MARANO, amiable in her sorrow, sat alone by a shelving rock. She sought in soli­tude to indulge the anguish of her soul. She leaned pensive on her arm. Her tresses flowed careless to the gale. The blooming beauty of her complexion was flushed with weeping. Her eyes were full of tender anxiety. And her bosom heaved with repeated sighs.

'When will he return?' she said, ‘my beloved Oneyo! the husband of my affections! How I long to behold him! ye waves of Ontario convey him to his native shore; restore him to his friends; restore him to my tender embrace. O when shall I behold him? when will the swift canoe come bounding over the lake, and waft the hero to his gladsome isle! Yes, thou happy isle! thy rocks, thy resounding glades, and thy forests shall then rejoice. Gladness shall then be in the village. The Elders shall come forth to receive him. The festival shall be prepared. [Page 10] Ah me! peradventure he hath perished! Or now expires in some bloody field! impetuous in his valour, and eager in the ardour of youth, perchance he rushes on the foe and falls!’ While Marano thus indulged her inquietude, the venera­ble Ononthio was drawing nigh to console her. He had perceived the uneasiness of her soul, and had followed her from the village. He was the father of Oneyo, one of the Elders of the nation, revered for his wisdom, and beloved for his hu­manity. He loved Marano with the affection of a father. 'Be comforted,' he said, ‘give not thy soul to despair. The great spirit, who rides in the whirlwind, and speaks from the passing thunder, will protect thee. But to merit his favour, be resigned to his will. It is impious to anticipate misery, and render ourselves unhappy before we are actually afflicted. Be comforted. Oneyo may soon return loaded with the spoils of the Briton, and extolled by the gallant warriors of France.’

'To see my husband return in safety,' she re­plied, ‘is the sum of my desires. To see him loaded with the spoils of the Briton will be no ad­dition to my joy.’ The Indian seemed astonished. 'Have you forgotten,' she continued, ‘that I my­self am a Briton that I was carried violently from my father's house, when the Outagami rav­aged our land, and carried terror to the gates of Albany? My parents perished. I was yet a child; but I remember the bloody carnage. My brother of riper years, was rescued; but I [Page 11] became the prey of their fury. Since that time, many years are elapsed; yet at the name of Briton my bosom glows with peculiar transport.’

'I fondly imagined,' answered the Indian, ‘that you loved us. We named you after the manner of our tribe. But your affections are estranged, and you languish for the land of your fathers. I called you my daughter—but, Marano you would leave me.’ Uttering these words, he looked tenderly upon her. ‘You would leave me,’ he repeated, and a tear rose in his eye. Marano was affected. She clasped his hand, and pressed it to her rosy lips. ‘No, I will never leave thee. My heart is thine, and my beloved Oneyo's. I revere thee. Can I forget thy compassion? Can I forget the dreadful day when the Outagami, in an assembly of their nation, decreed me a sa­crifice to their god Areskoui. You was present on an embassy from your people. Oneyo in the bloom of years accompanied his father. He was beside you. He sighed, when he beheld me weeping. Alas! I was feeble, friendless, and beset with soes. Oneyo intreated you to relieve me. Your own heart was affected; you inter­posed in my behalf; you redeemed me, and cal­led me your's. Oneyo hasted to my deliverance; he loosened my setters, and clasped me to his breast. Our affection grew with our years. You beheld it with kind indulgence, and ratified our wishes with your consent. I have heard of European refinements, of costly raiment, and lofty palaces; yet to me the simplicity of these [Page 12] rocks and forests seem far more delightful. But if Oneyo returns not, I am undone. Many moons have arisen since. With the flower of our tribe, he departed. The matrons are alrea­dy wailing for their sons.—Oneyo, alas! is im­petuous, and if he has fallen, grief will subdue thee; I know the tenderness of thine affection; it will pull thee down to the grave. Who then will be my friend? Among a strange people, I have no father to protect me, no brother to counsel or give me aid.’

Ononthio was about to reply, when an Indian from the village accosted them. He told them, with a sorrowful aspect, that the hopes of their tribe were blasted, for that some Indians of a neigh­bouring nation, having returned from Canada, brought certain intelligence of the total overthrow of their friends; that they had, with difficulty, escaped; that Oneyo was seen fierce and intrepid in the heat of the battle; that he was surrounded by the foe, and must have fallen a victim to their fury.

Marano was overwhelmed. Ononthio heaved a sigh: but the hapless condition of his daughter, and the desire of yielding her consolation, suspend­ed and relieved his sorrow. ‘If my son has fal­len,’ he said, ‘he has fallen as became a warrior. His praise shall be preserved by his kindred and descend to posterity in the war song. His name shall terrify the European, when the chieftains of future times, rushing fierce from their forests, shall surround his habitation at midnight, and [Page 13] raise the yell of death in his ear. Oneyo shall not die unrevenged.’ 'He shall not,' interrupted the Indian. ‘The messingers of our misfortune hovered around the walls of Quebec. They sur­prised a party of the foe, they have brought them captives to our Island; the Elders of our nation are now assembled; they have doomed them a sacrifice to the memory of the dead; and defer their execution, only till your arrival.’ 'Alas!' said Marano, ‘the sacrafice of a captive will afford me small consolation. Will the death of a foe restore life to my husband? or heal his ghastly wounds? or reanimate his breathless bosom? Leave me to my woe. Leave me to wail on these lonely mountains. Here I will not long be a sojourner. I will away to my love. I will meet him beyond the deserts, in some blissful valley, where no bloody foe shall invade us. Leave me to my sorrow; for I will not live.’ She intreated in vain. The Indian was urgent, and Ononthio seconded his solicitation.

That nation of Indians, of which Oneyo was a leader, inhabited an Island in the Lake Ontario. They were, therefore, no sooner informed of the death of Oneyo, and of their brethren, than they abandoned themselves to loud lamentations. The matrons with rent garments and disshevelled tres­ses, ran forth into the fields, and filled the air with their wailing. They then crowded around the captives, whom, in the bitterness of their woe, they loaded with keen invectives. The Elders were assembled; the boiling caldron into which [Page 14] the victims, after suffering every species of tor­ment, were to be precipitated, was suspended over a raging fire; the knives, tomahawks, and other implements of cruelty, were exhibited in dreadful array; and the prisoners, loaded with heavy fet­ters, were conducted to the place of sacrifice.

Though Marano was deeply afflicted, the screams of the Indians, and the horrid prepara­tions of torture, drew her attention to the prison­ers. She regarded them with an eye of pity. Their leader, in the prime of youth, was comely, vigorous, and graceful. The sullenness of un­daunted and indignant valour was portrayed by nature in his fearless aspect. His eye, full of ar­dour and invincible firmness, surveyed the prep­arations of death with indifference, and shot defi­ance to the foe. His followers, though valiant, seemed incapable of the same obstinate resolution; their features betrayed symptoms of dismay; but turning to their leader, they were struck with his unshaken boldness, they resumed their native courage, and armed their minds with becoming fortitude. Marano sighed. The sense of her own misfortune was for a moment suspended. ‘Per­adventure,’ said she in her soul, ‘this valiant youth, like Oneyo, may be lamented. Some tender maiden, to whom his faith has been plight­ed, may now languish for his return. Some aged parent, whose infirmities he relieved and supported, may be sighing, anxious for his safety. Or some orphan sister, helpless and forsaken, like me, may, by his death, be made desolate.’ She [Page 15] then reflected on her own condition, and on the variety of her misfortunes. Carried into captivity in her early years, she was a stranger to her peo­ple, and to her kindred. Her husband no longer existed; and he, who had been to her as a father, overcome by age and calamity, was now declining into the grave. Yet alive to compassion, she was moved for the unhappy victims. She admired the magnanimity of their leader, and in regarding him, she felt unusual emotions, and a pang that she could not express. He was of her nation! Could she behold him perish, and not endeavour to save him? Could she behold him tortured, and not shed a tear for his sufferings! Meantime one of the Elders of the nation made a signal to the multitude. Immediate silence ensued. Then with a look of stern severity, he thus expressed him­self to the captive. ‘The caldron boils, the ax is sharpened. Be prepared for torture and painful death. The spirit of the deceased is yet among us. He lingers on the mountains, or hovers amid the winds. He expects a sacrifice, and shall not chide our delay. Have you a parent or friend? They shall never behold you. Prepare for torture and painful death.’ ‘Inflict your tortures,’ he replied, ‘my soul contemns them. I have no parents to lament for Sydney. In Albany they were massacred, massacred by in­human Indians. I had a sister—I lost her. She was carried into captivity, and became the vic­tim of your savage sury. Inflict your tortures; my soul contemns them, but remember, the day of vengeance shall overtake you.’

[Page 16]Marano was astonished— ‘Of Albany! reft of his parents by the sword, and of a sister!’ —Suf­fice it to say, he was her brother. Mutual was their amazement, their affection mutual. She fell on his throbbing breast. He received her into his arms. His soul was softened. Marano for a time was speechless. At length weeping and in broken accents— ‘And have I found thee! a brother to solace and support me. Who will guide me through the weary wilderness of my sorrow! Who will be to me as a parent! I was desolate and forlorn, my soul languished and was afflicted; but now I will endure with pa­tience.’ Then turning to the astonished multi­tude, ‘He is my brother! Born of the same parents! If I have ever merited your favour, O save him from destruction.’ They were deep­ly afflicted. 'Be not dismayed,' said Ononthio, he spake with the consent of the Elders: ‘Be not dismayed. The brother of Marano shall be to us as Oneyo.’ Then addressing himself, with an air of dignity to the stranger. ‘Young man, I have lost a son, Marano a husband, and our na­tion, a gallant warrior. He was slain by the people of your land, and we are desirous of grat­ifying his spirit, before it passes the mountains, by offering a sacrifice to his memory. But you are the brother of Marano; by her intercession we have changed our design, and adopt you into our tribe. Be a brother to our people, and to me a son. Supply the place of the dead; and as you possess his valour, and steady boldness, may you [Page 17] inherit his renown.’ So saying, he presented to him the calumet of peace, and a girdle of wampum.

Meantime the arrival of some canoes, filled with armed warriors, attracted the notice of the assem­bly. They were transported with ecstacy and sur­prise, when they descried the ensign of their nation, and recognized some of their brethren, whom they imagined slain. The hopes of Marano were re­vived. She enquired eagerly for Oneyo. ‘He perished,’ answered an Indian. She grew pale, her voice faltered, faint and speechless, she fell back on the throbbing breast of Ononthio. ‘He perished,’ continued the Indian, ‘and with him the prime of our warriors. The armies of France and Britain were marshalled beneath the walls of Quebec. Direful was the havoc of the battle. The earth trembled with the shock of the onset. The air was tortured with repeated peals. The commanders of both armies were slain. The fall was glorious, for their souls were undaunted. Resentment inflamed the combatants. Keen and obstinate was the encounter. Albion at length prevailed. Her sons, like a rapid torrent, over­threw the ranks of their adversaries. We coun­selled Oneyo to retire. Raging against the foe, and performing feats of amazing valour, we saw him environed beyond all hope of retreat. We saw the impetuosity of a youthful warrior, who brandished a bloody sword, rushing on to destroy him. We hastened from the field of death. We tarried some time in the adjacent forests, and ob­served the progress of the foe. The walls of our [Page 18] allies were overthrown. The sword of Albion will pursue us; and our shield, our gallant war­rior, our Oneyo is no more.’

This melancholy recital filled the audience with lamentation. But their sorrow was interrupted by the sudden astonishment of the narrator. Casting his eye accidentally on the Briton, ‘Seize him, tear him,’ he exclaimed; ‘His was the lifted sword I beheld! It was he cleft the breast of our chieftain! It was he that destroyed him.’

The resentment of the assembly was again in­flamed. 'I am innocent of his blood,' said the captive. But his declaration, and the entreaties of Ononthio in his behalf, were lost in furious screams and invectives. They dragged him again to the place of sacrifice. Marano, distracted with con­tending woes, 'Spare him, spare him!' exclaimed, 'He is my brother!' Fixing her eyes on him with a look of exquisite anguish, ‘whose hands are red with the blood of my husband! And was there none but thee to destroy him?’ 'Tear him,' ex­claimed the multitude. Marano clasped him to her bosom, and turning to the outrageous and me­nacing, with a wild and frantic demeanour, ‘Bloody, bloody, though he be, I will defend him, or per­ish! Let the same javelin transfix us both! Smite and our kindred gore shall be mingled.’ The transcendent greatness of her calamity, who had lost a husband by the hand of a brother, and the resistless energy of her features, expressive of woe, tenderness and despair, awed the violence of the Assembly, and disposed them to pity. Onor­thio [Page 19] took advantage of the change. He waved his hand with parental love and authority. His hoary locks gave dignity to his gestures. The usual benignity of his countenance was softened with sorrow. He spoke the language of his soul, and was eloquent; spoke the language of feeling, and was persuasive. They listened to him with profound veneration, were moved, and deferred the sacrifice. He then comforted Marano, and con­veyed the captives to a place of security.

When they were apart from the multitude, 'Tell me,' said he to the Briton, ‘are you guilt­less of the death of my son!’ 'I know not,' he replied; for he had resumed the pride of indig­nant courage, ‘I know not whom I have slain. I drew my sword against the foes of my country, and I am not answerable for the blood I have spilt.’ 'Young man;' said Ononthio, full of solici­tude and parental tenderness, ‘O reflect on a fa­ther's feelings. I had an only son. He was val­iant. He was the prop and solace of my old age; if he has gone down to darkness and the grave, I have no longer any joy in existence. But, if he lives, and lives by thy clemency, the prayers of an old man shall implore blessings up­on thee, and the great spirit shall reward thee?’ While he was yet speaking, a tear rose in his eye, his voice faltered, he sighed— ‘O tell me if my son survives.’

'I slew him not,' he replied. ‘In the heat of the encounter, a gallant Indian assailed me. He was tired and exhausted▪ I disarmed him; and my [Page 20] sword was lifted against his life.’ 'Briton,' said he with a resolute tone, ‘think not that death dis­mays me. I have braved perils and the sword. I am not a suppliant for myself. I have an aged parent, whose life depends upon mine; the wife of my bosom is a stranger among my people, and I alone can protect her.’ 'Generous youth,' I replied, ‘go, comfort and protect thy friends. I sent him forthwith from the field. I never en­quired into his condition; for in preserving him I obeyed the dictates of my heart.’ Marano and Ononthio were overjoyed. But reflecting that ma­ny days had elapsed since the discomfiture of their allies, and that hitherto they had received no in­telligence of Oneyo, their joy suffered abatement.

Meantime Ononthio counselled his daughter to conduct the strangers to a distant retreat, and pre­serve him there, till, by his influence and authority, he had appeased the violence of his brethren.

It was already night. The Indians were dis­persed to their hamlets, the sky was calm and un­clouded. The full-orbed moon, in serene and sol­emn majesty, arose in the east. Her beams were reflected in a blaze of silver radiance from the smooth and untroubled bosom of the lake. The grey hills and awful forests were solitary and si­lent. No noise was heard, save the wailing of mat­rons, who lamented the untimely death of their sons. Marano, with the captives, issuing unper­ceived from the village, pursued their way along the silent shore, till they arrived at a narrow un­frequented recess. It was open to the lake, bound­ed [Page 21] on either side by shelving precipices, arrayed with living verdure, and parted by a winding riv­ulet. A venerable oak overshadowed the foun­tain, and rendered the scene more solemn. The other captives were overcome with fatigue, and finding some withered leaves in an adjoining cav­ern, they indulged themselves in repose. Marano conversed long with her brother; she poured out her soul in her sympathising bosom; she was com­forted and relieved. While she leaned on his breast, while his arm was folded gently around her, a balmy slumber surprised them. Their fea­tures, even in sleep, preserved the character of their souls. A smile played innocent on the lips of Marano, her countenance was ineffably tender, and her tresses lay careless on her snowy bosom. The features of Sydney, of a bolder and more manly expression, seemed full of benignity and complaisance. Calm and unruffled was their re­pose. They enjoyed the happy visions of inno­cence, and dreamed not of impending danger.

