintly uttered, "young Clairville lives." He could no more; the exer­tion overcame him; and successive convulsions seizing his whole frame, he expired in agonies.

The confession, in the midst of so severe an af­fliction, long kept alive in the bosom of the Mar­quis some feeble embers of expiring hope: he returned to the solitary castle, so late the scene of all his happiness where he shut himself up for se­veral days to give vent to the first emotions of his sorrow. The suspence, which he yet endur­ed, relative to his son's destiny had such an effect upon his spirits, that he determined to retire wholly from the world, and to implore, in the solitude of his castle, the misfortunes of his fa­mily: [Page 213] but he did not so much yield to the impres­sions of grief, as to be regardless to his tenants and dependents: his generous nature would not permit him to be unmindful of their interests. They had long been the objects of his bounty: they now became the children of his adoption; and, lost to domestic felicity, he centered all his remaining consolation in dispensing happiness to all around him. Years followed years, in this manner; every search after his beloved son had been fruitless; he had long ceased to indulge the flattering prospect, which he had at first en­tertained, of recovering his treasure; and tho his pious resignation permitted him not to mur­mur at the degrees of Providence, yet no ray of hope cheared his declining age.

He beheld death approaching with that secret satisfaction, which anticipated a blest re-union with those dear objects, who had already so long partaken of the rewards of innocence and virtue. On the decease of the Marquis, his estates de­volved by inheritance, on the Baron of Moren­zi, who was of a haughty, cruel character, and revengeful; whose reason and actions were sub­servient to his passions; and who scrupled not the commission of any excess, to gratify his ambition, avarice, or sensuality.

Over these vices he had, by art and cunning, drawn a veil, which imposed on strangers; and to unfold which, a considerable share of sagacity and penetration was requisite; on those whom his [Page 214] heart secretly detested, he could smile with ease. A character so hypocritical could not fail of be­coming the aversion of the adjacent country: for however the deceiver may conceal his vices, in the formalities of courts and public life, they will always appear in their true light to those, to whom they are objects of neither fear nor regard.—His new vassals and dependents received a spe­cimen of that treatment which they were in fu­ture to expect, from the first moment of his arri­val at his new abode.

They had collected together in the court of the castle, to celebrate his approach. "Wherefore," said he, as he descended from his carriage, "are you assembled here with gloomy faces and fable habiliments?—Is this the welcome you give your new lord? I think you might have spared these trappings of woe for a departed master, to wait with joy the commands of his successor. An uni­versal silence succeeded this ungracious harangue, which so exasperated the baron, who expected to be received with acclamations of pleasure, that he broke forth in the following words "De­part, you minions of that indolent supineness, which marked the character of him whom you mourn in vain;—quit my castle, and if you have any business to transact, I refer you to my stew­ard, who has attended me hither, and who will impart to you my commands." Awed and shock­ed to silence, the humble train retired from the presence of a man, whose dominion over them promised nothing but the exertion of tyranny and oppression. In a day or two after his arrival, the [Page 215] system of affairs was entirely changed. The old steward was discarded and his place supplied by a man, who had gained the confidence of the baron by the abject servility of his flattery.

The faithful servants were discharged, and suc­ceeded by others, who had been the instruments of his vices. Bernard only, and a few more, who from the meanness of their situations had es­caped his notice, were still permitted to occupy their several departments. Instead of the conde­scension, with which their late lord had treated all around him, the new master of these domains kept them at an awful distance; and never permit­ed the plaints of poverty to reach his ear, or the groans of oppression to plead for mercy: suffer­ing virtue never obtained redress from his com­passion, nor innocence from his justice. He had lived a life of luxury and debauchery, which had involved his private fortune in difficulties, from which his great acquisition was calculated to ex­tricate him. A multitude of importunate credi­tors, disturbed the first moments of his smiling fortune; and instead of appropriating to the pay­ment of his debts, a part of the princely revenue, the enjoyment of which he so little merited, such was his mean avarice, that he immediately de­voted to the axe some lofty rows of venerable trees, for many successive centuries the greatest pride and ornament of the castle of Clairville.

We now return to Albert, who soon gained that introduction, at the cottage of Bernard, which he so anxiously sought, and by frequenting the society of this worthy old man, he had daily [Page 216] opportunities of seeing, and conversing with his lovely daughter.—Powerfully charmed at first fight by her personal attractions, he now found, on acquaintance, an irresistible fascination in the superior beauties of her mind. Nature had form­ed her sentiments, just, delicate, and virtuous, and her education had for two years received great advantage from a frequent intercourse with a lady of birth and distinguished talents, who had, on the decease of her husband, retired into a small habitation, situated in a vale near Ber­nard's cottage: this amiable widow had lived many years in the great world, and had partaken both of its prosperity and adversity, sufficiently to shew her the instability of fortune: with her beloved lord, she had had lost the superfluities of life; but satisfied with competence, she devot­ed the remainder of her days to solitude and reli­gion.

She conceived for Emma, then just fifteen, a strong attachment, and easily obtained Bernard's permission for his daughter's frequent visits. The good woman delighted in cultivating a mind whose capacity and genius promised every success. Emma read aloud for hours, uninterruptedly, to her kind patroness, and with an attention, that impressed upon her memory every thing worthy to be retained; and the subjects were constantly calculated to improve the morals and enlarge the understanding. At the end of two years, death stopped the progress of Emma's education, by suddenly depriving her of this most excellent friend; her little income reverted to the family of her husband, and she had nothing to leave the [Page 217] child of her adoption, but the simple furniture of her little dwelling. Emma mourned with af­fectionate regret, a loss so great, but determined to perserve in those studies, for which she had ac­quired so correct a taste, and which she was hap­pily enabled to do, by becoming the possessor of the valuable and select collection of books, which formed the small library of the deceased. But rising very early in the morning, Emma was en­abled to pursue her favorite employment, with­out trespassing on those hours, when her filial duties or domestic cares demanded her attention.

Young Albert soon discovered in the conversa­tion of Bernard's lovely daughter, a well inform­ed mind, and an understanding which blended the artless simplicity of rural life, with the more refined sentiments of cultivated education.

