TORN from the viſions hope had been flattering me with, I was plunged into this dreary abode. In the fourth room on my left, I ſaw, by the glimmering 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 ſorrowfully at the Marquis, who, raiſing his eyes towards 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 conducted to my cell, and left, in awful ſilence, to gloomy meditation; yet pity, heavenly pity! had touched 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 burthened 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, permit 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 enquiries; 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 attempted your reſcue: I found you noble, and without the tedious enquiries of who or what you were, diſintereſtedly loved you, our intimacy was of ſhort continuance, I embarked for France the next morning, nor had I time to tell you my real name and quality—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 rendered 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, returned; 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 votaries of virtue not more numerous in the world? my friend, my lamented friend, was one of her ſingular 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 liberty 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 appearances, 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 trained 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 orders for ſome little indulgence from the King."

"Vive le Roi!" replied the guards, and reſpectfully 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 moment to me, by what ideas he was animated.

But I ſoon bluſhed at the recollection of my rough manner, concluded it unworthly his reſigned and ſacred character, and began a more gentle apology when he abruptly withdrew.—My laſt moment ſeemed now to approach—I pondered ſeriouſly 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 entered, 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 freedom 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.

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 within my late deſolated mind. Hope! thou dear, deluſive power! how frequently doſt thou charm and deceive, yet how eagerly art thou indulged by poor humanity! I now ranged through the awful paſſages of this tremendous priſon, my ears were ſaluted by varied ſounds, but moſtly by ſounds of ſorrow—the Marquis ſtill breathed in the moſt profound 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 Tellier, 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 memory, 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 clanking 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 ſomniferous 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 execrable office, I muſt expire on the rack; nor would my death avail your friend. All here, who are ſuppoſed to be on the part of the ſtate, are, from neceſſity, 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 ſudden impulſe daſhed the cup on the earth.

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

Brought to deſperation, I panted with tumultuous 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 procure 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 myſelf 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, amazement, 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 ſalutation.

I aroſe and accoſted him with the pureſt affection; 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 reſcued 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 reproved 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 impatience, 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 brother. And found him equally a ſtranger with myſelf 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, confeſsing 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 announced 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 ſenſes: 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 approached, attended by the dejected Malnor.

Finely ſhaped, eaſy of deportment, and careleſsly 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 performed the ſame action at an opera; I ſtood ſilently enraged. Happily the Cordelier's face was concealed, 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 commandant 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 retired (ſinging an air of Voitures,) to viſit other victims who were under condemnation.

"Riſe holy father! fruitleſs are thy tears! heavy 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 potion to thoſe who are the victims of the ſtate."

"Wilt thou be my friend?" cried the Cordelier—"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 increaſe the pangs of ſtruggling nature."

"Save him but for this night! to-morrow may be the ſeaſon of mercy! I will haſten to the chancellor 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 ſeclude 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 power would expel the fumes of the chilling poiſon; "not," continued he, "that your friend can immediately 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 victim 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 without pain: when can the Marquis die with leſs?"

Reaſon and philoſophy ſtrengthened the maxims of Malnor; yet, I bad him be ſwift and leave the event to Heaven. Thirty hours had the Marquis lain in a death-like ſtupor.—The ſoldier haſtened to find the phyſician, and I waited, with painful anxiety, the Cordelier's return. Too ſoon he arrived, 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 Marquis 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 caſtle, he will be no more, ſo trifling a ſacrifice cannot 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 language 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 indulgence granted me by the chancellor, and has himſelf 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 deception 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 unnoticed."

Malnor returned at this moment, but no phyſician.

"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 acquitted of his fate."

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

But the intreaties of the Cordelier were unavailing: 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 Malnor ventured the awful criſis; we could now diſcern 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 affection, fell on his ſenſeleſs boſom, and he was conveyed through the eaſtern aiſle to the carriage that waited for the ſolemn purpoſe, while Malnor followed with the certificate of interment in his hand; and fortunately paſſed the guards unqueſtioned.

The fear, the danger of Malnor's departure, threw the Cordelier and myſelf into ſilent ſtupidity, we were nearly breathleſs with apprehenſion—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 commandant'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 information 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 viſions with chaſte delight, and breathe thy wondrous 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, without 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 tranſport, 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—

Here was diſtraction!—Ye who have felt the anguiſh of diſaſtrous love! Ye whoſe ſighs have been unpitied, while the hand of fate hath ſecretly 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 ſentiments, 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 Cordelier, 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 revengeful opportunity. What fantaſtic ideas were theſe for a man in my ſituation! Yet, ſo does the human 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 preceding 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 enthroned 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 politely,—

"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 itſelf. Had the Governor ſeized this moment of feeling, and boldly dared me with the queſtion, I ſhould firmly have confeſſed a conduct which gave me ſecret pleaſure; but happily that moment paſſed on, and the bluſh left my cheek as my emotions ſubſided.

"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 perhaps 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 acquainted 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 ſociety, and no object to purſue, whoſe excellence could lead me progreſſively from the black temptations forming around! The Governor hoped much from my deſpair; he did ſuppoſe I had already 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 perturbation; "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 ſimplicity convinced us he was ignorant of ſaving a man whoſe exiſtence at this moment cauſes inquietude 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 Governor 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 ſympathy with me. No! I am forgot, deſpiſed, rejected, I have been indulging only the viſion of love. I have cheriſhed only an image while another poſſeſſes the ſubſtance. I have cheated myſelf; my force of ſoul is gone! and I am too enervated ever to look up the rugged heights of virtue.

Thus I raved awhile, and to thoſe joyleſs murmurs 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 gained 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 unknowingly dropped it; but how could Emily form an aſſignation? Why did ſhe not ſtill love me? What had I done? I was only become unfortunate!—Yes—Heaven choſe to render me unhappy. Emily choſe the Cordelier ſhould make her faithleſs—Woman! Woman! why wert thou created! In the great journey of life, man frequently 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 ſeveral apartments of the caſtle, hitherto concealed. Many noble and majeſtic forms, who ſeemed dignified 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.

We fixed our eyes on each other; our ſilence was intereſting to the heart: bowing with that mournful reverence, which is ever due to dignified miſery, I reluctantly followed the Governor. Some apartments, which were ſituated on the ſouth ſide of the caſtle, I perceived he did not incline 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 obliged to forego my curioſity, and to be ſatisfied with what the Governor choſe to afford. I quietly followed him, and he led me through a ſubterraneous 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 ſtructure. 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 Governor had a deſign upon my life, and reſolved, if ſo, he ſhould buy it; my ſurmiſe was unjuſt. Finding we had at length reached the floor, and diſcerning 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 informed me it was an apartment ſeldom occupied, and never but by thoſe who were under the neceſſity of taking an abrupt leave. While he was ſpeaking, I fancied there was a ruſtling noiſe behind me, I ſtarted, the Governor ſmiled, aſked me if I was afraid of rats; at the ſame moment, removing 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 hurrying 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 moment, 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 diſcoveries. As I ſtood on the laſt ſtair, a deep groan I was certain, ſtole upon my ear; I again deſcended in haſte, fearing the Governor might have hurt himſelf with the bar. I met him coming up quite unconcerned, and when I mentioned the circumſtance, 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 impolite, 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 moment.

"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 Governor—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 replied,

"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 action 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 deceived and laughed at the world from which I have accumulated every hour. My nerve of intellect 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, principle, virtue, all thoſe ſounds, of which the ſelfdenying appear to be ſo fond, I conſider as reſtraints 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 moment 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 reſerve; 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 conceive me ſeeking pleaſure from weaker objects. My paſſions were high, my form not diſagreeable, my education had been faſhionable, I was methodiſed into addreſs, and every rule deemed polite was mine. With theſe advantages, I approached the court; here formed by nature for voluptuouſneſs, 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 dejection 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 ſentiment. 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 enraptured 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 command 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 materials on which I reſolved to erect my fabric of ambition. 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 ſplendor, 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! Dormoud, I love without hope, and without ſtrength to diſengage myſelf."

"Name the fair enſlaver, my lord duke, Dormoud 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 motion 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; inſtantaneouſly 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, drawing 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 proclaim their approach. I felt for the reputation of the lady; my friends were men of faſhion and gallantry, 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 apologiſed—and, half breathleſs, concluded, "Yonder, Sir, is a houſe, belonging to my father's verderer. I give you much uneaſineſs, I perceive you are as much confuſed as I am; will you be content 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 behold the beauty, of which the duke gave me ſo inflaming 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 evening engaged."

"With your politic miſtreſs, Lariſſa, I ſuppoſe —beware Dormoud!—Should our jealous monarch ſurpriſe you, you will never pleaſe a king's favorite more; and, if proving to you, the ingratitude, 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 affections 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 phyſician, 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

"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 expence, 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 wiſhing 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 affection. I patiently heard her gentle reprovings, felt them juſt, but endeavored to remind her, that mutual 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 certain, 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 moment? 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 ſupremaey, 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 riſibility at this harangue of Dormoud, ſo full of nature, truth, and ſelf-mortification? He proceeded.—

"Aurora now threw her bluſhes into the apartment 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 ſurveyed 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 forward, 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 flexible 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 naturally 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 thinking part of France, and often would he imperceptibly 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 machinations of Lariſſa againſt the duke did not prolong her empire; her dye was caſt. Louis returned; his illneſs had been ſlight, his cares returned; 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 Lariſſa 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 verſatility 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 purſues new objects.

