Oroonoko; or the Royal Slave

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Title: The Works of Aphra Behn
Volume V
Author: Aphra Behn
Editor: Montague Summers
Release Date: August 30, 2009 [EBook #29854]
Language: English
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THE WORKS
of
APHRA BEHN
Edited by
MONTAGUE SUMMERS
VOL. V
The Black Lady -- The King of Bantam
The Unfortunate Happy Lady -- The Fair Jilt
Oroonoko -- Agnes de Castro
The History of the Nun -- The Nun
The Lucky Mistake -- The Unfortunate Bride
The Dumb Virgin -- The Wandering Beauty
The Unhappy Mistake
[Illustration: (Publisher’s Device)]
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
STRATFORD-ON-AVON: A. H. BULLEN
MCMXV
CONTENTS.
[See Transcriber’s Note at beginning of text for handling of Notes
and Appendix.]
Page
The Adventure of the Black Lady 1
The Court of the King of Bantam 11
The Unfortunate Happy Lady: A True History 35
The Fair Jilt 67
Oroonoko; or, The Royal Slave 125
Agnes De Castro 209
The History of the Nun; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker 257
The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty 325
The Lucky Mistake 349
The Unfortunate Bride; or, The Blind Lady a Beauty 399
The Dumb Virgin; or, The Force of Imagination 415
The Wandering Beauty 445
The Unhappy Mistake; or, The Impious Vow Punish’d 469
Appendix 507
Notes 513
* * * * *
* * * *
THE ADVENTURE OF THE _BLACK LADY_.
About the Beginning of last _June_ (as near as I can remember)
_Bellamora_ came to Town from _Hampshire_, and was obliged to lodge the
first Night at the same Inn where the Stage-Coach set up. The next Day
she took Coach for _Covent-Garden_, where she thought to find Madam
_Brightly_, a Relation of hers, with whom she design’d to continue for
about half a Year undiscover’d, if possible, by her Friends in the
Country: and order’d therefore her Trunk, with her Clothes, and most of
her Money and Jewels, to be brought after her to Madame _Brightly’s_ by
a strange Porter, whom she spoke to in the Street as she was taking
Coach; being utterly unacquainted with the neat Practices of this fine
City. When she came to _Bridges-Street_, where indeed her Cousin had
lodged near three or four Years since, she was strangely surprized that
she could not learn anything of her; no, nor so much as meet with anyone
that had ever heard of her Cousin’s Name: Till, at last, describing
Madam _Brightly_ to one of the House-keepers in that Place, he told her,
that there was such a kind of Lady, whom he had sometimes seen there
about a Year and a half ago; but that he believed she was married and
remov’d towards _Soho_. In this Perplexity she quite forgot her Trunk
and Money, _&c_, and wander’d in her Hackney-Coach all over St. _Anne’s_
Parish; inquiring for Madam _Brightly_, still describing her Person, but
in vain; for no Soul could give her any Tale or Tidings of such a Lady.
After she had thus fruitlessly rambled, till she, the Coachman, and the
very Horses were even tired, by good Fortune for her, she happen’d on a
private House, where lived a good, discreet, ancient Gentlewoman, who
was fallen to Decay, and forc’d to let Lodgings for the best Part of her
Livelihood: From whom she understood, that there was such a kind of
Lady, who had lain there somewhat more than a Twelvemonth, being near
three Months after she was married; but that she was now gone abroad
with the Gentleman her Husband, either to the Play, or to take the fresh
Air; and she believ’d would not return till Night. This Discourse of the
Good Gentlewoman’s so elevated _Bellamora’s_ drooping Spirits, that
after she had beg’d the liberty of staying there till they came home,
she discharg’d the Coachman in all haste, still forgetting her Trunk,
and the more valuable Furniture of it.
When they were alone, _Bellamora_ desired she might be permitted the
Freedom to send for a Pint of Sack; which, with some little Difficulty,
was at last allow’d her. They began then to chat for a matter of half an
Hour of things indifferent: and at length the ancient Gentlewoman ask’d
the fair Innocent (I must not say foolish) one, of what Country, and
what her Name was: to both which she answer’d directly and truly, tho’
it might have prov’d not discreetly. She then enquir’d of _Bellamora_ if
her Parents were living, and the Occasion of her coming to Town. The
fair unthinking Creature reply’d, that her Father and Mother were both
dead; and that she had escap’d from her Uncle, under the pretence of
making a Visit to a young Lady, her Cousin, who was lately married, and
liv’d above twenty Miles from her Uncle’s, in the Road to _London_, and
that the Cause of her quitting the Country, was to avoid the hated
Importunities of a Gentleman, whose pretended Love to her she fear’d had
been her eternal Ruin. At which she wept and sigh’d most extravagantly.
The discreet Gentlewoman endeavour’d to comfort her by all the softest
and most powerful Arguments in her Capacity; promising her all the
friendly Assistance that she could expect from her, during _Bellamora’s_
stay in Town: which she did with so much Earnestness, and visible
Integrity, that the pretty innocent Creature was going to make her a
full and real Discovery of her imaginary insupportable Misfortunes; and
(doubtless) had done it, had she not been prevented by the Return of the
Lady, whom she hop’d to have found her Cousin _Brightly_. The Gentleman,
her Husband just saw her within Doors, and order’d the Coach to drive to
some of his Bottle-Companions; which gave the Women the better
Opportunity of entertaining one another, which happen’d to be with some
Surprize on all Sides. As the Lady was going up into her Apartment, the
Gentlewoman of the House told her there was a young Lady in the Parlour,
who came out of the Country that very Day on purpose to visit her: The
Lady stept immediately to see who it was, and _Bellamora_ approaching to
receive her hop’d-for Cousin, stop’d on the sudden just as she came to
her; and sigh’d out aloud, Ah, Madam! I am lost--It is not your Ladyship
I seek. No, Madam (return’d the other) I am apt to think you did not
intend me this Honour. But you are as welcome to me, as you could be to
the dearest of your Acquaintance: Have you forgot me, Madame
_Bellamora_? (continued she.) That Name startled the other: However, it
was with a kind of Joy. Alas! Madam, (replied the young one) I now
remember that I have been so happy to have seen you; but where and when,
my Memory can’t tell me. ’Tis indeed some Years since, (return’d the
Lady) But of that another time.--Mean while, if you are unprovided of a
Lodging, I dare undertake, you shall be welcome to this Gentlewoman. The
Unfortunate returned her Thanks; and whilst a Chamber was preparing for
her, the Lady entertain’d her in her own. About Ten o’Clock they parted,
_Bellamora_ being conducted to her Lodging by the Mistress of the House,
who then left her to take what Rest she could amidst her so many
Misfortunes; returning to the other Lady, who desir’d her to search into
the Cause of _Bellamora’s_ Retreat to Town.
The next Morning the good Gentlewoman of the House coming up to her,
found _Bellamora_ almost drown’d in Tears, which by many kind and sweet
Words she at last stopp’d; and asking whence so great Signs of Sorrow
should proceed, vow’d a most profound Secrecy if she would discover to
her their Occasion; which, after some little Reluctancy, she did, in
this manner.
I was courted (said she) above three Years ago, when my Mother was yet
living, by one Mr. _Fondlove_, a Gentleman of good Estate, and true
Worth; and one who, I dare believe, did then really love me: He
continu’d his Passion for me, with all the earnest and honest
Sollicitations imaginable, till some Months before my Mother’s Death;
who, at that time, was most desirous to see me disposed of in Marriage
to another Gentleman, of much better Estate than Mr. _Fondlove_; but one
whose Person and Humour did by no means hit with my Inclinations: And
this gave _Fondlove_ the unhappy Advantage over me. For, finding me one
Day all alone in my Chamber, and lying on my Bed, in as mournful and
wretched a Condition to my then foolish Apprehension, as now I am, he
urged his Passion with such Violence, and accursed Success for me, with
reiterated Promises of Marriage, whensoever I pleas’d to challenge ’em,
which he bound with the most sacred Oaths, and most dreadful
Execrations: that partly with my Aversion to the other, and partly with
my Inclinations to pity him, I ruin’d my self.--Here she relaps’d into a
greater Extravagance of Grief than before; which was so extreme that it
did not continue long. When therefore she was pretty well come to
herself, the antient Gentlewoman ask’d her, why she imagin’d herself
ruin’d: To which she answer’d, I am great with Child by him, Madam, and
wonder you did not perceive it last Night. Alas! I have not a Month to
go: I am asham’d, ruin’d, and damn’d, I fear, for ever lost. Oh! fie,
Madam, think not so, (said the other) for the Gentleman may yet prove
true, and marry you. Ay, Madam (replied _Bellamora_) I doubt not that he
would marry me; for soon after my Mother’s Death, when I came to be at
my own Disposal, which happen’d about two Months after, he offer’d, nay
most earnestly sollicited me to it, which still he perseveres to do.
This is strange! (return’d the other) and it appears to me to be your
own Fault, that you are yet miserable. Why did you not, or why will you
not consent to your own Happiness? Alas! (cry’d _Bellamora_) ’tis the
only Thing I dread in this World: For, I am certain, he can never love
me after. Besides, ever since I have abhorr’d the Sight of him: and this
is the only Cause that obliges me to forsake my Uncle, and all my
Friends and Relations in the Country, hoping in this populous and
publick Place to be most private, especially, Madam, in your House, and
in your Fidelity and Discretion. Of the last you may assure yourself,
Madam, (said the other:) but what Provision have you made for the
Reception of the young Stranger that you carry about you? Ah, Madam!
(cryd _Bellamora_) you have brought to my Mind another Misfortune: Then
she acquainted her with the suppos’d loss of her Money and Jewels,
telling her withall, that she had but three Guineas and some Silver
left, and the Rings she wore, in her present possession. The good
Gentlewoman of the House told her, she would send to enquire at the Inn
where she lay the first Night she came to Town; for, haply, they might
give some Account of the Porter to whom she had entrusted her Trunk; and
withal repeated her Promise of all the Help in her Power, and for that
time left her much more compos’d than she found her. The good
Gentlewoman went directly to the other Lady, her Lodger, to whom she
recounted _Bellamora’s_ mournful Confession; at which the Lady appear’d
mightily concern’d: and at last she told her Landlady, that she would
take Care that _Bellamora_ should lie in according to her Quality: For,
added she, the Child, it seems, is my own Brother’s.
As soon as she had din’d, she went to the _Exchange_, and bought
Child-bed Linen; but desired that _Bellamora_ might not have the least
Notice of it: And at her return dispatch’d a Letter to her Brother
_Fondlove_ in _Hampshire_, with an Account of every Particular; which
soon brought him up to Town, without satisfying any of his or her
Friends with the Reason of his sudden Departure. Mean while,
the good Gentlewoman of the House had sent to the _Star Inn_ on
_Fish-street-Hill_, to demand the Trunk, which she rightly suppos’d to
have been carried back thither: For by good Luck, it was a Fellow that
ply’d thereabouts, who brought it to _Bellamora’s_ Lodgings that very
Night, but unknown to her. _Fondlove_ no sooner got to _London_, but he
posts to his Sister’s Lodgings, where he was advis’d not to be seen of
_Bellamora_ till they had work’d farther upon her, which the Landlady
began in this manner; she told her that her Things were miscarried, and
she fear’d, lost; that she had but a little Money her self, and if the
Overseers of the Poor (justly so call’d from their over-looking ’em)
should have the least Suspicion of a strange and unmarried Person, who
was entertain’d in her House big with Child, and so near her Time as
_Bellamora_ was, she should be troubled, if they could not give Security
to the Parish of twenty or thirty Pounds, that they should not suffer by
her, which she could not; or otherwise she must be sent to the House of
Correction, and her Child to a Parish-Nurse. This Discourse, one may
imagine, was very dreadful to a Person of her Youth, Beauty, Education,
Family and Estate: However, she resolutely protested, that she had
rather undergo all this, than be expos’d to the Scorn of her Friends and
Relations in the Country. The other told her then, that she must write
down to her Uncle a Farewell-Letter, as if she were just going aboard
the Pacquet-Boat for _Holland_, that he might not send to enquire for
her in Town, when he should understand she was not at her new-married
Cousin’s in the Country; which accordingly she did, keeping her self
close Prisoner to her Chamber; where she was daily visited by
_Fondlove’s_ Sister and the Landlady, but by no Soul else, the first
dissembling the Knowledge she had of her Misfortunes. Thus she continued
for above three Weeks, not a Servant being suffer’d to enter her
Chamber, so much as to make her Bed, lest they should take Notice of her
great Belly: but for all this Caution, the Secret had taken Wind, by the
means of an Attendant of the other Lady below, who had over-heard her
speaking of it to her Husband. This soon got out of Doors, and spread
abroad, till it reach’d the long Ears of the Wolves of the Parish, who
next Day design’d to pay her a Visit: But _Fondlove_, by good
Providence, prevented it; who, the Night before, was usher’d into
_Bellamora’s_ Chamber by his Sister, his Brother-in-Law, and the
Landlady. At the Sight of him she had like to have swoon’d away: but he
taking her in his Arms, began again, as he was wont to do, with Tears in
his Eyes, to beg that she would marry him ere she was deliver’d; if not
for his, nor her own, yet for the Child’s Sake, which she hourly
expected; that it might not be born out of Wedlock, and so be made
uncapable of inheriting either of their Estates; with a great many more
pressing Arguments on all Sides: To which at last she consented; and an
honest officious Gentleman, whom they had before provided, was call’d
up, who made an End of the Dispute: So to Bed they went together that
Night; next Day to the _Exchange_, for several pretty Businesses that
Ladies in her Condition want. Whilst they were abroad, came the Vermin
of the Parish, (I mean, the Overseers of the Poor, who eat the Bread
from ’em) to search for a young Blackhair’d Lady (for so was
_Bellamora_) who was either brought to Bed, or just ready to lie down.
The Landlady shew’d ’em all the Rooms in her House, but no such Lady
could be found. At last she bethought her self, and led ’em into her
Parlour, where she open’d a little Closet-door, and shew’d ’em a black
Cat that had just kitten’d: assuring ’em, that she should never trouble
the Parish as long as she had Rats or Mice in the House; and so
dismiss’d ’em like Loggerheads as they came.
_FINIS._
NOTES: The Black Lady.
p. 3 _Bridges-Street._ Brydges Street lies between Russell Street and
Catherine Street. Drury Lane Theatre is at its N.E. corner. It early
acquired no very enviable repute, e.g. In the Epilogue to Crowne’s _Sir
Courtly Nice_ (1685) we have: ‘Our Bridges Street is grown a strumpet
fair’; and Dryden, in the Epilogue to _King Arthur_ (1691), gave Mrs.
Bracegirdle, who entered, her hands full of billets-doux, the following
lines to speak:--
Here one desires my ladyship to meet [_Pulls out one._
At the kind couch above in Bridges-Street.
Oh sharping knave! that would have--you know what,
For a poor sneaking treat of chocolate.
p. 8 _Star-Inn on Fish-street-Hill._ Fish Street Hill, or, New Fish
Street, runs from Eastcheap to Lower Thames Street, and was the main
thoroughfare to old London Bridge, cf. 2 _Henry VI_, IV, viii: ‘_Cade._
Up Fish Street! down St. Magnus’ corner! kill and knock down! throw them
into the Thames.’
p. 9 _the Exchange._ The New Exchange, a kind of bazaar on the South
side of the Strand. It was an immensely popular resort, and continued so
until the latter years of the reign of Queen Anne. There are innumerable
references to its shops, its sempstresses and haberdashers. Thomas
Duffet was a milliner here before he took to writing farces, prologues
and poems.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE COURT OF THE KING OF _BANTAM_.
This Money certainly is a most devilish Thing! I’m sure the Want of it
had like to have ruin’d my dear _Philibella_, in her Love to _Valentine
Goodland_; who was really a pretty deserving Gentleman, Heir to about
fifteen hundred Pounds a Year; which, however, did not so much recommend
him, as the Sweetness of his Temper, the Comeliness of his Person, and
the Excellency of his Parts: In all which Circumstances my obliging
Acquaintance equal’d him, unless in the Advantage of their Fortune. Old
Sir _George Goodland_ knew of his Son’s Passion for _Philibella_; and
tho’ he was generous, and of a Humour sufficiently complying, yet he
could by no means think it convenient, that his only Son should marry
with a young Lady of so slender a Fortune as my Friend, who had not
above five hundred Pound, and that the Gift of her Uncle Sir _Philip
Friendly_: tho’ her Virtue and Beauty might have deserv’d, and have
adorn’d the Throne of an _Alexander_ or a _Cæsar_.
Sir _Philip_ himself, indeed, was but a younger Brother, tho’ of a good
Family, and of a generous Education; which, with his Person, Bravery,
and Wit, recommended him to his Lady _Philadelphia_, Widow of Sir
_Bartholomew Banquier_, who left her possess’d of two thousand Pounds
_per Annum_, besides twenty thousand Pounds in Money and Jewels; which
oblig’d him to get himself dubb’d, that she might not descend to an
inferior Quality. When he was in Town, he liv’d--let me see! in the
_Strand_; or, as near as I can remember, somewhere about
_Charing-Cross_; where first of all Mr. _Would-be King_, a Gentleman of
a large Estate in Houses, Land and Money, of a haughty, extravagant and
profuse Humour, very fond of every new Face, had the Misfortune to fall
passionately in love with _Philibella_, who then liv’d with her Uncle.
This Mr. _Would-be_ it seems had often been told, when he was yet a
Stripling, either by one of his Nurses, or his own Grandmother, or by
some other Gypsy, that he should infallibly be what his Sirname imply’d,
a King, by Providence or Chance, ere he dy’d, or never. This glorious
Prophecy had so great an Influence on all his Thoughts and Actions, that
he distributed and dispers’d his Wealth sometimes so largely, that one
would have thought he had undoubtedly been King of some Part of the
_Indies_; to see a Present made to-day of a Diamond Ring, worth two or
three hundred Pounds, to Madam _Flippant_; to-morrow, a large Chest of
the finest _China_ to my Lady _Fleecewell_; and next Day, perhaps,
a rich Necklace of large Oriental Pearl, with a Locket to it of
Saphires, Emeralds, Rubies, &c., to pretty Miss _Ogle-me_, for an
amorous Glance, for a Smile, and (it may be, tho’ but rarely) for the
mighty Blessing of one single Kiss. But such were his Largesses, not to
reckon his Treats, his Balls, and Serenades besides, tho’ at the same
time he had marry’d a virtuous Lady, and of good Quality: But her
Relation to him (it may be fear’d) made her very disagreeable: For a Man
of his Humour and Estate can no more be satisfy’d with one Woman, than
with one Dish of Meat; and to say Truth, ’tis something unmodish.
However, he might have dy’d a pure Celibate, and altogether unexpert of
Women, had his good or bad Hopes only terminated in Sir _Philip’s_
Niece. But the brave and haughty Mr. _Would-be_ was not to be baulk’d by
Appearances of Virtue, which he thought all Womankind only did affect;
besides, he promis’d himself the Victory over any Lady whom he
attempted, by the Force of his damn’d Money, tho’ her Virtue were ever
so real and strict.
With _Philibella_ he found another pretty young Creature, very like her,
who had been a _quondam_ Mistress to Sir _Philip_: He, with young
_Goodland_, was then diverting his Mistress and Niece at a Game at
Cards, when _Would-be_ came to visit him; he found ’em very merry, with
a Flask or two of Claret before ’em, and Oranges roasting by a large
Fire, for it was _Christmas-time_. The Lady _Friendly_ understanding
that this extraordinary Man was with Sir _Philip_ in the Parlour, came
in to ’em, to make the number of both Sexes equal, as well as in Hopes
to make up a Purse of Guineas toward the Purchase of some new fine
Business that she had in her Head, from his accustom’d Design of losing
at Play to her. Indeed, she had Part of her Wish, for she got twenty
Guineas of him; _Philibella_ ten; and _Lucy_, Sir _Philip’s_ quondam,
five: Not but that _Would-be_ intended better Fortune to the young ones,
than he did to Sir _Philip’s_ Lady; but her Ladyship was utterly
unwilling to give him over to their Management, tho’ at the last, when
they were all tir’d with the Cards, after _Would-be_ had said as many
obliging things as his present Genius would give him leave, to
_Philibella_ and _Lucy_, especially to the first, not forgetting his
Baisemains to the Lady _Friendly_, he bid the Knight and _Goodland_
adieu; but with a Promise of repeating his Visit at six a-clock in the
Evening on _Twelfth-Day_, to renew the famous and antient Solemnity of
chusing King and Queen; to which Sir _Philip_ before invited him, with a
Design yet unknown to you, I hope.
As soon as he was gone, every one made their Remarks on him, but with
very little or no Difference in all their Figures of him. In short, all
Mankind, had they ever known him, would have universally agreed in this
his Character, That he was an Original; since nothing in Humanity was
ever so vain, so haughty, so profuse, so fond, and so ridiculously
ambitious, as Mr. _Would-be King_. They laugh’d and talk’d about an Hour
longer, and then young _Goodland_ was oblig’d to see _Lucy_ home in his
Coach; tho’ he had rather have sat up all Night in the same House with
_Philibella_, I fancy, of whom he took but an unwilling Leave; which was
visible enough to every one there, since they were all acquainted with
his Passion for my fair Friend.
About twelve a-clock on the Day prefix’d, young _Goodland_ came to dine
with Sir _Philip_, whom he found just return’d from Court, in a very
good Humour. On the Sight of _Valentine_, the Knight ran to him, and
embracing him, told him, That he had prevented his Wishes, in coming
thither before he sent for him, as he had just then design’d. The other
return’d, that he therefore hoped he might be of some Service to him, by
so happy a Prevention of his intended Kindness. No doubt (reply’d Sir
_Philip_) the Kindness, I hope, will be to us both; I am assur’d it
will, if you will act according to my Measures. I desire no better
Prescriptions for my Happiness (return’d _Valentine_) than what you
shall please to set down to me: But is it necessary or convenient that I
should know ’em first? It is, (answer’d Sir _Philip_) let us sit, and
you shall understand ’em.--I am very sensible (continu’d he) of your
sincere and honourable Affection and Pretension to my Niece, who,
perhaps, is as dear to me as my own Child could be, had I one; nor am I
ignorant how averse Sir _George_ your Father is to your Marriage with
her, insomuch that I am confident he would disinherit you immediately
upon it, merely for want of a Fortune somewhat proportionable to your
Estate: but I have now contrived the Means to add two or three thousand
Pounds to the five hundred I have design’d to give with her; I mean, if
you marry her, _Val_, not otherwise; for I will not labour so for any
other Man. What inviolable Obligations you put upon me! (cry’d
_Goodland_.) No Return, by way of Compliments, good _Val_, (said the
Knight:) Had I not engag’d to my Wife, before Marriage, that I would not
dispose of any part of what she brought me, without her Consent, I would
certainly make _Philibella’s_ Fortune answerable to your Estate: And
besides, my Wife is not yet full eight and twenty, and we may therefore
expect Children of our own, which hinders me from proposing any thing
more for the Advantage of my Niece.--But now to my Instructions;--_King_
will be here this Evening without fail, and, at some Time or other
to-night, will shew the Haughtiness of his Temper to you, I doubt not,
since you are in a manner a Stranger to him: Be sure therefore you seem
to quarrel with him before you part, but suffer as much as you can first
from his Tongue; for I know he will give you Occasions enough to
exercise your passive Valour. I must appear his Friend, and you must
retire Home, if you please, for this Night, but let me see you as early
as your Convenience will permit to-morrow: my late Friend _Lucy_ must be
my Niece too. Observe this, and leave the rest to me. I shall most
punctually, and will in all things be directed by you, (said
_Valentine_.) I had forgot to tell you (said _Friendly_) that I have so
order’d matters, that he must be King to-night, and _Lucy_ Queen, by the
Lots in the Cake. By all means (return’d _Goodland_;) it must be
Majesty.
