The royal captives: a fragment of secret history: / copied from an old manuscript, by Ann Yearsley. ; Volume I[-II]. ; [Seven lines of quotation]

THE ROYAL CAPTIVES.

MY Guardian returned with his lovely daugh|ter. I saw them pass through the court, but sought them not. Hope was extinguished; I paused in silence on the future; misery alone was seen. Where could I find an asylum for afflicted beauty? How defend a wife!—Filial piety here forbad my indulgence of soft ideas. My exiled Father, my lost Mother, claimed my exertion, and I resolved to rise superior to the dear delirium. "Can I see him depart alone," said I, looking wildly at the horizon; "can I lie dreaming of unutterable worlds in the eyes of Emily, whilst he is roving joyless round the earth? No, I will imitate his virtue, and share his fate."

Full of my purpose, I rang for my dinner to be brought into my study, and sent back a line by the servant, in which I requested my father to hasten our departure on the morrow.

"All is now concluded," I exclaimed, with a sigh. "Woman, fascinating woman, shall enslave me no more! I will hurry from the indolence with which she impregnates the very air around

her, and the sounds of war shall awaken me to energy. Yes! I will go to the Duke of B****, and, unknown to my father, will implore his assist|ance in asserting our privileges of sharing, at least, the common freedom of mankind. Must we for ever behold the sword of Death held over us, merely be|cause we are the relatives of a King! May we not breathe with liberty? Execrable state! My father shall be happy! Unerring Mover of eternal life! do thou so direct my youthful ardour as to make it pro|pitious to his clouded fortune: give me war and death, but suffer the gentle rays of peace to fall on his hours!"

Thus, indulging alternately the luxury of rea|ding, and of thought, I remained in my study till the approach of evening, when I saw Emily stray|ing negligently down the terrace-walk, towards the opening of the pleasure garden. She sometimes stooped to smell the hyacinth as it grew, and stood meditating on the rose without plucking it; as she loosed the beauteous bud from her hold, it seemed to fly back to its parent-branches, as if conscious of the death it had escaped, and pleased in remaining a little longer in the fragrant family. Again I saw her hesitate, with her hands folded, and her head reclined on one shoulder, to gaze on the jonquils which had been gathered at noon, and now lay dying, neglected, on the turf. Her white scarf waved on the officious wind as she turned the corner of the grove which secluded her from my sight. My eyes remained for a moment fixed to the point

from whence she had disappeared. What had I now to do in my study; My resolves were formed: I had offered up the dearest wishes of my soul at the altar of my duty; it could be no crime to bid Emily a long farewel—No! No! My heart was too honest, and honestly did it ever obey the feelings of Nature, when those feelings were in unison with the pleasant duties it owed to my fellow-creatures.

I tripped lightly down the stairs, hastened through the hall, whispered an adieu to every well known tree, and threw a parting look on each va|riegated blossom.

"Tomorrow," said I, with a sigh, (as I touched a carnation Emily had planted,) "To morrow I leave thee, tender flower. Mayest thou long be cherished by the hand that placed thee here, whilst I am becoming roughly inured to savage valour, and a foe to peace!—Ah! what a contrast! Thou art not capable of destroying, thou art not MAN!"

As I cast a lingering eye athwart the embroidered parterre, memory ran back to the moment when Emily brought the bouquette, with this innocent apology: 'They must once die, and why not die with you?'

Dear Emily, "(replied my busy thought) "Henry must die! and why not die with you?"

Rapt with my own ideas, I fancied the Carnation began to shut her richly-tinted beauties.—"Thou art no niggard, sweet flower! Thou hast a right to mourn, while thy beloved sun is stealing to his

western loves!—He will return—When will Henry return?

Here, the age-loving ivy crept round the venerable oak, as if enamoured of her hoary protector—There, the honey-suckle willingly entangled herself in the snares laid by the wily gardener round the bower to receive her encroachments; and above me, the blackbird hailed the dewfall with his love-lengthen|ed song.

Bounteous Creator! Are not all thy tribes in harmony? can Nature vary from herself? Is she not glowing with universal love? Are not the minutiae of things eternally moving in her behalf? Why then must man throw the freezing drops of self-denial on the warm transports of the heart.

Under this kind of reasoning, and full of ques|tions, for which I required answers from some pow|er stronger than myself, could my emotions be enough regulated to play with safety round my judgment, while in the presence of Emily? Ought I to have followed her? A gentleman would say— "Yes."; a lady would say—"Nothing."

Reclined on a bank, and perusing a paper, I saw Emily in an arbour of woodbines. She saw me not, as I stole like a thief round coveted trea|sure; and I sat myself down behind her. Flowers, and leaves of various kinds formed her only external shields from so ardent a lover; but had she not in|vincible innocence?

Often did I murmur at the shrubbery, whose green trappings waved themselves so busily as to conceal her speaking eyes; but as the moments were deli|cious ones, I waited happily the denouement.

After reading the paper she turned herself a little —I could observe her features—Judge my soul by thy own, when she sang with a tender air,

Angels! who our paths prepare, And on your azure pinions rest, To watch the human heart, Sleep not!—make me all your care! While secret passion wounds my breast, Some heav'nly balm impart!

Guard me to my lone retreat! Where the nun unnotic'd pines; Her tender flame unknown!— There, till my heart forgets to beat, And mem'ry his fair shade resigns, Henry will be my own.

Love, which would have forced me to advise, inspired me at the same moment with the fear of offending.—Emily arose to be gone; for the evening star appeared, and the blackbird was sunk to repose.—

"My dear girl!" said I, rushing from my con|cealment—I could say no more—Emily shrieked, and I caught her in my arms. Pointed as lightning is the transport of an oppressed heart, when boun|ding towards the object of its care.—I held her to my bosom, unable to tell her why. Was not such a moment worth an age of trammeled love? Heaven should, at that moment, have called me from life.

Soon did the charming maid disengage herself and recover her native dignity. I could make no apology. True, I had not exceeded the bounds of

virtue, but I had broken rudely on her reserve; and waited in silence that sentence which, I knew, must throw me on my fate.

'Was it well done, Sir,' (said she, with a faulter|ing voice) 'to intrude on my retirement? Do you feel an increase of pleasure by having acquired the knowledge of my self-delusion? You have acted ungenerously, and your conduct may prove destruc|tive to more than me.—'

Throwing myself at her feet, I loudly exclaimed —"Hold, incomparable Maid! Pronounce not my doom: here will I kneel till you are convinced how dearly your felicity is prized by my fond heart. I am not ungenerous, I will sacrifice my peace, my life, to the tranquility of your unblemished mind! —I will for ever remain at your disposal, but I ne|ver can cease to love you! O, Emily! I have long suffered, have long strove to banish you from my imagination; my strength of soul is not suffici|ent—Without you I am sick; without you I hate existence; and all the varied tints of creative Na|ture fade on my joyless sight. What must I do! Can you teach me not to adore you? Have you the power of tearing your image from my remembrance? No! I will hold you till every object is shut out by Death, and too surely I shall fall a victim to de|spair and love."

Still holding her hand, I found she shook with perturbation: the pauses of her breath grew short: She sighed, and with difficulty requested me to rise.

"Say you pardon me, generous Emily! suffer me at least to indulge the melancholy comfort of believing myself honoured with your friendship; think with what anguish I go—"

'Go!—whither would you go?—Can you leave my father?'—

"I have a father!—"

'True—I had forgot you have any father but mine.'

The artless maid put her hand to her forehead, as if endeavouring to reconcile her judgment to the circumstance of the moment: but she grew more embarrassed, and her hesitation increased the trans|port of my impassioned soul; all was forgot but Emily! I grew wild with love; rose from the earth, sealed a wournful adieu on her chaste lips; and, in that moment, could have fled with her to some un|known world!

How finely wrought is the mind of man!—Yet how seldom are his harmonic powers tuned by a skilful hand. Vulgar objects draw out vulgar tones; but, when touched by refinement, his thrillings are exquisite, and he melts the heart of another by that mysterious flame in which himself is dissolving!

That Emily had caught a portion of my fervour, I had reason to hope, but virtue was the master-key of her feelings.

We cast a melancholy look on the star that hung on the end of evening; it glided over our heads; we were soon to see it no more.

"So pass our joys!—"

'True; and so pass our sorrows,' replied the self-collected maid—

"Are they not wise who monopolize the few pleasures of life, and hoard them in remembrance from the thief of nature?—Time, my Emily, steals the moments of felicity: whilst we seize his trea|sures, the old traveller stands still!"

'Time cannot steal the pleasures I have been taught to prize—I feel them as emanations of some great power, to whom time itself is a slave; of course I shall never too eagerly seize felicity, but take my my little lot and be content.'

I was now sensible that I was out in my part, for I really did myself the credit to think I had assumed a designing character in my last speech, not at all natural to me.

Emily continued—'I had hoped you would have remained to comfort my father till the return of my brothers. That idea is banished—I am acquainted with your rank; and to prove your superiority am at the same moment surprized with an avowal of your love, and of your departure. This is the pre|sumption of a man whose affections are subservient to his ambition.'—

"Torture me not! You are above the snares employed by the artful of your sex to humble the slaves who adore them. Too good to rack my heart, merely because it is your own, and keep me in the horrors of suspence to feed an ill-timed vanity.— Adieu, Emily!—we may never meet more; but I

could have wished, that though I should obey my father, you would not hate me!"

The thoughtful maid stood silent—her eyes were bent to the earth—My thoughts were breaking into wild disorder; and the only prospect which gave me temporary ease, was that of rushing into danger, when once I had left her, that I might shorten an existence no longer desirable.

"Cruel and unjust are you to yourself and me! Was it possible you could so lately breathe the name of Henry! could you so tenderly sing of love, while your heart was a stranger to the sacred flame?— You accuse me of ambition to throw me from you."

Roused from her meditative attitude she gave me her hand—I pressed it to my lips, and she generous|ly replied, 'What have I to do with foolish reserve! I have no guilt to conceal—My heart stands confest to the Father of All! Yes, exalted Henry! I dare to love you while you love virtue; and, among your many perfections, filial regard is in my estimation not the least.—Go! preserve your worthy father; yet leave me not I conjure you till—'

"Till when?"—said I, hastily interrupting her. "I cannot marry you, dear Emily; my fate is un|decided.—I must go!—never!—perhaps never to hold you thus; to hear you speak, to listen to your instructive converse: nor may I take you with me. I have no home. It is a father leads me on; can you forgive me? It is I that am unjust; I have in|stantaneously

deceived you. You are wronged by the man who adores you."

'Be more calm' (replied Emily) 'think me not wedded to your person: lament not the necessity of the moment, but preserve your father.'

"Do I possess your soul, as you possess mine? I wish you to languish for me in whatever scene you may in future be engaged: I shall in absence sigh for you! I will adore the sun that cheers you! I will gaze on the moon, and fancy my Emily is at that moment whispering my name through the mid|night breeze—yet I cannot call you for ever mine."

'How little do you know me, Henry—Is mar|riage the only tie that can relieve your fears? Will you owe nothing to me? All institutions were in|vented by man; that in particular is necessary to his feeble judgment. Marriage is the only chain for two suspecting souls, mutually in fear of each other; invested with prerogative they are watchful and suspicious; apparently polite, they are in pri|vate cooly envenomed, and hourly becoming prac|tised in deliberate deceit: Life wears away in una|vailing murmurs—But can Henry know no other security?—Is he a stranger to that lambent, that eternal flame which ever encircles kindred minds? Go—absence will not make you less dear—love me if you can—continue free, and save a father!'

"How can I depart unblest! Ah, Emily! should no future world exist, where is the reward for our self-denying principles?"

'Presumptuous Henry! We are not capable but of transient happiness! The indulgence of our wishes could not render us permanently blest; all must fade away. Why we are ushered into exist|ence, or why, after wasting life, we die, never can be answered. But should the privation of facul|ty only precede some mighty change, it were well methinks to rise with conscious purity from those mortal particles of which we were recently compo|sed; and granting existence ends on the bed of death, surely my beloved friend will own that the remembrance of those pleasures, which passion may afford, will not at that hour bring consolation.'

I was all she chose to make me: passively virtuous, and obedient to her will; she threw the rein on my imagination, and though I felt the influence of the scene around, my feeble judgment was the friend of my dear instructress.

The moon now silvered the foliage of the bower; Emily directed her steps towards the house, and I reluctantly followed.

'Will you see me within the walls of my con|vent?' (said she, as we walked slowly on) 'I shall there be safe—perhaps for ever.'—

"For ever! Emily!—am I pursuing a shadow! Is it possible you can think of taking the veil?— Send me not from you with so dreadful an apprehen|sion!"

'I think not of the veil: I see no Heaven through the dreary passage of incessant mortification; un|meaning in itself because unworthy the Power

for whom the fanatic supposes she suffers. My rea|son for hastening thither is more intimately con|nected with mortal objects; and, for the same reason I wish you to remain with my father till after the departure of Roderique.'

My father's conversation in the study came to my recollection; but as I knew Emily had the choice of speaking truth, or remaining silent, I had not much hope of gaining an explanation of these hints concerning Roderique; nor was I much agitated on the account, as our party were so soon to be broken up, and each severally to take his different path. I, however, asked her if she was in fear of Roderique; she told me he only met her contempt, and com|mended me to silence on so jarring a subject. We reached the house, with a tender pensiveness hanging on us like a hoar frost on the blossom; and found my Guardian, my Father, and Roderique discours|ing on the sports of the field. The latter, after we were seated, returned to the conversation, and wish|ed, as his stay was to be short, a hunting party could be formed before he left Rochelle. My Guardian willingly promoted his wish; and I have seen him rejoice at the escape of the hare, and mourn at her death; but as he began to make his little arrange|ment of friends and sportsmen, Emily respectfully interrupted him, by mentioning her desire, 'first to depart.'

Her Father, attentive to her happiness in every point, I believe sometimes sacrificed his own; and did not hesitate to enquire when she would resolve;

adding, with a parental, smile, 'you must live in|dividually for yourself, my dear child; I can only be a secondary cause of pleasure to you; your mind is all your own, your conduct your own; and, when I am no more, you must continue on the theatre of life till your part is played. When the scene is closing, call not loudly on the world: society stands listening over dying worth, and voluntarily shields it; and Emily will deserve the plaudits of the wise. Name the day of your departure; your will is mine.'—

'To morrow, my honoured Father,' said Emi|ly.'—

'To-morrow let it be,' said Roderique hastily, and immediately rang for his servant.

'Then to morrow,' (rejoined my father) 'we will all conclude to separate; since, if I may speak for myself, either will think this noble mansion but a prison when bereft of those friends whose senti|ments endeared it. My son, since I have so happi|ly found him, claims my unabating care. To the protection of his uncle, in the Netherlands, I will leave him, and return. France yet holds my wife; and my search after her shall end but with my exist|ence.'

A smile, expressive I thought of triumph, shone on the face of Roderique, and sank into a settled stare at my father. Imagining him lost in some me|lancholy reflection, I touched his shoulder, and asked him,—"if my Father, myself, my Guardian, or Emily had most the interest of his heart at this moment of purposed separation?"

'Your Father, Sir'—(said he with an unusual bluntness) and immediately rose from his seat.

The attendant he had rang for entering, Rode|rique ordered him to prepare for departure immedi|ately, and ushering him to the farthest part of the room, gave him a letter, whispering some instruc|tions, and pronouncing others of little importance distinctly.

'I shall not,' added he, 'wait here for your re|turn, my horses will be got ready by your fellow-|servant; let nothing retard you.'

To my Guardian he returned acknowledgements in the most refined language politeness could sug|gest; lamented the necessity that forced him away that very hour, and took leave of us all in a manner that endeared us to him. One look he gave to Emi|ly, as he passed towards the door, that sufficiently indicated a heart torn by various passions.

As his equipage and attendants rattled through the court-yard, I felt a kind of regret, and could not help mourning the nature of man. How much like shadows we 〈◊〉〈◊〉! said I, to-day blest in the bo|som of friendship, to-morrow gone!—The last dawn I expected to see at the Count de Marsans af|ter a sleepless night appeared: The sun ascended with effulgence, and the raptures of creation were heightened—Raising my eyes to that glorious orb, I breathed the strain of heavenly gratitude.—Mag|nificent source of unending comfort! Thou hast poured thy floods of light through ages! Thou shalt continue to invite the infant hours from the bosom

of eternity! Thou shalt gild them as they pass for the felicity of Man! Yet Man! feeble Man! must mourn! Too rich in imagination, and too poor in judgment, his joys are incomplete; and he steals sorrowing through the world a victim to idea. Fancy brings her gaudy visions to dance round him in his morn of life; The cold hand of disappoint|ment prepares for him the bed of age; but thou shalt unwearied roll! In thy vivifying beams shall eternally sport the busy atoms of creative power which keep the universe for ever young.

Exquisitely blest in the confidence of her I loved I knew the dear moment of generous truth she had indulged me would be ever mine. To love and be beloved gives such hidden strength to the soul of man that he becomes dignified by the mutual influence, and feels as if invulnerable through every other cir|cumstance.

An officious attention prevailed through the house; doors were left open to shew unusual dis|patch; and servants stumbled down stairs with unnecessary noise to shew how highly interested they were in the departure of their young mistress, who stood in a reflective attitude in the great par|lour.