The moon in unrivalled glory, had now attain­ed her meridian, when the intermitting noise of rowers came slowly along the lake. A canoe was advancing, and the dripping oars arising at inter­vals from the water, shone gleaming along the deep. The boatman, silent and unobserved, moored their vessel on the sandy beach; and a young man of a keen and animated aspect, arrayed in the shaggy skin of a bear, armed with a bow and a javelin, having left his companions, was hastening along the shore. It was Oneyo. Having received [Page 22] wounds in the battle; he had been unable to pro­secute his return, and had tarried with some In­dians in the neighbourhood of Montreal. By the skilful application of herbs and balsams his cure was at length effectuated, and he returned impatient to his nation.

'I will return secretly,' he said. ‘I will enjoy the sorrow and regret of Marano, and of my brethren, who, doubtless, believe me dead. I will enjoy the ecstacy of their affection, and their surprise on my unexpected arrival. My lovely Marano now laments unconsoled. I will hasten to relieve her, and press her, weeping with joy, to my faithful transported bosom.’

Such were the sentiments of anticipated rapture that occupied the soul of Oneyo, when he discover­ed Marano in the arms of a stranger. He recoiled. He stood motionless in an agony of grief, anger, and astonishment. Pale and trembling he uttered some words incoherently. He again advanced, again recognised her, then turning abruptly, in bitter anguish, smiting his breast. ‘Faithless and inconstant,’ he cried, ‘and is this my expected meeting! In the arms of a stranger! Arrogant invader of my felicity! He shall perish! His blood shall expiate his offence.’ Fury flashed in his eye, he grasped his javelin, he aimed the blow, and recognised his deliverer. Surprise and horror seized him. ‘Injured by my deliverer! By him, whom my soul revered! And shall I dip my hands in his blood! My life he preserved. Would to Heaven, he had slain me! Thus in­jured [Page 23] and betrayed, Oneyo will not live.—Thou great universal Spirit, whose path is in the clouds! Whose voice is in the thunder! And whose eye pierces the heart! O conduct me to the blissful valley, for Oneyo will not live.’ He sighed, ‘One look, one parting look of my love. I be­lieved her faithful; for her I lived, and for her I die.’ He advanced towards her, gazing on her with anguish and regret. ‘She will not weep for me! faithless and inconstant! She will exult! Exult to behold me bleeding! And shall it be? Have I cherished her for this? and lavished my soul on her? to be betrayed! to give her love to a stranger!’ He paused, trembled, his counte­nance grew fierce, his eye wild, he grasped his jav­elin.—Marano named him: Her voice was soft and plaintive, her visions were of Oneyo. ‘O come,’ she said, ‘hasten to thy love! Tarry not, my Oneyo! How I long to behold thee!’ ‘For this, said he, I'll embrace thee.’ He embraced her; she awakened, discovered her husband, and flew eagerly into his arms. He flung from her in fierce indignation. 'Away,' he cried, ‘go, cher­ish thy stranger. Away, perfidious.’ She fol­lowed him trembling and aghast. ‘He is my brother,’ she cried. 'Thy brother'— ‘Stran­ger,’ said he to the Briton, who now approached him, ‘you preserved my life. You are generous and valiant. Tell me then, am I to salute thee as a friend, and give full vent to my gratitude! or, must I view thee as a guileful seducer, and lift my javelin against thy life?’

[Page 24]The Briton perceiving his error, answered him with brevity and composure: He related to him the circumstances of his captivity, and, in confir­mation, appealed to the testimony of his father. Oneyo was satisfied. He embraced them. They returned by morning to the village. Ononthio received them with becoming gladness, and the day was crowned with rejoicing.

CHOANG was the fondest husband, and Hansi the most endearing wife, in all the king­dom of Corea. They were the pattern of conju­gal bliss; the inhabitants of the country around saw, and envied their felicity. Wherever Choang came, Hansi was sure to follow; and in all the pleasures of Hansi, Choang was admitted a part­ner. They walked hand in hand wherever they appeared, shewing every mark of mutual satisfac­tion, embracing, kissing; their mouths were for­ever joined.

Their love was so great, that it was thought no­thing could interrupt their mutual peace; when an accident happened, which, in some measure, di­minished the husband's assurance of his wife's fi­delity; for love, so refined as his, was subject to a thousand little disquietudes.

Happening to go one day alone among the tombs that lay at some distance from his house, he there perceived a lady dressed in the deepest mourning, fanning the wet clay, that was raised over one of the graves, with a large san, which she held in her hand. Choang, who had early been [Page 28] taught wisdom in the school of Lao, was unable to assign a cause for her present employment; and coming up, civilly demanded the reason. 'Alas!' replied the lady, her eyes bathed in tears, ‘how is it possible to survive the loss of my husband, who lies buried in this grave? He was the best of men, the tenderest of husbands; with his dying breath he bid me never marry again, till the earth over his grave should be dry; and here you see me steadily resolving to obey his will, and en­deavouring to dry it with my fan. I have em­ployed two whole days in fulfilling his commands, and am determined not to marry, till they are punctually obeyed, even though his grave should take up four days in drying.’

Choang, who was struck with the widow's beauty, could not, however, avoid smiling at her haste to be married; but, concealing the cause of his mirth, civilly invited her home; adding, that he had a wife, who might be capable of giving her some consolation. As soon as he and his guest were returned, he imparted to Hansi in private what he had seen, and could not avoid expressing his uneasiness, that such might be his own case, if his dearest wife should one day happen to survive him.

It is impossible to describe Hansi's resentment at so unkind a suspicion. As her passion for him was not only great, but extremely delicate, she em­ployed tears, anger, frowns, and exclamations, to chide his suspicions; the widow herself was in­veighed against; and Hansi declared, she was re­solved [Page 29] never to sleep under the same roof with a wretch, who, like her, could be guilty of such barefaced inconstancy. The night was cold and stormy; however, the stranger was obliged to seek another lodging, for Choang was not disposed to resist, and Hansi would have her way.

The widow had scarce been gone an hour, when an old disciple of Choang's, whom he had not seen for many years, came to pay him a visit. He was received with the utmost ceremony, placed in the most honourble seat at supper, and the wine began to circulate with great freedom. Choang and Hansi exhibited open marks of mutual ten­derness and unfeigned reconciliation; nothing could equal their apparent happiness; so fond a husband, so obedient a wife, few could behold without regretting their own infelicity; when lo! their happiness was at once disturbed by a most fatal accident. Choang fell lifeless in an apoplec­tic fit upon the floor. Every method was used, but in vain, for his recovery. Hansi was at first inconsolable for her husband's death: After some hours, however, she found spirits to read his last will. The ensuing day she began to moralize and talk wisdom; the next day she was able to comfort the young disciple; and, on the third, to shorten a long story, they both agreed to be married.

There was now no longer mourning in the apartments, the body of Choang was thrust into an old coffin, and placed in one of the meanest rooms, there to lie unattended until the time pre­scribed by law for his interment. In the mean [Page 30] time, Hansi and the young disciple were arrayed in the most magnificent habits; the bride wore in her nose a jewel, of immense price, and her lover was dressed in all the finery of his former master, together with a pair of artificial whiskers that reached to his middle. The hour of his nuptials was arrived; the whole family sympathised with their approaching happiness; the apartments were brightened up with a light that diffused the most ex­quisite perfumes, and a lustre more bright than noonday. The lady expected her youthful lover in an inner apartment, with impatience; when his servant, approaching with terror in his countenance, informed her that his master was fallen into a fit, which would certainly be mortal, unless the heart of a man lately dead, could be obtained, and ap­plied to his breast. She scarce waited to the end of his story, when, tucking up her clothes, she ran with a mattock in her hand to the coffin, where Choang lay, resolving to apply the heart of her dead husband, as a cure for the living. She there­fore struck the lid with the utmost violence; in a few blows the coffin flew open, when the body, which to all appearance had been dead, began to move. Terrified at the sight, Hansi dropped the mattock, and Choang walked out, astonished at his own situation, his wife's unusual magnificence, and her more amazing surprise. He went among the apartments, unable to conceive the cause of so much splendor. He was not long in suspense, be­fore his domestics informed him of every transac­tion since he first became insensible. He could [Page 31] scarce believe what they told him, and went in pursuit of Hansi herself, in order to receive more certain information, or to reproach her infidelity. But she prevented his reproaches: he sound her weltering in blood; for she had stabbed herself to the heart, being unable to survive her shame and disappointment.

Choang, being a philosopher, was too wise to make any loud lamentations; he thought it best to bear his loss with serenity; so mending up the old coffin, where he had lain himself, he placed his faithless spouse in his room; and, unwilling that so many nuptial preparations should be expended in vain, he the same night married the widow with the large fan.

As they both were apprised of the foibles of each other beforehand, they knew how to excuse them after marriage. They lived together for many years in great tranquillity, and not expecting to find rapture, made a shift to find contentment.

NO observation is more common, and at the same time more true, than that one half of the world are ignorant how the other half live. The misfortunes of the great are held up to engage our attention; are enlarged upon in tones of de­clamation; [Page 34] and the world is called upon to gaze at the noble sufferers: the great, under the pres­sure of calamity, are conscious of others sympathising with their distress; and have, at once, the comfort of admiration and pity.

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing mis­fortunes with fortitude, when the whole world is looking on: men in such circumstances will act bravely, even from motives of vanity; but he who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave adversity; who, without friends to encourage, acquaintance to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his misfortunes, can behave with tranquillity and indifference, is truly great: whether peasant or courtier, he de­serves admiration, and should be held up for our imitation and respect.

I have been led into these reflections, from ac­cidentally meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom I knew when a boy, dressed in a sailor's jacket, and begging at one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I knew him to have been honest and industrious, when in the country, and curious to learn what had reduced him to his pre­sent situation; wherefore, after giving him what I thought proper, I desired to know the history of his life and misfortunes. The disabled soldier, for such he was, though dressed in a sailor's habit, scratching his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into an attitude to comply with my re­quest, and gave me his history, as follows:

'As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pre­tend to have gone through any more than other [Page 35] folks; for except the loss of my limb, and my be­ing obliged to beg, I don't know any reason, thank heaven, that I have to complain; there is BILL TIBBS, of our regiment, he has lost both his legs, and an eye to boot; but, thank heaven, it is not so bad with me yet. I was born in Shropshire; my father was a labourer, and died when I was five years old; so I was put upon the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, the parish­ioners were not able to tell to what parish I belong­ed, or where I was born; so they sent me to ano­ther parish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought in my heart, they kept sending me about so long, that they would not let me be in born any parish at all; but, at last, however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a scholar, and was re­solved at least to know my letters; but the master of the workhouse put me to business as soon as I was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived an easy kind of life for five years. I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for my labour. It is true, I was not suffer­ed to stir out of the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away. But what of that? I had the liberty of the whole house, and the yard before the door; and that was enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up early and late; but I ate and drank well, and liked my business well enough, till he died, when I was ob­liged to provide for myself; so I was resolved to go and seek my fortune.

'In this manner I went from town to town, [Page 36] worked where I could get employment, and starved when I could get none; when happening one day to go through a field belonging to a justice of peace, I spied a hare crossing the path just before me; and I believe the devil put it in my head to fling my stick at it. Well, what will you have on't? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away, when the justice himself met me: he called me a poacher, and, collaring me, desired I would give an account of myself. I fell upon my knees, beg­ged his worship's pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, and generation; but, though I gave a very true ac­count, the justice said I could give no account, so I was indicted at the Sessions, found guilty of being poor, and sent up to London, to Newgate, in order to be transported as a vagabond.

'People may say this and that of being in jail; but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as ever I was in, in all my life. I had my bellyfull to eat and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was too good to last forever; so I was taken out of prison, after five months, put on board a ship, and sent off with two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an indifferent passage; for being all confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our people died for want of sweet air; and those that remained were sickly enough, God knows. When we came ashore, we were sold to the planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As I was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the negroes; [Page 37] and I served out my time as in duty bound to do.

'When my time was expired, I worked my passage home; and glad I was to see Old England again, because I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs, when I could get them.

'I was very happy in this manner for some time, till one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged to a press gang. I was carried before the justice, and, as I could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, whether to go on board a man of war, or list for a soldier. I chose the latter, and, in this post of a gentleman, I served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battle of Val and Vontenoy, and received but one wound, through the breast here; but the doctor of our regiment soon made me well again.

'When the peace came on, I was discharged: and, as I could not work, because my wound was sometimes troublesome, I listed for a landsman in the East India company's service. I have fought the French in six pitched battles; and I verily believe, that if I could read or write, our captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I soon fell sick, and so got leave to return home again, with forty pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have the pleasure of spend­ing [Page 38] my money; but the government wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor, before ever I could set foot on shore.

'The boatswain sound me, as he said, an obsti­nate fellow; he swore he knew that I understood my business well, but that I shammed Abraham, to be idle; but God knows, I knew nothing of sea-business, and he beat me without consider­ing what he was about. I had still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some comfort to me, under every beating; and the money I might have had to this day, but that our ship was taken by the French, and so I lost it all.

'Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them died, because they were not used to live in jail; but for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. One night, as I was asleep on my bed of boards, with a warm blanket about me, (for I always loved to lie well) I was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lanthorn in his hand. 'Jack,' says he to me, ‘will you knock out the French centry's brains?’ 'I don't care,' says I, striving to keep myself awake, ‘if I lend a hand.’ 'Then follow me,' says he, 'and I hope we shall do the business.' So up I got, and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, about my middle, and went with him to fight the French­men. I hate the French, because they are all slaves, and wear wooden shoes.

'Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to beat five French at any time; so we went down to the door, where both the centries [Page 39] were posted, and, rushing upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the quay, and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the harbour, and put to sea. We had not been here three days, before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who were glad of so many good hands; and we consented to run our chance. However, we had not as much luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but twenty three; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe, we should have taken the Frenchman, had we but had some more men left behind; but, unfortunately, we lost all our men, just as we were going to get the victory.

'I was once more in the power of the French, and, I believe, it would have gone hard with me, had I been brought back to Brest; but by good fortune we were retaken by the Viper. I had al­most forgot to tell you, that in that engagement, I was wounded in two places; I lost four fingers off the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and the use of my hand, on board a king's ship, and not on board a privateer, I should have been intitled to clothing and maintenance during the rest of my life; but that was not my chance: one man is born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden ladle. However, blessed be God! I enjoy good health, and will forever love liberty [Page 40] and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England, forever, huzza!'

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in ad­miration at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid acknowledging, that an habitual acquaint­ance with misery serves better than philosophy to teach us to despise it.

ADELA was the only daughter of a powerful baron of Aquitaine. Her father, sprung from an illustrious family, added to hereditary honours, the glory of heroic achievements. In his youth, he accompanied the flower of the Europe­an chivalry, who fought under the banner of God­frey, and recovered the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidel. He returned to his country, crowned with victory and fair renown; and in­herited the rich domains of his ancestors.

Adela was in the prime of beauty, and possessed a susceptible heart. In her air and aspect, digni­ty was mingled with sweetness: For in the dispo­sition of her mind, conscious elevation of senti­ment was softened by amiable and mild affections.