Exactly at six a’clock came _Wou’d-be_ in his Coach and six, and found
Sir _Philip_, and his Lady, _Goodland_, _Philibella_, and _Lucy_ ready
to receive him; _Lucy_ as fine as a Dutchess, and almost as beautiful as
she was before her Fall. All things were in ample Order for his
Entertainment. They play’d till Supper was serv’d in, which was between
eight and nine. The Treat was very seasonable and splendid. Just as the
second Course was set on the Table, they were all on a sudden surpriz’d,
except _Would-be_, with a Flourish of Violins, and other Instruments,
which proceeded to entertain ’em with the best and newest Airs in the
last new Plays, being then in the Year 1683. The Ladies were curious to
know to whom they ow’d the chearful part of their Entertainment: On
which he call’d out, Hey! _Tom Farmer! Ale-worth! Eccles! Hall!_ and the
rest of you! Here’s a Health to these Ladies, and all this honourable
Company. They bow’d; he drank, and commanded another Glass to be fill’d,
into which he put something yet better than the Wine, I mean, ten
Guineas: Here, _Farmer_, (said he then) this for you and your Friends.
We humbly thank the honourable Mr. _Would-be King_. They all return’d,
and struck up with more Spriteliness than before. For Gold and Wine,
doubtless, are the best Rosin for Musicians.
After Supper they took a hearty Glass or two to the King, Queen, Duke,
&c. And then the mighty Cake, teeming with the Fate of this
extraordinary Personage, was brought in, the Musicians playing an
Overture at the Entrance of the _Alimental Oracle_; which was then cut
and consulted, and the royal Bean and Pea fell to those to whom Sir
_Philip_ had design’d ’em. ’Twas then the Knight began a merry Bumper,
with three Huzza’s, and, _Long live King +Would-be!+_ to _Goodland_, who
echo’d and pledg’d him, putting the Glass about to the harmonious
Attendants; while the Ladies drank their own Quantities among
themselves, _To his aforesaid Majesty_. Then of course you may believe
Queen _Lucy’s_ Health went merrily round, with the same Ceremony: After
which he saluted his Royal Consort, and condescended to do the same
Honour to the two other Ladies.
Then they fell a dancing, like Lightning; I mean, they mov’d as swift,
and made almost as little Noise; But his Majesty was soon weary of that;
for he long’d to be making love both to _Philibella_ and _Lucy_, who
(believe me) that Night might well enough have passed for a Queen.
They fell then to Questions and Commands; to cross Purposes: _I think a
Thought, what is it like?_ &c. In all which, his _Would-be_ Majesty took
the Opportunity of shewing the Excellency of his Parts, as, How fit he
was to govern! How dextrous at mining and countermining! and, How he
could reconcile the most contrary and distant Thoughts! The Musick, at
last, good as it was, grew troublesome and too loud; which made him
dismiss them: And then he began to this effect, addressing himself to
_Philibella_: Madam, had Fortune been just, and were it possible that
the World should be govern’d and influenc’d by two Suns, undoubtedly we
had all been Subjects to you, from this Night’s Chance, as well as to
that Lady, who indeed alone can equal you in the Empire of Beauty, which
yet you share with her Majesty here present, who only could dispute it
with you, and is only superior to you in Title. My Wife is infinitely
oblig’d to your Majesty, (interrupted Sir _Philip_) who in my Opinion,
has greater Charms, and more than both of them together. You ought to
think so, Sir _Philip_ (returned the new dubb’d King) however you should
not liberally have express’d your self, in Opposition and Derogation to
Majesty:--Let me tell you ’tis a saucy Boldness that thus has loos’d
your Tongue!--What think you, young Kinsman and Counsellor? (said he to
_Goodland_.) With all Respect due to your sacred Title, (return’d
_Valentene_, rising and bowing) Sir _Philip_ spoke as became a truly
affectionate Husband; and it had been Presumption in him, unpardonable,
to have seem’d to prefer her Majesty, or that other sweet Lady, in his
Thoughts, since your Majesty has been pleas’d to say so much and so
particularly of their Merits: ’Twould appear as if he durst lift up his
Eyes, with Thoughts too near the Heaven you only would enjoy. And only
can deserve, you should have added, (said _King_, no longer _Would-be_.)
How! may it please your Majesty (cry’d _Friendly_) both my Nieces! tho’
you deserve ten thousand more, and better, would your Majesty enjoy them
both? Are they then both your Nieces? (asked Chance’s King). Yes, both,
Sir (return’d the Knight,) her Majesty’s the eldest, and in that Fortune
has shewn some Justice. So she has (reply’d the titular Monarch): My Lot
is fair (pursu’d he) tho’ I can be bless’d but with one.
_Let Majesty with Majesty be join’d,
To get and leave a Race of Kings behind._
Come, Madam (continued he, kissing _Lucy_,) this, as an Earnest of our
future Endeavours. I fear (return’d the pretty Queen) your Majesty will
forget the unhappy _Statira_, when you return to the Embraces of your
dear and beautiful _Roxana_. There is none beautiful but you (reply’d
the titular King) unless this Lady, to whom I yet could pay my Vows most
zealously, were’t not that Fortune has thus pre-engaged me. But, Madam
(continued he) to shew that still you hold our Royal Favour, and that,
next to our Royal Consort, we esteem you, we greet you thus (kissing
_Philibella_;) and as a Signal of our continued Love, wear this rich
Diamond: (here he put a Diamond Ring on her Finger, worth three hundred
Pounds.) Your Majesty (pursu’d he to _Lucy_) may please to wear this
Necklace, with this Locket of Emeralds. Your Majesty is bounteous as a
God! (said _Valentine_.) Art thou in Want, young Spark? (ask’d the King
of _Bantam_) I’ll give thee an Estate shall make thee merit the Mistress
of thy Vows, be she who she will. That is my other Niece, Sir, (cry’d
_Friendly_.) How! how! presumptious Youth! How are thy Eyes and Thoughts
exalted? ha! To Bliss your Majesty must never hope for, (reply’d
_Goodland_.) How now! thou Creature of the basest Mold! Not hope for
what thou dost aspire to! _Mock-King_; thou canst not, dar’st not, shalt
not hope it: (return’d _Valentine_ in a heat.) Hold, _Val_, (cry’d Sir
_Philip_) you grow warm, forget your Duty to their Majesties, and abuse
your Friends, by making us suspected. Good-night, dear _Philibella_, and
my Queen! Madam, I am your Ladyship’s Servant (said _Goodland_:)
Farewel, Sir _Philip_: Adieu, thou Pageant! thou Property-King! I shall
see thy Brother on the Stage ere long; but first I’ll visit thee: and in
the meantime, by way of Return to thy proffer’d Estate, I shall add a
real Territory to the rest of thy empty Titles; for from thy Education,
barbarous manner of Conversation, and Complexion, I think I may justly
proclaim thee, _King of +Bantam+_--So, _Hail, King that Would-be! Hail
thou King of +Christmas+! All-hail, Wou’d-be King of +Bantam+_--and so
he left ’em.--They all seem’d amazed, and gaz’d on one another, without
speaking a Syllable; ’till Sir _Philip_ broke the Charm, and sigh’d out,
Oh, the monstrous Effects of Passion! Say rather, Oh, the foolish
Effects of a mean Education! (interrupted his Majesty of _Bantam_.) For
Passions were given us for Use, Reason to govern and direct us in the
Use, and Education to cultivate and refine that Reason. But (pursu’d he)
for all his Impudence to me, which I shall take a time to correct, I am
oblig’d to him, that at last he has found me out a Kingdom to my Title;
and if I were Monarch of that Place (believe me, Ladies) I would make
you all Princesses and Duchesses; and thou, my old Companion,
_Friendly_, should rule the Roast with me. But these Ladies should be
with us there, where we could erect Temples and Altars to ’em; build
Golden Palaces of Love, and Castles--in the Air (interrupted her
Majesty, _Lucy_ I. smiling.) ‘Gad take me (cry’d King _Wou’d-be_) thou
dear Partner of my Greatness, and shalt be, of all my Pleasures! thy
pretty satirical Observation has oblig’d me beyond Imitation.’ I think
your Majesty is got into a Vein of Rhiming to-night, (said
_Philadelphia_.) Ay! Pox of that young insipid Fop, we could else have
been as great as an Emperor of _China_, and as witty as _Horace_ in his
Wine; but let him go, like a pragmatical, captious, giddy Fool as he is!
I shall take a Time to see him. Nay, Sir, (said _Philibella_) he has
promis’d your Majesty a Visit in our Hearing. Come, Sir, I beg your
Majesty to pledge me this Glass to your long and happy Reign; laying
aside all Thoughts of ungovern’d Youth: Besides, this Discourse must
needs be ungrateful to her Majesty, to whom, I fear, he will be marry’d
within this Month! How! (cry’d _King and no King_) married to my Queen!
I must not, cannot suffer it! Pray restrain your self a little, Sir
(said Sir _Philip_) and when once these Ladies have left us, I will
discourse your Majesty further about this Business. Well, pray, Sir
_Philip_, (said his Lady) let not your Worship be pleas’d to sit up too
long for his Majesty: About five o’Clock I shall expect you; ’tis your
old Hour. And yours, Madam, to wake to receive me coming to Bed--Your
Ladyship understands me, (return’d _Friendly_.) You’re merry, my Love,
you’re merry, (cry’d _Philadelphia_:) Come, Niece, to Bed! to Bed! Ay,
(said the Knight) Go, both of you and sleep together, if you can,
without the Thoughts of a Lover, or a Husband. His Majesty was pleas’d
to wish them a good Repose; and so, with a Kiss, they parted for that
time.
Now we’re alone (said Sir _Philip_) let me assure you, Sir, I resent
this Affront done to you by Mr. _Goodland_, almost as highly as you can:
and tho’ I can’t wish that you should take such Satisfaction, as perhaps
some other hotter Sparks would; yet let me say, his Miscarriage ought
not to go unpunish’d in him. Fear not (reply’d t’other) I shall give him
a sharp Lesson. No, Sir (return’d _Friendly_) I would not have you think
of a bloody Revenge; for ’tis that which possibly he designs on you:
I know him brave as any Man. However, were it convenient that the Sword
should determine betwixt you, you should not want mine: The Affront is
partly to me, since done in my House; but I’ve already laid down safer
Measures for us, tho’ of more fatal Consequence to him: that is, I’ve
form’d them in my Thoughts. Dismiss your Coach and Equipage, all but one
Servant, and I will discourse it to you at large. ’Tis now past Twelve;
and if you please, I would invite you to take up as easy a Lodging here,
as my House will afford. (Accordingly they were dismiss’d, and he
proceeded:)--As I hinted to you before, he is in love with my youngest
Niece, _Philibella_; but her Fortune not exceeding five hundred Pound,
his Father will assuredly disinherit him, if he marries her: tho’ he has
given his Consent that he should marry her eldest Sister, whose Father
dying ere he knew his Wife was with child of the youngest, left _Lucy_
three thousand Pounds, being as much as he thought convenient to match
her handsomly; and accordingly the Nuptials of young _Goodland_ and
_Lucy_ are to be celebrated next _Easter_. They shall not, if I can
hinder them (interrupted his offended Majesty.) Never endeavour the
Obstruction (said the Knight) for I’ll shew you the Way to a dearer
Vengeance: Women are Women, your Majesty knows; she may be won to your
Embraces before that time, and then you antedate him your Creature.
A Cuckold, you mean (cry’d King in Fancy:) O exquisite Revenge! but can
you consent that I should attempt it? What is’t to me? We live not in
_Spain_, where all the Relations of the Family are oblig’d to vindicate
a Whore: No, I would wound him in his most tender Part. But how shall we
compass it? (ask’d t’other.) Why thus, throw away three thousand Pounds
on the youngest Sister, as a Portion, to make her as happy as she can be
in her new Lover, Sir _Frederick Flygold_, an extravagant young Fop, and
wholly given over to Gaming; so, ten to one, but you may retrieve your
Money of him, and have the two Sisters at your Devotion. Oh, thou my
better Genius than that which was given to me by Heaven at my Birth!
What Thanks, what Praises shall I return and sing to thee for this!
(cry’d King _Conundrum_.) No Thanks, no Praises, I beseech your Majesty,
since in this I gratify my self--You think I am your Friend? and, you
will agree to this? (said _Friendly_, by way of Question.) Most readily,
(returned the Fop King:) Would it were broad Day, that I might send for
the Money to my Banker’s; for in all my Life, in all my Frolicks,
Encounters and Extravagances, I never had one so grateful, and so
pleasant as this will be, if you are in earnest, to gratify both my Love
and Revenge! That I am in earnest, you will not doubt, when you see with
what Application I shall pursue my Design: In the mean Time, _My Duty to
your Majesty; To our good Success in this Affair_. While he drank,
t’other return’d, _With all my Heart_; and pledg’d him. Then _Friendly_
began afresh: Leave the whole Management of this to me; only one thing
more I think necessary, that you make a Present of five hundred Guineas
to her Majesty, the Bride that must be. By all means (return’d the
wealthy King of _Bantam_;) I had so design’d before. Well, Sir (said Sir
_Philip_) what think you of a set Party or two at _Piquet_, to pass away
a few Hours, till we can sleep? A seasonable and welcome Proposition
(returned the King;) but I won’t play above twenty Guineas the Game, and
forty the Lurch. Agreed (said _Friendly_;) first call in your Servant;
mine is here already. The Slave came in, and they began, with unequal
Fortune at first; for the Knight had lost a hundred Guineas to Majesty,
which he paid in Specie; and then propos’d fifty Guineas the Game, and a
hundred the Lurch. To which t’other consented; and without winning more
than three Games, and those not together, made shift to get three
thousand two hundred Guineas in debt to Sir _Philip_; for which Majesty
was pleas’d to give him Bond, whether _Friendly_ would or no,
_Seal’d and deliver’d in the Presence of_,
The Mark of (_W._) _Will. Watchful_.
And, (_S_) _Sim. Slyboots_.
A couple of delicate Beagles, their mighty Attendants.
It was then about the Hour that Sir _Philip’s_ (and, it may be, other
Ladies) began to yawn and stretch; when the Spirits refresh’d, troul’d
about, and tickled the Blood with Desires of Action; which made Majesty
and Worship think of a Retreat to Bed: where in less than half an Hour,
or before ever he cou’d say his Prayers, I’m sure the first fell fast
asleep; but the last, perhaps, paid his accustom’d Devotion, ere he
begun his Progress to the Shadow of Death. However, he waked earlier
than his Cully Majesty, and got up to receive young _Goodland_, who came
according to his Word, with the first Opportunity. Sir _Philip_ receiv’d
him with more than usual Joy, tho’ not with greater Kindness, and let
him know every Syllable and Accident that had pass’d between them till
they went to Bed: which you may believe was not a little pleasantly
surprizing to _Valentine_, who began then to have some Assurance of his
Happiness with _Philibella_. His Friend told him, that he must now be
reconcil’d to his _Mock-Majesty_, tho’ with some Difficulty; and so
taking one hearty Glass a-piece, he left _Valentine_ in the Parlour to
carry the ungrateful News of his Visit to him that Morning. King ----
was in an odd sort of taking, when he heard that _Valentine_ was below;
and had been, as Sir _Philip_ inform’d _Majesty_, at _Majesty’s_ Palace,
to enquire for him there: But when he told him, that he had already
school’d him on his own Behalf, for the Affront done in his House, and
that he believ’d he could bring his Majesty off without any loss of
present Honour, his Countenance visibly discover’d his past Fear, and
present Satisfaction; which was much encreas’d too, when _Friendly_
shewing him his Bond for the Money he won of him at play, let him know,
that if he paid three thousand Guineas to _Philibella_, he would
immediately deliver him up his Bond, and not expect the two hundred
Guineas overplus. His Majesty of _Bantam_ was then in so good a Humour,
that he could have made Love to Sir _Philip_; nay, I believe he could
have kiss’d _Valentine_, instead of seeming angry. Down they came, and
saluted like Gentlemen: But after the Greeting was over, _Goodland_
began to talk something of Affront, Satisfaction, Honour, _&c._ when
immediately _Friendly_ interpos’d, and after a little seeming Uneasiness
and Reluctancy, reconcil’d the hot and cholerick Youth to the cold
phlegmatick King.
Peace was no sooner proclaim’d, than the King of _Bantam_ took his Rival
and late Antagonist with him in his own Coach, not excluding Sir
_Philip_ by any means, to _Locket’s_, where they din’d: Thence he would
have ’em to Court with him, where he met the Lady _Flippant_, the Lady
_Harpy_, the Lady _Crocodile_, Madam _Tattlemore_, Miss _Medler_, Mrs.
_Gingerly_, a rich Grocer’s Wife, and some others, besides Knights and
Gentlemen of as good Humours as the Ladies; all whom he invited to a
Ball at his own House, the Night following; his own Lady being then in
the Country. Madam _Tattlemore_, I think was the first he spoke to in
Court, and whom first he surpriz’d with the happy News of his
Advancement to the Title of King of _Bantam_. How wondrous hasty was she
to be gone, as soon as she heard it! ’Twas not in her Power, because not
in her Nature, to stay long enough to take a civil Leave of the Company;
but away she flew, big with the empty Title of a fantastick King,
proclaiming it to every one of her Acquaintance, as she passed through
every Room, till she came to the _Presence-Chamber_, where she only
whisper’d it; but her Whispers made above half the honourable Company
quit the Presence of the King of _Great-Britain_, to go make their Court
to his Majesty of _Bantam_: some cry’d, _God bless your Majesty!_ Some
_Long live the King of +Bantam+!_ Others, _All Hail to your Sacred
Majesty_; In short, he was congratulated on all Sides. Indeed I don’t
hear that his Majesty King _Charles_ II. ever sent an Ambassador to
compliment him; tho’ possibly, he saluted him by his Title the first
time he saw him afterwards: For, you know, he is a wonderful
good-natur’d and well-bred Gentleman.
After he thought the Court of _England_ was universally acquainted with
his mighty Honour, he was pleas’d to think fit to retire to his own more
private Palace, with Sir _Philip_ and _Goodland_, whom he entertain’d
that Night very handsomly, till about seven o’Clock; when they went
together to the Play, which was that Night, _A King and no King_. His
Attendant-Friends could not forbear smiling, to think how aptly the
Title of the Play suited his Circumstances. Nor could he choose but take
Notice of it behind the Scenes, between Jest and Earnest; telling the
Players how kind Fortune had been the Night past, in disposing the Bean
to him; and justifying what one of her Prophetesses had foretold some
Years since. I shall now no more regard (said he) that old doating
Fellow _Pythagoras’s_ Saying _Abstineto a Fabis_, That is, (added he, by
way of Construction) _Abstain from Beans_: for I find the Excellency of
’em in Cakes and Dishes; from the first, they inspire the Soul with
mighty Thoughts; and from the last our Bodies receive a strong and
wholesom Nourishment. That is, (said a Wag among those sharp Youths,
I think ’twas my Friend the Count) these puff you up in Mind, Sir, those
in Body. They had some further Discourse among the Nymphs of the Stage,
ere they went into the Pit; where Sir _Philip_ spread the News of his
Friend’s Accession to the Title, tho’ not yet to the Throne of _Bantam_;
upon which he was there again complimented on that Occasion. Several of
the Ladies and Gentlemen who saluted him, he invited to the next Night’s
Ball at his Palace.
The Play done, they took each of them a Bottle at the _Rose_, and parted
till Seven the Night following; which came not sooner than desired: for
he had taken such Care, that all things were in readiness before Eight,
only he was not to expect the Musick till the End of the Play. About
Nine, Sir _Philip_, his Lady, _Goodland_, _Philibella_, and _Lucy_ came.
Sir _Philip_ return’d him _Rabelais_, which he had borrow’d of him,
wherein the Knight had written, in an old odd sort of a Character, this
Prophecy of his own making; with which he surpriz’d the Majesty of
_Bantam_, who vow’d he had never taken Notice of it before; but he said,
he perceiv’d it had been long written by the Character; and here it
follows, as near as I can remember:
_When +M. D. C.+ come +L.+ before,
Three +XXX+’s, two II’s and one I. more;
Then +KING+, tho’ now but Name to thee,
Shall both thy Name and Title be._
They had hardly made an End of reading it, ere the whole Company, and
more than he had invited, came in, and were receiv’d with a great deal
of Formality and Magnificence. _Lucy_ was there attended as his Queen;
and _Philibella_, as the Princess her Sister. They danc’d then till they
were weary; and afterwards retired to another large Room, where they
found the Tables spread and furnished with all the most seasonable cold
Meat; which was succeeded by the choicest Fruits, and the richest Desert
of Sweetmeats that Luxury could think on, or at least that this Town
could afford. The Wines were all most excellent in their Kind; and their
Spirits flew about thro’ every Corner of the House: There was scarce a
Spark sober in the whole Company, with drinking repeated Glasses to the
Health of the King of _Bantam_, and his Royal Consort, with the Princess
_Philibella’s_ who sat together under a Royal Canopy of State, his
Majesty between the two beautiful Sisters: only _Friendly_ and
_Goodland_ wisely manag’d that part of the Engagement where they were
concern’d, and preserv’d themselves from the Heat of the Debauch.
Between Three and Four most of them began to draw off, laden with Fruit
and Sweetmeats, and rich Favours compos’d of Yellow, Green, Red and
White, the Colours of his new Majesty of _Bantam_. Before Five they were
left to themselves; when the Lady _Friendly_ was discompos’d, for want
of Sleep, and her usual Cordial, which obliged Sir _Philip_ to wait on
her Home, with his two Nieces: But his Majesty would by no means part
with _Goodland_; whom, before Nine that Morning, he made as drunk as a
Lord, and by Consequence, one of his Peers; for Majesty was then,
indeed, as great as an Emperor: He fancy’d himself _Alexander_, and
young _Valentine_ his _Hephestion_; and did so be-buss him, that the
young Gentleman fear’d he was fallen into the Hands of an _Italian_.
However, by the kind Persuasions of his condescending and dissembling
Majesty, he ventur’d to go into Bed with him; where King _Would-be_ fell
asleep, hand-over-head: and not long after, _Goodland_, his new-made
Peer, follow’d him to the cool Retreats of _Morpheus_.
About Three the next Afternoon they both wak’d, as by consent, and
called to dress. And after that Business was over, I think they
swallow’d each of ’em a Pint of _Old-Hock_, with a little Sugar, by the
way of healing. Their Coaches were got ready in the mean time; but the
Peer was forced to accept of the Honour of being carried in his
Majesty’s to Sir _Philip’s_, whom they found just risen from Dinner,
with _Philadelphia_ and his two Nieces. They sat down, and ask’d for
something to relish a Glass of Wine, and Sir _Philip_ order’d a cold
Chine to be set before ’em, of which they eat about an Ounce a-piece;
but they drank more by half, I dare say.
After their little Repast, _Friendly_ call’d the _Would-be-Monarch_
aside, and told him, that he would have him go to the Play that Night,
which was _The London-Cuckolds_; promising to meet him there in less
than half an Hour after his Departure: telling him withal, that he would
surprize him with a much better Entertainment than the Stage afforded.
_Majesty_ took the Hint, imagining, and that rightly, that the Knight
had some Intrigue in his Head, for the Promotion of the Commonwealth of
Cuckoldom: In order therefore to his Advice, he took his leave about a
quarter of an Hour after.
When he was gone, Sir _Philip_ thus bespoke his pretended Niece: Madam,
I hope your Majesty will not refuse me the Honour of waiting on you to a
Place where you will meet with better Entertainment than your Majesty
can expect from the best Comedy in Christendom. _Val_, (continued he)
you must go with us, to secure me against the Jealousy of my Wife. That,
indeed (return’d his Lady) is very material; and you are mightily
concern’d not to give me Occasion, I must own. You see I am now,
(replied he:) But--come! on with Hoods and Scarf! (pursued he, to
_Lucy_.) Then addressing himself again to his Lady; Madam, (said he)
we’ll wait on you. In less Time than I could have drank a Bottle to my
Share, the Coach was got ready, and on they drove to the Play-House. By
the way, said _Friendly_ to _Val._--Your Honour, noble Peer, must be set
down at _Long’s_; for only _Lucy_ and I must be seen to his Majesty of
_Bantam_: And now, I doubt not, you understand what you must trust
to.--To be robb’d of her Majesty’s Company, I warrant (return’d the
other) for these long three Hours. Why (cry’d _Lucy_) you don’t mean,
I hope, to leave me with his Majesty of _Bantam_? ’Tis for thy Good,
Child! ’Tis for thy Good (return’d _Friendly_.) To the _Rose_ they got
then; where _Goodland_ alighted, and expected Sir _Philip_; who led
_Lucy_ into the King’s Box, to his new Majesty; where, after the first
Scene, he left them together. The over-joy’d fantastick Monarch would
fain have said some fine obliging Things to the Knight, as he was going
out; but _Friendly’s_ Haste prevented ’em, who went directly to
_Valentine_, took one Glass, call’d a Reckoning, mounted his Chariot,
and away Home they came: where I believe he was welcome to his Lady; for
I never heard any thing to the contrary.