The mental accomplishments of Emma comple­ted the conquest which her beauty had begun in the heart of Albert; nor was it long ere a re­ciprocal and gentle flame was communicated to her bosom. The ardent lover, in the [...] flatter­ing moment of aspiring hope, declared his pas­sion, and offered at her feet his honorable vows. She blushed modestly, and referred her assent to her father's will. The heart of Bernard, at this unexpected proposal, felt all at her father's rap­ture; but the strict rectitude of his sentiments checked the momentary joy, and with that sin­cerity which marked his character, he declined so unequal an alliance, and represented to his [Page 218] young friend the impropriety of his forming any union unsanctioned by his family. "Accept our gratitude," said Bernard, "for the honor which you intend us: were you less distinguished by rank and fortune, I should be proud to call you son. Emma's only dower is virtue, and her birth is too humble for her to become your wife. Ne­ver shall false vanity, or sordid interest, betray me to an action at which my conscience would re­volt. I will still be worthy your esteem, and the child whom you have honored with your love shall merit, at least by her conduct, the rank to which you would generously raise her. But you must meet no more: this is the stern decree of un­sullied virtue and irreproachable honor. Return to your native country, with every wish that grateful friendship can bestow." Albert had lis­tened in silent admiration to the word of Emma's venerable father: when Bernard ceased to speak, he thus replied, "Could I offer a diadem to your incomparible daughter, she would, by accepting it, confer, and not receive the honor. I would not have presumed to solicit her affections or her hand, could I have admitted a doubt of my fa­ther's approbation of a choice directed by rea­son and sanctioned by virtue. I will renew no more my humble suit ill authorized by him to demand the hand of Emma: Farewell! my return hither shall be as rapid as the impatience of love and hope can render it." Thus separated the ven­erable Bernard and the youthful Albert; nor could all the moving rhetoric of the latter prevail up­on the father of Emma to permit a parting scene

[Page 219] Bernard returned not to his cottage till Al­bert had quitted the village: when he en­tered, Emma advanced to meet him, her eyes sur­charged with tears: she presented him with a letter which Albert, retiring to write for a few moments before he mounted his horse, had ordered his servant to leave as he passed the door. It breathed the language of eternal love, and assured her, that as he quitted her only to accelerate their union, she might soon expect his return to claim her promised hand: Bernard fold­ing up the letter when he had read it, and put­ting it in his pocket, thus addressed his trembling daughter, who waited silently her fate: "Be­ware, my child, how you suffer your heart to be­tray your happiness; trust not to the protestations of a lover. An inconsiderate vow is more fre­quently broken than kept.—You may be the pre­sent object of Albert's affections, but man, by nature inconstant, can easily transfer his heart to successive objects. The world will, probably, soon efface you from his remembrance; or should he even still retain his faith unshaken, can you flatter yourself that his family will admit into their society an humble villager, whose birth they would proudly deem unworthy their alliance?—Never shall my Emma's hand be united to a hus­band unsanctioned by the authority of his parents.—Make, therefore, every effort, my beloved child, to conquer a prepossession fatal in its ten­dency, and hopeless in its effects. You have ne­ver yet deceived me, and I have that confidence in your discretion, which persuades me you will [Page 220] not deviate from the path of rectitude; no [...] by a clandestine conduct, act unworthy of your own spotless character." Emma funk at the feet of her venerable fire, and embracing his knees, "Never, never," exclaimed [...]he, while tears rol­led down her pale cheeks, "shall your child wander from the path of honor!—You shall guide and direct all her actions, your counsels shall for­tify the weakness of her heart, and assist her to subdue every sentiment disapproved by you; and if she cannot immediately forget the conspicuous virtues of her lost Albert, at least, she will hum­ble her ambitious hopes, which had the presump­tion to soar above her obscure birth, and aspire to an alliance to which she had no pretensions, but what the delusive voice of love and Albert awak­ened in her bosom." Bernard folded her in her arms with all a father's fond delight; and ap­plauded the sentiments, which flowed from a heart capable of sacrificing every inclination to that duty which she owed him. Emma possessed a strength of mind superior to her years, and tho she tried in vain to forget an object so tenderly beloved, she so far reasoned herself into a persua­sion that the friends, of Albert would never con­sent to their marriage, without which she was re­solutely determined never to accept his hand, that she renounced every idea of being united to him, and banished the seducing hope of beholding him again.

While Emma was thus meritoriously submitting to the rigid laws of filial duty, fate was hasten­ing to involve her in a sn [...]re more dangerous than that which she had so nobly overcome. As she [Page 221] was spinning, one sultry day, in a bower of ho­ney-suckles, near the gate of their little cottage, accompanied by one of her young female neigh­bors, the Baron de Morenzi passed by on horse-back, and casting his eyes on the fair Emma, was so struck with her beauty, that he suddenly stop­ped, and dismounting, approached the wicket. Taking off his hat he complained of a dizziness in his head, for which he politely requested a glass of water: Emma arose, and tripping into the house, quickly returned with a chrystal draught, which she presented to him with a native grace that accompanied all her motions. He had, dur­ing her short absence, informed himself that she was the daughter of Bernard, who served him as under-bailiff. He accepted the cup from her hand, and while he swallowed the contents, he drank, at the same time, from her bewitching eyes, a draught, which spread an irresistible poi­son thro his veins. The baron was indebted to nature for a fine person, and to art, for that im­posing elegance of address, which seldom failed to insinuate his wishes with success, when the do­minion of a tender passion tempted him to gloss over his haughty demeanor with dissembled con­descension. Just as he was returning the cup to the lovely Emma, who stood to receive it, with her looks bent upon the ground, to avoid the fix­ed gaze of his penetrating eyes, Bernard sudden­ly appeared, and afforded his daughter an oppor­tunity to retire into the cottage.

[Page 222] The good old bailiff accosted his lord with a respect, which, while it acknowledged his supe­riority as a master, was unmixed with that kind of servile humility, which demeans the dignity of man. He had never before attracted the notice of the Baron, who forgetting the distance, which birth and fortune had placed between them, recol­lected only that he was the father of Emma, and might, perhaps, assist him in the views which he had formed to corrupt her virtue. Accosting him, therefore, with kind familiarity, he requested that he might take a survey of his little dwelling, which he should be welcome to exchange for one more convenient and comfortable. "My lord," replied Bernard, "in this humble dwelling my infant eyes first opened, and here I would wish to close their aged lids."