I saw her, and made an involuntary pause; but not daring to trust myself alone with her, at this mournful crisis, sighed, and passed on to find my Father.—He had been writing a letter to the faith|ful Fisherman who had preserved him, and employed a servant of my Guardian's to search out the hut, be|neath

the covering of the rock, and to direct its honest master to follow us to *****, with Lydia and her little brothers.—Or, if the Fisherman re|tained a predilection to the peaceful lot in which he was placed, the domestic had orders to leave him a sum of money for the purpose of buying a vessel of larger size than that in which he used to scud through the ocean.

The carriage ••ow waited to convey the disturber of my peace to the gloomy recess of pious ••anaticism; while a sufficie••t number of attendants waited to escort us on our different roads. I will not pre|tend to describe our mutual sorrow; or our many protestations of never-dying friendship; let it here suffice (my sympathising reader) that, as with a burthened heart I led Emily to the carriage, she took a valuable ring from her finger, and, slipping it on mine, emphatically said, 'While you 'love truth, remember Emily.—

Words were too weak; in silent ecstasy I tore the diamond cross from my bosom, closed her hand upon it and held her in my arms as a treasure never to be resigned. Ardent as this tender embrace was, it was not so significant as to discompose my innocent girl, or attract the discernment of surround|ing attendants. Her beauty invited me to love; her virtues commanded me to be respectful.—My Guardian stood by—and long inured to self-restraint through every trial, he checked his feelings. Even now he endeavoured to smile, but his heart forbad his features to play falsely.

'A short-time since, my dear Henry,' (said the worthy man) you wished to enter into a military life—I dissuaded you from it. I dared not give my consent even to your uncle the Duke of B****, who was the nobleman that visited me incog. and with whom you were so much delighted. You are now going to him—I have done but my duty in strictly adhering to the rights of friendship; and in preserving, inviolable, the secret of your birth. When I gave the picture of your amiable Mother to your bosom, I was proof against your eager enqui|ries; and you were polite enough ever after to de|cline them. I now leave you to the tender soli|citude of a Father—farewel, deserving youth! Con|tinue to be what you now are, and your friends will exult when Henry is named.

"May I in absence be dear to you. Sir! Preserve Emily—barter her not for wealth: Suffer her heart alone to direct her to the altar when I return.—But when, when shall I return—No; I never shall see you more!"

My words died incoherently away; my eyes were insensibly fixed on the earth as I uttered this last painful sentence on myself. The Father of Emily —took advantage of the pause, handed her hastily into the carriage, and they drove off.

"She is gone!" (said I, to poor Mayo, whom Emily had often fed, and who had tamely follow|ed us from his wooden cabin neglected and un|observed:) "She is gone! but whither canst thou go? Thou art old!" (The harmless creature look|ed

up at me, and followed me back to the spot where our horses were waiting) "May the hand that shall stretch out to relieve thee, Mayo, never be blasted by the damps of poverty! Merciful must it be and amply should it be filled!"

After recommending the dumb companion of my infant hours to the care of my Guardian's honest steward, accompanied by my Father and attendants, I left the scene where I had indulged imagination, and thirsted after wisdom. Many a beautiful shrub, whose first blossom I had remarked with delight, seemed to nod mournfully as I passed them. With me they had grown, with me they had reached maturity. I left them with reluctance, and beheld them no more.

We rode for some hours over the waste; frequent intervals of silence, hesitations, and broken dis|courses, employed us gradually, while trees flocks, vallies, and hills flew behind like emblems of passing life.

The soul possesses a gloomy and despotic power: when her feelings may be moderate enough for lan|guage, language she calls in; but when she is la|bouring after triumph, glory, and immortal Fame, she forbids the tongue to move, stifles the rising pas|sions, and looks forward with awful majesty to the event she thinks worthy her sole exertion; then is human sound but as a shepherd's bell heard from afar and forgot.

Why did not my Father talk of the scene we had left? and why did I forbear to mention Emily? We admired the rivulets, were charmed with the music of the groves, conversed scientifically on the different strata, of different rocks, and admired earth as the bed of elements; but all this had nothing to do with our real feelings. It was only our artful manner of contriving to be silent on subjects that asked more than language could afford. The eve|ning soberly came on, when we entered a thick wood, through which were many paths in many directions. The sun was gone, the horizon became black, hollow winds blew suddenly through the thickets, and the bleating lambs intimated a coming storm. Man cannot be chearful amidst discourage|ments; but he does well when he endeavours to surmount them—We went on;

'Alberti,' (said my Father to o••e of our atten|dants, who was appointed the guide) 'where is your map?'

'It is in my portmanteau; I will shew it your Honour', replied Alberti.

'No matter, if you are certain we go right.'

'Right, my Lord, as a arrow from the string.

'And why not as an arrow to its mark, Al|berti?'

'When an arrow sets out, please ye, it always means to be right, but a wrong mark may pop in its way.'

'What was that noise?

'Thunder, My Lord; but I'll alight and look at the map.'

'You should have kept it in your pocket. I see some distant spires yonder, and we will halt for the night at the first village.'

Lightning, hail, and wind raged suddenly through the forest: earth caught a momentary ra|diance from the electric matter that darted a|thwart her bosom, while the unbending oak ap|peared as an emblem of unshaken fortitude. Stub|bornly it braved the storm; yet kindly did it af|ford shelter to us lonely travellers. What could the virtuous man do more?

In our journey through the forest, we had discerned but one little cabin; it was formed of branches of trees, which, being hewn into an equal thickness, were laid on each other, and plaistered with clay. The roof was flat, and of the same composition, a hole being left in the middle to carry off the smoke. Curiosity led us to take a peep within, where we saw only one man, who told us he was a miner; that in this hovel he lived all the week, because his mine lay near, in the depth of the forest; but that on Sundays he went eight miles to his home, where his wife and children made him happy. How few were the hours of comfort allotted this poor miner! Here we could not shelter; but he informed us that a house stood, within a mile, in the track towards the old church. Not knowing that track, we re|quested him to be our guide. He chearfully com|plied, awakened his dog that lay sleeping with his

nose on his master's hat, and both accompanied us till we came in sight of the house, when we rewarded him, and he returned to his lodging, or rather to his tomb.—The house he had directed us to was built of slabs rough as they were drawn from their native quarries, and a quick-set hedge was planted round the garden. Near the wicker gate stood three cows feeding on dry leaves and hay, mixed with furze, while eleven sheep stood, with their lambs at the door of the fold, waiting to be taken in from the beating of the pitiless storm. Sensible that the soft movements of Nature are no where so pow|erful as in solitude, we, at first, hesitated whether we should disturb the inhabitants of this dwelling; but the tempest redoubling its impetuosity, it was resolved the embassy should be mine to ask a pro|tection till it was spent. I alighted, tapped gently at the door, and it was immediately opened by a female, whose advanced age, and cleanliness of per|son, struck me at once with reverence and delight. I told her my errand, and pleaded the inclemency of the weather.

'I will come again in a moment, Sir,' said she, throwing a book from her hand on a deal dresser, the shelves of which were laden with wooden trenchers, and bright pewter plates alternately. She hastened up the stairs, and left me to take care of the lower part of the house: no grate was to be seen, but a most comfortable fire blazed on the spacious hearth, while a large flitch of bacon hung on each side.

Lessons of cookery, I suppose, said I to myself, taking the book the good woman had left; I how|ever, was mistaking the subject, which was a trea|tise on resignation.

Resignation is idleness; I will read no more! Give me the noble exertion of the soul that enables us to turn from the evil of the hour, and renew the chace after distant good! Thus I reflected. My Father and attendants observing I was received with civility, ventured to lean over the gate; but as I had entered alone, and was waiting the second appear|ance of the mistress of the house, I gave them yet no invitation, and they observed a becoming distance. Through a series of untried incidents we were to pass; but, in my mighty wisdom, I could not see an inch before me; our best method, I thought, was, that as fast as we could get rid of one disagree|able circumstance we should stand prepared for ano|ther. The venerable matron at last descended, leading a lovely creature by the hand, who appear|ed to be the victim of sorrow. Rich in artless ring|lets, her hair fell heavily on her snowy neck, and her large blue eyes swam in the liquid brightness of sensibility; she accosted me with an easy air, but her voice was faint and tremulous.

'Whoever you are Sir,' said she, 'we are in some respects at your disposal; yet, as mutual ne|cessity is often the cause of reciprocal friendship, I offer you my protection, and ask yours.'

"Command me, Madam! From whom would you wish me to protect you?"

'From yourself, should you be the professed votary of licentiousness; I know my request may found inconsistently, but are we not so mysteriously wrought, that strong and forcible virtues burst from the mind, and bear down the petty vices of unguar|ded youth?'

The native sweetness of her accents tuned my soul to simple nature; her fears were awake, and she was no borrower of sentiment. She continued; 'In a word, Sir, you see before you two helpless women, whom you may insult, though you can ne|ver render vicious. I have a father, but he is gone to *****, where, we hear, my brother lies ill. When my father will return I know not; his daughter will never shut his door on the weary tra|veller.'

I bowed, and blessed her; for when woman is frank without indelicacy, and free without boldness, she makes a proselyte to her will.

Observing this young creature to be far advanced in that state which endears the sex to the generous mind, I entertained fears for her health, dissipated her alarming conjectures, and informing her, that my friends and myself would depart when the storm was subsided, requested her permission for them to enter. She bowed with a smile of approbation, whispered Nanelle, who instantly laid fresh fuel on the fire, and placed the frugal viands on the brown table. My thoughts were pure in the presence of this rural beauty: I fancied there was something too sacred about her to stand the gaze of our servants,

and ventured to make one more request, which was, that she would return to her chamber. She retired, and my friends were invited by the hospitable Nan|nelle to recover their vital heat at her welcome fire. We gladly accepted her invitation, and seated our|selves on some long oak benches, which appeared to have been made some fifty years, and shone with solemn brilliancy beneath the hard brush of house-wifery.

'Will your Honours taste some of our cyder?' said Nanelle, 'surely it will do you good, since you must ride through the rain again—Be not bash|ful good gentlemen, you are wondrous welcome, I would not ask you if you were not.'

Reader hadst thou been with us in this faithful scene of nature, thou wouldst have owned with me, that the real necessities of man are but few. Pride has been accumulating imaginary wants through ages, and hourly forming destructive creations.

The spirit of the storm yet shook the woods, and passed, murmuring, over the unaspiring roof of the gentle Anna. (For that was the name Nannelle gave her mistress) We drank cyder out of the best cup, taken from the high shelf; and, perceiving the good woman looked at the cup as if she wished me to admire it, I praised the taste of the artist.

'It was bought by our squire; he gave it to mis|tress, and she put it up, saying, she would never drink out of it till he returned; but, I believe, he does not mean to come back; fine folks always have their figaries—'

'And what figary had your squire when he pre|sented this cup to so charming a woman as your mis|tress?—"

'I don't know.'

The night grew fine; my Father rewarded Nan|nelle, desired she would continue to love her mis|tress, and send us away with her prayers.—

'God bless ye, Gentlemen,' wiping her eyes with her blue apron—'but my dear mistress!—Ah! there, see what 'tis to sorrow for one's love!—I'll call ••uzin, our cowherd; that steeps over the wheat floor, and he shall bring the lantern.—'

'No, no,' said my Father, 'only afford us your candle 'till we have distinguished our several bri|dles.'

We had now but two miles to ride before we were to reach the village of ***, that lay on the skirt of the forest, and we set forward with alacrity. The winds faintly whispered, and the moon looked pale on the brambles, which were silvered with the rain.—

'Hark! (said our guide) 'I hear a voice to the left.—'

We checked our horses, but could hear no human found. My father possessed that firm composure, so familiar with the noble mind, and so little under|stood by the million: he listened, in consequence of Alberti's exclamation, but hearing no alarm, imputed it to his watchful fancy, and we rode on.

'The Abbe Dorovontes,' said my Father, as I was musing, 'was a most singular character. He observed mankind in silence, pronounced human effort futile; took a comprehensive view of the known globe, and fairly confessed he knew no|thing.

'Set men in groupes,' said he, 'and watch them —A certain number till the earth, others beat the the sea; all love gold; a few catch diadems. What can all this mean? They weep, they dance, they sing and love, and towards what great end can those labours, and those gambols of mankind advance?' —'Murder—Help!'—we now heard distinctly through the forest, the last word was sent forth in a shriek; we all made a full stop. Pity and horror opened the way to every heart; but not one could conclude which path to pursue. In a few minutes were seen through the trees, at a distance, flaming torches or lights, which were accompanied by the noise of a carriage and of horses; we now could hear many voices, one in a peremptory tone was raised above the others: 'Stop the old fellow's mouth; suffer him to plead no more; he will make the most daring of you cowards!' said this person who seemed to be of chief authority. Fired by this barbarous command, we instantaneously spurred our horses, without speaking a syllable to each other, so unanimous were we in avenging the rights of viola|ted order. Neither winds nor lightnings could im|pede us, and we soon gained upon the wandering

lights, which served to invite us after those who fled.

'Spare! ah spare my Father!' was in a suppli|cating tone breathed from the window of the carri|age. My Father called to the postillion, and or|dered him to stop; the latter did not obey. I rode round to the heads of the horses, and presented a pistol to the fellow's breast, whose ready submission saved his life. We were quickly surrounded by a troop of horsemen, who were wild, audacious, and only attentive to the orders of two well made men. These men I thought only worthy my wrestling with, their inferior crew I looked upon as a fry, not an atom of which was of consequence enough to be singled out. I held the bridles of the horses, burn|ing to resign them to some of our retinue. Alberti at length came up;—"stand here," said I, "keep the carriage from moving till you see me lie dead upon the earth."

'Secure that hardy blockhead,' said one of the superiors. His manner of articulation, I thought, had some time been familiar to me.

'Which of you dare secure him?' said my Fa|ther sternly, as he rode up behind with our atten|dants —'who are ye, base assassins! who may, with impunity, disgrace manhood, by causing the shriek of female woe to sound through the desart? Mon|sters must you be who can oppress unoffending wo|man!'

'Shoot the priest' (replied one of the two who commanded the group (his d—n—d clamours may in future make many a jovial buck unhappy.'

"Defend yourself, Sir," (said I to him who had given the order) advancing. I perceived his face was concealed by a black scarf. Without honourable ceremony he made a pass at me; fortunately my horse started as the moon emerged from a cloud, and threw her light on the sword of my antagonist; the lounge he made at me consequently was void, unless he stabbed the air. But as the force of his thrust caused him to bend forward from his saddle, his horse took a sympathetic fright with mine, and forcibly threw him to the earth. I alighted, full of the savage purpose of taking his life who had, unprovoked, sought mine. Stumbling on the sword that had fallen from his hand, mercy made that moment her own. Was he not disarmed? was not his passive situation a shield?—Yes. He who made us, stayed me from piercing his heart!

"Rise," said I, "and defend the cause you have espoused."—He gave me no answer; uproar drew my eyes and ears towards the safety of my Father. I turned like lightning, and saw him valiantly fight|ing against an odds of three to one; without once reflecting that to no purpose was my antagonist dis|mounted, if I neglected to take his life. I threw myself before my father; for the danger to which I saw him exposed bereaved me of every other reflec|tion but that of preserving him. Our opponents doubled us in number; the fray became terrible;

to the clashing of swords succeeded dismal groans; darkness hindered us from disti••guishing objects, and fury forbad us to pity them. Whom we were fighting for we knew not, what was to be the con|clusion we knew not; we were only certain that a general appeal had been made to humanity, and we were the first who heard it. Struggling as we stood against unequal assassins, we felt no dismay: the door of the carriage was at length forced open, and a gentleman burst forth from its seat. His assistance soon gave the turn in our favour; but the torches being extinguished, and the moon having retired within her thickened sky, I could not discern who the stranger was that so valiantly fought by my side. —Rallying round the carriage, we perceived ex|traordinary efforts were made to seize my Father; dearly did they pay for the attempt—two of them fell. The second commander, who was taller than his associate, and whose face was also concealed by a black veil of some kind, rode furiously within reach of my sword, saying, with a hoarse voice, 'the day of revenge will come: for you, young champion, here is a pledge of my love!'—The con|tents of a pistol was immediately discharged at my head, which carried off part of my hat, and the skin of my right temple: rouzed to vengeance, I darted forward like an hungry lion, who admits no interval till his appetite is sated by the cause that ex|cited it, and fired in return. The ball missed my antagonist, but entered his horse's jaw; the poor beast, unable to bear the agony, reared his head in

the air; again came down on his fore-feet; and, heedless of the reign, bore his master in a moment from our sight. His party hastily followed, and a dreadful pause ensued with us who remained on the field. The gentleman who had left the carriage, and bravely fought to defend it, eagerly flew to the door: the lady he left in it retained no signs of life. Uttering the bitterest lamentations, he seemed to be at once bereft of fortitude and judgment. He put the hilt of his sword to the earth, with the rash resolve of falling on its point. I prevented his de|spair by catching him in my arms.

"Live, Sir, I charge you live! and remember there are others wretched as yourself: to fly afflic|tion thus is cowardice."

'Oh my child!'—

It was my GUARDIAN! Sorrow softened his voice to its natural key, and made him known. My God! What horrors were mine!—"Dead! is she dead! Can it be possible?" said I with wild amazement— You shall not entangle me with heavy existence. Was she not the universe to me? Did she not sooth me with an angel's care? When was I sad, that Emily did not comfort me? it was but this morning we were highly prized, dearly loved! Blest with prosperity and friends; but she is gone!"

'I am poor, Sir! who will now value a forlorn old man!—Why do you weep?—You have no cause!—you have not lost an Emily.