"With this billet, the generous monarch ſent preſents to Lariſſa, worthly his magnificence, wiſhing her to ſeek an aſylum far from the dangerous pleaſures of royalty. Lariſſa depended on the charms of her perſon, looked forward to new victories, left the ſcene of paſt delight with indifference, and, in a few years, ſank pale and dejected within the walls of poverty. Better had it been for Lariſſa, had ſhe early ſheltered her beauties 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 theory 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, diverſified in idea, and totally oppoſite in mental power, the train of one man's action ſhall not ſerve another.—I reaſon like a moraliſt. I have that privilege. I am not a moraliſt further than precept ſerves my turn; ſuch is every man, and he deceives 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 ſyſtem 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-meaning 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 miſtreſs."

"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 private life, all will avoid. When Lariſſa fell from her ſummit, I fled from her endearments; unwilling 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 Turenne, and many brave men who had ſeemed liſtleſs while their Sovereign was happy, now gathered 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 virtue 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, pleaſantly 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 flattering thoſe I deſpiſed, and fawning on thoſe who miſtook ſervility for reſpect▪ But the duke had irritated me. He had aſſerted that Dormoud was too far currupted ever to be reclaimed by friendſhip 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 competition with Dormoud, whoſe mines were working at the foundations of his perfection. In plunging 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 chanceller le Tellier viewed him with a jealous eye. That wily politician had been entruſted by the queen-regent with a ſecret of the greateſt importance, 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 ordered 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 chancellor, 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 diſcontent, 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 reſpected; 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 intrigue, 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 Tellier 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 reſigned. 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 features ſpoke directly to my heart. "All is over," continued I, walking haſtily, "a few months or weeks, and then!" (throwing myſelf down on a ſopha 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 dwelling? Is this an abode for ſo much beauty? It is impoſſible 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 agonizing 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 encloſing the picture, which was encircled by the name of my mother, in the midſt of my little hiſtory, 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 Jannette has done crying."

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

"I would fain ſtay here till the lambs are weaned; 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 reluctance, 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 palpitating 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 paſſed 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 twiſted round my hand. Finding himſelf tacitly condemned to carry us both, he applauded my tenderneſs, and ſet me gently on my feet.

"Jannette Froville told me ſhe was not my mother. 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 ineſtimable friend poſſeſſed every accompliſhment. He was polite, but he was ſincere. While he charmed by his manners, he enforced that probity which dignifies 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 morality; 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 matters 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 unnumbered ages lies open in the retroſpect. Through this deſart have your forefathers journeyed 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 further, 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 circumſtances, from thoſe very circumſtances may another be at that moment riſing to the ſummit of his good fortune; ſo may your neighbour's inconvenience prove beneficial to you.

None can know the eternal purpoſe of exiſtence; 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 inhabitants, 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 equally independent of your will. There • ore, chearfully 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 tranſport to my unſullied mind: and as I thus revelled 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 inſtruction! 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 immortality 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 obſerved by thoſe young gentlemen warmed my attentive 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 convent 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 conſtitution 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, occaſioned, 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 ſuffered 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 whether 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 preparing to leave it—He viſited my guardian; I was introduced; 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, without perceiving it; I walked till an attendant delivered 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 horrors of war: have you reconciled yourſelf to the ſhame of defeat, have you taught your heart to reſtrain the exultation of victory? All are dangerous 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 forgotten it!—The duke departed.

"May I go to the wars?" ſaid I to my guardian, on entering the parlour—"Will you grieve? Promiſe me you will not, and I will immediately prepare for the field. But, my dear, my kind parent, for ſo I muſt call you, if my company or converſation can ſoften your hours, I will not go—No, my heart is fully devoted to you, and claims no ſuperior 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 excellent monitor; yet, tell me, O tell me, where I may find my father!"

"Be not precipitate; you may prove the deſtruction of yourſelf and friends: beware of dangerous 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 Seneca, and read my cares away.

Reading gently lulls the perturbed ſpirit, yet, we frequently feel an impatience ariſing from diſappointment or deſpair, which too forcibly withdraws us from this beſt bleſſing. In converſing with the venerable ſage, whoſe ſpirit whiſpers through every line, we become reconciled to unpleaſant 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-hearing 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 viſitor, 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 worthy your protection, and to your honour I could for ever confide my Emily."

I congratulated this worthy man on the treaſures 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 delicious 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 venerable 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 melancholy 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 attendants 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 morning before the family were moving, and roved over the adjacent hills: The dew lurked gliſtening 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 guardian "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 principles, 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 creating ſelf affliction, and refining on it by the force of imagination, till we no longer ſtruggle with unutterable love, but willingly ſing to reſt! Under 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 human 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 unavailing, 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 languiſhments 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 raiment. 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 ſhepherd 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 concealed myſelf behind ſome ſhrubs, that I might not terrify, by my unexpected appearance, the ſolitary adventurer, who, I ſuppoſed, was aſcending. A tall majeſtic figure alighted on the turf, kneeled, and gave his morning oriſons to the Father 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 murmurs were invitations to her thirſty viſitor. He ſtopped, drank, filled a bottle haſtily with the refreſhing 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 demeanour, but I expected to find affliction, and reſolved to ſoften it."

"Generous youth!" (looſing me from his manly graſp) "you have met affliction with all her attendant horrors!—but leave me!—take advantage of the means by which you have deſcended, or you may involve yourſelf with one long devoted 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, nothing 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 aſſiſting 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 divulge 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 power to injure me, and am only fearful of your ſharing 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 accommodations 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 appendages, 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 entirely 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 accommodations, 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 difficulty 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, ſeeking 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 deportment; 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, incompatible with an exalted mind?"

"You know me not; my hours were early marked, and every ſtep I take is not in the common path of man. The ſcene before me is ſorrowfully 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 ſenſible of my being a ſtate priſoner, as it was impoſſible 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 generous 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 beauty, 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 Eleanora 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 tumults 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 myſelf but few, and paſſionately appealed to her pity; pity ſhe beſtowed, but female delicacy ſtarted objections and fears in her inexperienced boſom. She offered me her eſteem; nay, more, her inviolable 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, adored, and while my tutor was called to ***** on political affairs, I gave my parole of honour to his ſubſtitute, bribed him profuſely, and the charming Eleanora became mine by a private marriage. From this union ſprang inexpreſſible delight, tranſport 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 willingly 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 approaching event, but was diſtracted how to conceal it. My wife, with that magnanimity which ever ſupports virtue, was willing to dare the cenſure of the world for the man ſhe loved, in denying 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, formed 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 happineſs. 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 thanked me for my confidence, and ſwore never to abuſe it. My wife returned to his ſeat in the country, where my ſon was born. But, unhappily, a domeſtic 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 knowledge of the affair, did not deny it. Almighty love gave me intrepidity. I would not have exchanged the tender names of huſband and of father 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 conſolation afforded him, was the aſſurance that both ſhould be provided for within the pales of nobility, 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 myſterious 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 languiſh in priſon with me; his loyalty and truth availed him not. After feebly ſtruggling with age and fetters, he felt himſelf dying. My heart was torn with the mingled agony of impatience, ſorrow, 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 ſenſible of my affection—I had been formed by him, and he prized the heart himſelf had rendered incapable 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 dominion 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 miſerable. 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 afflicted ſpirit, at this dreadful ſeparation, is impoſſible! 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 outſide of the door; he ruſhed in, and finding the chamber in darkneſs, called aloud to his companions, 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 accompany 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 purſued 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 ſummoned 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 hencoops, and waited the moment that ſhould plunge us in the deep. Before I left the cabin, I had ſecured 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, inviſible 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 companion hailed me—I gazed around, my eyes felt heavily; 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 fiſherman 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 diſcovered 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 haſtened back to relieve my guardian, whoſe alarms at my abſence, I knew, would be powerful.

Wearied and thoughtful with this day's adventure, I at laſt got home. Surpriſe at my early departure in the morning, mixed with joy at my arrival, 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 accepted, 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?

As the pure orb of light draws the vapours from their parent earth, and converts them by his effulgence into bleſſings; ſo did this charming girl incorporate my ſoul with hers, till it became refined 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 quoted.

"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-naturedly ſevere on his cheerful daughter, but ſhe replied 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, exhilated 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 affectation."

"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 diſguſting."

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 enjoined 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 implores," 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 gratification of which perhaps ought never to be attained; 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 merely the effect of habit, habit of education, and education of natural neceſſity: you have the habits of reflection even externally, becauſe you are the child of ſolitude: but certainly, when the ſoul expands 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," rejoined Emily, "but if you are not engaged, I will finiſh the piece of embroidery begun in my convent, and you ſhall read to us: my father has invited, for to-morrow, a large party of his moſt valuable friends; we will try to chear you, and in return, you muſt promiſe to throw this ſober ſadneſs 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 embitter their felicity by an ill-timed chagrin, which might be conſtrued into haughty reſerve, I withdrew for the night.