"But," interrupted the Baron," you begin to bow under the weight of years, and in need of rest and indulgence; I shall feel a true satisfac­tion in rendering your latter days happy."—"Permit me to assure you," said Bernard, "that a life of honest industry, and uncorrupted inno­cence, has already insured to me that happiness in its closing scene, which an irreproachable con­science only can bestow, but which riches can ne­ver give." "You have a daughter, however, interrupted the Baron, smilling, "too young to have adopted your stoical ideas." "I have a daughter," retorted Bernard, "who inherits her mother's virtue, and has been taught by precept and example those sentiments, which have render­ed her too contented in her situation, to harbor an ambitious wish in her bosom." The Baron [Page 223] reddened at these words, but commanding, for his own secret purposes, the rising indignation of of his mind, he condescendingly bade the vene­rable Bernard adieu; saying, that he still hoped, mature reflection would induce him to accept the favors which he was anxious to confer upon a man, whose respectable character, and long life of un­sullied virtue claimed a singular reward.

So saying he mounted his horse, and returned to the castle, revolving in his mind, every prac­ticable scheme for the seduction of the devoted Emma. He reflected that he had never beheld a female half so lovely; and as on no occasion had accustomed himself to combat his inclinations, or subdue his passions, he resolved to lose no time in accomplishing his design. The humble situa­tion of Emma, gave him, in his opinion, an uncontrouled right to her submission; but he was solicitous, if possible, to gain an ascenden­cy over her heart, by awakening with her gra­titude tenderer sentiments; for this purpose, he determined to wear the mask of hypocrisy a little longer, and then to attempt, by every art of soft deception, to secure her affections in his favor. A week elapsed after the Baron's visit at the cottage, without any renewal of his great offers; a circumstance that contributed to dispel those fears, which had been awakened in the bo­som of Bernard, by the interview of the Baron with Emma, and his generous professions of friend­ship to himself,— professions, too opposite to the na­tural ferocity of his temper. Bernard considered [Page 224] them no longer in any light, but in that of a tem­porary inclination toward humanity and kindness, which could have no root in a soil so barren.—He pursued, therefore, without further suspicion, his usual labors; taking, however, the precaution never to leave his daughter without a companion, in his absence,

One morning when he had quited the cottage about an hour, a hasty messenger from the castle terrified Emma with an account that her father was taken with a sudden indisposition as he passed the gates; and having been supported into the house by some of the domestics, who had observed him sinking on the ground, the housekeeper had thot it proper to send for his daughter, who by being accustomed perhaps to these seizures, knew best how to treat them. The trembling Emma, alarm­ed to the utmost degree at a disorder, which had never yet attacked her beloved father, delayed not a moment to follow her conductor; and taking the arm of her friend Agnes, who had been listening to her as she was reading aloud, proceeded with tottering steps to the castle, distant from her hum­ble cottage about a mile. When she arrived in the great hall, she met with a female of a respec­table appearance, and of an advanced age. She eagerly inquired after her father, and earnestly requested to be permitted to see him. The house­keeper answered Emma with the appearance of much sensibility, that Bernard was so perfectly recovered by a cordial which she had administer­ed, that he had returned to his daily occupation, ignorant that his illness could have reached his [Page 225] daughter's ears. "Thank heaven!" exclaimed the innocent Emma, "O, madam, accept my hum­ble gratitude for your kind care, and suffer one of the domestics to direct me to the spot where I may find my dear father; I will watch by his side during the labors of the day, or attend him to our cottage, if he will permit me to lead him thither."

"Be no longer anxious, my lovely child," re­plied the matron, "your father will be here at the hour when the turret bell shall call the family to dinner; he promised to meet my lord's steward, to receive some orders from the Baron."—The unsuspecting Emma thanked her kind informer, and was departing, but pressed condescendingly to continue there till the return of Bernard, and in the interval, to take a survey of the apart­ments in the castle, in some of which, alterations were making, she consented to wait her father's return. While her obliging guide was leading her into a large saloon, she turned round to seek for Agnes, whom, till that instant, she imagined to have been still near her side. She expressed some anxiety at her absence, to the house-keeper, who observed, that her friend had remained in the first hall, and immediately sent a woman, then descending a stair-case, to escort her to them, Emma, in the mean time, pursued the steps of her conductress, who having passed several state a­partments, opened a door that led to a library, and which she had no sooner entered, and direct­ed the attention of Emma to a fine portrait of the late Marchioness de Clairville, that hung over the chimney, than she disappeared. Emma, for [Page 226] some moments, was lost in contemplating the an­gelic countenance of a woman, whose sad fate she had heard so frequently and so tenderly deplored, which she was suddenly roused from these melan­choly reflections, by the opening of a glass door, which led to a colonnade filled with exotic plants. If she felt embarrassed by the appearance of the Baron, who entering thence into the library, that what were her sensations, when on making an at­tempt to quit it herself, she found the door of the apartment locked, and beheld the Baron de Mo­renzi at her feet, in an attitude of respectful ten­derness.

The confusion and surprise of Emma, at the humble posture of the Baron, could only be heightened by his address. She had instantly retreated a few paces from the door which she had vainly attempted to open, and supported herself with difficulty against a book-case. "Be not alarmed, charming Emma," said the Baron, in a voice of assumed softness, "you see before you a man, who, till he beheld your incompara­ble beauty, never completely lost his liberty. Re­gard me no longer as the master of your father, but as the slave and lover of his daughter, and who only waits her commands to shew by his obe­dience the truth and generosity of his senti­ments." During this speech. Emma's gentle frame was agitated by a variety of inexpressible emotions. Amazement, fear, and indignation prevented her interruping the Baron; but when, on his rising and advancing to her at the close of [Page 227] his speech, he attempted to take her hand, "My lord," said she, shrinking from his touch, "you must permit me to assure you, that I have no wish but to return to my father: in his cottage all my ideas of happiness are centered. Condescend to open this door, or to admit my departure thro that colonnade: my intrusion here was entirely owing to Madame de Chalons, who promised to shew me the castle." "How much indebted am I to her," replied the baron, "for this inter­view, which gives me an opportunity to unfold the sentiments of a heart devoted to you alone. No longer shall such beauty, formed to shine in palaces, be concealed in a cottage. Accept my affections, and command my fortune."