I could not answer him—feeling myself growing stupid, his voice, and his mourning ceased to affect

me. Father, friend and country were forgot: I wished for rest, and laid myself silently down, like one oppressed by slumber, without endeavouring to comfort him.

'Yes,' throwing himself down near me, 'we will sleep here.—Emily is not at home; we will never go home—Emily was very good!—I loved her— but we will wait till the morning.—'

I was raised from the earth by a number of our attendants, who supported me in their arms, and after some time my respiration became more free. My Father took me by the hand.—

'Henry! my dear Henry I fear is wounded'— (said he with tender solicitude) 'try to live!— Emily! your beloved Emily needs your assistance and mine; she is fainting in the carriage; we have all been trying to restore her, but I fear her father must be somewhere lost in the fray.—Dreadful catastrophe!—

"My Guardian lies dead by my side, Sir! I be|lieve I have slept long, my dreams were horrible! Emily is dead!—Did you know it, Sir?"

'I know she breathes; we have been chaffing her temples. Where is your Guardian!'

"There, Sir, down there! by that shrub." Leaving my Father and some of the servants to raise my Guardian, I flew to the carriage; and found my Emily recovering from her swoon by swift de|gree. Oh, how my fond heart swelled with hope; I trembled with love, and held her once more to my bosom: her senses were not quite returned, but

where could she be safe if not in the arms of her Henry?

"Let us not lose a moment, my angel; we have very lately found welcome in a simple dwelling, where pity is upon the watch to receive the stranger; thither will we guide you; warmth and comfort will entirely rostore you; in tranquility the powers of life, now fluttering with terror, will regain their native energy,—"

'Where! Oh where is my father?' said Emily, without appearing to know me—'tell me not of comfort but with him; you can offer no asylum.'

"I am Henry."

'No—you cannot be my Henry.'

There was an awful sternness in her words; I was a little chagrined, but my Father, who had by his earnest attention recovered the Father of Emily, and convinced him she was living, now joined us, lead|ing his worthy friend; tears of joy mingled them|selves with congratulations on every side. We were once more happy, though totally at a loss to account for the cause of our strange meeting.

We summoned our attendants by name, found none were missing, and it was resolved unanimously that we should return to friendly Nannelle; beneath whose roof we should find repose till morning. Alberti rode before the carriage to direct the pos|tillion; my Father by the side—and my Guardian, with his inestimable daughter, within it.

I had not felt, during the heat of passion, the least pain or inconvenience from the grazing of the ball

on my temple; but, in attempting to mount my horse, I thought the beast began to swim round me, and under that idea I stood still, that my horse might stand: consequently the carriage set off be|fore; my own three servants, who were the stoutest fellows in the group, however waited; and, after a little hesitation, occasioned by the smarting of my head, I was on horse back. Darkness had so effec|tually thrown itself over the moon, that we could barely distinguish objects; yet the pathetic nighten|gale sang, unambitious of applause, in the midst of drouzy solitude.

Sweet emblem of genius! thou art awake whilst many sleep: thy raptures are self possessed; they were meant by heaven to chear the midnight hour, whilst despair and love make hard the pillow of man!

We had only a few minutes left the scene of action when a deep groan was heard. My attention was arrested, I turned my horse to the left, from whence I thought the sound proceeded, and soon discerned a body lying on the turf; it was a youth; his face was covered, and turned to the earth; but life was struggling within him. I alighted, stooped and uncovered his face, and recollected him to be the person who had, at the commencement of the assault, ordered my father to be shot. Mercy forbad me to leave him exposed; the agonies of departing man, call, nay command the tender sympathy of nature; and we placed the stranger bleeding and senseless

across the backs of two horses, having first fastened the two saddles as even as we could, and made a kind of bed on them with our great-coats. We slowly moved on foot, holding the bridles, towards the dwelling of gentle Anna, where we hoped to find our friends. We at length arrived; found our horses littered by Luzin the hind, in the out-house; and our party comfortably conversing with Nannelle in her clean kitchen. This good creature, I was pleased to hear, had prevailed on Emily to repose herself in one of the inner chambers till day should break; and Anna had followed the well-timed example.

My Father and Guardian had been uneasy; in few words we explained the cause of our delay, and both hastened to assist in conveying the wounded stranger into the house as we bore him in our arms, his head fell heavily on my bosom; I forgot his ferocious conduct, and beheld him only as the victim of thoughtless valor.

Poor nature is frail in her best productions; ever ceaseless in her labours, and eager in her formations, her most perfect works are left unfinished. Precept may do much, but charity will do more in cooling the hottest revenge.—O charity! when wert thou sportive with the miseries of mankind? Thy tongue, fair angel, continually proclaims through the universe —waste not life! extinguish not existence, lest thou affront the majesty of God!

Uncovering the face of the youth, for the purpose of bathing his temples with odoriferous spirits, I

perceived a large and deep contusion on one side his head, and concluded he had fallen on some sharp stone in the forest, when he failed in the lounge made precipitately at me. His features were won|derfully fair, his fine brows appeared like thrones on which reflection and science might fit some future day unmolested by riotous habit.

We laid him on a mattress, dried the bloody stream that had mingled itself with his long hair, and wait|ed with the silent hope of his soon becoming reani|mated. My dear girl had been led to some inner apartment before we arrived, her Father and Nan|nelle having prevailed on her to seize a short repose. The charming mistress of this rural asylum had not been disturbed; the hind, Luzin, had been called up, but he only officiated in taking care of our hor|ses, leading some into the out house, and leaving others tied to the gate to brave the pitiless elements how they could. Nannelle, I perceived, looked with surprize and horror at the wounded stranger; sighed—caught the Treatise on Resignation off the dresser, opened it, endeavoured to read; but hap|pening to cast her eyes once more on the fainting youth, stamped with her foot, tore the yellow rib|band from her head, and immediately threw it with the Treatise on Resignation behind the fire.

"What do you ail Nannelle?" said I, "Shall I call your mistress?"

'No, no, Sir! my dear mistress will come too soon.'

The gentleman was now so far revived as to call faintly for water. We ran and supported him while Nannelle held the cup to his lips; he did not taste; his head drooped, and he turned distastefully away.

'Lay me down! Make haste! I cannot live! My head!—my head sounds horribly!'

Stooping to lay him easily on his pillow, I heard him whisper with a sigh: 'Anna!—My dear Anna you are now avenged!'

At that moment, the young creature who had welcomed us from the storm, and who, I suppose, had been at last disturbed by the noise we made, appeared. Her manner interested my Father, who approached her with respect; but, without heeding the company, she gazed for some moments wildly on the stranger, and throwing herself down near him, shrieked,

'Antonio!'

'Raise me, Nannelle,' said the feeble stranger; the good woman obeyed. He threw his weak arms round her mistress, and proceeded; 'Live! Oh! live, my dearest Anna! Do not send me to the grave laden with additional guilt. When the pow|ers of justice hold the records of my mispent years, let not thy death be found in the number of my crimes. I have wronged thee my unsuspecting An|na! deeply wronged thee! But my career of life is finished, and I have much to do while the prospect is closing. Heaven! who will in a few hours strike me from its ample work, can only, at this awful moment, witness my remorse. I die, my inestima|ble

wife; and I die loving you! whom I have made ever, ever wretched!'—

He paused as his head lay on the bosom of his Anna, while her tears fell on his cheek; we stood round full of pity and attention; he sighed deeply, and continued;

'You are so indulgent, so alive to tender senti|ment, that you will forget my faults while you mourn my fate. Beware of that sweet delusion▪ let my villainy prove an antidote to your sorrow, and think the tear corrupted that falls for extinguished vice.'—For this gentleman, (pointing to me) 'there remains some little reparation. I am the second son of De Forbes * * *. What is more infamous, I am the brother of him you call Roderique; ••e has imposed on you, the tale of his being the son of a Spanish nobleman was feigned. His commission came from the King himself, who gave the order that your Father should be sought through the realm until his existence or death could be ascertained. My brother set forward, escorted with splendor and expence. Two months had elapsed since his de|parture from court, when my father received a let|ter, dated * * * * *, from the Count de Marsan's estate, to the effect, that chance had brought the royal fugitive under the same roof with himself; that he was endeavouring to gain the confidence of the family with whom it was supposed the younger Henry had been educated; that he required some little time to learn the different plans of action which were forming round him; that the younger

Henry was with his Father, and it would be easy to throw the net over them at any hour.

'This, I remember, was the purport of his let|ter, but he mentioned nothing of Emily, or his pas|sion for her, which was never meant to prove honourable. Though it has been the means of pre|serving thus far the lives of you, Sir, and your no|ble Father, for the sake of Emily he required delay, and waited for the crisis of her return to the convent, to strike his operations forcibly. In this part of the work, so far as related to his love, I rashly became his confident: he had perverted my principles re|specting woman, and, being the elder, always kept before me in the path of licentiousness. It is too late to make reflections, you see the end of my profligacy, but more danger remains, nor dare I suppose you can escape. Good God! must I lie here incapable of remedying the evils I have con|sented to bring on you! Raise me! I shall be well if I can save you—In vain—My head is heavy, I feel it swelling to a size that will make me horrid.'

After a short delirium, he became more compo|sed and rapidly weak; his voice shook frequently, but he continued—

'Pursue not your route—Halt at no village—The skirts of this forest are surrounded by armed troops —No opening is left, except that which leads to a convent. My brother, for selfish reasons, ordered the soldiers (except those who accompanied him and me in our purposed villainy) to keep clear of that pass to avoid a discovery which might do him no

credit. From the moment my brother saw Emily, he formed the design of carrying her off—You may remember his abrupt departure from your Guardian, his sending the servant away first to me. That ser|vant, whose name is Cregney, is full of guile, the tool of my brother, but an arrant coward. We had, in consequence of former dispatches, arrived at the Elephant hotel, near the White Horse, behind the hill; there a select party waited: the larger body were stationed among the woods, but (through mis|take, I suppose) came not to our assistance. Let me intreat you, on the faith of a dying man, not to go forward. The dreadful scheme of my bro|ther is, at present, broken. I know not where he is. Emily, and her Father he will conclude to be flying towards their home. If living he will not give her up; but the disgrace awaiting him, on ac|count of his suffering the royal fugitive to escape, will drive him on to acts of desperation—Elude him, if you can, the chance is not in your favour.'

"What crime," said I, "has my Father been guilty of, that he is thus pursued through the world?"

'Accident, not guilt, is the cause of your Father's misfortunes: he is eldest twin-brother of Louis, and heir to the crown. Being born blind, his eldership was set aside, and his younger brother proclaimed Dauphin of France. Time gave him sight; the film, that had long shut out the rays of reflection, gradually broke away, and his eyes shone with un|common lustre.'

Here Antonio paused.—

'I would struggle with death a little longer! A few, only a few minutes more!'

We were attentive—he observed it, and, with difficulty, proceeded:

'State policy could not alter the register; and it was, after much anxious deliberation, concluded by the King his father, the Queen, and some of the Privy Council, with whom my father was, at that time, thought a Nestor, to educate the Prince libe|rally, but privately; never to make him acquainted with his birth, but to take every case of his health and understanding, so that he might be capable of reigning, should his brother die childless. My father is now very old, but being in the secret, my brother was commissioned, and there was a necessity for my being entrusted with a share of this business, which, having not justice for its principle, can throw no obligation of secresy on my departing spirit. Truth is for ever flying through the universe, many shut their eyes on her blaze of light, none can arrest her progress! I once adored that divinity of soul—Why did I forsake virtue! What a retros|pect!—Give me my yesterdays!—No!—All is fixed for me—A dreadful silence is within; my lawless passions have destroyed hope—I am aban|doned!'—

Breathless, and overpowered by his agitation, he closed his eyes; his pulse grew irregular; he made strong efforts, and seemed in a hurry, like one who is setting out on a journey of vast importance.

Good God, said I to myself, are these the pangs of repenting vice? how much stronger are they than those conflicts we feel between virtue and desire du|ring our passage through the world: I find it diffi|cult to love with purity; but experience, like this, is horrible.

'For my Anna,' continued Antonio, 'I have a dreadful explanation; it will make her still more wretched; yet, as it may serve to weaken the pangs she would otherwise feel for my loss, I will try to proceed—Had I been that perfect being this lovely creature once thought me, I should have deserved her lasting lamentations—As I am depra|ved, I would willingly check her anguish, and point her to the future, when, forgetting Antonio, she may be happy in the arms of some worthy man, who will justly value her spotless mind. Oh, my Anna! (raising his eyes towards her) 'while penitence and despair darkened their beams, I go! go out of life in expressless woe! The dear, the unborn pledge of your innocent love (I dare not mention mine) can|not be the heir of your perfidious Antonio; yet, what I can, I will.

'The castle of * * * *, and its surrounding do|mains, are at my disposal. Three years since it was bequeathed me by an aunt, and my child, when born, shall, with its deserving mother, solely pos|sess it— Give me a pen—I must be brief—These gentlemen will witness how willingly I offer you so inadequate a recompence.'

Nannelle brought pen, ink, and paper, for Anna still sat with Antonio's head on her bosom, lost in a kind of stupefaction. He wrote a few lines expres|sive of his final resolution; he signed it with a trem|bling hand.

'Yet, my unfortunate dear girl! let me conjure you not to teach my innocent offspring to hate the memory of its Father—A Father!—Gracious Hea|ven! suffer me to remain a little longer; let me try to discharge the duties sacred to so dear a name!— No; it will not be, this is the hour of vengeance! To my brother do I owe these pangs of remorse. I informed him of my love, when, two years ago, we were hunting in this forest, and I had the happiness of conversing with you, my Anna, on the side of the hill. My brother laughed at the purity of my passion, ridiculed my constancy, re|presented the disparity of our fortunes, your unequal education, the lasting displeasure of my father, and the shame which would, in his idea, ensue, if I married so imprudently. But my soul was devoted to your attractions; I could not live without you, every splended scene palled on my imagination, and I resolved to return and call you for ever mine.—'

He hesitated here, as if doubtful whether he should say more, or observe an everlasting silence; his eyes seemed to gather a wild animation. We flattered ourselves that life was rekindling, and the gentle Anna gave a faint smile, like that of hope thrown on the features of despair; or perhaps, me|mory

drew her back to their dawn of happiness when Antonio met her on the side of the hill. He looked round him with impatience, and, raising his voice, said, 'Yes—Heaven itself shall never recall the past! You are undone! My Brother, whom social duties never bind, disguised as a priest, performed our marriage-ceremony, and deceived you, whilst I endeavoured to deceive myself. With what in|ward horror did I behold you an inoffensive victim to artifice! and indulged the mental reservation of loving you too well to continue unjust, and hoped in some future moment, when distant from the vio|lent passions of my Brother, and the power of my Father, to make you lawfully my wife:—That hour is gone by? on this bed of death, I feel that he who listens not to the voice of virtue when she invites him, may wander neglected till he hears her no more.'

'My dear Antonio,' (exclaimed the agitated Anna) 'I cannot be deceived whilst you love me! Try to live! Heed not the contempt your infant, or your Anna may undergo, by being deprived of the sanction of the church. You are all to me! True, I insisted on marriage as a duty due to the world; but my dearer claims in you are those of disinterested love, too sublime to be enlarged, or les|sened by human ties; consequently superior to the clamours of slander—live my dearest Antonio! we may yet be happy.'

'I will not die!' (starting), 'I must not die now! till this moment never was life so valuable! Hold

me Anna! hold me closer to your heart!—See how I am sinking down! can you stay without me?— Surely I would save you from every danger; but you are feeble and I am heavy, very heavily laden! Oh, what agonies are these! I want air, look down! —look down!—She loves me still, tear me not from her! How cold.—'

Pressing his lips to hers in the agony of separa|tion he tasted this last proof of tenderness—and ex|pired.

Anna did not weep—She continued to hold the lifeless Antonio to her bosom, insensible he had breathed his last, insensible that his lips would re|turn her salutations no more! For some moments she appeared to listen; we could not disturb her silence nor did she notice; but perceiving his con|versation was at a full period, she laid him gent|ly down; gazed on his face and played with his hair.

Dreading the effect of so fine an imagination when left to its woes, I approached her with diffi|dence and respect, conjured her to leave the room, and attempted to raise her. She submissively offered me her hand without speaking a word, but her looks were wild. I led her to the door of her chamber, desired Nannelle to follow, and left her in all that solemn majesty of wounded spirit, which is, at its first seizure of the human powers, so deaf to the condolence of an uninteresting world.

But Anna's sorrows were soon to cease!—Distrac|tion swiftly succeeded: Her frame became con|vulsed.

To the pangs occasioned by the death of her husband were added those of a mother, and the moment she gave her infant to the world, her spirit flew after that of Antonio.

Let no man say he could have met the tragic in|cidents of this night with firmness: horror and dis|may took from us the power of expression. My Father, after poor Nannelle spent the first tumult of her soul in tears, enquired whether she had any friend near, whom we might summon on this mourn|ful occasion? She told him, Naurette, and her daughters lived only a stone's-throw in the Dell, beyond the tuft of Firfis; and she would go call them. We would not suffer her to leave the house, but by her direction sent two of our servants who soon returned with the good woman bathed in tears. Her daughters followed; their sorrowful deport|ment convinced us that the departed Anna was less envied than beloved. To their tenderest care we commended her orphan daughter, who was wel|comed to the light with tears, and now heedless of surrounding calamity slumbered unconscious in her nurse's arms. To the humanity of those sympathi|sing friends we also left the sacred remains of the unfortunate Antonio, and his injured Anna, request|ing they might be deposited in one grave, and a monument erected to their memory in the church whose venerable spires we had discerned in coming through the forest. To discharge these pious duties my father left bills (into which he had converted a part of his jewels) and promising to send Nannelle

future remittances for the support of Anna's help|less babe, expressed a wish of departing before day|break, from this melancholly dwelling, where mi|sery in one night had poisoned every budding joy.

