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.

Isle of St. M*****, 18th June, 1685, dated from the Castle—at night.

TORN from the visions hope had been flatter|ing me with, I was plunged into this dreary abode. In the fourth room on my left, I saw, by the glim|mering of a lamp, the Marquis D****. He was reading; dejection had robbed his eyes of their brilliancy, his features were fixed by despair—I paused—One of the guards, I thought, looked sor|rowfully at the Marquis, who, raising his eyes to|wards heaven, exclaimed, "O merciful God! how long must I bear this thirst?"—A sigh broke from my bosom, but it availed not my friend, I was con|ducted to my cell, and left, in awful silence, to gloo|my meditation; yet pity, heavenly pity! had touch|ed the strongest fibre of my heart, and I forgot, for some moments, I came here to die. After a night of weariness, I arose; the sun had not gilded the grates of my prison, nor had the lark indulged her first rapture, when the groan of anguish left the bur|thened heart of some one near me—I listened— silence ensued, and after an interval of near ten

minutes heard a door unlock—It was the door of the Marquis.

"Deadly draught! Bitter! Bitter to an extreme!" were his words. I felt agony not to be expressed, grew wild with horror, and knocked loudly on the inside of the door of my prison. It was opened by a soldier, in whose countenance were discernible the tumultuous traits of unfinished murder.

"What would you have, sir?—speak quickly— the commandant would reprove me did he know I obey unnecessary curiosity—"

"Surely thou couldst not do it; (said I, looking at him with amazement) if he is not yet dead, per|mit me to see him."

"Whom would you see?"

"That gentleman in the fourth room."

"He must die, sir. Nine days have elapsed since the lettre of death arrived.—He must drink"—

"Poison!" (interrupting him.)

"Yes, sir; the draught of sleep—he will feel little pain."

"How long has he been imprisoned here?"

"He was here before I came—I know not his offence—we only attend to guard-hours; prisoners must not converse with us, nor dare we make en|quiries; if we did, we could do no good, for our own lives are not worth much here."

"O Heaven! (I exclaimed,) is it possible those who boast the name of christian should thus revel in cruelty!—Lead me to the Marquis."

The soldier seemed irresolute; I slipped a purse into his hand; he was conquered, and left me near the bed of my friend; slumber, innocent as that of infancy, was gathering on his face, he raised his heavy eyes towards mine.

"From whence are you come"—

"Ah, my dear friend! do you not know me?"

"Is it, can it be my dear Henry?"

"Yes, it is that unfortunate victim of designing power."

"And come you here to seek a grave?"

"My dear Marquis, kings will be obeyed; how long have you lingered here?"

"You may remember the night when I attemp|ted your rescue: I found you noble, and without the tedious enquiries of who or what you were, disin|terestedly loved you, our intimacy was of short con|tinuance, I embarked for France the next morning, nor had I time to tell you my real name and quali|ty—my breath grows short—I long to sleep—take those papers, conceal them, do not forget me—I had a sister."—

He became lethargic, as he named his sister. I attempted at first to rouse him. Heavy sleep ren|dered him motionless, and I began to think my effort cruel, when the soldier who had listened at the entrance of a long and gloomy passage, return|ed; prudence whispering the danger of his seeing

the papers of my friend, I concealed them in my bosom, and hurried to my apartment.

Wherefore are we virtuous! or why are the vo|taries of virtue not more numerous in the world? my friend, my lamented friend, was one of her sin|gular adorers: he lived beloved, he dies neglected! Give me, just heaven, the opportunity of avenging his fate, and take me to thy mercy! thus I feebly exclaimed, without reflecting that the doors of li|berty were for ever closed on me!

Throwing myself down, I endeavoured to collect my scattered ideas, and to reconcile my mind to the assemblage of mournful circumstances in which I found myself suddenly enveloped. Sullen are the rigid precepts of proud philosopy! we practice ap|pearances, we are stubborn in concealing our richest emotions, we assume above the vulgar, and we even bear with us to the grave the treasures of the soul! yet, nature freezes at dissolution, man is least train|ed in deception when he owns himself unwilling to undergo the great change—During the hour of sleep, fancy, in broken lineaments, brought the Marquis to my view, yielding to the power of death —Had not its terrors made sick my yielding spirit?

Awakened by some voices near me, I opened my eyes on two of the guards and a Cordelier.

"Leave me with your prisoner," said the latter, "I will confess him. Should his love of truth throw a light on the combinations of France; I have or|ders for some little indulgence from the King."

"Vive le Roi!" replied the guards, and respect|fully retired.

"God be with us, my son," said the good father.

"Eternally! reverend monk."

"Shrift, shrift!"

"I honour my king, love my country, and never conceal the emotions of my soul from my mistress or my friend."

"Know you that you are accused of conspiring against monarchy, of associating with the enemies of the king, and of concealing memorials which immediately concern the state?"

"Leave me to my fate!" I cried.

"Rash and ill advised youth! reflect on the value of existence, sport not wantonly with that power who willed thee into being."

"That power, Holy Father, now whispers here; I have given thee the energies of nature, pervert them not!" in pronouncing these words, I laid my hand on my heart, and Heaven is my witness, it beat firmly in unison; the Cordelier paused—I thought he appeared a little ashamed of his mission.

"The king will bless thy youth with luxury. and thy age with honour, so thou but yield his foes to justice."

"Bid him banish his ministers."

"Irreverend and disloyal!"

"Deceived old man!"

"Thou wilt undergo the torture."

"I expect it."

"Wilt thou not reveal thy friends?"

"Yes, tear my heart from its hold. Thou wilt find their impression there—away!"

The Cordelier looked full in my face, his eyes met mine, and I fancied a languid smile stealing across his features; but as he held his cloak over his mouth, I could not discern, nor was it of mo|ment to me, by what ideas he was animated.

But I soon blushed at the recollection of my rough manner, concluded it unworthly his resign|ed and sacred character, and began a more gentle apology when he abruptly withdrew.—My last mo|ment seemed now to approach—I pondered serious|ly on death, my anxions, my curious soul could pierce no further, I was incapable of wishing for immortality. Love drew me back to the world, while I vainly struggled to look forward to the grave. Lost in meditating on life's broken prospects, I stood, with folded arms, leaning against the wall, when my door was hastily unlocked, the guards en|tered, and I prepared to follow them to the place of execution.

"How happy you are!" said one of them.

"Trifle not with my feelings—lead on."

"The holy Cordelier has procured you the free|dom of the castle, but you must not pass the court gate."

They bowed, and left me astonished; here has

comfort taken one step for me, said I to myself, who knows but she may take another.

Each moment brings event, and on mankind Unbosoms her deep store of bliss or woe. Year follows year so strongly drawn by fate, We barely view them ere they hurry on Beyond our ken of soul.—

Recovering, I flew to the door of the Marquis, and listening, heard him breathe—Joy revisited my bosom: love and gratitude arose for the Cordelier, and hope began busily to combine her images with|in my late desolated mind. Hope! thou dear, de|lusive power! how frequently dost thou charm and deceive, yet how eagerly art thou indulged by poor humanity! I now ranged through the awful pas|sages of this tremendous prison, my ears were salu|ted by varied sounds, but mostly by sounds of sor|row—the Marquis still breathed in the most pro|found sleep.

After having wandered back to my solitary cell, I cautiously took one of his unsealed papers from my bosom: it was a letter addressed to the duke of B****, from my late guardian the count de Marsan, a fragment of which ran thus:

"Your intriguing enemy, le chancellor de Tel|lier, not contented with persecuting you and the unfortunate Henry, has contrived to render many of the noblesse suspected. Three were accordingly arrested yesterday—remain where you are." Here were names mentioned which where most dear to

me; but when the letter was written, or how it was to reach the duke of B**** I could not learn: ideas of past happiness now crowded on my me|mory, my imagination grew fervent, and the bars of my prison seemed to press upon my brain! "O my father! must I never see thee more! Where art thou, my long-loved Emily? Just heaven! for what mysterious purpose am I preserved!"—The hapless Marquis was not in a state for interrogation, all was a chaos within me, till burthened with wild and improbable conjectures, I yielded to repose.

Dawn no sooner appeared, than the dismal clank|ing of chains proclaimed the uprising of the gloomy inhabitants of the castle. I again waited at the door of the Marquis, in hope of hearing him breathe: I heard him not; the hour of the morning was yet but early, and I endeavored to console myself. Not knowing a spot within these walls that could afford me happiness, I was returning to my wretched apartment, when I met the soldier in the passage who had yesterday administered to the thirst of my friend. He held a cup full of a pale liquor, which seemed to congeal, as he stood, with its own som|niferous properties.

"Does the Marquis live?"

"He lives, and has called for more drink. My painful task was yesterday but half finished, and in this draught lies sleep eternal—Yet, go to him,

Monsieur, persuade him to put off the last hour by refraining; for when he drinks he dies!"

Forgetful of my situation, I rudely seized the arm of the soldier, stared him wildly in the face, and saw his eyes swimming in tears—still I gazed with silent horror.

Ah, Monsieur! it is not the unhappy Malnor would destroy the Marquis! Deeply do I violate my feelings as a man; but should I refuse this exe|crable office, I must expire on the rack; nor would my death avail your friend. All here, who are sup|posed to be on the part of the state, are, from ne|cessity, executioners. Go, request him not to drink —and yet—if he should refuse, the little remnant of his life will be miserable—He must never drink more."

"'Tis too much," said I eagerly, and from sud|den impulse dashed the cup on the earth.

"What have you done! my life is gone!"

Brought to desperation, I panted with tumul|tuous and varied emotion.

"Give him water that he may revive—Fly, my good friend?"

"I must give him nothing—I have nothing to give, each victim is allowed but two draughts of powst. The commandant deals it out: I can pro|cure no more."

"Say thou hast given it him."

"And how will that serve?"

"Say he is dead."

"How bury him?"

I was foiled.—The poor soldier now appeared as one condemned by me: yet I secretly exulted in the effort of saving my beloved friend. After looking for some moments at each other, I recollected my|self so far as to desire him to be secret; again gave him gold, and he left me with a sigh that indicated more resignation than remorse. Instead of going to the Marquis, I staggered to my cell. Terror, amaze|ment, and pity conspired to raise an anarchy in my bosom—Where, at such a moment could my spirit find resource? I kneeled and implored the Ruler of the world. Lost in fervor, I was found by the generous Cordelier.

"May the Creator hear thee! was his saluta|tion.

I arose and accosted him with the purest affec|tion; his venerable beard concealed half his face, his cowl obscured his eyes, yet I heard his language with delight.

"O, my father! save my friend. He who rescu|ed me from death lies in yonder cell, doomed, in a few hours, to tremble in its last agonies!—Where shall I lose my memory, Cordelier? existence is becoming a burthen!"

My wild ravings shocked the Cordelier. He re|proved me gently, led my imagination through the

universe, and dispassionately proved that nature being eternally at work, she must destroy equally as she renews; adding, "I know not thy friend— whoever he is, wilt thou for his sake give up the secret reformers of the nation?"

"No. I know no reformer; the few friends I have are noble."

"Then he must die."

"Die! unfeeling wretch! how darest thou, how dare thy king sport so easily with the life of man? Is this thy piety?"

"Be calm, my son; ungoverned passion makes virtue unamiable, and if thy stubbornness is to thee a virtue, preserve it in the inmost recesses of thy soul, but suffer it not to dwindle into childish im|patience, which can never profit mankind nor thee."

Strange force of deserved reproof! I blushed, my confusion owned the Cordelier just, veneration resumed its place, and I mournfully expostulated, "Ah, my father! to suffer my distraction, you must be acquainted with the mind of the dying Marquis D****."

"The Marquis D****!" said you? "where? O! where is he?"

"In the fourth cell on the left."

"Art thou in this dreadful habitation!"

Perceiving he was fainting, I caught him in my arms.

"O my brother!" said he, with a heavy sigh, as I placed him on a low bench, "is it possible after the troubles we have known I must meet thee here!"

I hastily informed him of the state of his bro|ther. And found him equally a stranger with my|self to the cause of his imprisonment. In few words, the Cordelier informed me, that had I been more flexible to his political solicitations, I should have been an object of his contempt.

"I officiate here in heavenly purposes, confess|ing those who are to die: in some future hour you will know me better—lead me to my brother!" I conducted him forward; to the guards he announ|ced the holy power of the church—they withdrew —and we found the Marquis in a heavy sleep. The Cordelier fell on his neck, the big tears dropped on the face of the unresisting sleeper, who once raised his eyes, met those of his brother and fell back from the fraternal embrace. Lethargy hung on his sen|ses: we could not rouze him, he looked around, rolling his eyes with a vacant glare. It was now the hour when the commandant of the castle came to visit the victims who were soon to die: He ap|proached, attended by the dejected Malnor.

Finely shaped, easy of deportment, and careless|ly polite, displaying a gold snuff-box in his hand, he directed his enquiries to Malnor.

"The gentleman is not quite gone, you say,

Malnor?—Corderlier, I suppose you have prepared him?"

"His hands are cold—but his temples are yet warm."

"Well; let him lie undisturbed."

At the conclusion of this speech, the fellow took snuff with as much ease as he would have per|formed the same action at an opera; I stood silent|ly enraged. Happily the Cordelier's face was con|cealed, as he was kneeling at the side of the bed, holding his forehead with both hands, while his tears and sighs were mistaken by the gay comman|dant for devotion. Sanguinary power! by what infernal appellation art thou adorned who canst inure the heart to cruelty! Habit had frozen the feelings of this wretch; who after congratulating Malnor, on the little alteration produced by the draught in the placid countenance of the Marquis, gave orders for his interment at the midnight succeeding his departure, in the private burial ground.

Malnor, who was conscious of having but half compleated the work of death, trembled at the order, bowed, but made no reply to the obdurate superior; who by chance looked at me, expressed himself happy on seeing me at the castle, and retir|ed (singing an air of Voitures,) to visit other vic|tims who were under condemnation.

"Rise holy father! fruitless are thy tears! hea|vy despondency enervates thy spirit."

Without heeding me, the Cordelier gazed with agony on the Marquis, then turning to Malnor, feebly articulated,

"Hast thou a brother?"

The abrupt question discomposed Malnor— sympathy shone in the tear he endeavored to hide.

"I have a sister and an aged father," replied, he, "who bewail my loss, while I am confined here under an accusation of which I am guiltless; ••he governor has thought proper to prolong my life, for the purpose of administering the fatal po|tion to those who are the victims of the state."

"Wilt thou be my friend?" cried the Corde|lier—"Art thou possessed of any means that will revive my brother?"

"To what purpose would you restore him," said Malnor, "heard you not the order of the Superior? Momentary restoration would but in|crease the pangs of struggling nature."

"Save him but for this night! to-morrow may be the season of mercy! I will hasten to the chan|cellor le Tellier, who is with his son Louvois, on the island, throw myself at his feet, and whatever be the crime of the Marquis, the chancellor will surely grant him life, on condition that he se|clude himself from the world for ever."

The Cordelier waited no reply, but left us hastily.

Malnor informed me, that the physician of the castle could furnish antidotes whose strong pow|er would expel the fumes of the chilling poison; "not," continued he, "that your friend can im|mediately recover, but the weight will gradually descend from the oppressed brain, as the stomach feels relief."

"Fly to the physician, my good Malnor, buy his silence with this gold, and let us force this vic|tim to taste the cordial of life!"

"I go," said Malnor, "but remember, if the Cordelier brings not his pardon, your friendship will be cruelty; man, naturally wishes to die with|out pain: when can the Marquis die with less?"

Reason and philosophy strengthened the max|ims of Malnor; yet, I bad him be swift and leave the event to Heaven. Thirty hours had the Mar|quis lain in a death-like stupor.—The soldier hast|ened to find the physician, and I waited, with pain|ful anxiety, the Cordelier's return. Too soon he ar|rived, with distraction in his countenance.

"Ah, my friend! I have been received with insolence, the Marquis is pronounced a traitor, and all the indulgence I can obtain is to inter him with his ancestors, in the chapel of St.*****. I kneeled, implored and exhorted the chancellor le Tellier, to beware of destroying the noble subjects of France; I did not confess the unfortunate Mar|quis was my brother, since the loss of my liberty

could not alleviate his afflictions.—'Go,' said the proud minister, 'before you can arrive at the cas|tle, he will be no more, so trifling a sacrifice can|not secure the peace of my sovereign; more must expiate their disloyalty with their lives, when drawn from their hiding places; you have here an order for the interment of the Marquis, the favor is granted you. Bending myself, incapable of lan|guage to thank him for such a favor, I sorrowfully left his presence—Does my brother live?—I fear not—the commandant is apprised of the indul|gence granted me by the chancellor, and has him|self ordered a covered carriage to convey the body of the Marquis to the chapel: such is his fate. But for you, my dear friend, I have brought a habit exactly like my own: Put it on, conceal your face in the cowl, and follow the body of my brother through those fatal doors. The decep|tion will not be known. I can loiter in the cell, under pretence of devotion with the prisoners, till the guards are changed, and then pass unno|ticed."

Malnor returned at this moment, but no phy|sician.

"No, my good Cordelier," said I, "that brave soldier stands in danger of the rack: give him the habit, he may pass for a Cordelier in following the Marquis, and my anxious soul will stand acquit|ted of his fate."

"Preserve thy life at this hour, under the sanc|tion of my office; I may at some future period preserve Malnor."