Indignant blushes dyed the cheeks of Emma, as a proposal, which she could not misconceive, and all the pride of wounded delicacy rushing in­to her bosom, suspended for a moment its natural timidity, and animated her to pronounce these words: "That fortune, my lord, from which you assume the privilege thus to insult the daughter of a peasant, can neither dazzle my va­nity, nor tempt my ambition; my humble birth inspires in me no pride, but that of virtue, and the possession of no dignity, but that of con­scious innocence. Allow me to retire my lord: my father doubtless wonder at my absence." "Your father, froward beauty, waits my pleasure in the castle," returned the Baron, with a look of anger, "your compliance or rejection of gene­rous offers will decide his future fate. Recollect, Emma, the extent of my power; dread my re­sentment, or deserve my gratitude; they each [Page 228] shall be unbounded. If you reward my passion, your father will reside in this castle, freed from the toils of servitude, the witness and partaker of those benefits, which my love shall heap upon you: receive this casket of jewels, as a trifling earnest of a liberality, which shall know no li­mits." While the Baron displayed the sparkling treasure to the eyes of the unambitious Emma, she pushed them from her with disdain. "Once more, my lord," said she, "let me assure you, that I have a heart impenetrable to vanity, or grandeur, to which the power of wealth could raise me:" "But," cried the Baron, interrupt­ing her, softening the natural ferocity of his fea­tures, and gazing tenderly on her, "is your heart impenetrable to love, and cannot it be moved to yield a generous return to sentiments so sincere? Let me owe to mutual affection that which you deny to ambition: and accept the ho­nors which shall be offered you, as tributes due from my gratitude, rather than as bribes to al­lure your compliance." "Never, never," re­plied Emma: "my heart will ever continue as untouched by love, as by your proffered gifts: it is proof against every sentiment, that would injure my honor and debase my virtue!—No," exclaimed Emma, "could you stoop so low as to demand my hand in an honorable alliance, my heart would reject the offer, and my tongue dis­claim an union, which no intreaties could induce, no authority compel me to accept! After this ho­nest confession, my lord, you will suffer me to quit your presence." The enraged Baron w [...]ss [Page 229] now raised to a pitch of resentment which banish­ed at the moment every passion but that of an­ger. Mortified pride stung him to the quick; and viewing her with a look of contempt, "Tis well," said he, "your audacity has dispelled the charm of beauty; unworthy of a prepossession, which covers me with disgrace, you may return to that obscurity and indigence, which befit the meanness of your birth, and the grovelling senti­ments of your soul."—Uttering these words, he took a key from his pocket, and throwing it on the ground left her at liberty; she instantly seized the opportunity to unfasten the door, and to escape; hastening thro the hall, instead of turning to­ward the offices by which she had entered it, she took advantage of the great door, that stood o­pen, and descending a flight of steps with a ce­lerity urged by her fears of detention, she flew across the court, darted thro the iron gates, and gained the end of the front avenue in a few mo­ments. She then stopped, for want of breath, and sunk, almost spent, under the shade of a lofty elm: recollecting, however, that she was not beyond the reach of pursuit, should the en­raged Baron change his mind, and attempt to recal her, she arose, and casting an apprehen­sive look toward the castle, she perceived her fa­ther advancing toward her with slow steps: as­sured by his presence, she hesitated not to wait his approach; and he had no sooner reached the spot; where she stood trembling to receive him, than they clasped each other in a silent embrace: but Emma, urged by the dread of a moment's [Page 230] delay, entreated her father to suspend all interro­gation till they should have regained their cot­tage, which they had no sooner reached, than they each gave vent to the agitations, which had mutually oppressed them.

The story of Bernard's illness had been a fa­brication, invented merely for the purpose of en­trapping his daughter in the snare laid for her. As he passed the castle, in the morning he had been met by Monsieur Du Val, the steward, and requested to wait there to receive the commands of his lord, who had some designs to communi­cate to him, greatly to his advantage. The good old man, who never yet had formed a wish, beyond the sufficiency which his humble station had always allowed him, heard this circumstance with cold indifference; but out of respect to the Baron, waited his pleasure. He was introduced into a pavilion in the garden, and requested not to quit it till the Baron, who proposed to join him there, should dismiss him.

He remained above two hours, in vain expec­tation; the steward at length entered, and in­formed him that he had liberty to depart, as the Baron's sentiments were changed in regard to him, from the ungrateful rejection, which Em­ma had presumed to offer to proposals that did her but too much honor, and would have raised her and her family to a situation which must have rendered them objects of envy to the surround­ing peasantry. Bernard, strongly agitated, re­plied to this harangue, "Then may I truly glo­ry [Page 231] in my child, whose steady virtue teaches her to resist the treacherous arts of seduction, and to spurn at an elevation which would [...] her far be­neath her lowly birth and humble education. Let me hasten from a spot once the residence of worth and honor, but now become the scene of infamy and shame"—"Have a care, old man," replied Du Val, "how you tempt the vengeance of your master, by such daring language." "I fear no danger," interrupted Bernard, "but the loss of honor, and I own no real master but that Power Omnipotent, who guarded the innocent, forsakes only the guilty!"—Having thus said, he reached the lodge; where the porter opened a private gate which admitted him thro the ave­nue, where he joined, as we before related, his beloved daughter.

The enraged Baron, in the first emotions, of his resentment, had been induced to banish from his presence, the woman, who had presumed to des­pise his offers and his love. A momentary ha­tred took possession of his mind, but it soon gave place to softer sentiments;—her beauty, the sim­ple elegance of her form; her unstudied graces, and even the innocence which he meditated to destroy, returned to his imagination, and disap­pointed passion once more raged with greater vio­lence than ever.—In the first transports of his anger, he had commanded Du Val to dismiss Bernard with contempt, as an object beneath his future notice; he now summoned again into his presence this trusty messenger, this confidential friend of all his vices. The wily minion soon pacified the perturbed spirit of his lord, with [Page 232] that subtle flattery which he well knew how to administer; he artfully and respectfully ventured to blame the Baron, for setting at liberty the prey which he had once secured in his net, and advis­ed him to avail himself of the power that his rank gave him over his dependents, and to take by force the object of his wishes from the cottage of her father: such a method, he doubted not, would ensure his victory over her stubborn vir­tue, which probably might be affected only to enhance her consequence; which would certain­ly yield, when fears for the safety of her father should be roused, on her separation from him.—This point being settled, Du Val obtained the thanks of the Baron for his friendly counsels, and the promise of a large gratuity to recompense his services, when by his assistance Emma should be inclosed once more within the castle walls.