Innocent Anna! may thy calm spirit watch over thy child, and invisibly turn aside the arrow of af|fliction!

I had not beheld Emily since my second arrival at this house; she had been prevailed on to retire before we could possibly reach it with the fainting Antonio. He had resigned existence in the lower room, and Emily had flown to the suffering Anna. When the latter was no more, the affrighted maid ran wildly from the chamber; I met her as she de|scended the stairs, and received her breathless in my arms.—"Let me, O let me once more hold you to my heart!" said I precipitately, pressing my lips to hers, my soul was in unison, and mingled tumultu|ously with the touch; but Emily felt cold to my en|dearments. Surely she could not at that moment have been so self-restrained had she felt like me.

I now almost think her heart was never mine! if it had, could she have forgot me? Could she have made an assignation with this Cordelier?

My Guardian, who had stood near the door totally lost in reverie, turned round, and saw me support|ing his beloved daughter.—'Ah, my dear Henry,' said the afflicted parent, 'how do we meet!' Co|vering his eyes with his handkerchief, he was silent; and Emily's frequent sighs indicated returning life.

For me, I solemnly protest, no selfish wish hung on my mind. I did not even feel the desire of pos|sessing this incomparable maid, so sublime and pure was the transport, so highly did her danger exalt my wishes. Command her not to dissolve, thou Father of eternal change!—Can spirit centre in a lovelier form?—Suffer that particle of intellectual fire which hath fallen from thee still to animate my Emily!

I prayed, and viewless forms, who catch the breathings of the heart, bore my supplication to Heaven.

As she sat trembling in the chair, her eyes wan|dered from me to her father. Full of astonishment, she gave nothing to love; she could not reconcile herself to this scene of affliction, nor did the pale Antonio contribute to lessen her amaze|ment.

'Speak to me, Henry!—or has guilt made you silent? Is it you who have attempted to tear me from my Father?—why am I here? why are you here? What could make you in one night so finish|ed in vice?'

Indignant in her manner, she looked with eager curiosity in my face, as if challenging my reply— I had none to make!

Oh! how painful is the first jar of suspicion, when it strikes that heavenly confidence which binds two mutual hearts!—Mine sent its thrillings through every vein: I shook with the force of Emily's in|jurious imagination, and I believe should have fallen had I not suddenly reclined on the low railing of the

staircase: there I in my turn, gazed silently at my dear tormentor; I know not what my eyes express|ed. Perhaps they were bent a little accusingly, but hers soon lost their angry beams, and stole gent|ly from me towards the earth; while the fine blush, that suffused her features, proclaimed my secret triumph. She certainly looked conscious of having wronged me. What would I have given only to breathe this truth upon her lips!

Baseness cannot dwell with love.—

I dared not: the sentiments of delicate desire are never to be breathed but to the midnight wind, and the object that inspires them. Here I was surrounded by my friends and officious attendants.—Emily grew comforted by her Father, who explained to her all he knew of the night's adventure, and I felt delici|ously avenged in her fascinating confusion, when she thanked me for her deliverance. How many refine|ments the heart of a lover forms for itself.

The intelligence given by the lamented Antonio, instead of pointing us to safety, served to convince us that safety was not to be easily found. We formed plans and departed from them; not one of us could give a final determination. My Guardian proposed our returning to his estate, for the present, and citing the son of De Forbes to the tribunal of civil law; but the precess would have been tedious, and at last the judgment corrupt. Added to this con|s••deration, my self••sh heart opposed him from an im|••••••••••, 〈…〉〈…〉 away, the soul

of Emily, in a convent, would be sacred to me. I know we deceive ourselves when we suffer imagin|ation to paint a beloved object as we would wish it to be, but what consolation could I in absence hope for, except the imaginary one of believing Emily mine?

After much deliberation, it was resolved, at Emily's request, she should return to her convent: my Father and myself, in spite of every remon|strance, determined to see her safe within the sacred walls, and to turn across the country by a diffe|rent track from that we had at first chosen. To me the world could wear but one appearance, I had poured out my soul to Emily in the garden, our se|paration had there been concluded on, and my mind prepared to meet folly, mirth and misery, with a stubborn tone of thought. We at last bad poor Nannelle farewell; we had brought sorrow to her humble dwelling, but could not take it away: deploring our want of power to repair her ills, we departed and left her to weep.

Oppression hangs on woman. Custom and law respecting her, are through the world unjust: Man forms a superiority on the grossness of vice; the laws he makes support him; and he insults, with impunity, the more delicate sex. Where can woman find a friend? Endued with tenderness, she often needs support, but should her afflicted spirit turn to man, she is undone; he is by nature false, and cus|tom makes him cruel; there is but one avenging effect in thus enslaving the female mind, which is,

that along the path of time we shall not meet one suitable companion. We are short-sighted, sullen and restless; women, helpless and tender.

Reflections of this kind naturally prevailed in my mind, till we had lost sight of that late peaceful ha|bitation, where almighty Love might now mourn his victims. As I rode behind the carriage, which held the treasure of my soul, I endeavoured to calm my busy memory, and to forget the irretrievable miseries of the night, in the more pleasing images of my youthful progress, and the delicate gradations of my infant passion.

The first sight of Emily, her attention to my aged Mayo, the bouquette, her well-adapted song, every little incident came back to form a picture: and at this moment, it instantly occurred that the Hus|bandman I had met in my Guardian's park was the Father of Anna.—Hapless Father! Thou shalt no more behold the blessing of thy age! but—thou shalt follow her.

Not caring to indulge this seeming coincidence of circumstance, I tried to whistle a lively air, as we rode on through the forest—It would not do; I became insensibly mute, for my very soul was un|strung. We at length arrived at the gates of the convent; it was morning—Nature was awake. The pure had thanked their Creator: the children of guilt had blushingly stole from her snares, when one of our attendants alighted, rang the great bell of the convent, and Emily was announced. The self-deny|ing Abbess appeared, and with her many of the lay

sisters who were the friends of Emily, and whose eyes, I observed, spite of my unalterable love, shone with surprise and pleasure on our goodly company. Why should they not? my Father was a handsome man, little more than forty, his form, modelled by the line of beauty; his complexion glowing with her full tints; his large eyes were of melting blue, their fringed curtains a dark-brown, and the animation himself possessed, imperceptibly and suddenly struck those who beheld him. My Guardian was full of manly grace, a little older than my Father; his countenance shining with the smile of philanthropy, his whole manner expressive of the mildness of virtue. Our attendants were gay, men of vivacity and unmeaning as vivacity generally is; for your humble servant Henry—but I care not what Henry is—this sly Cordelier—so blest—so beloved—so appointed—Whither am I going, these ravings serve me not!—On a group so inviting could an harmless maid gaze with aught but delight? —No—Cynics may rail, corrupted prudes con|demn, and the old murmuring visionary lay down his icy rule. Their labours amount to nothing. Generous Nature dips the spunge, and Sympathy wipes out the precepts of cowardly Reserve. True; the blaze of soul was on those innocent girls unusu|ally momentary, for here was Nature expiring in the grasp of Superstition.

The Abbess, from whose cheek insulted Nature had long withdrawn her rosy hue, deigned, unsmi|lingly, to direct us to a house on the south side of the

convent, and detached from it, I supposed, for the charitable purpose of receiving the worldly visitor (but as my guessing never was of the frigid kind, my reader must not always trust it.) Around the window-casements, wandered the solitary jasmine hiding as much lead as glass; up the dark coloured wall crept the ivy, and over the arched door stood the stone figure of a saint; not cut with awe-inspi|ring workmanship to deceive us into veneration, like that in which our cold and ancient patriarchs are im|mortalized▪ but in health, strength, beauty and comeliness; like the young friar, who left the house on our entering it, and who, I was told by the por|ter, often confessed the good Lady Abbess. Re|solving not to guess at any thing, but to take things as they came, I sat down. My Father and my Guar|dian walked round the apartment, which was spa|cious, admired the paintings of the canonized, and read the inscriptions of the Popes and the Nuns. I could have sworn the Popes and the Nuns had ne|ver been fellow creatures:

• Pope Urban, born * * * *, died 1644.
• Pope Innocent, born * * * *, died 1655.
• Pope Alexander, born * * * *, died 1667.

Many Popes in succession were born, and died.

The blue-eyed Nun of St. Catharines, born * * * *, and died * * * *.

• St. Anne, born 1642, died * * * *.
• St. Lucillia, born 1653, died * * * *.
• St. Civillia, born * * * *, died * * * *.

What did these births and deaths amount to? said my Guardian.—

The painted ceiling attracted may attention; it was meant to be decorated by a winter scene, in which no beauteous bud was seen to blow. From the east, the effulgent god, peeping above the ho|rizon, strove to throw a ray of genial warmth on the snow-drop that early gilded the vale, and seem|ed to await his coming; while Winter from the north, sent forth a torpid breathing; and the snow|drop, at his blast, shut up her beauteous bosom. From those devices, so natural to the latitude into which we had entered, my attention was arrested by the slow-paced Lady Abbess, who came accompanied by a lady to whom Emily ran and expressed her sincere satisfaction at their meeting. My Father too, without the least apology, or even a love-sick exclamation, started from his place, over-turned the little carved table that stood before him, ran against me, threw me upon the floor; and there I quietly sat gazing, and endeavouring to account for my Father's vigo|rous exertion.

If he should salute the immaculate Lady Abbess, said I to myself, we are all undone! But my fear was changed into astonishment, when I saw him clasp the Lady in his arms, who had entered with her, and imprint on her lips the salutation of love. My eyes, instinctively I believe, raised themselves towards Emily, who was that moment gazing on me.

Nothing,' said my Father, turning to a Venus de Medicis.

It was too much!—the heart cannot long bear the forcible beam of an enraptured eye; and Emily in|stantly affected to admire the antique roof, where Winter was represented as blasting the opening year.

"May thy youth know a happier spring! dear maid!" said I, rising from the floor with apparent composure. By this time I fancied my Father might have whispered his business in the Lady's ear, who, without waiting my advances, threw her arms round me, and sunk on my bosom—

'MY SON!'—was all she could articulate, in a voice that made me shiver. Rapture such as angels might feel, absorbed my whole soul. No language could embody my ideas. I supported my Mother, looked at my Father—He was silent, but the big tear of affection rolled down his face.

'My Husband! my Son! my Henry! Oh what an age is gone, what hours have I known—but I have found you!—found you both! we will never more be separated.'

'Take me with you,' said my Mother, with all the incoherence of full delight; while the good Lady Abbess stood trowning.

'I will! I will, my love!, exclaimed my Fa|ther, 'one destiny surely awaits us, or indulgent heaven would not have given you so unexpectedly to me.'

'I thought you had formed resolves, madam, of a more pious nature,' said the Abbess.

'What resolves?' replied my Mother, casting

her eyes pensively on the earth.

'Have we not laboured to extinguish your sense of worldly enjoyments?'—

'And what good did you promise yourself, had your labour succeeded?' replied my Father laconi|cally.

'The greatest good, Sir: that of teaching her soul to win its way to heaven. In short, that of breaking all social ties?'

'Yes—and of mistaking the grand beauties of order for the burning phantoms of imagination.'

The pious old lady, I supposed, made a stop only to summon her reasoning powers, which, every one knows, lie so deep in the mind's inexhaustible abyss, that we often cannot find them till the end of the argument, and my mother resumed; 'When I formed those resolves my spirit was made obedient to your wishes by despair. But I have found a Husband; I have found my beloved, my handsome Henry! and may not these obliterate my solitary resolve?'

'Ask your conscience?'

The tone with which this sentence was pronounced, proved that the Abbess fancied she had gained a point. 'Yes, Madam,' she repeated with a trium|phant smile, 'ask your conscience!'—

'Which is unsullied, if I know my Eleanora, nor shall your superstitious rites rob me of my claim, unless she willingly flies the husband who adores her. —Mistake me not, good Lady; so confused, so very inadequate is the code of all religious ceremo|nies,

that like Aaron's rod, one swallows the other, and the last lies without efficacy. You practise wars with the feelings of Nature; you lose your tenderness▪ you are less than woman, because reli|gious pride would whisper you are more. You can be of no service to God, you will not bless mankind; victims drop between your walls; socie|ty hears not their hopeless sighs, nor do you pity expiring beauty. Your souls are rendered obdu|rate by the working of that misguided frenzy, which your Priests awaken in your ductile minds— If you will teach woman, I pray you encourage her to dare beyond the invention of man: bid her not trust his opinions further than the verge of the grave. He cannot even paint to you a Deity. Why then immure yourself here? Why hourly die for the poor satisfaction of being deemed unusefully virtuous? 'Tis a state, Lady Abbess, like that in which the moth spends her last moment.'

My mother waited the result of this harangue, made by my Father in a peremptory manner. The Abbess was offended—he perceived it and led her into an adjoining apartment. None of us, I believe, were quite easy under this short suspence. We knew superstition here wore every pontifical terror, and that we had nothing in the world about us but poor reason. After some delay, we were, however re|leased. For the lately-jarring couple returned to us much better pleased with each other. I tried to guess the cause of so necessary a reconcilement; but, what with the filial respect I owed my Father,

and the frozen sanctity with which I beheld the ve|nerable virgin, I could not for my soul divine aright. Reader, do not thou guess—I will tell thee—My Father's purse was heavy, and he lightened it in that of the Lady's.

'We are ready to attend you my Eleanora,' said my Father. This Lady will obviate every objec|tion with the holy brotherhood, and we may de|part.'

This was not a time for any of us to be inquisitive; it was enough for my affectionate parents that once more they were reciprocally blessed; and the histo|ry of their long separation was mutually reserved for happier hours. My Mother, however, took an opportunity to inform us that she was not known in the convent; that such precaution had been taken to save the appearance of force in her seclusion, none supposed but that she came in voluntarily, and all expected she was to take the veil.

'The ministers of the King have lost me: I escaped from the convent in which I was first con|fined: I secreted myself by day, as much as possi|ble, for a considerable time; but fearing I should by chance be recognized, came here, and was wel|comed as one weary of the world. Long struggling with hopeless love, importuned and soothed alter|nately into cold and gloomy habits, I had lately given the Abbess reason to suppose that I would leave society for ever. You, my beloved husband, are a better guide; be you and my Henry my Guard|ing Angels.'

As my Mother was about to pour the sentiments of fond delight into our bosoms whilst we stood lis|tening with silent affection, her friends came to bid her adieu. The good Lady Abbess had gone to in|form them of her destined departure. Those who were probationers ran to us, full of unaffected con|cern, but those who were imprisoned by their vows, only waved their hands, and mourned my Mother's return to the temptations of the world.

Strange infatuation of solitary existence! Were they created for this single blessedness? Who can tell? We have invented virtue—We have carried sanctification to an extreme, and when extremes meet, 'chaos is come again.' Human ideas mingle in a vortex, and the man who is audacious enough to snatch an old thought from the mass, and dress it fashionably, hits the taste of the million lately born, and shall be pronounced 'Inspired'—Poor human Nature!

Notwithstanding we had bade farewell to these death-devoted maids, we were prevailed on to ac|cept of the invitation of the Lady Abbess, which was to sleep and refresh ourselves in this convenient and comfortable house till the morning. The arti|cles belonging to my Mother were not all collected, and we began to think the day too far spent to ad|vance. I am certain my reader (drowsy as he must be in reading my story) will swear there is no bles|sing in nature like sleep, I therefore will not apolo|gize, but own we concluded to stay with the Lady Abbess till the morrow.

My Father knew (as I have related) I loved Emily. He knew also that I had never, in a noble and candid mander, unbosomed myself to my Guar|dian. But he was too refined to suffer my mo|nopolizing the child, without the sanction of the father. Alas! he did not know how naturally and unerringly our souls had formed an invisible union. We had not waited for the secondary right of arbi|trary duty; we had seized the first claim of Nature, which was that of innocently mingling our senti|ments. Our persons were yet to be disposed of as Heaven would permit. My Father now drew me aside, told me he was sensible how much I must feel, and asked me if I really wished to marry Emily: I told him my existence depended on that hope.

Be it so: blessed with my Eleanora, my dreary prospects are changed, and my cares vanished. I have wealth enough to make us all happy in some peaceful retreat. Your Mother and myself will im|perceptibly grow old in the society of you and your family. Only promise you will never indulge des|tructive ambition.'—

"Never, my Lord, on my own account will I raise a tumult in France; but must you be for ever an exile? Should I not be justified in drawing my sword in the cause of filial duty?"

'Filial duty, my son, is considered by me as mere articulated sound, sinking as you breathe it indivisibly into air:—True, we have contrived em|blems by which it may be said we convey sound to the eye, these we call record. Characters, or what

you will, and by those mute auxiliaries have law and duty been handed down, through ages, for the support of order formed on human plans. But shall the empty phrase of filial duty cause you to be a murderer! believe me Henry, that man has a false idea of relative duty, when he spreads a wide evil for the sake of giving his friend or father a partial good.'

What could I say? Did not this man deserve a crown? I really thought him worthy of reigning, but dared not own I wished it.—He continued—

'The thunders of duty too often break on the head of a trembling child, who stands a meek victim to the will of another, and gives all away! Oh, how many pangs would the guiltless heart be spared, did haughty parents forego their fruitless claims! Sons would become domestic, happy husbands; daugh|ters elude a broken spirit, and an early grave.— No, my generous boy; you must look on me as receding from the world, and as to your per|sonal happiness, may it ever depend on yourself.'