But the intreaties of the Cordelier were una|vailing: I only requested him to conceal himself in my cell, that two Cordeliers might not at once be seen near the Marquis; he obeyed, and Mal|nor ventured the awful crisis; we could now dis|cern no pulse, life seemed to have retreated from the object of our cares, while we were contriving to secure it. Our tears, the last tribute of affec|tion, fell on his senseless bosom, and he was con|veyed through the eastern aisle to the carriage that waited for the solemn purpose, while Malnor fol|lowed with the certificate of interment in his hand; and fortunately passed the guards unques|tioned.

The fear, the danger of Malnor's departure, threw the Cordelier and myself into silent stupi|dity, we were nearly breathless with apprehen|sion—while every step, every little noise, sounded like thunder to our affrighted senses, the Cordelier sat himself down on my little bed, and found some relief for his troubled heart in a stood of tears; I attempted not to comfort him, a respectful silence better suited his excess of affliction.—The com|mandant's bell rang, the Cordelier was rouzed to a thought of safety. He embraced, and left me to fulfil his duty with those in the distant parts of the

castle, who were penitent from terror, and wished for his consolation.

I had been five years a miserable wanderer in barbarous climes. Dragged from my friends, my father and the woman I adored; on my return could gain no information of those beloved objects, and while seeking them in every part of France, was arrested and thrown into this prison on the eighteenth of June, as I have above recorded. Though I had known so little of the Cordelier, and of his brother the Marquis, I felt a faint hope, from the letter I had already seen, that some in|formation might at a future period be gained from the former.

Eternal Creator! be thou the guardian of Emily! Whisper the danger of erring youth! bless her vi|sions with chaste delight, and breathe thy won|drous influence on her soul, gently as air wafts the dew of the morning!

Hourly struggling to forget that charming creature, I sank wearied with each day, and arose with the dawn to love and despair. Carried into the intellectual fields of the past by the power of memory, I sat on my little stone window seat till the clock at midnight struck one—one, and no more!—what a warning does it leave on the mind!—my meditations were broken, I prepared for repose, when I saw a paper lying on the floor, I eagerly carried my eye to the subscription, with|out

glancing at the contents—It was EMILY, my dearest Emily?—Pressing her name to my lips with a rapture that in a moment bore me above the sense of my imprisonment, I hurried hastily round my cell, nor once recollected in my trans|port, that wherever my Emily was, I could not be!—I was too full of pleasure to sit down cooly to the enjoyment of it; my breath grew short, my heart fluttered, and I again opened the paper, as if fearful of increasing the wild emotions that had already so expanded my love-sick soul.—I, at last, with tears trembling in my eyes, read—

"Cruel Cordelier!

"You have disappointed my warmest wishes, the failure of your appointment, at twelve last night, has robbed me of hope—I was at the garden gate from eleven till one, and have taken a final adieu of happiness, since it was in your power alone to bless

Your affectionate EMILY."

Here was distraction!—Ye who have felt the anguish of disastrous love! Ye whose sighs have been unpitied, while the hand of fate hath secret|ly torn your bosoms, mourn with me!

For Emily had my prayer arose! With Emily had I hoped to taste the joys of pure affection; where now is her heart? where her exalted senti|ments, where her gentle vows, where those soft

endearments with which she once soothed me, till transport threw affliction from my bosom?— All is this vile Cordelier's—The dreadful work of seducing her once-spotless mind was reserved for him, while I, through every vicissitude, have been vainly nursing her image, till it is become incorporated with my being—Lovely, faithless maid! how bitter hast thou made my remaining hours!

I lamented the discovery—railed at the Corde|lier, resolved to hate Emily, or, which was more congenial to the violence that raged within me, resolved to make her mine at the expence of my honor; should chance ever afford me the revenge|ful opportunity. What fantastic ideas were these for a man in my situation! Yet, so does the hu|man mind often amuse itself with trifles, while labouring under great calamity; I ought to have delivered the papers belonging to the Marquis to his brother. It had been driven from my memory by the dismal events which had filled the preced|ing day. Little regret was now occasioned by this reflection. The friendship of the Cordelier no longer gave me pleasure. Love was banished from my soul, and vice seized the heart that had en|throned an angel!—I sickened with ingratitude, I grew impure:—Wonderful is the mechanism of nature, unsearchable the human mind. Love that gives birth to every virtue, to delicacy, sentiment,

and the nameless graces that gild the world, left me a prey to the poisoned passions of evil, else how could I hate the Cordelier only because he was beloved by Emily?

Morning arose more joyless than I had ever known it, and a confusion of voices poured thro' the passage—I sat in my cell sullenly daring the worst, when I heard the name of Malnor hastily pronounced—Doors, which I had not heard sound since my confinement, were now thrown open, and I found, by the increasing din, that the guards were advancing towards the cell of the departed Marquis. The Governor's voice grew distinct; he mentioned me, and I fancied myself a devoted victim to the escape of Malnor. While I feigned a repose, my senses could not taste, the Governor found me reclined on the bed of wretchedness, ordered the guards to retire and accosted me po|litely,—

"Sir, can you command me in any thing that will oblige you?"

"Sir, I have a lively sense of the honor you do me, and thank you most sincerely," replied I, with a troubled look—He gazed attentively in my face —I felt as if Malnor could be seen through my eyes, and blushed at a deception so laudable in it|self. Had the Governor seized this moment of feel|ing, and boldly dared me with the question, I should firmly have confessed a conduct which gave me se|cret

pleasure; but happily that moment passed on, and the blush left my cheek as my emotions sub|sided.

"You are distressed, Sir, said the Governor; I am equally so, but for very different reasons. You will be treated with lenity; I have orders for its being so. The cause of your confinement is per|haps unknown to you, for the intrigues of the cabinet are inexplicable, and it may afford you but little consolation to know your imprisonment will last for ever!"

I shuddered at the word.

"I know mankind, am acquainted, well ac|quainted with the passions, and since you may despair of ever returning to the world, I will, from that very despair, hope for the honour of your confidence; in return, I offer you mine."

What floods of thought came pouring on my soul at this declaration! I could form nothing clear—All my powers were enveloped by a gloom, through which I could not discern one ray of hope; enclosed for ever! cut off so suddenly from socie|ty, and no object to pursue, whose excellence could lead me progressively from the black temp|tations forming around! The Governor hoped much from my despair; he did suppose I had al|ready prepared myself for villainy, and that the banished Emily had drawn after her my whole train of virtues. His proposal came well-timed— It was seasonably abrupt, couched in language

frank and easy, and I exchanged my faith with him, a faith that had no principle for its basis, a friendship uncemented by truth. The Governor bargained only with my despair.

After some little pause, he mentioned the escape of Malnor, adding, "the soldier was poor, I made him useful from his necessity, he was by nature too humane for my purposes, and if I only could be informed how he left the castle, I should not much regret his loss."

"What was his crime, sir?" said I with pertur|bation; "Of no magnitude—Almost nothing. He was only met conducting a royal fugitive through the woods, whose name and quality we believe him to be a stranger to, but fearing he should have discerned too much, we kept him a prisoner."

"Did he never own himself acquainted with his employer? or did you never put him to the question?"

"We strained him a little, but his honest sim|plicity convinced us he was ignorant of saving a man whose existence at this moment causes in|quietude in the bosom of our king—I shall use every means to detect him, though he deserves a better fate."

Politely wishing me a good morning, the Go|vernor withdrew, and left me to the motifying thought, that, Malnor alone could have informed me of my father; and, as if Providence meant

to sport with me, I had been the instrument of his escape—My father! my injured father!—But what have I to do with tender ideas! Why should I indulge the soft affections? There exists not an object in the universe who will own itself in sym|pathy with me. No! I am forgot, despised, re|jected, I have been indulging only the vision of love. I have cherished only an image while ano|ther possesses the substance. I have cheated my|self; my force of soul is gone! and I am too en|ervated ever to look up the rugged heights of virtue.

Thus I raved awhile, and to those joyless mur|murs succeeded confused plans of vengeance. "Last night at the garden gate" did Emily wait, and not wait, for me! Where is the garden gate? Hastily opening the letter a second time, I read it over with care, but the silent messenger had gain|ed no new intelligence. The date was prior to my confinement; and how the letter came into my apartment was with me an undetermined point. It was probable the Cordelier had un|knowingly dropped it; but how could Emily form an assignation? Why did she not still love me? What had I done? I was only become unfortu|nate!—Yes—Heaven chose to render me unhap|py. Emily chose the Cordelier should make her faithless—Woman! Woman! why wert thou created! In the great journey of life, man fre|quently passes by the bliss he had long pursued;

either he is insensible to its near approach, or, from some fatal timidity fears to seize it. There was a time I could have been as favored as this Cordelier, but that hour is gone—Here am I to remain for ever! These meditations availed me not, apathy was the sole comfort that offered.

From this period I was treated with respect by the guards, and with indulgence by the Governor; the latter, in confidence, conducted me into seve|ral apartments of the castle, hitherto concealed. Many noble and majestic forms, who seemed dig|nified by woe, appeared to my view; among others, a masculine figure caught my attention, his features and his attitude, as I looked at him, suffered no change, all were uniformly resolved.

Mild resignation, (wiser than despair,) Subdu'd the sigh, and check'd the fruitless tear. Vengeance no longer could his bosom warm, His passions withered in his dauntless form. Hope left his heart, yet patience met the rod, And prov'd the man a particle of God.

We fixed our eyes on each other; our silence was interesting to the heart: bowing with that mournful reverence, which is ever due to digni|fied misery, I reluctantly followed the Governor. Some apartments, which were situated on the south side of the castle, I perceived he did not in|cline I should enter. Naturally, I wished to enter them, so prevalent is the mind to hunger after what it is denied; but, for this time, I was oblig|ed to forego my curiosity, and to be satisfied with

what the Governor chose to afford. I quietly fol|lowed him, and he led me through a subterrane|ous passage, arched, and glittering 〈…〉〈…〉, full of unwholesome droppings. The time was noon, yet so horribly dark was this passage, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 a lamp was kept burning, and feeble was the lustre it gave.

We stopped at the end of this long vault, and my conductor made me observe a small door so finely contrived, and so shadowed by the artist, that it wore the resemblance of Gothic stone, and appeared but as an entire part of this antient struc|ture. I should have passed it unperceived, had not the Governor flipped back a private spring, and opened it to awaken my curiosity. We descended by a flight of steps. The air that met us was cold, damp, and of that sickly kind which bursts from a newly opened tomb. I began to think the Gover|nor had a design upon my life, and resolved, if so, he should buy it; my surmise was unjust. Find|ing we had at length reached the floor, and dis|cerning no glimpse of day, I enquired in what part of the castle we were, and for what purpose this horrid dungeon was designed. The Governor in|formed me it was an apartment seldom occupied, and never but by those who were under the neces|sity of taking an abrupt leave. While he was speaking, I fancied there was a rustling noise be|hind me, I started, the Governor smiled, asked me if I was afraid of rats; at the same moment, re|moving

some massy bars, he threw back the shutter of a little window, or rather hole, which opened on the ocean. It was strongly grated with iron; the space from the sea, which was not above two ••oises, was formed of solid rock, which served as a bulwark to the foundations of the castle, and against whose foot the billows continually wasted their force. Hence could no human voice ascend to society: the lamentations of death were but whispers here, and here might famine perform, unmolested, her slow and awful work.—When a brave man falls in battle, the glory of his deeds shine through his disastrous fate, and his friends feel a consolation in the retrospect of his conduct— But here oblivion fed in all her native darkness, and quietly prolonged the horrors of her victim.

Trembling with terror, I hastened towards the stone stairs by which we had descended, and left the Governor to replace the window-shutter by himself, as he best understood the work. In hur|rying up the stairs, I saw a small wire lying in the dust, I caught it up undiscovered by the Governor —it drew a miniature after it, which was rusted and disfigured, and which, caution, at this mo|ment, not suffering me to look at, I eagerly thrust into my pocket.

The Governor having made the window secure, I waited for him to lead me through further dis|coveries. As I stood on the last stair, a deep groan I was certain, stole upon my ear; I again descend|ed

in haste, fearing the Governor might have hurt himself with the bar. I met him coming up quite unconcerned, and when I mentioned the circum|stance, was told, with the utmost sang froid, that groans would become more familiar to me as I became a more constant and peaceful inhabitant of the castle. Death is invisible in his labors, said I to myself; silence may benefit, complainings will not avail me.

"I can lounge no longer with you now," said the Governor. "Do me the favor of dining with me. If your taste for pleasure is adapted to mine, you may be happy; if not, you may, with little exertion, create misery for yourself. I leave you to your choice, for whatever be your pursuit, you shall not interrupt mine. I mean not to be im|polite, Monsieur, I only treat you with frankness, that I may, in the shortest manner, be understood."

"Do with me as you please, I once revered the excellence of human nature, I now am ready to exclaim with Brutus,

O virtue! I have adored thee, At last I fear thou art but a name!

Guilt is fashionable, beauty wears it, I can adapt my taste to hers.—

"To whose?" said the Governor, laughing at my vehemence.

"To—" I looked at him wildly for a mo|ment.

"Come, come, your whole soul has some time

or other been dissolved by tenderness—You are jealous, I suppose, or angry with the beloved object—Come, we will dine as happily as we can; if I can procure you any blessing, (but that of liberty,) I will not with-hold it from you."

Thou art a master of the passions, the springs of the heart are thine, and knowledge, I fear, hath been bought by thee at an inestimable price!

Reflecting thus, I followed my conductor, who scated me at a splendid table, where luxurious viands and exhilerating wines conspired, for the hour, to chace sorrow from the soul. Ease and charming conviviality sat on the brow of the Go|vernor—At that moment, surrounded by fainting wretches who had no cause to waft his name to the gates of heaven, he talked of men and things. Observing he was in a communicative mood, I respectfully requested him to give me his history —Smiling, with the utmost good humour, he re|plied,

"You lay early exactions on my friendship, but you will find in Dormoud a mind that shrinks from nothing: a miser creeps cautiously through the circles of mankind, observes the variety of ac|tion performed by individuals, seeks only one gratification, dallies only with those from whom he may cull the golden harvest; and returns laden to his dark chamber, where he gives a loose to those transports his treasure excites; the rapture his own; the heap his universe—I am that miser."

"'Tis impossible!" said I, while my eyes roved o'er the splendor and magnificence of taste with which we were surrounded.

"I am that miser," continued he. "I have de|ceived and laughed at the world from which I have accumulated every hour. My nerve of intel|lect is strong. I have used it to one sole purpose."

"And to what purpose?"

"Pleasure—I am a cormorant in pleasure. I know no enjoyment in gold further than it has been exchanged for happy purposes. Truth, prin|ciple, virtue, all those sounds, of which the self|denying appear to be so fond, I consider as re|straints for which we need not design ourselves— To give happiness to our fellow creatures is all we ought to live for. I, therefore, lulled the artless, humoured the weak, soothed the languishment of lovely woman, and thought myself justified; with these feelings, Monsieur, I own I might have been blest, but the ambition of general conquest too soon mingled itself with my passions, and the mo|ment I raised my eyes from the humble valley of delight towards its dangerous summit, I became more and more restless through every gradation, and such must be the effect with all who early pursue pleasure. Too often I found exalted souls on which I could not act; beings who possessed a power repulsive to all my machinations; happy in themselves, I could not draw them from re|serve; they noticed me not, or heard me only

with indications of contempt. Hating the mind that had power thus to raise itself above me, I scorned to adore it; consequently you may con|ceive me seeking pleasure from weaker objects. My passions were high, my form not disagreeable, my education had been fashionable, I was metho|dised into address, and every rule deemed polite was mine. With these advantages, I approached the court; here formed by nature for voluptuous|ness, I expanded my views: I looked on Louis as my equal in the field of gallantry. I observed the pageantry of the great, and pronounced it the gilding of hearts like my own. Profusion, humility with man, and attention to woman, soon procured me access to the circles of the highest fashion, and Larissa, the charming Larissa, ranked me in the suite of her admirers.

"Hid in elegant gardens, at a small distance from court, this beloved favourite of Louis was, on account of the factions gathering over France, too frequently neglected by the Monarch, yet her power was great, her fascination irresistible; at least I felt it so, and with my usual beneficence of temper, resolved to alleviate the tender dejec|tion Larissa might feel in the absence of the king. Gold she could not be in want of, and strange as my purpose may seem, I wished to gain her through the more gentle avenues of sen|timent. This prelude I soon found unnecessary;

Larissa had long forsaken, or had never possessed the angelic delicacy which secures the mind of man. I rivalled Louis, and was a short time en|raptured with Larissa.

"The duke of B**** taking me one day aside, told me I had long engaged his notice.

"I have but one recommendation, my Lord duke," bowing as I recommended myself.

"What is that Monsieur Dormoud?"

"Affection for the duke of B****, I will lure his mistress to his arms, or kill his enemy, I wear a smile and I wear a sword."—

"Agreed, I will employ you, in return com|mand my interest with the king."

"On further intimacy, I found the duke had indulged himself more in the social virtues (I must use that word) than in capacious pleasure; he was tender, humane, unsuspecting, full of courage and as full of pity. Such a character the world deems amiable, for me it contained materi|als on which I resolved to erect my fabric of ambi|tion. We made long excursion over the country, and I was walking one day with him near Rochelle, in the forest of ****, a sigh stole from his heart, and he addressed me in a melancholy tone."

"Monsieur Dormoud, in the friendship I have for you, is lost the sense of inequality. I would repose my cares in your bosom: sated with splen|dor, fatigued with state, and disturbed by the

growing commotions of France, I languish for softer enjoyments. My rank, my character, my firmest resolutions have proved insufficient to shield me from the impressions of beauty. I love! Dor|moud, I love without hope, and without strength to disengage myself."

"Name the fair enslaver, my lord duke, Dor|moud may assist you."