In the mean Time, his Majesty had not the Patience to stay out half the
Play, at which he was saluted by above twenty Gentlemen and Ladies by
his new and mighty Title: but out he led Miss Majesty ere the third Act
was half done; pretending, that it was so damn’d a bawdy Play, that he
knew her Modesty had been already but too much offended at it; so into
his Coach he got her. When they were seated, she told him she would go
to no Place with him, but to the Lodgings her Mother had taken for her,
when she first came to Town, and which still she kept. Your Mother,
Madam, (cry’d he) why, is Sir _Philip’s_ Sister living then? His
Brother’s Widow is, Sir, (she reply’d.) Is she there? (he ask’d.) No,
Sir, (she return’d;) she is in the Country. Oh, then we will go thither
to chuse. The Coach-man was then order’d to drive to _Jermain-Street_;
where, when he came in to the Lodgings, he found ’em very rich and
modishly furnish’d. He presently call’d one of his Slaves, and whisper’d
him to get three or four pretty Dishes for Supper; and then getting a
Pen, Ink and Paper, writ a Note to _C----d_ the Goldsmith with
_Temple-Bar_, for five hundred guineas; which _Watchful_ brought him, in
less than an Hour’s time, when they were just in the Height of Supper;
_Lucy_ having invited her Landlady, for the better Colour of the Matter.
His _Bantamite_ Majesty took the Gold from his Slave, and threw it by
him in the Window, that _Lucy_ might take Notice of it; (which you may
assure yourself she did, and after Supper wink’d on the goodly Matron of
the House to retire, which she immediately obey’d.) Then his Majesty
began his Court very earnestly and hotly, throwing the naked Guineas
into her Lap: which she seemed to refuse with much Disdain; but upon his
repeated Promises, confirm’d by unheard of Oaths and Imprecations, that
he would give her Sister three thousand Guineas to her Portion, she
began by Degrees to mollify, and let the Gold lie quietly in her Lap:
And the next Night, after he had drawn Notes on two or three of his
Bankers, for the Payment of three thousand Guineas to Sir _Philip_, or
Order, and received his own Bond, made for what he had lost at Play,
from _Friendly_, she made no great Difficulty to admit his Majesty to
her Bed. Where I think fit to leave ’em for the present; for (perhaps)
they had some private Business.
The next Morning before the Titular King was (I won’t say up, or
stirring, but) out of Bed, young _Goodland_ and _Philibella_ were
privately marry’d; the Bills being all accepted and paid in two Days
Time. As soon as ever the fantastick Monarch could find in his Heart to
divorce himself from the dear and charming Embraces of his beautiful
Bedfellow, he came flying to Sir _Philip_, with all the Haste that
Imagination big with Pleasure could inspire him with, to discharge it
self to a suppos’d Friend. The Knight told him, that he was really much
troubled to find that his Niece had yielded so soon and easily to him;
however, he wish’d him Joy: To which the other return’d, that he could
never want it, whilst he had the Command of so much Beauty, and that
without the ungrateful Obligations of Matrimony, which certainly are the
most nauseous, hateful, pernicious and destructive of Love imaginable.
Think you so, Sir? (ask’d the Knight;) we shall hear what a Friend of
mine will say on such an Occasion, to-morrow about this Time: but I
beseech your Majesty to conceal your Sentiments of it to him, lest you
make him as uneasy as you seem to be in that Circumstance. Be assur’d I
will, (return’d the other:) But when shall I see the sweet, the dear,
the blooming, the charming _Philibella_? She will be with us at Dinner.
Where’s her Majesty? (ask’d Sir _Philip_) Had you enquir’d before, she
had been here; for, look, she comes! _Friendly_ seems to regard her with
a Kind of Displeasure, and whisper’d Majesty, that he should express no
particular Symptoms of Familiarity with _Lucy_ in his House, at any
Time, especially when _Goodland_ was there, as then he was above with
his Lady and _Philibella_, who came down presently after to Dinner.
About Four o’Clock, as his Majesty had intrigu’d with her, _Lucy_ took a
Hackney-Coach, and went to her Lodgings; whither about an Hour after, he
follow’d her, Next Morning, at nine, he came to _Friendly’s_, who
carry’d him up to see his new-married Friends--But (O Damnation to
Thoughts!) what Torments did he feel, when he saw young _Goodland_ and
_Philibella_ in bed together; the last of which return’d him humble and
hearty Thanks for her Portion and Husband, as the first did for his
Wife. He shook his Head at Sir _Philip_, and without speaking one Word,
left ’em, and hurry’d to _Lucy_, to lament the ill Treatment he had met
with from _Friendly_. They coo’d and bill’d as long as he was able; she
(sweet Hypocrite) seeming to bemoan his Misfortunes; which he took so
kindly, that when he left her, which was about three in the Afternoon,
he caus’d a Scrivener to draw up an Instrument, wherein he settled a
hundred Pounds a Year on _Lucy_ for her Life, and gave her a hundred
Guineas more against her Lying-in: (For she told him, and indeed ’twas
true, that she was with child, and knew her self to be so from a very
good Reason--) And indeed she was so--by the _Friendly_ Knight. When he
return’d to her, he threw the obliging Instrument into her Lap;
(it seems he had a particular Kindness for that Place--) then call’d for
Wine, and something to eat; for he had not drank a Pint to his Share all
the Day, (tho’ he had ply’d it at the Chocolate-House.--) The Landlady,
who was invited to sup with ’em, bid ’em good-night, about eleven; when
they went to bed, and partly slept till about six; when they were
entertain’d by some Gentleman of their Acquaintance, who play’d and sung
very finely, by way of _Epithalamium_, these Words and more:
_Joy to great +Bantam!+
Live long, love and wanton!
And thy Royal Consort!
For both are of one Sort, +&c.+_
The rest I have forgot. He took some Offence at the Words; but more at
the Visit that Sir _Philip_, and _Goodland_, made him, about an Hour
after, who found him in Bed with his Royal Consort; and after having
wish’d ’em Joy, and thrown their Majesties own Shoes and Stockings at
their Head, retir’d. This gave Monarch in Fancy so great a Caution that
he took his Royal Consort into the Country, (but above forty Miles off
the Place where his own Lady was) where, in less than eight Months, she
was deliver’d of a Princely Babe, who was Christen’d by the Heathenish
Name of _Hayoumorecake Bantam_, while her Majesty lay in like a pretty
Queen.
NOTES: The King of Bantam.
p. 17 _last new Plays, being then in the Year 1683_. The new plays acted
at the Theatre Royal in 1682 were: Southerne’s _The Loyal Brother; or,
The Persian Prince_; Tate’s _Ingratitude of a Commonwealth; or, The Fall
of Caius Marius Coriolanus_; Settle’s _The Heir of Morocco, with the
Death of Gayland_; Banks’ _The Unhappy Favourite; or, the Earl of
Essex_; D’Urfey’s _The Injur’d Princess; or, The Fatal Wager_. There
were also an unusual number of revivals of the older plays at this
house. At Dorset Garden the following were produced: Otway’s _Venice
Preserved; or, A Plot Discovered_; Mrs. Behn’s _The City Heiress; or,
Sir Timothy Treatall_; D’Urfey’s _The Royalist_; Mrs. Behn’s _The False
Count; or, A New Way to Play an Old Game_; Banks’ _Virtue Betray’d; or,
Anna Bullen_; Mrs. Behn’s _The Roundheads; or, The Good Old Cause_;
Ravenscroft’s _The London Cuckolds_; and _Romulus and Hersilia; or, The
Sabine War_, an anonymous tragedy. There were also notable revivals of
Randolph’s _The Jealous Lovers_, and Fletcher’s _The Maid in the Mill_.
The two Companies amalgamated in the autumn, opening at the Theatre
Royal, 16 November, for which occasion a special Prologue and Epilogue
were written by Dryden. 4 December, Dryden and Lee’s famous tragedy,
_The Duke of Guise_, had a triumphant first night. It will be remembered
that Mrs. Behn is writing of incidents which took place on 6 January,
1683, Twelfth Night, so ‘the last new plays’ must refer to the
productions of 1682. Of course, fresh songs, and probably musical
entertainments, would be inserted at the different revivals of the older
plays which were so frequent during that year.
p. 20 _Statira, . . . Roxana._ In allusion to the two rival princesses
for Alexander’s love as they appear in Nat Lee’s famous tragedy, _The
Rival Queens; or, Alexander the Great_, produced at Drury Lane, 1677. It
held the stage over a century and a half, longest of his plays, and is
indeed an excellent piece. Originally, Hart played Alexander; Mrs.
Marshall, the glowing Roxana; and Mrs. Boutell, Statira. Genest
chronicles a performance at Drury Lane, 23 June, 1823, with Kean as
Alexander; Mrs. W. West, Statira; Mrs. Glover, Roxana.
p. 24 _forty the Lurch_. ‘Lurch’ is a very common old term (now rare)
‘used in various games to denote a certain concluding state of the game
in which one player is enormously ahead of the other; often a “maiden
set” or love-game’--_N.E.D._ cf. Urquhart’s _Rabelais_ (1653), II, xii:
‘By two of my table-men in the corner point I have gained the lurch.’
Gouldman’s _Latin Dictionary_ (1674), gives: ‘A lurch; _duplex palma,
facilis victoria_.’
p. 26 _to Locket’s, where they din’d_. This fashionable Ordinary stood
on the site of Drummond’s Bank, Charing Cross. It was named from Adam
Locket, the landlord, who died in 1688. In 1702, however, we find an
Edward Locket, probably a son, as proprietor. The reputation of the
house was on the wane during the latter years of Anne, and in the reign
of George I its vogue entirely ceased. There are very frequent
references. In _The Country Wife_ (1675), Horner tells Pinchwife: ‘Thou
art as shy of my kindness as a Lombard-street alderman of a courtier’s
civility at Locket’s’ (IV, iii). In Shadwell’s _The Scowerers_ (1691),
old Tope, replying to a health, cries: ‘I’ll answer you in a couple of
Brimmers of Claret at Locket’s at Dinner’ (I, i). In Vanbrugh’s _The
Relapse_ (1696), Lord Foppington, when asked if he dines at home,
surmises: ‘’tis passible I may dine with some of aur House at Lacket’s,’
which shows that it was then the very rendezvous of fashion and quality.
p. 27 _A King and no King._ Langbaine testifies to the popularity of
Beaumont and Fletcher’s play both before and after the Restoration.
Pepys saw it 14 March, 1661, and again, 26 September the same year. The
1676 quarto ‘as it is now acted at the Theatre Royal by his Majestie’s
Servants’ gives a full cast with Hart as Arbaces; Kynaston, Tigranes;
Mohun, Mardonius; Lacy, Bessus; Mrs. Betty Cox, Panthea; Mrs. Marshall,
Spaconia. In the earlier production Nell Gwynne had acted Panthea. The
two Companies amalgamated in 1682, opening 16 November. Hart ‘never
Acted more’ after this date. Mrs. Marshall had retired in 1677; and in
1683 Betterton was playing Arbaces with quite a new allotment of the
other rôles.
p. 27 _The Rose._ There are repeated references to this celebrated
tavern which stood in Russell Street, Covent Garden. _vide_ _The Younger
Brother_, I, ii (Vol. IV), Motteux’ Song: ‘Thence to the Rose where he
takes his three Flasks,’ and the note on that passage.
p. 29 _The London-Cuckolds._ Ravenscroft’s rollicking comedy, which had
been produced with great success at the Duke’s House in 1682 (4to,
1682), long kept the boards with undiminished favour, being very
frequently given each season. Genest has the following true and
pertinent remark: ‘If it be the province of Comedy not to retail
morality to a yawning pit but to make the audience laugh and to keep
them in good humour this play must be allowed to be one of the best
Comedies in the English language.’ 29 October (the old Lord Mayor’s
Day), 1751, Garrick substituted _Eastward Hoe_ at Drury Lane for the
annual performance of _The London Cuckolds_, a change not approved by
the audience, who promptly damned their new fare. Ravenscroft’s comedy
was given that evening at Covent Garden, and on 9 November, the
following year. It was also performed there in 1753. 9 November, 1754,
George II ordered _The Provoked Husband_. It has often been stated
(e.g. by Professor A. W. Ward--‘Ravenscroft’--_Dictionary of National
Biography_) that this royal command gave _The London Cuckolds_ its final
_congé_, but such was neither the intent nor the case. The play is
billed at Covent Garden, 10 November, 1755; in 1757; and 9 November,
1758. Shuter excelled as Dashwell. A two act version was played at
Covent Garden, 10 April, 1782, and repeated on the 12th. This was for
the benefit of Quick, who acted Doodle.
p. 30 _Your Honour . . . must be set down at Long’s._ Long’s was a
famous Ordinary in the Haymarket. It was here that in 1678 Lord Pembroke
killed Mr. Coney with his fist. He was tried by his Peers and acquitted.
There was at the same period a second tavern in Covent Garden kept by
Ben Long, Long’s brother. In Dryden’s _Mr. Limberham_ (1678), Brainsick
cries: ‘I have won a wager to be spent luxuriously at Long’s.’ In
Etheredge’s _The Man of Mode_ (1676), the following conversation
occurs:--
_Bellair._ Where do you dine?
_Dorimant._ At Long’s or Locket’s.
_Medley._ At Long’s let it be.
p. 30 _the King’s Box_. The seats in the boxes of the Restoration
Theatre were let out severally to separate persons, and although the
King had, of course, his own private box when he saw a play, yet when he
was not present even the royal box was apportioned to individuals as the
rest. There are many allusions to this which prove, moreover, that the
front row of the King’s box was the most conspicuous and highly coveted
position in the house. In Etheredge’s _The Man of Mode_ (1676),
Dorimant, hearing of a young gentlewoman lately come to town and being
taken with his own handsome face, wagers that she must be ‘some awkward,
ill-fashioned, country toad, who, not having above four dozen of black
hairs on her head, has adorned her baldness with a large white fruz,
that she may look sparkishly in the forefront of the King’s box at an
old play.’ In Tom Brown’s _Letters from the Dead to the Living_[1] we
have one from Julian, ‘late Secretary to the Muses,’ to Will. Pierre of
Lincoln’s Inn Fields Playhouse, wherein, recalling how in his lampoons
whilst he lived characters about town were shown in no very enviable
light, he particularizes that ‘the antiquated Coquet was told of her age
and ugliness, tho’ her vanity plac’d her in the first row in the King’s
box at the playhouse.’
p. 31 _Jermain-Street._ Jermyn Street runs parallel with Piccadilly from
the Haymarket to St. James. It was built _circa_ 1667, and derives its
name from Henry Jermyn, Earl of St. Albans. Shadwell spells it Germin
Street, and it was in a house here that old Snarl was wont to receive
amorous castigation at the hands of Mrs. Figgup.--_The Virtuoso_ (1676),
III, ii. It was a fashionable quarter. From 1675 to 1681 the Duke of
Marlborough, then Colonel Churchill, lived here. La Belle Stuart,
Duchess of Richmond, had a house near Eagle Passage, 1681-3, and was
succeeded therein by the Countess of Northumberland. Next door dwelt
Henry Saville, Rochester’s friend, 1681-3. Three doors from the Duchess
again was living in 1683 Simon Verelest, the painter. In 1684 Sir
William Soames followed him. In after years also there have been a large
number of famous residents connected with this favourite street.
p. 34 _after having . . . thrown their Majesties own Shoes and
Stockings_. For this old bridal custom see _ante_, Vol. III (p. 223),
_The Lucky Chance_, II, ii: ‘we’ll toss the Stocking’; and the note on
that passage.
[Footnote 1: This actual letter was written by Boyer, together
with the reply which is dated 5 November, 1701. Julian was a
well-known journalistic scribbler and ribald ballader of the time.
William Peer [Pierre], a young actor of little account, is only
cast for such walk-on rôles as Jasper, a valet, in Shadwell’s _The
Scowerers_ (1691); the Parson in D’Urfey’s _Love for Money_
(1696).]
Cross-References from Critical Notes: _The King of Bantam_
Note to p. 27: _vide_ _The Younger Brother_, I, ii (Vol. IV), Motteux’
Song: ‘Thence to the Rose where he takes his three Flasks,’ and the note
on that passage.
_Younger Brother_ text:
Then jogs to the _Play-house_, and chats with the Masks,
And thence to the _Rose_, where he takes his three Flasks.
_Younger Brother_ note:
_the Rose._ This celebrated house stood in Russell Street, Covent
Garden, and adjoined Drury Lane. There are innumerable references
to it. The greater portion of the ‘Rose’ was demolished in 1776,
when a new front was being built to the theatre.
Note to p. 34: For this old bridal custom see _ante_, Vol. III (p. 223),
_The Lucky Chance_, II, ii: ‘we’ll toss the Stocking’; and the note on
that passage.
_Lucky Chance_ text:
Come, Gentlemen, one Bottle, and then--we’ll toss the Stocking.
_Lucky Chance_ note:
_we’ll toss the Stocking_. This merry old matrimonial custom in use
at the bedding of the happy pair is often alluded to. cf. Pepys,
8 February, 1663: ‘Another story was how Lady Castlemaine, a few days
since, had Mrs. Stewart to an entertainment, and at night begun a
frolique that they two must be married; and married they were, with
ring and all other ceremonies of church service, and ribbands, and a
sack posset in bed and flinging the stocking; but in the close it is
said my Lady Castlemaine, who was the bridegroom, rose, and the King
come and take her place.’
* * * * *
* * * *
THE _UNFORTUNATE HAPPY LADY_: A True History.
I cannot omit giving the World an account, of the uncommon Villany of a
Gentleman of a good Family in _England_ practis’d upon his Sister, which
was attested to me by one who liv’d in the Family, and from whom I had
the whole Truth of the Story. I shall conceal the unhappy Gentleman’s
own, under the borrow’d Names of Sir _William Wilding_, who succeeded
his Father Sir _Edward_, in an Estate of near 4000_l._ a Year,
inheriting all that belong’d to him, except his Virtues. ’Tis true, he
was oblig’d to pay his only Sister a Portion of 6000_l._ which he might
very easily have done out of his Patrimony in a little Time, the Estate
being not in the least incumbred. But the Death of his good Father gave
a loose to the Extravagancy of his Inclinations, which till then was
hardly observable. The first Discovery he made of his Humour, was in the
extraordinary rich Equipage he prepar’d for his Journey to _London_,
which was much greater than his fair and plentiful Fortune cou’d
maintain, nor were his Expences any way inferior to the Figure he made
here in Town; insomuch, that in less than a Twelve-Month, he was forc’d
to return to his Seat in the Country, to Mortgage a part of his Estate
of a Thousand Pounds a Year, to satisfy the Debts he had already
contracted in his profuse Treats, Gaming and Women, which in a few Weeks
he effected, to the great Affliction of his Sister _Philadelphia_, a
young Lady of excellent Beauty, Education, and Virtue; who, fore-seeing
the utter Ruin of the Estate, if not timely prevented, daily begg’d of
him, with Prayers and Tears, that might have mov’d a _Scythian_ or wild
_Arab_, or indeed any thing but him, to pay her her Portion. To which,
however, he seemingly consented, and promis’d to take her to Town with
him, and there give her all the Satisfaction she cou’d expect: And
having dipp’d some paltry Acres of Land, deeper than ever Heaven dipp’d
’em in Rain, he was as good as his Word, and brought her to Town with
him, where he told her he would place her with an ancient Lady, with
whom he had contracted a Friendship at his first coming to _London_;
adding, that she was a Lady of incomparable Morals, and of a matchless
Life and Conversation. _Philadelphia_ took him in the best Sense, and
was very desirous to be planted in the same House with her, hoping she
might grow to as great a Perfection in such excellent Qualifications, as
she imagined ’em. About four Days therefore after they had been in Town,
she sollicits her Brother to wait on that Lady with her: He reply’d,
that it is absolutely Necessary and Convenient that I should first
acquaint her with my Design, and beg that she will be pleas’d to take
you into her Care, and this shall be my chief Business to Day:
Accordingly, that very Hour he went to the Lady _Beldams_, his reverend
and honourable Acquaintance, whom he prepar’d for the Reception of his
Sister, who he told her was a Cast-Mistress of his, and desir’d her
Assistance to prevent the Trouble and Charge, which she knew such Cattle
would bring upon young Gentlemen of plentiful Estates. To morrow Morning
about Eleven, I’ll leave her with your Ladyship, who, I doubt not, will
give her a wholesome Lesson or two before Night, and your Reward is
certain. My Son, (return’d she) I know the Greatness of your Spirit, the
Heat of your Temper has both warm’d and inflam’d me! I joy to see you in
Town again--Ah! That I could but recal one twenty Years for your
Sake!--Well--no matter.--I won’t forget your Instructions, nor my Duty
to Morrow: In the mean time, I’ll drink your Health in a Bottle of
_Sherry_ or two, O! Cry your Mercy, good my Lady _Beldam_, (said the
young Debauchee) I had like to have forfeited my Title to your Care, in
not remembring to leave you an Obligation. There are three Guinea’s,
which, I hope, will plead for me till to Morrow.--So--Your Ladyship’s
Servant humbly kisses your Hand. Your Honours most Obedient Servant,
most gratefully Acknowledges your Favours.--Your humble Servant, Good
Sir _William_, added she, seeing him leave her in haste.
Never were three Persons better pleas’d for a Time than this unnatural
Man, his sweet innocent Sister, and the Lady _Beldam_; upon his return
to _Philadelphia_, who could not rest that Night, for thinking on the
Happiness she was going to enjoy in the Conversation of so virtuous a
Lady as her Brother’s Acquaintance, to whom she was in Hopes that she
might discover her dearest Thoughts, and complain of Sir _William’s_
Extravagance and Unkindness, without running the Hazzard of being
betray’d; and at the same Time, reasonably expect from so pious a Lady
all the Assistance within her Capacity. On the other side, her Brother
hugg’d himself in the Prospect he had of getting rid of his own Sister,
and the Payment of 6000_l._ for the Sum of forty or fifty Guineas, by
the Help and Discretion of this sage Matron; who, for her part, by this
Time, had reckon’d up, and promis’d to herself an Advantage of at least
three hundred Pounds, one way or other by this bargain.
About Ten the next Morning, Sir _William_ took Coach with his Sister,
for the old Lady’s Enchanted Castle, taking only one Trunk of hers with
them for the present, promising her to send her other Things to her the
next Day. The young Lady was very joyfully and respectfully received by
her Brother’s venerable Acquaintance, who was mightily charm’d with her
Youth and Beauty. A Bottle of the Best was then strait brought in, and
not long after a very splendid Entertainment for Breakfast: The
Furniture was all very modish and rich, and the Attendance was suitable.
Nor was the Lady _Beldam’s_ Conversation less obliging and modest, than
Sir _William’s_ Discourse had given _Philadelphia_ occasion to expect.