"But how will my uncle approve of your obscu|rity? He is brave, and if I my judge from his ap|pearance, when he visited my Guardian, possesses fire enough himself to put in motion the grand ma|chine of war.—And who shall guide it?"

I was neither devout nor profane enough to pro|mise my Father the assistance of a Deity, as a meek and pious priest would have done. The plough-share of war is generally followed by a crowd of pig|mies, who are in such a fury to guide it, that they ••••ample one over the other; whilst the ill-directed

iron is harrowing up their peace.—

'My brother is not happier than I am unless he is more beloved, which I greatly doubt; for pre|eminence chills the heart that would, on an equal scale, adore. Reason well with life, my son. Na|ture has contrived it shall be short; man contrives it shall be wretched. He who rushes unfeelingly over his fellow creatures, to catch the bubble of public fame, feels the sting of a perturbed spirit; and shall not rest but in death. For you, and me, let love and the social blessings suffice to preserve us from inactivity; you shall be happy with your Emily, I with my Eleanora.'

No one man can be said to make a people blest; but surely a king, possessing a mind like that of my Father, could never add to the miseries of man|kind. I kissed his hand, in a transport of gratitude and admiration, and consented to renounce ambition. In a few words, he made my Guardian acquainted with my wishes, who unaffectedly gave his sanction only with this proviso, 'That the affections of his daughter should govern, never be made subservient to his approbation.'

'The last admonition of Antonio still hangs on my memory, said he—'I think it would be prudent not to pursue your journey to l'Abbee Dorovantes, but to seek a retreat in * * * * *, from thence you may inform the Duke of B * * * *, that your resolutions are changed, he may there meet us, and the union of our children be rendered lasting.'

We agreed.—I now beheld happiness rapidly ap|proaching

to love. To be blest with the object of my wishes, and crowned with the kind opinion of those I revered, were advantages that certainly promised uninterrupted tranquillity; and to these my glowing imagination added her strongest tints to beautify the scene.

Emily had been pleasingly occupied in receiving the congratulation of her friends in the convent; she returned to give us her good night. Her Father whispered to her the conclusions we had formed, and I had the pleasure of once more seeing the traits of chearfulness on her lovely features as the modestly withdrew.

The holy Abbess took my Father by the hand and my Mother by the hand, looked up with hea|venly fervour, and wished them the peaceful slum|ber of happy minds.

Her prayer, for aught I can tell to the contrary, was well turned: we all stood in need of rest, though I much question if either slept the better for it.

'How happy I am,' continued the good Lady, 'in proving myself your disinterested friend! Gold is ever inadequate to the soul's best actions; they are beyond all earthly purchase! I am hourly con|vinced by what I think and what I feel, that the soul and the body are two things; but the body is, as it were differently formed, subject to the natural neces|sity which displays itself every where. It must be de|pendent on something; the appetites must be fed or the body dies; but the soul stands in a manner

aloof! the soul silently scorns to partake of sordid gold! though gold is necessary, yes, the soul! the exalted soul is— as I may say—is like—Like nothing—except it be like my Eleanora, 'said my Father, as he led my Mother to repose.

Simple I, without saying a syllable, except good night, saw my friends retire one after the other, noticing, when unnoticed, till I found myself inad|vertently alone with the seraphic Lady Abbess— What was to be done?—Nothing; yet I resolved, with the utmost gentleness, to steal an holy kiss from her cold cheek—I did; and while I was shutting the door after me, saw her eyes filled with more despair than displeasure.

Do not think the worse of me, reader, for saluting the lily-coloured Lady—indeed I was only play|ful.

The moon, as I was reclining on my pillow, left the horizon. My candle had given her last friendly spark, and sleep and happy dreams nursed for awhile the wearied powers of my frame. I was once awakened by the sound of a bell from the con|vent; but concluding it to be that unwelcome sound which breaks the balmy slumber of the Nuns, and summons them to midnight vespers, I again lay down full of the image of Emily—O, how far at that mo|ment was destiny preparing to hurry me from the idol of my soul!

All was still—How long that stillness had lasted I know not; I awoke in a state of horror! My limbs were confined; on my throat lay a heavy

pressure; my breath grew short, and suffocation began to arrest the current of life! Agony, I be|lieve, is stronger for being sudden: even the pains of death become comparatively weak by a long and slow gradation: I was young, healthful and had known no waste of strength. My powers of mind or body had received no shock; and Nature now was ardent in her exertions to avoid dissolution. For|cible in my struggling, I by some means relieved my throat, and could indistinctly hear human wis|pers; I attempted to speak, and my mouth was immediately gagged, whilst a hoarse voice comman|ded me to 'be passive, for my doom was fixed.' A bandage was tied over my eyes, a covering belon|ging to the bed closely girted round me, and I was by force conveyed, with horrid silence, to a ••arriage. Convinced I was in the power of many ruffians, I steadily resigned myself to the will of my Creator, and lay still. Why I was not that night murdered, I am yet to learn, since had the contrivance been Roderique's, he was too far gone in vice to indulge humanity, and might have dispatched his rival If it had been the will of the King, he from policy more than cruelty might have destroyed a man whose pretensions to the crown would probably one day shake the peace of France.—That I am now breathing is to me a mystery.

The carriage, to the bottom of which I was bound for some hours, went furiously on. From its unea|sy motion, and the jingle of chains, I supposed it to be a kind of cart or waggon; the trampling of many

horses accompanied it, and the voices of many men kept a continual jargon, the sense of which I did not understand, because my hearing was not suffici|ently clear. I heard them, at last, mention mor|ning—I could not see it, my eyes were still darken|ed. How tediously did the hours seem to creep, whilst I lay burning with indignation, and endea|vouring to despise death! Sometimes I heard the wheels rush against the hedges, in passing, as I sup|posed, through narrow lanes; again they would plunge into deep ruts, made apt for impression by the late rains; and the recovering jolt always made me sensible of the vehicle's coming out; at other moments the horses seemed slowly to labour through lengthened marshes, the heavy mire of which so enfeebled and retarded those noble animals, that the lashes of their cruel masters lost their effect.— During this dismal day, the longest I thought I had ever known, no refreshment was offered me—I real|ly began to think myself forgotten, even by my enemies. The horses at length stopped, and the order was given for lighted torches: I supposed now the time to be night, and that we were on some beaten road; I was not mistaken—some travellers saluted us as they passed by, civilly, bidding God to bless us; others enquired to what town we were going, and what commodities we had to sell? My guards gave different answers to successive questions, not one of which were true, whilst I lay panting beneath a pile of straw. The carriage soon left the high roads; the hoofs of the horses were not to be

heard, and I concluded they were for many miles running over turf. The mind of man, when disturb|ed, is a chaos, 'without form and void.' His ideas take no shape, or the formation he tries at swiftly dies. Millions of chimeras floated on my imagina|tion; all were rejected in speedy succession ere they became old enough to take the colour of reason; yet fancy will be busy till we are no more.

'How near the shore is the vessel,' said some person, as the carriage hawled up, and made a full stand; 'not above forty feet; the wind is favoura|ble; we shall go seven knots.'

This dialogue ended;—as their voices died away, I could distinctly hear the roaring of the sea. Death throws horror on the imagination of man, from those lifeless forms he hourly beholds; the flitting breath departed, our lately smiling friends answer not to our lamentations, heed not our sighs, nor wipe away our tears. It is this eternal insensibility which pervades the dead—that shocks our mortal affections, and we tremble at the idea of sinking into the same state. What manner of death is least painful, I believe, has long been a question: for me, drown|ing appeared most awful.

In the season of childhood, I had accompanied a lad, whose father was tenant to my Guardian, in a walk on the bank of a river. It was in the month of July—Creation glowed with sultry exhalations, I panted at noon, reclined under the shadow of a willow, and my young friend sat by me till I fell into heavy sleep; the flocks were going to sold, and

I found the cloaths of my companion placed under my head, when I awoke.—"Jacques," said I, rubbing my eyes, "we have staid here till I am cold"—Jacques was gone! I started from the earth, roved wildly along the shore, enquired of the shep|herds, and called through the woods. My terrors increased, imagination doubled them. I quicken|ed my step, and ran towards home; being almost spent with crying, I walked throngh a lane which I never thought gloomy till now, and, turning the corner of the hedge, met a boatman carrying Jacques wrapped up in his blue jacket.—"Tell him to awa|ken," said I, in a transport of joy, "tell him Henry is here."

'He is dead.'—

"Dead!"—

'Drowned.'—

"No! no!—Let me press my lips to his, and he will breathe again."

The man laid down my pale little friend. I lay down near him, but he was cold. I raised his head —he was no longer the kind, attentive boy, who had, a few hours since, placed the wild-rose in my bosom.—

"Where do you think his spirit is?"

Boatman. 'Gone to Heaven, 'tis to be hoped.'

"And is this all I must ever see of little Jacques —He was good! I will be good! Perhaps I may meet his spirit when I die."

'May be so,' replied the man with a sigh, 'it is always right to hope.'

My unfortunate companion was learning to swim, I was informed, and the current carried him away. —He was borne to the village church-yard, attend|ed by his mourning father. His image remained indelible with me, and now revived with more than usual strength. To drown! good Heaven! to sink into the vast deep, so full of the powers of life! bandaged! chained! not the least indulgence left for struggling nature! How long shall I be dying? (said I to myself.) What will be my feelings?— The work of dissolution will, I hope, be short! After the shudder of a moment I became more col|lected. Man wills not himself into being; he lives not by his own energy, or he would live for ever. I must die! Time, when past, is not mine; the fu|ture is not mine; what then are my claims? I have none. Reflection thus prepared me for my fate, and I scorned to plead with those I imagined to be my executioners. Through this dismal scene my mouth was gagged, and the first moment of ease I experienced was, when one of the men, who assist|ed in receiving me from the carriage, roughly drew the iron from my lips. My eyes were not yet un|covered, nor my limbs unbound.

'We leave him to your care; be you answerable for the completion of the work,' said some one at a trifling distance.

I immediately exclaimed, "Monsters, if you know me, dispatch me."

'Ah! malheureux, vous etes condamne—N'im|porte—bon soir.

From the beach I was conveyed in a boat to a vessel, and dawn up its side with difficulty. In so help|less a state I could not aid the efforts of the seamen, nor ward off personal anguish. Being laid on the deck stunned with nautical expressions of surprize and laughter, I was unswathed, the covering was taken from my eyes, and I enjoyed the unspeakable pleasure of sitting upright. After suflering so long in a passive state, my mouth was sore, my thirst in|tolerable; I feebly begged for water. A young tar, hastily brought me some, but my jaws had been strained so severely, that I felt much torture in drink|ing, yet the eager craving of Nature was too pow|erful to be denied, and my muscles soon recovered their usual elasticity. I have often reflected since on the strange tranquillity which hung on my mind and body, whilst sitting on the deck of the ship. I remembered but little. I cared for nothing around me. I felt no agonizing impatience on the account of those I had been torn from, but fell into a vacancy which could be neither pleasure nor pain. Being awakened from this listlessness, I grew peevish, but was soon laughed into quietude by a young tar, who came sauntering along the deck with a chain in his hand, singing,

My rum is out! my spirits die! My mother gave me all her store. The tears that left her aged eye, Fell on the beach I hail no more.

'Jemmy,' (she cry'd) 'grey is my hair, 'Expect no more my form to see! 'Thy little sisters claim thy care; 'Give them the love thou ow'st to me.'

And tho' three thousand miles apart, And tho' my aged mother sleep, My sisters still shall have my heart, The world shall never make them weep.

Jemmy will come, my sisters dear! Think, when the winds blow loud at night, My latitude may still be fair, —I wish my cag of rum was tight* 1.1!

There was a peculiar manner in this fellow that drew my attention. I perceived he had sudden starts of love and pity, but that the habitual hurry of a sea-faring life had drowned the softest emotions of his heart as they arose; his mother and sisters had an interest in his bosom. They were far asun|der, and rum was but the means of supporting him now, that he might provide for those dear relatives in future. He stood listening to the gurgling waves, while he sang the foregoing song on the side of the ship, not in a hurry to fasten his chain round my ancle. When I enquired who wrote his song—'my|self,' (said he, in a merry tone) 'Come, hoist! Damn me if I'd give a quid of tobacco for such a land tortoise—why, what trunk of a tree did you leave last?—Do you go the voyage with us?'

"I have my doubts: this chain seems to assure me I shall not."

'O! curse the chain; many a good lad has worn a brace of them, who, for all that, pulled up his buntlings afterwards and danced with the lasses.'

Whilst this hearty fellow was comforting me in his way, he, with all the ease of an Englishman, drew his tobacco-pouch from his pocket, and push|ing a large roll of the vivifying herb on one side his mouth, desired me to do the same. I refused and thanked him. He felt no concern; but, as he put his little pouch into his trowsers pocket, he mur|mured—

'I hate to see a man in chains though he never touched a topsail.'

"Were you never in this predicament, my friend?"

'Never but once, and the Devil may carry me if I would not run the gauntlet at any time for the same trick.'

"What was your offence?"—

'Why, I only stole a boiled chicken off my Captain's table, (not this Captain) and gave it to a young Negro-woman, who was near dying with her pour baby at her bosom, between decks. She ate it up, while I stood looking at her; and in an hour after I took the full compliment of a dozen.— Damn the dozen! and damn the Captain, who could see her starve, for starve she did after all, because she could not, or would not eat the slave's common provender; she often prayed for Jemmy, (that's me) and said, a little before she died, that

'her great father, sitting at the end of the sea, would take care of Jemmy.' But there! she is gone! her baby was launched after her while I was in irons.'

A stout man, who I supposed was the comman|der, came forward, and saluting Jemmy with his rope-end, the latter skipped up the shrouds like a squirrel. For my part, I believe despair made me audacious, and I, with little ceremony, demanded of this officer whither we were bound.

'To heaven or hell.'

Fancying he meant only that we must sink or swim, I resolved to suppress my curiosity; the more, as this fellow's ill-mannered abruptness tended to si|lence my question, by the fullest answer in the hu|man language.

'Bear a hand with this lubber down between decks,' said he, and whistled carlessly as he passed forward: I was helped down, chained to a ring-bolt, an old hammock thrown near me, and some biscuit left for my support. All this did not appear as a preparation for my immediate death, and I natural|ly began to awaken from the stupor in which I had for some hours indulged myself. My parents! so lately found; so deservedly beloved, wandered across my memory. Their images were followed by that of Emily, but I checked the dear illusions, and laid my weary head, resigned on the hammock. Three days passed over me whilst in this inactive state. Jemmy would often steal down and try to chear me. One mor|ning

he came early, hugging his black-jack full of grog, and bade me drink deep and be merry.

'The world is but an ocean, mesmate, and though we all seem to be making different ports, we do but touch-and go. One port is made for all—I have rea|son to think you will get in before me; if so, look about you, see if you can see Tom Williams; if you can, tell him Jemmy Lee is beating into the channel. Come drink—one must follow another, we cannot make mankind drive a breast if it was to save our souls.'

This short oration of Jemmy boasted little elegance and much idea, (somewhat like a British harangue) but as life had lost greatly of its estimate with me, this honest youth continued uninterrupted.—

'Your sail will soon be taken in I am afraid. What do you think I heard last night?—Come, take a bit of a quid; it will serve to moisten your mouth bye and bye, for I must go up again; my watch will be called in an hour.'

"Excuse me, Jemmy, I am not in the habit of chewihg the leaf."

'Well then, I wont ask you any more—Here's health and happiness to him who steers out of his course to save a wreck!—Ah, my hearty! I don't know your name, but I wish you were safe on dry land! Why I heard a fine dialogue about you last night—The Captain mentioned you to our gentle|man passenger at supper; and, when I came out of the cabin, I listened at the door, for I wanted to know somewhat about you. The passenger said,

Captain, I have an order to take him out to sea, and carry your certificate back to France of his being sunk!'

'Who is he, replied the Captain, or what has he done to deserve death?'

'He is an enemy to the King, and my master lives in dread of assassination from him.'

'When your master (whom I never thought like myself) ordered me to bring my vessel along-shore, he told me the prisoner was condemned by the law, and that I might make some money of him at one of the islands where I shall touch; that part of the bargain I shall keep to myself. After taking in my cargo at Carthagena, where we are to set you on shore, I shall pursue my voyage up the Streights— But as to the prisoner—why, I have already received money enough for his passage, if it were possible I could carry him into another planet—Come, take your glass, I'll give you a song Andrew the mate taught me—

Like to an apple on the sea, The world is ever floating; The brave ride merrily, like me, The old on wealth are doating.

But he who loves his gentle maid, Shall meet a kind returning; And he who ne'er a friend betray'd, May—hiccup!—sing till rosy morning.

'Aye, but Captain,' said the passenger, (for he would not let him sing the song out) 'here is my

master's written order, which you must read.'

'Read—I can read nothing to night—hiccup— By Jove I am more than half seas over!'

'Here are five hundred louis-d'ors, Captain.'

'Five hundred louis d'ors!—

'Five hundred louis-d'ors!—'

'Damme, if that would not—hiccup—purchase my whole cargo!

'But you must perform my master's order.'

'Your master! why he is for all I know a knave on shore—I the sovereign of the sea.—

'Will you for this gold consent it shall be done to night?'