When Bernard had received from his daugh­ter a minute detail of her late visit, altho he rejoiced at her present escape, he foresaw her future danger, and trembled at the fatal consequence which might yet ensue. He knew Morenzi to be void of every principle of honor and humanity: he dreaded the influence of his power, and felt his own defenceless situation, which he feared would not enable him to protect his devoted child from arbitrary force, and law­less violence. After revolving in his mind every possible circumstance, he had worked up his ap­prehensions to such an height, as to decide sud­denly, and that an immediate flight could afford the only means of security from an enemy so for­midable. [Page 233] —The castle of Brinon was the sole asy­lum which he could fix on as eligible; there a sister of his late wife had lived for many years su­perintendant of the family; and there he hoped he might be permitted to conceal his daughter without danger of discovery; it was distant from Bernard's village about twenty miles, and he hoped that they should be able to reach it in a couple of days, He proposed the scheme to Em­ma, who readily undertook a journey, which would remove her beyond the power, of the dreaded Morenzi. They had no time to lose, and therefore, without further deliberation, be­gan the preparations necessary for an expedition so important to their security. Bernard prudent­ly determined to repose no confidence in any of his neighbors; altho he knew himself to be be­loved by them sufficiently to secure their secrecy, yet he was unwilling to expose them to the Ba­ron's resentment, by entrusting them with the se­cret of his journey. Bernard took with him his little store, the honest earnings of industrious years; Emma made up a small parcel of linen; and neither of them being inclined to repose, they sat down to a simple meal, of which, for the sake of each other, altho devoid of appetite, they mutually forced themselves to partake, that they might the better be enabled to encounter the fatigues which they had to undergo.

The village clock struck eleven, the hour when they had agreed to begin their journey. Emma took a mournful survey of the beloved cottage, [Page 234] where she had passed her life of innocence; she cast her eyes upon her spinning wheel and sighed; then turning to a wicker armed chair, which was the constant seat of her father, she sunk into it, and burst into tears. "Alas," said she, "I hop­ed for happy years to come to watch here the calm repose of him who gave me being; to tend, with duteous affection, his declining age, who reared my infancy with anxious love: I, who would wish to be his dearest companion, am doomed to bring sorrow on his silver head!"—"Rather," replied Bernard, extending his hand to lead her from a spot where fond re­membrance seemed to arrest her lingering stops, "says that my Emma was born to bless her fa­ther by her exemplary virtues. I triumph in my child, who nobly prefers honorable indigence to splendid infamy! Let us hasten from impend­ing persecution;—let us quit a place, where eve­ry moment endangers her liberty and innocence." Emma started up, cast a fearful look around, and encircling her arm in that of Bernard, they quit­ted the cottage, passed thro the sleeping hamlet, and reached the road, which led to their destined asylum. The moon shone in pensive majesty,—all was still,—the gentle breeze of night wafted re­freshing odours,—and solemn silence reigned,—save the soft notes of warbling nightingales, chanting their tuneful songs among the fragrant hedges, or, perchance, the distant bleating of some wakeful lamb. Emma's delicate frame felt something rather exhausted, and obliged her to rest for a few moments; but her fears did not [Page 235] permit her to indulge long in a repose which en­dangered her safety. Bernard comforted her by the assurance, that they approached a village, where there was a public inn; in which they might venture to take some refreshment, and where he hoped to procure a chaise, to convey them about twelve miles further, which would place them at an easy distance from the castle of Brinon, and consequently diminish the danger of pursuit. Thus encouraged, the timid Emma moved onward with renewed courage; and the fugitives reached the inn just as a travelling car­riage drove into the courtyard: while the land­lord and his wife were busily engaged in attend­ing to the newly arrived guests, Bernard applied to one of the servants to accommodate him and his daughter with a room, until a chaise could be got ready for their use: his request was granted, and they were shewn into a garden, where they waited with some impatience the arrival of the carriage, in which they were to pursue their lit­tle journey.

Having urged their request to be served with expedition, the landlord entered, and informed them that by sunrise they might depend upon a chaise, but that he would not suffer his horses to leave the stables until they had been sufficiently refreshed to do their duty: observing Emma to cast a disconsolate look upon her father, he said, "Your young companion may be weary, I re­commend her to take some rest in a quiet cham­ber, whither my wife shall conduct her." Em­ma, oppressed by fatigue, which she had under­gone, and finding they had no chance of pursu­ing [Page 236] their journey for the next two hours, accept­ed the proposal, and consented to retire into an upper chamber; where reclining upon a bed, just as she was, notwithstanding the agitations of her mind, she sunk into a profound repose.

Let us quit a-while the virtuous fugitives, to follow Albert into Swisserland. He quitted the village where Emma dwelt, with a heart deeply impressed by the perfections of a woman, whose noble rejection of his hand, from the most deli­cate motives, had raised her in his esteem. The Count de Bournonville, his father, was a man truly respectable in rank and character; he lived but to promote the happiness of his friends; and had been so uniformly indulgent to the wishes of Albert, that he had every thing to expect from his generosity and kindness. The education of this only surviving son had been cultivated with the utmost attention; he possessed a brilliant ge­nius, a solid understanding, and a heart with ho­nor, sensibility, and virtue.