Edwin, a gallant youth, animated with the generous love of arms, smit with the renown of Albert's prowess, and ambitious of profiting by the narrative of his exploits, repaired with other warriors to his hospitable castle. His eye, keen and piercing, indicated a fiery, vigorous and ac­tive [Page 45] spirit: His form was well fitted to kindle de­sire in the bosom of tender maids: And the heart of Adela was not insensible to his merit. Their passion was mutual. He gazed on her unaffected charms with astonishment; for till then, he had never felt the tender anxiety, the restless longing, and languishment of love. Ambition had been the governing passion of his soul; but the fierce­ness of ambition now yielded to a softer, though no less ardent desire. He no longer discoursed, in keen rapture, of marshalled hosts, of listed fields, and feats of venturous daring; but languished on the ineffable attractions of a roseate complexion, and a tender melting eye. The vehement impatience of the warrior was lost in the complacency and pensiveness of the lover.

Albert, perceiving this change in his deport­ment, demanded the cause. Edwin replied in candid and respectful guise: He told him, without reserve, of the impression made on his soul, by the peerless beauty of Adela. And, with the temerity of youthful passion, besought him to ratify his sin­cere attachment by wedlock. ‘And who art thou,’ said the houghty baron, ‘who pretendest to the love of Adela? What feats of heroic prowess hast thou achieved? Or is thy ancestry distinguished among the chieftains of the south? Thy shield is inscribed with no valorous achieve­ment; nor are thy deeds, nor the deeds of thy fathers, rehearsed by recording minstrels. Gain thee a name in arms, and then aspire to the envied alliance of the House of Albert.’

[Page 46]These words, like an arrow, penetrated the heart of Edwin. Love and ambition, hitherto at variance, were now united; they concurred in the same pursuit; and their vehemence was irresisti­ble. Accordingly, the youthful warrior prepared for his departure, and took a tender farewell of Adela. 'Farewell,' she replied, the tears gushing from her radiant eyes, ‘Heaven knows no gallant youth, but thee, ever shared my affections. May the holy angels, who regard true and virtuous love with esteem, grant thee protection. Speedy be thy return! and O! remember me. Gay and courtly dames, skilled in seducements and cunning device, may strive to allure thee; but their love will not equal mine.’ They plighted vows of mutual fidelity, and exchanged tokens of unshaken attachment. Then Edwin, clad in com­plete armour, a gay undaunted warrior, mounted a steed proudly caparisoned, and bent his course to the plains of Catalonia, where the Saracen waded in the blood of Spain.

Soon after his departure, Edgar, a proud and wealthy chieftain, with a numerous retinue of knights and retainers, came to the castle of Albert. He was received with pomp and hospitable wel­come. He cast amorous glances on the reserved, unrivalled charms of Adela. He preferred his courtship with studied smiles and speeches devised with cunning. She heard him at first with indif­ference; he persisted; and she requited him with contempt. He then addressed his suit to the bar­on: He boasted of the high renown of his ances­tors, [Page 47] and the wide extent of his domain: He ex­patiated on the number of his vassals; and insist­ed, in magnificent terms, on the mutual honour and security that would accrue from so seemly an alliance. Albert listened to him with partial and pleased attention: He repented of the hopes he had encouraged in the soul of Edwin; and he en­deavored to persuade his daughter to forget her attachment to that valiant youth. In vain the as­tonished Adela lamented, wept, intreated; in vain she threw herself at her father's feet, and tore her dishevelled tresses, and in anguish smote her breast. Her opposition, instead of mitigating his rigour, irritated his resentment, and confirmed him in his ungenerous purpose. He mingled menaces and unkindly reproach with his persuasions: ‘By the holy rood,’ said he, with a fastidious and wrathful aspect, ‘the honor of my house shall not be stained by the pretensions of a low-born boy. Degenerated as thou art, the meanness of thy sentiments shall not fully the splendour of thine ancestry, nor load my respected age with dishonour. Receive the addresses of Edgar with suitable regard, and the deference due to my commands. Meantime preparations shall be made for the bridal solemnity in a manner be­coming the dignity of this alliance.’

Adela, after remonstrating in vain against the severity of his commands, intreated, with an hum­ble and dejected air, that the marriage-ceremony might be delayed. 'Can Edgar,' said she, ‘prize the cold and constrained embraces of a heart [Page 48] that throbs for another? Will the sighing and an­guish of a broken spirit accord with the fond ca­resses of a bridegroom? To Edwin my faith was plighted, and on him my imagination hath dwelt. Give me time, therefore, to divert the current of an affection too violent to be suddenly opposed; to discourage the reveries of fancy, animated by a legal and habituated passion; and to be reconciled to the addresses of Edgar.’ As her reasoning was plausible, the nuptial solemnity was deferred. But, as soon as she retired from her father's presence, she summoned a page in whom she confided, and spoke to him in the fol­lowing manner: ‘Prepare thee for a long journey: Saddle the fleetest of my father's steeds; and during the obscurity of the night, depart. Hie thee to the banks of the Ebro; find Edwin; tell him of the perils that beset me; tell him that a wealthy and powerful rival, with costly parade, and glittering shew of blazonry, hath imposed on my father, and insinuated himself into his esteem.’ The menial bowed with humble obeisance, and, with professions of diligence and fidelity, departed.

Meantime Edgar pressed his suit with courteous phrase and dalliance. Daily tournaments were exhibited at the castle of Albert. The knights and barons of the neighbouring domains attended: But Edgar surpassed them in the splendour of his armour, and the pomp of his retinue. The hall resounded with revelry and rejoicing; and min­strels clad in gaudy apparel celebrated the praises of warlike chiefs, or sung the power and the pleas­ures [Page 49] of love. Adela arrayed her countenance with smiles and courtesy; but her bosom was distracted with anguish, and her couch was bedewed with weeping. 'O when,' she cried, ‘shall I be deliv­ered from the importunity of a detested suitor; and the bondage of a feigned complacency? When will Edwin return, adorned with conquest, and confident with success? His merit shall shine unrivalled, and Edgar be covered with shame.’

At length the page returned; and repairing to the apartment of his mournful dame, ‘Now heav­en foresend,’ said he, ‘most gracious lady, that the tidings I bring should injure thy tender frame more than thou art able to endure. May the saints and ministering angels uphold thee!’ — 'Hath he perished?' cried Adela, with a look of terror and amazement. ‘In what bloody field hath he fallen? Where lies the lifeless body? What barbarous adversary hath mangled and insulted his graceful form?’ — ‘He hath not perished,’ replied the menial. ‘But O gentle lady! foul arts have been practised; shameful per­fidy hath been committed. Edwin lives, but not for thee; he hath given his hand to another!’ — 'Peace, peace!' interrupted Adela, with a faulter­ing utterance, and looks of astonishment, mixed with anger; ‘restrain thy blasphemous speech: nor with base calumny asperse the fame of a true and gallant warrior.’ —'When,' answered the me­nial, ‘have I been guilty of deceit or infidelity towards my gentle mistress? Full sore it grieveth me to be the messenger of evil tidings.’ — ‘Re­hearse [Page 50] them unreservedly,’ cried Adela, with a tone of anxious impatience.

'I pursued my journey,' said he, ‘many days without any adventure, till I came within sight of a stately castle. It stood on the brow of a woody hill; was garnished with towers and bat­tlements; and commanded a wide prospect of cultivaled fields and forests. As I advanced, mine ear was suddenly surprised with the din of hounds and horns, mingled with the cries of the huntsmen. I soon descried a gallant shew of knights and gorgeous dames, mounted on milk-white coursers, and pursuing the rapid deer. When the chace was ended, they stopped by the side of a chrystal brook; and a comely youth, arrayed in shining apparel, alighted from his foamy steed, with courtly obeisance, presented the prey to a fair and smiling lady. I mingled in their company, and in the lineaments of the cour­teous youth recognised the inconstant Edwin. O gentle lady, may Heaven so help me in my ut­most need, as I now speak the words of truth; and may the faints and holy angels so succour thee as thy mishap requires. The faithless youth hath committed treason against thy love: Seduc­ed by the blandishment of an artful dame, he hath become forgetful of thy peerless beauty.’

The heart of Adela throbbed with anguish dur­ing the recital. 'Valorous, heroic warrior!' she exclaimed, ‘are these thy deeds of hardy prowess, to betray the innocent credulity of an easy maid! Stain to manhood, and the honored profession of [Page 51] arms, be henceforth banished from my remem­brance.’

Meantime Edgar advanced his suit with re­doubled ardour. Albert, unable to brook any longer delay, insisted on having the bridal ceremo­ny solemnized; and Adela, incited by secret pride and resentment, submitted to the will of her father. The report of this noble alliance was published through the land; and the kindred of Albert and Edgar, with the neighbouring barons, were assem­bled to grace the solemnity. Already were the parties betrothed; the holy benediction was al­ready pronounced; and forever was Adela to be the wedded spouse of Edgar. Now, with pom­pous shew and attendance the banquet was served up to dames and knights, the flower of courtesy and valour. The castle resounded with minstrelsy and the dance, when a stranger, in the simple garb of a pilgrim, entered the hall. He cast his eyes around on the goodly company, and, with an air of sanctity and respect, implored a blessing on their friendship. He was received with hospitable welcome, and the reverence due to his holy sem­blance. He spake in meek and modest guise; his eyes were often fixed on Adela: they were some­times dimmed with a glistening tear, and ever and anon his bosom heaved with involuntary sighs. He took up the harp of a minstrel; he touched the strings with masterly cunning, and accompa­nied the notes with a melodious voice. Tuneful, but melancholy was the strain; for he sung the sorrows of those that are forsaken; the anguish of [Page 52] a desponding spirit; and the wounds inflicted on a faithful heart by inconstancy and proud disdain. He desisted with marks of grief and inward con­tention. 'Holy pilgrim,' said Albert, ‘the sense of calamity devours thy spirit. Inform us of thy mishhap, that, if possible, we may administer com­fort. Nor think it incompatible with bridal fes­tivity to indulge compassion, and assuage the torment of heart-felt care.’

'I am the son of a freeman,' replied the stran­ger; ‘and though my birth was not ennobled by splendid titles, nor my ancestry distinguished by the parade of blazonry, my bosom burned with the love of arms, and my heart was upright. In an unlucky hour I became enamoured of a gentle dame, the only daughter of a noble baron. My sincere, though presumptuous suit, seemed not displeasing to that peerless beauty; and with the rash, intemperate boldness of a lover, I asked her in marriage of her sire. Go, said he, gain thee a name in arms, and then aspire to the en­vied alliance of my house. I departed, not with­out tender interchange of vows and tokens of af­fection with the beloved idol of my heart. I has­tened to the plains of Catalonia, where the Sara­cen was waging fierce battle against the banner of the holy cross. I proffered my service to the chief of the Christians; and that my sword was not idle, and that I was not backward in the strife of arms, my honourable wounds can testify. Neither were my services, nor my thirst after mar­tial fame unrewarded. Fair recompence have I [Page 53] received, and the fun of glory hath gilded the obscurity of my birth. Rejoicing in my success, I hastened my return. But what power of ut­terance can express the agony of my soul, when I learned that the faithless and inconstant dame had yielded to the vows of another? I who was so true and loyal to my love and plighted troth, to be so soon forgot, so soon forsaken.’

'Enough! enough!' cried Adela, ‘O ill-requit­ed lover! pierce not my soul with deeper wounds. O Edwin! Edwin! never was I inconstant. Bear witness, ye holy angels! But traitorous guile has been practised: Thy integrity hath been im­peached, and my vexed heart betrayed into er­rour.’

The eyes of all were now turned on the stran­ger: He threw off his disguise, and, instead of a pilgrim's staff, he grasped a keen and trenchant weapon. Resentment glowed on his cheek, and flashed from his fiery eye. 'And who,' said he, ‘hath impeached mine integrity? Stand forth, thou proud, but dastard baron, whose glozing tales have betrayed the unwary heart of a tender maiden: It is Edwin demands reparation.’ Con­scious fear was manifest in the disordered features, the pale cheek, and disconcerted air of Edgar. He nevertheless accepted the challenge; and the two warriors, arraying themselves in complete ar­mour, descended into the court of the castle. In the first onset, the well tempered steel of Edwin cleft the crested helm of his adversary; he threw him to the ground, and disarmed him. ‘Confess [Page 54] thy guilt,’ said the conqueror, ‘and by what in­famous arts thou hast accomplished thy design.’ — 'By gifts and glittering gold,' he replied, ‘I cor­rupted the page of Adela, who, with counterfeited semblance of fidelity and regret, accused thee of inconstancy, and imposed falshood on the easy ear of his mistress. I embraced the season of her excited resentment, and forwarded my suit with success. She is mine by the indissoluble ties of wedlock: And know, proud boy, that if thy hands be stained with my blood, it is the blood of Adela's husband; and if she receives thee to her bosom, she receives the slayer of her spouse.’

Edwin started with apparent horror. He paus­ed; but recollecting himself, 'Arise,' he cried, ‘and by another trial, prove thyself worthy of that envied title.’ So saying, he raised him from the ground; and both warriors addressed themselves a second time to the fight. Edgar, burning with exasperated rancour, aimed his spear at his rival's breast. Edwin neither averted nor avoided the deadly blow. The keen weapon cleft his breast, and was tinged in the purple springs of his heart. He fell to the ground. 'Farewell,' he cried, ‘A­dela! lady peerless! and dearly beloved. I have proved myself worthy of thy esteem: I die a sa­crifice to thy repose. With my hands red with thy husband's blood, could I ever aspire to thy love? Could I survive and behold thee the wed­ded bride of another!’ He heaved a sigh and died. 'Inhuman deed!' cried Adela, tearing her lovely tresses, and beating her snow-white breast. She [Page 55] ran, she threw herself on the bloody body, 'O stay!' she exclaimed, ‘O leave me not in my woe. Re­turn, fleeting spirit! Reanimate these pallid features. He heeds me not.—I heard a voice! a dreary voice! It was Edwin! He summons me away!—I come! I come! Let the nuptial bed be prepared! the clay-cold bed!’ — So say­ing, she clasped the corpse, and expired.

Instantly the menial, who had been corrupted by Edgar, seizing a dagger, rushed behind that treacherous baron, and pierced him to the heart. 'Perish!' he cried, ‘author of my ruin, and of the ruin of the House of Albert.’ He grew imme­diately frantic: He ran forth furious and scream­ing: The memory of his crimes pursued him; and his reason was never restored.

The obsequies of the deceased were celebrated with due solemnity; Holy requiems were chanted over their remains; and pious priests preferred orisons for their eternal repose. Albert, unable to sustain the weight of his misfortune, forsook the habitation of his ancestors; and exposing his old age to fatigue, undertook a pilgrimage to the Ho­ly Land, where he ended his days in a monastery.

EDWARD the Third, after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in so impregnable a manner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city. The citi­zens, however, under the conduct of Count Vienne, their gallant governour, made an admirable de­fence. Day after day the English effected many a breach, which they repeatedly expected to storm by morning; but, when morning appeared, they wondered to behold new ramparts raised, nightly erected out of the ruins which the day had made.

France had now put the sickle into her second harvest since Edward with his victorious army sat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. The English made their approaches and attacks without remission; but the citizens were as obstinate in repelling all their ef­forts.

[Page 59]At length, famine did more for Edward than arms. After the citizens had devoured the lean carcases of their starved cattle, they tore up old foundations and rubbish in search of vermin. They fed on boiled leather and the weeds of exhausted gardens, and a morsel of damaged corn was ac­counted a matter of luxury.