'The Devil himself will be offended if you make a murderer of a drunken man. It is a large sum —five hundred louis-d'ors. Hiccup, Sir, to hell I pitch your louis-d'ors, here have I been beating old Davy for these ten years—I am a Scotchman, my dear ship's name is the Highland-Queen; no man shall stretch out his hand at the day of judgment, and say to me, Captain Murray, you turned me, out of life; no, no, my—I say, Sir!—My vessel —my little Highland-Queen, shall not be followed up the Streights by a ghost.'

'A ghost! Captain Murray!—for God's sake is your vessel haunted? Lord have mercy upon me!'

'The Devil help you, hiccup!—you are a pret|ty fellow to drown a man, I tell you, you coward! the prisoner's spirit would sit all night shrieking

in the rigging; nay, I should not wonder if he flew over the side with you in a flash of fire.'

'I was never at sea before!,

'Then you never saw our great water-serpents, who come up in the night and spit blue flame in our shrouds when we got a villain in the ship.—Blue, yellow, red, green, all the colours of the rainbow, burn round us till the crew kneel down, say the Lord's Prayer, and tumble the wretch plump into the deep—hiccup—give me the other glass and I shall be up to any rigg.'

'Sir! Sir!' (and the poor gentleman panted for breath) 'I'll give you the sum of money, if you will do the business without my knowledge of it.— To be sure I was sent on board to see it done, and was afterward to be put on shore at Carthagena, from whence I was to return to Marseilles—but you can do it without me.'

'But not without the five hundred louis-d'ors.'

'No, Captain—here they are.'

'Agreed,' said the Captain, and took up the money 'so that I am afraid you will lie-by sooner than you expected. I had a mind not to tell you all this, but, if any preparation can be made for a long voyage we seamen like to make it.'

Jemmy left me to reflection; I had no worldly riches to bequeath; my ideal form, I believed would long be preserved by Emily, and I lamented in sympathy with my unhappy parents—All partial formation must dissolve, though the great-system of

Nature shall eternally renovate. Am I not, in the grave, the undoubted property of God?

Arrived at this height of resignation, I sup|ported a suspense of three weeks-rolling on the sea. The sight of land at last was proclaimed by one of the crew; and that night, when all was still, except the watch upon deck, the Captain came to me, accompanied only by Jemmy, and sternly orde|red me to be stripped. Poor Jemmy reluctantly obey|ed, without speaking, but the silent tear that fell on my cheek as he stooped to unbind me was full of pity.

'Wrap something round him, and stow him away,' said the Captain, let none of the crew know where he is while Monsieur Cregney is on board.'—

'God bless you, Sir?' replied Jemmy, in a trans|port of pleasure—'I was afraid, Sir, you were going to order me to throw him over-board.'

'And what difference to you if I had?—'

The Captain crept to his cabin: I was directed to lie closely behind a large coil of cable, and Jemmy covered me with some of the sails. My only fear now was of suffocation from foulness of air; however, my chance of life was much greater than it had been on the yesterday.

There is a pith, in some men, hard to be got at. It seems to peep upon us like a sudden light, and shut up again: The manner in which this Captain conducted himself was singular, and there is won|drous energy in natural eccentricity. I wished to be acquainted with the mind of this man; but cir|cumstances

would not agree to it.—We were three days making land, during which Jemmy never brought me any refreshment but at midnight, when our anchor was cast. I was not relieved for the space of a week: the happy moment came! Monsieur Cregney, I was informed, had been shewn the bed-clothes in which I had been bound on the night when forcibly torn from the convent; had received a written certificate of my death, and was gone on shore in order to return to France. With a smiling countenance, Jemmy led me to the Captain's cabin; I bowed as I entered, he took me by the hand, his heart swelled: but he stubbornly broke the sigh in its utterance—'Cheerily lad! I had some work to save you, take this purse that was to have made a villain of Captain Murray, and never feel becalmed whilst the winds fill one honest man's sail.'

"Keep your purse, Captain, as the regard of humanity."

'No; you are but a smuggled commodity at best, I could not buy you into breathing, I would not purchase you as a non-entity, and the five hun|dred louis-d'ors may make you a valuable purchase to some bouny lassie.'

"Do you know who I am?—"

'No; nor do I care!'

"Will you, or can you, without violating your honour, inform me by whose contrivance I was sent: on board your vessel?"—

'By the contrivance of a young Lord, who has paid me fifty livres per diem for two weeks past, on

condition of my laying off-shore to receive you. He told me that the King had given his sanction to your death, but that I might make money of you after passing the Streights. Monsieur Cregney, how|ever, has enlarged on my first compliance, and shewed me an order for your death.—Monsieur Cregney believes you are dead, and is upon return|ing to Marseilles full of that belief. Go;—be care|ful of yourself—I must pursue my voyage—and think sometimes of Captain Murray.'

To Jemmy I present one hundred of the louis-d'|ors, his civility had attached me to him; he swore they should all be bundled home to his mother and sisters; and if rough virtue has a charm, I sure|ly might be allowed to part reluctantly from this young man.

Captain Murray as we stood on the shore embra|ced me, and with honest warmth breathed a farwell. 'The billows of life,' (said he) 'you see, must be stubbornly braved: we are soon wrecked in a crazy bottom: A good heart is the best pilot in a storm; and if Monsieur Cregney has a heart like mine, he may call on Heaven for its care. If he has not, may he never find sounding even in harbour! —I may never meet you more!—but, were you to see me sinking, I know you would venture far to hold up Captain Murray.—'

His heart heaved—he shook me by the hand, pressed it between his own; and after looking in my face silently for a moment, broke away, say|ing—'God bless you!—

Captain Murray was older than me; he knew more of the world; and of the moments of sepa|ration. —I staggered speechless as he left me, fol|lowed him with my eyes. He looked back and waved his handkerchief towards an adjacent inn, wiped his cheek, and went on board.—I never saw him since.

And now was I left to look around me; no friend to whom I could unbosom my cares, though my heart was heavy. I however soon collected my scattered ideas; and, by the strength of my judg|ment, forced them to obey collateral circumstance. To the inn I withdrew, sat myself down in a private room, and strove to meditate on future plans. The most pleasing resolve I could form, was to return to France and seek those objects from whom I had been torn. I might go back—I could not look for|ward to happiness. Captain Murray had, on my being released from confinement, ordered me to be cloathed in one of his suits, consisting of a fine cotton shirt, red jacket, and white callico trowsers; so disinterested was this benevolent tar! I could of|fer him nothing—he had given me all. The only return I made was a note, which I unobserved slip|ped into his pocket, informing him of my name, quality and connections. I did not this from mo|tives of despicable vanity, but I thought if ever we met again I might claim his friendship from that rich source of obligation he opened on my grateful soul. At the inn, I enquired for a vessel bound for France, and was informed that an American brig was then

waiting for freight and passengers, and that her Captain lived in the street of Saint Dennis, which was but a third street from the inn. I made no de|lay; hastened to the house, met with the Captain, and agreed to lodge with him till his vessel should sail. Thus did Heaven seem once more propitious to my fortunes. In reading, writing and diverting myself with the Captain's family (which consisted of a sensible mother and three lovely girls) I passed my hours. Domestic peace was here—placid manner, chearfulness flowing from a self-corrected mind, and a continued equanimity of temper in this charm|ing wife, taught her husband to adore her and made her children ashamed of imperfection. Such happiness, said I with a sigh, would Emily have diffused around her!—Sometimes I would stroll down to the vessel, throw my eyes over the sea, and chide the contrary winds: it was to no purpose; I could not command circumstances to obey my will. The Wednesday following was at last fixed on for the day of our departure, and the tedious hours had rolled on to the evening preceding that day, when I supped with the Captain in his cabin, toasted my dear girl, and drank a little too much. I felt not the effect of my conviviality till I came on shore, and had advanced a considerable way towards home; the houses were shut up; not an object to be seen, and the silence of the night caused me to quicken my step which was soon arrested by a young female, who very freely took hold of my arm—'Venez avec moi,' said she—and in a moment forgot the

delicacy so amiable in her sex. Wine had exhili|rated my soul, my fancy was luxuriant—this daugh|ter of passion kindled warmth in my bosom, but her coarseness converted me. I looked in her face— she was beautiful.—"Take this, and return to vir|tue," said I—giving her a considerable share of my louis-d'ors, which I took loosely from my pocket, and throwing her from my arms.—She stood as if lost in gratitude, and I went on, somewhat proud of my superior excellence.

"What are the grand blessings of life?" said I to myself—"Love and social virtue, to be sure.—" answering my own question with much confidence.

This female out-cast was not an object of the one, but she called forth the other—My moral vanity was not gratified even by this forcible conclusion— "In correcting the senses," continued I, "we sure|ly enlarge the mind"—this reflection gave birth to more. I endeavoured to trace and retrace the origin of evil; went back, in idea, through the wilds of time—could find no beginning—came home to my starting post, and solemnly declared, "That a larger portion of pity than severity was due to er|ring woman."

All these sentiments, you will say, were very fine for a gentleman half-tipsey—They served me for the moment and that was enough. The clock of Saint Dennis had struck two, when I turned the corner of the street, and was near my lodging.

The young woman I had in part neglected, made her appearance again, through an alley—My rea|der

will perceive, that I had spun out my thread of morality, and was melting into pity—pity fills the heart of man with all that is soft and languishing to|ward woman; and I was pausing to enquire sen|sibly into the miseries of this young creature, when she eagerly exclaimed, 'there he is—the gold is 'in his waistcoat'—A banditti immediately rushed forward with one intent of surrounding me. Happily I had what the sailors term an oaken-towel in my hand, which the boatswain had forcibly pleaded the use of, and swore it might, in going home, serve more occasions than one. Under his kind command I, on board, accepted it—and this was the hour when my oak was to prove its fashion and quality. Never had it boasted an owner of more wild resolu|tion; (true courage being out of the question)—I hotly defended myself, standing with my back against a wall for the space of three minutes, with as much agility as Agamemnon himself could have done: Swift in my revenge as my assassins were in their plunder, I struck the stiletto from the hand of one; and, meeting the temple of another, reel|ed him to the earth—What could this alertness have arisen to had not a gentleman came to my assistance? —The odds were now five to one—He saw the odds; and, as one of the bravoes attempted to stab me, plunged the sword in his heart.

'Dead!' (said one)—'Dead,'—replied his com|panions. —'Let us be off!

'What shall we do with Larrette?—

'Od—mn her, let her scout as we must.'

Death certainly puts many a good man, and many a good woman beside their best purposes; and Larrette, without trusting to my pity, which had so lately been operating in her favour; ran as courageously as the most vigorous of her friends—I looked after her, tis true, but I did not much regret losing the opportunity of doing a good action: for as pity left my heart to fly after Larret|te, gratitude filled the vacuum in behalf of my deli|verer. In fervent language I invited him to my home. He politely promised me a visit in the morn|ing —This was the morning fixed on for sailing, but the wind still continuing its contrary direction, afforded me the opportunity of receiving my new friend. I found he knew the affairs of France bet|ter than myself; that he possessed acute penetrati|on, much reserve, and more benevolence; yet he was a little older than myself.—

'Accident, more than design,' said he, 'has brought me to Carthagena, I am making a tour with a nobleman who has, upon oath, obliged me to conceal his name and my own. I never lamented the restraint till this moment; I cannot repose a confidence in you; in return I can expect none: but be assured, I am a branch of one of the first fa|milies in France; I travel in the character of a Marquis D****, with my illustrious friend; who retreats for a while from court cabal—and now, only say by what name I am simply to address you.'

"Henry"—replied I, "and a more luckless fellow you never drew a sword for."

After spending two days more in waiting for a gale, and soothed by the attentions of this gentle|man, whose mind was worthy my regard, we took an affectionate farewell. I left him on the shore, and sailed for France.

Thou wilt repine with me, my good reader, that we were not better known to each other, when I tell thee, this was the identical Marquis so lately found within these walls, a victim to despotic pow|er. In a few days I knew his worth, though I knew not his rank, nor am I yet acquainted with his real name and quality. He is gone! for ever gone! And the letter found amongst his papers convinces me, he was making a tour with my un|cle the Duke of B****.

Our vessel flew before the wind, the land fainted from the eye; noisy cheerfulness invigorated the crew, and my bosom was light. What a chasm it makes in the life of a man to be rolling through te|dious months on the ocean! cooped within a few boards, and limited to a few strides fore and aft. I had seldom patience to remain below with the pas|sengers, but would try to amuse myself by hang|ing my head over the vessel's bow, and pursuing, with my eyes, the nitrous particles that shone be|neath, like jewels of varied lustre—To what depth may the imagination descend when it labours to fa|thom the sea! I had not, however, the felicity of making many grand reflections on the fallacious element; for we had scarcely passed the Streigh••s of Gibraltar, when we were borne down upon by an Algerine corsair—All hands were ordered up; the

deck was cleared, and every preparation made, not to conquer, but to die, stubbornly! For when we beheld the number of barbarians which swarmed on the deck of the Algerine, we could not hope, but resolved, they should buy us dearly. The conflict was dreadful!—In three quarters of an hour we had lost all our companions, except the boatswain, two gentlemen passengers, the captain and myself. Ad|vancing to the quarter-deck, we these made a full stand; embraced each other in silence. Neither mentioned peace or submission, because all were wound up to the strongest exertion we were capable of. The lantern in the steerage was still burning— The Captain, grasping us severally by the hands, recommended our souls to God with the utmost fer|vor, and hastening to the steerage, seized the candle —we saw him no more! By this time the Algerines had thrown an iron hook in our rigging and boarded our bow. Their superior number overwhelmed us. No sooner were we made prisoners, and secured in the corsair, than they loosed the hook from the rig|ging, probably watching the event—The sea was in smooth condition; the vessels merely drifted, the American brig was soon wasted at some distance from the corsair. I still gazed at her with anxiety, wish|ing to discern the captain; and the Algerines were as watchful as myself, but from different motives; as she drove gently, and no danger attending, a boat manned to bring her to—She blew up!—

"Thy little girls, and thy amiable wife will ex|pect thy return, "(said I, as I took a remnant of the captain's shirt from the main stay of the corsair••

scorched as it was) "gallant, but unfortunate man!"

As the smoke cleared away, we found a lock of his hair, and one of his fingers, which had been blown through the air.

"Good God! Is it thus thy image is broken by accident?" (exclaim I, with more presumption than knowledge) ignorant as we are, we are pas|sive to thee!"

A blow on the left shoulder instantly caused me to think less of the mangled captain, than of myself, I lay down at command, and called my obedience resignation: such an effect will a great evil, when properly compared, cause upon a lesser one. What was the fate of two gentlemen passengers I know not; they accompanied me to Algiers, and were sold to one chief, whose horde lay far in the coun|try. I was sold to a wandering Arab, and drud|ged on, in complicated misery as a slave, for the space of five years. Those five years, I will at pre|sent pass over, that my reader may not be obliged to follow me, weeping, through Barbary, with a plaintive and mournful spirit.

Rest satisfied? thou, who art hanging over this narrative, when I inform thee, that slavery having no charms, I escaped from its horrors, and arrived in France on the ninth of August, 1684. Toward Rochelle I bent my eager steps, resolving to enquire at my Guardian's mansion, for my parents and Emily.—Heaven? how did my heart palpitate with troubled joy, when I saw the eastern chimney peep|ing

through the long row of aged elms. Without hesitation, I ran through the first gate and knocked loudly at the door; my garb was not killingly gen|teel, but I had forgot it; I had also forgot, at this delicious moment, the afflictions I had known— Could the images of misery and murder find a place in my remembrance now!—No; all was transport, all exquisite delight and ardent expectation. I knocked a second time, louder than before; the door was opened, I stepped in without ceremony, and could only articulate—tell your master, Henry is here."—

The servant left me in the hall, with just as much ceremony as I had used in entering it; I watched every step he took, and cursed the slowness of his motion, as he stalked insensibly along. Another came of more polished manners, who civilly in|vited me up stairs, and shewed me into the little room which was once my study.—It was no study now?—my books were gone! The elegy of Laura was gone, all was changed; no kind memento of the refined pleasure I had here tasted remained 'to administer to my mind's disease,' and my raptures were subsiding swiftly, when my dear, my beloved Guardian appeared—He pressed me to a heart bro|ken by sorrow.—

'You return not to Emily—she—'tears and grief checked his words; I trembled, a sudden chillness thrilled through my veins, and I stood as one immoveable. Silent anguish absorbed us for some moments: my soul was tortured with suspense,

but I revered this good man's struggle, and waited till his resignation should conquer his woe. He at length informed me, that his books and papers had been seized by royal authority, that his fortunes were entirely changed since that fatal night when I was borne from the convent, and that he knew no|thing of his Emily or my parents.

'I was conveyed back to this dwelling, (continu|ed the venerable mourner.) 'escorted by a party of soldiers, a seal was put on my papers, and myself given to understand that liberty was more a favour allowed than a privilege I had a right to demand. To whom can I camplain? Repeated solicitation, tears, and threats with the Abbess of the convent availed no more than to gain repeated avowals of her ignorance respecting my Emily's fate. Here I wait for death! Here I prepare for that state to which my child—and even you, Henry, must fol|low! I have wealth still, but whom have I to share it. My sons are abroad, and my daughter is for ever lost to me; I therefore shun parade; you are young, and may still look forward for brighter pros|pects than those already faded into disappointment; yet, while I exist, command my purse, and accept me as a father.'