"Ah, my friend! I am not myself acquainted with her name; hunting in this forest of ****, my horse, in full spirit, carried me from my friends and retinue; I did not regret the incident, while I enjoyed the view of a fine country, I rode on till my horse again caught the sound of the horn, when gazing around at the romantic wildness of nature, I saw a lovely maid without sense or mo|tion lying on the turf; her steed had thrown her, and coursed it through the thickets, as if rejoiced to have left behind him his charming mistress; in|stantaneously alighting, I raised her from the earth; innocence pleaded in her languid features: I softy laid my lips to her cheek with all the adoration due to heavenly purity; and, holding her to my bosom, impatiently watched the dawn of light that should break from her eyes—She opened them, my soul drank their fires till my peace was lost! Abashed and blushing to find herself in the arms of a man, her senses had nearly once more

forsook her. Respectfully loosing her from my throbbing heart, I stood motionless and incapable of an explanation. "Where am I," said she, draw|ing her hand cross her forehead, "can you, sir, say how come I here?"

"She hesitated as if endeavouring to rouze the powers of memory; I related the situation in which I found her; relieving her apprehension by most solemn assurances of honour—How lovely is woman when unartful! my friends were near, the hounds awakened echo from the hills to pro|claim their approach. I felt for the reputation of the lady; my friends were men of fashion and gal|lantry, who never took leisure to reflect, or draw from the blended snare of passion and habit that sublime veneration claimed by the unsullied mind. The delicacy of the gentle maid took the alarm; her horse had not appeared, nor could I quit her to seek him; hastily casting her eyes over the plain, as if wishing some other protector, she incoherently a|pologised—and, half breathless, concluded, "Yon|der, Sir, is a house, belonging to my father's ver|derer. I give you much uneasiness, I perceive you are as much confused as I am; will you be con|tent with my poor thanks? they are grateful—I will ever think of you with esteem."

"Unwilling to reveal my rank, I struggled with my emotions; caught her look of gratitude, hung on her voice as she bade me farewell, and setting

spurs to my horse, rejoined my friends"—here the duke paused.

"You have power," said I, "and power alone is sufficient to accomplish every wish in France."

"The heart must be soothed, Dormoud. Love disdains the fetters of power: I would not rudely seize the blessing, which is only valuable when mutually exchanged."

"I laughed at his scruples, and resolved to be|hold the beauty, of which the duke gave me so in|flaming a picture.—He resumed.

"Can you procure me, or advise me how to gain an interview with my fair conqueror?"

"I will think of it, my lord, but am this even|ing engaged."

"With your politic mistress, Larissa, I suppose —beware Dormoud!—Should our jealous mo|narch surprise you, you will never please a king's favorite more; and, if proving to you, the ingra|titude, coarseness, and insensibility of Larissa, will timely secure you from so dangerous an amour, I will display those defects in that enchantress."

"My pride was wounded; to share her affec|tions with a king, was secretly my glory; to find her universal in her objects humbled me.

"The duke smiled, enjoyed my confusion, and, carelessly drawing from his pocket a billet-doux, read:

"To the duke of B.

"Louis is indisposed, and ordered, by his phy|sician, to reside a few weeks at Versailles; le cheval a bien fourni sa carriere, je ne veux pas qu'on me trompe, vous etes un bon seconde; the great Conde is gone, the cardinal is with the king: il faut donner quelques momens a la joye et a l'amour, oui, j'aime; allons a

LARISSA."

"Did you obey this summons, my lord?"

"Call it an invitation," said the duke, smiling at the abruptness of my question, "I perceive you do not wish for an affirmative; but would Dormoud have refused," continued he, with an air of triumph.

"Hate, jealousy, and revenge began to kindle within me; the duke diverted himself at my ex|pence, rallied, laughed, trifled with my sullenness, and with the utmost indifference went on;

Fair without virtue, without peace she's great, False in her love, inhuman in her hate; So early train'd in falsehood's baneful school, She charms alike the monarch and the fool.

"Imagining myself pointed at, I burned with rage, yet was obliged to be silent. I had entangled the duke in the web of confidence, but dared not oppose him; Larissa had ensnared the king, while she was raising me to a summit, from which I could look down on powerless virtue, and often was the

honest pride of worth insulted by my contempt. But the duke was yet my superior—Politely wish|ing me a fair evening, he left me. I stole to Larissa. Reclined in her farthest apartment, adorned but with the loveliness of a dishabille, she arose and welcomed me after the manner of France. All was still, save soft music in an antichamber, the sounds of which were calculated to melt the soul to the latest ebb of languishment; and thus dissolved with unattended beauty, who could soar beyond the scene? Yet, my assurances and proofs of fidelity and love appeared inadequate to Larissa's affec|tion. I patiently heard her gentle reprovings, felt them just, but endeavored to remind her, that mu|tual happiness could only be born of mutual faith, that love alone was the source of constancy, and that various passions ran round the heart of man in such regular rotation, that he could not either love or hate, longer than the influence of the then reigning passion was dealt to him. Whether the opinion of Larissa varied from my theory; or, whether she wisely judged that love is not eternal, and that mutual faith dies away, we know not how—I was at a loss to determine. I was only cer|tain, that as I sat listening to her chidings, the sound of the music seemed to labour into harshness and discordance, not did Larissa herself appear so attractive as I thought she might, if dressed by the cooler hand of prudence.

"Ah, Larissa!" said I, "with an involuntary peevishness, if lovely woman would preserve her empire, she must be virtuous!"

"What malicious daemon could put such an aukward sentence into my mouth at such a mo|ment? Larissa was fired, she upbraided me with obligations; despised my mercenary passion, hated, smiled, wept, again soothed me by her softness, and was convinced I was her slave."

In spite of my cares I could not help smiling at Dormoud's pleasantry. He continued—

"Aye, aye, Monsieur, we may boast suprema|ey, rely on our strength, and endeavor to lessen woman, but we are her dupes, why?—because her powers are light, delicate, and exquisitely wrought; ours slow, obtuse, solid and considerate; while man is plodding how to creep after event, woman trifles with him, dazzles his judgment, skips over him, and seizes her point with agility— fools that we are!"

What stoic could confine his muscles of risibi|lity at this harangue of Dormoud, so full of na|ture, truth, and self-mortification? He proceed|ed.—

"Aurora now threw her blushes into the apart|ment of Larissa; they suddenly tinged the cheek of my fair mistress, mine caught the glow, and I retired. On passing through the garden where the flowers, unheedful of erring man, threw their

odours to the sun, I was met by a page, who sur|veyed me with silent curiosity. Passing him with feigned composure, I hastened from a spot where danger was awake; on this single moment hung the fate of Larissa. But man was made to go for|ward, not one shall go back through his yesterday. Wise is he who makes use of the hour and resolves to be blest, I had left Larissa, convinced I had left her to new and ever-changing wishes, equally flex|ible with the ties that held me when near her. The tender vows I had breathed in her bosom were dissolved in the past moment; no trace remained of her late-bewildering power in a mind natural|ly prone to inconstancy. The duke of B**** was no advocate for Larissa or licentious pleasure; his power was great with the king, and with the think|ing part of France, and often would he impercep|tibly lead the Monarch from the fascinations of a mistress, who, on account of her mean extraction, hated the noblesse. Larissa had her intervals of conquest; her arts were those of circumvention, and she 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••he duke while she blinded the the enamoured Monarch. I had early renounced moral obligation; my heart was unawed. I loved pleasure; my vices were but individually dangerous: I was not set up as an example for a nation, but kings seldom know how to value merit, when, like an angel, it stands warning their desires. The ma|chinations of Larissa against the duke did not pro|long

her empire; her dye was cast. Louis re|turned; his illness had been slight, his cares retur|ned; he treated them, as all men should treat care, a proof of which I will give you in his gallant stile. This letter was written, on the eve of his arrival, to Larissa, who impatiently expected to see the king in a few hours, languishing at her feet; she favoured me with a copy. I will favour you with the lesson it may afford."

"I thank you, sir: your manner of instruction is new." —Great inconsistence I thought appeared in Dormoud.—He read—

4th MAY.

"I am recovered, dear Larissa, and am only a little sorry I return not to a heart once offered me and gratefully accepted; with me I wished La|rissa to lose every desire of change. Could lovely woman be secured by splendour, you had still been mine. My hope arose from self-love. Charming Larissa, I own in impossibilities. I acquit you, and throw your inconstancy on the grand versati|lity of nature. When was man chained to your sex by gratitude? Have I not loved, and left more than you? Agreeable to your taste, you prefer **** to a king. I blame you not; we delight in change; may the happiness of Larissa keep pace with the swift emotions of her heart when it pur|sues new objects.

I am, "L****."

"With this billet, the generous monarch sent presents to Larissa, worthly his magnificence, wishing her to seek an asylum far from the dan|gerous pleasures of royalty. Larissa depended on the charms of her person, looked forward to new victories, left the scene of past delight with in|difference, and, in a few years, sank pale and de|jected within the walls of poverty. Better had it been for Larissa, had she early sheltered her beau|ties and her virtue in the bosom of humble worth. Spotless would have been her morning, glorious her meridian, and she would have sank in the evening of life, like a sun whose warmth had cheered the world, and whose departing rays we mourn."

I could no longer conceal my astonishment. I applauded the language and fine comparisons of Dormoud, a man who had professed himself an unprincipled voluptuary!—Encouraged by his frankness, I interrupted him by remarking what I thought inconsistent, but he was truly paced in the ways of men, and proceeded:

"Mine is the language of the world; my the|ory is for others, my practice for myself; every human being is distinct, and it invariably is seen through the universe, that no two persons shall move in a parallel line. Single in feeling, diver|sified in idea, and totally opposite in mental pow|er, the train of one man's action shall not serve

another.—I reason like a moralist. I have that pri|vilege. I am not a moralist further than precept serves my turn; such is every man, and he de|ceives when he persuades you he is attempting at more—No farther can human nature go, though many sacrifice more to the opinions of society than I do. For the reasons I have given, the fate of Larissa afforded no lesson for me, and I only mean to say, what Larissa might have been, had her train of action been what it was not. Infamy has planted her cannon against the reputation of woman; man is secured by the laws himself has made; yet, there is a wonderful fallacy in his sy|stem of virtue, when he pockets ten thousand pounds from a friend, merely for sharing in his wife's dishonour and his own."

Dormoud possessed every art of fascination, he lulled inquietude. I found relief in his sophistry. He helped to establish the late perversion of my principles. How feeble would a charming woman prove, while attending to him with sensibilty till her soul dissolved! Dangerous ability! He had in history related an incident concerning Emily— Emily was the lovely maid found by the duke in the forest; I knew it, and silently invoked heaven to protect her, though false to me.

"The mother of Larissa," continued he, "was a servant in the convent of St.***: the kitchen afforded her good living, filled her with good

spirits, and good spirits led her after a well-mean|ing friar, to whom Louis, &c. &c. was indebted for Larissa."

"It may be difficult, (said I) to rufuse the offers of royalty, but mankind will ever prefer humble innocence to the sullied charms of a king's mis|tress."

"No, no, Sir you mistake—You speculate contrary to practice; innocence may sleep for ever in her humble vale. Who seeks her friendship? Who drinks the fragrance of her breath? Who wraps her miseries in the mantle of peace?

"The mistress of a king has power—Many dependencies hang on a tarnished link—Many would acquire riches, but few possess them, by an acquaintance with innocence. Yet a court mistress, disgraced, when met in the walk of pri|vate life, all will avoid. When Larissa fell from her summit, I fled from her endearments; un|willing to appear near the court where power was changing hands. New incidents and new troubles arose; the Fronde, an anti-ministerial party, daily gained strenth, the Minister disagreed with Tur|enne, and many brave men who had seemed list|less while their Sovereign was happy, now ga|thered round the helm to guide him through his troubles. Among the latter class was my quondam friend the duke. If I could have loved strong vir|tue under any shape, I should have admired

and pitied his attachment to his king. I loved not his amiable qualities, though I resolved to love and to possess his mistress.

"Though I had been observed by the king's page in the garden of Larissa, his majesty never took notice of me as a rival. Perhaps he thought me too contemptible, or, not esteeming Larissa enough to depend on her for happiness, pleasant|ly left us to try how long we could love. After she had set off for less brilliant scenes, I returned, and continued to promote my interest at court, by flat|tering those I despised, and fawning on those who mistook servility for respect▪ But the duke had ir|ritated me. He had asserted that Dormoud was too far currupted ever to be reclaimed by friend|ship or example, and had for some time avoided me in public. Sensible that one of us must go down the wind of favour, I was not long hesitating; my actions wore deeper dye than those of the duke. He might have ruined me with truth. Virtue had rendered his soul too dignified to enter into a com|petition with Dormoud, whose mines were work|ing at the foundations of his perfection. In plung|ing him from his heights, truth was not on my side, cunning and chance gave me success.—Louis had secrets, the multitude had no right to search for them, they were the secrets of necessity; the duke knew this, was faithful to his monarch, concealed his faults, revered his virtues, and breathed his public fame.

"This noble conduct, trusted to itself, became the food of those who prey on garbage. The chan|celler le Tellier viewed him with a jealous eye. That wily politician had been entrusted by the queen-regent with a secret of the greatest impor|tance, and the handsome deportment, together with the abilities of the duke, made the statesman tremble lest the latter should supplant him.—I was employed to pry into the springs of action that were hourly moving, and particularly order|ed to render the duke unpopular. He had in some affairs managed part of the state revenues. The magnificence of Louis brought his coffers low; for the exhausted sums I blamed the duke, and for the late disgrace of ministers condemned him. Murmurs arose. Supported in secret by the chan|cellor, I grew bolder in my assertions, and loudly criminated a man to whose excellence I never could arrive. He saw my artifice, was too brave to soothe, contemned me too much to upbraid, and after treating me with silent, though ineffable scorn, left the field of princely favours to more greedy strugglers, and retired to the Netherlands, resolving to forget his hopeless passion and his king.

"Envy will follow for ever the character that has once gained an eminence over her horde. Ask her why a wise man leaves the noisy circle? Her

answer will be "to indulge his pride, his discon|tent, his avarice, or his imbecility. He is, in brief, welcome to retire. He no longer adores or fears me." But ask the wise man why he leaves the world! and he will reply, "I have tasted joy, I have tasted sorrow; I have been despised and re|spected; loved, was beloved in return; and now, having lost th•• objects I adored; see a futility in life to which I cannot descend."

"I do not," continued the governor, "mean to prove that these were exactly the sentiments of the duke; but, I can assure you, that his departure did not cure the chancellor; for his jealousy, his envy, with some other fears arising from state in|trigue, followed the duke; and should he now be found, his death alone, I believe, would hush the cares his existence causes in the bosoms of le Tel|lier and the king—but there are a few more who are equally burthensome, and that must be taken off—Your glass waits you, Monsieur, drink to the oblivion of care; a more commodious apartment is preparing for you in the fifth range towards the the east; and after giving you every assurance of my favor, consistent with my situation, I will, when you please, conduct you to repose."

Observing Dormoud made a full pause, as if hesitating whether he should conside further in his new acquaintance, I arose, thanked him for his candor, as he conducted me to my chamber, and

was much consoled by his repeated asseverations of future friendship. Where is the man, whose fancy, grown sick with sorrow, will not exaggerate the image of comfort, and raise her pigmy joy too high for his attachment? It is ever so: imagination is too strong in her colouring. I was revived by Dormoud, and forgot the dreadful sentence of imprisonment for ever. Why, said I to myself, is this man a villain! Why should he boastingly violate those duties the self-denying struggle to fulfil!

Dear spirit of refinement, from wherever thou hast chosen thy pure celestial dwelling, descend, touch the coarser powers of Dormoud, and lead thy fair ideas through the corrupted region of his mind! From thee, bright form of innocence, fly the brutal shadows that darken the bosom of man. Thine are the grand, the energetic, the invisible! Thou art the soul of the world!

But what have I to do with refinement? Have I not lost Emily? A long fit of abstraction fell on my mind as this question, prompted by despair, suggested itself—I sat some moments gazing at the waning candle, and at last put my hand in my pocket, with an intent to reperuse the fatal note I had found, when, to my astonishment, I drew forth the picture of my mother! Saluting it—I felt it cold.—"Angel! thou art cold—lifeless as I one day must be!"—Strange as my description

may appear, I thought the picture varied its looks as the emotions of my soul were impatient or resign|ed. The filth and rust it had accumulated in the steps of the dungeon I had visited with Dormoud, was in my pocket worn off, and the animated fea|tures spoke directly to my heart. "All is over," continued I, walking hastily, "a few months or weeks, and then!" (throwing myself down on a so|pha recently prepared for me in this elegant room.) "Here I am to remain for ever!—but how came my mother's dear resemblance to this dismal dwel|ling? Is this an abode for so much beauty? It is im|possible she can herself be here! I will not think it. And yet I heard a groan near that horrid dungeon! Good God defend her! Hold me from madness! Where shall I go!"—Imagination seemed to go out at this last idea, like an extinguished flame, and I fell into a sudden insensibility. How long I lay in this swoon or slumber, (I know not which) I could not recollect. When I recovered, a coldness had pervaded my whole frame—I was spiritless and feeble; all my unavailing though unruly passion had subsided, and I calmly reflected, that life could not in this dreadful scene be of long continuance. That strong sympathy, inherent in man, which makes him feel for others, works upon his own heart in a state of seclusion. He naturally wishes to lighten the burthen of his sorrows, and to share the pity he had lent the world. The idea of dying

here unlamented and unknown, the more agoniz|ing thought that my mother might be somewhere near me, inclined me to devise some expedient, by which a knowledge of our fate might reach society. For this purpose, I resolved to throw together some transactions of my past life, and after en|closing the picture, which was encircled by the name of my mother, in the midst of my little his|tory, to throw the packet into the sea.