In this extremity they resolved to attempt the enemy's camp. They boldly sallied forth; the English joined battle; and, after a long and despe­rate engagement, Count Vienne was taken prison­er; and the citizens, who survived the slaughter, retired within their gates.

On the captivity of the governour, the command devolved upon Eustace Saint Pierre, the mayor of the town, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue.

Eustace now found himself under the necessity of capitulating, and offered to deliver to Edward the city, with all the possessions and wealth of the inhabitants, provided he permitted them to depart with life and liberty.

As Edward had long since expected to ascend the throne of France, he was exasperated, to the last degree, against these people, whose sole valour had defeated his warmest hopes; he therefore de­termined to take an exemplary revenge, though he wished to avoid the imputation of cruelty. He answered, by Sir Walter Manny, that they all de­served capital punishment, as obstinate traitors to him, their true and natural sovereign. That, how­ever, in his wonted clemency, he consented to par­don [Page 60] the bulk of the plebeians, provided they would deliver up to him six of their principal citizens, with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion with which they had enflamed the vulgar herd.

All the remains of this desolate city were con­vened in the great square, and, like men arraign­ed at a tribunal from whence there was no appeal, expected with beating hearts the sentence of their conqueror.

When Sir Walter had declared his message, con­sternation and pale dismay was impressed on every face. Each looked upon death as his own inevita­ble lot; for how should they desire to be saved at the price proposed? whom had they to deliver save parents, brothers, kindred, or valiant neighbours, who had so often exposed their lives in their de­fence? To a long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded; till Eustace St. Pierre, getting up to a little eminence, thus addressed the assem­bly.

‘My friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We must either submit to the terms of our cruel and ensnaring conqueror; or yield up our tender infants, our wives, and chaste daughters, to the bloody and brutal lusts of the violating soldiery.’

‘Look about you, my friends, and fix your eyes on the persons, whom you wish to deliver up as the victims of your own safety. Which of these would ye appoint to the rack, the axe, or the hal­ter? Is there any here who has not fought for [Page 61] you, who has not bled for you? who through the length of this inveterate siege, has not suffered fatigues and miseries, a thousand times worse than death, that you and your's might survive to days of peace and prosperity? Is it your preserv­ers, then, whom you would destine to destruction? you will not, you cannot do it. Justice, honour, humanity, make such a treason impossible.’

‘Where then is our resource? Is there any ex­pedient left, whereby we may avoid guilt and in­famy on the one hand, or the desolation and hor­rors of a sacked city on the other? There is, my friends, there is one expedient left; a gracious, an excellent, a god-like expedient! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life; let him offer himself an oblation for the safety of his people! He shall not fail of a blessed approba­tion from that Power, who offered up his only Son for the salvation of mankind.’

He spoke — but an universal silence ensued. Each man looked around for the example of that virtue and magnanimity, in others, which all wish­ed to approve in themselves, though they wanted the resolution.

At length St. Pierre resumed— ‘It had been base in me, my fellow citizens, to propose any matter of damage to others, which I myself had not been willing to undergo in my own person. But I held it ungenerous to deprive any man of that preference and estimation, which might at­tend a first offer, on so signal an occasion. For I doubt not but there are many here as ready, [Page 62] nay, more zealous of this martyrdom than I can be, however modesty and the fear of imputed os­tentation may withhold them from being foremost in exhibiting their merits.’

‘Indeed, the station, to which the captivity of Lord Vienne has unhappily raised me, imparts a right to be the first in giving my life for your sakes, I give it freely, I give it cheerfully; who comes next?’

'Your son.' exclaimed a youth, not yet come to maturity.—'Ah, my child!' cried St. Pierre, ‘I am, then, twice sacrificed.—But no—I have rather begotten thee a second time.—Thy years are few but full, my son! the victim of virtue has reached the utmost purpose and goal of mortality. Who next, my friends?—This is the hour of heroes.’ —'Your kinsman,' cried John de Aire. 'Your kinsman,' cried James Wissant. ‘Your kinsman,’ cried Peter Wissant. —'Ah!' ex­claimed Sir Walter Mauny, bursting into tears, 'why was I not a citizen of Calais?'

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

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

Before they departed, however, they desired per­mission to take their last adieu of their deliverers. [Page 63] —What a parting, what a scene! they crouded with their wives and children about St. Pierre and his fellow prisoners. They embraced, they clung around, they wept aloud; and the joint clamour of their mourning passed the gates of the city, and was heard throughout the camp.

The English, by this time, were apprised of what passed within Calais. They heard the voice of lamentation, and their souls were touched with compassion: each of the soldiers prepared a por­tion of their own victuals to welcome and enter­tain the half famished inhabitants; and they load­ed them with as much as their present weakness was able to bear, in order to supply them with sus­tenance by the way.

At length, St. Pierre and his fellow victims ap­peared, under the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of the English were instant­ly emptied. The soldiers poured from all parts, and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to contemplate, to admire this little band of patri­ots as they passed. They murmured their ap­plause of that virtue, which they could not but re­vere, even in enemies. And they regarded those ropes, which they had voluntarily assumed about their necks, as ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter.

As soon as they had reached the presence of the king—'Mauny!' says the monarch, 'are these the principal inhabitants of Calais?'—'They are,' says Mauny, ‘they are not only the principal men of Calais, they are the principal men of France, my lord, if virtue has any share in the act of en­nobling.’ [Page 64] —'Were they delivered peaceably,' says Edward; ‘was there no resistance, no commotion among the people?’ ‘Not in the least, my lord; the people would all have perished, rather than have delivered the least of these to your Majesty. They are self-delivered, self-devoted, and come to offer up their inestimable heads as an ample equiv­alent for the ransom of thousands.’

Edward was secretly piqued at this reply of Sir Walter, but he knew the privilege of a British sub­ject, and suppressed his resentment. 'Experience,' says he, ‘hath ever shewn, that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is indispensibly necessary to deter subjects into submission by punishment and example. Go,’ he cried to an officer, ‘lead these men to execution—Your rebellion,’ continued he, addres­sing himself to St. Pierre, ‘your rebellion against me, the natural heir of your crown, is highly ag­gravated by your present presumption and af­front of my power.’ — ‘We have nothing to ask of your Majesty,’ said Eustace, ‘save what you cannot refuse us.’ —'What is that?' ‘Your esteem, my lord,’ said Eustace, and went out with his companions.

At this instant, a sound of triumph was heard throughout the camp. The queen had just arriv­ed, with a powerful reinforcement of those gallant soldiers, at the head of whom she had conquered Scotland, and taken their king captive.

Sir Walter Mauny flew to receive her Majesty, and briefly informed her of the particulars respect­ing the six victims.

[Page 65]As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and his court, she desired a private audience. ‘My lord,’ said she, ‘the question I am to enter upon is not touching the lives of a few mechanics; it respects a matter more estimable than the lives of all the natives of France; it respects the honour of the English nation, it respects the glory of my Edward, my husband, my king.’

‘You think you have sentenced fix of your ene­mies to death. No, my lord, they have sen­tenced themselves, and their execution would be the execution of their own orders, not the orders of Edward.’

‘They have behaved themselves worthily, they have behaved themselves greatly; I cannot but respect, while I envy, while I hate them, for leav­ing us no share in the honour of this action, save that of granting a poor, an indispensible pardon.’

‘I admit they have deserved every thing that is evil at your hands. They have proved the most inveterate and efficacious of your enemies. They alone have withstood the rapid course of your conquests, and have withheld from you the crown to which you were born. Is it therefore that you would reward them? that you would gratify their desires, that you would indulge their ambi­tion, and enwreath them with everlasting glory and applause?’

‘But, if such a death would exalt mechanics over the fame of the most illustrious heroes, how would the name of my Edward, with all his tri­umphs and honours, be tarnished thereby! Would [Page 66] it not be said, that magnanimity and virtue are grown odious in the eyes of the monarch of Bri­tain? and the objects whom he destines to the punishment of felons, are the very men who de­serve the praise and esteem of mankind? The stage on which they should suffer would be to them a stage of honour, but a stage of shame to Edward, a reproach to his conquests, a dark and indelible disgrace to his name.’

‘No, my lord. Let us rather disappoint the saucy ambition of these burghers, who wish to in­vest themselves with glory at our expence. We cannot, indeed, wholly deprive them of the me [...] of a sacrifice so nobly intended, but we may cut them short of their desires: in the place of that death by which their glory would be consum­mate, let us bury them under gifts, let us put them to shame with praises; we shall thereby de­feat them of that popular opinion, which never fails to attend those who suffer in the cause of virtue.’

‘I am convinced; you have prevailed; be it so,’ cried Edward, ‘prevent the execution; have them instantly before us!’

They came, when the queen, with an aspect and accents diffusing sweetness, thus bespoke them:

‘Natives of France, and the inhabitants of Ca­lais, ye have put us to vast expence of blood and treasure in the recovery of our just and natural inheritance; but you acted up to the best of an erroneous judgment, and we admire and honour in you that valour and virtue, by which we are so long kept out of our rightful possessions.’

[Page 67] ‘You noble burghers, you excellent citizens! though you were tenfold the enemies of our per­son and our throne, we can feel nothing on our part, save respect and affection for you. You have been sufficiently tested, we loose your chains, we snatch you from the scaffold, and we thank you for that lesson of humiliation, which you teach us, when you shew that excellence is not of blood, of title, or station; that virtue gives a dig­nity superior to that of kings; and that those, whom the Almighty informs with sentiments like your's, are justly and eminently raised above all human distinctions.’

‘You are now free to depart to your kinsfolk, your countrymen, to all those whose lives and lib­erties you have so nobly redeemed, provided you refuse not to carry with you the due tokens of our esteem.’

‘Yet, we would rather bind you to ourselves, by every endearing obligation; and for this pur­pose, we offer to you your choice of the gifts and honours that Edward has to bestow. Rivals for fame, but always friends to virtue, we wish that England were entitled to call you her sons.’

‘Ah, my country, (exclaimed Saint Pierre,) it is now that I tremble for you! Edward could only win your cities, but Philippa conquers hearts.’

'Brave Saint Pierre, (said the queen,) where­fore 'look you so dejected? ‘Ah, madam! (re­plied St. Pierre,) when I meet with such another opportunity of dying, I shall not regret that I survived this day.’

IT was the voice of my love! seldom art thou in the dreams of Malvina! Open your airy halls, fathers of Toscar of shields! Unfold the gates of your clouds: The steps of Malvina are near. I have heard a voice in my dream. I feel the fluttering of my soul. Why didst thou come, O blast! from the dark rolling face of the lake? Thy rustling wing was in the tree; the dream of Malvina fled. But she beheld her love, when his robe of mist flew on the wind. A sunbeam was on his skirts; they glittered like the gold of the stran­ger. It was the voice of my love; seldom comes he to my dreams!

But thou dwellest in the soul of Malvina, son of mighty Ossian! my sighs arise with the beams of the East; my tears descend with the drops of night. I was a lovely tree, in thy presence, Oscar! with all my branches round me; but thy death came like a blast from the desert, and laid my green head [Page 75] low. The Spring returned with its showers; no leaf of mine arose! The virgins saw me silent in the hall: they touched the harp of joy. The tear was on the cheek of Malvina; the virgins be­held me in my grief. Why art thou sad, they said, thou first of the maids of Lutha? Was he lovely as the beam of the morning, and stately in thy sight?

Pleasant is thy song in Ossian's ear, daughter of streamy Lutha! Thou hast heard the music of de­parted bards, in the dream of thy rest, when sleep fell on thine eyes, at the murmur of Moruth.— When thou didst return from the chace, in the day of the Sun, thou hast heard the music of bards, and thy song is lovely. It is lovely, O Malvina! but it melts the soul. There is a joy in grief, when peace dwells in the breast of the sad. But sorrow wastes the mournful, O daughter of Toscar; and their days are few! They fall away, like the flow­er on which the sun hath looked in his strength, after the mildew has passed over it, when its head is heavy with the drops of the night. Attend to the tale of Ossian, O maid! He remembers the days of his youth!

The King commanded; I raised my sails; and rushed into the bay of Croma; into Croma's sounding bay, in lovely Inisfail. High on the coast arose the towers of Crothar, King of Spears; Crothar renowned in the battles of his youth; but age dwelt then around the chief. Rothmar had raised the sword against the hero; and the wrath of Fingal burned. He sent Ossian to meet Roth­mar [Page 76] in war; for the Chief of Croma was the friend of his youth. I sent the bard before me with songs. I came into the hall of Crothar. There sat the Chief amidst the arms of his fathers; but his eyes had failed. His grey locks waved around a staff, on which the warrior leaned. He hummed the songs of other times, when the sound of our arms reached his ears. Crothar rose, stretched his aged hand, and blessed the son of Fingal.

Ossian! said the hero, the strength of Crothar's arms has failed. O could I lift the sword as in the day that Fingal fought at Strutha! He was the first of men! but Crothar had also his fame. The King of Morven praised me; he placed on my arm the bossy shield of Calthar, whom the King had slain in his wars. Dost thou not behold it on the wall, for Crothar's eyes have failed! Is thy strength like thy father's, Ossian? Let the aged feel thine arm!

I gave my arm to the King; he felt it with his aged hands; the sigh rose in his breast, and his tears came down. Thou art strong, my son, he said; but not like the King of Morven! but who is like the hero among the mighty in war! Let the feast of my hall be spread; and let my bards exalt the song. Great is he that is within my walls, ye sons of echoing Croma! The feast is spread; the harp is heard; and joy is in the hall. But it was joy covering a sigh, that darkly dwelt in every breast. It was like the faint beam of the moon spread on a cloud in heaven. At length the mu­sic ceased; and the aged King of Croma spoke: [Page 77] He spoke without a tear, but sorrow swelled in the midst of his voice.

Son of Fingal; beholdest thou not the darkness of Crothar's joy? My soul was not sad at the feast, when my people lived before me. I rejoiced in the presence of strangers, when my son shone in the hall. But Ossian, he is a beam that is departed. He left no streak of light behind. He is fallen, son of Fingal! in the wars of his father. Roth­mar, the chief of grassy Tromlo, heard that these eyes had failed; he heard that my arms were fixed in the hall, and the pride of his soul arose! He came towards Croma; my people fell before him. I took my arms in my wrath; but what could sightless Crothar do? My steps were unequal; my grief was great. I wished for days that were past. Days! wherein I fought and won in the field of blood. My son returned from the chase; the fair-haired Fovar-gormo. He had not lifted his sword in battle, for his arm was young. But the soul of the youth was great; the fire of valour burned in his eyes. He saw the disordered steps of his fa­ther; and his sigh arose. King of Croma, he said; is it because thou hast no son? is it for the weakness of Favor-gormo's arm, that thy sighs a­rise? I begin, my father, to feel my strength. I have drawn the sword of my youth; and I have bent the bow. Let me meet this Rothmar, with the sons of Croma: Let me meet him, O my fa­ther! I feel my burning soul. And thou shalt meet him, I said, son of the sightless Crothar! But let others advance before thee, that I may hear [Page 78] the tread of thy feet at thy return; for my eyes behold thee not, fair-haired Fovar-gormo!

He went; he met the foe; he fell. Rothmar advances to Croma. He, who flew my son is near, with all his pointed spears.

This is no time to fill the shell, I replied; and took my spear! My people saw the fire of my eyes; they all rose around. Through night we strode along the heath. Grey morning rose in the East. A green narrow vale appeared before us; nor wanting was it in green winding streams. The dark host of Rothmar are on its banks, with all their glittering arms. We fought along the vale. They fled. Rothmar sunk beneath my sword! Day had not descended in the West, when I brought his arms to Crothar. The aged hero felt them with his hands; and joy brightened over all his thoughts.