This was no resting place for my impatient soul; I could not long together sit down and weep; dar|ing better suited me: to seek my friends and avenge their wrongs, was a consolation, in my judgment, more eligible than tears. For this purpose I resolv|ed to wander through France, not without money,

but without attendants, that I might listen silently and unnoticed to the opinions of the nation. Whilst I remained with my Guardian, which was only a short time, I observed a deep and deadly melancholy growing on his mind. Such melancholy, I am con|vinced, often settles into black despair, which the poor sufferer, self-deceived, would willingly pro|nounce resignation. I tried to comfort him, and he strove to appear sensible of my attention.

Alas! we knew but too well the situation of each other's heart; and in endeavouring to disguise, we revealed our reciprocal anguish. Unable to support this mental conflict, I promised to write, and tore myself away.

Neatly dressed, but unattended, I repaired to eve|ry public place; strolled into every house of fa|shionable resort, mixed with people of every de|scription, and found national discontent gnawing at the root of national splendor.

Cardinal Mazarine was dead since the year 1661; Turenne died in 1678, and the Calvinists, left by the cruel excesses of the King's soldiery to secret cabals and feeble murmurs, quitted the kingdom in vast numbers. With these I was sometimes seen, hoping to hear of my persecuted Father, but find|ing that hope vain, sought the friendship of the Marquis Louvois, who stood in high favour with the King. Louvois I found intrepid; every species of boldness sunk beneath his daring spirit; and his will, supported by his cunning, seemed abso|lutely to command success. From this man I might

have learned much; the springs of political intrigue were coerced in his hand, like the fasces in the hand of the Roman; but my whole soul revolted secretly from his instructions. As a stranger he at first politely conversed with me on common to|pics—On further intimacy he revealed a part of his plans. I had no right to betray his confidence, but finding him the acting-instrument of court-design, I had fully resolved to quit his society for ever, and travel on in search of objects more dear to my sick and languishing mind. He, however, had the fascinating address to persuade me to ac|company him to this island. Innocent pleasures, he said, were his only pursuit; having obtained leave of his sovereign to absent himself on account of the weak state of his health. Horrible delusion! Here was I arrested by his command; and here I expect soon to die. The fate of my friend, the Marquis, who rescued me at Carthagena, the groans and complainings I hear every hour within this dreadful prison; the picture of my unfortunate Mother, and the depraved heart of Dormoud, leave me little hope of prolonged existence; while I live, from time to time I will continue my story. Should my execution be sudden, I can only at this moment claim the confidence of a pitying-world * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

10th September, 1685.

THE Cordelier still visits the castle; officiates with those who request his pious aid, but shuns me.

What can be the cause?—It is not of consequence. He cannot comfort me—his brother's papers I de|livered to him unperused by me. That note!— That destructive proof of Emily's inconstancy, I could not resign; my executioner will find it in my bosom * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

18th September, 1685.

NIGHT came on, when gazing through the grate of an adjoining apartment, I saw a genteel woman at her devotions; absorbed by strong curio|sity, I listened to her sublime supplications, and fancied her voice had, in some former period, struck on my ear. I could not behold her features; she wore a deep veil; but my soul was borne with hers to the Father of Mercy. The voices of those guards who were appointed to go their last round for the night, broke our heavenly enchantment. The Lady, I could discern, appeared for a moment ex|tremely discomposed; started from her kneeling posture, and turned towards the door, as if expect|ing the entrance of the soldiers. But they turned along through another passage; when she sat down, and, leaning on her hand, sighed for resignation, I prayed she might attain it, and stole from the grate. As I laid myself on the pillow, my sorrow|ful spirit whispered, Is she not my Mother? O how time seems to creep when we load him with sus|pence! How swiftly does he hunt down our little joys! When once the idea of my mother had again

rushed on my mind, agitations of wild nature shook me—What can I do for her? Dare I own her? May not our dear relationship cause her destruction? Can I clasp her to my heart, and in the language of filial love bid her be comforted? Can I for my mother, throw wide the door of liberty,—O! no! we meet but to die! We meet but to say how wretched we have lived, and how joyless we leave a Husband and a Father. Good God! is it possible thou canst forget u••!

Wearied at last by the violence of my emotions, I yielded insensibly to repose; and dawn, like an eye in the east, had scarcely got above its horizon, when Dormoud appeared at the side of my bed. I had no time to guess at the purpose of his visit. He sat down, told me, with his usual carelessness, that he was grown too impatient, on account of a pretty woman, to sleep late in a morning, and that my assistance might serve him much.

'Come rise, and breakfast with me; our Corde|lier, who is become a pleasant fellow, since he has gotten the better of the death of the Marquis, will join us. He is to confess the idol of my soul this morning. I have commanded him to put in a word for me, but I shall hope more from your negociation as a young clever fellow, than from him as a dull, moralizing hypocrite—allons.'—This man was as old as my Father.

Am I then become an instrument of vice! Is it possible for Henry, for that Henry once so beloved by the purest spirit in nature, to seduce woman!—

Yes—Emily is fallen—why may not I give a loose to wild desire—to baseness—to the last profligacy man can know—which is that of abetting the hap|piness of a villain. Woman! woman! what art thou? Enchanting, lovely, faithless creature!— Why didst thou beguile me? why cheat me of my youthful hours?—Ah Emily!—

Perdition, at this moment, could afford no hor|rors for me.—I was tired of being virtuous—I was tired of love.

After much delay and many struggles, I left my chamber, filled with shame. This was to be the day, the fatal day on which I was to be initiated in the mysteries of vice—for Heaven is my witness, there had not been a deed in the record of my youth which could stamp me a villain, or sting me with repentance. I paused on the stair-case; re|flected on the female captive—and, falling against the wall, with my arms folded across my bosom, began seriously to think of death; and to weigh the last pang of nature against the degrading drudgery of life.—"Should it be my Mother!"

I started, and ran down stairs—The image of my Mother still touched my brain—I could not divest myself of the idea, and hastened precipitately to the grate, where I had first beheld the Lady at her de|votions—"should it be my Mother!" I again ex|claimed, half breathless, with terror.—I will kill Dormoud, by Heaven!

This last resolve gave a sudden composure to my late-troubled spirit. I slackened my pace, and

went gently on tip-toe as I approached the grate. A little black curtain had been let down from the top of the window; but time, and its usefulness, had much worn the texture of it. One division, in particular, offered me a sight of the charming cap|tive, whose resignation had endeared her to me— I put my face down, looked through the curtain and saw her—not at prayer, but fainting on the bosom of the Cordelier.—No!—It is not my Mo|ther!

Joy, at least a kind of ridiculous and exulting mirth, succeeded my complainings. I not only was convinced that the Lady was no relation of mine, but I was convinced had a better protector than myself, and that she could trust much with this holy comforter.

"The Devil may run with this Cordelier," (said I to myself) "surely he does what pleases him with the heart of woman! I am glad however, the lady is not my Mother; she would recline on no bosom but that of her husband, or her son!"

Thus I reflected—but of what service could be my conjectures? I knew not whether this was the lady meant by Dormoud. She was still veiled, and if I could have seen her face I was not in a humour to be in love with it; therefore, leaving the Cordelier to fulfil his heavenly office, I went very sedately to breakfast with Dormoud.

The gaiety this man diffused around him, lulled every care—his manner so fascinated the human mind.

"Could I discern virtue through thy native em|bellishments, what a rare piece of workmanship wouldst thou be!"—This soliloquy was only whispered from my heart, as I sat conversing with him.

'When I informed you, that my happiness could be promoted by your assistance,' said he, 'I meant you should prove my negociator with a per|verse beauty, who is here imprisoned only because I love—her soul never entertained a crime! By my contrivance she is here, and here she shall make me happy—and yet—when I approach her, Sir, my desires are chastened by her unsullied innocence— I am awed—she awakens me to a sense of the purity I have lost; and I leave her, enraged at my own weakness.'

For my own part, I had no grand idea of the lady's unsullied innocence; for I strongly suspected her to be identically the same lady who was then confessing to the Cordelier. True, I had seen no|thing incompatible with delicacy, unless the most sorrowful tenderness could be deemed so; but I had seen enough to convince me the lady was not in|vulnerable. Dormoud resumed—

'Till now, as woman varied, varied were my pleasures.—The vain coquette invited my advances, and trifled with my heart; but, when she thought herself secure, I burst the web of her feigned-indif|ference, added warmth to her stronger passions, till she dissolved in the flame she affected to kindle a|lone for me. My vengeance was just; her memory

obtruded, and Dormoud was gone.—The ambitious beauty, who unportioned, stood up for high marri|age settlements, held her willing neck to receive my golden fetters. She appealed not to my heart, I despised hers; visions of splendor dazzled; I con|tinually waved them before her senses. Insensible to love, she sacrificed all to pride, and broke her own enchantment. I left her to weep, but hers were not the tears of wounded affection—And now what avails my past victories?—I am ensnared by one to whose impenetrable soul I can find no avenue! —she shall!—she must be mine!'

'If the mind of Dormoud may be reclaimed, this object of his love can only boast the power! Who knows but she has excellence! If so, her at|tractions, instead of descending, may draw this man to the zenith of her perfection."

Reasoning thus within myself, I secretly resolved to use my best efforts with the lady, and gain upon Dormoud to marry rather than destroy her peace.

"I will plead for you, Sir," said I, "and may the regard you entertain for the lady, recall you to the path of refinement; a path from which you have been hurried by the impetuosity of youth. You are accomplished—the chain of ignorance hangs not on your mental powers; nor can you eternally a|void the whispers of virtue.—"

'Cease!—Cease your admonitions! Far! very far beyond your judgment lye the doings of Dor|moud. I have your faith, you have promised

me secrecy; on your fidelity depends your exist|ence.'

There was a time when such a threat, from such a man, would have shook me; the roughest passions of my soul would have taken the alarm, and awoke to vengeance; but—No!—all was past!—Self ap|peared to have no influence over my despairing spi|rit. What had I here to live for, after being pro|nounced a captive for ever!—I was calm, truly un|disturbed by the menaces of Dormoud; yet to do one kind action for him was to tune his shattered thoughts to peace.

Here is but one obstacle to my wishes,' continued he, 'which is her hatred, at least it is that torpid insensibility to which she gives the softer term of virtue. In hourly danger of death, she braves me with a smile of resignation; but that resignation is meant to Heaven alone, her haughty soul despises me.'—

"Marry her—offer no violation to her will, but lead her to the chamber of pure delight. There will delicacy and tender confidence mingle her soul with yours—Friendship, love, every high sen|sation that swells the human heart; every fine de|pendance that loses itself in unison, will await you with the woman you adore; and who may love, if once she believes she can love in you the image of excellence."

'Marry her!' replied Dormoud, with a gesture of abhorrence.—

"Why do you start, Sir?—your youth is spent, you cannot be happy without her, and where will you find domestic bliss if not with a woman of beau|ty and virtue?"

'But matrimony is such a net, and its texture so strong and heavy, that I shall never be able to stretch myself with any ease or pleasure. Besides, I very much doubt, if I have the power to lay con|tinually contracted like an hedge-hog, merely to please my wife and the parson.'

"Believe me, Sir, your wishes will not wander, if you truly love.—"

'But I'll never marry, Sir, if I can do without it—Heavens! How blest should I be if she could love as I do—Go! win her to my arms, and com|mand my fortune!'

"May I talk of marriage?—"

'D—n it, Sir, how you teize me!—Try other allurements—She must be mine.—'

The entrance of the Cordelier checked, in some degree, the warmth of Dormoud. In a moment he collected himself, and enquired after the health of his fair prisoner.

'She does not complain,' said the Cordelier, 'her soul seems to have mounted above every world|ly care, and every mortal infirmity.'

'That is not the state of mind I wish you to en|courage, my good Father! I think she may as well soar to heaven from the pillow of delight, as from a river of tears. It is amazing that you gloomy disciplinarians will, through every age, make the

Deity an inquisitor, and dislocate your victims by torture before you think them worthy his accep|tance.'

'The Cordelier blushed—I was in pain for him— He mildly replied—

'We only wish to exalt and purify the mind of man, that he may not despise himself. Man is pos|sessed of powers which himself cannot define; all he can do is, to endeavour, through the conveyance of sound, to communicate their workings to his fel|low beings; this conveyance he feels inadequate, and, consequently, turns in upon his mind, if vice alone is seen; if the senses are predominant; and, in uproar, tearing him within; you will per|ceive his form early relax, his finer faculties grow dim, and all pleasure that is not gross will, to him, appear unlovely. On the contrary; if early taught that an universe can only be seen by looking back|ward over the realms of spirit, man grows proud of every new discovery in his intellectual world; he will exult with the hope of possessing a state suited to his fine, though invisible powers, and will no longer despis himself,—'

'Very well, good Father, you are exceedingly eloquent on topics which, I am certain, will give you range enough; and so far am I from endea|vouring to oppose your pious harangue, that I will do all I can to support it, and you shall draw the conclusion—Your pretty mourner is the universe to me; and, in possessing her, I will ask nothing more to suit my fine, invisible powers; and un|til

she is displeased with me, I will not despise my|self.'

The muscles of an anchoret would have unbended at this scene.—The eyes of Dormoud sparkled with gaiety, as they were turned up to the Cordelier, who stood gazing on him like one struck with terror and astonishment—the momentary pause ended in a loud laugh of Dormoud; who, taking the Cor|delier's hand, sympathised with him in a merry manner—'And how, my holy Fried,' said he, could you so easily let go the best end of the argu|ment!'

'I am confused, not conquered—a prize of un|equalled value is neither won nor guarded with ease. —I am more interested on your account than you can conceive.'

To this last speech of the Cordelier I could have given my secret avowal; but I was resolved to ob|serve all I could, and be silent—My situation requi|red caution, and silence is seldom inconvenient to those who would advance safely through the troubles of life.

'I thank you,' replied Dormoud to the Cor|delier, 'I believe, my good Sir, you would kindly make me dissatisfied with the retrospect of myself —I never mean to take a backward view, whilst time drags me forward; but do indulge me for a month or two, and I will try to be virtuous through the remaining part of my life.'

'Listen to the voice of virtue, and you may smile when dying.

'Yes!— but you sombre sons of melancholy vision are known to promise more than yourselves dare trust to. You sooth, with the hope of mercy, poor delinquents, whom you nevertheless, from the seve|rity of your rules, think lost for ever. Far be it from the innocent Dormoud to argue like a modern so|phist, for and against you, without knowing why; but surely I may avail myself of your spiritual lenity, and beg you will comfort me, by persuad|ing my fair prisoner, that I am the most honourable of men.'

'Have you resolved to support that character?'

'Humph!—I—I wish to—I had forgot myself—I only was thinking what would please the lady.

'Can you expect me to violate truth? Does it pertain to my office to delude the judgment of my fellow-creatures?—'

'A little, I believe—Well, well, my dear Fa|ther, you will find me a proselyte the moment I am convinced of the efficacy of your doctrine; in the interval, you know, if I lose the pleasure of sinning, you and your sable brethren will lose the glory of my repentance.'

Perceiving the heart of this lively libertine in|vulnerable, I wished to support the gentle Corde|lier, and interrupted the conversation, by saying to Dormoud, "If I may advise, Sir, you should rest your cause with the lady, and trust to her deci|sion."

'I must—I must—but her inflexibility enrages me.'

On other topics we gave our opinions alternately, till the Cordelier took leave, which he did hastily, and with looks full of trouble. My eyes followed him; I melted with commiseration, and wished Dor|moud had treated him with more reverence, though he had lately avoided me.

When alone with Dormoud, he returned to the subject his imagination swelled with. He wished me immediately to visit the lady, to plead with her in his behalf—'but,' said he, 'if you can succeed with her in no other way, tell her I will—' Here he made a full pause.

"Marry her," replied I.—

'Go, Sir—you are sensible we are friends condi|tionally.'

This speech was delivered with haughty fullenness, its effect was lost on me, my whole soul was collect|ed, a few momentary pangs came not within her estimation. And as I feared not death, I could not fear Dormoud. Charged with his dishonourable embassy, I hoped to acquit myself, not as a creature apt for villainy; but, if the lady should prove as tender to him as she was to the Cordelier, I did not think myself privileged in opposing her sentiments. Therefore I hastened to her apartment, knocked gently at her door; it was opened, and she received me with dignity of manner, but veiled. In attempt|ing a formal apology, my tongue faultered. The

lady observed, spared my confusion, and, with an heavenly sweetness, desired me to be seated.

'You seem a stranger, Sir, may you never be|come familiar to the horrors of this prison.'

Endeavouring to appear respectful, I took my seat with aukwardness enough, I believe, and incohe|rently claimed the lady's indulgence—She sighed— deeply sighed!

I could hear her breath flutter in tremulous pauses; her face I was not permitted to behold.

Surely, said I to myself, agitation is sympathetic, or we should not thus mutually feel distressed: po|liteness bids me leave her, that she may conquer this surprise. Hardly knowing what was best, I sud|denly arose to be gone, and, bowing low, found courage at last to say, "Pardon me, Madam, I meant not to intrude—my presence oppresses you—I will, if permitted, wait on you at some more tranquil moment."

'Pray, Sir, excuse my manner! if it is forbid|ding, I mean it not; no future moment will find me more tranquil—believe me much at leisur••—let me prevail on you, Sir, to say why I am honoured with your visit?'

I sat down again—The lady, in spite of her ef|forts to conceal it, was still agitated.

"Politeness, Madam, may, in some degree, be forgot or neglected, when the mind is stubbornly adhering to the first good, first perfect, and first fair. My visit, however unexpected, or however painful, may be productive of your liberty and happiness.