The Count welcomed his son with those marks of tenderness, which promised every thing to the ardent hopes of Albert. On the evening of his return, impatient to urge a suit, upon the success of which his happiness depended, he requested a private audience of his father, who appointed an interview in his closet, before they should re­tire to their separate apartments for the night. They met at the stated hour, each bearing testi­mony in his expressive countenance of the impor­tant [Page 237] secret which oppressed his heart. The youthful impetuosity of Albert arrested the Count's attention, by an instant confession of his passion, and by his reliance on parental indulgence to crown his wishes: the Count de Bournonville lis­tened without interruption, to the character of Emma, painted with all the ardent enthusiasm of love in the glowing colors of perfection. Albert ceased;—the pause of a moment succeeded;—when his father looking stedfastly upon him, thus replied, "Ever ready to promote your feli [...]ity, I shall not attempt to reason you out of an attach­ment, which you describe so worthy of your choice, in every thing but birth and fortune▪ You are undoubtedly the safest judge in point of such consequence as an union for life: but a sub­ject of still more present importance now demands your attention. You must in future decide your own destiny:—I no longer can claim from you the duty of obedience. You are the child alone of my adoption, but the real, the indisputable son of a noble and unfortunate Marquis, the heir of a princely fortune, the real Henry de Clairville! wronged of your natural rights by an usurper; who doomed you to a death in early infancy, from which Providence rescued your innocence."—"And who murdered, with barbarian hand, my honored mother?" exclaimed Albert, attentive with increasing wonder to the words of the Count; and whose imagination had been wrought up al­most to a pitch of frenzy at the close of the speech. "This arm," continued he, "shall re­venge her sacred blood in that of an assassin!" [Page 238] —But suddenly his features softened into a look of greatful tenderness, recollecting himself, and falling at the feet of Bournonville, he thus con­tinued; "Forgive, oh, parent of my deserted in­fancy, the foce of nature, that suspended in my breast the endless debt of gratitude which I owe you: here let my heart ever acknowledge the tribute due to filial love; while my sword aven­ges the blood of murdered innocence; from whose honored source! drew my own existence. But say, my Lord, whence do you derive this strange intelligence?" The Count then informed him, that in his late absence he had taken into his family a servant, discharged from the castle of Clairville, on the death of the late Marquis, and who, being a native of Swisserland, had return­ed to an uncle residing there in credit, by whom he had been recommended. That Prevot, inter­rogated relative to the motive of his quitting France, had given him a circumstantial account of the occurrences which had passed in the fami­ly of the Marquis, including the fatal death of the Marchioness, and the loss of her young son. "These events," continued the Count, "I sound from Prevot's recital, passed at a period, when I was returning with my wife thro France to Swis­serland; but so expeditious was my journey, that the foregoing circumstances never reached my ears: an infant son had accompanied our tour; and by a sudden illness incident to children, it pleased heaven to recal the gift, with which it had blessed us for a short time; the Countess was inconsolable, and I feared grief would have had a fatal effect upon her delicate frame; when an [Page 239] extraordinary incident roused her attention from the indulgence of her private woes, to exer­cise it on an object whose interesting age claimed the offices of humanity from her maternal care."

Albert listened with attentive silence while the Count de Bournonville continued thus his narrative: "My faithful Durand accompanied us in our travels; he has spent his youth in my service, and by his firm attachment has merited the place which he holds in my esteem. As we were passing a frequented road, Durand, who followed us on horseback, perceived upon the ground a sleeping infant. Surprised to see no person near, and that the child had been left ap­parently unprotected, he stopped his horse, when, from a wood which bordered the road, a man sud­denly started forth, and thus addressed Durand, in a tone of agitation, if you have an inclination to do an act of mercy, take charge of this de­solate infant: his life will be forfeited, should you refuse to save him:—Spare his innocence, and snatch a soul from guilt. He is of noble blood, born to inherit a splendid fortune, but vengeance will pursue and overwhelm him, un­less you generously rescue him,"—With these words, not waiting for a reply, he bounded a­gain into the wood, and left Durand in the ut­most consternation. The honest fellow, trem­bling for the fate of the child, would not risque a moment the threatened danger, but lifting the little infant gently from the ground, and placing him on his horse soon overtook our carriage, and stopping it, hastily related the adventure, and [Page 240] presented us with the foundling, who, awaken­ed by the motion, was pouring forth his little sorrows: the Countess snatched him eagerly to her bosom, he smilled innocently in her face, and ceased to cry, as if recollecting in her arms a mother's fond embrace.—"Yes," said she, dis­solving into tears, "thou shalt be protected, lovely infant; thou shalt replace in my vacant af­fections the loss of my lamented Albert, my care and tenderness shall supply that of a fond parent, and shelter thee from thy barbarous ene­mies!"—The better to secure your safety, we a­greed to call you by the name of our lamented son, and to conduct you to Swisserland as such. We swore to secresy Durand and the Countess's wo­man, who attended us, on whom we could de­pend, and who have inviolably kept the secret; which till this hour has been concealed from all the world, even from yourself, whom I adopted with a tenderness equal to parental sentiments. Hea­ven not having thot fit to bless me with other chil­dren, I fixed my hopes on you, and had long ceased to expect, and I will confess even to wish, that fate would disclose the hidden mystery of your birth. You will remember the dying scene of the incomparable Countess, who had so ten­derly fulfilled for you a mother's duties: you re­ceived her blessing, and mourned her loss with fi­lial sorrow. I complied, rather reluctantly, with your desire to travel, and obtained your promise not to be absent from me on your first expedition more than three months. The account which we received from Prevot of the unfortunate death of the Marchioness de Clairville, and the unknown [Page 241] fate of her infant son, corresponding exactly with the time and circumstances of your adop­tion, left Durand and me little doubt, but that you were the devoted victim of the concealed as­sassin: we determined, however, not to let our suspicions transpire before your return, which I daily expected from the last letters that I had re­ceived. A week ago, Durand passing thro the streets of Zurich, was accosted by a stranger, whom he soon recollected, in spite of the vesti­ges of time, to be the person who had entrusted him with the care of the infant Albert.—"Thank heaven," exclaimed the stranger, "I have lived to meet you once again! You have never quitted my remembrance, altho many years have passed, since I recommended to your protection a perse­cuted child. If he still should live, heaven may yet restore him to his rights. Condescend to fol­low me to my habitation, where I will unfold a story terrible to relate, the concealment of which has cost my conscience so dear." Durand readily complied with his request, and learnt from him the confession; that being a servant in the family of the Baron de Morenzi, he had been bribed by promises, and intimidated by threats, to assist his master, in the seizure of the Marchoness de Clair­ville and her son on the road to Clairville castle; but that having been previously haunted by a hor­rid dream, he had determined to save, if possi­ble, the young Marquis; that he consulted with his brother, who was also in the Baron's service, and who afterwards lost his life in the action, and they both agreed together at all events, to rescue [Page 242] the child, the chief object of Morenzi's malice, and the certain impediment to his wishes of inhe­riting the revenues of Clairville castle. In the beginning of the engagement, Fargeon declared, that with a view to save him, he snatched the in­fant from his mother's arms, who had swooned on the approach of the armed villains; and that having escaped with him to the wood, he lulled him to sleep on a bank near the road; where he watched the approach of some passenger whom he hoped to move with compassion; that he waited not long, as Durand was soon after sent by Pro­vidence to be the fortunate instrument of his pre­servation: Fargeon added, that he then returned to the Baron, who himself had headed th [...] vil­lainous troop; and found it not difficult to per­suade him, that he had with his own hands strang­led the child, and buried him in a deep ditch. Soon after these occurrences he had married and retired to Swisserland with his wife, where he had lived with an upbraiding conscience ever since, upon the wages of iniquity; with this sole con­solation, however, that he was in appearance a­lone guilty of the murder—He had lately arriv­ed at the knowledge of the late Marquis's de­cease, and of the succession of the Baron, which awakened in his mind such remorse for the share taken by him in the deception, that he had almost resolved to return to France, in order to divulge a secret, which oppressed his conscience; when he unexpectedly met and recollected Durand, to whom he resolutely confessed the whole. My faithful domestic lost no time in imparting to me [Page 243] this momentous secret: I have not yet disclosed to Prevot the discovery, which his intelligence made to me of your family, but had immediate­ly confided it to Durand, whose report of Far­geon's confession, added a strong confirmation of circumstances, sufficiently evident before. The secret yet remains between us undivulged:—but now is the crisis of your fate, and the moment is arrived for you to assert your claims,—to prove your existence,—to expose to justice the usurper of your rights—"and the murderer of my mo­ther!" exclaimed Albert; "little did I conceive, when I attended the funeral of the lamented Marquis de Clairville, that I was performing an act of duty, and following a parent to the grave!"