The people gather to the hall. The shells of the feast are heard. Ten harps are strung; five bards advance, and sing by turns the praise of Os­sian. They poured forth their burning souls; and the string answered to their voice. The joy of Croma was great; for peace returned to the land. The night came on with silence; the morn­ing returned with joy. No foe came in darkness, with his glittering spear. The joy of Croma was great; for the gloomy Rothmar had fallen!

I raised my voice for Fovar-gormo, when they laid the chief in earth. The aged Crothar was there, but his sigh was not heard. He searched for the wound of his son, and found it in his breast. [Page 79] Joy rose in the face of the aged. He came and spoke to Ossian. King of Spears! he said; my son has not fallen without his fame. The young warrior did not fly; but met death, as he went for­ward in his strength. Happy are they, who die in youth, when their renown is heard! The feeble will not behold them in the hall, nor smile at their trembling hands. Their memory shall be honour­ed in song; the young tear of the virgin will fall: But the aged wither away by degrees; the fame of their youth, while yet they live, is all forgotten. They fall in secret. The sigh of their son is not heard. Joy is around their tomb; the stone of their fame is placed without a tear. Happy are they who die in youth, when their renown is a­round them.

THERE lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for his magnifi­cence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with ladies of exquisite beauty, and throng­ed with illustrious knights; for the honors he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant countries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than those of many princes. Eight min­strels were retained in his service, who used to sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the A­rabians, or adventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the crusades, or the martial deeds of the Baron, their lord; while he, surrounded by his knights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where the costly tapestry, that adorn­ed the walls with pictured exploits of his ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with armo­rial bearings, the gorgeous banners that waved along the roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profu­sion [Page 86] of gold and silver that glittered on the side-boards, the numerous dishes, that covered the ta­bles, the number and gay liveries of the attend­ants, with the chivalric and splendid attire of the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may not hope to see in these degenerate days.

Of the Baron, the following adventure is relat­ed. One night having retired late from the ban­quet to his chamber, and dismissed his attendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of a sorrowful and dejected coun­tenance. Believing, that this person had been se­creted in the apartment, since it appeared impos­sible he could have lately passed the anti-room, unobserved by the pages in waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, the Baron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had not yet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowly advancing, told him that there was nothing to fear; that he came with no hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible secret, which it was necessary for him to know.

The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stanger, after surveying him for some time in silence, returned his sword into the scabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtained access to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit.

Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that he could not then explain him­self, [Page 87] but that, if the Baron would follow him to the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls, he would there convince him, that he had something of importance to disclose.

This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, that the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour of the night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refused to go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purpose was an hon­ourable one, he would not persist in refusing to re­veal the occasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were.

While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively than before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any sympton, that might intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited like a knight, was of a tall and majes­tic stature, and of dignified and courteous man­ners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the subject of his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the same time, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awak­ened a degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which at length induced him to consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions.

'Sir Knight,' said he, ‘I will attend you to the forest, and will take with me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference.’

To this, however, the Knight objected.

'What I would disclose,' said he with solemni­ty, ‘is to you alone. There are only three living [Page 88] persons, to whom the circumstance is known; it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall now explain. In future years you will look back to this night with satisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you would hereafter prosper—follow me; I pledge you the honour of a knight, that no evil shall befal you;—if you are contented to dare futurity, remain in your chamber, and I will de­part as I came.’

'Sir Knight,' replied the Baron, ‘how is it pos­sible, that my future peace can depend upon my present determination?’

'That is not now to be told,' said the stranger, ‘I have explained myself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me, it must be quickly;—you will do well to consider the alternative.’

The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his countenance assume a sin­gular solemnity.

The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, impressed by the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared to grant, and fear­ed also to refuse. At length he said, ‘Sir Knight, you are utterly unknown to me; tell me your­self, is it reasonable, that I should trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitary forest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete you in this chamber.’

The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent; then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,

[Page 89] ‘I am an English knight; I am called Sir Be­vys of Lancaster—and my deeds are not un­known at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest.’

'Your name is not unknown to fame,' said the Baron, 'I have heard of it.' (The knight looked haughtily.) ‘But why, since my castle is known to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Why did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle and stealing to my chamber, at midnight!’

The Stranger frowned, and turned away in si­lence; But the Baron repeated the questions.

'I come not,' said the knight, ‘to answer enqui­ries, but to reveal facts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the hon­our of a Knight, that you shall return in safety, Be quick in your determination—I must be gone.’

After some further hesitation, the Baron deter­mined to follow the stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he therefore again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the knight lead on. The latter obeyed, and open­ing the door of the chamber they passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised to find all his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going to reprimand them for their carelessness, when the knight waved his hand, and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter re­strained his resentment and passed on.

[Page 90]The knight, having descended a staircase, open­ed a secret door, which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding through several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a small gate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile the Baron followed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secret passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to return from an adventure, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well as dan­ger. Then considering that he was armed, and observing the courteous and noble air of his con­ductor, his courage returned, he blushed, that it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery to its source. He now found himself on the heathy platform, before his castle, where, looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in the different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate scene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the full contrast of his present situation.

The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety, expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame waver­ed, it did not expire, and he still followed the stran­ger, who often sighed as he went, but did not speak.

When they reached the borders of the forest, the knight turned and raised his head, as if he [Page 91] meant to address the Baron, but then, closing his lips in silence, he walked on.

As they entered beneath the dark and spreading bows, the Baron, affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed, and demand­ed how much further they were to go. The knight replied only by a gesture, and the Baron, with hes­itating steps and a suspicious eye, followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having pro­ceeded a considerable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refused to proceed unless he was informed.

As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the knight alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmed the Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.

‘A little further is the place, whither I would lead you,’ said the stranger; ‘no evil shall befall you—I have sworn it on the honour of a knight.’

The Baron, reassured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chestnuts entirely exclud­ed the sky, and which was so overgrown with un­derwood, that they proceeded with difficulty.— The knight sighed deeply as he passed, and some­times paused; and having at length reached a spot, where the trees crowded into a knot, he turn­ed, and with a terrific look, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man, stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound was on the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted the features.

[Page 92]The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horrour, looked at the knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body, and examine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stran­ger, waving his hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not only much surprised him, but made him desist.

But what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp near the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the stranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in aston­ishment and enquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the knight change and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from his astonished sense! While the Baron stood fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter these words:

‘The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble Knight of England, lies before you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyed from the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of knighthood and the law of human­ity; inter the body in Christian ground, and cause his murderers to be punished. As you observe, or neglect this, shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and your house forever!’

The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into which this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he caused the body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it was interred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle, attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court of the Baron St. Brunne.

TOWARDS the latter end of the reign of Henry VIII. Sir Gawen, a man of some fortune and considerable curiosity, fond of enter­prise, and insatiate of knowledge, travelled through the northern counties of England. The follow­ing single adventure is still extant among the fam­ily writings, and is still recorded by his posterity.

[Page 102]It was towards sun-set, (saith the manuscript) when Sir Gawen, after having traversed a very lone and unfrequented path, arrived at the edge of a thick and dark forest; the sky was suddenly over­cast, and it began to rain, the thunder rolled at a distance, and sheets of livid lightning flashed across the heath. Overcome with fatigue and hunger, he rode impatiently along the borders of the forest, in hopes of discovering an entrance, but none was to be found. At length, just as he was about to dismount, with an intention of breaking the fence, he discerned as he thought, something moving up­on the heath, and, upon advancing towards it, it proved to be an old woman gathering peat, and who, overtaken by the storm, was hurrying home as fast as her infirm limbs would carry her.

The sight of a human creature filled the heart of Sir Gawen with joy, and hastily riding up, he enquired how far he had deviated from the right road, and where he could procure a night's lodg­ing. The old woman now slowly lifted up her palsied head, and discovered a set of features, which could scarcely be called human; her eyes were red, piercing, and distorted, and, rolling horribly, glancing upon every object but the perform by whom she was addressed, and, at intervals, they omitted a fiery disagreeable light; her hair, of a dirty grey, hung matted with filth in large masses upon her shoulders, and a few thin portions rushed abrupt and horizontally from the upper part of her fore­head, which was much wrinkled, and of a parch­ment hue; her cheeks were hollow, withered, and [Page 103] red with a quantity of acrid rheum; her nose was large, prominent and sharp, her lips thin, skinny and livid, her few teeth black, and her chin long and peaked, with a number of bushy hairs depend­ing from its extremity; her nails also were acute, crooked and bent over her fingers, and her gar­ments ragged and fluttering in the wind, displayed every possible variety of colour. The knight was a little daunted, but the old woman having men­tioned a dwelling at some distance, and offering to lead the way, the pleasure received from this piece of news effaced the former impression, and getting from his horse, he laid hold of the bridle, and they slowly moved over the heath.

The storm had now ceased, and the moon rising gave presage of a fine night, just as the old woman, taking a sudden turn, plunged into the wood by a path narrow and almost choaked up with a quan­tity of briar and thorn. The trees were thick, and save a few glimpses of the moon, which now and then poured light on the uncouth features of his companion, all was dark and dismal; the heart of Sir Gawen misgave him; neither spoke, and the knight pursued his guide merely by the noise she made in hurrying through the bushes, which was done with a celerity totally inconsistent with her former decrepitude. At length the path grew wider, and a faint blue light, which came from a building at some distance, glimmered before them; they now left the wood, and issued upon a rocky and uneven piece of ground; the moon struggling through a cloud, cast a doubtful and uncertain [Page 104] light, and the old woman, with a leer, which made the very hair of Sir Gawen stand an end, told him that the dwelling was at hand. It was so; for a Gothic castle, placed on a considerable elevation, now came in view; it was a large massy structure, much decayed, and some parts of it in a totally ruinous condition; a portion, however, of the keep, or great tower, was still entire, as was also the entrance to the court or inclosure, preserved probably by the ivy, whose fibres crept round with solicitous care. Large fragments of the ruin were scattered about, covered with moss, and half sunk in the ground, and a number of old elm trees, through whose foliage the wind sighed with a sul­len and melancholy sound, dropped a deep and settled gloom, that scarce permitted the moon to stream by fits upon the building.

Sir Gawen drew near; ardent curiosity, min­gled with awe, dilated his bosom, and he inwardly congratulated himself upon so singular an adven­ture, when turning round to question his compan­ion, a glimpse of the moon poured full upon his eye so horrid a contexture of feature, so wild and preternatural a combination, that, smote with ter­rour and unable to move, a cold sweat trickled from every pore, and immediately this infernal being, seizing him by the arm, and hurrying him over the draw-bridge to the great entrance of the keep, the portcullis fell with a tremendous sound, and the knight, starting as it were from a trance, drew his sword in act to destroy his treacherous guide, when instantly a horrible and infernal laugh [Page 105] burst from her, and in a moment the whole castle was in an uproar, peal after peal issuing from eve­ry quarter, till at length growing faint, they died away, and a dead silence ensued.

Sir Gawen, who, during this strange tumult, had collected all his scattered powers, now looked round him with determined resolution; his terri­ble companion had disappeared, and the moon shining full upon the portcullis, convinced him that any escape that way was impracticable; the wind sighed through the elms; the scared owl, ut­tering his discordant note, broke from the rustling bough, and a dim twinkling light beamed from a loop-hole near the summit of the great tower. Sir Gawen entered the keep, having previously reasoned himself into a state of cool fortitude, and bent up every power to the appalling enterprise. He extended his sword before him, for it was dark, and proceeded carefully to search around, in hopes either of discovering some aperture, which might lead to the vestibule or staircase, or of wreaking his vengeance on the wretch, who had thus decoy­ed him. All was still as death: but as he strode over the floor, a dull, hollow sound issued from beneath, and rendered him apprehensive of falling through into some dismal vault, from which he might never be able to extricate himself. In this situation, dreading the effect of each light footstep, a sound, as of many people whispering, struck his ear; he bent forward listening with eager attention, and as it seemed to proceed from a little distance before him, he determined to follow it: he did so, [Page 106] and instantly fell through the mouldering pave­ment, whilst at the same time peals of horrid laughter again burst with reiterated clamour from every chamber of the castle. Sir Gawen rose with considerable difficulty, and much stunned with the fall, although fortunately the spot he had dropped upon was covered with a quantity of damp and soft earth, which gave way to his weight. He now found himself in a large vault, arched in the Gothic manner, and supported by eight massy pillars, down whose sides the damp moisture ran in cold and heavy drops, the moon shining with great lustre through three iron-grated windows, which, al­though rusty with age, were strong enough to re­sist the efforts of Sir Gawen, who, after having in vain tried to force them, looked around for his sword, which during the fall had started from his grasp, and in searching the ground with his fingers, he laid hold of, and drew forth the fresh bones of an enormous skeleton, yet greasy and moist from the decaying fibres: he trembled with horror— a cold wind brushed violently along the surface of the vault, and a ponderous iron door, slowly grating on its hinges, opened at one corner, and disclosed to the wandering eye of Sir Gawen a broken stair­case, down whose steps a blue and faint light flash­ed by fits, like the lightning of a summer's eve. Appalled by these dreadful prodigies, Sir Gawen felt, in spite of all his resolution, a cold and death­like chill pervade his frame, and kneeling down, he prayed fervently to that power, without whose mandate no being is let loose upon another, and [Page 107] feeling himself more calm and resolved, he again began to search for his sword, when a moonbeam falling on the blade, at once restored it to its own­er.

Sir Gawen having thus resumed his wonted for­titude and resolution, held a parley with himself, and perceiving no other way by which he could escape, boldly resolved to brave all the terrors of the staircase, and, once more recommending him­self to his Maker, began to ascend. The light still flashed, enabling him to climb those parts which were not broken or decayed. He had proceeded in this manner a considerable way, mounting, as he supposed, to the summit of the keep, when sud­denly a shrill and agonizing shriek issued from the upper part of it, and something rudely brushing down, grasped him with tremendous strength; in a moment he became motionless, cold as ice, and felt himself hurried back by some irresistible being; but just as he had reached the vault, a spectre of so dreadful a shape stalked by within it, that straining every muscle, he sprang from the deadly grasp: the iron door rushed in thunder upon its hinges, and a deep hollow groan resounded from beneath. No sooner had the door closed, than yelling screams and sounds, which almost suspended the very pulse of life, issued from the vault, as if a troop of hellish furies, with their chains united, were dashing them in writhing frenzy, and howling to the uproar. Sir Gawen stood petrified with horror, a stony fear ran to his very heart, and dismayed every sense about him; he stared wide with his long locks up­standing [Page 108] stiffly, and the throbbing of his heart op­pressed him. The tumult at length subsiding, Sir Gawen recovered some portion of strength, which he immediately made use of to convey himself as far as possible from the iron door, and presently reaching his former elevation on the staircase, which, after ascending a few more steps, termin­ated in a winding gallery. The light, which had hitherto flashed incessantly, now disappeared, and he was left in almost total darkness, except that now and then the moon threw a few cool rays through some broken loop-holes, heightening the horrour of the scene. He dreaded going forward, and fearfully looked back, lest some yelling fiend should again plunge him into the vault. He stood suspended with apprehension; a mournful wind howled through the apartments of the castle, and listening, he thought he heard the iron door grate upon its hinges; he started with terrour, the sweat stood in big drops upon his forehead, his knees smote each other, and he rushed forward with desperate des­pair, till having suddenly turned a corner of the gallery, a taper, burning with a faint light, gleam­ed through a narrow dark passage: Sir Gawen approached the light; it came from an extensive room, the folding doors of which were wide open: he entered; a small taper in a massy silver candle­stick stood upon a table in the middle of the room, but gave so inconsiderable an illumination, that the one end was wrapped in palpable dark­ness, and the other scarcely broken in upon by a dim light, that streamed through a large ramified [Page 109] window, covered with thick ivy. An arm-chair, shattered and damp with age, was placed near the table, and the remains of a recent fire were still visible in the grate. The wainscot, of black oak, had formerly been hung with tapestry, and several portions still clung to those parts, which were near the fire; they possessed some vivacity of teint, and with much gilding, yet apparent on the chimney-piece, and several mouldering reliques of costly frames and paintings, gave indisputable evidence of the ancient grandeur of the place.