The days of my infancy were spent in the forest of —, near Rochelle, under the gentle tuition of an harmless peasant, who cheerfully saw his flocks grazing round the hills, while his wife, after feeding her poultry, and gathering in their eggs, taught me my primer, and progressively my bible. "Without reading good books," said this amiable rustic, "little master can never know the world." I fancied at last, my mistress improved herself as rapidly as she taught me. From this humble scene I was soon removed. A chariot, the first I had ever seen, came one morning to carry me from the humble cot of Jannette Froville, but I was not willing to go. I sat down, took my tame kid in my lap, and watched my nurse, as she wandered round the house to collect my cloaths. The tears rolled so swiftly through her eyes, she hardly could discern what she sought: nor did the coachman and servants appear to me half so manly in their

taudry liveries, as my dear plebeian Froville, who had so often taken me on his knee, and warmed my infant hands in his bosom on a frosty morning, while he pressed his ruddy lips to my cheek. "No," said I, "the chariot shall go back till Jan|nette has done crying."

"We must not drive back without you," replied the coachman.

"I would fain stay here till the lambs are wean|ed; besides, my kid will pine to death."

All my childish objections were over-ruled. Farmer Froville and his wife Jannette wept and prayed over me, and I was at last, with much re|luctance, parted from all I then held dear, except my little tame kid, to whom I had given the name of Mayo, and who I earnestly requested should be my companion in the chariot. This was discussed elaborately by the servants; the coachman scorned to be the coachman of a kid, and the footman gave a supercilious smile at my idea of his riding behind one; but I resolved to be master in this case. I had no sense of blessings in future, my heart was pal|pitating with its present affections; I had enough to struggle with, without being troubled with the impertinence of these men, and conquered them only by (what they called) sullen obstinacy. The chariot rolled away—my eyes kept in view the house of Jannette, where health and innocence had fostered me; it gradually receded; she waved

her handkerchief, I saw her no more. The tuft of trees that stood near our orchard, under which our sheep had gathered at noon, were rapidly pas|sed by, and Mayo, though he loved me best, gave a farewell cry to his fleecy companions. Happy! happy scene! Thy joys were many, and thy evils few.

Our journey was long, the servants were dull; I was melancholy, and my kid, I believe, would rather have been skipping from rock to rock, than shut up with a fellow-traveller, so inimical to his lively nature. Our conductors, however, grew cheerful on entering the capacious domains of their master, of whom they spoke with reverence and love, and whose name was count de Marsan. This nobleman was ready to receive me. He threw open the chariot door, caught me in his arms, and would have carried me into his house, but I was holding Mayo by a blue ribbon, which was twist|ed round my hand. Finding himself tacitly con|demned to carry us both, he applauded my tender|ness, and set me gently on my feet.

"Jannette Froville told me she was not my mo|ther. Are you my father, that you kiss me so?"

"I am not," said the gentleman,

but while I exist, you shall not want a father.

"And will you provide for little Mayo?"

"I will love Mayo, because you love him—you must be educated; your kid shall be fed."

"I can read my bible, sir. Is not that education, is not that enough?"

"I will shew you our large parks, the deer, the great canal; with me you shall observe the rising and setting of the sun and moon; still you may read your bible."

I was contented.

After being led through the variegated scenes that presented themselves in succession to my dazzled imagination, taught to observe the opening buds of nature, tints of the flower, bark, and paintings in the gallery, I was carressed, treated with sweatmeats, and sent to the first school in Ro••helle. Here, after acquiring the love of some of my school-fellows by my gentleness, and the fear of the refractory by my severity, I sat down quietly to my studies, and dearly did I soon prize the hours of meditation!—Nineteen summer suns had glided away, when I returned to my guardian, full of vigour, and free from vice. This inestima|ble friend possessed every accomplishment. He was polite, but he was sincere. While he charmed by his manners, he enforced that probity which dig|nifies man. I loved him. He pointed my strong ideas. He watched over my mind as its powers expanded; from the fallacy of conjecture he led me to demonstration; from the heat of prejudice to serenity of judgment; from superstition to mo|rality;

and while he held to my reason the volume of the world, taught me to pity the feeble.

"Life is short, the poor pittance of seventy years is not worth being a villain for: what mat|ters it if your neighbour lay interred in a splendid tomb. Sleep you with innocence: look behind you through the tracts of time, a vast desart of un|numbered ages lies open in the retrospect. Through this desart have your forefathers jour|neyed on, till wearied with years and sorrow, they sank from the walk of man. You must leave them where they fell, and you are to go only a little fur|ther, where you will find eternal rest. Whatever you may encounter between the cradle and the grave, be not dismayed. The universe is in endless motion, every moment big with innumerable events, which came not in slow succession, but bursting forcibly from a revolving and unknown cause, fly over this orb with diversified influence: should you be plunged into disagreeable circum|stances, from those very circumstances may ano|ther be at that moment rising to the summit of his good fortune; so may your neighbour's inconve|nience prove beneficial to you.

None can know the eternal purpose of exist|ence; but there is a grand equilibrium preserved by one mighty chain of dependencies. Look then at the universe; limit not the view of your soul to one hemisphere; and ask your reason, if, in such awful revolutions of worlds and their inha|bitants,

pain or pleasure must not constitutionally affect you. Be ever fearless; yield reluctantly to the passions, increase the regions of the mind, and know that as you have no will to resist the power of death, death can be no evil further than it affects the imagination. To sleep, to go through various changes, or to wak•• everlastingly, is equal|ly independent of your will. There••ore, chear|fully trust the future, only dread the act that may wound your established rectitude of thought!"

I bowed to my dear instructor, my youthful heart held his admonitions; they grew with my years—Hills, rocks, rivers, the waving of the woods, and fertility of the vales, yielded trans|port to my unsullied mind: and as I thus revel|led silently in the rich exuberance of nature, I felt myself capable of the wildest adoration. Blest is the mind that early feels the influence of in|struction! Soon, much too soon, came manhood with his hardy privileges. I panted to strike upon the world as a meritorious character. Rural imagery enchanted my fancy, while the voice of fame seemed to call me from afar. Divine is the origin of fame! she breathes the desire of immor|tality into the soul of man.

My Guardian had mentioned two amiable sons whom I never had the pleasure of knowing. They were educated at St. Omers, under the care of an affectionate uncle, who had adopted them as equal heirs to his vast fortune. A letter arrived, in

which the youths requested the permission of their father to accompany the duke of B**** who was then going abroad. The count, with apparent regret, sacrificed his tenderness to the glory and improvement of his children, and received their acknowledgments. The dignity of language obser|ved by those young gentlemen warmed my atten|tive soul, as I listened ••o their prayers, breathed for the preservation of their beloved parent. To Em|••••y, who was receiving her education in the con|vent of St. ***** they ••••••t tokens of fraternal love. I blushed at the idea of spending life idly.

My guardian was a man of the first distinction in France, he disapproved much of the constitu|tion of his country, but he was brave, and firm to attachments he had once formed. Combinations, plots, and reiterated murmurs prevailed over the kingdom. Lettres de cachet were considered as the most odious mark of audacious tyranny, while the farming of land in the interior parts, occasion|ed, among the lower class of people, the most acute penury. My guardian, as an individual, had no power of ••evoking the statutes, nor had he the wish of assassinating his king, merely because he was thrown as an hereditary and guiltless emblem of order into the lap of pre-eminence. Law is the cement of society. Law forms degrees of power, and by necessary gradation, power sinks to the cottage from the throne. Nor must power be suf|fered to sport wantonly on that dangerous summit;

while she sits soberly, her influence is nourishing, and millions bask in her well-regulated favours. Without her, order, so beloved, so cherished by mankind, cannot exist; and a king, that thing so hated, so feared, so reverenced and so loved, is but by accident as a common watchman; and whe|ther society be awakened to its duties by many watchmen, or by one, is not worthy the discussion of the wise. The duke of B**** had taken the ministerial side from policy, and was now prepar|ing to leave it—He visited my guardian; I was in|troduced; the duke appeared struck by my figure. I was not less so with him: his gallant deportment, his persuasive eloquence, darted enthusiasm thro' my frame, and I secretly wished to share his glory; when he took leave, I followed him insensibly along the court. My hat fell from my hand, with|out perceiving it; I walked till an attendant deli|vered it to me, and received my thanks; when, at the sound of my voice, the duke looked back, my eyes were fixed on, he politely demanded if his power could serve me?

"Take me with you," replied I eagerly, "let me fight for you, let me die when you die!"

"Gallant youth, have you reflected on the hor|rors of war: have you reconciled yourself to the shame of defeat, have you taught your heart to restrain the exultation of victory? All are dan|gerous to the untried soldier; the advantages of conquest are too often converted into cruelty, and

defeat has many sorrows; among which, ill-timed shame is not the least: return, consult the count de Marsan, you shall hear from me, you deserve not neglect."

How noble was this frankness in one who was unversed in courtly ceremony, or, at least, had for|gotten it!—The duke departed.

"May I go to the wars?" said I to my guardian, on entering the parlour—"Will you grieve? Pro|mise me you will not, and I will immediately pre|pare for the field. But, my dear, my kind parent, for so I must call you, if my company or conversa|tion can soften your hours, I will not go—No, my heart is fully devoted to you, and claims no su|perior object—Ah! sir, where may I find your equal in this uneven world?" My guardian was affected: he could not resolve, at that moment, to part with me, but promised to inform my friends of my inclination, and requested me to be satisfied with his assiduities and his truth.

"I am not capable of doubting you, my excel|lent monitor; yet, tell me, O tell me, where I may find my father!"

"Be not precipitate; you may prove the de|struction of yourself and friends: beware of dan|gerous curiosity; you may one day know your father"—(here my guardian sighed deeply.) "He may press you to his bosom.—He cannot love you

more than I do." Saying this, while a tear stole down his cheek, he retired.

Man must sacrifice hourly for his existence.— He must bid his wishes die as they arise: they grow by being fed, till, in the multiplicity, peace is lost, since not one in the three can, during his short period of time, be fulfilled. I was obliged to forego my thirst for military honour, together with the desire of knowing my father—I took my Sene|ca, and read my cares away.

Reading gently lulls the perturbed spirit, yet, we frequently feel an impatience arising from dis|appointment or despair, which too forcibly with|draws us from this best blessing. In conversing with the venerable sage, whose spirit whispers through every line, we become reconciled to un|pleasant circumstances. In running back we learn, that the brave and good have ever felt in common with mankind.

When evening approached, a carriage, driving hastily through the court, rouzed me from my meditations; my guardian ran to the door, and a beautiful girl sprang to his arms—It was Emily. —I had also advanced, but stepped back that I might lay no restraint on endearments so tender and sacred. Amidst broken expressions of joy and enquiries, which waited no reply, the father ushered his lovely daughter to an apartment adjoining that I had entered; her brothers became the subject

of her first enquiries: my guardian gave her a brief account of their intended route with the duke of B****, when she replied, "I hoped to have found my brothers here, my dear father; my self-love perhaps blinded my reason—I could not improve them, I could not teach them the hard lessons of the world."

Finding myself under the necessity of over-hear|ing the conversation of Emily and her father, I immediately took my hat and strolled down the garden; not that I was uninterested in any delight my guardian could taste, but I thought it unmanly to remain within hearing of two persons, who were pouring out their sentiments, unconscious of my situation—delicacy is due to all. Chance directed my steps to a bower of woodbines.—I threw myself on the bank, and sighed for a father into whose bosom I might rush, as Emily did to my guardian's. The whole expanse was full of beauty, it waited for the melting touch of a Claude-Loraine, before whom nature ever lay in charming luxuriance. I was contrasting the lily with the rose, when my guardian, who had lightly ran over the turf, accosted me.—I enquired why his sons did not accompany his late illustrious vi|sitor, he told me the duke only came to see me.

"But come, my dear young friend, I have a guest to whom I must introduce you: she is wor|thy your protection, and to your honour I could for ever confide my Emily."

I congratulated this worthy man on the trea|sures he possessed in his children.—He introduced me; and I saluted Emily with an agitation never felt before. Her conversation was directed to her father; my ear hung on her accents, my eyes on her face, till she suddenly threw a glance that struck me to the soul. Abashed, I turned towards the window, while a significant silence heightened the confusion of my senses:—Yes, there are de|licious moments, when silence must be felt, and the heart swells with that fine delirium which arises from the hope of being secretly understood! —Yet—what did I wish Emily to understand?— I had never before seen her: my feelings had not progressively grown into love, nor had there been time for creating esteem in the bosom of the charming maid; what then were my wishes?—I had but one, it was that of for ever listening while she stole my peace.—Night summoned me to retire either to my books or rest—I chose the former. Hence hoary adviser! said I, throwing the vener|able Antoninus from my hand; thou art much too cold; my heart is burning! Happy had I been could my strength of mind have proved sufficient to oppose this languor ere it grew oppressive! My judgement, my understanding, and even my thirst for glory were weakened: So was I formed, and my internal conflicts I fear will end but with my life!

Ye who would surmount the pleasing melan|choly

of the tender passion, seek not solitude! her shades are delusive! Peace is not within them! There will the image of your soul engross you; from thence will the world and its boisterous atten|dants be shutout, and you will feed on the delicious poisons of memory till you languish life away!—I was restless through the night, arose in the morn|ing before the family were moving, and roved over the adjacent hills: The dew lurked glisten|ing in the bosom of the cowslip, the birds broke not their song at my approach, my heart was grateful for its existence: the words of my guar|dian "to your honour I could for ever confide my Emily," were impressed deeply on my mind. Was there not a warning in the generous sentiment? Yes! He had suddenly appealed, he had made a league with my honour for the future security of his deserving child! His boundless confidence proved the estimate he had formed of my princi|ples, and ought to have given me delight. On the contrary, I saw difficulties rising from the noble candour of the father, to check my infant passion for the daughter; he had bequeathed her to my honour, not to my affection.

O, how industrious is the human mind in creat|ing self affliction, and refining on it by the force of imagination, till we no longer struggle with unutterable love, but willingly sing to rest! Un|der

this sickness of the fancy does many a tender and delicate maid droop like a chilled flower!

Ruminating thus on the feebleness of nature, I had strayed—I had insensibly strayed to the brow of a declivity, down whose sloping verdure no hu|man foot had passed: I endeavoured to descend, but was obstructed in my wanderings by a huge rock, on whose rough and aged sides the goats played wantonly; conceiving it impassable, I paused a few moments, drinking the ecstasy of infant day, and was about to return, when I saw a pale smoke arise seemingly from the entrails of this tremendous precipice. All was still, save the melody of the groves; and my fancy was purified by the sweet salubrity around, nor was pity the weakest of my sensations: I imagined the smoke must ascend from the cabin of some miserable woodman, whose hard fate confined him to this sequestered dwelling; an amiable wife, perhaps unoffending children, suffer with him, said I to myself, and why must the harmless peasant sigh in vain for the necessaries of life? Impressed by the workings of compassion, I again attempted to find an oblique passage—the effort was unavail|ing, my way was cut off by the horrid projections of the rock, and the smoke gradually dying away, ceased to direct my curious eyes; I sat myself down, lamenting the calamities of innumerable beings, who, fixed by natural neces••••ty, distant from the pale of society, pine unpitied and unseen

in want even of frugal blessings. The languish|ments peculiar to the votaries of luxury are by the rustic villager unfelt, but, as a forfeit for his stronger joys, he often needs both food and rai|ment. I looked up to the sun.

Bright comforter! the feeble and the aged love thee! the wise and the foolish love thee! thy mighty master commands thee to bless the shep|herd and the king, the pomegranate and the acorn are welcome to thy rays!

I had not gazed long on the luminary of the world, when I saw a ladder rising slowly towards the summit of the rock; I arose hastily and con|cealed myself behind some shrubs, that I might not terrify, by my unexpected appearance, the solitary adventurer, who, I supposed, was ascend|ing. A tall majestic figure alighted on the turf, kneeled, and gave his morning orisons to the Fa|ther of ages. I could have thrown myself at his feet. Reverence with-held me—Where was the infidel who dared to intrude in a moment so sublime! From the place of my concealment, I traced him to a neighbouring rivulet, whose mur|murs were invitations to her thirsty visitor. He stopped, drank, filled a bottle hastily with the re|freshing element; and, after plucking a few wild berries from the humble bushes, returned to his ladder. Soon as he was below the surface of the earth, I ran in a bending attitude, s••ized the top of the ladder, and, how••ver rude the action might

immediately appear, descended, before he had time to remove it from the rock. Amazement and displeasure darkened the features of the stranger; he boldly shook me by the breast, and declared his readiness to take my life or guard his own.

"Impertinent curiosity, Sir," said, I, "has no place in my bosom; I feel a nobler sentiment. I own I did not expect to meet a man of your de|meanour, but I expected to find affliction, and re|solved to soften it."

"Generous youth!" (loosing me from his manly grasp) "you have met affliction with all her attendant horrors!—but leave me!—take ad|vantage of the means by which you have descend|ed, or you may involve yourself with one long de|voted to destruction: leave me, young man, or you will be undone!"

These words were uttered with an emphasis, which, instead of daunting my resolves, interested my affections; I saw no danger, and if I had, no|thing but the positive command of this recluse should have forced me from him.

"The rules of honour and politeness oblige me to retire, Sir, if you so earnestly wish it.—Adieu! —My heart feels oppressed at leaving you thus: believe me I would rather embrace danger in as|sisting you."