After they had eaten and drank what they thought Convenient, the
reverend old Lady led ’em out of the Parlour to shew ’em the House,
every Room of which they found answerably furnish’d to that whence they
came. At last she led ’em into a very pleasant Chamber, richly hung, and
curiously adorn’d with the Pictures of several beautiful young Ladies,
wherein there was a Bed which might have been worthy the Reception of a
Dutchess: This, Madam, (said she) is your Apartment, with the
Anti-chamber, and little Withdrawing-Room. Alas, Madam! (returned the
dear innocent unthinking Lady) you set too great a Value on your
Servant; but I rather think your Ladyship designs me this Honour for the
sake of Sir _William_, who has had the Happiness of your Acquaintance
for some Months: Something for Sir _William_, (returned the venerable
Lady _Beldam_) but much more for your Ladyship’s own, as you will have
Occasion to find hereafter. I shall Study to deserve your Favours and
Friendship, Madam, reply’d _Philadelphia_: I hope you will, Madam, said
the barbarous Man. But my Business now calls me hence; to Morrow at
Dinner I will return to you, and Order the rest of your Things to be
brought with me. In the mean while (pursu’d the Traytor, kissing his
Sister, as he thought and hop’d the last time) be as chearful as you
can, my Dear! and expect all you can wish from me. A thousand Thanks, my
dearest Brother, return’d she, with Tears in her Eyes: And Madam, (said
he to his old mischievous Confederate, giving her a very rich Purse
which held 50 Guineas) be pleas’d to accept this Trifle, as an humble
Acknowledgment of the great Favour you do this Lady, and the Care of
her, which you promise; and I’m sure she cannot want. --So, once more,
(added he) my Dear! and, Madam! I am your humble Servant _Jusqu’
a Revoir_, and went out bowing. Heavens bless my dear Brother! (cry’d
_Philadelphia_) your Honour’s most Faithful and obedient Servant, said
the venerable _Beldam_.
No sooner was the treacherous Brother gone, than the old Lady taking
_Philadelphia_ by the Hand, led her into the Parlour; where she began to
her to this Effect: _If I mistake not, Madam, you were pleas’d to call
Sir +William+ Brother once or twice of late in Conversation: Pray be
pleas’d to satisfy my Curiosity so far as to inform me in the Truth of
this Matter? Is it really so or not?_ _Philadelphia_ reply’d, blushing,
your Ladyship strangely surprizes me with this Question: For, I thought
it had been past your Doubt that it is so. Did not he let you know so
much himself? I humbly beg your Pardon, Madam, (returned the true
Offspring of old Mother _Eve_) that I have so visibly disturb’d you by
my Curiosity: But, indeed, Madam, Sir _William_ did not say your
Ladyship was his Sister, when he gave me the Charge of you, as of the
nearest and dearest Friend he had in the World. Now our Father and
Mother are dead, (said the sweet Innocent) who never had more Children
than us two, who can be a nearer or dearer Friend unto me, than my
Brother Sir _William_, or than I his Sister to him? None? Certainly,
you’ll excuse me, Madam, (answer’d t’other) a Wife or Mistress may.
A Wife indeed, (return’d the beautiful Innocent) has the Pre-eminence,
and perhaps, a Mistress too, if honourably lov’d and sought for in
Marriage: But, (she continu’d) I can assure your Ladyship that he has
not a Wife, nor did I ever hear he had a Mistress yet. Love in Youth
(said old Venerable) is very fearful of Discovery. I have known, Madam,
a great many fine young Gentlemen and Ladies, who have conceal’d their
violent Passions and greater Affection, under the Notion and Appellation
of Brother and Sister. And your Ladyship imagines, Sir _William_ and I
do so? reply’d _Philadelphia_, by way of Question. ’Twere no imprudence,
if you did, Madam, return’d old Lady _Beldam_, with all the Subtlety she
had learn’d from the Serpent. Alas! Madam, (reply’d she) there is
nothing like Secrecy in Love: ’Tis the very Life and Soul of it! I have
been young myself, and have known it by Experience. But, all this,
Madam, (interrupted _Philadelphia_, something nettl’d at her Discourse)
all this can’t convince me, that I am not the true and only Sister both
by Father and Mother of Sir _William Wilding_; however, he wou’d impose
upon your Ladyship, for what Ends, indeed, I know not, unless
(unhappily, which Heaven forbid!) he designs to gain your Ladyship’s
Assistance in defeating me of the Portion left me by my Father: But,
(she continued with Tears) I have too great an Assurance of your Virtue,
to Fear that you will consent to so wicked a Practise. You may be
confident, Madam, (said t’other) I never will. And, supposing that he
were capable of perpetrating so base an Act of himself, yet if your
Ladyship will be guided and directed by me, I will shew you the Means of
living Happy and Great, without your Portion, or your Brother’s Help; so
much I am charm’d with your Beauty and Innocence.
But, pray, Madam, (pursu’d she) what is your Portion? And what makes you
doubt your Brother’s Kindness? _Philadelphia_ then told her, how much
her Brother was to pay her, and gave her an Account of his
Extravagancies, as far as she knew ’em; to which t’other was no
Stranger; and (doubtless) cou’d have put a Period to her Sorrows with
her Life, had she given her as perfect a Relation of his riotous and
vicious Practices, as she was capable of: But she had farther Business
with her Life, and, in short, bid her be of good Comfort, and lay all
her Care on her, and then she cou’d not miss of continual Happiness. The
sweet Lady took all her Promises for sterling, and kissing her Impious
Hand, humbly return’d her Thanks. Not long after they went to Dinner;
and in the Afternoon, three or four young Ladies came to visit the Right
Reverend the Lady _Beldam_; who told her new Guest, that these were all
her Relations, and no less than her own Sister’s Children. The Discourse
among ’em was general and very modest, which lasted for some Hours: For,
our Sex seldom wants matter of Tattle. But, whether their Tongues were
then miraculously wearied, or that they were tir’d with one continued
Scene of Place, I won’t pretend to determine: But they left the Parlour
for the Garden, where after about half an Hour’s Walk, there was a very
fine Desert of Sweetmeats and Fruits brought into one of the Arbours.
_Cherbetts_, _Ros Solis_, rich and small Wines, with Tea, Chocolate,
_&c._ compleated the old Lady’s Treat; the Pleasure of which was much
heighten’d by the Voices of two of her Ladyship’s Sham-Nieces, who sung
very charmingly. The Dear, sweet Creature, thought she had happily got
into the Company of Angels: But (alas!) they were Angels that had fallen
more than once. She heard talk of Nunneries, and having never been out
of her own Country till within four or five Days, she had certainly
concluded she had been in one of those Religious-Houses now, had she but
heard a Bell ring, and seen ’em kneel to Prayers, and make use of their
Beads, as she had been told those happy people do. However it was, she
was extremely pleas’d with the Place and Company. So nearly do’s Hell
counterfeit Heaven sometimes. At last, said one of the white Devils,
wou’d my dear _Tommy_ were here! O Sister! (cry’d another) you won’t be
long without your wish: For my Husband and he went out together, and
both promis’d to be here after the Play. Is my Brother Sir _Francis_
with him there? (ask’d the first) yes, (answer’d the third) Sir _Thomas_
and Sir _Francis_ took Coach from St. _James’s_, about two Hours since:
We shall be excellent Company when they come, (said a fourth); I hope
they’ll bring the Fiddlers with ’em, added the first: Don’t you love
Musick, Madam? (ask’d the old Lady _Beldam_) Sometimes, Madam, (reply’d
_Philadelphia_) but now I am out o’tune myself. A little harmless Mirth
will chear your drooping Spirits, my dear, (return’d t’other, taking her
by the Hand) come! These are all my Relations, as I told you, Madam; and
so consequently are their Husbands. Are these Ladies all marry’d, Madam?
_Philadelphia_ ask’d. All, all, my dear Soul! (reply’d the insinuating
Mother of Iniquity;) and thou shalt have a Husband too, e’re long. Alas,
Madam! (return’d the fair Innocent) I have no Merit, nor Money: Besides,
I never yet could Love so well as to make Choice of one Man before
another.
How long have you liv’d then, Madam? (ask’d the Lady _Beldam_) too long
by almost sixteen Years, (reply’d _Philadelphia_) had Heaven seen good.
This Conversation lasted till Word was brought that Sir _Francis_ and
Sir _Thomas_, with Two other Gentlemen were just lighted at the Gate:
Which so discompos’d the fair Innocent, that trembling, she begg’d leave
to retire to her Chamber. To which, after some Perswasion to the
contrary, the venerable _Beldam_ waited on her. For, these were none of
the Sparks to whom _Philadelphia_ was design’d to be Sacrific’d. In her
Retirement, the Beautiful dear Creature had the Satisfaction of venting
her Grief in Tears, and addressing herself to Heaven, on which only she
trusted, notwithstanding all the fair Promises of her reverend Hostess;
she had not been retir’d above an Hour, e’re a She-attendant waited on
her, to know if she wanted any thing, and what she wou’d please to have
for her Supper; if she wou’d not give her Lady the Honour of her Company
below? To which she return’d, that she wou’d not Sup, and that she
wanted nothing but Rest, which she wou’d presently seek in Bed. This
Answer brought up the Officious old Lady herself; who, by all Means
wou’d needs see her undress’d, for other Reasons more than a bare
Compliment; which she perform’d with a great deal of Ceremony, and a
Diligence that seem’d more than double. For she had then the Opportunity
of observing the Delicacy of her Skin, the fine turn of her Limbs, and
the richness of her Night-dress, part of the Furniture of her Trunk. As
soon as she had cover’d herself, she kiss’d and wish’d her a good
Repose. The dear Soul, as Innocent and White as her Linen, return’d her
Thanks, and address’d herself to Sleep; out of which she was waken’d by
a loud Consort of Musick, in less than two Hours time, which continu’d
till long after Midnight. This occasion’d strange and doubtful Thoughts
in her, tho’ she was altogether so unskill’d in these Mysteries, that
she cou’d not guess the right Meaning. She apprehended, that (possibly)
her Brother had a Mistress, from the Lady _Beldam’s_ Discourse, and that
this was their Place of Assignation: Suspecting too, that either Sir
_Francis_, or Sir _Thomas_, of whom she had heard not long before, was
Sir _William_, her Brother. The Musick and all the Noise in the House
ceas’d about four a Clock in the Morning; when she again fell into a
Sleep, that took away the Sense of her Sorrows, and Doubts ’till Nine;
when she was again visited from her Lady, by the same She-attendant, to
know how she had rested, and if she wou’d Please to Command her any
Service. _Philadelphia_ reply’d, That she had rested very well most Part
of the Morning, and that she wanted nothing, but to know how her Lady
had Slept, and whether she were in Health, unless it were the Sight of
her Brother. The Servant return’d with this Answer to her Lady, while
_Philadelphia_ made shift to rise, and begin to Dress without an
Assistant; but she had hardly put on anything more than her Night-gown,
e’re the Lady _Beldam_ herself came in her _Dishabille_, to assure her
of her Brother’s Company with ’em at Dinner, exactly at One a Clock; and
finding _Philadelphia_ doing the Office of a Waiting-woman to herself,
call’d up the same Servant, and in a great Heat (in which however she
took Care to make Use of none of her familiar develish Dialect) ask’d
the Reason that she durst leave the Lady when she was Rising. The Wench
trembling, reply’d, That indeed the Lady did not let her know that she
had any Thoughts of Rising. Well then (said her seeming offended Lady)
stir not from her now, I charge you, ’till she shall think fit to
dismiss you, and Command your Absence. Dear Madam, Good Morrow to you,
(said she to _Philadelphia_) I’ll make haste and Dress too. Good Morrow
to your Ladyship (return’d the design’d Victim) when she was _Habille_,
she desir’d the Servant to withdraw; after which she betook herself to
her Devotion; at the end of which the Lady _Beldam_ return’d, attended
by a Servant, who brought some Bread and Wine for her Breakfast; which
might then be seasonable enough to _Philadelphia_; who cou’d not forbear
discovering the Apprehensions she had of her Brother’s Unkindness, still
entertaining her _Reverence_, with the Fear she had of his
Disappointment that Day at Dinner; which t’other oppos’d with all the
seeming Reasons her Art cou’d suggest, ’till the Clock had struck
Twelve; when a Servant came to tell the Lady _Beldam_, that one Sir
_William Wilding_ wou’d certainly wait on her precisely at One, and
desir’d that he might Dine in the young Lady’s Apartment, to avoid being
seen by any Visitants that might come; and besides, that he had invited
a Gentleman, his particular Friend, to Dinner with him there. This
Message being deliver’d aloud by the Servant, was no little Satisfaction
to the poor desponding young Lady, who discours’d very chearfully of
indifferent Matters, ’till the Clock gave ’em Notice that the Hour was
come; within three Minutes after which, Word was brought to the Lady
_Beldam_, that a Gentleman below enquir’d for Sir _William Wilding_,
whom she immediately went down to receive, and led up to _Philadelphia_.
Madam, (cry’d the great Mistress of her Art) this is the Gentleman whom
Sir _William_ has invited to Dinner with us; and I am very Happy to see
him, for he is my worthy Friend, and of a long Acquaintance. Trust me,
Madam, he is a Man of Honour, and has a very large Estate: I doubt not
(added she) that you will find his Merits in his Conversation. Here
_Gracelove_, for that was the Gentleman’s Name, saluted _Philadelphia_,
and acquitted himself like a Person of good Sense and Education, in his
first Address to her; which she return’d with all the Modesty and
ingenuous Simplicity that was still proper to her. At last she ask’d him
how long he thought it wou’d be e’re Sir _William_ came? To which he
reply’d, that Sir _William_ told him, unless he were there exactly at
half an Hour after One, they shou’d not stay Dinner for him; that he had
not parted with him much above a Quarter of an Hour, when he left him
engag’d with particular Company, about some weighty Business: But
however, that, if he shou’d be so unhappy as to lose their Conversation
at Dinner, he wou’d not fail to wait on ’em by Four at farthest. The
young Lady seem’d a little uneasie at this; but the Gentleman appearing
so very Modest, and speaking it with such an assur’d Gravity, took away
all Thoughts of Suspicion. To say Truth, _Gracelove_ was a very honest,
modest, worthy and handsome Person; and had the Command, at present, of
a many Thousand Pounds, he was by Profession a _Turkey_ Merchant: He had
Travell’d much, for his Age, not having then reach’d Thirty, and had
seen most of the Courts in _Christendom_: He was a Man of a sweet
Temper, of just Principles, and of inviolable Friendship, where he
promis’d; which was no where, but where ’twas merited. The Minute came
then at length, but without any Sir _William_; so Dinner was serv’d up
in the Room next to _Philadelphia’s_ Bed-chamber. What they had was Nice
and Seasonable; and they were all Three as Pleasant as cou’d be
expected, without Sir _William_; to whose Health the Glass went round
once or twice. Dinner over, and the Table clear’d, the old Lady _Beldam_
entreated Mr. _Gracelove_ to entertain the young Lady with a Discourse
of his Travels, and of the most remarkable Passages and Encounters of
’em, which he perform’d with a Modesty and Gravity peculiar to himself;
and in some part of his Discourse mov’d the innocent Passions of the
beauteous and compassionate _Philadelphia_; who was as attentive as she
us’d to be in Church at Divine Service. When the old Lady perceiv’d that
he had made an end, or at least, that he desir’d to proceed no farther,
she took Occasion to leave ’em together, in haste; pretending, that she
had forgotten to give Orders to one of her Servants, about a Business of
Moment, and that she wou’d return to ’em in a very little Time. The
Gentleman, you may believe, was very well pleas’d with her Retreat,
since he had a Discourse to make to _Philadelphia_ of a quite contrary
Nature to the Preceding, which requir’d Privacy: But how grateful her
Absence was to _Philadelphia_, we may judge by the Sequel. Madam, (said
_Gracelove_) how do you like the Town? Have you yet seen any Man here
whom you cou’d Love? Alas, Sir! (she reply’d) I have not seen the Town,
only in a Coach, as I pass’d along, nor ever was in any House, except
this and another, where my Brother lodg’d: And to your other Question I
must Answer, that I Love all Men. That’s generous, indeed, Madam!
(cry’d he) there is then some hope that I am one of the Number. No
doubt, Sir, (she return’d) that I Love you as well as any, except Sir
_William_. Is he the happy Man then, Madam? (said _Gracelove_.) If to be
loved best by me, may make any Man happy, doubtless it must be he, for
he is my own Brother. I fancy, Madam, (return’d he) that you may make me
as dear a Relation to you, as Sir _William_. How is that possible, Sir?
she ask’d. Thus, Madam, (replied he, drawing closer to her) by our
nearer Approaches to one another. O, Heaven defend me! (cried she aloud)
what do you mean? Take away your Hand; you uncivil Man! Help! Madam! my
Lady! O, (said _Gracelove_) she’s gone purposely out of hearing. Am I
betray’d then? She cried. Betray’d! as if your pretty innocent Ladyship
did not know where you were lodged. Ah, Lady, (said he) this Faint will
never do. Come, Child, (pursued he) here are an hundred Guineas for you;
and I promise you Yearly as much, and Two Hundred with every Child that
I shall get on thy sweet Body: Faith I love thee, thou pretty Creature.
Come! let’s be better acquainted! you know my Meaning. Hell does, no
doubt of (she return’d!) O Monster a Man! I hate the Sight of you. With
that she flung from him, and ran into the Bed-chamber, where she thought
to have locked herself in; but the Key was conveyed into his Pocket.
Thither, therefore, he pursued her, crying, Ah, Madam, this is the
proper Field for our Dispute. Perceiving her Error, and animated by
Despair, she rushed between him and the Door, into the outward Room
again, he still following, and dodging her from Chair to Chair, she
still Shrieking. At last (cried he) a Parley, Madam, with you. Let me
ask you one Question, and will you Answer me directly and truly to it?
Indeed, I will, (said she) if it be Civil. Don’t you know then, that you
are in a naughty House, and that old _Beldam_ is a rank Procuress, to
whom I am to give Two hundred Guineas for your Maidenhead? O Heaven
(cried she, kneeling with Tears gushing out from her dear Eyes) thou
Asserter and Guardian of Innocence! protect me from the impious
Practices intended against me! Then looking steadfastly on him, Sir,
(pursued she) I can but Difficultly guess what you mean: But I find,
that unless you prove what at first you seemed to me, I would say, an
honest worthy Gentleman, I shall be in danger of eternal Ruin. You, Sir,
are the only Person that may yet Preserve me. Therefore I beseech you,
Sir, hear my Story, with the Injuries and Afflictions that so dreadfully
torment me; of which, I am sure, none of those _Barbarians_, of which
you had Occasion to speak but now, would have been guilty! O hear, and
help me! for Heaven’s Sake, hear and help me! I will, poor Creature,
(return’d he) methinks I now begin to see my Crime and thy Innocence in
thy Words and Looks. Here she recounted to him all the Accidents of her
Life, since her Father’s Decease, to that very Day, e’re _Gracelove_
came to Dinner. And now (cry’d she, sobbing and weeping) how dare I
trust this naughty Brother again? Can I be safe with him, think you,
Sir? O! no; thou dear sweet Creature! by no Means. O infernal Monsters,
Brother and Bawd! If you distrust that I am yet his Sister, here, Sir,
take this Key, (said she) and open that Trunk within, where you will
find Letters from him to me in his own Hand; and from my own dear dead
Father too, Sir _Edward_, that gracious, that good Man! He shew’d us
both the Paths of Virtue: which I have not yet forsaken. Pray satisfy
me, Sir, and see the Truth! For your Satisfaction I will, Madam,
(said he) but I am now fully convinc’d that you have greater Beauties
within, than those I admire without. Saying this, he open’d the Trunk,
where he read a Line or two from her Father, and as many from her
Brother, which having again laid down, return’d to her, with this
Advice: I see, Madam, (said he) that you have Money there, and several
Things of Value, which I desire you to secure about you this Moment; for
I mean to deliver you out of this cursed Place, if you dare put any
Confidence in a Stranger, after your own Brother has acted the Part of
so great a Villain; if you dare trust a Stranger too, Madam, who had
himself a Design upon you; Heaven forgive me for it! but by all Things
sacred, I find my Error: I pity you, and I fear I shall love you. Do you
fear that, Sir? (said she) Why I love you dearly now, because I see you
are going to be good again; that is, you are going to be yourself again.
I hope, nay, I resolve I will, tho’ it cost me my Life (said he.) Can
you submit, Madam, to attend on a young Lady of my Acquaintance here in
Town, ’till I can provide better for you? O I can be any Thing;
a Chamber-Maid, a Cook-Maid, a Scullion, what you shall think fit, tho’
never so mean, that is not naughty. Well, Madam, (said he) compose your
self then, and seem a little pleasant when I bring up that old Factoress
of Hell. I will endeavour it, Sir, she return’d; and he went down to the
Devil’s chief Agent, to whom he said, that the poor Thing was at first
very uneasy, but that now she had consented to go along with him for an
Hour or two to some other Place, doubting your Secrecy; for she would
not have her Brother know it, as she calls him, for a thousand Worlds,
and more Money. Well, my Son, (reply’d old _Beldam_) you may take her
with you: But you remember your Bargain. O fie, Mother! (cry’d he) did
you ever know me false to you? No, no, you smock’d-fac’d Wag, (said she)
but be sure you bring her again to Night, for fear Sir _William_ should
come. Never doubt it! Come up with me, (cry’d he) you’ll see a strange
Alteration, I believe. To _Philadelphia_ they came then, whom they found
walking about the Room, and looking something more pleasantly than she
had ever done since she came thither. After she had taken her Money, and
other Things of Value, so, Madam, (said _Beldam_) how does your Ladiship
now? I find, the Sight of a young handsome Gentleman has work’d Wonders
with you in a little Time: I understand you are going to take a Walk
with my worthy Friend here, and ’tis well done: I dare trust you with
him, but with no other Man living, except Sir _William_. Madam,
(return’d the fair afflicted Lady) I am strangely oblig’d to you for
your Care of me, and am sure I shall never be able to return your
Obligations as I ought, and as I could wish. You won’t stay late, Mr.
_Gracelove_? (said the Mother of Mischief.) No, no, (reply’d he) I will
only shew the Lady a Play, and return to Supper. What is play’d to
Night? (ask’d the old One) _The Cheats, +Mother+, the Cheats._ (answer’d
_Gracelove_.) Ha, (said _Beldam_, laughing) a very pretty Comedy,
indeed! Ay, if well play’d, return’d he. At these Words, they went down,
where a Coach was call’d; which carry’d ’em to Counsellor _Fairlaw’s_
House, in _Great Lincolns-Inn-Fields_, whom they found accidentally at
Home; but his Lady and Daughter were just gone to Chapel, being then
turn’d of Five. _Gracelove_ began his Apology to the good old
Counsellor, who was his Relation, for bringing a strange Lady thither,
with a Design to place her in his Family: But Sir, continu’d he, if you
knew her sorrowful Story, you would be as ambitious of entertaining her,
as I am earnest to entreat it of you. A very beautiful Lady ’tis,
(return’d the Counsellor) and very modest, I believe. That I can witness
(reply’d t’other.) Alas, Sir! (said the fair Unfortunate) I have nothing
but my Modesty and honest Education to recommend me to your Regard. I am
wrong’d and forsaken by my nearest Relation; then she wept
extravagantly: That Gentleman can give you an Account of my Misfortunes,
if he pleases, with greater Ease and less Trouble than my self. Not with
less Trouble, believe me, Madam; (return’d _Gracelove_) and then began
to inform _Fairlaw_ in every Point of her unhappy Circumstances. The
good old Gentleman heard ’em with Amazement and Horror; but told her,
however, that she need not despond, for he would take Care to right her
against her Brother; and, that in the mean Time she should be as welcome
to him as any of his nearest Kindred, except his Wife and Daughter.