Honour!—What art thou? Who gave thee being in the mind of man? And why, once wanting thee, is woman loſt? On thy ſtrong and everlaſting baſe friendſhip may erect her nobleſt ſtructure! From thy altar may faultleſs love breathe its flame to Heaven! Sighs of mingled ſouls, by abſence torn, are ever heard in whiſpering echos from thy hallowed ſhrine! The ſacrifice once offered 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 Emily 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 faſcinations of blind unwarrantable love! Oh Emily! be happy! Mayſt thou never be ſubdued but by the unequalled ecſtaſy of loving and of being beloved; whilſt honour holds its ſanction o'er thy beauties. Give me, thou mighty Maker of the human heart, fortitude equal to theſe ſelf-denying 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 open, the row of aged oaks, which ſhaded the great walk to my guardian's noble edifice, were pleaſingly 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, announced 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 engaging, ſaid I to myſelf, is thy lively air than this cold deſpondency that hangs on me!—Recollecting 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 oppoſite to him. He ſurveyed me attentively; I heeded him not; my languiſhing ſoul was breathing 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 deſire? Good humour prevailing, and ſeparation not thought of, our gueſts began to ſtudy amuſement.—Religion, politics, and impracticable theory employed the mental powers of the old, and the young ſat down to muſic. Several ladies played 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 before 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 divine; 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 written by a friend of mine, who is now in the convent, 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, addreſſing 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 ſympathy 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, ſuddenly remembering how much I had reſolved, ſtepped back to my ſeat.

When the muſic ceaſed, Roderique attempted to lead the converſation on ſplendor, faſhion, pleaſure, and beauty. He dully expatiated; his language 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 replied.

"But my ungoverned vivacity, a ſhort time ſince, had like to have taught me a leſſon—Nothing 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 ſervant, 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 awakened, unhurt, in the arms of an elderly gentleman, whom I could have loved as a father, becauſe he treated me with reſpectful tenderneſs. The blundering footman, inſtead of traverſing the foreſt, rode home, merely to ſay I was loſt. On this doleful 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 preſerver, 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 effrontery, over which he wore the ſemblance of placidity: this coolneſs of manner, which affects perpetual complacence, is well adapted to the ceremonious 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 friendſhip, which ſpontaneouſly ſought a place in his boſom. 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," replied 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 horſepond, 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 watchchain, 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 having no connection with the ſtory of my life.

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 herſelf 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 making 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 ſlowly winding the diſtant hill, appeared through a miſt. His hands were folded athwart his boſom, his long hair fell on his ſhoulders, and his faithfull 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 unwelcomed 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 queſtioned 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 underſtand."—

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 replied:

"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 cannot 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 followed it, the peaſant was grateful in the warm language of nature, and went on.

The charming girl, with all her enthuſiaſm for the beauties of nature, was fearful of ranging 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 yourſelf, ſir, in riſing before nine o'clock. Your late ramble ſhould have inſured you repoſe, eſpecially, as we were up laſt night.

"And why did Emily leave her tranquil pillow, while the ſilken bands of ſlumber are allowed to hold the ſenſe of the happy? To rove unnoticed, 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 protected 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 unkind—He has taught me candor. To his noble and manly ſentiments, I owe my ideas of ſterling virtue, and my contempt of hypocriſy; whoſe bancful 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 effects 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 ſtruggling and preſcribing for itſelf, does it not deſerve the conſolation, rather than the contempt of ſociety? No great good can be attained worthy the ſacrifice 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 modeſty, often conceal her."

"According to your theory, truth may not always 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. Innocence 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 faultleſs, 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, informed 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 reſtleſs 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, immediately 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 expected 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 friendſhip; 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 particularly attentive to Emily, her father was kind to all; never did hoſpitality ſmile on a more benignant 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 excuſe, 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 directed to the ſame point. I was a little abaſhed; Emily ſmiled, and aſked me, "which I had conquered, my indiſpoſition, or my love of truth?"

"My indiſpoſition muſt be conquered by ſtronger 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 unheard."—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 recollected rather late, that I had appointed no hour of return to this ſolitary ſcene. Stung by diſappointment, I called aloud; the rock reverberated, but no human voice anſwered me; my vexation and my hallooing availed me nothing; I grew ſpiritleſs, and was remourning, when a damſel appeared 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, curtſied, 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 gentleman, 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 mountain—My father has croſſed the ocean, and a gentleman 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 unfrequented 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 acquainted. 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 innocence.—"

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 bleſſing, 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 enlivened 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 children—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 uninhabited 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 concerning me."

"Fly! (ſays he, in this ſecond letter) nor deſpairingly yield your valuable life; the time may come when I ſhall be able to aſſiſt you. The miniſter is enraged againſt me, on account of his political 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 articulate—

"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 original.

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 notice. I will contend with you as a gentleman, not as a robber."

"You are right," (replied he with a melancholy 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 perfections 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 deſervedly 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 apartment 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 offered 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 beauties 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 acquainted 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 impatience) "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 kindled by jealouſy in the boſom of this man; deaf as the ſtorm to the traveller, he beat down my defenſive 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 rival, 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 father. 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 language 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 guardian. Emily received us with reſtrained aſtoniſhment, 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 utmoſt 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 introduced my unknown gentleman as well as I could, and a very incoherent introduction I made of it. My guardian looked at the ſtranger with ſurpriſe. Roderique rudely ſurveyed him with contempt, and the new gueſt ſternly returned his ill-timed gaze. Turning away with manly indifference from the ſupercilious Roderique, he frankly addreſſed himſelf to the former; "You ſeem agitated, 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 buſineſs 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 retired, 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 anſwer 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 influence, 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 remained 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 unended 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 parly when we meet again—Draw, ſir; and bid your boy aſſiſt you—I would willingly try both."

"No, ſir," (replied my Guardian with a ſerenity 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," exclaimed 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 reſemblance 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 inſtrument 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," replied 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 immured, 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 confinement, 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 unfathomable event throw the long-loved beauty into my faithful arms! How the imaginary phantom dances to my tender wiſhes!—but—I muſt be reſigned."

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 glowing 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 employment of that gentleman at this intereſting eclairciſſement.

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 Roderique, as he ſmiled at my father, with a kind of triumph, that the generoſity of his mind ſhone ſtrongly in his features. Roderique haſtily ſqueezing 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 bountiful. Then, if ever, we reſemble our Creator; we would eagerly diſpenſe delight, as we unexpectedly 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 medium—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 changed to obſequiouſneſs; I became ſubdued by his attention, 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 employ, 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," replied 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 ſentiments reſpecting Emily. I had no right to accuſe or complain; I had beheld a treaſure without attempting to ſecure it, and his privilege was fair as mine. I continued muſing, as I ſpoke, on the inſenſible 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-deception, when I fancied this man capable of diſintereſted 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 ſtudiouſly avoided company for ſome days; had ſeldom left her own apartment; and her father informed 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 adjacent plains; I implored the angel of health to reſtore 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 protection 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-brother, was born with him in the ſame hour, conſequently, 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 favorite: 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. Envy 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 expanded with the grandeur of her own ideas.

My father calmly replied—"Your obſervations are juſt, my ſon; for your ſecret conſolation preſerve 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 Emily; you were ſurprized at her avoiding the preſence 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 impertinently 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 inſolence; 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 reverence 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 appear reſolved that I never ſhall ſhare it; but, is it impoſſible for us to meet on equal terms? I promiſe to adviſe, not reſtrain you; and will loſe the name of father in that of friend—Only try to forget 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 guardian of that gentle maid; and yet, Sir, her father once told me, that, to my honour, he could confide 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 before 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 reaſon, 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 memory to the image of my mother. He was diſturbed; 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 relieved 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 ungenerous paſſion."

"Ungenerous, Sir!"—

"You muſt not interrupt me: ungenerous and unjuſt: I ſtudied my own happineſs, without conſidering 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 object; yet, like you, I loved; purſued that love; won a valuable heart to my ſentiments, and wedded it only to anguiſh: need I ſay that your deſtiny is equally uncertain? What can you do for Emily! 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 comfortleſs 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 perſpective! My colouring was too high.

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

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

"All is now concluded," I exclaimed, with a ſigh. "Woman, faſcinating woman, ſhall enſlave me no more! I will hurry from the indolence with which ſhe impregnates the very air around her, and the ſounds of war ſhall awaken me to energy. Yes! I will go to the Duke of B****, and, unknown to my father, will implore his aſſiſtance in aſſerting our privileges of ſharing, at leaſt, the common freedom of mankind. Muſt we for ever behold the ſword of Death held over us, merely becauſe we are the relatives of a King! May we not breathe with liberty? Execrable ſtate! My father ſhall be happy! Unerring Mover of eternal life! do thou ſo direct my youthful ardour as to make it propitious to his clouded fortune: give me war and death, but ſuffer the gentle rays of peace to fall on his hours!"

Thus, indulging alternately the luxury of reading, and of thought, I remained in my ſtudy till the approach of evening, when I ſaw Emily ſtraying negligently down the terrace-walk, towards the opening of the pleaſure garden. She ſometimes ſtooped to ſmell the hyacinth as it grew, and ſtood meditating on the roſe without plucking it; as ſhe looſed the beauteous bud from her hold, it ſeemed to fly back to its parent-branches, as if conſcious of the death it had eſcaped, and pleaſed in remaining a little longer in the fragrant family. Again I ſaw her heſitate, with her hands folded, and her head reclined on one ſhoulder, to gaze on the jonquils which had been gathered at noon, and now lay dying, neglected, on the turf. Her white ſcarf waved on the officious wind as ſhe turned the corner of the grove which ſecluded her from my ſight. My eyes remained for a moment fixed to the point from whence ſhe had diſappeared. What had I now to do in my ſtudy; My reſolves were formed: I had offered up the deareſt wiſhes of my ſoul at the altar of my duty; it could be no crime to bid Emily a long farewel—No! No! My heart was too honeſt, and honeſtly did it ever obey the feelings of Nature, when thoſe feelings were in uniſon with the pleaſant duties it owed to my fellow-creatures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After reading the paper ſhe turned herſelf a little —I could obſerve her features—Judge my ſoul by thy own, when ſhe ſang with a tender air, Angels! who our paths prepare, And on your azure pinions reſt, To watch the human heart, Sleep not!—make me all your care! While ſecret paſſion wounds my breaſt, Some heav'nly balm impart! Guard me to my lone retreat! Where the nun unnotic'd pines; Her tender flame unknown!— There, till my heart forgets to beat, And mem'ry his fair ſhade reſigns, Henry will be my own.