The stranger paused; cast his eyes towards a cavern in the distant part of the rock, and was

lost in hesitation.—Seizing the momentary silence, I continued—

"If the cause of your seclusion from mankind be of an atrocious nature, my bosom shall be the grave of human frailty; I will swear never to di|vulge your affairs, though the colour of them may oblige me immediately to forsake you."

"I am no villain," (returned he) I am only the victim of tyranny and misfortune. Such had fate designed me before my infant eyes were open to the light. I am sensible of your not having pow|er to injure me, and am only fearful of your shar|ing my hapless destiny.—Be not alarmed, I am an exile from the social joys of man, but let us not anticipate evil—You afford me a faint delight, a delight which I may never taste again; we will not therefore embitter transient happiness by poor distrust." Endeavouring to appear self-collected, he took me by the hand.—

"Come with me, you shall behold the accom|modations of a prince: you shall learn that royalty is the trapping of fools, given by adulation and worn in vain by mortal beings; yes, you shall be convinced that a prince, stripped of his gaudy ap|pendages, is but the sport of misery."

An obedience, which owed nothing to my will, influenced my motions. I followed involuntarily, without once replying to my unknown monitor. We entered the cave; his little fire had not en|tirely spent itself; the embers gathered brightness

from the contrasting gloom, but not sufficient to direct my eye to the end of this cavern. Looking round with pensive curiosity, I saw no royal ac|commodations, except a small picture of the king of France in a niche, rudely formed by nature in the rock. Perceiving it had arrested my attention, he was much agitated, and wildly exclaimed, "Ah, sir! kings should have no brothers!"

Seating himself on the damp gravel, of which the floor of this lonely habitation was composed, he was for some minutes, silent and forgetful of my presence, nor could I obtrude a single enquiry on a subject which affected him so deeply. I at length made some incoherent remarks on the dif|ficulty he must experience in procuring food.—

"Yonder," pointing down an eminence, "lives my provider."—I did not comprehend him; but, leading me from the entrance of the cave to a more eligible spot, he made me discern a little hut near the sea-shore, and resumed his story—

"There dwells a simple fisherman, who, seek|ing a strayed lamb, his children had tamely bred up in his cottage, met me by chance as I was wildly roving through the wood, my sword was in my hand, despair and horror in my whole deport|ment; his timidity brought me to a recollection, that man is only amiable when impressed by the influence of social love. I banished his dismay, and he procured me food."

"What great occurrence brought you to this scene of misery, why not fly from a solitude, in|compatible with an exalted mind?"

"You know me not; my hours were early marked, and every step I take is not in the com|mon path of man. The scene before me is sorrow|fully distinguished, but I have reason to suppose it will be short."

I now conjectured this stranger must have been convicted of treason, and that a price was set on his head: I never conceived what we politically term treason to be a sin against the Deity, and was still resolved secretly to bear him in the arms of friendship to every comfort heaven had allotted me.

"For reasons of state have I been a prisoner from my birth. I was born in the year 1638.

"Through my days of childhood, I knew no affliction but that kind of restraint which seems more watchful than severe. I was not even sensi|ble of my being a state prisoner, as it was impossi|ble for me to be guilty of a crime. I believed my tutor to be my real father; my education was equal to that of the dauphin. I was not sensible of rough ambition, but I became the prey of gene|rous love: my tutor had a friend of the house of B****, who visited, and brought with him a sister. Noble sentiments, elegance of manner, and beau|ty, were hers. The impression she was formed to make was mine; an impression only to be

erased by death!—I for some months languished in silence for the lovely maid. I dared not hope. The vigilance of my tutor increased with my years, and I daily became sensible that I was held in fetters, though invisible to my comprehension was the power who ruled me. The walls of the garden, in which I was used to range, were raised to a terrific height, and so many precautions taken, that a gloom was thrown over the scene of my infant joys—I became melancholy—the beautiful Elea|nora perceived it, and endeavored to alleviate the sadness she could not cure. During her stay, (which was intended for some months) with my tutor, she charmed, while she increased the tu|mults of my soul. Unable to tear her from my heart, or suppress its emotions, I one day threw myself at her feet, and breathed the strain of love. The moment was precious—I could promise my|self but few, and passionately appealed to her pity; pity she bestowed, but female delicacy started ob|jections and fears in her inexperienced bosom. She offered me her esteem; nay, more, her invio|lable friendship, and my eager soul exulted in the testimonies she gave of both. But who shall set bounds to mutual attachment; Who quench the ever-burning flame of sympathy! We loved, ador|ed, and while my tutor was called to ***** on political affairs, I gave my parole of honour to his substitute, bribed him profusely, and the charm|ing

Eleanora became mine by a private marriage. From this union sprang inexpressible delight, trans|port hoarded but in remembrance; for, oh! my real treasures are no more!—

A pause, in which memory, I feared, was too powerful, succeeded those complainings—I wil|lingly gave him a tear. When did tears relieve the sufferer for whom they fall?—He proceeded—

"The delicate state of my dear Eleanora soon made a removal necessary. I gloried in the ap|proaching event, but was distracted how to con|ceal it. My wife, with that magnanimity which ever supports virtue, was willing to dare the cen|sure of the world for the man she loved, in deny|ing her marriage; I could not yield to this idea. I could not so meanly stab refinement, and resolved to declare myself to her brother, when he should next visit my tutor.

"The duke of B**** was possessed of true grandeur. He stood aloof from the contagion of prejudice, while she led her blinded victims through the world. His soul, independent and alone, for|med her system of thought, and to him I revealed our marriage—"Generous virtue (said this noble friend, will ever be the basis of my sister's happi|ness. Dearly as I love her, she has increased her value, by giving me such a brother. I will share your cares, and you shall share my fortune."

"After embracing me with affection, he thank|ed me for my confidence, and swore never to abuse it. My wife returned to his seat in the coun|try, where my son was born. But, unhappily, a do|mestic had heard this last conversation, and flew with it to the ear of my tutor, whose terrors I thought quite unnecessary to the occasion. He questioned me on the subject: I questioned him in return; and as I found he had gained know|ledge of the affair, did not deny it. Almighty love gave me intrepidity. I would not have ex|changed the tender names of husband and of fa|ther for the crown of France! Ah, sir! short was my fond exultation! only a few months had passed on when the duke came hastily, spent with fatigue, and dissolved in tears, to inform me his sister was, with my infant son, conveyed from his mansion by an order of state, and the only con|solation afforded him, was the assurance that both should be provided for within the pales of nobili|ty, but must never more be mine. Snatching the sword of the duke, (whom I shall henceforth term my brother,) I ran to my tutor, and seizing him with all the madness of a man grown desperate by injuries, demanded an explanation of his mysteri|ous conduct—Opening his bosom, he stood before me, dauntles in his trust, and venerable in virtue, but silent!—Silent as the grave! nor could the fear of death, though I too rudely threatened him,

extort the cause of my wrongs—I could not kill him! I had long loved him! and he appeared to me, at this moment, like something divine, though pre-eminently wretched!—Conquered by his looks, I threw myself down, and burst into tears! My tutor kneeled, wept over me, and echoed back my sighs, but stubbornly suppressed every other expression. While indulging this dreadful anguish, we were surrounded by the guards, who had entered the house purposely to convey us into strict confinement. I now grew obstinate with despair. Life had lost its value, and I felt only for this worthy man, who was to lan|guish in prison with me; his loyalty and truth a|vailed him not. After feebly struggling with age and fetters, he felt himself dying. My heart was torn with the mingled agony of impatience, sor|row, and indignation, as I beheld him sinking from me. Nightly did I hang over him, watch his broken slumbers, and indulged some little comfort when he opened his eyes. He was sensi|ble of my affection—I had been formed by him, and he prized the heart himself had rendered in|capable of disguise. As I bathed his pillow with my tears, he addressed me in a faint voice:"

"Names and titles are sounds; I never made you acquainted with them: I swore never to do it whilst I lived, but I have made you acquainted with yourself; I have taught you to observe the

futility of human action, and the feebleness of your nature. I now warn you to resist ambition; her snares are spreading for you. Yield her domi|nion to others—You are too good to be her slave. —I must leave you, and the only regret I feel at this awful moment is, that I must leave you here; but your life, I have reason to think, will he held sacred during the life of Louis XIV. Should he die childless, forget not my warnings. Numberless joys spring from the bosom of the world for those who can enjoy them in obscurity. Adieu! my dear Henry! Should you in time know the secret of your birth, keep that knowledge to yourself; by appearing ignorant, you may be most safe. Do not practise deceit; but every man has a right to be silent on his own affairs. Tranquility, that hath ever gilded my unimpassioned hours, now falls sweetly on my senses. When I awake to new existence, my Creator will not make me miser|able. Unheedful of human opinion, to him alone I am resigned—Once more! Once more! Farewell for ever!"

"Pressing my hand gently, he looked benignly in my face, and yielded to nature all she could claim from him.

"To describe the horrors that stared on my af|flicted spirit, at this dreadful separation, is impos|sible! My fancy became wild, and brought none but ugly images. Suicide seemed to offer itself as

my sole conductor to everlasting rest—And where will my Eleanora find a comforter! said I, striking the candlestick suddenly on the floor. The noise I made, alarmed the centinel, who stood at the out|side of the door; he rushed in, and finding the chamber in darkness, called aloud to his compa|nions, who entering, saw me sitting near the corpse of my dear departed monitor.

"No indignity was offered me; two gentlemen were appointed to attend my person, and to ac|company me from that place of confinement, where he breathed his last, to a more eligible one, after a dismal chasm in my life of nineteen years.

"The vessel in which we embarked, was pursu|ed by heavy storms; and after struggling five days and nights with the tempestuous elements, grew crazed; her rudder being splintered, was entirely washed away; her main-mast went by the board; she had sprung a-leak; all hands were in turn sum|moned to the pumps; and, on heaving the lead, our soundings were only eight fathoms from land. Night came on, darkness increased our terrors. I was suffered freely to assist in the tremendous scene; but the roaring of the sea, the shrieks of the wind in the rigging, together with the prayers and blasphemies of the crew, struck me with such amazement, that (ignorant whose order to obey, or what rope to pull) I leaned on one of the hen|coops,

and waited the moment that should plunge us in the deep. Before I left the cabin, I had se|cured a sword, and fixed it to my belt, in which I had concealed a small casket, given me by my tutor, a few hours before he departed. Except these articles, and this resemblance of Louis, I had nothing of value. Night passed away, and dawn presented to our view yon huge promontory, which you can with ease discern to the westward, and of which we hoped to gain some craggy part; but, from its foot runs out, beneath the waters, invisi|ble rocks, unknown to the most skilful mariner. There our vessel resigned her violent motion for some moments—there, she lay trembling on the waves like a dying bird, and beneath a rude swell of water, went down for ever! Clasping the hen-|coop, I was beat against the rock—I knew no more! All was calm when I opened my eyes, as I lay on the beach; no vessel appeared, no compa|nion hailed me—I gazed around, my eyes felt hea|vily; I was not grateful for existence, but looked wishfully at the remorseless ocean, which had drank my friends. How vacant is the mind when the objects lately moving around us, are suddenly gone for ever! No prayer, no unavailing murmur escaped my lips; such is the stupidity of man when bewildered by great extremes. I had sat pensively on the beach for some hours, the billows left me, and my hen-coop; none of my ship-mates

appeared; but my appetite for life, security, and food, gradually awakened, and at length grew acute. Not knowing where to find the latter, I was met by the fisherman, whose cabin is small, and family numerous; nor would a residence beneath his roof be compatible with my fortune or his safety. His head might answer for his friendship to me. My brother, the duke of B****, if still at Paris, will be secret and faithful. To him I have written a brief account of my situation. The fisher|man has ventured in his skiff to convey my letters. I have promised to reward him, and only wait his return, when I shall quit my native land for ever. I am now forty years old, and am a stranger to the world!"

I now concluded my unknown friend to be of distinguished rank: he wished to know my place of residence, and by what accident I had discover|ed his retreat.

I related my morning excursion, begged him to command me, if I could assist him; and added,

"I must leave you, amiable and unfortunate stranger. I am dear to the worthiest of men, and should feel regret in causing him one moment's pain: suffer me to see you once more! I will not prove obtrusive; but I would encounter many evils to prove myself deserving your confidence. Say I may again privately visit you in this comfortless asylum, so unworthy its inhabitant."

A melancholy smile spread itself over the face of this afflicted recluse; he replied:

"Go, generous youth! persevere in the path of virtue! you will prove a blessing to your parents! In three days I expect my honest fisherman, you may command the interval; I will expect you here."

Raising my hand respectfully to his lips, he bade me adieu. I ascended by his ladder, and hast|ened back to relieve my guardian, whose alarms at my absence, I knew, would be powerful.

Wearied and thoughtful with this day's adven|ture, I at last got home. Surprise at my early de|parture in the morning, mixed with joy at my ar|rival, were visible in the countenance and manner of my guardian. He questioned me mildly: I did not think myself at liberty to declare the concerns of an individual, who had, from true nobleness of soul, confided in me. Emily ran from the garden, where she had been selecting a bouquette, and with innocent frankness, declared herself happy at my return.

"Here" (said she, presenting me the flowers she had culled with taste) "I offer you the tribute of the day, friend of my father! they must one day die! and why not die with you?"

Endeavoring to assume tranquility of manner, specious, because my heart was not tranquil, I ac|cepted, and placed the fragrant gift in my bosom.

"I will wear your flowers, and only wish those emblems of beauty could live for ever."

"You are kind: my father informs me, your mind is noble, your principles pure, but why do you fly me? my brothers would not have left me so long; I must soon return to my convent, why did you not shew me the irregular charms of this romantic country?

The midnight vesper, bead, or full-ton'd choir, Whose mournful symphony is heavy sighs Of death-devoted maids: resounds not here! Then lead me through the vale where insects sip Rich nectar from the buds of spring, and sleep Unseen in myriads on the crocus' leaf Filled with the genial banquet, there the soul Grows wild with heav'nly rapture! Nature there Spreads wide her gen'ral sympathy! O come And view with me the slow'ry-footed morn Blush with the glories of her rising God!

As the pure orb of light draws the vapours from their parent earth, and converts them by his efful|gence into blessings; so did this charming girl in|corporate my soul with hers, till it became refin|ed even to anguish. Her eyes, full of innocence, were fixed on my face as she repeated those lines with enthusiasm; the eyes of her father shone with the tear of fond delight; and he happily relieved my unbecoming silence, by requesting Emily to favour him with the author she had quo|ted.

"The book is very old, my dear sir, the works of my author have been extant for ages; I sat on your bed of violets, I read him there; I gazed on the gaudy tulip, her lesson was mine; imagination carried me through the variegated mead. All nature taught me there! In a word, my dearest father, I have been from you so long, and am so lately returned to your bosom, that I could rise on the clouds, and diffuse the harmony I feel!"

"But the author, Emily, has not so particularly favoured me."

I fancied my guardian meant to be good-natur|edly severe on his cheerful daughter, but she re|plied with quickness.—"O yes, my lord, in various ways; solitude is the nurse of contemplation, and fancy is officious in the absence of our friends. Whilst I was composing those few lines in your garden, you, perhaps, were forming serious plans of future happiness, and as it is impossible for a generous man to exist merely for himself, you sat in awful solemnity, twirling one thumb over the other, looking stedfastly at the fire, and studying for the hour, what delicacy you should provide for my dinner, or what gown would best suit your dear Emily at a ball."

What fine touches affection wore in this reply! Her father, regarding her with complacency, said—

"My lively girl, your heart is now full, exhila|ted and unrestrained: but when you leave your convent for worldly scenes, you will, you must, unfortunately, be taught reserve: yet, I charge you, my Emily, never to pursue the worst methods of your sex; never practise reserve till it arrive at deceit, nor poison your blameless mind with affec|tation."

"Fear it not, my lord; artifice is not necessary as the world in general think it, nor is affectation lovely; good manners are due to society, artifice enslaves its possessor, and affectation is disgust|ing."

Emily had confused my ideas, or had given birth to new images in my labouring mind; I could not converse collectedly, I sat lost in thought; she was insensible of my infatuation and of her own power.

"Why are you studious, sir, why are you not like me; lively, happy, grateful for the happiness you receive, and resigned to transient affliction? All will pass away; my confessor has often enjoin|ed me never to repine at woe, nor exult in the rare visitation of coy felicity. My father will grieve if you grieve, nor can I be truly blest—I pray you be happy with us."

"Surely I need not solicit when Emily im|plores," added my guardian; "the language of

nature excels the finished periods of rhetoric, and the sensible mind sets a value on simplicity."

"Think me not regardless of your care, my dear friend," said I; "nor fancy me obdurate to the gentle, yet keen remonstrance of your Emily —But

Oh! what a world of agony is found Within my single bosom!

"Beware! Beware of indulging wishes, the gra|tification of which perhaps ought never to be at|tained; I ask not the cause of your inquietude. I am certain it will be regulated by, or sacrificed to virtue; so will you gain the peace you deserve. I do not wonder at your silent manner; it is mere|ly the effect of habit, habit of education, and edu|cation of natural necessity: you have the habits of reflection even externally, because you are the child of solitude: but certainly, when the soul ex|pands to taste the joys of sympathetic friendship, the clouds of secret anguish are shook off, as the moon from her pure cheek shakes unwholesome dews."

I apologised to this excellent man!

"We will not be pressingly impolite," rejoin|ed Emily, "but if you are not engaged, I will finish the piece of embroidery begun in my con|vent, and you shall read to us: my father has in|vited, for to-morrow, a large party of his most va|luable friends; we will try to chear you, and in

return, you must promise to throw this sober sad|ness to those who are willing to accept it: for my part, I know not one who would think your gift an obligation."