_Philadelphia_ would have knelt to thank him; but he told her, that
humble Posture was due to none but Heaven, and the King sometimes. In a
little While after, the Lady _Fairlaw_ and her Daughter came Home, who
were surpriz’d at the Sight of a Stranger, but more at her Beauty, and
most of all at her Story, which the good old Gentleman himself could not
forbear relating to ’em: Which ended, the Mother and Daughter both
kindly and tenderly embrac’d her, promising her all the Assistance
within their Power, and bid her a thousand Welcomes. _Gracelove_ stay’d
there ’till after Supper, and left her extremely satisfy’d with her new
Station. ’Twas here she fix’d then; and her Deportment was so obliging,
that they would not part with her for any Consideration. About three
Days after her coming from that lewd Woman’s House, _Gracelove_ took a
Constable and some other Assistants, and went to _Beldam’s_ to demand
the Trunk, and what was in it, which at first her Reverence deny’d to
return, ’till Mr. Constable produc’d the Emblem of his Authority, upon
which it was deliver’d, without so much as re-minding _Gracelove_ of his
Bargain; who then pretended he would search the House for Sir _William
Wilding_; but her graceless Reverence swore most devoutly that he had
never been there, and that she had neither seen nor heard from him since
the Day he left _Philadelphia_ with her. With these Things, and this
Account he return’d to Counsellor _Fairlaw’s_, who desir’d _Gracelove_,
if possible, to find out Sir _William_, and employ’d several others on
the same Account. In less than a Month’s Time _Gracelove_ had the good
Fortune to find him at his Lodgings in _Soho-Square_, where he
discours’d him about his Sister’s Portion, and desir’d Sir _William_ to
take some speedy Care for the Payment of it; otherwise she had Friends
that would oblige him to it, tho’ never so contrary to his Intentions.
_Wilding_ ask’d where she was? t’other enquir’d where he left her? Sir
_William_ reply’d, that he had plac’d her with an old grave Gentlewoman
of his Acquaintance, and that he thought she was there still. No, Sir,
(return’d _Gracelove_) I have deliver’d her out of the Jaws of Perdition
and Hell. Come, Sir _William_, (answer’d he) ’twas impiously done, to
leave your beautiful, young, and virtuous Sister, to the Management of
that pernicious Woman. I found her at old _Beldam’s_, who would have
prostituted her to me for two hundred Guineas; but her heavenly Virtues
might have secur’d and guarded her from more violent Attempts than mine.
Blush, if you can, Sir! and repent of this! It will become you. If not,
Sir, you will hear farther from your Servant, added he, and left him
staring after him. This Discourse was a great Mortification to the
Knight, whose Conscience, harden’d as it was, felt yet some Pain by it.
He found he was not like to continue safe or at Ease there, where he
immediately retreated into a Place of Sanctuary, call’d the _Savoy_,
whither his whole Equipage was remov’d as soon as possible, he having
left Order with his Servants, to report that he went out of Town that
very Afternoon for his own Country. _Gracelove_ in the mean Time
return’d to the Counsellor’s, with a great deal of Joy, for having
discover’d Sir _William_ at his Lodgings, which was likewise no little
Satisfaction to _Fairlaw_, his Lady and Daughter; _Philadelphia_ only
was disturb’d when she heard the good old Gentleman threaten to lay her
Brother fast enough: But, alas! he was too cunning for ’em; for in a
whole Twelvemonth after, all which Time they made Enquiry, and narrowly
search’d for him, they could not see him, nor any one that could give an
Account of him, for he had chang’d his true Name and Title, for that of
’Squire _Sportman_. The farther Pursuit of him then seem’d fruitless to
’em, and they were forc’d to be contented with their Wishes to find him.
_Gracelove_ by this Time had entertain’d the sincerest Affections and
noblest Passion that Man can be capable of, for _Philadelphia_; of which
he had made her sensible, who had at that Time comply’d with his
honourable Demands, had she not entreated him to expect a kind Turn of
Providence, which might, (happily) e’re long, put her in Possession of
her Right; without which, she told him, she could not consent to marry
him, who had so plentiful a Fortune, and she nothing but her Person and
Innocence. How, Madam! (cry’d he) have you no Love in Store for me! Yes,
Sir, (return’d she) as much as you can wish I have in Store for you, and
so I beg it may be kept ’till a better Opportunity. Well, Madam,
(said he) I must leave you for some Months, perhaps for a whole Year;
I have receiv’d Letters of Advice that urge the Necessity of my going to
_Turkey_; I have not a Week’s Time to endeavour so dreaded a Separation
as I must suffer; therefore, thou beautiful, thou dear, thou virtuous
Creature, let me begin now! Here, thou tenderest Part of my Soul!
(continu’d he, giving her a rich Diamond Ring) wear this ’till my
Return! I hope the Sight of it may sometimes re-call the dying Memory of
_Gracelove_ to your better-busy’d Thoughts. Ah, _Gracelove_! (said she)
nothing can so well, nothing I am sure can better employ my Thoughts,
than thy dear self: Heaven only excepted. They enlarg’d a great deal
more on this Subject at that Time; but the Night before his Departure
was entirely spent in Sighs, Vows, and Tears, on both Sides. In the
Morning, after he had again entreated his Cousin’s, and the Lady’s, and
her Daughter’s Care and Kindness to _Philadelphia_, the remaining and
best Part of his Soul, with one hearty Kiss, accompany’d with Tears, he
took a long Farewel of his dear Mistress, who pursu’d him with her Eyes,
’till they could give her no farther Intelligence of him; and they
help’d her Kindness to him, and eas’d her Grief for his Absence in
weeping for above a Week together, when in private. He never omitted
writing to her and his Cousin by every Opportunity, for near nine
Months, as he touch’d at any Port; but afterwards they could not hear
from him for above half a Year; when, by Accident, the Counsellor met a
Gentleman of _Gracelove’s_ Acquaintance at a Coffee-House, who gave him
an Account, that the Ship and he were both cast away, near five Months
since; that most if not all of the Ship’s Company perish’d; of which,
’twas fear’d, _Gracelove_ was one, having never since been heard of.
That his Loss in that Ship amounted to above twelve thousand Pounds:
With this dreadful and amazing News the good old Gentleman returns Home,
afflicts his poor sorrowful Lady and Daughter, and almost kills unhappy
_Philadelphia_; who the next Day, by mere Chance, and from a Stranger,
who came on Business to the Counsellor, heard, that one Sir _William
Wilding_, an extravagant, mad, young Spark of such a County, who lately
went by the borrow’d Name and Title of ’Squire _Sportman_, had mortgag’d
all his Estate, which was near four thousand a Year, and carry’d the
Money over with him into _France_ on Saturday last. This, added to the
former News, put so great a Check on her Spirits, that she immediately
dropp’d down in a Swoon; whence she only recover’d, to fall into what
was of a much more dangerous Consequence, a violent Feaver, which held
her for near six Weeks, e’re she could get Strength enough to go down
Stairs: In all which Time, Madam _Fairlaw_ and _Eugenia_, her Daughter,
attended her as carefully and constantly, as if they had been her own
Mother and Sister: The good old Counsellor still commending and
encouraging their Care. The Roses and Lillies at last took their Places
again; but the Clouds of her Sorrow were still but too visible. Two
Years more past, without one Word of Advice from _Gracelove_ or any
Account of him from any one else; insomuch, that they all concluded he
was certainly dead: And, ’twas true, indeed, that his Ship and he were
cast away, much about that Time that the Gentleman gave _Fairlaw_ a
Relation: That ’twas certain he had lost above 12000_l._ and had like
to have lost his Life; but being very expert in Swimming, he got to
Shoar upon the Coast of _Barbary_, the Wreck happening not to be above
three Leagues thence; he was in almost as bad a Condition as if he had
been drown’d, for here he was made a Prisoner to one of the Natives; in
which miserable Circumstance he lanquish’d for above six Years, for Want
of a Ransom; which he had often endeavour’d to raise by Letters, that he
sent hither to his Friends (in _England_;) amongst which Counsellor
_Fairlaw_ was one of his most particular and assur’d. But however
Providence or Accident, if you please, order’d it, not a Line came to
the Hands of any of his Friends; so that had not Heaven had yet a future
Blessing in Store for him, he had certainly have better perish’d in the
Sea, than to have fall’n into the Power of a People less merciful than
Seas, Winds, or hungry wild Beasts in Pursuit of their Prey. But this
could not be learn’d (it seems) from any Man but himself, upon his
Return, after his Redemption.
Two Years more pass’d on; towards the latter of which the old Lady
_Fairlaw_ took her Bed, desperately sick, insomuch that she was given
over by all her Physicians; she continu’d in great Misery for near two
Months; in all which Time _Philadelphia_ was constantly with her all the
Day, or all the Night; much about that Time she dy’d; and, dying, told
her Husband, that she had observ’d he had a particular Esteem or
Kindness for _Philadelphia_; which was now a great Satisfaction to her;
since she was assur’d, that if he marry’d her, she would prove an
excellent Nurse to him, and prolong his Life by some Years. As for
_Eugenia_, (added she) you need not be concern’d; I’m sure she will
consent to any Thing that you shall propose, having already so
plentifully provided for her. The good old Gentleman answer’d, that he
would fulfil her Will as far as lay in his Power: And not long after,
she departed this Life. Her Burial was very handsome and honourable.
Half a Year was now expir’d since her Interment, when the old Counsellor
began to plead his own Cause to young _Philadelphia_, reminding her that
now the Death of _Gracelove_ was out of Question; and that therefore she
was as much at her Liberty to make her own Choice of an Husband as he
was of a Wife; not forgetting, at the same Time, to let her know, that
his Widow, (whoever had the good Fortune to be so) would be worth above
thirty thousand Pounds in ready Money, besides a thousand a Year. But,
above all, he urg’d his dying Lady’s last Advice to him, that he would
marry her; and hop’d she would see the Will of the Dead satisfy’d. The
young Lady being broken in Sorrows, and having mortify’d all her
Appetites to the Enjoyments of this World, and not knowing where to meet
with so fair an Overture, tho’ at first, in Modesty, she seem’d to
refuse it as too great an Honour, yet yielded to less than a Quarter of
an Hour’s Courtship. And the next Sunday marry’d they were, with the
Consent, and to the perfect Satisfaction of, his Daughter, Madam
_Eugenia_; who lov’d _Philadelphia_ sincerely. They kept their
Wedding very nobly for a Month, at their own House in _Great
Lincolns-Inn-Fields_; but the Memory of the old Lady was still so fresh
with the young Lady _Fairlaw_, that she prevail’d with him to remove to
another, more convenient as she fancy’d, in _Covent-Garden_. They had
dwelt there not much more than four Months, e’re the good old Gentleman
fell sick and dy’d. Whether it were the Change of an old House for a
new, or an old Wife for a young, is yet uncertain, tho’ his Physicians
said, and are still of Opinion, that, doubtless, it was the last. ’Tis
past all Doubt, that she did really mourn for and lament his Death; for
she lov’d him perfectly, and pay’d him all the dutiful respect of a
virtuous Wife, while she liv’d within that State with him; which he
rewarded as I have said before. His Funeral was very sumptuous and
honourable indeed! and as soon as it was over, _Eugenia_ desir’d her
young beautiful Mother-in-Law to retreat a little with her into the
Country, to a pleasant House she had, not twenty Miles distant from
Town; urging, That she could by no Means enjoy her self under that Roof,
where her dear Father dy’d. The obliging Step-mother, who might more
properly have been call’d her Sister, being exactly of the same Age with
her, readily comply’d, and she pass’d away all that Summer with
_Eugenia_, at their Country-Seat, and most Part of the Winter too; for
_Eugenia_ could by no Means be prevail’d on to lie one Night in her
Mother’s House; ’twas with some Reluctancy that she consented to dine
there sometimes. At length the whole Year of _Philadelphia’s_ Widowhood
was expir’d; during which, you can’t but imagine that she was solicited
and address’d to by as many Lovers, or pretended Lovers, as our dear
King _Charles_, whom God grant long to reign, was lately by the
Presbyterians, Independants, Anabaptists, and all those canting whiggish
Brethren! But she had never lik’d any Man so well as to make him her
Husband, by Inclination, unless it was _Gracelove_, devour’d by the
greedy Inhabitants of the Sea.
Whilst her Fortune began to mend thus, her Brother’s grew worse; but
that was indeed the Effect of his Extravagancy: In less than two Years
Time, he had spent eight thousand Pounds in _France_, whence he return’d
to _England_, and pursuing his old profuse Manner of Living, contracted
above 100_l._ Debts here, in less than four Months Time; which not being
able to satisfy, he was arrested, and thrown into a Goal, whence he
remov’d himself into the _King’s Bench_, on that very Day that old
_Fairlaw_ dy’d. There, at first, for about a Month, he was entertain’d
like a Gentleman; but finding no Money coming, nor having a Prospect of
any, the Marshal and his Instruments turn’d him to the Common Side,
where he learnt the Art of Peg-making, a Mystery to which he had been a
Stranger all his Life long ’till then. ’Twas then he wish’d he might see
his Sister, hoping that she was in a Condition to relieve him; which he
was apt to believe, from the Discourse he had with _Gracelove_ some
Years past. Often he wish’d to see her, but in vain; however, the next
_Easter_ after the old Counsellor’s Death, _Philadelphia_, according to
his Custom, sent her Steward to relieve all the poor Prisoners about
Town; among the rest he visited those in the common Side of the _King’s
Bench_, where he heard ’em call Sir _William Wilding_ to partake of his
Lady’s Charity. The poor Prodigal was then feeding on the Relief of the
Basket, not being yet able to get his Bread at his new Trade: To him the
Steward gave a Crown, whereas the other had but Half a Crown apiece.
Then he enquir’d of some of the unhappy Gentlemen, Sir _William’s_
Fellow-Collegians, of what Country Sir _William_ was? How long he had
been there? And how much his Debts were? All of which he receiv’d a
satisfactory Account. Upon his Return to his Lady, he repeated the
dismal News of her Brother’s Misfortunes to her; who immediately
dispatch’d him back again to the Prison, with Orders to give him twenty
Shillings more at present, and to get him remov’d to the Master’s Side,
into a convenient Chamber, for the Rent of which the Steward engag’d to
pay; and promis’d him, as she had commanded, twenty Shillings a Week, as
long as he stay’d there, on Condition that he would give the Names of
all his Creditors, and of all those to whom he had engag’d any Part of
his Estate; which the poor Gentleman did most readily and faithfully:
After which, the Steward enquir’d for a Taylor, who came and took
Measure of _Philadelphia’s_ unkind Brother, and was order’d to provide
him Linnen, a Hat, Shoes, Stockings, and all such Necessaries, not so
much as omitting a Sword: With all which he acquainted his Lady at his
Return; who was very much griev’d at her Brother’s unhappy
Circumstances, and at the same Time extremely well pleas’d to find her
self in a Condition to relieve him. The Steward went constantly once a
Week to pay him his Money; and Sir _William_ was continually very
curious to know to whom he was oblig’d for so many and great Favours;
But he was answer’d, That they came from a Lady who desir’d to have her
Name conceal’d. In less than a Year, _Philadelphia_ had paid 25000_l._
and taken off the Mortgages on 2500_l._ _per Annum_ of her Brother’s
Estate; and coming to Town from _Eugenia’s_ Country-House one Day, to
make the last Payment of two thousand Pounds, looking out of her Coach
on the Road, near _Dartford_, she saw a Traveller on Foot, who seem’d to
be tir’d with his Journey, whose Face, she thought, she had formerly
known: This Thought invited her to look on him so long, that she, at
last, perswaded her self it was _Gracelove_, or his Ghost: For, to say
Truth, he was very pale and thin, his Complexion swarthy, and his
Cloaths (perhaps) as rotten as if he had been bury’d in ’em. However,
unpleasant as it was, she could not forbear gazing after this miserable
Spectacle; and the more she beheld it, the more she was confirmed it was
_Gracelove_, or something that had usurp’d his Figure. In short, she
could not rest ’till she call’d to one of her Servants, who rode by the
Coach, whom she strictly charg’d to go to that poor Traveller, and mount
him on his Horse, ’till they came to _Dartford_; where she order’d him
to take him to the same Inn where she baited, and refresh him with any
Thing that he would eat or drink; and after that, to hire a Horse for
him, to come to Town with them: That then he should be brought Home to
her own House, and be carefully look’d after, ’till farther Orders from
her. All which was most duly and punctually perform’d.
The next Morning early she sent for the Steward, whom she order’d to
take the Stranger to a Sale-shop, and fit him with a Suit of good
Cloaths, to buy him Shirts, and other Linnen, and all Necessaries, as he
had provided for her Brother; and gave him Charge to use him as her
particular Friend, during his Stay there, bidding him, withal, learn his
Name and Circumstances, if possible, and to supply him with Money for
his Pocket Expences: All which he most faithfully and discreetly
perform’d, and brought his Lady an Account of his Sufferings by Sea, and
Slavery among the _Turks_, as I have before related; adding, that his
Name was _Gracelove_. This was the greatest Happiness, certainly, that
ever yet the dear beautiful Creature was sensible of. On t’other Side,
_Gracelove_ could not but admire and praise his good Fortune, that had
so miraculously and bountifully reliev’d him; and one Day having some
private Discourse with the Steward, he could not forbear expressing the
Sense he had of it; declaring, That he could not have expected such kind
Treatment from any Body breathing, but from his Cousin, Counsellor
_Fairlaw_, his Lady, or another young Lady, whom he plac’d and left with
his Cousins. Counsellor _Fairlaw_! (cry’d the Steward) why, Sir, my Lady
is the old Counsellor’s Widow; she is very beautiful and young too. What
was her Name, Sir, before she marry’d the Counsellor? (ask’d
_Gracelove_) That I know not, (reply’d t’other) for the old Steward dy’d
presently after the old Lady, which is not a Year and a Half since; in
whose Place I succeed; and I have never been so curious or inquisitive,
as to pry into former Passages of the Family. Do you know, Sir, (said
_Gracelove_) whereabouts in Town they liv’d before? Yes, Sir,
(return’d the Steward, who was taught how to answer) in _Great
Lincolns-Inn-Fields_, I think, Alas! (cry’d _Gracelove_) ’twas the same
Gentleman to whom I design’d to apply my self when I came to _England_.
You need not despair now, Sir, (said t’other) I dare say my Lady will
supply your Wants. O wonderful Goodness of a Stranger! (cry’d
_Gracelove_) uncommon and rare amongst Relations and Friends! How have
I, or how can I ever merit this? Upon the End of their Conference, the
Steward went to _Philadelphia_, and repeated it almost _verbatim_ to
her; who order’d _Gracelove_ should be taken Measure of by the best
Taylor in _Covent-Garden_; that he should have three of the most modish
rich Suits made, that might become a private Gentleman of a Thousand
Pounds a Year, and Hats, Perukes, Linnen, Swords, and all Things
suitable to ’em, all to be got ready in less than a Month; in which
Time, she took all the Opportunity she could either find or make to see
him, and not to be seen by him: She oblig’d her Steward to invite him to
a Play, whither she follow’d ’em, and sate next to _Gracelove_, and
talk’d with him; but all the while masq’d. In this Month’s Time she was
daily pester’d with the Visits of her Addressors; several there were of
’em; but the chief were only a Lord of a very small Estate, tho’ of a
pretty great Age; a young blustering Knight, who had a Place of 500_l._
a Year at Court; and a County Gentleman, of a very plentiful Estate,
a Widower, and of a middle Age. These three only of her Lovers she
invited to Dinner, on the first Day of the next Month: In the mean while
she sent a rich Suit, and Equipage proportionable, to her Brother, with
an Invitation to dine with her on the same Day. Then she writ to
_Eugenia_ to come and stay in Town, if not in the same House with her,
for two or three Days before; which her affectionate Daughter obey’d; to
whom _Philadelphia_ related all her Brother’s past Extravagancies and
what she had done for him in redeeming most Part of his Estate; begging
of her, that if she could fancy his Person, she would take him into her
Mercy and marry him. Being assur’d, that such a virtuous Wife as she
would prove, must necessarily reclaim him, if yet he were not perfectly
convinc’d of his Follies; which, she doubted not, his late long
Sufferings had done. _Eugenia_ return’d, That she would wholly be
directed and advis’d by her in all Things; and that certainly she could
not but like the Brother, since she lov’d the Sister so perfectly and
truly.
The Day came, and just at Twelve, _Gracelove_, meeting the Steward on
the Stairs coming from his Lady, _Gracelove_ then told him, that he
believ’d he might take the Opportunity of that Afternoon to go over to
_Putney_, and take a Game or two at Bowls. The Steward return’d, Very
well, Sir, I shall let my Lady know it, if she enquires for you.
_Philadelphia_, who overheard what they said, call’d the Steward in
Haste, and bid him call _Gracelove_ back, and tell him, she expected his
Company at her Table to Day, and that she desir’d he would appear like
himself. The Steward soon overtook him at the Door, just going out as
_Eugenia_ came in, who look’d back on _Gracelove_: The poor Gentleman
was strangely surpriz’d at the Sight of her, as she was at his; but the
Steward’s Message did more amaze and confound him. He went directly to
his Chamber, to dress himself in one of those rich Suits lately made for
him; but, the Distraction he was in, made him mistake his Coat for his
Wastcoat, and put the Coat on first; but, recalling his straggling
Thoughts, he made Shift to get ready time enough to make his Appearance
without a second Summons. _Philadelphia_ was as pleasant at Dinner, as
ever she had been all her Life; she look’d very obligingly on all the
Sparks, and drank to every one of ’em particularly, beginning to the
Lord--and ending to the Stranger, who durst hardly lift up his Eyes a
second Time to her’s, to confirm him that he knew her. Her Brother was
so confounded, that he bow’d and continu’d his Head down ’till she had
done drinking, not daring to encounter her Eyes, that would then have
reproach’d him with his Villany to her.
After Dinner the Cloth was taken away; She began thus to her Lovers: My
Lord! Sir _Thomas_! and Mr. _Fat-acres_! I doubt not, that it will be of
some Satisfaction to you, to know whom I have made Choice for my next
Husband; which now I am resolv’d no longer to defer.
The Person to whom I shall next drink, must be the Man who shall ever
command me and my Fortune, were it ten times greater than it is; which I
wish only for his Sake, since he deserves much more.--Here, (said she to
one that waited) put Wine into two Glasses: Then she took the Diamond
Ring from her Finger, and put it into one of ’em. My dear _Gracelove_,
(cry’d she) I drank to thee; and send thee back thy own Ring, with
_Philadelphia’s_ Heart. He startl’d, blush’d, and looked wildly; whilst
all the Company stared on him. Nay, pledge me, (persu’d she) and return
me the Ring: for it shall make us both one the next Morning. He bow’d,
kiss’d, and return’d it, after he had taken off his Wine. The defeated
Lovers knew not how to resent it? The Lord and Knight were for going,
but the Country Gentleman oppos’d it, and told ’em, ’twas the greatest
Argument of Folly, to be disturb’d at the Caprice of a Woman’s Humour.
They sate down again therefore, and she invited ’em to her Wedding on
the Morrow.
And now, Brother, (said she) I have not quite forgotten you, tho’ you
have not been pleas’d to take Notice of me: I have a Dish in Reserve for
you, which will be more grateful to your Fancy than all you have tasted
to Day. Here! (cry’d she to the Steward) Mr. _Rightman_, do you serve up
that Dish your self. _Rightman_ then set a cover’d Dish on the Table.
What! more Tricks yet? (cry’d my Lord and Sir _Thomas_) Come, Sir
_William_! (said his Sister) uncover it! he did so; and cry’d out,
O matchless Goodness of a virtuous Sister! here are the Mortgages of the
best Part of my Estate! O! what a Villain! what a Monster have I been!
no more, dear Brother; (said she, with Tears in her Eyes) I have yet a
greater Happiness in Store for you: This Lady, this beautiful virtuous
Lady, with twenty thousand Pounds, will make you happy in her Love.
Saying this, she join’d their Hands; Sir _William_ eagerly kiss’d
_Eugenia’s_, who blush’d, and said, Thus, Madam, I hope to shew how much
I love and honour you. My Cousin _Eugenia_! (cry’d _Gracelove_!) The
same, my dear lost dead Cousin _Gracelove_! (reply’d she) O! (said he in
a Transport) my present Joys are greater than all my past Miseries! my
Mistress and my Friend are found, and still are mine. Nay, (faith, said
my Lord) this is pleasant enough to me, tho’ I have been defeated of the
Enjoyment of the Lady. The whole Company in general went away very well
that Night, who return’d the next Morning, and saw the two happy Pair
firmly united.
_FINIS._
NOTES: The Unfortunate Happy Lady.
p. 43 _Ros Solis._ A potent and well-liked tipple.