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

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

Soon did the charming maid diſengage herſelf and recover her native dignity. I could make no apology. True, I had not exceeded the bounds of virtue, but I had broken rudely on her reſerve; and waited in ſilence that ſentence which, I knew, muſt throw me on my fate.

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

Throwing myſelf at her feet, I loudly exclaimed —"Hold, incomparable Maid! Pronounce not my doom: here will I kneel till you are convinced how dearly your felicity is prized by my fond heart. I am not ungenerous, I will ſacrifice my peace, my life, to the tranquility of your unblemiſhed mind! —I will for ever remain at your diſpoſal, but I never can ceaſe to love you! O, Emily! I have long ſuffered, have long ſtrove to baniſh you from my imagination; my ſtrength of ſoul is not ſufficient—Without you I am ſick; without you I hate exiſtence; and all the varied tints of creative Nature fade on my joyleſs ſight. What muſt I do! Can you teach me not to adore you? Have you the power of tearing your image from my remembrance? No! I will hold you till every object is ſhut out by Death, and too ſurely I ſhall fall a victim to deſpair and love."

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

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

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

"I have a father!—"

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

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

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

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

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

"So paſs our joys!—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Till when?"—ſaid I, haſtily interrupting her. "I cannot marry you, dear Emily; my fate is undecided.—I muſt go!—never!—perhaps never to hold you thus; to hear you ſpeak, to liſten to your inſtructive converſe: nor may I take you with me. I have no home. It is a father leads me on; can you forgive me? It is I that am unjuſt; I have inſtantaneouſly deceived you. You are wronged by the man who adores you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I think not of the veil: I ſee no Heaven through the dreary paſſage of inceſſant mortification; unmeaning in itſelf becauſe unworthy the Power for whom the fanatic ſuppoſes ſhe ſuffers. My reaſon for haſtening thither is more intimately connected with mortal objects; and, for the ſame reaſon I wiſh you to remain with my father till after the departure of Roderique.'

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

Her Father, attentive to her happineſs in every point, I believe ſometimes ſacrificed his own; and did not heſitate to enquire when ſhe would reſolve; adding, with a parental, ſmile, 'you muſt live individually for yourſelf, my dear child; I can only be a ſecondary cauſe of pleaſure to you; your mind is all your own, your conduct your own; and, when I am no more, you muſt continue on the theatre of life till your part is played. When the ſcene is cloſing, call not loudly on the world: ſociety ſtands liſtening over dying worth, and voluntarily ſhields it; and Emily will deſerve the plaudits of the wiſe. Name the day of your departure; your will is mine.'—

'To morrow, my honoured Father,' ſaid Emily.'—

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

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

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

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

The attendant he had rang for entering, Roderique ordered him to prepare for departure immediately, and uſhering him to the fartheſt part of the room, gave him a letter, whiſpering ſome inſtructions, and pronouncing others of little importance diſtinctly.

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

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

As his equipage and attendants rattled through the court-yard, I felt a kind of regret, and could not help mourning the nature of man. How much like ſhadows we 〈◊〉 ! ſaid I, to-day bleſt in the boſom of friendſhip, to-morrow gone!—The laſt dawn I expected to ſee at the Count de Marſans after a ſleepleſs night appeared: The ſun aſcended with effulgence, and the raptures of creation were heightened—Raiſing my eyes to that glorious orb, I breathed the ſtrain of heavenly gratitude.—Magnificent ſource of unending comfort! Thou haſt poured thy floods of light through ages! Thou ſhalt continue to invite the infant hours from the boſom of eternity! Thou ſhalt gild them as they paſs for the felicity of Man! Yet Man! feeble Man! muſt mourn! Too rich in imagination, and too poor in judgment, his joys are incomplete; and he ſteals ſorrowing through the world a victim to idea. Fancy brings her gaudy viſions to dance round him in his morn of life; The cold hand of diſappointment prepares for him the bed of age; but thou ſhalt unwearied roll! In thy vivifying beams ſhall eternally ſport the buſy atoms of creative power which keep the univerſe for ever young.

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

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

I ſaw her, and made an involuntary pauſe; but not daring to truſt myſelf alone with her, at this mournful criſis, ſighed, and paſſed on to find my Father.—He had been writing a letter to the faithful Fiſherman who had preſerved him, and employed a ſervant of my Guardian's to ſearch out the hut, beneath the covering of the rock, and to direct its honeſt maſter to follow us to *****, with Lydia and her little brothers.—Or, if the Fiſherman retained a predilection to the peaceful lot in which he was placed, the domeſtic had orders to leave him a ſum of money for the purpoſe of buying a veſſel of larger ſize than that in which he uſed to ſcud through the ocean.

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

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

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

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

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

"She is gone!" (ſaid I, to poor Mayo, whom Emily had often fed, and who had tamely followed us from his wooden cabin neglected and unobſerved:) "She is gone! but whither canſt thou go? Thou art old!" (The harmleſs creature looked up at me, and followed me back to the ſpot where our horſes were waiting) "May the hand that ſhall ſtretch out to relieve thee, Mayo, never be blaſted by the damps of poverty! Merciful muſt it be and amply ſhould it be filled!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'And why not as an arrow to its mark, Alberti?'

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

'What was that noiſe?

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

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

Lightning, hail, and wind raged ſuddenly through the foreſt: earth caught a momentary radiance from the electric matter that darted athwart her boſom, while the unbending oak appeared as an emblem of unſhaken fortitude. Stubbornly it braved the ſtorm; yet kindly did it afford ſhelter to us lonely travellers. What could the virtuous man do more?

In our journey through the foreſt, we had diſcerned but one little cabin; it was formed of branches of trees, which, being hewn into an equal thickneſs, were laid on each other, and plaiſtered with clay. The roof was flat, and of the ſame compoſition, a hole being left in the middle to carry off the ſmoke. Curioſity led us to take a peep within, where we ſaw only one man, who told us he was a miner; that in this hovel he lived all the week, becauſe his mine lay near, in the depth of the foreſt; but that on Sundays he went eight miles to his home, where his wife and children made him happy. How few were the hours of comfort allotted this poor miner! Here we could not ſhelter; but he informed us that a houſe ſtood, within a mile, in the track towards the old church. Not knowing that track, we requeſted him to be our guide. He chearfully complied, awakened his dog that lay ſleeping with his noſe on his maſter's hat, and both accompanied us till we came in ſight of the houſe, when we rewarded him, and he returned to his lodging, or rather to his tomb.—The houſe he had directed us to was built of ſlabs rough as they were drawn from their native quarries, and a quick-ſet hedge was planted round the garden. Near the wicker gate ſtood three cows feeding on dry leaves and hay, mixed with furze, while eleven ſheep ſtood, with their lambs at the door of the fold, waiting to be taken in from the beating of the pitileſs ſtorm. Senſible that the ſoft movements of Nature are no where ſo powerful as in ſolitude, we, at firſt, heſitated whether we ſhould diſturb the inhabitants of this dwelling; but the tempeſt redoubling its impetuoſity, it was reſolved the embaſſy ſhould be mine to aſk a protection till it was ſpent. I alighted, tapped gently at the door, and it was immediately opened by a female, whoſe advanced age, and cleanlineſs of perſon, ſtruck me at once with reverence and delight. I told her my errand, and pleaded the inclemency of the weather.

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

Leſſons of cookery, I ſuppoſe, ſaid I to myſelf, taking the book the good woman had left; I however, was miſtaking the ſubject, which was a treatiſe on reſignation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obſerving this young creature to be far advanced in that ſtate which endears the ſex to the generous mind, I entertained fears for her health, diſſipated her alarming conjectures, and informing her, that my friends and myſelf would depart when the ſtorm was ſubſided, requeſted her permiſſion for them to enter. She bowed with a ſmile of approbation, whiſpered Nanelle, who inſtantly laid freſh fuel on the fire, and placed the frugal viands on the brown table. My thoughts were pure in the preſence of this rural beauty: I fancied there was ſomething too ſacred about her to ſtand the gaze of our ſervants, and ventured to make one more requeſt, which was, that ſhe would return to her chamber. She retired, and my friends were invited by the hoſpitable Nannelle to recover their vital heat at her welcome fire. We gladly accepted her invitation, and ſeated ourſelves on ſome long oak benches, which appeared to have been made ſome fifty years, and ſhone with ſolemn brilliancy beneath the hard bruſh of houſe-wifery.

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

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

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

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

'And what figary had your ſquire when he preſented this cup to ſo charming a woman as your miſtreſs?—"

'I don't know.'