Sir Gawen closed the folding doors, and, taking the taper, was about to survey the room, when a deep hollow groan from the dark end of it smote cold upon his heart; at the same time the sound, as of something falling with a dead weight, echo­ed through the room. Sir Gawen replaced the taper, the flame of which was agitated, now quiv­ering, sunk, now streaming, flamed aloft, and as the last pale portion died away, the scarce distin­guished form of some terrific being floated slowly by, and again another dreadful groan ran deepen­ing through the gloom. Sir Gawen stood for some time incapable of motion, at length sum­moning all his fortitude, he advanced with his sword extended to the darkest part of the room: instantly burst forth in fierce irradiations a blue sulphureous splendour, and the mangled body of a man distorted with the agony of death, his very fibres racked with convulsion, his beard and hair stiff and matted with blood, his mouth open, and his eyes protruding from their marble sockets, [Page 110] rushed on the fixed and maddening senses of Sir Gawen, whose heart had beat no more, had not a hiss, as of ten thousand fiends, loud, horrible, roused him from the dreadful scene; he started, uttering a wild shriek, his brain turned round, and running he knew not whither, burst through the folding doors.

Darkness again spread her sable pall over the unfortunate Sir Gawen, and he hurried along the narrow passage with a feeble and faultering step. His intellect shook, and, overwhelmed with the late appalling objects, had not yet recovered any degree of recollection, and as he wandered in a dream, a confused train of horrible ideas passing unconnected through his mind: at length, howe­ver, memory resumed her function, resumed it but to daunt him with harrowing suggestions; the direful horrors of the room behind, and of the vault below, were still present to his eyes, and as a man whom hellish fiends had frightened, he stood trem­bling, pale, and staring wild.

All was now silent and dark, and he determin­ed to wait in this spot the dawn of day; but a few minutes had scarce elapsed, when the iron door, screaming on its hinges, bellowed through the murmuring ruin. Sir Gawen nearly fainted at the sound, which pausing for some time, again swelled upon the wind, and at last died away in shrill mel­ancholy shrieks; again all was silent, and again the same fearful noise struck terrour to his soul. Whilst he was thus agitated with horrour and ap­prehension, a dim light streaming from behind, ac­companied [Page 111] with a soft, quick, and hollow tread, convinced Sir Gawen that something was pursuing him, and struck with wildering fear, he rushed un­conscious down the steps; the vault received him, and its portal swinging to their close, sounded as the sentence of death. A dun, faetid smoke filled the place, in the centre of which arose a faint and bickering flame. Sir Gawen approached and be­held a corse suspended over it by the neck, its fat dropped, and a flame flashing through the vault, gleamed on a throng of hideous and ghastly fea­tures, that now came forward through the smoke. Sir Gawen, with the desperate valour of a man, who sees destruction before him, ran furious for­ward; an universal shriek burst forth; the corse dropped into the fire, which rising with tenfold brilliance, placed full in view the dreadful form of his infernal guide, dilated into horrour itself; her face was as pale as death, her eyes were wide o­pen, dead and fixed, a horrible grin sat upon her features; her lips black, and half putrid, were drawn back, disclosing a set of large blue teeth, and her hair, standing stiffly erect, was of a with­ered red. Sir Gawen felt his blood freeze within him, his limbs forgot to move, the face, enlarging as it came, drew near, and, swooning, he fell for­ward on the ground.

Slow passed the vital fluid through the bosom of Sir Gawen, scarce did the heart vibrate to its impulse; on his pallid forehead sat a chilly sweat and frequent spasms shook his limbs; but at length returning warmth gave some vigour to his [Page 112] frame, the energy of life became more suffused, a soothing languor stole upon him, and on opening his eyes, rushed neither the images of death or the rites of witchcraft, but the soft, the sweet and tranquil scenery of a summer's moon-light night. Enraptured with this sudden and unexpected change, Sir Gawen rose gently from off the ground, over his head towered a large and majestic oak, at whose foot, by some kind and compassionate being he concluded he had been laid. Delight and gratitude dilated his heart, and advancing from beneath the tree, whose gigantic branches spread a large extent of shade, a vale, beautiful and romantic, through which ran a clear and deep stream, came full in view; he walked to the edge of the water, the moon shone with mellow lustre on its surface, and its banks fringed with shrubs, breathed a perfume more delicate than the odours of the East. On one side, the ground, covered with a vivid, soft, and downy verdure stretched for a considerable extent to the borders of a large for­est, which sweeping round, finally closed up the valley, on the other, it was broken into abrupt and rocky masses swarded with moss, and from whose clefts grew thick and spreading trees, the roots of which, washed by many a fall of water, hung bare and matted from their craggy beds.

Sir Gawen forgot in this delicious vale, all his former sufferings, and giving up his mind to the pleasing influence of curiosity and wonder, he de­termined to explore the place by tracing the wind­ings of the stream. Scarce had he entered upon [Page 113] this plan, when music of the most ravishing sweet­ness filled the air, sometimes it seemed to float a­long the valley, sometimes it stole along the sur­face of the water, now it died away among the woods, and now with deep and mellow symphony it swelled upon the gale. Fixed in astonishment, Sir Gawen scarce ventured to breathe; every sense, save that of hearing, seemed quite absorbed, and when the last faint warblings melted on his ear, he started from the spot, solicitous to know from what being those more than human strains had parted; but nothing appeared in view; the moon full and unclouded, shone with unusual lus­tre, the white rocks glittered in her beam, and, fil­led with hope, he again pursued the windings of the water, which conducting to the narrowest part of the valley, continued their course through the wood. Sir Gawen entered by a path, smooth, but narrow and perplexed, where, although its branch­es were so numerous that no preference could be given, or any direct route long persisted in, yet every turn presented something to amuse▪ some­thing to sharpen the edge of research. The beau­ty of the trees, through whose interstices the moon gleamed in the most picturesque manner: the glimpses of the water, and the notes of the night­ingale, who now began to fill the valley with her song, were more than sufficient to take off the sense of fatigue, and he wandered on still eager to explore, still panting for further discovery. The wood now became more thick and obscure, and at length almost dark, when the path taking sudden­ly [Page 114] an oblique direction, Sir Gawen found himself on the edge of a circular lawn, whose teint and softness were beyond compare, and which seemed to have been lightly brushed by fairy feet. A number of fine old trees, around whose boles crept the ivy and the woodbine, rose at irregular dis­tances, here they mingled into groves, and there separate, and emulous of each other, they shook their airy summits in disdain. The water, which had been for some time concealed, now murmur­ed through a thousand beds and visiting each lit­tle flower, added vigour to its vegetation, and poignancy to its fragrance. Along the edges of the wood and beneath the shadows of the trees, an innumerable host of glow-worms lighted their in­ocuous fires, lustrous as the gems of Golconda, and Sir Gawen, desirous yet longer to enjoy the scene, went forward with light footsteps on the lawn; all was calm, and, except the breeze of night, that sighed soft and sweetly through a world of leaves, a perfect silence prevailed. Not many minutes, however, had elapsed, before the same enchanting music, to which he had listened with so much rap­ture in the vale, again arrested his ear, and present­ly he discovered on the border of the lawn, just rising above the wood, and floating on the bosom of the air, a being of the most delicate form; from his shoulders streamed a tunic of the tenderest blue, his wings and feet were clothed in downy silver, and in his grasp he had a wand, white as the mountain snow. He rose swiftly in the air, his brilliance became excessive from the lunar rays, his [Page 115] song echoed through the vault of night, but having quickly diminished to the size and appearance of the evening star, it died away, and the next mo­ment he was lost in aether. Sir Gawen still fixed his eye on that part of the heavens, where the vis­ion had disappeared, and shortly had the pleasure of again seeing the star-like radiance, which in an instant unfolded itself into the full and fine dimen­sions of the beauteous being, who having collected dew from the cold vales of Saturn, now descended rapidly towards the earth, and waving his wand, as he passed athwart the woods, a number of like form and garb, flew round him, and all alighting on the lawn, separated at equal distances on its cir­cumference, and then shaking their wings, which spread a perfume through the air, burst into one general song. Sir Gawen, who apprehensive of being discovered, had retreated within the shadow of some mossy oaks, now waited with eager expec­tation the event of so singular a scene. In a few moments a bevy of elegant nymphs, dancing two by two, issued from the wood on the right, and an equal number of warlike knights, accompanied by a band of minstrels, from that of the left. The knights were clothed in green; on their bosoms shone a plate of burnished steel, and in their hands they grasped a golden targe and lance of beamy lustre. The nymphs, whose form and symmetry were beyond whatever poets dream, were dressed in robes of white, their zones were azure, dropt with diamonds, and their light brown hair decked with roses hung in ample ringlets. So quick, so [Page 116] light and airy was their motion, that the turf, the flowers shrunk not to the gentle pressure, and each smiling on her favourite knight, he slung his bril­liant arms aside, and mingled in the dance.

Whilst thus they flew in rapid measures over the lawn. Sir Gawen, forgetting his situation, and im­patient to salute the assembly, involuntarily stepped forward, and instantaneously a shrill and hollow gust of wind murmured through the woods, the moon dipt into a cloud, and the knights, the dames and aerial spirits vanished from his view, leaving the amazed Sir Gawen to repent at leisure of his precipitate intrusion; scarce, however, had he time to determine what he should pursue, when a gleam of light flashed suddenly along the horizon, and the beauteous being, whom he first beheld in the air, stood before him; he waved his snowy wand, and pointing to the wood, which now appeared sparkling with a thousand fires, moved gently on. Sir Gawen felt an irresistible impulse which com­pelled him to follow, and having penetrated the wood, he perceived many bright rays of light, which, darting like the beams of the sun, through every part of it, most beautifully illuminated the shafts of the trees. As they advanced forwards the radiance became more intense and converged towards the centre; and the fairy being turning quickly round, commanded Sir Gawen to kneel down and having squeezed the juice of an herb into his eyes, bade him now proceed, but that no mortal eye, unless its powers of vision were increas­ed, could endure the glory that would shortly burst [Page 117] upon them. Scarce had he uttered these words, when they entered an amphitheatre; In its centre was a throne of ivory inlaid with sapphires, on which sat a female form of exquisite beauty, a plain coro­net of gold obliquely crossed her flowing hair, and her robe of white sattin hung negligent in ample folds. Around her stood five and twenty nymphs clothed in white and gold, and holding lighted ta­pers; beyond these were fifty of the aerial beings, their wings of downy silver stretched for flight, and each a burning taper in his hand; and lastly, on the circumference of the amphitheatre shone one hundred knights in mail of tempered steel, in one hand they shook aloft a large targe of massy dia­mond, and in the other flashed a taper. So exces­sive was the reflection, that the targes had the lustre of a hundred suns, and when shaken, sent forth screams of vivid lightning; from the gold, the sil­ver, and the sapphires rushed a flood of tinted light, that mingling, threw upon the eye a series of re­volving hues.

Sir Gawen impressed with awe, with wonder and delight, fell prostrate on the ground, whilst the fairy spirit advancing, knelt and presented to the queen a chrystal vase. She rose, she waved her hand, and smiling, bade Sir Gawen to ap­proach. 'Gentle stranger,' she exclaimed, ‘let not fear appal thine heart for to him, whom cour­age, truth and piety have distinguished, our friendship and our love is given. Spirits of the blest we are, our sweet employment is to befriend the wretched and the weary, to lull the torture of [Page 118] anguish, and the horrour of despair. Ah! never shall the tear of innocence or the plaint of sorrow, the pang of injured merit, or the sigh of hopeless love, implore our aid in vain. Upon the moon­beam do we float, and light as air, pervade the habitations of men, and hearken, O favoured mor­tal! I tell thee, spirits pure from vice are present to thy inmost thoughts; when terrour and when madness, when spectres and when death surround­ed thee, our influence put to flight the ministers of darkness; we placed thee in the moon-light vale, and now upon thy head I pour the planetary dew, from Hecate's dread agents, it will free thee from wildering fear and gloomy superstition.’

She ended, and Sir Gawen, impatient to ex­press his gratitude, was about to speak, when sud­denly the light turned pale, and died away, the spirits fled, and musick soft and sweet was heard remotely in the air. Sir Gawen started, and in place of the refulgent scene of magic, he beheld a public road, his horse cropping the grass, which grew upon its edge, and a village at a little dis­tance, on whose spire the rising sun had shed his earliest beams.

WHEN the all conquering sword of the Romans had penetrated into the Southern part of Wales, and ensanguined the hostile plain with the blood of her most distinguished heroes, Mo­dred, the sage, sought a retreat from the desolating rage of war; he was a Druid, renowned for his piety and wisdom; yet he had lived to see the ho­ly altar besprinkled with the blood of its priests, and the sacred groves polluted by the crimes of a licentious soldiery!

[Page 127]The asylum he chose was a spacious cave, divid­ed by the hand of nature into a variety of apart­ments: an obscure path led to it by a gentle des­cent, and by a variety of intricate windings seemed to pronounce it inaccessible, but to those whom the friendly hand of the Druid guided: thus seques­tered, it formed a retreat for innocence and virtue.

Here the tender virgin fled to escape violation, and the modest matron insult; and here the wid­ow and the fatherless sought protection and conso­lation, here too the hardy veteran, covered with wounds, oftimes repaired from the battle, and healed by the sage's pious care, returned with re­newed strength and vigour to the fight. Every morn and eve, Modred was seen prostrate beneath a venerable grove of oak, which graced the side of a hill, that rose at a small distance from his habita­tion; there he erected the sacred altar, and agree­ably to the custom of his revered ancestors, laid on it the sacred oblation of meal. Thus passed his days in prayer, contemplation, and acts of benevo­lence. His drink was from a clear streamlet, that distilled from the rock, out of which his rude dwel­ling was formed, and his food salubrious herbs, which grew within the precincts of his habitation.— Such was Modred, the Druid; in whom the sim­plicity of childhood, and the wisdom of old age, were observed to unite.

One day having wandered beyond the bounds he usually prescribed himself, in pursuit of me­dicinal herbs, he observed the ground to be distain­ed with several drops of blood, and perceiving, a [Page 128] few paces further, that it widened into a tract of considerable dimensions, his humanity prompted him to follow it. It led him to a spot of ground, on which a person in armour lay extended; he ap­peared to be in a swoon, and his beaver being up, Modred could discern that he was in the flower of his age.

The Druid perceived by his armour, that he be­longed to the Roman army; but compassion for the helpless state in which he beheld him, caused him, at that instant, to forget all animosity; he raised him in his arms, and applied a sovereign cordial, that he always carried about him, to his lips, a few drops of which greatly revived him, but he was nevertheless so extremely exhausted from loss of blood, that he in vain attempted to rise up­on his feet. Modred, finding the stranger incapa­ble of rising, without other assistance than he was able to give, hastened back to the cavern, and re­turned with all speed, accompanied by Oscar:— Oscar was the most valiant of all the British youths, who fearless lifted the sword in defence of liberty. His courage had been manifest in many battles, which he had sought with the common enemy, and it was united with clemency and generosity. By the assistance of this youth, the stranger was sup­ported to Modred's cavern; but as he was a Ro­man, they first took the precaution to blind-fold him, lest, being an enemy, he should make observa­tions relative to the situation of the place, which might hereafter prove to their disadvantage.