We abandon all ale
And beer that is stale
Rosa-solis and damnable hum,
But we will rack
In the praise of sack
’Gainst Omne quod exit in um.
--_Witts Recreation_ (1654).
_The Accomplished Female Instructor_ gives the following recipe: ‘Rossa
Solis; Take of clean spirits, not too strong, two quarts and a quart of
spring-water; let them seethe gently over a soft fire till about a pint
is evaporated; then put in four spoonfuls of orange-flower-water, and as
much of very good cinnamon-water; crush 3 eggs in pieces, and throw them
in shell and all; stir it well, and when it boiles up a little take it
off.’ This drink was so great a favourite with Louis XIV that a
particular sort was named Rossolis du Roi.
p. 51 _The Cheats, Mother, the Cheats._ John Wilson’s excellent comedy,
_The Cheats_, which was written and produced in 1662, attained great
popularity. It ran into four editions (‘imprimatur, 5 November, 1663’);
4to, 1664; 1671; 1684; 1693. Caustically satirizing the Puritans, it
became a stock piece, and was acted as late as May, 1721, when Griffin,
Harper, Diggs, and Mrs. Gifford sustained the parts which had been
created by Lacy, Mohun, Hart, and Mrs. Corey.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE FAIR JILT.
INTRODUCTION.
Although _The Fair Jilt_ was published in 1688, it is interesting to
note that ten years earlier, Michaelmas Term, 1678, there is advertised
for R. Tonson _The Amorous Convert; being a true Relation of what
happened in Holland_, which may very well be the first sketch of Mrs.
Behn’s maturer novel. The fact that she does not ‘pretend here to
entertain you with a feign’d story,’ but on the contrary, ‘every
circumstance to a tittle is truth’, and that she expressly asserts, ‘To
a great part of the main I myself was an eye-witness’, aroused
considerable suspicion in Bernbaum as to the veracity of her narration,
a suspicion which, when he gravely discovers history to know no such
person as her ‘Prince Tarpuin of the race of the last Kings of Rome’, is
resolved into a certainty that she is romancing fully and freely
throughout. It is surely obvious that such a point does not so much
demonstrate Mrs. Behn’s untruthfulness as her consummate art. With all
the nice skill of a born novelist she has so mingled fact and fancy,
what did occur and what might have been, that any attempt to disentangle
the twain would be idle indeed. The passages where she is most insistent
upon the due sequence of events, most detailed in observation are not
impossibly purely fictional, the incidents related without stress or
emphatic assertions are probably enough the plain unvarnished happenings
as she witnessed them. That the history is mainly true admits of little
question; that Mrs. Behn has heightened and coloured the interest is
equally certain.
_The Fair Jilt_ must be allowed to stand in the very first rank amongst
her novels. It has been aptly compared to a novella by Bandello, and is
indeed more than worthy of the pen of the good Dominican Bishop of Agen.
In all its incidents and motives the story is eternally true. The
fateful beauty, playing now the part of Potiphar’s wife, and now the yet
commoner rôle of an enchantress whose charms drive men to madness and
crime, men who adore her even from their prison cell and are glad to go
to a shameful death for her sake, appears in all history, in all
literature, nay, in the very newspaper scandals and police courts of
to-day. As a picture of untrammelled passion, culpable and corrupt, but
yet terribly fascinating in her very recklessness and abandon, Miranda
is indeed a powerful study. Always guilty, she is always excused, or if
punished but sparingly and little, whilst the friar languishes in a foul
dungeon, the page-boy is hanged, her husband stands upon the public
scaffold. And then in the end, ‘very penitent for her life past’, she is
received with open arms by Tarquin’s old father, who looks upon her as a
very angel, and retiring to the tranquility of a country-house she
passes her days in ‘as perfect a state of happiness as this troublesome
world can afford’.
To
HENRY PAIN, ESQ;
Sir,
Dedications are like Love, and no Man of Wit or Eminence escapes them;
early or late, the Affliction of the Poet’s Complement falls upon him;
and Men are oblig’d to receive ’em as they do their Wives; _For better,
for worse_; at lest with a feign’d Civility.
It was not Want of Respect, but Fear, that has hitherto made us keep
clear of your Judgment, too piercing to be favourable to what is not
nicely valuable. We durst not awaken your Criticism; and by begging your
Protection in the Front of a Book, give you an Occasion to find nothing
to deserve it. Nor can this little History lay a better Claim to that
Honour, than those that have not pretended to it; which has but this
Merit to recommend it, That it is Truth: Truth, which you so much
admire. But ’tis a Truth that entertains you with so many Accidents
diverting and moving, that they will need both a Patron, and an Assertor
in this incredulous World. For however it may be imagin’d that Poetry
(my Talent) has so greatly the Ascendant over me, that all I write must
pass for Fiction, I now desire to have it understood that this is
Reality, and Matter of Fact, and acted in this our latter Age: And that
in the person of _Tarquin_, I bring a Prince to kiss your Hands, who
own’d himself, and was receiv’d, as the last of the Race of the _Roman_
Kings; whom I have often seen, and you have heard of; and whose Story is
so well known to your self, and many Hundreds more: Part of which I had
from the Mouth of this unhappy great Man, and was an Eye-Witness to the
rest.
’Tis true, Sir, I present you with a Prince unfortunate, but still the
more noble Object for your Goodness and Pity; who never valu’d a brave
Man the less for being unhappy. And whither shou’d the Afflicted flee
for Refuge but to the Generous? Amongst all the Race, he cannot find a
better Man, or more certain Friend: Nor amongst all his Ancestors, match
your greater Soul, and Magnificence of Mind. He will behold in one
_English_ Subject, a Spirit as illustrious, a Heart as fearless, a Wit
and Eloquence as excellent, as _Rome_ it self cou’d produce. Its Senate
scarce boasted of a better States-man, nor Augustus of a more faithful
Subject; as your Imprisonment and Sufferings, through all the Course of
our late National Distractions, have sufficiently manifested; But
nothing cou’d press or deject your great Heart; you were the same Man
still, unmov’d in all Turns, easie and innocent; no Persecution being
able to abate your constant good Humour, or wonted Gallantry.
If, Sir, you find here a Prince of less Fortitude and Vertue than your
self, charge his Miscarriages on Love: a Weakness of that Nature you
will easily excuse, (being so great a Friend to the Fair;) though
possibly, he gave a Proof of it too Fatal to his Honour. Had I been to
have form’d his Character, perhaps I had made him something more worthy
of the Honour of your Protection: But I was oblig’d to pursue the Matter
of Fact, and give a just Relation of that part of his Life which,
possibly, was the only reproachful part of it. If he be so happy, as to
entertain a Man of Wit and Business, I shall not fear his Welcome to the
rest of the World: And ’tis only with your Passport he can hope to
be so.
The particular Obligations I have to your Bounty and Goodness, O Noble
Friend, and Patron of the _Muses_! I do not so much as pretend to
acknowledge in this little Present; those being above the Poet’s Pay,
which is a sort of Coin, not currant in this Age: though perhaps may be
esteem’d as Medals in the Cabinets of Men of Wit. If this be so happy to
be of that Number, I desire no more lasting a Fame, that it may bear
this Inscription, that I am,
SIR,
Your most Obliged, and
Most Humble Servant,
_A. BEHN_.
THE _FAIR JILT_: or, The Amours of Prince _Tarquin_ and _Miranda_.
As Love is the most noble and divine Passion of the Soul, so it is that
to which we may justly attribute all the real Satisfactions of Life; and
without it Man is unfinish’d and unhappy.
There are a thousand things to be said of the Advantages this generous
Passion brings to those, whose Hearts are capable of receiving its soft
Impressions; for ’tis not every one that can be sensible of its tender
Touches. How many Examples, from History and Observation, could I give
of its wondrous Power; nay, even to a Degree of Transmigration! How many
Idiots has it made wise! How many Fools eloquent! How many home-bred
Squires accomplish’d! How many Cowards brave! And there is no sort of
Species of Mankind on whom it cannot work some Change and Miracle, if it
be a noble well-grounded Passion, except on the Fop in Fashion, the
harden’d incorrigible Fop; so often wounded, but never reclaim’d: For
still, by a dire Mistake, conducted by vast Opiniatrety, and a greater
Portion of Self-love, than the rest of the Race of Man, he believes that
Affectation in his Mein and Dress, that Mathematical Movement, that
Formality in every Action, that a Face manag’d with Care, and soften’d
into Ridicule, the languishing Turn, the Toss, and the Back-shake of the
Periwig, is the direct Way to the Heart of the fine Person he adores;
and instead of curing Love in his Soul, serves only to advance his
Folly; and the more he is enamour’d, the more industriously he assumes
(every Hour) the Coxcomb. These are Love’s Play-things, a sort of
Animals with whom he sports; and whom he never wounds, but when he is in
good Humour, and always shoots laughing. ’Tis the Diversion of the
little God, to see what a Fluttering and Bustle one of these Sparks,
new-wounded, makes; to what fantastick Fooleries he has Recourse: The
Glass is every Moment call’d to counsel, the Valet consulted and plagu’d
for new Invention of Dress, the Footman and Scrutore perpetually
employ’d; _Billet-doux_ and _Madrigals_ take up all his Mornings, till
Play-time in dressing, till Night in gazing; still, like a Sun-flower,
turn’d towards the Beams of the fair Eyes of his _Cælia_, adjusting
himself in the most amorous Posture he can assume, his Hat under his
Arm, while the other Hand is put carelesly into his Bosom, as if laid
upon his panting Heart; his Head a little bent to one Side, supported
with a World of Cravat-string, which he takes mighty Care not to put
into Disorder; as one may guess by a never-failing and horrid Stiffness
in his Neck; and if he had any Occasion to look aside, his whole Body
turns at the same Time, for Fear the Motion of the Head alone should
incommode the Cravat or Periwig: And sometimes the Glove is well
manag’d, and the white Hand display’d. Thus, with a thousand other
little Motions and Formalities, all in the common Place or Road of
Foppery, he takes infinite Pains to shew himself to the Pit and Boxes,
a most accomplish’d Ass. This is he, of all human Kind, on whom Love can
do no Miracles, and who can no where, and upon no Occasion, quit one
Grain of his refin’d Foppery, unless in a Duel, or a Battle, if ever his
Stars should be so severe and ill-manner’d, to reduce him to the
Necessity of either: Fear then would ruffle that fine Form he had so
long preserv’d in nicest Order, with Grief considering, that an unlucky
Chance-wound in his Face, if such a dire Misfortune should befal him,
would spoil the Sale of it for ever.
Perhaps it will be urg’d, that since no Metamorphosis can be made in a
Fop by Love, you must consider him one of those that only talks of Love,
and thinks himself that happy Thing, a Lover; and wanting fine Sense
enough for the real Passion, believes what he feels to be it. There are
in the Quiver of the God a great many different Darts; some that wound
for a Day, and others for a Year; they are all fine, painted, glittering
Darts, and shew as well as those made of the noblest Metal; but the
Wounds they make reach the Desire only, and are cur’d by possessing,
while the short-liv’d Passion betrays the Cheat. But ’tis that refin’d
and illustrious Passion of the Soul, whose Aim is Virtue, and whose end
is Honour, that has the Power of changing Nature, and is capable of
performing all those heroick Things, of which History is full.
How far distant Passions may be from one another, I shall be able to
make appear in these following Rules. I’ll prove to you the strong
Effects of Love in some unguarded and ungovern’d Hearts; where it rages
beyond the Inspirations of _a God all soft and gentle_, and reigns more
like _a Fury from Hell_.
I do not pretend here to entertain you with a feign’d Story, or any
Thing piec’d together with romantick Accidents; but every Circumstance,
to a Tittle, is Truth. To a great Part of the Main I myself was an
Eye-witness; and what I did not see, I was confirm’d of by Actors in the
Intrigue, Holy Men, of the Order of St. _Francis_: But for the Sake of
some of her Relations, I shall give my _Fair Jilt_ a feign’d Name, that
of _Miranda_; but my Hero must retain his own, it being too illustrious
to be conceal’d.
You are to understand, that in all the Catholick Countries, where Holy
Orders are establish’d, there are abundance of differing Kinds of
Religious, both of Men and Women. Amongst the Women, there are those we
call _Nuns_, that make solemn Vows of perpetual Chastity; There are
others who make but a simple Vow, as for five or ten Years, or more or
less; and that time expir’d, they may contract anew for longer time, or
marry, or dispose of themselves as they shall see good; and these are
ordinarily call’d _Galloping Nuns_: Of these there are several Orders;
as _Canonesses_, _Begines_, _Quests_, _Swart-Sisters_, and
_Jesuitesses_, with several others I have forgot. Of those of the
_Begines_ was our _Fair Votress_.
These Orders are taken up by the best Persons of the Town, young Maids
of Fortune, who live together, not inclos’d, but in Palaces that will
hold about fifteen hundred or two thousand of these _Filles Devotes_;
where they have a regulated Government, under a sort of _Abbess_, or
_Prioress_, or rather a _Governante_. They are oblig’d to a Method of
Devotion, and are under a sort of Obedience. They wear a Habit much like
our Widows of Quality in _England_, only without a _Bando_; and their
Veil is of a thicker Crape than what we have here, thro’ which one
cannot see the Face; for when they go abroad, they cover themselves all
over with it; but they put ’em up in the Churches, and lay ’em by in the
Houses. Every one of these have a Confessor, who is to ’em a sort of
Steward: For, you must know, they that go into these Places, have the
Management of their own Fortunes, and what their Parents design ’em.
Without the Advice of this Confessor, they act nothing, nor admit of a
Lover that he shall not approve; at least, this Method ought to be
taken, and is by almost all of ’em; tho’ _Miranda_ thought her Wit above
it, as her Spirit was.
But as these Women are, as I said, of the best Quality, and live with
the Reputation of being retir’d from the World a little more than
ordinary, and because there is a sort of Difficulty to approach ’em,
they are the People the most courted, and liable to the greatest
Temptations; for as difficult as it seems to be, they receive Visits
from all the Men of the best Quality, especially Strangers. All the Men
of Wit and Conversation meet at the Apartments of these fair _Filles
Devotes_, where all Manner of Gallantries are perform’d, while all the
Study of these Maids is to accomplish themselves for these noble
Conversations. They receive Presents, Balls, Serenades, and Billets; All
the News, Wit, Verses, Songs, Novels, Musick, Gaming, and all fine
Diversion, is in their Apartments, they themselves being of the best
Quality and Fortune. So that to manage these Gallantries, there is no
sort of Female Arts they are not practis’d in, no Intrigue they are
ignorant of, and no Management of which they are not capable.
Of this happy Number was the fair _Miranda_, whose Parents being dead,
and a vast Estate divided between her self and a young Sister, (who
liv’d with an unmarry’d old Uncle, whose Estate afterwards was all
divided between ’em) she put her self into this uninclos’d religious
House; but her Beauty, which had all the Charms that ever Nature gave,
became the Envy of the whole _Sisterhood_. She was tall, and admirably
shaped; she had a bright Hair, and Hazle-Eyes, all full of Love and
Sweetness: No Art could make a Face so fair as hers by Nature, which
every Feature adorn’d with a Grace that Imagination cannot reach: Every
Look, every Motion charm’d, and her black Dress shew’d the Lustre of her
Face and Neck. She had an Air, though gay as so much Youth could
inspire, yet so modest, so nobly reserv’d, without Formality, or
Stiffness, that one who look’d on her would have imagin’d her Soul the
Twin-Angel of her Body; and both together made her appear something
divine. To this she had a great deal of Wit, read much, and retain’d all
that serv’d her Purpose. She sung delicately, and danc’d well, and
play’d on the Lute to a Miracle. She spoke several Languages naturally;
for being Co-heiress to so great a Fortune, she was bred with the nicest
Care, in all the finest Manners of Education; and was now arriv’d to her
Eighteenth Year.
’Twere needless to tell you how great a Noise the Fame of this young
Beauty, with so considerable a Fortune, made in the World: I may say,
the World, rather than confine her Fame to the scanty Limits of a Town;
it reach’d to many others: And there was not a Man of any Quality that
came to _Antwerp_, or pass’d thro’ the City, but made it his Business to
see the lovely _Miranda_, who was universally ador’d: Her Youth and
Beauty, her Shape, and Majesty of Mein, and Air of Greatness, charm’d
all her Beholders; and thousands of People were dying by her Eyes, while
she was vain enough to glory in her Conquests, and make it her Business
to wound. She lov’d nothing so much as to behold sighing Slaves at her
Feet, of the greatest Quality; and treated them all with an Affability
that gave them Hope. Continual Musick, as soon as it was dark, and Songs
of dying Lovers, were sung under her Windows; and she might well have
made herself a great Fortune (if she had not been so already) by the
rich Presents that were hourly made her; and every body daily expected
when she would make some one happy, by suffering her self to be
conquer’d by Love and Honour, by the Assiduities and Vows of some one of
her Adorers. But _Miranda_ accepted their Presents, heard their Vows
with Pleasure, and willingly admitted all their soft Addresses; but
would not yield her Heart, or give away that lovely Person to the
Possession of one, who could please it self with so many. She was
naturally amorous, but extremely inconstant: She lov’d one for his Wit,
another for his Face, and a third for his Mein; but above all, she
admir’d Quality: Quality alone had the Power to attach her entirely; yet
not to one Man, but that Virtue was still admir’d by her in all:
Where-ever she found that, she lov’d, or at least acted the Lover with
such Art, that (deceiving well) she fail’d not to compleat her Conquest;
and yet she never durst trust her fickle Humour with Marriage. She knew
the Strength of her own Heart, and that it could not suffer itself to be
confin’d to one Man, and wisely avoided those Inquietudes, and that
Uneasiness of Life she was sure to find in that married State, which
would, against her Nature, oblige her to the Embraces of one, whose
Humour was, to love all the Young and the Gay. But Love, who had
hitherto only play’d with her Heart, and given it nought but pleasing
wanton Wounds, such as afforded only soft Joys, and not Pains, resolv’d,
either out of Revenge to those Numbers she had abandon’d, and who had
sigh’d so long in vain, or to try what Power he had upon so fickle a
Heart, to send an Arrow dipp’d in the most tormenting Flames that rage
in Hearts most sensible. He struck it home and deep, with all the Malice
of an angry God.
There was a Church belonging to the _Cordeliers_, whither _Miranda_
often repair’d to her Devotion; and being there one Day, accompany’d
with a young Sister of the Order, after the Mass was ended, as ’tis the
Custom, some one of the Fathers goes about the Church with a Box for
Contribution, or Charity-Money: It happen’d that Day, that a young
Father, newly initiated, carried the Box about, which, in his Turn, he
brought to _Miranda_. She had no sooner cast her Eyes on this young
Friar, but her Face was overspread with Blushes of Surprize: She beheld
him stedfastly, and saw in his Face all the Charms of Youth, Wit, and
Beauty; he wanted no one Grace that could form him for Love, he appear’d
all that is adorable to the Fair Sex, nor could the mis-shapen Habit
hide from her the lovely Shape it endeavour’d to cover, nor those
delicate Hands that approach’d her too near with the Box. Besides the
Beauty of his Face and Shape, he had an Air altogether great, in spite
of his profess’d Poverty, it betray’d the Man of Quality; and that
Thought weigh’d greatly with _Miranda_. But Love, who did not design she
should now feel any sort of those easy Flames, with which she had
heretofore burnt, made her soon lay all those Considerations aside,
which us’d to invite her to love, and now lov’d she knew not why.
She gaz’d upon him, while he bow’d before her, and waited for her
Charity, till she perceiv’d the lovely Friar to blush, and cast his Eyes
to the Ground. This awaken’d her Shame, and she put her Hand into her
Pocket, and was a good while in searching for her Purse, as if she
thought of nothing less than what she was about; at last she drew it
out, and gave him a Pistole; but with so much Deliberation and Leisure,
as easily betray’d the Satisfaction she took in looking on him; while
the good Man, having receiv’d her Bounty, after a very low Obeysance,
proceeded to the rest; and _Miranda_ casting after him a Look all
languishing, as long as he remain’d in the Church, departed with a Sigh
as soon as she saw him go out, and returned to her Apartment without
speaking one Word all the Way to the young _Fille Devote_, who attended
her; so absolutely was her Soul employ’d with this young Holy Man.
_Cornelia_ (so was this Maid call’d who was with her) perceiving she was
so silent, who us’d to be all Wit and good Humour, and observing her
little Disorder at the Sight of the young Father, tho’ she was far from
imagining it to be Love, took an Occasion, when she was come home, to
speak of him. ‘Madam, _said she_, did you not observe that fine young
_Cordelier_, who brought the Box?’ At a Question that nam’d that Object
of her Thoughts, _Miranda_ blush’d; and she finding she did so,
redoubled her Confusion, and she had scarce Courage enough to
say,--_Yes, I did observe him_: And then, forcing herself to smile a
little, continu’d, ‘And I wonder’d to see so jolly a young Friar of an
Order so severe and mortify’d.--Madam, (_reply’d +Cornelia+_) when you
know his _Story_, you will not wonder.’ _Miranda_, who was impatient to
know all that concern’d her new Conqueror, obliged her to tell his
Story; and _Cornelia_ obey’d, and proceeded.
_The Story of Prince +Henrick+._
‘You must know, Madam, that this young Holy Man is a Prince of
_Germany_, of the House of ----, whose Fate it was, to fall most
passionately in Love with a fair young Lady, who lov’d him with an
Ardour equal to what he vow’d her. Sure of her Heart, and wanting only
the Approbation of her Parents, and his own, which her Quality did not
suffer him to despair of, he boasted of his Happiness to a young Prince,
his elder Brother, a Youth amorous and fierce, impatient of Joys, and
sensible of Beauty, taking Fire with all fair Eyes: He was his Father’s
Darling, and Delight of his fond Mother; and, by an Ascendant over both
their Hearts, rul’d their Wills.
‘This young Prince no sooner saw, but lov’d the fair Mistress of his
Brother; and with an Authority of a Sovereign, rather than the Advice of
a Friend, warn’d his Brother _Henrick_ (this now young Friar) to
approach no more this Lady, whom he had seen; and seeing, lov’d.
‘In vain the poor surpriz’d Prince pleads his Right of Love, his
Exchange of Vows, and Assurance of a Heart that could never be but for
himself. In vain he urges his Nearness of Blood, his Friendship, his
Passion, or his Life, which so entirely depended on the Possession of
the charming Maid. All his Pleading serv’d but to blow his Brother’s
Flame; and the more he implores, the more the other burns; and while
_Henrick_ follows him, on his Knees, with humble Submissions, the other
flies from him in Rages of transported Love; nor could his Tears, that
pursu’d his Brother’s Steps, move him to Pity: Hot-headed,
vain-conceited of his Beauty, and greater Quality as elder Brother, he
doubts not of Success, and resolv’d to sacrifice all to the Violence of
his new-born Passion.
‘In short, he speaks of his Design to his Mother, who promis’d him her
Assistance; and accordingly proposing it first to the Prince her
Husband, urging the Languishment of her Son, she soon wrought so on him,
that a Match being concluded between the Parents of this young Beauty,
and _Henrick’s_ Brother, the Hour was appointed before she knew of the
Sacrifice she was to be made. And while this was in Agitation, _Henrick_
was sent on some great Affairs, up into _Germany_, far out of the Way;
not but his boding Heart, with perpetual Sighs and Throbs, eternally
foretold him his Fate.
‘All the Letters he wrote were intercepted, as well as those she wrote
to him. She finds herself every Day perplex’d with the Addresses of the
Prince she hated; he was ever sighing at her Feet. In vain were all her
reproaches, and all her Coldness, he was on the surer Side; for what he
found Love would not do, Force of Parents would.
‘She complains, in her Heart, of young _Henrick_, from whom she could
never receive one Letter; and at last could not forbear bursting into
Tears, in spite of all her Force, and feign’d Courage, when, on a Day,
the Prince told her, that _Henrick_ was withdrawn to give him Time to
court her; to whom he said, he confess’d he had made some Vows, but did
repent of ’em, knowing himself too young to make ’em good: That it was
for that Reason he brought him first to see her; and for that Reason,
that after that, he never saw her more, nor so much as took Leave of
her; when, indeed, his Death lay upon the next Visit, his Brother having
sworn to murder him; and to that End, put a Guard upon him, till he was
sent into _Germany_.