The night grew fine; my Father rewarded Nannelle, deſired ſhe would continue to love her miſtreſs, and ſend us away with her prayers.—

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

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

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

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

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

'The Abbe Dorovontes,' ſaid my Father, as I was muſing, 'was a moſt ſingular character. He obſerved mankind in ſilence, pronounced human effort futile; took a comprehenſive view of the known globe, and fairly confeſſed he knew nothing.

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

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

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

'Which of you dare ſecure him?' ſaid my Father ſternly, as he rode up behind with our attendants —'who are ye, baſe aſſaſſins! who may, with impunity, diſgrace manhood, by cauſing the ſhriek of female woe to ſound through the deſart? Monſters muſt you be who can oppreſs unoffending woman!'

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

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

"Riſe," ſaid I, "and defend the cauſe you have eſpouſed."—He gave me no anſwer; uproar drew my eyes and ears towards the ſafety of my Father. I turned like lightning, and ſaw him valiantly fighting againſt an odds of three to one; without once reflecting that to no purpoſe was my antagoniſt diſmounted, if I neglected to take his life. I threw myſelf before my father; for the danger to which I ſaw him expoſed bereaved me of every other reflection but that of preſerving him. Our opponents doubled us in number; the fray became terrible; to the claſhing of ſwords ſucceeded diſmal groans; darkneſs hindered us from diſti • guiſhing objects, and fury forbad us to pity them. Whom we were fighting for we knew not, what was to be the concluſion we knew not; we were only certain that a general appeal had been made to humanity, and we were the firſt who heard it. Struggling as we ſtood againſt unequal aſſaſſins, we felt no diſmay: the door of the carriage was at length forced open, and a gentleman burſt forth from its ſeat. His aſſiſtance ſoon gave the turn in our favour; but the torches being extinguiſhed, and the moon having retired within her thickened ſky, I could not diſcern who the ſtranger was that ſo valiantly fought by my ſide. —Rallying round the carriage, we perceived extraordinary efforts were made to ſeize my Father; dearly did they pay for the attempt—two of them fell. The ſecond commander, who was taller than his aſſociate, and whoſe face was alſo concealed by a black veil of ſome kind, rode furiouſly within reach of my ſword, ſaying, with a hoarſe voice, 'the day of revenge will come: for you, young champion, here is a pledge of my love!'—The contents of a piſtol was immediately diſcharged at my head, which carried off part of my hat, and the ſkin of my right temple: rouzed to vengeance, I darted forward like an hungry lion, who admits no interval till his appetite is ſated by the cauſe that excited it, and fired in return. The ball miſſed my antagoniſt, but entered his horſe's jaw; the poor beaſt, unable to bear the agony, reared his head in the air; again came down on his fore-feet; and, heedleſs of the reign, bore his maſter in a moment from our ſight. His party haſtily followed, and a dreadful pauſe enſued with us who remained on the field. The gentleman who had left the carriage, and bravely fought to defend it, eagerly flew to the door: the lady he left in it retained no ſigns of life. Uttering the bittereſt lamentations, he ſeemed to be at once bereft of fortitude and judgment. He put the hilt of his ſword to the earth, with the raſh reſolve of falling on its point. I prevented his deſpair by catching him in my arms.

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

'Oh my child!'—

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

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

I could not anſwer him—feeling myſelf growing ſtupid, his voice, and his mourning ceaſed to affect me. Father, friend and country were forgot: I wiſhed for reſt, and laid myſelf ſilently down, like one oppreſſed by ſlumber, without endeavouring to comfort him.

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

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

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

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

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

"There, Sir, down there! by that ſhrub." Leaving my Father and ſome of the ſervants to raiſe my Guardian, I flew to the carriage; and found my Emily recovering from her ſwoon by ſwift degree. Oh, how my fond heart ſwelled with hope; I trembled with love, and held her once more to my boſom: her ſenſes were not quite returned, but where could ſhe be ſafe if not in the arms of her Henry?

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

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

"I am Henry."

'No—you cannot be my Henry.'

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

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

I had not felt, during the heat of paſſion, the leaſt pain or inconvenience from the grazing of the ball on my temple; but, in attempting to mount my horſe, I thought the beaſt began to ſwim round me, and under that idea I ſtood ſtill, that my horſe might ſtand: conſequently the carriage ſet off before; my own three ſervants, who were the ſtouteſt fellows in the group, however waited; and, after a little heſitation, occaſioned by the ſmarting of my head, I was on horſe back. Darkneſs had ſo effectually thrown itſelf over the moon, that we could barely diſtinguiſh objects; yet the pathetic nightengale ſang, unambitious of applauſe, in the midſt of drouzy ſolitude.

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

We had only a few minutes left the ſcene of action when a deep groan was heard. My attention was arreſted, I turned my horſe to the left, from whence I thought the ſound proceeded, and ſoon diſcerned a body lying on the turf; it was a youth; his face was covered, and turned to the earth; but life was ſtruggling within him. I alighted, ſtooped and uncovered his face, and recollected him to be the perſon who had, at the commencement of the aſſault, ordered my father to be ſhot. Mercy forbad me to leave him expoſed; the agonies of departing man, call, nay command the tender ſympathy of nature; and we placed the ſtranger bleeding and ſenſeleſs acroſs the backs of two horſes, having firſt faſtened the two ſaddles as even as we could, and made a kind of bed on them with our great-coats. We ſlowly moved on foot, holding the bridles, towards the dwelling of gentle Anna, where we hoped to find our friends. We at length arrived; found our horſes littered by Luzin the hind, in the out-houſe; and our party comfortably converſing with Nannelle in her clean kitchen. This good creature, I was pleaſed to hear, had prevailed on Emily to repoſe herſelf in one of the inner chambers till day ſhould break; and Anna had followed the well-timed example.

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

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

Uncovering the face of the youth, for the purpoſe of bathing his temples with odoriferous ſpirits, I perceived a large and deep contuſion on one ſide his head, and concluded he had fallen on ſome ſharp ſtone in the foreſt, when he failed in the lounge made precipitately at me. His features were wonderfully fair, his fine brows appeared like thrones on which reflection and ſcience might fit ſome future day unmoleſted by riotous habit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Antonio!'

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

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

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

'This, I remember, was the purport of his letter, but he mentioned nothing of Emily, or his paſſion for her, which was never meant to prove honourable. Though it has been the means of preſerving thus far the lives of you, Sir, and your noble Father, for the ſake of Emily he required delay, and waited for the criſis of her return to the convent, to ſtrike his operations forcibly. In this part of the work, ſo far as related to his love, I raſhly became his confident: he had perverted my principles reſpecting woman, and, being the elder, always kept before me in the path of licentiouſneſs. It is too late to make reflections, you ſee the end of my profligacy, but more danger remains, nor dare I ſuppoſe you can eſcape. Good God! muſt I lie here incapable of remedying the evils I have conſented to bring on you! Raiſe me! I ſhall be well if I can ſave you—In vain—My head is heavy, I feel it ſwelling to a ſize that will make me horrid.'

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

'Purſue not your route—Halt at no village—The ſkirts of this foreſt are ſurrounded by armed troops —No opening is left, except that which leads to a convent. My brother, for ſelfiſh reaſons, ordered the ſoldiers (except thoſe who accompanied him and me in our purpoſed villainy) to keep clear of that paſs to avoid a diſcovery which might do him no credit. From the moment my brother ſaw Emily, he formed the deſign of carrying her off—You may remember his abrupt departure from your Guardian, his ſending the ſervant away firſt to me. That ſervant, whoſe name is Cregney, is full of guile, the tool of my brother, but an arrant coward. We had, in conſequence of former diſpatches, arrived at the Elephant hotel, near the White Horſe, behind the hill; there a ſelect party waited: the larger body were ſtationed among the woods, but (through miſtake, I ſuppoſe) came not to our aſſiſtance. Let me intreat you, on the faith of a dying man, not to go forward. The dreadful ſcheme of my brother is, at preſent, broken. I know not where he is. Emily, and her Father he will conclude to be flying towards their home. If living he will not give her up; but the diſgrace awaiting him, on account of his ſuffering the royal fugitive to eſcape, will drive him on to acts of deſperation—Elude him, if you can, the chance is not in your favour.'

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

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

Here Antonio pauſed.—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He heſitated here, as if doubtful whether he ſhould ſay more, or obſerve an everlaſting ſilence; his eyes ſeemed to gather a wild animation. We flattered ourſelves that life was rekindling, and the gentle Anna gave a faint ſmile, like that of hope thrown on the features of deſpair; or perhaps, memory drew her back to their dawn of happineſs when Antonio met her on the ſide of the hill. He looked round him with impatience, and, raiſing his voice, ſaid, 'Yes—Heaven itſelf ſhall never recall the paſt! You are undone! My Brother, whom ſocial duties never bind, diſguiſed as a prieſt, performed our marriage-ceremony, and deceived you, whilſt I endeavoured to deceive myſelf. With what inward horror did I behold you an inoffenſive victim to artifice! and indulged the mental reſervation of loving you too well to continue unjuſt, and hoped in ſome future moment, when diſtant from the violent paſſions of my Brother, and the power of my Father, to make you lawfully my wife:—That hour is gone by? on this bed of death, I feel that he who liſtens not to the voice of virtue when ſhe invites him, may wander neglected till he hears her no more.'