I was ashamed of giving pain to minds so noble and attentive—We turned to lively topics, and my friends were happy. Resolving never to embit|ter their felicity by an ill-timed chagrin, which might be construed into haughty reserve, I with|drew for the night.

Honour!—What art thou? Who gave thee be|ing in the mind of man? And why, once wanting thee, is woman lost? On thy strong and everlast|ing base friendship may erect her noblest struc|ture! From thy altar may faultless love breathe its flame to Heaven! Sighs of mingled souls, by ab|sence torn, are ever heard in whispering echos from thy hallowed shrine! The sacrifice once of|fered thee, is incense purer in an angel's face than all the odours of the balmy east! Thou! mild spirit of the good! wilt forbid the charming Em|ily to love a man who knows not his parents; who is perhaps an orphan or foundling, and whose fortunes are undecided;—nor shalt thou be profane! I will not indulge those weak affections! I will not entangle her artless mind in the fasci|nations of blind unwarrantable love! Oh Emily! be happy! Mayst thou never be subdued but by the unequalled ecstasy of loving and of being be|loved;

whilst honour holds its sanction o'er thy beauties. Give me, thou mighty Maker of the human heart, fortitude equal to these self-deny|ing torments! Conflicts like these bring anguish too acute for feeble man!

Thus did I reason and resolve; and quickly did I forget my reason and resolutions, when gazing on Emily.

On the following morn, devoted to festivity, the halls began to sound, the gates were thrown o|pen, the row of aged oaks, which shaded the great walk to my guardian's noble edifice, were plea|singly adorned with festoons of wild-flowers, and variegated lamps, intended to shed a coloured lustre on the coming night.

The equipages were brilliant, visitants numerous, and each appeared to vie with their generous host in polite hilarity.

Among the many, came a gentleman, announ|ced by the name of Rederique, son of a Spanish nobleman. I found, near the conclusion of the evening, he had not been invited, but had brought recommendations from some of my guardian's friends at *****. I saw him alight, as I stood at my window; his form was elegant, his dress superb, his deportment bold—How much more en|gaging, said I to myself, is thy lively air than this cold despondency that hangs on me!—Recollect|ing I should appear negligent in suffering my guardian to seek me, I left my apartment. The

company had taken their seats when I entered; Roderique had chosen that next Emily; I sat op|posite to him. He surveyed me attentively; I heeded him not; my languishing soul was breath|ing its wishes towards the lovelier object near him: I forgot all around her. Roderique, during the day, endeavoured to engross the conversation of Emily. Who would not have felt the same de|sire? Good humour prevailing, and separation not thought of, our guests began to study amuse|ment.—Religion, politics, and impracticable the|ory employed the mental powers of the old, and the young sat down to music. Several ladies play|ed with that facility which harmonises the mind, and renders it yielding to any impression of the moment; but when Emily commanded the trembling strings! sympathetic softness enervated the soul: The doors of memory opened to her key, and the image, late forgotten, gently arose be|fore the object it had once adored! All yielded to the enchantment of Emily, who awakened reflection with its joys and sorrows. Roderique grew familiar, pronounced her performance di|vine; declared himself superlatively blest; and looking obliquely at me, pronounced the man a brute who could wear a joyless countenance while such beauty and skill united in consoling him—Emily did not hear, or did not regard him, when he requested her to play "The charms of

woman-kind." Respect and despair kept me at a distance.

"I will play," said Emily, "a little piece writ|ten by a friend of mine, who is now in the con|vent, to whom I must soon return."—"Heaven forbid," replied Roderique, with more quickness than good manners—"I beg pardon, Miss! let me not interrupt you, or deprive the company of pleasure only in your power to bestow."

"The lady I mention," continued Emily, ad|dressing herself to me, after silently bending to Roderique, is one of the loveliest creatures nature ever formed; but she is full of secret sorrow— pensive, like you, my worthy friend."

"With feigned composure, I replied; "This gentleman wishes you to play; on me, the harp of Jesse could not have half your power."

"Then I will play, and you shall reward me with a smile, so seldom worn, and so highly prized by my father and me."

She sang and played—

Here dimly burns the wasting spark of life! Whilst doom'd to wander through the gloomy shade! For ever lost, as gentle Henry's wife; For ever kneeling to the saints for aid. His image meets me e'en before the cross, Reproves my pray'r when I would chace his form; Points to his heart still bleeding for my loss, And seems to ask me if my vows are warm. Ah, no! thou art my heav'n! invented joy Of dreaming monks could never charm like thee.

Haste! haste! and with thee bring my blooming boy; Dissolve those grates, and set thy mourner free.

Slowly flowed those pathetic lines, while sym|pathy melted the hearts of the hearers. A tear glided from the eye of Emily as she sang. I had the audacity silently to wipe it away; but, sud|denly remembering how much I had resolved, stepped back to my seat.

When the music ceased, Roderique attempted to lead the conversation on splendor, fashion, plea|sure, and beauty. He dully expatiated; his lan|guage boasted not that condensed keenness which could denote him capable of enjoying happiness of any kind in an exquisite degree. Emily entertained us with many little anecdotes, and described the innocent employments invented by the nuns, to alleviate a life of seclusion, with so much native eloquence, that trifles were made to charm.

"Yet, do all they can," said she, "the incessant gloom habitually forms the mind to views of death, till cheerfulness almost appears unnatural: indeed, it is a question, whether sadness, through every state, is not most predominant. Cheerfulness is not born so soon, it seldom visits us uninvited; every little art in society is used to prolong its stay; and at last, it leaves us to sit down, with memory, and mourn the past. For my part, I would rather be innocently cheerful, than sublimely grave."

"None but prudes will contradict you," I re|plied.

"But my ungoverned vivacity, a short time since, had like to have taught me a lesson—No|thing would serve but a ride in the morning—my abbess expostulated, raised her shoulders, and shook her head, to convince me she detested 〈◊〉〈◊〉 liveliness. I promised much in the name of my dear father; and I positively, sir, must 〈◊〉〈◊〉 back some pretty present; for after wasting half my own good humour in awakening that of the lady abbess, she suffered me to ride in the forest, attended by her own footman. We had not rode above an hour, my horse in spirits, and myself as happy as the birds around, when we were crossed by a pack of hounds.

"My horse ran away with me, I lost the ser|vant, and lost myself in the woods, where I was thrown on the turf; the fright was too much at the moment, I could not recover myself, and how long I lay is of no consequence now; if it was, I could not tell you; but I remember to have awak|ened, unhurt, in the arms of an elderly gentleman, whom I could have loved as a father, because he treated me with respectful tenderness. The blun|dering footman, instead of traversing the forest, rode home, merely to say I was lost. On this dole|ful adventure, my abbess has for ever set her great seal, so that if I remain twenty years in the convent, I shall never get another ride in the forest."

From Emily's description of her gallant pre|server, the count, her father, knew him to be the

duke of B****, who had lately visited us incog. and who had not seen her since her infancy: he rallied his daughter, who lamented the feeble returns she had made her illustrious friend.

Roderique was possessed of a large share of ef|frontery, over which he wore the semblance of placidity: this coolness of manner, which affects perpetual complacence, is well adapted to the ce|remonious circles of polished society, in which no p••re emotion of the soul is suffered to appear. From behind this mask, supercilious vanity often hurls her shaft at the modest mind, who receives it, and struggles to conceal the pang, while the laugh goes round at the expence of sensibility. But here Roderique should have chosen a more noble manner of cherishing the tender blossom of friend|ship, which spontaneously sought a place in his bo|som. He sat, though night was far advanced, as if resolved I should leave him master of the social field. The respect I owed Emily and her father, forced me to obey. I was slowly taking leave, when this witty gentleman enquired, sneeringly, "if I was not afraid of spirits?"—

"Not if they happen to be gaily dressed," re|plied I with sang froid.

"Suppose you should meet one dressed like me, Monsieur?"

"I could not surely fear so delicate a form!"

"I am happy to hear you have so much cour••ge;

I only meant civilly to inform you, that I walk in my sleep—Hah, hah, hah!"

"It should be the care of some loving friend, sir, to cure you of that troublesome trick."—

Roderique frowned—I continued—

"Were you to be led only once into our horse|pond, think you would ever after lie quiet in a warmer place."

"And who," said he fiercely, would have the bravery to lead me there?"

"Your nurse."—

Roderique looked down, played with his watch|chain, and Emily politely wished us a good night.

In spite of my resolves, and all the self-denying rules I had prescribed to my heart, I felt a pleasure in not leaving her with our new guest.

My guardian commended me to repose. I went to seek it; but love, and the inhabitant of the rock, alternately struggled with my senses. I arose with the sun, turned to my books, and lingered out the moments, in perusing the following manuscript, which I found by chance.

My reader may skip it over if he pleases, it hav|ing no connection with the story of my life.

AN ORIGINAL: OR, THE ELEGY OF LAURA, TUNED TO THE HARP OF APOLLO.

The lovely Laura early was beguil'd By genius and by hope—she mourn'd her lot; Saw splendor rise beyond her native wild, Panted for fame, and rashly left her cot.

A neigh'bring sage had taught the maid to spell, Yea, oft would wander with her o'er the lawn; Talk much of heav'n, but ever more of hell, And bad her shun of vice the fatal dawn.

To lull the cares of age, she oft would read: The Hermit lov'd her; but her daring soul Already scorn'd the bank and flow'ry mead: Her vivid fancy stretch'd from pole to pole.

Taste she acquir'd; yet, to what end? her mind Was forc'd to run the backward path of sense— Range its internal worlds in hopes to find, What naught but philosophic truths dispense.

Yet, contemplation did her soul enlarge; Sun, moon, and stars, invited her to soar. The bright-hair'd god smil'd on his lovely charge; He gave her genius, he could give no more.

But, ah! with genius, destiny appear'd; Frowning, she swiftly chac'd the thoughtless maid. The hermit sought the bow'r her hands had rear'd, And silent dy'd when Laura left the shade.

Awhile the harmless damsel journey'd on; Her healthful breath gave fragrance to the gale. She sung with fervor to the morning sun, And with unusual ardor left the vale.

The well-known hills were pass'd; the sun was drown'd Amid the weeping beauties of the west. Her spirits fail; the barren prospect round, Was in the faded blue of evening drest.

Silent, less joyful, and more slowly still, She strays o'er lawns bespangled with the dew. The moon shone dimly from her eastern hill, The virgin sigh'd, and fear'd her hope untrue.

When late, near home, the cheerless face of night Wore no dismay: oft as the bleating lamb Had wander'd, Laura fear'd no guilty sprite, But brought the rover to his anxious dam.

Now did she sigh, when to the fleecy fold Remembrance glided back—no roof appear'd! On her soft form the breath of night grew cold; The love-born Philomel alone was heard.

She trembled—who at morn could trip away! Scorning the lowly home and yielding clod! In vain each shepherd tun'd his artless lay, She sought a path her fathers never trod.

What stung her soul? Was it vain thirst of fame? Or that bright spark with dear refinement fraught? So deeply buried, none discern'd the flame: Felt, though expressless, pow'rful tho' untaught!

With Laura, * 5.1 in yon grove of nodding pines, I hail'd the precept of each hoary fire; With her I wept o'er Petrarch's hopeless lines, And mourn'd the pang of delicate desire.

Me did she choose from forth the rural throng; No wealth had I, nor was my heart untrue. Nature's great ecstacy inspir'd my song; That song to gentle friendship ever due!

Friendship! give me, thou god of mighty fire, A blaze more fierce than spirit e'er hath known: Bid all thy lightnings keenly touch my lyre, When I would make a kindred soul my own.

When Laura left me in my native vale, I would not follow her in search of fame; Back to my herd I turn'd, with sorrow pale, Nor priz'd the with'ring glories of a name.

By her was rich Lycaon's seat espied, Blushing, she linger'd at the massy gate; The miser did her melting pow'r deride; And scorn and insult hurl'd her on her fate.

Her little purse, yet swell'd with useful gold, (The hermit gave it at his cottage door,) An heaven-born greatness ev'ry blush controul'd; She was not mean, nor miserably poor.

Yet, panting quick for comfort!—Desarts wide Before her lay.—She mourn'd unfeeling pow'r;

Remember'd home; turn'd from the gate and sigh'd, Whilst on her bosom beat the unpitying show'r.

Behind her, from the wat'ry waste afar, Arose the howling storm; old oaks were torn— Through heav'ns high region roll'd the awful car, In which were h••lls and bursting thunders borne.

A rock there was, whose brow for ever frown'd, On murm'ring billows never known to sleep: Beneath whose fo••••, by samphire wildly crown'd, The shades of death sit on the gloomy deep.

They revel high, when victims of despair Rush down, thro' hopeless love or cureless pride; New borrors stiffen in their weedy hair, And thrice they lave their heads amid the tide.

Pity! thou pensive angel! break the air— Ah! throw thy brightest beam on human woe! Guide i••-st••r'd Laura from the danger near— Ah, save her! save her! from the depth below.

Vain was my pray'r! from off the dreadful height, Trembling bewilder'd, the too-hapless maid, Scar'd by the terrors of relentless night, On the cold breast of wat'ry death was laid.

Her troubled sigh bursted above the wave; Sinking, she c••••••'d aloud on mighty fame— Who sent her swans fair Laura's lay to save; They snatch'd her numbers, and preserv'd her name.

Fame struck awhile young Laura's simple lyre; Deaf were the gay, whilst angels paus'd above;

The chords were strain'd to virtue and desire, To lambent friendship, and to ardent love.

But poesy ne'er touch'd the frozen breast! Enrag'd, the tuneful goddess sought the skies, Convinc'd that genius hath no place of rest; Short of her native heav'n the cherub dies!

There, thro' the vast empyrium fame was heard, And Laura summon'd to support her song; The shiv'ring spirit from the sea appear'd, And Phoebus stood amid the azure throng.

Thus spake the God, "This spirit, fire, I crown'd "With music's charm, the moment of its birth; "Yet malice, envy, ignorance confound, "Thy beauties, Jove, and blast my pow'r on "earth.

"No valu'd off'rings on my altar burn; "Oppression strikes my children with despair; "From yon hard world, my vot'ries weeping turn; "Their food is sorrow, and their drink a tear.

"Why rule the vulgar many? why obscur'd "My fervent vot'ries, speak, indulgent pow'r? "Why was fair Laura, (by my voice allur'd) "Thus sunk, o'erwhelm'd beneath the nightly show'r?"

The thunders murmur'd, and the vaults of heav'n Shook, whilst the Father of the world proclaim'd: "Thy fav'rites, Phoebus, from the earth are driv'n, "But here, thro' endless ages, are they nam'd.

"Thy worshippers are mine"—The pow'rful God In color'd light'nings wrapt, alone withdrew; Phoebus ador'd the Ruler's gracious nod, And down, to find young Laura's patron, flew.

No patron had she found; one night of woe Quench'd in her breast all nature could inspire. The god look'd wildly on the wave below, And from his forehead shook indignant fire.

"Harlus," he cry'd, "with me my Laura weep; "Thy gentle spirit heard not when she sung, "Or now she had not wander'd in the deep, "Her chords untwisted, and her lyre unstrung.

"My beams shone lovely on Aurora's brow, "I left her blushing, seiz'd my seat of day; "The eastern world did to my glories bow, "My coursers blaz'd, I mark'd their radiant way.

"Mild genius trembling, wisdom pale, I saw; "Each pass'd with silent pride, Lycaon's door; "Mourning that miser only just by law, "Nourish'd by famine, and with riches poor.

"My fires grew languid at Lycaon's view; "Skies round me darken'd, till my zenith gain'd; "Here I beheld thee, to my int'rest true, "Embrace the pensive bard that ne'er complain'd.

"Thou steady, great, disinterested mind! "Soother of guiltless anguish near thee hurl'd! "Sway'd by no censure, by no knave confin'd, "Scorning to swell the roarings of the world,

"Private thy virtues; yet from pole to pole, "Phoebus will chaunt the hymn to Harlus due; "Oppose the waves of envy, as they roll, "'Mid time's swift billows keep thy truth in view.

"O'er the wild main through ev'ry humble vale, "The child of melody thy worth shall sound; "And e'en yon mountain bard arrest the gale "That waits my chariot wheel the universe around.

"Granting he sleeps, ere thou unwearied prove "Of life's great scene, ah! cheer his pensive ghost, "By owning friendship yields to none but love, "And heav'nly friendship is the poet's boast.

"My Laura sigh'd for thee, had'st thou been near, "Thy manly arm had borne her from the storm; "Within thy bosom shelter'd from despair, "Thy heart had cheer'd her, for thy heart is warm."

Thus sang the flaming god—the vallies rung From where my lambs lay basking in his ray; I climb'd the rock, enraptur'd as he sung, Caught the soft strain, and here record his lay.

At the bottom of this piece, in which energy wooes simplicity, was a prose inscription, nearly obliterated by time, or carelessness, I know not which.

"This elegy was written by the poetess of the mountain, who was mad enough to think for her|self in the year **** Gloria Patri! She commends

her body to the virgin of St. Nicholas, in whose chapel she wishes to be laid."

Poor poetess! said I, laying down the book, thy heart is no longer torn by contending passions, it ceases to beat; Love and friendship have quitted it for ever.

Meditating on man, I considered him as mak|ing a progress towards perfection, only in those intervals, when he feels harmony within, arising from the gentler passions of his nature, and that rude and violent ideas occasionally throw him back: and concluded, he is at all times a being more entitled to pity than reproach.

Our family were not yet risen, except Emily, who had left her apartment, and tripped into her father's park. I observed she took a friendly peep at my poor Mayo, who was now indolent from age, and for whose repose a little cot was erected near the park gate.