Calm your apprehensions—I am a stranger to you —I am no stranger to that tender delicacy due to your sex. Summon therefore, those stronger virtues, of which I hope you are possessed, and yield not thus to unfavourable impressions."

'What means this solemn prelude, Sir? my situ|ation from you needs no support: What have you to do with my virtues? Can you judge me, who am accountable only to heaven? When I complain, do you prove a comforter! If you come to fortify my mind against the fear of death, know I am pre|pared, and have not leisure to hear you: none can guide me through the unknown gulf, I must depart alone; whilst here my sorrows are sacred, not one of your sex must profane them.'

So, so! here is another farce rising (thought I.) This lady positively will not be saved by any man but the Cordelier. O, woman! thy artful reserve never ends.

I was not in a humour to be over credulous; and as I firmly believed the lady was giving me a taste of the buskin, I resolved to bring her up to a cli|max, and proceeded in a solemn tone:

"I ask not your confidence, Madam, time only can convince you that my assiduity is not merely officious, but honorable; whilst I guide you to peace, I will not ask your friendship, this gloomy situation forbids that hope, for the attendants here are Doubt, Suspicion, Dismay, and Murder."

'I know it—proceed, Sir.'

"Dormoud loves you."

'Speak not of Dormoud."

"Reflect on your dreadful state; I shudder at the evils which may befall you, if your soul is not magnanimous enough to sacrifice your love to your honour."

'Fear me not, Sir—You must indeed be a stran|ger to me; you will, I fancy, soon know me better —perhaps too soon.'

Her last three words were breathed in a low tone, like that of one labouring with inward anguish. What could I propose to this commanding creature, commanding only from apparent, or real resigna|tion! for I now confess, with shame, my doubts were not removed.

I may be wrong, with respect to the lady, said I, pausing within myself, but her conduct ought not to influence mine—I am not a villain yet!—Emily alone, I believe, could make me so; she is wan|dering in the flowery path of vicious pleasure; she leads the pursuit, this holy Cordelier follows— There may come a time—No—I shall never inter|rupt them—

"Madam, when I tell you there are dangers near, you cannot foresee nor prevent, you will par|don my officiousness, though you may not follow my advice. Reflect for one moment, think in whose power you are, and if the world holds but one object to whom you may be dear, or who may be dear to you, preserve your life! look forward to a happier future; and soothed by heavenly hope, purchase liberty with honourable misery."

'What mean you by honourable misery, Sir?'

"Your marriage with Dormoud!"

I started at my own proposition—Dormoud had given me no authority to make it, but my love of virtue, I believe, was impulsive. I felt no desire myself of seducing this defenceless lady, and for|got, at the moment, they were not my own senti|ments I was sent to deliver.

'Feeble custom of mankind!" replied the lady, 'marriage can bind, but where honour is not known, could I marry to delude the man I con|temned? Would he brutally dare to seize my hand whilst conscious he was the object of my dis|gust? There may be such a man, Sir, but with such a man I should deserve and taste dishonourable misery. The tie of marriage too often secures the dull and unimpassioned frame, but how many ten|der, noble and nameless blessings invisibly hang over two kindred souls unconfined by human insti|tutions? That refined and generous affection is not born of law. Heaven alone directs its inherent and increasing force, till death, for death alone dis|solves it.—Speak to me of honour; let it stand un|supported by, and superior to, your laws.'

This was the first time I had heard such doctrine from a lady; the beloved Cordelier, I supposed, was whispering through her enraptured soul. She however, set my thinking powers at a stand, and ••efied my judgment. Woman generally regards the Hymeneal state with a kind of awe. At least we teach them it is their duty and their interest to

hold it sacred, though we often destroy, by our ex|ample, the effect of our theory. Till we better obey the laws we make, woman will laugh at us, inasmuch as we endeavour to insult her understand|ing. Finding I was wrapt in my own contempla|tion, the lady resumed:

'Well, Sir, if you ever were beloved, I think you must hold my opinion.'

"I once believed I was, Madam—My mistress talked much of honour; amused me with ideas of fancied virtue; bad me love her and truth, yet, by heaven, she is false!—Pardon my impatience! I am mad with the imagination of her guilt! She pur|sues another—She holds me in her chains, faithless woman! for her sake shall the whole sex—"

'Hold, Sir, in the name of the whole sex.'

"Bear with me—I am injured—deeply wound|ed; the fascinating beauty I adored has proved your doctrine false. No tender ties invisibly held her heart to mine; no truth, no honour—but she is —she shall be my contempt."

'Are you certain, Sir, that your wrongs are not imaginary? Are you not fearful of expressing your|self too passionately? Do you not feel a dread while stabbing the character of the woman you once loved?'

Her voice altered from its firmness, as she put those questions, into a tremulous solemnity, as if she feared my avowal of the charges I advanced, and hoped for my recantation. I was struck with more reverence than I had felt on the commence|ment

of my visit, but boldly continued my protesta|tions of eternal contempt for the principles of my fallen mistress.

'Is she not still dear to you, Sir?'

"I—I—No, Madam—She was dear only to me —perhaps she did not love me: she is cheap to those she loves—I have forgot her—at least she never more shall enslave my spirit."

My heart struggled to utter contrary language; it still was beating with wounded tenderness, but pride, insulted pride, came to my relief, embittered my ideas, and filled me with such stubbornness, that had Emily appeared at that moment before me, I think I could have thrown her from me for ever. My negociation with the lady had all this time gained but little advant••ge, and I returned to it as well as I could. After recapitulating the subject of my visit, making generous comments on her opini|ons, and setting my unsuccessful proposition of matrimony aside. I hinted, that the true support of her argument would be always in her own power; and if marriage ••ppeared to shackle the free-born flame, Dormoud, who loved her, would study other methods to make her happy.

'Base!'

My eloquence was at a full stop. I was dumb— A spider at that moment happened to be crawling up the wall, and afforded me the opportunity, by striking it down with my handkerchief, of turning aside my blushing countenance.

'I hope, Sir, this is your first time of acting in an official capacity for—'

"For what, Madam?" interrupting her with quickness—

'For your mistress, Sir—you certainly plead much in her behalf, when you say, she is false to you. Could she have been equally a friend to you and virtue? Say, would you have dared, either for the sake of Dormoud or for your own, to have se|duced her into snares inconsistent with the delicacy of her soul?'—

"I loved her, Madam, whilst I knew she was innocent, with ecstacy, that filled me with visionary refinement; could I now meet her, my ardour would be very different. Who ever sported with a crocodile as they would with a lamb?"

'Ha! is it possible!—Enough, Sir:—I confess your reasoning is just; you are no self-deluding so|phist. By conversing frequently with you, or gazing through your medium, I should maintain, obstinately, that all men were blind who did not see as I did. Be not discouraged; your success may more than answer your expectations—I have but one wish ungratified, which is, that of being informed how you were brought to this dreadful place.—It does not matter!—all is over, all will soon pass away!'

"Madam, it is impossible you can judge me, un|less you know the woman."—

'Behold that woman!' throwing up her veil.—

The conflict was too powerful! she fainted— Trembling with astonishment and terror I caught her in my arms: once more!—Once more to hold my Emily! To gaze on her I had loved so long! for whom I had suffered so much! Good Heaven! How enraptured I stood with momentary joy.— The vision ended as her sense returned. She look|ed at me, but not with tenderness; not with that innocent confidence which once filled her eyes; but, panting with pride, indifference and despair. —O what would I have given to retrieve so fine a mind! What would I have borne to have recalled so valuable a heart to love and Henry!—

'It is wonderful!' said she, withdrawing her eyes from me and fixing them on the earth—'it is dreadful! But it must be so—Henry!—poor Henry! where have you been?'

She paused—

"Speak on!—Ask me again where I have been! Tell me I have been long forgotten."—

A flood of tears silently flowed down her cheeks, I suffered them to flow without interruption, hoping they were the soft effects of pity or of love.— The Cordelier was not thought of at this mo|ment.—

'I never supposed we could meet thus, unfortu|nate Henry! Why did you suffer the world to cor|rupt you? what has the world gained by making you base—?'

"Am I base in your eyes, Emily?"

'For ever!'

"Who has dared to tell you I am base?"

'Yourself, Sir—Leave me—I am cheap only to those I love—and have no leisure but to employ with my confessor.'

"Damn him!"

'How, Sir!'—

"Pardon me, Emily!"—

'You cannot now offend, Sir.'—said the haugh|ty maid, breaking in upon my apology with the ut|most sang froid.—

"Have you forgot your Father, Emily?"

'I remember him well—He can never come to me! —I must never go to him! here I am to breathe my last!—Henry!—I did not wish to meet you here. Why did you come to see me die!—Depart!—try to be happy—you are changed, greatly changed; but there are pleasures in the world suited to depra|vity, and you may yet be happy!"

"I am a prisoner."

'God forbid!—O where are now my blissful vi|sions of eternity! the joys of heaven are growing languid to my spirit's eye.—Go, Sir! I pray you leave me—Do you not discern distraction growing round you? I am feeble, very feeble— Nay, I shall taste of guilt in conversing with you —Leave me with my confessor.'—

Observing her speech grew incoherent and broken in its meaning, I began to dread the consequence of this melancholy and strange meeting; I therefore retired, with a heart bursting with shame, jealousy and sorrow; and, in passing through the arched-aisle, met the Cordelier.—

"You have undone me, Father," said I to him, that Lady loves you."

'She has a right,' replied he with firmness.

"By Heaven you must be cautious!"—

'I will—Go to your apartment, and try to fol|low my example'—

Without deigning further explanation, he enter|ed the apartment of Emily, from whence that de|luding beauty had banished me.

Stupid with astonishment I forgot Dormoud, and wandered from Emily's door, through the furthest passages, endeavouring to account for this mysterious event.

Who could bring unfortunate Emily here? Why she is a prisoner, I need not question. Individuals in France stand in hourly jeopardy, are ever devo|ted to secret intrigue and too frequently torn from their friends they know not why. I left her in the convent on that fatal night, when I was borne into slavery. Could Dormoud convey her thence? Rode|rique, I supposed then, my only rival, and my inveterate foe. Where is now that finished villain? Perhaps an associate with this infernal Governour! —What can I do! why did I not expire in chains within these walls—anguish accumulates. Poor Emily! will no kind spirit plead for thee? Thy youth, thy innocence, thy inexperience; or it might happen that some designing act of friendship performed by this happy Cordelier strengthened his purposes and dissolved thine.

Thus I reflected, but my revolvings threw no light on this state of horror. All was enveloped in the shade of destiny. No gleam of comfort came, nor did I know whither to go; could I immediately return to Dormoud? Did I dare, truly to relate the unexpected result of my mediation for him! No, such imprudence would have hurried on the stroke of fate. Emily, myself, or both must instantly have fallen; and though the sight of the Cordelier had re|called my sense of honour, and I had resolved never to marry Emily, she still seemed to wisper her claim to my pity and my friendship; 'To your honour I could confide my child, said her Father in an happier hour. Lost in perplexity, I insensibly reached the least frequented part of the castle, I heard sighs and lamentations: I saw not the victims who breathed them, he low door of the subterrane|ous den, shewn me by Dormoud, last presented itself—I stood looking at it with attention, and as Dormoud had predicted, felt less terror than at first, for calamity was become familiar to me. As I loi|tering gazed around me, at the many heavy doors barred with iron, and ranged in those quiet and so|lemn walls, my curiosity was awakened by hearing a noise within; the groan I had heard when with Dormoud, came again to my recollection: and I wished impatiently to descend those steps once more, where I had found the picture of my mother; my anxiety was unavailing!—the ponderous key was in the possession of Dormoud—I remembered my hap|less parents and walked slowly on. This wing of the

castle, shooting itself into the sea, was doubly ter|rible: a stillness controuled the troubled spirit! —I felt as if moving through a void sacred only to invisible woe! Beings, who were irrevocably lost and meant to be cut off from the world were con|fined here! No guards passing: vigilance might here have slept, since massy bars filled every little avenue, and all appeared tremendously secure. Turning my eye towards the right hand wall, I observed a low window about a foot square; I put my face close to the grate; cold and confined air seemed to come moaning from some back part; I supposed it came from the ocean, and the darkness of this gloomy chamber could only be discovered by a glimmering flame, languishing and going out by fits, from a shattered and filthy lamp placed on a large coffin. I listened—the winds breathed horror on my imagination, which swiftly formed creations of such frightful shadowing, that I even started from the grate. At that moment I thought the name of Henry stole softly on my ear!—nothing more! Dead silence followed—I was persuaded it was fan|cy; the flame in the lamp expired:—and borne down with dismay, I again bent my irregular steps towards Emily's door.

If I must be a villian, said I, as I passed it, I will not prove a villain for Dormoud; I will learn cir|cumvention till I outdo him, I will oppose art to his arrogance, servility to his pride, and flattery to his crimes; he is too full of vice to be worthy my care. Indulgent Father of unnumbered worlds! let

me still beg existence from thee! Preserve me amidst the snares of man, and though entangled in this web of human misery, make me act for the cause of virtue!

When a man begins the work of villainy with compunction, it is a proof that he will become an idler. Vicious minds must encounter many difficul|ties in their lame-halting after flying pleasure; I could not presume to keep pace yet with Dormoud, but I resolved whilst my life was prolonged within these walls, to become his competitor in the manner I thought best suited to my train of thought.—I also resolved that if Emily was not mine, she never should be his against her inclination; the Cordelier I knew held a good chance against us both.

But what or Emily?—She has forgotten me; would she have forgotten her vows had I not insulted her truth, and wounded her fame even in her pre|sence? Yes,—she has favoured this Cordelier, he loves her, is beloved, and I am estranged; yet, it can be no crime to save her from Dormoud—I will try to protect her, that she may (should a future chance offer) be blest with the object of her affec|tions: this is the last struggle of dying hopes!

Dormoud was waiting for me▪ I hastened to him, and flattered him with expectation. Embracing me with liveliness, 'and when,' said he, shall I visit her.'

"Let me prevail on you to calm your impatience, Sir; love when immature, feebly operates on the human mind. Banish fear and uneasiness from her

you admire, and your felicity may be of long con|tinuance."

'But you give me hopes: you think she will not persevere in cruelty; why may I not this moment throw myself at her feet, and tell her I am expiring with the flame she has kindled in my bosom?'

"Her confessor is with her!"

'That quiet fellow crosses me like my evil ge|nius: and yet, I almost wish my life had been like his; his harmless, unimpassioned manner gains on my respect, but I shall never get hold of this char|ming lady whilst he supports her holy delusion.'

"Do you know him further than from his offices here?"—

'I know he has the address of managing some of the first men in France.'

"Where did he come from?"

'From the Netherlands, strongly recommended by the Abbe Dorovontes: let us talk no more of him:—Say when I may see the lady.'—

This was the first step I had taken from the way of truth, and it now appeared a certain one towards destruction—I had made an unwarrantable proposal to Emily; I had given false hope to Dormoud, merely to gain time, and stood between both a de|ceiver: no other path offered, I was obliged to go on.—

"It is vain to think of obtaining her but through the sanction of the church."—

'The Devil it is! you melt and freeze me with the same breath.'

"Because you allow not yourself, or the lady, leisure to arrive by fine and fond gradation at con|summate happiness—when was woman won sur|rounded by terrors? Delicacy, attention, compo|sure; all that can soften and allure, should play gently near her. Sensibility and tenderness once awakened in the bosom of woman, imagination and memory will befriend the lover, she will in idea be|come more his than her own, and yield to pity, more than she can hold with pride."

I was not certain in this specious harangue of de|scribing a lady's heart, but I was certain mine would warmly comply with all those endearing du|ties.

'By Heaven I will obey you,' (said Dormoud, passionately) 'only give me hope and you shall ma|nage me, till—aye, till I am no longer patient enough to bear your rein. You, I believe, have been conversant with that haughty part of the sex styled women of virtue; I only with the weak and willing, and my cheap victories are no longer va|lued. But this glorious conquest was reserved for my riper judgment, and over this fair opposer I will not seem to triumph, but to yield.'—

"The lady thinks favourably of you—I will see her again, and draw forth, if possible, her secret resolves; I am in your power, Sir,—you may com|mand my services."

'My dear friend, you make me happy; I will not command but obey you: share my confidence, taste every pleasure confinement can afford, but

you are so conducive to my tranquillity that you will pardon me when I say, liberty to you would be affliction to me. You really master my passions, at least from your bent they will acquire aggregated force.'

This was new reasoning, and not very congenial to my wish for freedom. In truth, I grew hourly more involved, and my embarrassments thickened as I laboured to disengage myself.

'I have,' (resumed the Governor) 'been invited by the Marquis Louvois to spend a day or two with him; the Deputy Rozinelle, will in my absence grant your reasonable requisitions: before I depart gain me an amicable interview with my charming mistress, I promise not to make full use of it— Shall it be to-morrow?—I die to see her!'

To this hot-headed lover, I said more than I meant to fulfill, and withdrew.

To hear that the Cordelier came from the Ne|therlands, and recommended by the Abbe Doro|vontes, of whom my Father had spoken to me, afforded hope of intelligence; I accordingly resolv|ed to regain his attention and friendship, especially as I meant to resign Emily for ever; my parents were still dear to me.—The remembrance of them sacred; but when I reflected on Emily, pride, re|venge, jealousy and despair, tore my bosom with their working * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

2d August, 1685.

WHAT mean these shivering sits—I am ill— writing is become too great a labour—here I must end my * * * * * * * * * *.

FINIS.

Notes

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  Full.