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

'I will not die!' (ſtarting), 'I muſt not die now! till this moment never was life ſo valuable! Hold me Anna! hold me cloſer to your heart!—See how I am ſinking down! can you ſtay without me?— Surely I would ſave you from every danger; but you are feeble and I am heavy, very heavily laden! Oh, what agonies are theſe! I want air, look down! —look down!—She loves me ſtill, tear me not from her! How cold.—'

Preſſing his lips to hers in the agony of ſeparation he taſted this laſt proof of tenderneſs—and expired.

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

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

But Anna's ſorrows were ſoon to ceaſe!—Diſtraction ſwiftly ſucceeded: Her frame became convulſed. To the pangs occaſioned by the death of her huſband were added thoſe of a mother, and the moment ſhe gave her infant to the world, her ſpirit flew after that of Antonio.

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

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

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

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

My Guardian, who had ſtood near the door totally loſt in reverie, turned round, and ſaw me ſupporting his beloved daughter.—'Ah, my dear Henry,' ſaid the afflicted parent, 'how do we meet!' Covering his eyes with his handkerchief, he was ſilent; and Emily's frequent ſighs indicated returning life. For me, I ſolemnly proteſt, no ſelfiſh wiſh hung on my mind. I did not even feel the deſire of poſſeſſing this incomparable maid, ſo ſublime and pure was the tranſport, ſo highly did her danger exalt my wiſhes. Command her not to diſſolve, thou Father of eternal change!—Can ſpirit centre in a lovelier form?—Suffer that particle of intellectual fire which hath fallen from thee ſtill to animate my Emily!

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

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

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

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

Oh! how painful is the firſt jar of ſuſpicion, when it ſtrikes that heavenly confidence which binds two mutual hearts!—Mine ſent its thrillings through every vein: I ſhook with the force of Emily's injurious imagination, and I believe ſhould have fallen had I not ſuddenly reclined on the low railing of the ſtaircaſe: there I in my turn, gazed ſilently at my dear tormentor; I know not what my eyes expreſſed. Perhaps they were bent a little accuſingly, but hers ſoon loſt their angry beams, and ſtole gently from me towards the earth; while the fine bluſh, that ſuffuſed her features, proclaimed my ſecret triumph. She certainly looked conſcious of having wronged me. What would I have given only to breathe this truth upon her lips!

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

The intelligence given by the lamented Antonio, inſtead of pointing us to ſafety, ſerved to convince us that ſafety was not to be eaſily found. We formed plans and departed from them; not one of us could give a final determination. My Guardian propoſed our returning to his eſtate, for the preſent, and citing the ſon of De Forbes to the tribunal of civil law; but the preceſs would have been tedious, and at laſt the judgment corrupt. Added to this conſ • deration, my ſelf • ſh heart oppoſed him from an im ••••• , 〈…〉 away, the ſoul of Emily, in a convent, would be ſacred to me. I know we deceive ourſelves when we ſuffer imagination to paint a beloved object as we would wiſh it to be, but what conſolation could I in abſence hope for, except the imaginary one of believing Emily mine?

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

Oppreſſion hangs on woman. Cuſtom and law reſpecting her, are through the world unjuſt: Man forms a ſuperiority on the groſſneſs of vice; the laws he makes ſupport him; and he inſults, with impunity, the more delicate ſex. Where can woman find a friend? Endued with tenderneſs, ſhe often needs ſupport, but ſhould her afflicted ſpirit turn to man, ſhe is undone; he is by nature falſe, and cuſtom makes him cruel; there is but one avenging effect in thus enſlaving the female mind, which is, that along the path of time we ſhall not meet one ſuitable companion. We are ſhort-ſighted, ſullen and reſtleſs; women, helpleſs and tender.

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

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

Not caring to indulge this ſeeming coincidence of circumſtance, I tried to whiſtle a lively air, as we rode on through the foreſt—It would not do; I became inſenſibly mute, for my very ſoul was unſtrung. We at length arrived at the gates of the convent; it was morning—Nature was awake. The pure had thanked their Creator: the children of guilt had bluſhingly ſtole from her ſnares, when one of our attendants alighted, rang the great bell of the convent, and Emily was announced. The ſelf-denying Abbeſs appeared, and with her many of the lay ſiſters who were the friends of Emily, and whoſe eyes, I obſerved, ſpite of my unalterable love, ſhone with ſurpriſe and pleaſure on our goodly company. Why ſhould they not? my Father was a handſome man, little more than forty, his form, modelled by the line of beauty; his complexion glowing with her full tints; his large eyes were of melting blue, their fringed curtains a dark-brown, and the animation himſelf poſſeſſed, imperceptibly and ſuddenly ſtruck thoſe who beheld him. My Guardian was full of manly grace, a little older than my Father; his countenance ſhining with the ſmile of philanthropy, his whole manner expreſſive of the mildneſs of virtue. Our attendants were gay, men of vivacity and unmeaning as vivacity generally is; for your humble ſervant Henry—but I care not what Henry is—this ſly Cordelier—ſo bleſt—ſo beloved—ſo appointed—Whither am I going, theſe ravings ſerve me not!—On a group ſo inviting could an harmleſs maid gaze with aught but delight? —No—Cynics may rail, corrupted prudes condemn, and the old murmuring viſionary lay down his icy rule. Their labours amount to nothing. Generous Nature dips the ſpunge, and Sympathy wipes out the precepts of cowardly Reſerve. True; the blaze of ſoul was on thoſe innocent girls unuſually momentary, for here was Nature expiring in the graſp of Superſtition.

The Abbeſs, from whoſe cheek inſulted Nature had long withdrawn her roſy hue, deigned, unſmilingly, to direct us to a houſe on the ſouth ſide of the convent, and detached from it, I ſuppoſed, for the charitable purpoſe of receiving the worldly viſitor (but as my gueſſing never was of the frigid kind, my reader muſt not always truſt it.) Around the window-caſements, wandered the ſolitary jaſmine hiding as much lead as glaſs; up the dark coloured wall crept the ivy, and over the arched door ſtood the ſtone figure of a ſaint; not cut with awe-inſpiring workmanſhip to deceive us into veneration, like that in which our cold and ancient patriarchs are immortalized▪ but in health, ſtrength, beauty and comelineſs; like the young friar, who left the houſe on our entering it, and who, I was told by the porter, often confeſſed the good Lady Abbeſs. Reſolving not to gueſs at any thing, but to take things as they came, I ſat down. My Father and my Guardian walked round the apartment, which was ſpacious, admired the paintings of the canonized, and read the inſcriptions of the Popes and the Nuns. I could have ſworn the Popes and the Nuns had never been fellow creatures: Pope Urban, born * * * *, died 1644. Pope Innocent, born * * * *, died 1655. Pope Alexander, born * * * *, died 1667.

Many Popes in ſucceſſion were born, and died.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What reſolves?' replied my Mother, caſting her eyes penſively on the earth.

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

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

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

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

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

'Aſk your conſcience?'

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

'Which is unſullied, if I know my Eleanora, nor ſhall your ſuperſtitious rites rob me of my claim, unleſs ſhe willingly flies the huſband who adores her. —Miſtake me not, good Lady; ſo confuſed, ſo very inadequate is the code of all religious ceremonies, that like Aaron's rod, one ſwallows the other, and the laſt lies without efficacy. You practiſe wars with the feelings of Nature; you loſe your tenderneſs▪ you are leſs than woman, becauſe religious pride would whiſper you are more. You can be of no ſervice to God, you will not bleſs mankind; victims drop between your walls; ſociety hears not their hopeleſs ſighs, nor do you pity expiring beauty. Your ſouls are rendered obdurate by the working of that miſguided frenzy, which your Prieſts awaken in your ductile minds— If you will teach woman, I pray you encourage her to dare beyond the invention of man: bid her not truſt his opinions further than the verge of the grave. He cannot even paint to you a Deity. Why then immure yourſelf here? Why hourly die for the poor ſatisfaction of being deemed unuſefully virtuous? 'Tis a ſtate, Lady Abbeſs, like that in which the moth ſpends her laſt moment.'

My mother waited the reſult of this harangue, made by my Father in a peremptory manner. The Abbeſs was offended—he perceived it and led her into an adjoining apartment. None of us, I believe, were quite eaſy under this ſhort ſuſpence. We knew ſuperſtition here wore every pontifical terror, and that we had nothing in the world about us but poor reaſon. After ſome delay, we were, however releaſed. For the lately-jarring couple returned to us much better pleaſed with each other. I tried to gueſs the cauſe of ſo neceſſary a reconcilement; but, what with the filial reſpect I owed my Father, and the frozen ſanctity with which I beheld the venerable virgin, I could not for my ſoul divine aright. Reader, do not thou gueſs—I will tell thee—My Father's purſe was heavy, and he lightened it in that of the Lady's.

'We are ready to attend you my Eleanora,' ſaid my Father. This Lady will obviate every objection with the holy brotherhood, and we may depart.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Filial duty, my ſon, is conſidered by me as mere articulated ſound, ſinking as you breathe it indiviſibly into air:—True, we have contrived emblems by which it may be ſaid we convey ſound to the eye, theſe we call record. Characters, or what you will, and by thoſe mute auxiliaries have law and duty been handed down, through ages, for the ſupport of order formed on human plans. But ſhall the empty phraſe of filial duty cauſe you to be a murderer! believe me Henry, that man has a falſe idea of relative duty, when he ſpreads a wide evil for the ſake of giving his friend or father a partial good.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The holy Abbeſs took my Father by the hand and my Mother by the hand, looked up with heavenly fervour, and wiſhed them the peaceful ſlumber of happy minds.