Unnoticed, I followed the lively maid, saw her stoop, and admire the humid flowerets, and heard her congratulate the lark as the Heaven-loving songstress ascended from her downy chamber.

The sun had scarcely drawn up the grey aether from the vallies; and the shepherd, who was slow|ly winding the distant hill, appeared through a mist. His hands were folded athwart his bosom, his long hair fell on his shoulders, and his faith|full dog crept humbly behind him. Happy clown!

Who would not give their grandeur for thy vacant ease? He kept his path, approached Emily with rustic diffidence, and bowed as he passed, but the amiable girl would not suffer him to go unwel|comed by her morning offering; she opened her purse, requested him to partake of its contents, and curtified as she left him. For "his eyes lack'd lustre, and his locks were grey."

Giving her time to advance before me, I ques|tioned the venerable peasant; the man that could claim Emily's attention was worthy mine.

He told me his son was a soldier at ******, that he now lay ill in an hospital there, and if he could but get him cleared, Anna, he was certain, would recover with gladness at her brother's return.— "What ails your Anna? will money or advice relieve her?"

"No, no, sir, she does not much mind money. And, as for advice, she does not care to take it. I I have said to her, that reading the Bible can hurt no one, but she reads about things I don't under|stand."—

Why, in a lituation where labour is so necessary, does your daughter waste her hours?"

This ill-natured question disagreed with my understanding and taste. I was not illiberal enough to confine spirit to situation; nature often exalts one above the other, but I was willing to

hear how he would defend his Anna—He re|plied:

"O, sir, she labours as much as I do, through the day, in spinning, and what not, and reads when she should take her natural rest—What is night for, sir, but to sleep?"

"Hem!—to meditate—and mourn!"—said I.

"But there!"—softening his voice, "Anna can|not sleep!—there must be something wrong in it. Poor Anna, I hope, will find a better world!"

He drew his hand over his eyes; the suffusion could not be concealed—I turned myself round—. When a man wishes to hide his emotions, it is at least unrefined to stare at his struggling features. Emily had set me an example of generosity, I fol|lowed it, the peasant was grateful in the warm lan|guage of nature, and went on.

The charming girl, with all her enthusiasm for the beauties of nature, was fearful of rang|ing too far to contemplate them—she turned back, was a little surprised at seeing me so near; but, soon recovering that irresistible ease, which graced her every movement, she addressed me with a smile—

"I lament the violence you have done your|self, sir, in rising before nine o'clock. Your late ramble should have insured you repose, especially, as we were up last night.

To the still hour when fairies make their ring, And dance to music of a beetle's wing.

"And why did Emily leave her tranquil pil|low, while the silken bands of slumber are allow|ed to hold the sense of the happy? To rove unno|ticed, to drink alone the fragrance of the spring, is the privilege of a mind careless of the world. But Emily has brighter scenes before her; Emily should taste every guiltless pleasure, while protect|ed and prized by a generous father."—

"I do: my youthful hours glide smoothly; sheltered by his paternal love, I know no richer blessing."—

"A blessing I have never known!"

"My father would think your reflection un|kind—He has taught me candor. To his noble and manly sentiments, I owe my ideas of sterling vir|tue, and my contempt of hypocrisy; whose banc|ful web not only ensnares the innocent, but too often entangles her own practitioners.—What great business is doing in the world, sir! or what mighty good will mankind attain by insincerity with each other?"

"Our passions, Emily, are often dangerous; we are obliged to conceal them, fearing their ef|fects may prove fatal to the cause of virtue; and, even in this laudable concealment, we may appear insincere."

"Right—there I will allow a virtuous mind to prescribe for itself!"

"And while the wounded heart is thus strug|gling and prescribing for itself, does it not deserve the consolation, rather than the contempt of socie|ty? No great good can be attained worthy the sa|crifice of truth, but truth is so fine, so exquisite and rare, she will not sometimes obtrude on the coarser part of mankind; the wise, through mo|desty, often conceal her."

"According to your theory, truth may not al|ways appear—But, according to my resolutions, my actions shall arise from no other spring."

"You need no other—Where passion is not acting nor conspiring against internal peace or general order, truth may and will appear. Inno|cence gives now a lustre to your sentiments, which truth calls her own."

"Well, sir, you say the passions are dangerous, I believe they are useful, and only rebellious when we would give them false meanings, or render them subservient to poor convenience. The passions are the wings of spirit. Cold tranquility the grave of thought. Turn your eyes to my convent! Even there the passions reign; but they rove through the mind like murmuring winds through barren and gloomy regions."

"I only mean, Emily, that the chain of reason should be thrown on the desires of the heart."

"Reason! What is reason? By what criterion is it established? Reason is cheap, vague; offering

itself to you on all occasions. If a man does right according to received custom, he is said to act with reason; but should his conduct, though fault|less, oppose custom, he is still moving in contact with his own reason; and he will be astonished when he finds it is the reason of some other man and not his own that he is expected to obey. For you, sir, there is no necessity of torturing or concealing truth, your heart is not capable of a sentiment that can disgrace you!"

We now perceived my guardian and Roderique strolling round the park; they soon joined us, on an eminence from which the eye wandered over the ocean till it was stayed by the horizon.

The father of Emily, taking her hand, inform|ed us, he had prevailed on his accomplished guest (meaning Roderique) to remain a week with him. —"Rural beauties cannot invite an imagination long softened by luxurious scenes, and made rest|less by varied delights, in which the poisons of the heart are concealed. Nor does our new friend come under that description; but I will promise him attention, and innocent pleasure; and, to your politeness, my dear Henry, I commend this gentleman."—

I bowed—Roderique slightly returned my congee.

The perspective my guardian had brought for the purpose of assisting Roderique's view of the

ocean, was in the hand of the latter: I requested the favor of it, and raising it to my eye, immedi|ately discerned a little skiff or sloop, but thinly manned, labouring through the billows—My heart fluttered. I concluded the wanderer of the main to be the faithful fisherman, so impatiently expect|ed by the fugitive in the rock.

It is impossible to describe the gentle thrillings of the blood which we so powerfully feel when collateral incident strikes on the image of our treasured joys. I felt a transport sacred to friend|ship; I concealed that transport, even from the friends I loved—Did I value truth the less?

I restored my guardian his perspective, and we hastened home to breakfast. Roderique was parti|cularly attentive to Emily, her father was kind to all; never did hospitality smile on a more benig|nant form.

My die was cast! My wishes were silent; but every progressive moment convinced me that Emily was necessary to my peace.

Roderique had been given to my attention: he expressed a desire of making an excursion round the country; I felt undelighted with the idea of accompanying him, and feigned myself indisposed. The splendor of the skies, notwithstanding my ex|cuse, tempted our family-party to take a turn through the meadows; and to the care of Emily and her father, did I, for good reasons, resign the

envied Roderique. In passing the gate, he offered his arm to the amiable maid, she declined it, and accepted that of my guardian. My eyes pursued them, till they were lost in the shade of elm trees that grew round the adjacent enclosure; when, hastily ordering my horse, I resolved instantly to depart for the miserable cavity of my poor recluse. I rode threw a narrow lane, with the sole purpose of avoiding my friends; and at the end of a field, to the right, my horse's head turned suddenly upon them. They had crossed the meadow which di|rected to the same point. I was a little abashed; Emily smiled, and asked me, "which I had con|quered, my indisposition, or my love of truth?"

"My indisposition must be conquered by strong|er forces than mine, dear Emily; my love of truth remains; I will convince you of it in some happier moment; at present, do not condemn me un|heard."—Adding to this, the usual compliments of the day, and congratulations on the pleasure of their walk, I rode off.

The heat of the sun was forgot, while spurred on by impatient friendship; I soon arrived at the brink of the precipice, where I had first seen the interesting stranger. Slipping my horse's bridle on an oak branch, I roved along the jagged surface of the rock, but saw no guiding mark; and recollect|ed rather late, that I had appointed no hour of return to this solitary scene. Stung by disappoint|ment,

I called aloud; the rock reverberated, but no human voice answered me; my vexation and my hallooing availed me nothing; I grew spirit|less, and was remourning, when a damsel appear|ed at a great distance; she seemed suddenly to have arisen from beneath the shrubbery which cloathed the slanting hills: her hat was in her hand; I observed she shook it at me, as one of my feet was in the stirrup, the other on the earth; I left my aukward position, again fastened my bridle to the tree, and received her with that delicacy due to the female character. She smiled, curt|sied, and I wished her fair weather on her journey.

"I thank you, sir," said she; "but my journey I believe must end here, for unless you be the gen|tleman, I am come to seek one I cannot find, and talk of one I do not know."

Chance may do much for you, my good girl— from whence or from whom are you sent?"—

"From the Fisherman's hut below the moun|tain—My father has crossed the ocean, and a gen|tleman waits his return, who has sent me hither: —"Not," said he, "(as I was putting on my yellow mittens), that I can positively direct you, Lydia; you are better acquainted with those un|frequented wilds than I am. But should you meet a gentleman wandering near that high rock which seems to touch the skies, conduct him, I pray you,

to this habitation of your father." "So, sir, I came here yesterday, and am come again to day."—

"I am the man; lead me quickly to my friend"—

Without hesitation, the damsel directed me down the declivity, with which she was well ac|quainted. At some moments she kindly obliged me to rest on her arm, while she first descended the rugged steep; alternately she trusted herself to my superior strength. Holding her in my arms, I once involuntarily pressed her to my bosom; silence reigned around, the skies themselves were full of beneficence, and creative power! But— virtue, in the form of Emily, suddenly filled my soul; she checked the dangerous sensation, and it died away.

"If honour consists of self-restraint, then am I honourable," whispered my spirit to the watchful angels—Lydia is young, unartful, and wake to the touch of tenderness. Shame on the man who would steal from her cheek the crimson of inno|cence.—"

Meditations of this kind officiously operated in my bosom as the gentle maid conducted me to her father's hut—and meditations of this kind only serve to prove that man can forego one bles|sing, while in pursuit of a better.

On entering the fisherman's dwelling, the first object that presented itself, was my incognito, leaning on his hand. Some letters lay before him, which I imagined he had been reading, and Lydia twice announced me before he rouzed from his reflective posture. A gleam of unaffected joy en|livened him as he welcomed me to his embrace.

The fisherman made his appearance; his garb was mean, his habitation homely; yet on his brow sat that dignity, which honesty dares to wear in the presence of princes. He introduced his chil|dren—I sincerely wished them happier days, and they respectfully left me with their more-wretched guest.

"I am now on the eve of departure," said my solitary friend, "a short delay, even in this unin|habited scene, might ruin me and my hospitable host. On his arrival at Paris, he found means to reach the duke of B****, who informed him, on his producing my letters, tha•• the supposition of our being wrecked, had prevailed secretly at court; and many private enquiries had been made con|cerning me."

"Fly! (says he, in this second letter) nor de|spairingly yield your valuable life; the time may come when I shall be able to assist you. The mi|nister is enraged against me, on account of his po|litical manoeuvres, to which I would not assent,

and my safety lies in leaving France for a time.— I go to the Austrian Netherlands, and will wait for you at the abbe Dorvontes.—Come to me, if possible, in the course of a month. B****."

"And how will you depart?" replied I.—

"Here are jewels to a large amount," (said he,) "in this casket, which I had concealed in my belt a few hours before we were surprised by the storm: I have also some cash: with this poor fisherman and his family, have I sworn to divide my fortune; and I have promised to send for them, when once I am in a place of safety—His children shall be mine."

I began to suspect the charming Lydia had made an impression on the heart of this gentleman; for superlative gratitude generally springs from secret love—I was forming false ideas.

"Yes, sir, continued he, "I will study to cheer his creeping hours of age; and my friendship shall bless him, when his strength is no more."

I stooped, under the pretence of fastening my buckle, but in reality to hide my emotion— "Why," (my melting heart would have said,) "must I never find a father to relieve, when his health and strength are no more?"

In stooping forward, the miniature I had worn for years round my neck, broke its chain, and fell to the ground. The stranger first perceived it,

caught it up, and was politely offering it me, when I jocularly questioned him, "If so much beauty excited not his attention?"

He gazed—In a moment his soul was lost in silent contemplation!—Pressing the lovely image to his lips, he burst into tears, and could only ar|ticulate—

"It is she!—my long, long lost angel!"

Confused as I was, prudence at the moment restrained me from calling assistance. He raised his eyes, and exclaimed, with a mournful look, "Where is she? Why have you torn her from me! Speak!—Tell me she will again be mine!"

I could promise nothing—I knew not the ori|ginal.

Suddenly starting from his seat, where I had supported his reclining head, he walked hastily the extent of the room for some minutes. It was a short traverse, but he was more agitated than the traveller, who is setting out on a long journey, poorly provided.

Assuming composure, he at length addressed me:

"How dare you wear this picture?"

"I value it highly, sir; it was given me by the man I most love."

"Perhaps the lady loved him too—but this is not a moment for expostulation."

His increasing rage blinded his reason; in a strong paroxysm he pointed his sword at me—

"Beware, sir! or you will prove how fallacious are your ideas of honour."

Stung by the salutary hint, he rested the point of his sword on the ground, and stood lost in silent despair.

"O heaven! is this thy care of man?—Was I not yesterday sufficiently wretched? I did not think it in the power of fate further to heap the measure of my woes!—This day, what am I!— It is impossible—She never could love another!— No matter—Pardon me, sir, I am wrong—I am distracted—Where will you arm?—I must keep this picture."

"If our host can provide me a sword, I will do myself the justice of defending a heart as worthy as your own; but not unless you first restore the prize we fight for."

"It is mine,"—said he fiercely—

"Not without you own it as a theft; and such an avowal will for ever throw you beneath my no|tice. I will contend with you as a gentleman, not as a robber."

"You are right," (replied he with a melancho|ly air,) "it must be your's till I have won it.— Go! (after pressing it to his lips) "inestimable jewel! Dear resemblance of all I adore! Why, ah! why art thou in possession of any but the man

who dies for thee?—Take this beauty, sir—yet be warned by one much older, and more experienced in affliction than you are—If her unequalled per|fections have enslaved you, forget them. I charge you this hour to tear her from your heart!"

Pronouncing these words in a resolute tone, he bowed, and restored me the picture; I placed it in my bosom, and firmly waited that tremendous trial which is formed on savage principles, and deser|vedly despised when the passions have subsided.

I was well aware that the fatal victory we had mutually resolved to gain, must, in future, give birth to remose in the mind of the survivor: but pusillanimity would have rendered me unworthy the friendship of this exalted unknown; and so strangely was my heart attached to him, that death from his hand would be in my opinion less painful than life with the loss of his esteem.

My antagonist had, at my request, left the apart|ment we were in, to enquire for some kind of arms. He returned without effecting his purpose: the unwealthful habitation of our host needed no military prowess to defend it; for over his little all, did quiet Poverty spread her sable wing.

Disappointed, yet highly raging, the stranger of|fered me his sword, on condition I should restore him the picture.

"You have too much generosity to refuse my

prayer. You are unarmed, I cannot fight you; but give me that gem! Let me, in dying, call it mine! Pierce this heart so tenacious of its right! When it has ceased to beat, her irresistible beau|ties may be your's—But tell her!—Oh! tell her, in her fondest moments, that my soul flew out bearing her image to eternal bliss!

Never had my heart sustained such a moment of softened anguish. Tearing open his bosom, this too-powerful opponent kneeled, and offered me his sword. Pity mixed with my stronger feelings. I lamented the laws of honour which obliged me never to resign the gift he sued for; and, while I made him understand me on this cruel point, I raised his compassion, for he seemed well acquain|ted with mental conflict.

"Come with me, my unfortunate friend," (said I, offering him my hand) come with me to my home; we may there find an explanation of this mystery; you shall, you must be convinced, that I have never wronged you."

"I will go!"—(replied he with wild impa|tience) "Conjecture is the child of uncertainty; the man who yields to it is sometimes heedlessly undone. I will go with you; I fear you not; it is not in the power of the world now to deprive me of any thing worthy my esteem. What gives you happiness has ended mine."

In vain I strove to remove those opinions kin|dled by jealousy in the bosom of this man; deaf as the storm to the traveller, he beat down my defen|sive plea, and imperiously commanded me to guide him to my friends, if I had any—I obeyed this brave but desperate stranger; who, in the moment of passion trusted himself to me, he deemed his ri|val, and, who might, from the confidence so lately reposed in him, prove a foe. The fisherman heard our loud altercation, but intruded not; we threw open the door in haste to depart, and met him weeping with his trembling Lydia.

"Suffer me to direct you to the top of the mountain," (said he to his impassioned guest,) "though I fear you are returning to perfidy and death; why will you not pursue your first purpose of going to the duke?—May heaven protect you!"

"Peace, old man! Am I not pursuing an object dearer than the life thou hast preserved?"

I secretly slipped a purse into the hand of Lydia, whose eyes were full of that softened sentiment, so amiable in the sex, and so powerful with mankind.

We departed, in company with her honest fa|ther. My horse (whom I had forgot) was feeding heartily on the brow of the hill. My long absence made him impatient and hungry; he had broke his bridle, and hunger, not gratitude, detained him

near the spot where he was left by a thoughtless master. Here the fisherman took leave of us, and returned to his cabin and his children.

That gloomy silence which hangs on two objects deeply interested, when neither can collect lan|guage equal to his feelings, prevailed with me and my companion, from the moment we left the fisherman till we arrived at the gate of my guar|dian. Emily received us with restrained astonish|ment, the habit of the stranger made an apology necessary. He did apologize, and with such a grace as convinced us he thought ornament wanting more for our sakes than his own. "To you, the ut|most respect should be ever paid: for me, wretched appearances, Madam, suit well."