‘All this he utter’d with so many passionate Asseverations, Vows, and
seeming Pity for her being so inhumanly abandon’d, that she almost gave
Credit to all he had said, and had much ado to keep herself within the
Bounds of Moderation, and silent Grief. Her Heart was breaking, her Eyes
languish’d, and her Cheeks grew pale, and she had like to have fallen
dead into the treacherous Arms of him that had reduc’d her to this
Discovery; but she did what she could to assume her Courage, and to shew
as little Resentment as possible for a Heart, like hers, oppress’d with
Love, and now abandon’d by the dear Subject of its Joys and Pains.
‘But, Madam, not to tire you with this Adventure, the Day arriv’d
wherein our still weeping Fair Unfortunate was to be sacrific’d to the
Capriciousness of Love; and she was carry’d to Court by her Parents,
without knowing to what End, where she was even compell’d to marry the
Prince.
‘_Henrick_, who all this While knew no more of his Unhappiness, than
what his Fears suggested, returns, and passes even to the Presence of
his Father, before he knew any Thing of his Fortune; where he beheld his
Mistress and his Brother, with his Father, in such a Familiarity, as he
no longer doubted his Destiny. ’Tis hard to judge, whether the Lady, or
himself, was most surpriz’d; she was all pale and unmoveable in her
Chair, and _Henrick_ fix’d like a Statue; at last Grief and Rage took
Place of Amazement, and he could not forbear crying out, _Ah, Traytor!
Is it thus you have treated a Friend and Brother? And you, O perjur’d
Charmer! Is it thus you have rewarded all my Vows?_ He could say no
more; but reeling against the Door, had fallen in a Swoon upon the
Floor, had not his Page caught him in his Arms, who was entring with
him. The good old Prince, the Father, who knew not what all this meant,
was soon inform’d by the young weeping Princess; who, in relating the
Story of her Amour with _Henrick_, told her Tale in so moving a Manner,
as brought Tears to the Old Man’s Eyes, and Rage to those of her
Husband; he immediately grew jealous to the last Degree: He finds
himself in Possession (’tis true) of the Beauty he ador’d, but the
Beauty adoring another; a Prince young and charming as the Light, soft,
witty, and raging with an equal Passion. He finds this dreaded Rival in
the same House with him, with an Authority equal to his own; and
fancies, where two Hearts are so entirely agreed, and have so good an
Understanding, it would not be impossible to find Opportunities to
satisfy and ease that mutual Flame, that burnt so equally in both; he
therefore resolved to send him out of the World, and to establish his
own Repose by a Deed, wicked, cruel, and unnatural, to have him
assassinated the first Opportunity he could find. This Resolution set
him a little at Ease, and he strove to dissemble Kindness to _Henrick_,
with all the Art he was capable of, suffering him to come often to the
Apartment of the Princess, and to entertain her oftentimes with
Discourse, when he was not near enough to hear what he spoke; but still
watching their Eyes, he found those of _Henrick_ full of Tears, ready to
flow, but restrain’d, looking all dying, and yet reproaching, while
those of the Princess were ever bent to the Earth, and she as much as
possible, shunning his Conversation. Yet this did not satisfy the
jealous Husband; ’twas not her Complaisance that could appease him; he
found her Heart was panting within, whenever _Henrick_ approach’d her,
and every Visit more and more confirmed his Death.
‘The Father often found the Disorders of the Sons; the Softness and
Address of the one gave him as much Fear, as the angry Blushings, the
fierce Looks, and broken Replies of the other, whenever he beheld
_Henrick_ approach his Wife; so that the Father, fearing some ill
Consequence of this, besought _Henrick_ to withdraw to some other
Country, or travel into _Italy_, he being now of an Age that required a
View of the World. He told his Father, That he would obey his Commands,
tho’ he was certain, that Moment he was to be separated from the Sight
of the fair Princess, his Sister, would be the last of his Life; and, in
fine, made so pitiful a Story of his suffering Love, as almost moved the
old Prince to compassionate him so far, as to permit him to stay; but he
saw inevitable Danger in that, and therefore bid him prepare for his
Journey.
‘That which pass’d between the Father and _Henrick_, being a Secret,
none talked of his departing from Court; so that the Design the Brother
had went on; and making a Hunting-Match one Day, where most young People
of Quality were, he order’d some whom he had hired to follow his
Brother, so as if he chanced to go out of the Way, to dispatch him; and
accordingly, Fortune gave ’em an Opportunity; for he lagg’d behind the
Company, and turn’d aside into a pleasant Thicket of Hazles, where
alighting, he walk’d on Foot in the most pleasant Part of it, full of
Thought, how to divide his Soul between Love and Obedience. He was
sensible that he ought not to stay; that he was but an Affliction to the
young Princess, whose Honour could never permit her to ease any Part of
his Flame; nor was he so vicious to entertain a Thought that should
stain her Virtue. He beheld her now as his Brother’s Wife, and that
secured his Flame from all loose Desires, if her native Modesty had not
been sufficient of itself to have done it, as well as that profound
Respect he paid her; and he consider’d, in obeying his Father, he left
her at Ease, and his Brother freed of a thousand Fears; he went to seek
a Cure, which if he could not find, at last he could but die; and so he
must, even at her Feet: However, that it was more noble to seek a Remedy
for his Disease, than expect a certain Death by staying. After a
thousand Reflections on his hard Fate, and bemoaning himself, and
blaming his cruel Stars, that had doom’d him to die so young, after an
Infinity of Sighs and Tears, Resolvings and Unresolvings, he, on the
sudden, was interrupted by the trampling of some Horses he heard, and
their rushing through the Boughs, and saw four Men make towards him: He
had not time to mount, being walk’d some Paces from his Horse. One of
the Men advanced, and cry’d, _Prince, you must die_--_I do believe
thee_, (reply’d _Henrick_) _but not by a Hand so base as thine_: And at
the same Time drawing his Sword, run him into the Groin. When the Fellow
found himself so wounded, he wheel’d off and cry’d, _Thou art a Prophet,
and hast rewarded my Treachery with Death._ The rest came up, and one
shot at the Prince, and shot him in the Shoulder; the other two hastily
laying hold (but too late) on the Hand of the Murderer, cry’d, _Hold,
Traytor; we relent, and he shall not die._ He reply’d, _’Tis too late,
he is shot; and see, he lies dead. Let us provide for ourselves, and
tell the Prince, we have done the Work; for you are as guilty as I am._
At that they all fled, and left the Prince lying under a Tree, weltering
in his Blood.
‘About the Evening, the Forester going his Walks, saw the Horse, richly
caparison’d, without a Rider, at the Entrance of the Wood; and going
farther, to see if he could find its Owner, found there the Prince
almost dead; he immediately mounts him on the Horse, and himself behind,
bore him up, and carry’d him to the Lodge; where he had only one old
Man, his Father, well skilled in Surgery, and a Boy. They put him to
Bed; and the old Forester, with what Art he had, dress’d his Wounds, and
in the Morning sent for an abler Surgeon, to whom the Prince enjoin’d
Secrecy, because he knew him. The Man was faithful, and the Prince in
Time was recover’d of his Wound; and as soon as he was well, he came to
_Flanders_, in the Habit of a Pilgrim, and after some Time took the
Order of St. _Francis_, none knowing what became of him, till he was
profess’d; and then he wrote his own Story to the Prince his Father, to
his Mistress, and his ungrateful Brother. The young Princess did not
long survive his Loss, she languished from the Moment of his Departure;
and he had this to confirm his devout Life, to know she dy’d for him.
‘My Brother, Madam, was an Officer under the Prince his Father, and knew
his Story perfectly well; from whose Mouth I had it.’
_What!_ (reply’d _Miranda_ then) _is Father +Henrick+ a Man of Quality_?
_Yes, Madam_, (said _Cornelia_) _and has changed his Name to
+Francisco+._ But _Miranda_, fearing to betray the Sentiments of her
Heart, by asking any more Questions about him, turned the Discourse; and
some Persons of Quality came in to visit her (for her Apartment was
about six o’Clock, like the Presence-Chamber of a Queen, always filled
with the greatest People): There meet all the _Beaux Esprits_, and all
the Beauties. But it was visible _Miranda_ was not so gay as she used to
be; but pensive, and answering _mal a propos_ to all that was said to
her. She was a thousand times going to speak, against her Will,
something of the charming Friar, who was never from her Thoughts; and
she imagined, if he could inspire Love in a coarse, grey, ill-made
Habit, a shorn Crown, a Hair-cord about his Waist, bare-legg’d, in
Sandals instead of Shoes; what must he do, when looking back on Time,
she beholds him in a Prospect of Glory, with all that Youth, and
illustrious Beauty, set off by the Advantage of Dress and Equipage? She
frames an Idea of him all gay and splendid, and looks on his present
Habit as some Disguise proper for the Stealths of Love; some feigned
put-on Shape, with the more Security to approach a Mistress, and make
himself happy; and that the Robe laid by, she has the Lover in his
proper Beauty, the same he would have been, if any other Habit (though
ever so rich) were put off: In the Bed, the silent gloomy Night, and the
soft Embraces of her Arms, he loses all the Friar, and assumes all the
Prince; and that aweful Reverence, due alone to his Holy Habit, he
exchanges for a thousand Dalliances, for which his Youth was made; for
Love, for tender Embraces, and all the Happiness of Life. Some Moments
she fancies him a Lover, and that the fair Object that takes up all his
Heart, has left no Room for her there; but that was a Thought that did
not long perplex her, and which, almost as soon as born, she turned to
her Advantage. She beholds him a Lover, and therefore finds he has a
Heart sensible and tender; he had Youth to be fir’d, as well as to
inspire; he was far from the loved Object, and totally without Hope; and
she reasonably consider’d, that Flame would of itself soon die, that had
only Despair to feed on. She beheld her own Charms; and Experience, as
well as her Glass, told her, they never failed of Conquest, especially
where they designed it: And she believed _Henrick_ would be glad, at
least, to quench that Flame in himself, by an Amour with her, which was
kindled by the young Princess of ---- his Sister.
These, and a thousand other Self-flatteries, all vain and indiscreet,
took up her waking Nights, and now more retired Days; while Love, to
make her truly wretched, suffered her to sooth herself with fond
Imaginations; not so much as permitting her Reason to plead one Moment
to save her from undoing: She would not suffer it to tell her, he had
taken Holy Orders, made sacred and solemn Vows of everlasting Chastity,
that it was impossible he could marry her, or lay before her any
Argument that might prevent her Ruin; but Love, mad malicious Love, was
always called to Counsel, and, like easy Monarchs, she had no Ears, but
for Flatterers.
Well then, she is resolv’d to love, without considering to what End, and
what must be the Consequence of such an Amour. She now miss’d no Day of
being at that little Church, where she had the Happiness, or rather the
Misfortune (so Love ordained) to see this Ravisher of her Heart and
Soul; and every Day she took new Fire from his lovely Eyes. Unawares,
unknown, and unwillingly, he gave her Wounds, and the Difficulty of her
Cure made her rage the more: She burnt, she languished, and died for the
young Innocent, who knew not he was the Author of so much Mischief.
Now she resolves a thousand Ways in her tortur’d Mind, to let him know
her Anguish, and at last pitch’d upon that of writing to him soft
Billets, which she had learn’d the Art of doing; or if she had not, she
had now Fire enough to inspire her with all that could charm and move.
These she deliver’d to a young Wench, who waited on her, and whom she
had entirely subdu’d to her Interest, to give to a certain Lay-Brother
of the Order, who was a very simple harmless Wretch, and who served in
the Kitchen, in the Nature of a Cook, in the Monastery of _Cordeliers_.
She gave him Gold to secure his Faith and Service; and not knowing from
whence they came (with so good Credentials) he undertook to deliver the
Letters to Father _Francisco_; which Letters were all afterwards, as you
shall hear, produced in open Court. These Letters failed not to come
every Day; and the Sense of the first was, to tell him, that a very
beautiful young Lady, of a great Fortune, was in love with him, without
naming her; but it came as from a third Person, to let him know the
Secret, that she desir’d he would let her know whether she might hope
any Return from him; assuring him, he needed but only see the fair
Languisher, to confess himself her Slave.
This Letter being deliver’d him, he read by himself, and was surpriz’d
to receive Words of this Nature, being so great a Stranger in that
Place; and could not imagine or would not give himself the Trouble of
guessing who this should be, because he never designed to make Returns.
The next Day, _Miranda_, finding no Advantage from her Messenger of
Love, in the Evening sends another (impatient of Delay) confessing that
she who suffer’d the Shame of writing and imploring, was the Person
herself who ador’d him. ’Twas there her raging Love made her say all
Things that discover’d the Nature of its Flame, and propose to flee with
him to any Part of the World, if he would quit the Convent; that she had
a Fortune considerable enough to make him happy; and that his Youth and
Quality were not given him to so unprofitable an End as to lose
themselves in a Convent, where Poverty and Ease was all the Business. In
fine, she leaves nothing unurg’d that might debauch and invite him; not
forgetting to send him her own Character of Beauty, and left him to
judge of her Wit and Spirit by her Writing, and her Love by the
Extremity of Passion she profess’d. To all which the lovely Friar made
no Return, as believing a gentle Capitulation or Exhortation to her
would but inflame her the more, and give new Occasions for her
continuing to write. All her Reasonings, false and vicious, he despis’d,
pity’d the Error of her Love, and was Proof against all she could plead.
Yet notwithstanding his Silence, which left her in Doubt, and more
tormented her, she ceas’d not to pursue him with her Letters, varying
her Style; sometimes all wanton, loose and raving; sometimes feigning a
Virgin-Modesty all over, accusing her self, blaming her Conduct, and
sighing her Destiny, as one compell’d to the shameful Discovery by the
Austerity of his Vow and Habit, asking his Pity and Forgiveness; urging
him in Charity to use his Fatherly Care to persuade and reason with her
wild Desires, and by his Counsel drive the God from her Heart, whose
Tyranny was worse than that of a Fiend; and he did not know what his
pious Advice might do. But still she writes in vain, in vain she varies
her Style, by a Cunning, peculiar to a Maid possess’d with such a sort
of Passion.
This cold Neglect was still Oil to the burning Lamp, and she tries yet
more Arts, which for want of right Thinking were as fruitless. She has
Recourse to Presents; her Letters came loaded with Rings of great Price,
and Jewels, which Fops of Quality had given her. Many of this Sort he
receiv’d, before he knew where to return ’em, or how; and on this
Occasion alone he sent her a Letter, and restor’d her Trifles, as he
call’d them: But his Habit having not made him forget his Quality and
Education, he wrote to her with all the profound Respect imaginable;
believing by her Presents, and the Liberality with which she parted with
’em, that she was of Quality. But the whole Letter, as he told me
afterwards, was to persuade her from the Honour she did him, by loving
him; urging a thousand Reasons, solid and pious, and assuring her, he
had wholly devoted the rest of his Days to Heaven, and had no Need of
those gay Trifles she had sent him, which were only fit to adorn Ladies
so fair as herself, and who had Business with this glittering World,
which he disdain’d, and had for ever abandon’d. He sent her a thousand
Blessings, and told her, she should be ever in his Prayers, tho’ not in
his Heart, as she desir’d: And abundance of Goodness more he express’d,
and Counsel he gave her, which had the same Effect with his Silence; it
made her love but the more, and the more impatient she grew. She now had
a new Occasion to write, she now is charm’d with his Wit; this was the
new Subject. She rallies his Resolution, and endeavours to re-call him
to the World, by all the Arguments that human Invention is capable of.
But when she had above four Months languish’d thus in vain, not missing
one Day, wherein she went not to see him, without discovering herself to
him; she resolv’d, as her last Effort, to shew her Person, and see what
that, assisted by her Tears, and soft Words from her Mouth, could do, to
prevail upon him.
It happen’d to be on the Eve of that Day when she was to receive the
Sacrament, that she, covering herself with her Veil, came to _Vespers_,
purposing to make Choice of the conquering Friar for her Confessor.
She approach’d him; and as she did so, she trembled with Love. At last
she cry’d, _Father, my Confessor is gone for some Time from the Town,
and I am obliged To-morrow to receive, and beg you will be pleas’d to
take my Confession._
He could not refuse her; and let her into the _Sacristy_, where there is
a Confession-Chair, in which he seated himself; and on one Side of him
she kneel’d down, over-against a little Altar, where the Priests Robes
lye, on which were plac’d some lighted Wax-Candles, that made the little
Place very light and splendid, which shone full upon _Miranda_.
After the little Preparation usual in Confession, she turn’d up her
Veil, and discover’d to his View the most wondrous Object of Beauty he
had ever seen, dress’d in all the Glory of a young Bride; her Hair and
Stomacher full of Diamonds, that gave a Lustre all dazling to her
brighter Face and Eyes. He was surpriz’d at her amazing Beauty, and
question’d whether he saw a Woman, or an Angel at his Feet. Her Hands,
which were elevated, as if in Prayer, seem’d to be form’d of polish’d
Alabaster; and he confess’d, he had never seen any Thing in Nature so
perfect and so admirable.
He had some Pain to compose himself to hear her Confession, and was
oblig’d to turn away his Eyes, that his Mind might not be perplex’d with
an Object so diverting; when _Miranda_, opening the finest Mouth in the
World, and discovering new Charms, began her Confession.
‘Holy Father (_said she_) amongst the Number of my vile Offences, that
which afflicts me to the greatest Degree, is, that I am in love: Not
(_continued she_) that I believe simple and virtuous Love a Sin, when
’tis plac’d on an Object proper and suitable; but, my dear Father,
(_said she, and wept_) I love with a Violence which cannot be contain’d
within the Bounds of Reason, Moderation, or Virtue. I love a Man whom I
cannot possess without a Crime, and a Man who cannot make me happy
without being perjur’d. Is he marry’d? (_reply’d the Father._) No;
(_answer’d +Miranda+._) Are you so? (_continued he._) Neither, (_said
she._) Is he too near ally’d to you? (_said +Francisco+:_) a Brother, or
Relation? Neither of these, (_said she._) He is unenjoy’d, unpromis’d;
and so am I: Nothing opposes our Happiness, or makes my Love a Vice, but
you--’Tis you deny me Life: ’Tis you that forbid my Flame: ’Tis you will
have me die, and seek my Remedy in my Grave, when I complain of
Tortures, Wounds, and Flames. O cruel Charmer! ’tis for you I languish;
and here, at your Feet, implore that Pity, which all my Addresses have
fail’d of procuring me.’--
With that, perceiving he was about to rise from his Seat, she held him
by his Habit, and vow’d she would in that Posture follow him, where-ever
he flew from her. She elevated her Voice so loud, he was afraid she
might be heard, and therefore suffer’d her to force him into his Chair
again; where being seated, he began, in the most passionate Terms
imaginable, to dissuade her; but finding she the more persisted in
Eagerness of Passion, he us’d all the tender Assurance that he could
force from himself, that he would have for her all the Respect, Esteem
and Friendship that he was capable of paying; that he had a real
Compassion for her: and at last she prevail’d so far with him, by her
Sighs and Tears, as to own he had a Tenderness for her, and that he
could not behold so many Charms, without being sensibly touch’d by ’em,
and finding all those Effects, that a Maid so fair and young causes in
the Souls of Men of Youth and Sense: But that, as he was assured, he
could never be so happy to marry her, and as certain he could not grant
any Thing but honourable Passion, he humbly besought her not to expect
more from him than such. And then began to tell her how short Life was,
and transitory its Joys; how soon she would grow weary of Vice, and how
often change to find real Repose in it, but never arrive to it. He made
an End, by new Assurance of his eternal Friendship, but utterly forbad
her to hope.
Behold her now deny’d, refus’d and defeated, with all her pleading
Youth, Beauty, Tears, and Knees, imploring, as she lay, holding fast his
_Scapular_, and embracing his Feet. What shall she do? She swells with
Pride, Love, Indignation and Desire; her burning Heart is bursting with
Despair, her Eyes grow fierce, and from Grief she rises to a Storm; and
in her Agony of Passion, with Looks all disdainful, haughty, and full of
Rage, she began to revile him, as the poorest of Animals; tells him his
Soul was dwindled to the Meanness of his Habit, and his Vows of Poverty
were suited to his degenerate Mind. ‘And (_said she_) since all my
nobler Ways have fail’d me; and that, for a little Hypocritical
Devotion, you resolve to lose the greatest Blessings of Life, and to
sacrifice me to your Religious Pride and Vanity, I will either force you
to abandon that dull Dissimulation, or you shall die, to prove your
Sanctity real. Therefore answer me immediately, answer my Flame, my
raging Fire, which your Eyes have kindled; or here, in this very Moment,
I will ruin thee; and make no Scruple of revenging the Pains I suffer,
by that which shall take away your Life and Honour.’
The trembling young Man, who, all this While, with extreme Anguish of
Mind, and Fear of the dire Result, had listen’d to her Ravings, full of
Dread, demanded what she would have him do? When she reply’d--‘Do that
which thy Youth and Beauty were ordain’d to do:--this Place is private,
a sacred Silence reigns here, and no one dares to pry into the Secrets
of this Holy Place: We are as secure from Fears and Interruption, as in
Desarts uninhabited, or Caves forsaken by wild Beasts. The Tapers too
shall veil their Lights, and only that glimmering Lamp shall be Witness
of our dear Stealths of Love--Come to my Arms, my trembling, longing
Arms; and curse the Folly of thy Bigotry, that has made thee so long
lose a Blessing, for which so many Princes sigh in vain.’
At these Words she rose from his Feet, and snatching him in her Arms, he
could not defend himself from receiving a thousand Kisses from the
lovely Mouth of the charming Wanton; after which, she ran herself, and
in an Instant put out the Candles. But he cry’d to her, ‘In vain, O too
indiscreet Fair One, in vain you put out the Light; for Heaven still has
Eyes, and will look down upon my broken Vows. I own your Power, I own I
have all the Sense in the World of your charming Touches; I am frail
Flesh and Blood, but--yet--yet I can resist; and I prefer my Vows to all
your powerful Temptations.--I will be deaf and blind, and guard my Heart
with Walls of Ice, and make you know, that when the Flames of true
Devotion are kindled in a Heart, it puts out all other Fires; which are
as ineffectual, as Candles lighted in the Face of the Sun.--Go, vain
Wanton, and repent, and mortify that Blood which has so shamefully
betray’d thee, and which will one Day ruin both thy Soul and Body.’--
At these Words _Miranda_, more enrag’d, the nearer she imagin’d her self
to Happiness, made no Reply; but throwing her self, in that Instant,
into the Confessing-Chair, and violently pulling the young Friar into
her Lap, she elevated her Voice to such a Degree, in crying out, _Help,
Help! A Rape! Help, Help!_ that she was heard all over the Church, which
was full of People at the Evening’s Devotion; who flock’d about the Door
of the _Sacristy_, which was shut with a Spring-Lock on the Inside, but
they durst not open the Door.
’Tis easily to be imagin’d, in what Condition our young Friar was, at
this last devilish Stratagem of his wicked Mistress. He strove to break
from those Arms that held him so fast; and his Bustling to get away, and
her’s to retain him, disorder’d her Hair and Habit to such a Degree, as
gave the more Credit to her false Accusation.