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

'How happy I am,' continued the good Lady, 'in proving myſelf your diſintereſted friend! Gold is ever inadequate to the ſoul's beſt actions; they are beyond all earthly purchaſe! I am hourly convinced by what I think and what I feel, that the ſoul and the body are two things; but the body is, as it were differently formed, ſubject to the natural neceſſity which diſplays itſelf every where. It muſt be dependent on ſomething; the appetites muſt be fed or the body dies; but the ſoul ſtands in a manner aloof! the ſoul ſilently ſcorns to partake of ſordid gold! though gold is neceſſary, yes, the ſoul! the exalted ſoul is— as I may ſay—is like—Like nothing—except it be like my Eleanora, 'ſaid my Father, as he led my Mother to repoſe.

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

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

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

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

The carriage, to the bottom of which I was bound for ſome hours, went furiouſly on. From its uneaſy motion, and the jingle of chains, I ſuppoſed it to be a kind of cart or waggon; the trampling of many horſes accompanied it, and the voices of many men kept a continual jargon, the ſenſe of which I did not underſtand, becauſe my hearing was not ſufficiently clear. I heard them, at laſt, mention morning—I could not ſee it, my eyes were ſtill darkened. How tediouſly did the hours ſeem to creep, whilſt I lay burning with indignation, and endeavouring to deſpiſe death! Sometimes I heard the wheels ruſh againſt the hedges, in paſſing, as I ſuppoſed, through narrow lanes; again they would plunge into deep ruts, made apt for impreſſion by the late rains; and the recovering jolt always made me ſenſible of the vehicle's coming out; at other moments the horſes ſeemed ſlowly to labour through lengthened marſhes, the heavy mire of which ſo enfeebled and retarded thoſe noble animals, that the laſhes of their cruel maſters loſt their effect.— During this diſmal day, the longeſt I thought I had ever known, no refreſhment was offered me—I really began to think myſelf forgotten, even by my enemies. The horſes at length ſtopped, and the order was given for lighted torches: I ſuppoſed now the time to be night, and that we were on ſome beaten road; I was not miſtaken—ſome travellers ſaluted us as they paſſed by, civilly, bidding God to bleſs us; others enquired to what town we were going, and what commodities we had to ſell? My guards gave different anſwers to ſucceſſive queſtions, not one of which were true, whilſt I lay panting beneath a pile of ſtraw. The carriage ſoon left the high roads; the hoofs of the horſes were not to be heard, and I concluded they were for many miles running over turf. The mind of man, when diſturbed, is a chaos, 'without form and void.' His ideas take no ſhape, or the formation he tries at ſwiftly dies. Millions of chimeras floated on my imagination; all were rejected in ſpeedy ſucceſſion ere they became old enough to take the colour of reaſon; yet fancy will be buſy till we are no more.

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

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

In the ſeaſon of childhood, I had accompanied a lad, whoſe father was tenant to my Guardian, in a walk on the bank of a river. It was in the month of July—Creation glowed with ſultry exhalations, I panted at noon, reclined under the ſhadow of a willow, and my young friend ſat by me till I fell into heavy ſleep; the flocks were going to ſold, and I found the cloaths of my companion placed under my head, when I awoke.—"Jacques," ſaid I, rubbing my eyes, "we have ſtaid here till I am cold"—Jacques was gone! I ſtarted from the earth, roved wildly along the ſhore, enquired of the ſhepherds, and called through the woods. My terrors increaſed, imagination doubled them. I quickened my ſtep, and ran towards home; being almoſt ſpent with crying, I walked throngh a lane which I never thought gloomy till now, and, turning the corner of the hedge, met a boatman carrying Jacques wrapped up in his blue jacket.—"Tell him to awaken," ſaid I, in a tranſport of joy, "tell him Henry is here."

'He is dead.'—

"Dead!"—

'Drowned.'—

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

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

"Where do you think his ſpirit is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Ah! malheureux, vous etes condamne—N'importe—bon ſoir.

From the beach I was conveyed in a boat to a veſſel, and dawn up its ſide with difficulty. In ſo helpleſs a ſtate I could not aid the efforts of the ſeamen, nor ward off perſonal anguiſh. Being laid on the deck ſtunned with nautical expreſſions of ſurprize and laughter, I was unſwathed, the covering was taken from my eyes, and I enjoyed the unſpeakable pleaſure of ſitting upright. After ſuflering ſo long in a paſſive ſtate, my mouth was ſore, my thirſt intolerable; I feebly begged for water. A young tar, haſtily brought me ſome, but my jaws had been ſtrained ſo ſeverely, that I felt much torture in drinking, yet the eager craving of Nature was too powerful to be denied, and my muſcles ſoon recovered their uſual elaſticity. I have often reflected ſince on the ſtrange tranquillity which hung on my mind and body, whilſt ſitting on the deck of the ſhip. I remembered but little. I cared for nothing around me. I felt no agonizing impatience on the account of thoſe I had been torn from, but fell into a vacancy which could be neither pleaſure nor pain. Being awakened from this liſtleſſneſs, I grew peeviſh, but was ſoon laughed into quietude by a young tar, who came ſauntering along the deck with a chain in his hand, ſinging, My rum is out! my ſpirits die! My mother gave me all her ſtore. The tears that left her aged eye, Fell on the beach I hail no more. 'Jemmy,' (ſhe cry'd) 'grey is my hair, 'Expect no more my form to ſee! 'Thy little ſiſters claim thy care; 'Give them the love thou ow'ſt to me.' And tho' three thouſand miles apart, And tho' my aged mother ſleep, My ſiſters ſtill ſhall have my heart, The world ſhall never make them weep. Jemmy will come, my ſiſters dear! Think, when the winds blow loud at night, My latitude may ſtill be fair, —I wiſh my cag of rum was tightFull.!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What was your offence?"—

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

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

'To heaven or hell.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'When your maſter (whom I never thought like myſelf) ordered me to bring my veſſel along-ſhore, he told me the priſoner was condemned by the law, and that I might make ſome money of him at one of the iſlands where I ſhall touch; that part of the bargain I ſhall keep to myſelf. After taking in my cargo at Carthagena, where we are to ſet you on ſhore, I ſhall purſue my voyage up the Streights— But as to the priſoner—why, I have already received money enough for his paſſage, if it were poſſible I could carry him into another planet—Come, take your glaſs, I'll give you a ſong Andrew the mate taught me— Like to an apple on the ſea, The world is ever floating; The brave ride merrily, like me, The old on wealth are doating. But he who loves his gentle maid, Shall meet a kind returning; And he who ne'er a friend betray'd, May—hiccup!—ſing till roſy morning.

'Aye, but Captain,' ſaid the paſſenger, (for he would not let him ſing the ſong out) 'here is my maſter's written order, which you muſt read.'

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

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

'Five hundred louis d'ors!—

'Five hundred louis-d'ors!—'

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

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

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

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

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

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

'The Devil help you, hiccup!—you are a pretty fellow to drown a man, I tell you, you coward! the priſoner's ſpirit would ſit all night ſhrieking in the rigging; nay, I ſhould not wonder if he flew over the ſide with you in a flaſh of fire.'

'I was never at ſea before!,

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

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

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

'No, Captain—here they are.'

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

Jemmy left me to reflection; I had no worldly riches to bequeath; my ideal form, I believed would long be preſerved by Emily, and I lamented in ſympathy with my unhappy parents—All partial formation muſt diſſolve, though the great-ſyſtem of Nature ſhall eternally renovate. Am I not, in the grave, the undoubted property of God?

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

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

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

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

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

There is a pith, in ſome men, hard to be got at. It ſeems to peep upon us like a ſudden light, and ſhut up again: The manner in which this Captain conducted himſelf was ſingular, and there is wondrous energy in natural eccentricity. I wiſhed to be acquainted with the mind of this man; but circumſtances would not agree to it.—We were three days making land, during which Jemmy never brought me any refreſhment but at midnight, when our anchor was caſt. I was not relieved for the ſpace of a week: the happy moment came! Monſieur Cregney, I was informed, had been ſhewn the bed-clothes in which I had been bound on the night when forcibly torn from the convent; had received a written certificate of my death, and was gone on ſhore in order to return to France. With a ſmiling countenance, Jemmy led me to the Captain's cabin; I bowed as I entered, he took me by the hand, his heart ſwelled: but he ſtubbornly broke the ſigh in its utterance—'Cheerily lad! I had ſome work to ſave you, take this purſe that was to have made a villain of Captain Murray, and never feel becalmed whilſt the winds fill one honeſt man's ſail.'

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

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

"Do you know who I am?—"

'No; nor do I care!'

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

'By the contrivance of a young Lord, who has paid me fifty livres per diem for two weeks paſt, on condition of my laying off-ſhore to receive you. He told me that the King had given his ſanction to your death, but that I might make money of you after paſſing the Streights. Monſieur Cregney, however, has enlarged on my firſt compliance, and ſhewed me an order for your death.—Monſieur Cregney believes you are dead, and is upon returning to Marſeilles full of that belief. Go;—be careful of yourſelf—I muſt purſue my voyage—and think ſometimes of Captain Murray.'