Sleep visited not the eyelids of Albert, who passed the remainder of the night in revolving the wondrous events which had been imparted to him. Abhorrence of Morenzi's crimes occu­pied every faculty of his mind; but in the midst of these filial emotions the seducing form of Emma would sometimes glide into his ideas, en­lightening the future prospect of his life with brightest hope. When the Count met Albert in the morning, he found him, impelled by youth­ful ardour and thirst of vengeance, resolved to hasten to Clairville castle, and to challenge the assassin of his mother. The Count endeavored to sooth his impetuosity by representing to him that the judicature of France would do him ample justice; and that they were fortunately armed with evidence sufficient to condemn a traitor, whose artrocious crimes ought to be publicly [Page 244] punished by the exertion of those laws which he had violated—He proposed, however without loss of time, to accompany him to France, and to take immediate measures for seizing the per­son of the Baron de Morenzi.—Albert submitted to the opinion of the Count, and they set out ac­cordingly the next morning, with a large reti­nue, among whom Durand, Fargeon, and Prevot were included.

We will leave the travellers to pursue their jour­ney, while we return to the Baron de Morenzi. Du Val, ever indefatigable in a cause, wherein his own advantage was concerned, had resolved to make use of the first opportunity, which should offer, to secure the lovely Emma, in the absence of her father. For this purpose he arose at break of day, and with two trusty domestics, in whom he could confide the basest designs, took his secret stand behind a thick hedge, that fenced the small garden of Bernard, with an intent to watch his departure from the cottage, and to seize the un­protected victim whom he had devoted to his own avarice and the licentious passion of Moren­zi. While this wretch was lurking in ambush, some peasants accustomed to call their well-belov­ed neighbor to the occupations of the day, hav­ing repeated their usual signal to no purpose, knocked at the door; they received no answer; an universal consternation prevailed among them. After consulting some time, they agreed to force the door, which having affected, they entered, and found to their astonishment the cottage de­serted. Du Val and his associates had by this time joined in the search, and having no difficul­ty [Page 245] to account for the flight of Bernard and his daughter, hastened to the castle to inform the Ba­ron of a circumstance so mortifying to his passion. Morenzi, exasperated with rage and disappoint­ment, vowed vengeance on the fugitives, and or­dering a carriage to be got ready, threw himself into it with Du Val, determined to overtake the objects of his fury. Altho well convinced that they had been too cautious to attempt concealing themselves in the village, before his departure he ordered that every cottage should be searched. They took the same road which Bernard had cho­sen and they pursued the wanderers as closely as the interval of some hours would admit. While Morenzi was engaged in the pursuit of this venerable old man, Bernard, studiously anx­ious to protect his persucuted daughter, impati­ently waited the approach of morning, when the landlord had promised him a carriage. He had locked the door of his daughter's chamber, in­tending not to disturb her repose until the mo­ment of departure should arrive, and had return­ed to his room below, where anxiously solicitous for the return of day; he stood at a window con­templating the declining moon. He was roused from his reverse by the entrance, thro the open door, of a large dog, which jumping up to his knees, began fawning upon him, as recollecting an old acquaintance. Bernard soon called to his remembrance the faithful creature; when his master, who had missed his favorite, traced him to that apartment, and entering it, discovered [Page 246] to the astonished Bernard the unexpected form of Albert.

A mutual surprise and pleasure made them ex­claim the same instant, "is it possible!" An explanation soon took place on each side; and the Count de Bournonville having joined them, he received Bernard with every mark of friendship and condescension.—While the good old man was recounting the occasion of his flight, and the designs formed by Morenzi to betray the innocence of Emma, the rage of Albert rose be­yond all bounds; and he solemnly vowed, that the monster who had thus injured him by compli­cated villany should fall the devoted victim of his avenging arm.—"But where," said he, "is my incomparable, my glorious Emma?—Let me, by my presence, reassure her tender apprehensions, and swear no fate shall separate us more; but that from this moment she shall find in her devot­ed Albert, the protector of her innocence, the champion of her honour, the avenger of her wrongs!" At that instant a carriage drove furi­ously into the yard, and two persons alighted from in, in one of whom, as it was now day, Albert recognized Morenzi.—The impulse of the mo­ment induced him to follow the Baron. They entered a room at the same time,—"Villain, traitor, usurper," exclaimed Albert, shutting the door, and inattentive to his own unarmed situa­tion, "defend thyself, if thou darest encounter the just resentment of Henry de Clairville, whose mother's blood demands the justice of a son's re­venge; from a son, who calls upon thee to expi­ate with thy life thy monstrous crimes."

[Page 247] The coward heart of Morenzi, struck with the horrors of all conscious guilt, froze in his bo­som; and he stood fixed in mute wonder and dis­may. The Count de Bournonville, accompanied by Bernard and his attendants, had joined by this time the unarmed Albert, who might have fallen a victim to the Baron's resentment, had not a sense of his own villainy, together with his asto­nishment and terror at the sight of the injured son of Clairville, arrested the trembling arm of Morenzi. The cautious friends of Albert, al­most by force dragged him from the room, and leaving Duval only with Morenzi, fastened the door upon them, which was guarded on the out­side by the Count's armed retinue to prevent an escape. The Baron had caught a view of Far­geon, and recollecting in him the man whom he had employed to assassinate the young Henry, he felt a strong and fatal presage of his own impati­ent fate! His brain was seized with sudden despe­ration; he snatched from his pocket a loaded pis­tol, and before Du Val could wrest the weapon from his hand, he lodged the contents in his own head, and fell thus self-convicted, the devoted sacrifice of his conscious and accumulated crimes!