He did not know how far the soul of Emily soared above the gaudy seemings of the world. Compliments, the frivolity of which, the good sense of Emily soon annihilated, were at an end, when my guardian and Roderique entered. I in|troduced my unknown gentleman as well as I could, and a very incoherent introduction I made of it. My guardian looked at the stranger with sur|prise. Roderique rudely surveyed him with con|tempt, and the new guest sternly returned his ill-timed gaze. Turning away with manly indifference from the supercilious Roderique, he frankly ad|dressed himself to the former; "You seem agi|tated,

sir, I beg you will compose yourself; I will not long obtrude; my business shall be brief. I feel myself injured; this young gentleman defies me▪ I came here to claim your justice, but, in the presence of this lady, dare not seize the moment of reparation."

"Emily," said her father, "may I request you to retire?"

"I know no reason, I must confess," replied Roderique, "why the company should separate— but, on second thought, I believe it may be as well, for this gentleman (walking round, as if he meant to inspire him with diffidence) can have little bu|siness with the ladies."

The other only returned—

"Your conceptions, sir, are of little importance to a man who despises trifles:"

Roderique tried to hum a lively air; Emily re|tired, in a manner, that convinced me she gladly left the spot where pointed ill-manners stung the unfortunate.

"You talk of injuries, sir," said my guardian, "if I have ever wronged you, boldly claim revenge."

"It is not you who are my object. I am led here to submit to your arbitration. Justice in you will dissipate my ideas of revenge; but, by heaven, I will not depart, till that gentleman restores the gem I have too long lost!"

"That gentleman, sir, is no robber! I will an|swer for his honour, and you wound mine when you doubt him; his heart must not be struck at till mine has ceased to beat."

"Command him, sir, to restore the picture now concealed in his bosom!"

"In vain; (replied my guardian furiously) the picture can never find a more noble bosom; it is his right, his highest privilege. I gave it him sixteen years ago, as a pledge—"

"A pledge!—Is it possible!—A pledge of what, sir, did she condescend?—But—I am not myself!—She never gave it you! it is falsehood deserving damnation, and you wrong her, sir.— This moment command him, if you have any in|fluence, to resign that picture, or the richest stream that revels near my heart shall be wasted on your pavement—A pledge!—A pledge!—Where am I?—"

Here the voice of the stranger faultered. I re|mained in silent and awful observation—Even Roderique seemed struck with reverence.

"Yes," said my guardian—"I avow, and will for ever repeat, that no man can have a dearer claim to the resemblance of that unfortunate beauty; it is her pledge of love, of pure unsullied love!

"Silence!—I will hear no more!—Leave un|ended

your tale of infamy—Poltroons of your cast were meant to curse the fame of helpless woman —Slander her if you dare, sir; come, we will par|ly when we meet again—Draw, sir; and bid your boy assist you—I would willingly try both."

"No, sir," (replied my Guardian with a sereni|ty that gave an heavenly lustre to his features) "we are not assassins. I alone will encounter you. Henry," (turning to me as he was following the enraged stranger towards the door) "I have but one request to make, though this may be my last hour, protect my child; I am confident you will never be dastard enough to resign the picture of your MOTHER."

"His MOTHER!" (turning hastily back)— "My Henry—My son!—My dear Henry," ex|claimed the unknown.

In a moment my guardian was obliged to give way. I felt myself in the arms of my Father, and we together sank speechless on the floor.

The transports of filial love were new; new images opened on my mind as I held the object I had so long sought, in my strong embrace.

"Why, sir," (said I to my guardian hastily) "did you give me this picture, and charge me to preserve it, without informing me it was the re|semblance of my mother?"

"Ah! my dear Henry," replied he, with a sigh, "the clue that has led you to the knowledge of

your father is yet in the hand of wayward fortune, and may break before you are completely blest."

Impossible, sir! Heaven designed me as an in|strument to promote his felicity. Oh, sir! had you seen him lost to comfort; had you found him so very wretched, you would have acted as I have done, and trusted the event to Heaven."

"I need not inform you, sir," said my Father to my guardian, "who I am; you never till this hour personally knew me; but you have protected my child; may God, from his store of blessing, pour your rewards! I am powerless, and can only offer you the language of a heart melted by your benevolence, and waiting from you its future peace. Where is my wife! Answer me that one question, and do with me as you please. Life, without her, is of no value."

"Could I give you that satisfaction, sir," repli|ed my guardian, "believe me, I would not linger in the tale; your wife, I have heard, must tread the paths of society no more. Where she is im|mured, I cannot inform you. On the second of April, which, I believe, according to the letter I received from the duke, was about a week before you and your tutor were committed to close con|finement, this youth, then an infant, was placed beneath my care. Not having accommodations suited to so tender a babe, my wife being dead, and my children receiving different educations, a distance from me, I resigned him to the care of one of my tenants. The man was nobly honest,

the woman simple and uncorrupted. With them he grew; the miniature, which has caused so much altercation, was sent me by the duke of B****—I hung it round the neck of Henry; and not daring to reveal the secret of his birth, only charged him to preserve it even at the expence of life. How well he has obeyed my injunction you can determine."

"I will not arraign the mercy of Heaven," said my father; "my son is restored. Who shall set bounds to everlasting beneficence?—May I not yet behold her! May not some dark unfathoma|ble event throw the long-loved beauty into my faithful arms! How the imaginary phantom dances to my tender wishes!—but—I must be re|signed."

During this scene of unaffected joy, we had forgot Roderique—Nature had left no vacuum in our souls, and affection had closed every avenue, through which a mere object of polite civility could enter on our recollection. Whilst our glow|ing sentiments were thus undergoing a mutual interchange, Roderique had sat himself down to write, like one who was intent on taking minutes of some extraordinary occurrence.—And such the reader will ere long, perceive was the employ|ment of that gentleman at this interesting eclair|cissement.

I had ever prized myself on being an adept in scrutinizing the human heart, and never did my

vanity so falsely support itself as now. I affected to be wonderfully penetrating, when I told Ro|derique, as he smiled at my father, with a kind of triumph, that the generosity of his mind shone strongly in his features. Roderique hastily squeez|ing the paper, on which he had wrote, thrust it into his pocket, and advanced towards us. I never, till now, had given him credit for goodness of heart; and was pleased in presenting him to my father as an accomplished nobleman, whom we ranked in the number of our friends.

We had acted inadvertently, but there was no recalling the past moment, and we suffered in the sequel for our imbecility.

Surely there are seasons of sweet delirium, when the soul feels herself unusually enlarged and boun|tiful. Then, if ever, we resemble our Creator; we would eagerly dispense delight, as we unexpected|ly receive it; while fancy increases the rapture by throwing agreeable tints on every object around us. My over-flowing heart was immerged in new-born transport; and my reader will not wonder that Roderique appeared through a pleasing me|dium—Had I not lately found a father? shame on the man, (said I to myself) who suspects a friend, and has not candor to reveal his sentiments. What harmony would animate the world, were mortals sincere! Thus I arraigned my rectitude, for having beheld Roderique with past dislike. I was at this moment so very generous as to ascribe that dislike to my love for Emily, and resolved in future to be

more just in restraining my desires and expanding my friendship; nor did Roderique, in my opinion, retain his wonted manner; his hauteur was chang|ed to obsequiousness; I became subdued by his at|tention, and was fastened to his will; in a word, we were friends.

My father, though evidently pining after good unpossessed, was grateful to the kind civilities of my guardian, whose every effort was meant to please. In hunting, angling, and rural diversion we strove to lessen the weight of care; but fate had laden my father too heavily! my friend Roderique too seemed lately to have taken up his share of business; I never could tempt him from his em|ploy, which was continually writing and receiving letters. I was, therefore, allowed sufficient leisure to arrange my plans of future happiness. I had but one; and resolved, the first opportunity, to ask my father's consent, that I might marry Emily. Yet, I had not endeavored to engross the affections of that lovely object; I even sometimes avoided her, lest she should observe the anguish of my soul, pity, and secretly love me under inauspicious influences. Heavens! what would I not have resigned for the knowledge of this one truth!

Thou wilt find, my gentle reader, I am very inconsistent; but we are all so; love and virtue clashing in thy mind, will make thee feel with me.

Yes, I wished Emily's affection to keep pace with mine. I wished her to taste that pure, though visionary bliss of loving, without the dull certainty of possessing; of voluntarily yielding, with the choice

of being free; of keeping the reins of her conduct in her own hands, without being assaulted by the wild passions of a man, who, at times, could not answer for himself.

Such was the great passion with which I longed to fill the heart of Emily; for this reason I resolved privately to gain the sanction of her father and mine, and to watch the dawning of her gentle wishes.

To aid this little plan, and throw wider my view of happiness, Roderique one day informed me, he should soon depart.—I know not why, but my heart fluttered strangely at this information.

"Are you not unwilling," said I, "to leave so fine a country. Is here no object, whose charms are powerful enough to detain you?"

What an awkwardness there was in this question; every word of it simply declares.

"None more powerful than your own," re|plied Roderique: "in your conversation, I have learned the lessons of honour, of truth, and of filial affection: accept my heart, and call me for ever your's."

Still I panted for an avowal of Roderique's sen|timents respecting Emily. I had no right to accuse or complain; I had beheld a treasure without at|tempting to secure it, and his privilege was fair as mine. I continued musing, as I spoke, on the in|sensible vivacity of Roderique, who was so soon to leave us; like a shadow we must behold no more.

"My guardian will regret your absence—even

Emily—the charming Emily—" (an ill-timed sigh lengthened her name upon my lips)—"perhaps may mourn."

"Emily is lovely," replied Roderique, with wonderful carelessness, "but I leave her to you— pursue, possess, be happy, and grow old in all she is capable of communicating. For me, my dear friend, other pleasures wait. I will return to my former scene of gaiety, I will remember you and Emily, and I will flatter myself with the idea of not being always a stranger to your memory."

Selfish as I was, Roderique relieved me from the excrutiating pangs of jealousy. In return, I made him warm protestations of lasting regard. Feeble was my judgment, and officious in self-de|ception, when I fancied this man capable of disin|terested friendship. Yet, had Emily never existed, Roderique might have been less abandoned.

Our conversation was prolonged from the park gate, where it began, to the door of my guardian's mansion; in the window of which we espied the charming maid leaning on her hand. She had stu|diously avoided company for some days; had sel|dom left her own apartment; and her father in|formed us she complained of an oppression near her heart. "I will invite her to ride with me," said this indulgent man, "in hopes of dissipating a melancholy I cannot account for."

He accordingly accompanied her over the adja|cent plains; I implored the angel of health to re|store her native chearfulness, and retired to my study.

I had taken up the orations, said to have been delivered by the divine Plato, to his disciples on the promontory of Sunium, and had read a few pages, when I was disturbed by a gentle rap at my door—it was my father who entered; he saluted me affectionately, and began a conversation with a serious air.

"The obscurity of this peaceful spot, my dear son, suits my miserable fortunes; but how long may I, with honour, continue under the kind pro|tection of your guardian, whose life and property may be endangered by his hospitality to me? While I am a wanderer, and free from chains, Louis trembles for his crown. I am his twin-bro|ther, was born with him in the same hour, conse|quently, have been a state prisoner through life, and am now an exile. I seek not the diadem of France; my heart is not so heated by ambition, as by civil commotion, to shed the blood of thousands; nor would I wish you to be known through the realm, as the nephew of the king."

My blood seemed to make a full pause at this declaration; but it paused only to revisit my heart with treble force.

"What!—my noble father! are you content to creep round the world a victim to persecution, and an alien to society?"

"Content is with your mother; if I find her, the dominions of nature will be mine."

"May the Almighty power in restoring her to you, give me the blessing I have never known!—

But do not expect to hear me whistle after the plough, or die undistinguished amidst the peaceful pleasures of these woodlands.—Bid me go and seek my mother! Bid me rush into the path of glory; I may learn her destiny—I may soften yours, I may snatch some laurels from the hand of war; at least, my life will not glide away without leaving a proof of my existence on the annals of fame."

He answered.—"Fame has affliction for her fa|vorite: she sets him up; he veers with her blast, and riots in her transient charms. Soon, much too soon, her minion falls from her finest height. En|vy receives him in her snaky bosom; he looks up, and owns with regret, that no summit was ever gained on which man can permanently rest."

"But my honour, sir, will oblige me at least to leave this scene; at once inactive, inglorious, and dangerous to you, to my guardian, to me, and to—"

Here my conscious heart arrested my tongue, before it wildly pronounced the name of her I loved; for, however cold I might appear to be, I too, certainly, at some moments, feared for Emily and myself. Besides, did not a suffering father stand before me, whose wrongs I was impatient to redress?—He did, and my whole soul became ex|panded with the grandeur of her own ideas.

My father calmly replied—"Your observations are just, my son; for your secret consolation pre|serve your honour and your virtue, and barter not either for public fame. Fame can never repay you.

I am serious—If quitting this retreat will secure your rectitude, you shall with me immediately depart."

During this speech, I felt the power of my father darting to the inmost recesses of my troubled mind.

He continued—"Emily has informed me—"

I started.—"Why are you agitated? why do you turn pale? Be seated, my worthy Henry," politely drawing a chair, this generous fugitive proceeded:

"Yesterday you lamented the dejection of Emi|ly; you were surprized at her avoiding the pre|sence of yourself and Roderique; you know not the cause, nor do I; the motives of those who are all innocence and delicacy may not be imper|tinently scrutinized; but she is not happy."

"God forbid, sir!—who makes her otherwise? I will not tamely—pray inform me."—

My Father smiled; and, interrupting me, said, "I find you are no culprit, Henry, you hourly give me new proofs of exalted purity. Emily has informed me, that she wishes to cut short this visit to her Father, and requests me to use my influence with him, that she may, in three days, depart. In my convent, said the charming girl, I shall find the peace I have lost. Here I have met with inso|lence; but should I reveal the name of him who has offended me, his life would be the expiation; or my dear, my valuable father might fall in the contest! I therefore intreat you to forward my departure from a spot where my bosom suffers from more causes than one."

My Father, towards the conclusion of this speech, eyed me with fixed regard, while the mantling blood arose from my heart and spread an honest anger over my visage; particles of fire seemed to fly before me.

I only articulated, "what shall I do, sir!— What would you do? Chastise the disturber of my Emily!"

With a mournful look, he turned from me, and walked silently to the window, while my agitation became extreme. Willingly would I have fallen at his feet, and poured out the sentiments of my soul; I had not the power—by irresistible reve|rence I was chained to my seat.

My father, still gazing through the window, in a musing attitude, and without turning to look at me, said, in a low voice, "Would you destroy the peace of Emily?"

"Me, Sir!—I destroy the peace of Emily! O, thou Almighty Power! who hast formed me to thy will, be thou her strong defender!"

Endeavouring to calm my perturbed spirit, I stood silent; my father, at length, approaching me with quickness, said, affectionately, "Henry! —My dear Henry! Why will you in vain distress me? I ask not your confidence, because you ap|pear resolved that I never shall share it; but, is it impossible for us to meet on equal terms? I pro|mise to advise, not restrain you; and will lose the name of father in that of friend—Only try to for|get Emily!"

Pressing his hand to my lips, I exclaimed, "Yes, my father, I see too plainly you dare not trust your son; you will not permit me to be the guar|dian of that gentle maid; and yet, Sir, her father once told me, that, to my honour, he could con|fide his child."

"I could trust her with your honour, but not with your AFFECTION."

This was a stroke I was not aware of. I fell be|fore him, breathed my guiltless passion in fervent language; and assured him I had never influenced the mind of Emily by an avowal of my love.

My father was pleased; he strove to bring me back to tranquility; yet, whilst he talked of rea|son, of prudence, and of proud philosophy, his eyes were full of tears. I hoped to profit by the tenderness of the moment; I drew back his me|mory to the image of my mother. He was disturb|ed; his bosom heaved; and I exulted in the idea of having conquered his objections. To whom could I plead with more hope of success?—Had not my father known the joys and the sorrows of unconquerable love?

He was silent for some moments. I felt reliev|ed in having unburthened myself to him, and saw no reason he could oppose to my union, yet he appealed to my principles.

"You love Emily?"

"I do, Sir; nor can I blame myself for adoring an object that inspires me with virtues. Yes, my father! she hangs upon my memory, and vice can offer no temptation where her image is seen. I am

ennobled by love, and will not sink unworthy of my Emily's perfection."

"You see before you, my dear Henry, in your unfortunate father, an example of selfish and un|generous passion."

"Ungenerous, Sir!"—

"You must not interrupt me: ungenerous and unjust: I studied my own happiness, without con|sidering the miseries I was preparing for another. I timely felt my arm too feeble to ward off the shafts my fate was preparing for an innocent ob|ject; yet, like you, I loved; pursued that love; won a valuable heart to my sentiments, and wed|ded it only to anguish: need I say that your destiny is equally uncertain? What can you do for Emi|ly! How will you shield her from the storm now impending over your head and mine? Will you not rather render her wretched, by alluring her from a fond father, who deems her his richest blessing; and who, without her, may sink com|fortless into the vale of time?—But, far be it from me to aggravate our mutual woes—If Emily loves you, brave all future accidents, and lead her to the altar."

My father waited my reply—I had none to make; the essential part was wanting. I was a stranger to the sentiments of Emily.—He wished me self-composure; and left to my judgment the picture of his experience, faithfully delineated. How warmly had I painted the hours in perspec|tive! My colouring was too high.

END OF VOLUME FIRST.

Notes

• * 5.1

  This was not meant to be Petrarch's Laura; the bard seems to have thoughtlessly struck on the same name, in the beginning of her elegy.—Note of the editor.