[Page 129]Having conducted him into the cavern, they took the bandage from his eyes, unbraced his armour, and laid him on a couch of the softest moss; the Druid then examined his wounds, which he found by care might speedily be healed, and applying to them some herbs, which he knew to be of the most sovereign efficacy, left him awhile to his repose. An hour being elapsed, he renewed his visit, and found the stranger so much recovered by the reme­dies applied to his wounds, together with a gentle sleep, from which, on Modred's entrance he awoke, that he was able, in a faint voice, to enquire into whose hands he had fallen; but presently recollect­ing they were Britons, he testified by his counte­nance, that he expected little mercy at their hands.

The Druid, guessing at what passed in his mind, endeavoured to dispel his apprehensions: 'Youth,' said he, ‘you are in the hands of those, whom your nation calls barbarians, but though strangers to the specious arts used by civilized nations to gloss over the basest designs, the Britons are not unacquainted with the virtues of hospitality and humanity. They love victory, but they delight not in blood; dispel your fears, therefore, and rest assured, that while you remain in the cave of Modred, the Druid, you shall be secure from dan­ger or insult.’

In the morning, the Druid found his guest wonderfully recovered; who informed him, that he was an officer in the Roman army; that he had left the camp, which was stationed within a day's march of that place, in company with five [Page 130] other of the troop; their design being, he confes­sed, to make discoveries concerning the state of the enemy; but his men being, as he imagined, sub­orned by a brother officer, between whom and himself, there had been some trifling difference, they had basely turned their arms against him, and left him for dead on the spot, where the Druid first discovered him. He expressed the warmest acknowledgements for the kind treatment he had received, and, at Modred's request, followed him to the outward part of the cave, where a number of persons, of different sex and age, were assem­bled, being that morning returned from sacri­fice.

Among these, the superiour beauty of the fair Elsimena, arrested the attention of the young Ro­man. Her stature arose considerably above her companions, and, like her features, was formed with the most exact symmetry; a thousand beau­ties played round her mouth; her cheek disclosed a tincture pure as the opening rose; and her hair floated over her shoulders, in all the wild negli­gence of nature. From the playful hours of in­fancy, Elsimena had known no other parent, than Modred; to his care, a mother's dying breath had bequeathed her, and the pious sage religiously dis­charged the sacred trust reposed in him. He watched over her with the attention and care of a fond parent, and received from Elsimena the grate­ful return of filial tenderness and obedience. Oscar had long resigned his heart at the shrine of Elsime­na's beauty, nor was the fair maid insensible of his [Page 131] merit; on the contrary, Oscar beheld her affections captive; she burned with an equal flame, and a short period was to see them united.

Oscar, not without uneasiness, beheld his mistress exposed to the rapturous gaze of the young Roman; he observed that her charms touched his soul; and feared his noble mien and gallant deportment might cause Elsimena to draw between them a comparison not to his own advantage; but these modest apprehensions were dissipated, when he ob­served the coolness and reserve with which she repli­ed to his civilities; and how solicitous she was to disengage herself from his conversation. Claudius, for that was the name of the Roman, became eve­ry moment more enamoured of Elsimena; in the simple attire of a British maid, his heart confessed that she eclipsed the fairest Roman; but he had the mortification to find that she was insensible to every thing he could urge in behalf of his passion, and that her heart was solely devoted to Oscar.

Three days insensibly glided away, which the enamoured Claudius, happy in the presence of El­simena, thought no more than as many hours; but the Druid finding him restored to his former vigour, reminded him that it was time to depart: 'We have now,' said Modred, ‘discharged the debt, which humanity exacted from us, in your behalf; we have received you beneath our roof, and the sacred laws of hospitality, which we re­vere, forbid us to exert to your disadvantage, that power which we derive not from the strength of our arms, or the chance of war, but by the pri­vate [Page 132] calamity of our enemy; but now that you no longer claim our sufference, it is time that you depart, since we can no longer entertain you but as the enemy of our country, the base en­slaver of our rights and liberties: as such, a Brit­on cannot, without reproach, hold amicable con­verse with you.’

The young Roman expressed the highest sense of the Druid's generosity, and lamented that he was constrained to bear arms against a country to which he was indebted for his life, and, what was still dearer, his liberty.

While Claudius thus expressed himself, the Dru­id tied a bandage over his eyes, in the same man­ner, as when he first brought him to the cave, and then, with a generosity scarcely to be paralleled, consigned him to the care of Oscar, who waited to conduct him in safety to the place where they found him.

During the time that Claudius was entertained in the cave of Modred, the Britons having received intelligence that the Romans were on their march to attack them, were making great preparations for a vigorous defence: on the third day, the ar­mies encamped within sight of each other, and on the morning of the fourth, were drawn up in order for battle.

Elsimena having, with an aching heart, receiv­ed the farewell of her beloved Oscar, retired to the pious Druid, who, beneath the covert of a conse­crated grove, (which, as it stood on a rising ground, commanded a distant view of the plain, where the [Page 133] two armies were to engage) offered sacrifice to the gods for the success of the British arms.

The two armies engaged with equal fury, and for a long time it was doubtful on which side vic­tory would terminate: Elsimena, from the con­fines of the grove, beheld her lover rush into the midst of the battle, with a courage and resolution truly heroic; but when he leaped from the chariot to engage the enemy sword in hand, she stretched her aching eyes in vain, to distinguish him from the croud of gallant heroes, who united against the common foe.

The fight was long and desperate, but the supe­riour number of the Romans at length prevailed; the flower of the warlike Silures were slain, or tak­en prisoners, and the rest obliged to save them­selves by flight.

Elsimena anxiously enquired of the Britons, who fled toward the hills for shelter from the victorious enemy, concerning her lover, and with anguish heard the gallant youth had fallen among the slain; frantic with grief, she snatched a sword from one of them: 'How! my brave countrymen,' said she, ‘will you suffer the gallant heroes, who fought with you this day, in defence of our liberties, to fall unrevenged? For my part, I am resolved to fell my life dearly, and not till I have myself had the consolation of a dying sword in the blood of our enemies.’ Saying thus, like an arrow from a bow, she descended the hill, and urged on by despair, rushed into the midst of the enemy, who had now gained the foot of it, in pursuit of the fly­ing [Page 134] Britons, resolving, if she could not revenge the death of her lover, at least to perish in the attempt.

The Britons, animated by the conduct of Elsi­mena, once more faced the enemy; ashamed of being surpassed in courage by a woman, they at­tacked them with redoubled fury, and though the superiour numbers of the latter rendered all hope of victory abortive, to the great loss of the Ro­mans, they fought till either they were slain, or made prisoners. The Druid was, in the mean while, not an inactive spectator of this scene; ani­mated with a glorious enthusiasm, he seized the reins of a chariot, and vaulting into the seat, drove, with a desperate fury, into the midst of the fight, cutting down all before him, and repeatedly discharging darts upon the enemy, till, overpower­ed by numbers, he was constrained to yield him­self their prisoner.

But to return again to our fair heroine; urged on by despair, she attempted to rid herself of a life, which, since Oscar was slain, could no longer af­ford her pleasure; But Claudius, the young Ro­man, who had been entertained by the Druid, for­tunately observed her, and made a sign to his men, to surround and convey her prisoner to his tent; which was accordingly done, notwithstanding her efforts to prevent it, by endeavouring to put an end to her existence: but what was the excess of her joy, when in the tent, to which she was con­ducted by the Roman troops, she beheld her belov­ed Oscar! He was reclined on a superb sopha, and from the wounds, which he had received in battle, [Page 135] was extremely weak and faint; so that the un­expected sight of his mistress a prisoner, and in the tent of his rival, raised in his breast such violent emotions, that they were nearly fatal to him. Nor was Elsimena less agitated to behold her lover, contrary to her expectations, alive; yet a prisoner and apparently on the brink of the grave. She sunk at his feet in a swoon, out of which it was some time before she was recovered by the attend­ants, who, by the orders of their master, treated her with the utmost respect and attention; but what afterwards contributed greatly to her recov­ery was, to find from the surgeon, who had exa­mined the wounds of her lover, that they were not mortal.

Elsimena having, at the request of Oscar, in­formed him by what means she fell into the hands of the enemy, was in return acquainted by him, that she was in the tent of the stranger, who had sojourned with them in the Druid's cave; who, he had learned, was son to the Roman General; he also informed her, that it was entirely owing to the humanity of Claudius, he owed his life. ‘O­verpowered,’ said he, ‘by the enemy, I sunk down covered with wounds, and faint with loss of blood, when the generous Roman hastily ad­vanced to my assistance; his own soldiers bore me to this tent, where I have been treated with a res­pect, rather due to the victor than the vanquish­ed. Thus has he rendered me his debtor for a life, which must, in future, prove a burthen to me.’

[Page 136]'Have better thoughts, my Oscar,' said Elsime­na, supposing he alluded to the prospect of a tedi­ous captivity; ‘who can tell but the grateful Ro­man may design the generous treatment we re­ceive as a prelude to the freedom he means to offer you.’ ‘Indulge not that flattering thought, my Elsimena,’ said the youth, ‘which, should it prove a true presage, can afford to me but small consolation. Do not I see thee captive to my rival? to one, who is too powerfully awake to thy charms, to forego the possession of them: O cruel thought! it wrings my very soul.’

I shall pass over the many tender melancholy things, which passed between the lovers on this subject, (which they could the more freely utter, as they found their attendants were not familiar with the Celtic tongue) as also the solemn protest­ations which Elsimena made, to preserve the faith she had plighted to Oscar inviolate, whether life or death awaited her, and inform the reader, that the Romans having gained a complete victory over the Britons, Claudius returned to the tent where Elsi­mena and Oscar were. He approached them both with the most obliging and respectful air, and addressing himself to Oscar, though his eyes insen­sibly inclined toward the fair captive—'Fortune,' said he, ‘is not always the friend to valour; if so, Oscar would this day have been a conqueror; blush not, gallant youth; the Romans have lit­tle to boast of a conquest, which redounds equal­ly to the honour of the vanquished and the victor; but here indeed,’ said he, turning to Elsimena, ‘ [Page 137]is a prize, that may well swell the pride of con­quest! Weep not, beautiful Elsimena,’ continued ‘he, you are in the hands of one, who, though in­flamed by your beauty, will not forget the respect due to your virtue and misfortunes.’

Little more passed at that time, Claudius being summoned to the tent of his father; who, having in the action been slightly wounded by a javelin, had ordered enquiry to be made among the prison­ers for the Briton, who threw it; and further to aid the discovery, had offered life and freedom to the owner. The next day the javelin was exposed, in the tent of the Roman General, but as the Brit­ons fought, for the most part, with darts and swords, few appeared to review it, much less to own it.

News, however, was at length brought to the General, that one of the prisoners confessed himself to be the man, who threw it. The Roman com­mander ordered him to be brought into his pres­ence, and having dismissed his attendants, asked him many questions concerning the manner in which he came by it. 'Sir,' said Modred, (for it was in truth that venerable sage) ‘it once belong­ed to a fair unfortunate, who has long since des­cended to the dust.’ The General, whose curi­osity was excited by this reply, requested, with emotion, to know further particulars; which the Druid thus proceeded to relate. ‘When Aulus Di­dius,’ said he, ‘succeeded the gallant Ostorius, who gained immortal honour by the conquest of our monarch, the valiant Caractatus, in the com­mand [Page 138] of the Roman forces; Ethelda, the daugh­ter of a gallant warrior, who has since fallen in defence of our liberties, was made captive by a young commander, who led a numerous legion against our nation. The conqueror, struck with her beauty, and respecting her misfortunes, strove to lighten her captivity by the most generous treatment; but, alas! in so doing, he imposed on her more lasting chains. She no longer view­ed him but with the eyes of love, and a passion, too strong to be erased by time, took possession of her heart. The young conqueror, as I before ob­served, was not insensible of her charms; but E­thelda knew too well what was due to her birth and sex to yield on dishonourable terms; she re­pelled the solicitation of her lover with a firmness that at once awed and increased his flame. Con­vinced of her merit, he at length offered her his hand, which the fair captive had not power to refuse. That very hour, she became his wife; but a final separation, in a short time after, took place. On their march to join the Roman Gen­eral, they were surprised by a body of our troops; led on by the father of Ethelda, they routed the enemy and rescued the prisoners, which were tak­en in the former skirmish. Ethelda, from a rising ground, beheld the contest with inconceivable horrour; not knowing for the success of which to direct her prayers to Heaven; the liberties, and perhaps the lives, of her father and country­men, depending on the one side, and, on the oth­er, those of the man, for whom she had enstrang­ed herself from both.’

[Page 139] ‘The engagement was obstinate and bloody, but victory was on the point of terminating in favour of our arms, when the Romans were re­lieved by a troop of horse; but not before the unfortunate Ethelda had seen both her father and her husband fall.’

‘This reinforcement of the Romans threw the Britons into confusion; they fled with precipita­tion, and escaped the sword of the enemy under covert of the night. Ethelda fled, not knowing whither, till her strength failing, she sunk down at the door of a poor widow, who received her into the humble dwelling, and set before her some refreshment; but it was two days before she could be prevailed upon either to eat or speak; after this, she became more calm, and related to the good woman the calamities, that had befal­len her and caused her grief; she also declared it as her determination, never more to unite with society, and joyfully accepted the poor widow's offer of abiding in her cottage, and partaking the small comforts her humble lot afforded. Ethel­da died two years after, having first given birth to a female infant.’

'I had often,' continued Modred, ‘observed her at our Holy Sacrifices, where she constantly ap­peared covered with a veil, which totally con­concealed her person from the eyes of men; cu­riosity prompted me to enquire into her story, which I learned first from the woman, at whose house she sojourned, and afterwards from Ethel­da herself; for it is necessary, Sir, to inform you, [Page 140] that although animated by the glorious cause of liberty, I for once ventured to raise the hostile sword in defence of my country, my office is to speak comfort to the afflicted, to utter divine mysteries, and to recommend universal peace and concord to mankind; being, to be plain, of the sacred order of Druids.’

‘My office gave me free access to Ethelda, who readily made me the confident of her misfortunes, and with her last breath, recommended her infant daughter to my protection. On her death, I took the little lisper home to my abode; and when the fury of war forced me to seek shelter in these mountains, she was the companion of my flight, and for eighteen years has been the solace of my declining age; but, alas! my Elsimena is either numbered among the dead, or must waste her blooming years in an irksome captivity.’

The Roman commander asked, with an emotion that caused Modred to suspect he was prompted by other motives, than mere curiosity, in his enquiries, what were his reasons for supposing, that the daugh­ter of Ethelda was either numbered among the dead, or a captive. The sage then informed him of all that he knew concerning Elsimena; how, on being told her lover had fallen in the battle, she rushed, sword in hand, into the midst of the enemy; how, by the intrepidity of her conduct, the flying troops were inspired with courage once more to face the enemy, and to revenge the death of their brave companions; and lastly, that it had been rumoured she was a prisoner in the tent of Claudi­us, [Page 141] the General's son. Then reverting to the for­mer part of his discourse, 'That javelin, my lord,' said he, ‘with which it was my fortune to wound you, the wretched mother of Elsimena, previous to the fatal engagement, which bereft her of all she held dear, concealed in her garments, for the purpose of putting an end to her existence, should she live to see either her parent or husband slain. But that Almighty Power, who permitted her affliction, endued her with fortitude to bear it. The weapon once belonged to her husband, and in her exile she preserved it as a precious relic sa­cred to his remembrance. On her death, it fell into my hand; since which, for the same reason, I have kept it as belonging to one, in whose mis­fortunes I was deeply interested.’