Du Val terrified, flew to a window, and throw­ing open the sash, proclaimed murder, in a voice so audible that he instantly collected together a concourse of persons, who, urged by curiosity, surrounded the house, and demanded admittance into the room from whence the alarm proceeded: the affrighted landlord likewise peremptorily claimed liberty to enter; which being granted, on condition that the prisoners should not be suf­fered [Page 248] to escape, they rushed into the room, found the Baron lifeless, and Du Val leaning over his dead master, with looks expressive of horror and consternation. When Albert viewed his fallen enemy, he stood for some moments wrapt in si­lent wonder—then exclaimed. "Chaste shade of my departed mother, be appeased!—The arm which shed thy guiltless blood, has in his own re­venged thee, and marks by this dread deed of justice the unerring hand of heavenly retribu­tion." He then quitted the apartment, and withdrew with the Count de Bournonville, who had given orders that proper attention to the bo­dy should be paid. They now consulted what measures they should take to conceal from Emma a catastrophe so fatal, till they could remove her from this horrid scene.

Bernard determined to go to his daughter's chamber; and undertook with cautious tenderness to unfold to her the extraordinary circumstance, that Albert and the Count had alighted from their chaise at the moment of Emma's arrival.

Harrassed by the violent agitations of mind and body which she had undergone, Emma had en­joyed for some time the most refreshing and pro­found repose; from which she was roused at length by confused sounds of voices that pro­ceeded from below. She started up, and recol­lected her perilous situation, which the height of the sun beaming thro the curtains painted in strong colors, she felt her apprehensions of pursuit re­newed; hastening therefore to adjust her dress, [Page 249] she tied on her straw bonnet, with an intent to rejoin her father, when he suddenly entered, and tenderly enquiring after her health, he found her so apprehensive of danger from the interval of time, which they had lost at the inn, that he ven­tured to inform her of Albert's arrival, and of his waiting impatiently to be admitted to her presence. The glowing blush of momentary pleasure animated her lovely cheek, but instantly retreating, was succeeded by a deadly paleness. "Ah, my father," said she, "how shall I avoid him? We must not meet no more—I have taught my heart to renounce each fond idea which it had dared to form. Honor demands the sacrifice. Let us fly then from redoubled danger." "O my exalted girl!" interrupted Bernard, while tears of transport glistened in his eyes; "Well dost thou deserve the bright reward which now awaits thy courage and thy virtue; descend with me into the garden, where thou mayst guiltless behold again the worthy Albert, thy faithful lo­ver, and thy destined husband. Let me lead thee to him—he shall resolve thy timid doubts, and banish that incredulity, which speaks in thy countenance."—Emma followed her father in si­lent astonishment, to a small shurbbery at the end of a serpentine walk, where Albert waited her approach, whom in an instant she beheld at her feet. "Receive," said he, with a look of rap­ture, "the heart, the hand of Albert, or rather of Henry de Clairville, the lawful heir of that usurped castle and its wide domains. I hail theo mistress of those sacred shades, where first my [Page 250] vows of constancy and love were offered in the attesting ear of heaven! Within those hallowed walls a solemn ceremony shall bind our faith—the Baron de Morenzi is no more.

"Alas," interrupted Emma, in a tremulous voice, "has Albert then drenched his sword in blood!—do I behold a murderer?"—"No," re­plied her lover, "Morenzi fell the victim of his conscience, and of heaven's avenging judgment. Accept a guiltless hand, a constant heart, and a name unsullied—The Count de Bournonville at this instant reached the spot, when the young lo­ver presented to him the fair object of his affec­tions, whom he saluted with respect and cordial­ity, felicitating them both on their approaching happiness.

Events so extraordinary being soon circulated thro the adjacent country, they were received at the castle of Clairville with dread and wonder, but in its neighborhood with unseigned transport and exulting joy. The unlooked-for restoration of a family to which they were strongly attached by every tie of affection, gratitude, and duty, broke at once the galling yoke of that oppressive slavery, under which the tenants had groaned during the short reign of an usurper, and promis­ed them at once liberty and happiness.

The approach of the young Marquis to the mansion of his ancestors, being announced, he was met some miles from the castle by all the pea­santry, who welcomed and followed him with ac­clamations of unfeigned delight.

[Page 251] The return of Bernard and his beauteous daugh­ter, who were universally beloved, was likewise hailed by their rustic neighbors, with an honest simplicity of heart, to which that envy is un­known, which so often mingles with the senti­ments of those born in the superior ranks of life; and they cordially congratulated Bernard, on the rewards, which awaited his merits, in the ad­vancement of his virtuous daughter.

As the high and venerable turrets of his native castle rose to the view of Henry, emerging from the thick foliage of the lofty trees by which they were surrounded, a thousand varied emotions fil­led his noble heart: tears to the memory of his unfortunate and reverend parents, rolled down his manly cheek: while gratitude to heaven, for the restoration of those rights that empowered him to diffuse happiness around him, softened his [...]lial sorrow.

Bernard and Emma entered their little dwelling with sensations very different from those with which they had so lately quitted it. They waft­ed their mutual thanks to that Being, whose mer­cy had preserved them from the machinations of a once dreaded, but now vanquished enemy. The prosperous fortune that awaited Emma, fill­ed her bosom with humble gratitude; but the low­ly unambitious mind of this child of innocence, impenetrable to pride and vanity, felt [...]o haugh­ty exultation in the prospect of her approaching elevation to a rank, the splendor of which, could neither dazzle her eyes, nor mislead her judgment.

[Page 252] The Marquis de Clairville suffered not the ob­ject of his true and tried affection to remain long in her humble retreat; he reminded Bernard of the promise which he had given him of his daugh­ter's hand.

The scruples of delicacy, the conflicts of du­ty, and the claims of honor, no longer could be urged as obstacles to oppose such generous wish­es: sufficiently had Emma proved the conscien­tious virtues of her heart; superior therefore to the arts of disguise and affectation, she obeyed her father's summons to meet her noble lover at the altar; where they exchanged their mutual vows, and were crowned by an approving Provi­dence with that refined happiness, which di [...]in­tered love and irreproachable honor alone can merit.