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

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

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

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

And now was I left to look around me; no friend to whom I could unboſom my cares, though my heart was heavy. I however ſoon collected my ſcattered ideas; and, by the ſtrength of my judgment, forced them to obey collateral circumſtance. To the inn I withdrew, ſat myſelf down in a private room, and ſtrove to meditate on future plans. The moſt pleaſing reſolve I could form, was to return to France and ſeek thoſe objects from whom I had been torn. I might go back—I could not look forward to happineſs. Captain Murray had, on my being releaſed from confinement, ordered me to be cloathed in one of his ſuits, conſiſting of a fine cotton ſhirt, red jacket, and white callico trowſers; ſo diſintereſted was this benevolent tar! I could offer him nothing—he had given me all. The only return I made was a note, which I unobſerved ſlipped into his pocket, informing him of my name, quality and connections. I did not this from motives of deſpicable vanity, but I thought if ever we met again I might claim his friendſhip from that rich ſource of obligation he opened on my grateful ſoul. At the inn, I enquired for a veſſel bound for France, and was informed that an American brig was then waiting for freight and paſſengers, and that her Captain lived in the ſtreet of Saint Dennis, which was but a third ſtreet from the inn. I made no delay; haſtened to the houſe, met with the Captain, and agreed to lodge with him till his veſſel ſhould ſail. Thus did Heaven ſeem once more propitious to my fortunes. In reading, writing and diverting myſelf with the Captain's family (which conſiſted of a ſenſible mother and three lovely girls) I paſſed my hours. Domeſtic peace was here—placid manner, chearfulneſs flowing from a ſelf-corrected mind, and a continued equanimity of temper in this charming wife, taught her huſband to adore her and made her children aſhamed of imperfection. Such happineſs, ſaid I with a ſigh, would Emily have diffuſed around her!—Sometimes I would ſtroll down to the veſſel, throw my eyes over the ſea, and chide the contrary winds: it was to no purpoſe; I could not command circumſtances to obey my will. The Wedneſday following was at laſt fixed on for the day of our departure, and the tedious hours had rolled on to the evening preceding that day, when I ſupped with the Captain in his cabin, toaſted my dear girl, and drank a little too much. I felt not the effect of my conviviality till I came on ſhore, and had advanced a conſiderable way towards home; the houſes were ſhut up; not an object to be ſeen, and the ſilence of the night cauſed me to quicken my ſtep which was ſoon arreſted by a young female, who very freely took hold of my arm—'Venez avec moi,' ſaid ſhe—and in a moment forgot the delicacy ſo amiable in her ſex. Wine had exhilirated my ſoul, my fancy was luxuriant—this daughter of paſſion kindled warmth in my boſom, but her coarſeneſs converted me. I looked in her face— ſhe was beautiful.—"Take this, and return to virtue," ſaid I—giving her a conſiderable ſhare of my louis-d'ors, which I took looſely from my pocket, and throwing her from my arms.—She ſtood as if loſt in gratitude, and I went on, ſomewhat proud of my ſuperior excellence.

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

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

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

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

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

'What ſhall we do with Larrette?—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our veſſel flew before the wind, the land fainted from the eye; noiſy cheerfulneſs invigorated the crew, and my boſom was light. What a chaſm it makes in the life of a man to be rolling through tedious months on the ocean! cooped within a few boards, and limited to a few ſtrides fore and aft. I had ſeldom patience to remain below with the paſſengers, but would try to amuſe myſelf by hanging my head over the veſſel's bow, and purſuing, with my eyes, the nitrous particles that ſhone beneath, like jewels of varied luſtre—To what depth may the imagination deſcend when it labours to fathom the ſea! I had not, however, the felicity of making many grand reflections on the fallacious element; for we had ſcarcely paſſed the Streigh • s of Gibraltar, when we were borne down upon by an Algerine corſair—All hands were ordered up; the deck was cleared, and every preparation made, not to conquer, but to die, ſtubbornly! For when we beheld the number of barbarians which ſwarmed on the deck of the Algerine, we could not hope, but reſolved, they ſhould buy us dearly. The conflict was dreadful!—In three quarters of an hour we had loſt all our companions, except the boatſwain, two gentlemen paſſengers, the captain and myſelf. Advancing to the quarter-deck, we theſe made a full ſtand; embraced each other in ſilence. Neither mentioned peace or ſubmiſſion, becauſe all were wound up to the ſtrongeſt exertion we were capable of. The lantern in the ſteerage was ſtill burning— The Captain, graſping us ſeverally by the hands, recommended our ſouls to God with the utmoſt fervor, and haſtening to the ſteerage, ſeized the candle —we ſaw him no more! By this time the Algerines had thrown an iron hook in our rigging and boarded our bow. Their ſuperior number overwhelmed us. No ſooner were we made priſoners, and ſecured in the corſair, than they looſed the hook from the rigging, probably watching the event—The ſea was in ſmooth condition; the veſſels merely drifted, the American brig was ſoon waſted at ſome diſtance from the corſair. I ſtill gazed at her with anxiety, wiſhing to diſcern the captain; and the Algerines were as watchful as myſelf, but from different motives; as ſhe drove gently, and no danger attending, a boat manned to bring her to—She blew up!—

"Thy little girls, and thy amiable wife will expect thy return, "(ſaid I, as I took a remnant of the captain's ſhirt from the main ſtay of the corſair • ſcorched as it was) "gallant, but unfortunate man!"

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

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

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

Reſt ſatisfied? thou, who art hanging over this narrative, when I inform thee, that ſlavery having no charms, I eſcaped from its horrors, and arrived in France on the ninth of Auguſt, 1684. Toward Rochelle I bent my eager ſteps, reſolving to enquire at my Guardian's manſion, for my parents and Emily.—Heaven? how did my heart palpitate with troubled joy, when I ſaw the eaſtern chimney peeping through the long row of aged elms. Without heſitation, I ran through the firſt gate and knocked loudly at the door; my garb was not killingly genteel, but I had forgot it; I had alſo forgot, at this delicious moment, the afflictions I had known— Could the images of miſery and murder find a place in my remembrance now!—No; all was tranſport, all exquiſite delight and ardent expectation. I knocked a ſecond time, louder than before; the door was opened, I ſtepped in without ceremony, and could only articulate—tell your maſter, Henry is here."—

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

'You return not to Emily—ſhe—'tears and grief checked his words; I trembled, a ſudden chillneſs thrilled through my veins, and I ſtood as one immoveable. Silent anguiſh abſorbed us for ſome moments: my ſoul was tortured with ſuſpenſe, but I revered this good man's ſtruggle, and waited till his reſignation ſhould conquer his woe. He at length informed me, that his books and papers had been ſeized by royal authority, that his fortunes were entirely changed ſince that fatal night when I was borne from the convent, and that he knew nothing of his Emily or my parents.

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

This was no reſting place for my impatient ſoul; I could not long together ſit down and weep; daring better ſuited me: to ſeek my friends and avenge their wrongs, was a conſolation, in my judgment, more eligible than tears. For this purpoſe I reſolved to wander through France, not without money, but without attendants, that I might liſten ſilently and unnoticed to the opinions of the nation. Whilſt I remained with my Guardian, which was only a ſhort time, I obſerved a deep and deadly melancholy growing on his mind. Such melancholy, I am convinced, often ſettles into black deſpair, which the poor ſufferer, ſelf-deceived, would willingly pronounce reſignation. I tried to comfort him, and he ſtrove to appear ſenſible of my attention.

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

Neatly dreſſed, but unattended, I repaired to every public place; ſtrolled into every houſe of faſhionable reſort, mixed with people of every deſcription, and found national diſcontent gnawing at the root of national ſplendor.

Cardinal Mazarine was dead ſince the year 1661; Turenne died in 1678, and the Calviniſts, left by the cruel exceſſes of the King's ſoldiery to ſecret cabals and feeble murmurs, quitted the kingdom in vaſt numbers. With theſe I was ſometimes ſeen, hoping to hear of my perſecuted Father, but finding that hope vain, ſought the friendſhip of the Marquis Louvois, who ſtood in high favour with the King. Louvois I found intrepid; every ſpecies of boldneſs ſunk beneath his daring ſpirit; and his will, ſupported by his cunning, ſeemed abſolutely to command ſucceſs. From this man I might have learned much; the ſprings of political intrigue were coerced in his hand, like the faſces in the hand of the Roman; but my whole ſoul revolted ſecretly from his inſtructions. As a ſtranger he at firſt politely converſed with me on common topics—On further intimacy he revealed a part of his plans. I had no right to betray his confidence, but finding him the acting-inſtrument of court-deſign, I had fully reſolved to quit his ſociety for ever, and travel on in ſearch of objects more dear to my ſick and languiſhing mind. He, however, had the faſcinating addreſs to perſuade me to accompany him to this iſland. Innocent pleaſures, he ſaid, were his only purſuit; having obtained leave of his ſovereign to abſent himſelf on account of the weak ſtate of his health. Horrible deluſion! Here was I arreſted by his command; and here I expect ſoon to die. The fate of my friend, the Marquis, who reſcued me at Carthagena, the groans and complainings I hear every hour within this dreadful priſon; the picture of my unfortunate Mother, and the depraved heart of Dormoud, leave me little hope of prolonged exiſtence; while I live, from time to time I will continue my ſtory. Should my execution be ſudden, I can only at this moment claim the confidence of a pitying-world * * * * * * * * * * * * * *