'Yesterday,' continued Modred, ‘instigated by an impulse, for which I cannot account, I armed myself with it; and, when inspired by the exam­ple of my brave countrymen, I ascended the war­like chariot, resolving to yield up my life in de­fence of our liberties, having expended my darts, as a last effort, I threw the javelin.’

'Wonderful and mysterious,' said the Roman, ‘are the ways of Providence! in me, venerable Modred, behold the father of Elsimena, and once the husband of the unfortunate Ethelda!’

'Mysterious Heaven!' said the Druid, ‘can it really be so?’

'I fell, indeed,' said the General, ‘among the slain, but was not mortally wounded; the brave fellows, who fought by my side, bore me from [Page 142] the field of battle, and a short time restored me to my former vigour; but my blooming bride was forever lost. I caused strict search to be made after her, but all was in vain; since, till this day, I could never obtain the least tidings of her. The javelin, with which I was yesterday wounded, I remembered once to have been mine, it having, for several ages, been handed down in our family from father to son, as a relic of anti­quity. I recollected the period when I lost it, and thought it might have been thrown by a Briton, who had fought in that engagement, which for­ever separated me from Ethelda; methought it might lead to a discovery of her, or at least in­form me concerning the manner of her death. This, venerable Modred, was the cause of my enquiry, and Heaven doubtless inspired me with the thought, that it might restore to me the pledge of my Ethelda's love.’

While this discourse passed between the Roman commander and the venerable Druid, a scene near­ly as interesting was acting in the tent of Claudius. The grateful youth, having discovered to his fa­ther that the generous Britons, to whom he was indebted for his life and liberty, were among the prisoners, received his permission to offer them re­wards suitable to the signal service they had done him.

'Generous Oscar,' said Claudius, 'it is time to convince you, that ingratitude does not form a part of the Roman character; abide with us, gal­lant youth, enrol yourself among the friends of ‘ [Page 143]Rome, and in return they will bestow on you the highest honours; you are silent, Oscar; but your countenance tells me, you treat our proffer­ed friendship with disdain. Well then, since it is so, Claudius alone must pay the debt he owes; from this moment, gallant youth, you are free, and blush not to receive life and freedom from one, who to your generosity is indebted for the power of bestowing either. Oscar, you are silent; I would do much to purchase your esteem, your friend­ship; six British prisoners, whom you shall name, will I also add: still are you silent!’

'Claudius,' said the youth, ‘a Briton's heart must speak in his countenance; for the lives and liberties of his friends, Oscar offers you the return of a grateful heart; but, for his own, Claudius, can he offer thanks for life and freedom, when robbed of all that can render either desirable?’

'Oscar,' said the young Roman, ‘I understand you; this fair maid is the object, to which we both aspire; we both love Elsimena, and the happiness of one (so say our passions) must be founded on the despair of the other. Must it then be so, Oscar? No; you shall see that a Ro­man can soar above the low pursuits of self-grati­fication, that his pride and confidence rests not alone in the strength of his arms, nor in the con­quest of cities, but in the subjection of his passions. You possess the heart of Elsimena; fortune has given me a right over her person, but it is a right which I scorn to avail myself of. Take her, gallant youth, receive the fair Els [...]mena, even [Page 144] from the hand of thy rival, and henceforth re­member that the Romans fight, not to tyrannize over and enslave, but to civilize mankind.’ Say­ing this, he took the hand of Elsimena, and united it with that of her beloved Oscar.

The joy of both was, for some minutes, absorb­ed in admiration; that Claudius, in the ardour of youth, when the affections are unused to yield to the curb of reason, in the height of prosperity, which is so seldom tempered by moderation, should thus nobly square his conduct by the most rigid rules of virtue; thus nobly yield up the object of his love into the arms of another, struck them with an awe, which, for some moments, deprived them of utterance. They threw themselves at the feet of Claudius, who having once made the pain­ful sacrifice, experienced from it a satisfaction, in­finitely surpassing that which any sensual gratifica­tion could have bestowed.

Affairs were in this posture, when a message ar­rived from the General, requesting the attendance of his son, and the two prisoners, who were en­tertained in his tent. For, upon enquiry, he had learned that they were really Elsimena and Oscar.

Claudius, who supposed his father's summons to proceed merely from a curiosity to see and honour those, to whom he was indebted for the life and liberty of his son, immediately proceeded with them to his tent. When they entered, they were inexpressibly delighted to find the venerable Dru­id; who, in his turn, received no less joy at be­holding the young pair. He presented Elsimena [Page 145] to the Roman commander, who embraced her with a warmth truly parental, and with delight scarcely to be equalled, viewed the beauties of her form, promising a mind equally noble and perfect.

Claudius and the young Britons, as the reader will conclude, were at a loss to comprehend the cause of this seemingly mysterious behaviour, till they were informed of it by Modred; who, at the request of the General, related to them the partic­ulars of Ethelda's story. Elsimena then threw herself at the feet of her sire, to testify her entire obedience to his will. The passion, which Claudi­us lately entertained for her person, was now chan­ged into brotherly love; he embraced her with the tenderest and purest affection, and rejoiced sin­cerely in having gained so charming a sister. Joy was diffused over every countenance, excepting that of Oscar, who greatly feared Elsimena was once more on the point of being snatched from his arms; but his fears vanished, when, at the request of his son, the Roman commander joined his hand with that of his mistress.

Such was the joy, which pervaded the breast of the noble Roman, on receiving to his arms so lovely an image of his lost Ethelda, and such was his gratitude to the venerable Druid, who had for so many years cherished and protected her, and, to whom he was beside indebted for the life of his son, that he promised to grant him whatever he should ask in favour of his countrymen. Modred availed himself of this generous offer, by requesting the lives and liberties of all, who had, the day before, [Page 146] been made prisoners; which was accordingly granted.

Through the influence of the Druid, Elsimena and Claudius, an honourable and advantageous peace was soon concluded between the Romans and the warlike Britons, who inhabited that part of the country.

The eyes of the venerable Druid were, in a good old age, closed by his beloved Elsimena; who, with Oscar, lived a series of years in uninterrupted peace and happiness.

SIR Reginald de Cuthbert, a noble knight who had long fought valiantly under the banners of the Holy Cross, when the armies were going to retire to their respective quarters for the winter, applied to the general for leave to return home. Crowned with glory, and arrayed with honour, Sir Reginald sought retirement in the land of his fathers; intending to dedicate the remainder of his days to the service of his God, in defence of whose name he had so often engaged in the hor­ror of battle.

The many perilous adventures the knight en­countered on his way from the Holy Land, we find not recorded in history, until his arrival at the borders of a dreary forest on the confines of Ger­many. The twilight was spreading over the hem­isphere, when Sir Reginald entered what at first [Page 168] appeared to him a small wood, which he now found extended itself by degrees into an immense and almost impenetrable forest. The knight prick­ed forward with great impatience, till the shades of night, which fell heavily over the forest, in some measure arrested his progress; the narrow winding path grew more and more intricate; the clouds, which seemed charged with thunder, passed slow­ly along the heavens; the wind now arose and whistled hollow through the branches, the rain began to rattle amidst the trees, and a tremendous storm seemed to be fast approaching, while the darkness of night surrounded him with all its hor­rors.

At length, overcome with fatigue and impeded by the bushes and underwood, the knight alighted from his horse, and threw himself upon the ground; but soon arose, and securing his trusty steed, walked slowly onward in hopes of finding some solitary cottage, which might afford him shelter from the 'pelting of the pitiless storm.' Ere the knight had measured many paces, he perceived a light, which, from its lofty situation, at first appeared to his deluded eye a brilliant star; he was, however, soon undeceived, and joy reani­mated his drooping spirits, in a few moments he found himself at the gate of a castle. The knight knocked violently at the castle gate. ‘Who is there?’ some body; whom he could not see, snarl­led with a rough voice from above. ‘In the name of all the blessed saints,’ exclaimed Sir Reginald, ‘I conjure you to open quickly the gate to a trav­eller, [Page 169] who hast lost his way in the forest, and is piteously beaten by the tempest.’ No answer was returned, but the gate was opened by an unseen hand. The entrance was still and gloomy as the grave. The knight groped his way through the dark. 'Come!' roared the same rough voice he had heard before; at the same time, a hand, cold as ice, pulled him along. Sir Reginald shuddered violently, and was going to retire, when the gate was shut after him with a thundering noise.

Perceiving that all retreat was cut off, he bade defiance to his fate, and resolved to meet the worst as a man. After advancing a few paces, the icy hand was drawn back. The knight stopped to wait till it should again lay hold of him, and lead him farther; but waited in vain; he groped a­round, expecting to find his guide, whom he fancied to be near, but he was gone. Not a footstep or the most distant sound was heard through the whole building. Not a single ray of light broke through the dismal darkness, which surrounded him, yet he proceeded with extended arms and ad­vanced about thirty steps, when something im­peded his passage, he endeavoured to examine it with his hand, but it seemed suddenly to start back; he once more stretched out his hand, and felt a heap of skulls and bones. Horror and a chilly tremor shook his whole frame. The awful still­ness, which surrounded him, was still uninter­rupted.

The knight was fixed to the ground, wildly star­ing through the impenetrable darkness. At length [Page 170] a hollow broken sound was heard, which seemed at a great distance. After a long pause, it vibrated in his ear a second time. The idea that he had nothing more to lose, and that every means of ef­fecting an escape from that residence of horror was cut off, entirely subdued his fear, and prompted him to follow that sound. A few paces brought him to a stone staircase. Having descended five steps, a doleful groan seemed to proceed from a room not far distant. The knight advanced slow­ly, and with the utmost circumspection, musing on his perilous situation, when at once he felt the pas­sage obstructed by a door, which opened without difficulty. The room to which it led was also a residence of darkness and dismal silence. The knight was resolved to enter it boldly. Fortu­nately he examined the entrance with his foot, before he proceeded, and found with unspeakable horror, that it was bottomless. The hollow dismal sound again struck his ear from a small distance. He shuddered violently, and staggered onward. Every thing was now lonely and silent all around; at length he came to a second staircase, ascended seven steps, and then descended as many, when his eyes suddenly beheld a faint glimmer of light, which seemed to emerge from below, at a great distance. Coming nearer, the knight observed that he was standing on the brink of a deep abyss, from which the glimmer broke forth. An old half rotten staircase led down; he however resolv­ed to risk every thing, and pulling off his shoes to avoid making a noise, began to descend. When [Page 171] he came to the eighth step, the hollow sound was again repeated: the knight stopped a moment, and then went on with returning courage. When he had reached the middle, the light suddenly dis­appeared, and impenetrable darkness surrounded him once more. He stopped to consider what could be done, when a stone got loose beneath his feet, and rolled down with a thundering noise a­gainst the door of the vault. ‘Who disturbs my rest?’ the hollow, well known voice exclaimed. Sir Reginald was rivetted to the ground in dread expectation; terror sealed his lips. The door of the vault opened slowly, and a pale white figure appeared, with a candle in one hand. It advanc­ed two steps, lifted up one hand in a menacing manner, and disappeared. The sight of this dreadful apparition almost petrified him on the spot, his senses seemed to forsake him, and the blood congealed within his veins.

The knight having recovered a little the use of his senses, with difficulty regained the top of the steps, and from thence perceived a passage quite different from the other, and following it he arriv­ed at the foot of a spiral staircase. He ascended many steps, at length a partition impeded him, he pushed forcibly against it with his right hand, and shivered a glass pane into a thousand pieces. 'Who is there?' a rough voice exclaimed. At the same time a door opened, and a most alarming discourse filled the knight with dismal apprehen­sions. 'Have you sharpened the knife?' one of the talkers asked. 'Yes, it is bright and sharp,' [Page 172] replied another voice, ‘his blood shall flow abund­antly.’ With these words the door burst open. Horror and despair now winged Sir Reginald's steps. He flew down the staircase, and had scarce­ly reached the bottom, when he was suddenly seized by the ice-cold hand, which he had felt on his entrance in that abode of terror. Here the knight's senses fled, and he dropped down in a swoon.

When Sir Reginald opened his eyes, he found himself in a splendid room, lying at his ease on a superb bed, and a girl with two servants sitting by the bed-side, chaffing his temples. 'Where am I?' were the first sounds he uttered. They assured him, he was in good hands; on enquiring to whom the castle belonged, he was informed it was the property of the Lady Countess of Darbis, who would see him in the morning. An excellent sup­per was soon after placed on the table, and the servants retired after he had finished his meal.

When left to himself, the knight began to muse on the adventures of that eventful and alarming evening. A thousand ideas crouded upon his ima­gination, and no clue could be found to extricate himself from the mazes of wonder and astonish­ment in which he was lost, the fearful apprehen­sion of whose power he was in, and what would become of him, lay heavy on his heart; impatient to have the mystery of his situation unfolded, and yet dreaded that period. Hope and fear crouded alternately upon his soul, until at length he fell asleep, overcome by fatigue of body and mind.

[Page 173]Sir Reginald awoke at ten o'clock in the morn­ing, and after breakfast, was conducted by a page through three magnificent apartments; in the fourth, the lady of the castle, dressed in black, with a veil of the same colour, was seated on a sofa. She rose on his entering the room, and court­sied very civilly, then retook her seat. After a long pause, the knight said something in a faulter­ing accent, which was meant as an excuse for his intruding visit. The lady kindly bade him wel­come to her castle, and moreover desired him to be seated. This kindness dispelled all perplexity, and gave him new courage; he related his adven­tures of the preceding evening, at which the lady of the castle smiled often, and promised the knight, that the whole mysterious adventure should be elucidated. After dinner, the servants were cal­led into the room, and Sir Reginald found every strange event, that had filled him with such ter­ror, so natural, that he even blushed at his childish fears. The ice-cold hand—the skulls and bones —the spectre, &c. were found to be the necessary appendages to every castle. The cold hand be­longed to the phlegmatic porter. He drew his hand suddenly back, because the knight trembled violently and struggled to disengage himself, and was obliged to return and light the torch, which the wind had extinguished. Sir Reginald, with staggering steps, had reached a remote part of the castle, where the Countess had erected a kind of Mausoleum to her deceased husband; and his hand had touched the skulls and bones it was dec­orated [Page 174] with. The groans and sighs, which he heard, came from an old domestic, who had a vi­olent tooth-ache. When the stone rolled down, she went out of the cellar, where she was suffered to lie, to see who was there; she threatened him with her hand, and went back, because she mistook him for one of the servants, and fancied the stone had been thrown down on purpose to frighten her. The door, which led to the bottomless room, belong­ed to an old cellar, where the steps had been destroy­ed by the ravages of time, and which the servants had left open by carelessness. The room on the spiral staircase, where the knight had broken the glass pane, was inhabited by the cook and butler. Their discourse, part of which he overheard, con­cerned a hog, which was to be killed the next day. When he was hurrying down the staircase, the porter received him in his arms, to prevent his falling, and carried him, during his swoon, to the apartment, where he recovered the use of his senses.

Sir Reginald was ashamed that this accidental concurrence of circumstances could have rendered him so ridiculously fearful and cowardly. ‘This adventure,’ said the knight to himself, ‘shall teach me to bridle my impetuous imagination, to ex­amine every thing uncommon by the torch of rea­son, and thus to guard my understanding against the dangerous delusions of a lively impetuous fancy.’