The Fathers had a Door on the other Side, by which they usually enter’d,
to dress in this little Room; and at the Report that was in an Instant
made ’em, they hasted thither, and found _Miranda_ and the good Father
very indecently struggling; which they mis-interpreted, as _Miranda_
desir’d; who, all in Tears, immediately threw her self at the Feet of
the Provincial, who was one of those that enter’d; and cry’d, ‘O holy
Father! revenge an innocent Maid, undone and lost to Fame and Honour, by
that vile Monster, born of Goats, nurs’d by Tygers, and bred up on
savage Mountains, where Humanity and Religion are Strangers. For, O holy
Father, could it have enter’d into the Heart of Man, to have done so
barbarous and horrid a Deed, as to attempt the Virgin-Honour of an
unspotted Maid, and one of my Degree, even in the Moment of my
Confession, in that holy Time, when I was prostrate before him and
Heaven, confessing those Sins that press’d my tender Conscience; even
then to load my Soul with the blackest of Infamies, to add to my Number
a Weight that must sink me to Hell? Alas! under the Security of his
innocent Looks, his holy Habit, and his aweful Function, I was led into
this Room to make my Confession; where, he locking the Door, I had no
sooner began, but he gazing on me, took fire at my fatal Beauty; and
starting up, put out the Candles and caught me in his Arms; and raising
me from the Pavement, set me in the Confession-Chair; and then--Oh,
spare me the rest.’
With that a Shower of Tears burst from her fair dissembling Eyes, and
Sobs so naturally acted, and so well manag’d, as left no doubt upon the
good Men, but all she had spoken was Truth.
‘--At first, (_proceeded she_) I was unwilling to bring so great a
Scandal on his Order, to cry out; but struggled as long as I had Breath;
pleaded the Heinousness of the Crime, urging my Quality, and the Danger
of the Attempt. But he, deaf as the Winds, and ruffling as a Storm,
pursu’d his wild Design with so much Force and Insolence, as I at last,
unable to resist, was wholly vanquish’d, robb’d of my native Purity.
With what Life and Breath I had, I call’d for Assistance, both from Men
and Heaven; but oh, alas! your Succours came too late:--You find me here
a wretched, undone, and ravish’d Maid. Revenge me, Fathers; revenge me
on the perfidious Hypocrite, or else give me a Death that may secure
your Cruelty and Injustice from ever being proclaim’d over the World; or
my Tongue will be eternally reproaching you, and cursing the wicked
Author of my Infamy.’
She ended as she began, with a thousand Sighs and Tears; and received
from the Provincial all Assurances of Revenge.
The innocent betray’d Victim, all the while she was speaking, heard her
with an Astonishment that may easily be imagined; yet shew’d no
extravagant Signs of it, as those would do, who feign it, to be thought
innocent; but being really so, he bore with an humble, modest, and
blushing Countenance, all her Accusations; which silent Shame they
mistook for evident Signs of his Guilt.
When the Provincial demanded, with an unwonted Severity in his Eyes and
Voice, what he could answer for himself? calling him Profaner of his
Sacred Vows, and Infamy to the Holy Order; the injur’d, but innocently
accus’d, only reply’d: ‘May Heaven forgive that bad Woman, and bring her
to Repentance! For his Part, he was not so much in Love with Life, as to
use many arguments to justify his Innocence; unless it were to free that
Order from a Scandal, of which he had the Honour to be profess’d. But as
for himself, Life or Death were Things indifferent to him, who heartily
despis’d the World.’
He said no more, and suffer’d himself to be led before the Magistrate;
who committed him to Prison, upon the Accusation of this implacable
Beauty; who, with so much feign’d Sorrow, prosecuted the Matter, even to
his Tryal and Condemnation; where he refus’d to make any great Defence
for himself. But being daily visited by all the Religious, both of his
own and other Orders, they oblig’d him (some of ’em knowing the
Austerity of his Life, others his Cause of Griefs that first brought him
into Orders, and others pretending a nearer Knowledge, even of his Soul
it self) to stand upon his Justification, and discover what he knew of
that wicked Woman; whose Life had not been so exemplary for Virtue, not
to have given the World a thousand Suspicions of her Lewdness and
Prostitutions.
The daily Importunities of these Fathers made him produce her Letters:
But as he had all the Gown-men on his Side, she had all the Hats and
Feathers on her’s; all the Men of Quality taking her Part, and all the
Church-men his. They heard his daily Protestations and Vows, but not a
Word of what passed at Confession was yet discover’d: He held that as a
Secret sacred on his Part; and what was said in Nature of a Confession,
was not to be revealed, though his Life depended on the Discovery. But
as to the Letters, they were forc’d from him, and expos’d; however,
Matters were carry’d with so high a Hand against him, that they serv’d
for no Proof at all of his Innocence, and he was at last condemn’d to be
burn’d at the Market-Place.
After his Sentence was pass’d, the whole Body of Priests made their
Addresses to the Marquis _Castel Roderigo_, the then Governor of
_Flanders_, for a Reprieve; which, after much ado, was granted him for
some Weeks, but with an absolute Denial of Pardon: So prevailing were
the young Cavaliers of his Court, who were all Adorers of this Fair
Jilt.
About this time, while the poor innocent young _Henrick_ was thus
languishing in Prison, in a dark and dismal Dungeon, and _Miranda_,
cured of her Love, was triumphing in her Revenge, expecting and daily
giving new Conquests; and who, by this time, had re-assum’d all her
wonted Gaiety; there was a great Noise about the Town, that a Prince of
mighty Name, and fam’d for all the Excellencies of his Sex, was arriv’d;
a Prince young, and gloriously attended, call’d Prince _Tarquin_.
We had often heard of this great Man, and that he was making his Travels
in _France_ and _Germany_: And we had also heard, that some Years
before, he being about Eighteen Years of Age, in the Time when our King
_Charles_, of blessed Memory, was in _Brussels_, in the last Year of his
Banishment, that all on a sudden, this young Man rose up upon ’em like
the Sun, all glorious and dazling, demanding Place of all the Princes in
that Court. And when his Pretence was demanded, he own’d himself Prince
_Tarquin_, of the Race of the last Kings of _Rome_, made good his Title,
and took his Place accordingly. After that he travell’d for about six
Years up and down the World, and then arriv’d at _Antwerp_, about the
Time of my being sent thither by King _Charles_.
Perhaps there could be nothing seen so magnificent as this Prince: He
was, as I said, extremely handsome, from Head to Foot exactly form’d,
and he wanted nothing that might adorn that native Beauty to the best
Advantage. His Parts were suitable to the rest: He had an Accomplishment
fit for a Prince, an Air haughty, but a Carriage affable, easy in
Conversation, and very entertaining, liberal and good-natur’d, brave and
inoffensive. I have seen him pass the Streets with twelve Footmen, and
four Pages; the Pages all in green Velvet Coats lac’d with Gold, and
white Velvet Tunicks; the Men in Cloth, richly lac’d with Gold; his
Coaches, and all other Officers, suitable to a great Man.
He was all the Discourse of the Town; some laughing at his Title, others
reverencing it: Some cry’d, that he was an Imposter; others, that he had
made his Title as plain, as if _Tarquin_ had reign’d but a Year ago.
Some made Friendships with him, others would have nothing to say to him:
But all wonder’d where his Revenue was, that supported this Grandeur;
and believ’d, tho’ he could make his Descent from the _Roman_ Kings very
well out, that he could not lay so good a Claim to the _Roman_ Land.
Thus every body meddled with what they had nothing to do; and, as in
other Places, thought themselves on the surer Side, if, in these
doubtful Cases, they imagin’d the worst.
But the Men might be of what Opinion they pleas’d concerning him; the
Ladies were all agreed that he was a Prince, and a young handsome
Prince, and a Prince not to be resisted: He had all their Wishes, all
their Eyes, and all their Hearts. They now dress’d only for him; and
what Church he grac’d, was sure, that Day, to have the Beauties, and all
that thought themselves so.
You may believe, our amorous _Miranda_ was not the least Conquest he
made. She no sooner heard of him, which was as soon as he arriv’d, but
she fell in love with his very Name. _Jesu!_--A young King of _Rome!_
Oh, it was so novel, that she doated on the Title; and had not car’d
whether the rest had been Man or Monkey almost: She was resolved to be
the _Lucretia_ that this young _Tarquin_ should ravish.
To this End, she was no sooner up the next Day, but she sent him a
_Billet Doux_, assuring him how much she admired his Fame; and that
being a Stranger in the Town, she begged the Honour of introducing him
to all the _Belle_ Conversations, _&c._ which he took for the Invitation
of some Coquet, who had Interest in fair Ladies; and civilly return’d
her an Answer, that he would wait on her. She had him that Day watched
to Church; and impatient to see what she heard so many People flock to
see, she went also to the same Church; those sanctified Abodes being too
often profaned by such Devotees, whose Business is to ogle and ensnare.
But what a Noise and Humming was heard all over the Church, when
_Tarquin_ enter’d! His Grace, his Mein, his Fashion, his Beauty, his
Dress, and his Equipage surprized all that were present: And by the good
Management and Care of _Miranda_, she got to kneel at the Side of the
Altar, just over against the Prince, so that, if he would, he could not
avoid looking full upon her. She had turned up her Veil, and all her
Face and Shape appear’d such, and so inchanting, as I have described;
and her Beauty heighten’d with Blushes, and her Eyes full of Spirit and
Fire, with Joy, to find the young _Roman_ Monarch so charming, she
appear’d like something more than mortal, and compelled his Eyes to a
fixed gazing on her Face: She never glanc’d that Way, but she met them;
and then would feign so modest a Shame, and cast her Eyes downwards with
such inviting Art, that he was wholly ravished and charmed, and she
over-joy’d to find he was so.
The Ceremony being ended, he sent a Page to follow that Lady Home,
himself pursuing her to the Door of the Church, where he took some holy
Water, and threw upon her, and made her a profound Reverence. She forc’d
an innocent Look, and a modest Gratitude in her Face, and bow’d, and
passed forward, half assur’d of her Conquest; leaving her, to go home to
his Lodging, and impatiently wait the Return of his Page. And all the
Ladies who saw this first Beginning between the Prince and _Miranda_,
began to curse and envy her Charms, who had deprived them of half their
Hopes.
After this, I need not tell you, he made _Miranda_ a Visit; and from
that Day never left her Apartment, but when he went home at Nights, or
unless he had Business; so entirely was he conquer’d by this Fair One.
But the Bishop, and several Men of Quality, in Orders, that profess’d
Friendship to him, advised him from her Company; and spoke several
Things to him, that might (if Love had not made him blind) have
reclaimed him from the Pursuit of his Ruin. But whatever they trusted
him with, she had the Art to wind herself about his Heart, and make him
unravel all his Secrets; and then knew as well, by feign’d Sighs and
Tears, to make him disbelieve all; so that he had no Faith but for her;
and was wholly inchanted and bewitch’d by her. At last, in spite of all
that would have opposed it, he marry’d this famous Woman, possess’d by
so many great Men and Strangers before, while all the World was pitying
his Shame and Misfortunes.
Being marry’d, they took a great House; and as she was indeed a great
Fortune, and now a great Princess, there was nothing wanting that was
agreeable to their Quality; all was splendid and magnificent. But all
this would not acquire them the World’s Esteem; they had an Abhorrence
for her former Life, and despised her; and for his espousing a Woman so
infamous, they despised him. So that though they admir’d, and gazed upon
their Equipage, and glorious Dress, they foresaw the Ruin that attended
it, and paid her Quality little Respect.
She was no sooner married, but her Uncle died; and dividing his Fortune
between _Miranda_ and her Sister, leaves the young Heiress, and all her
Fortune, entirely in the Hands of the Princess.
We will call this Sister _Alcidiana_; she was about fourteen Years of
Age, and now had chosen her Brother, the Prince, for her Guardian. If
_Alcidiana_ were not altogether so great a Beauty as her Sister, she had
Charms sufficient to procure her a great many Lovers, though her Fortune
had not been so considerable as it was; but with that Addition, you may
believe, she wanted no Courtships from those of the best Quality; tho’
every body deplor’d her being under the Tutorage of a Lady so expert in
all the Vices of her Sex, and so cunning a Manager of Sin, as was the
Princess; who, on her Part, failed not, by all the Caresses, and
obliging Endearments, to engage the Mind of this young Maid, and to
subdue her wholly to her Government. All her Senses were eternally
regaled with the most bewitching Pleasures they were capable of: She saw
nothing but Glory and Magnificence, heard nothing but Musick of the
sweetest Sounds; the richest Perfumes employ’d her Smelling; and all she
eat and touch’d was delicate and inviting; and being too young to
consider how this State and Grandeur was to be continu’d, little
imagined her vast Fortune was every Day diminishing, towards its
needless Support.
When the Princess went to Church, she had her Gentleman bare before her,
carrying a great Velvet Cushion, with great Golden Tassels, for her to
kneel on, and her Train borne up a most prodigious Length, led by a
Gentleman Usher, bare; follow’d by innumerable Footmen, Pages, and
Women. And in this State she would walk in the Streets, as in those
Countries it is the Fashion for the great Ladies to do, who are well;
and in her Train two or three Coaches, and perhaps a rich Velvet Chair
embroider’d, would follow in State.
It was thus for some time they liv’d, and the Princess was daily press’d
by young sighing Lovers, for her Consent to marry _Alcidiana_; but she
had still one Art or other to put them off, and so continually broke all
the great Matches that were proposed to her, notwithstanding their
Kindred and other Friends had industriously endeavour’d to make several
great Matches for her; but the Princess was still positive in her
Denial, and one Way or other broke all. At last it happened, there was
one proposed, yet more advantageous, a young Count, with whom the young
Maid grew passionately in Love, and besought her Sister to consent that
she might have him, and got the Prince to speak in her Behalf; but he
had no sooner heard the secret Reasons _Miranda_ gave him, but (entirely
her Slave) he chang’d his Mind, and suited it to hers, and she, as
before, broke off that Amour: Which so extremely incensed _Alcidiana_,
that she, taking an Opportunity, got from her Guard, and ran away,
putting her self into the Hands of a wealthy Merchant, her Kinsman, and
one who bore the greatest Authority in the City; him she chuses for her
Guardian, resolving to be no longer a Slave to the Tyranny of her
Sister. And so well she ordered Matters, that she writ this young
Cavalier, her last Lover, and retrieved him; who came back to _Antwerp_
again, to renew his Courtship.
Both Parties being agreed, it was no hard Matter to persuade all but the
Princess. But though she opposed it, it was resolved on, and the Day
appointed for Marriage, and the Portion demanded; demanded only, but
never to be paid, the best Part of it being spent. However, she put them
off from Day to Day, by a thousand frivolous Delays; and when she saw
they would have Recourse to Force, and all that her Magnificence would
be at an End, if the Law should prevail against her; and that without
this Sister’s Fortune, she could not long support her Grandeur; she
bethought herself of a Means to make it all her own, by getting her
Sister made away; but she being out of her Tuition, she was not able to
accomplish so great a Deed of Darkness. But since it was resolved it
must be done, she contrives a thousand Stratagems; and at last pitches
upon an effectual one.
She had a Page call’d _Van Brune_, a Youth of great Address and Wit, and
one she had long managed for her Purpose. This Youth was about seventeen
Years of Age, and extremely beautiful; and in the Time when _Alcidiana_
lived with the Princess, she was a little in Love with this handsome
Boy; but it was checked in its Infancy, and never grew up to a Flame:
Nevertheless, _Alcidiana_ retained still a sort of Tenderness for him,
while he burn’d in good Earnest with Love for the Princess.
The Princess one Day ordering this Page to wait on her in her Closet,
she shut the Door; and after a thousand Questions of what he would
undertake to serve her, the amorous Boy finding himself alone, and
caress’d by the fair Person he ador’d, with joyful Blushes that
beautify’d his Face, told her, ‘There was nothing upon Earth, he would
not do, to obey her least Commands.’ She grew more familiar with him, to
oblige him; and seeing Love dance in his Eyes, of which she was so good
a Judge, she treated him more like a Lover, than a Servant; till at last
the ravished Youth, wholly transported out of himself, fell at her Feet,
and impatiently implor’d to receive her Commands quickly, that he might
fly to execute them; for he was not able to bear her charming Words,
Looks, and Touches, and retain his Duty. At this she smil’d, and told
him, the Work was of such a Nature, as would mortify all Flames about
him; and he would have more Need of Rage, Envy, and Malice, than the
Aids of a Passion so soft as what she now found him capable of. He
assur’d her, he would stick at nothing, tho’ even against his Nature, to
recompense for the Boldness he now, through his Indiscretion, had
discover’d. She smiling, told him, he had committed no Fault; and that
possibly, the Pay he should receive for the Service she required at his
Hands, should be--what he most wish’d for in the World. At this he bow’d
to the Earth; and kissing her Feet, bad her command: And then she boldly
told him, _’Twas to kill her Sister_ Alcidiana. The Youth, without so
much as starting or pausing upon the Matter, told her, _It should be
done_; and bowing low, immediately went out of the Closet. She call’d
him back, and would have given him some Instruction; but he refused it,
and said, ‘The Action and the Contrivance should be all his own.’ And
offering to go again, she--again recalled him; putting into his Hand a
Purse of a hundred Pistoles, which he took, and with a low Bow departed.
He no sooner left her Presence, but he goes directly, and buys a Dose of
Poison, and went immediately to the House where _Alcidiana_ lived; where
desiring to be brought to her Presence, he fell a weeping; and told her,
his Lady had fallen out with him, and dismissed him her Service, and
since from a Child he had been brought up in the Family, he humbly
besought _Alcidiana_ to receive him into hers, she being in a few Days
to be marry’d. There needed not much Intreaty to a Thing that pleased
her so well, and she immediately received him to Pension: And he waited
some Days on her, before he could get an Opportunity to administer his
devilish Potion. But one Night, when she drank Wine with roasted Apples,
which was usual with her; instead of Sugar, or with the Sugar, the
baneful Drug was mixed, and she drank it down.
About this Time, there was a great Talk of this Page’s coming from one
Sister, to go to the other. And Prince _Tarquin_, who was ignorant of
the Design from the Beginning to the End, hearing some Men of Quality at
his Table speaking of _Van Brune’s_ Change of Place (the Princess then
keeping her Chamber upon some trifling Indisposition) he answer’d, ‘That
surely they were mistaken, that he was not dismissed from the Princess’s
Service:’ And calling some of his Servants, he asked for _Van Brune_;
and whether any Thing had happen’d between her Highness and him, that
had occasion’d his being turned off. They all seem’d ignorant of this
Matter; and those who had spoken of it, began to fancy there was some
Juggle in the Case, which Time would bring to Light.
The ensuing Day ’twas all about the Town, that _Alcidiana_ was poison’d;
and though not dead, yet very near it; and that the Doctors said, she
had taken Mercury. So that there was never so formidable a Sight as this
fair young Creature; her Head and Body swoln, her Eyes starting out, her
Face black, and all deformed: So that diligent Search was made, who it
should be that did this; who gave her Drink and Meat. The Cook and
Butler were examined, the Footman called to an Account; but all
concluded, she received nothing but from the Hand of her new Page, since
he came into her Service. He was examined, and shew’d a thousand guilty
Looks: And the Apothecary, then attending among the Doctors, proved he
had bought Mercury of him three or four Days before; which he could not
deny; and making many Excuses for his buying it, betray’d him the more;
so ill he chanced to dissemble. He was immediately sent to be examined
by the Margrave or Justice, who made his _Mittimus_, and sent him to
Prison.
’Tis easy to imagine, in what Fears and Confusion the Princess was at
this News: She took her Chamber upon it, more to hide her guilty Face,
than for any Indisposition. And the Doctors apply’d such Remedies to
_Alcidiana_, such Antidotes against the Poison, that in a short Time she
recover’d; but lost the finest Hair in the World, and the Complexion of
her Face ever after.
It was not long before the Trials for Criminals came on; and the Day
being arrived, _Van Brune_ was try’d the first of all; every Body having
already read his Destiny, according as they wished it; and none would
believe, but just indeed as it was: So that for the Revenge they hoped
to see fall upon the Princess, every one wished he might find no Mercy,
that she might share of his Shame and Misery.
The Sessions-House was filled that Day with all the Ladies, and chief of
the Town, to hear the Result of his Trial; and the sad Youth was
brought, loaded with Chains, and pale as Death; where every Circumstance
being sufficiently proved against him, and he making but a weak Defence
for himself, he was convicted, and sent back to Prison, to receive his
Sentence of Death on the Morrow; where he owned all, and who set him on
to do it. He own’d ’twas not Reward of Gain he did it for, but Hope he
should command at his Pleasure the Possession of his Mistress, the
Princess, who should deny him nothing, after having entrusted him with
so great a Secret; and that besides, she had elevated him with the
Promise of that glorious Reward, and had dazzled his young Heart with so
charming a Prospect, that blind and mad with Joy, he rushed forward to
gain the desired Prize, and thought on nothing but his coming Happiness:
That he saw too late the Follies of his presumptuous Flame, and cursed
the deluding Flatteries of the fair Hypocrite, who had soothed him to
his Undoing: That he was a miserable Victim to her Wickedness; and hoped
he should warn all young Men, by his Fall, to avoid the Dissimulation of
the deceiving Fair: That he hoped they would have Pity on his Youth, and
attribute his Crime to the subtle Persuasions alone of his Mistress the
Princess: And that since _Alcidiana_ was not dead, they would grant him
Mercy, and permit him to live to repent of his grievous Crime, in some
Part of the World, whither they might banish him.
He ended with Tears, that fell in abundance from his Eyes; and
immediately the Princess was apprehended, and brought to Prison, to the
same Prison where yet the poor young Father _Francisco_ was languishing,
he having been from Week to Week reprieved, by the Intercession of the
Fathers; and possibly she there had Time to make some Reflections.
You may imagine _Tarquin_ left no Means unessay’d, to prevent the
Imprisonment of the Princess, and the publick Shame and Infamy she was
likely to undergo in this Affair: But the whole City being over-joy’d
that she should be punished, as an Author of all this Mischief, were
generally bent against her, both Priests, Magistrates and People; the
whole Force of the Stream running that Way, she found no more Favour
than the meanest Criminal. The Prince therefore, when he saw ’twas
impossible to rescue her from the Hands of Justice, suffer’d with Grief
unspeakable, what he could not prevent, and led her himself to the
Prison, follow’d by all his People, in as much State as if he had been
going to his Marriage; where, when she came, she was as well attended
and served as before, he never stirring one Moment from her.
The next Day, she was tried in open and common Court; where she appeared
in Glory, led by _Tarquin_, and attended according to her Quality: And
she could not deny all the Page had alledged against her, who was
brought thither also in Chains; and after a great many Circumstances,
she was found Guilty, and both received Sentence; the Page to be hanged
till he was dead, on a Gibbet in the Market-Place; and the Princess to
stand under the Gibbet, with a Rope about her Neck, the other End of
which was to be fastned to the Gibbet where the Page was hanging; and to
have an Inscription, in large Characters, upon her Back and Breast, of
the Cause why; where she was to stand from ten in the Morning to twelve.
This Sentence, the People with one Accord, believed too favourable for
so ill a Woman, whose Crimes deserved Death, equal to that of _Van
Brune_. Nevertheless, there were some who said, it was infinitely more
severe than Death it self.
The following _Friday_ was the Day of Execution, and one need not tell
of the Abundance of People, who were flocked together in the
Market-Place: And all the Windows were taken down, and filled with
Spectators, and the Tops of Houses; when at the Hour appointed, the
fatal Beauty appear’d. She was dress’d in a black Velvet Gown, with a
rich Row of Diamonds all down the fore Part of her Breast, and a great
Knot of Diamonds at the Peak behind; and a Petticoat of flower’d Gold,
very rich, and laced; with all Things else suitable. A Gentleman carry’d
her great Velvet Cushion before her, on which her Prayer-Book,
embroider’d, was laid; her Train was borne up by a Page, and the Prince
led her, bare; followed by his Footmen, Pages, and other Officers of his
House.
When they arrived at the Place of Execution, the Cushion was laid on the
Ground, upon a _Portugal_ Mat, spread there for that Purpose; and the
Princess stood on the Cushion, with her Prayer-Book in her Hand, and a
Priest by her Side; and was accordingly tied up to the Gibbet.
She had not stood there ten Minutes, but she had the Mortification
(at least one would think it so to her) to see her sad Page, _Van
Brune_, approach, fair as an Angel, but languishing and pale. That Sight
moved all the Beholders with as much Pity, as that of the Princess did
with Disdain and Pleasure.
He was dressed all in Mourning, and very fine Linen, bare-headed, with
his own Hair, the fairest that could be seen, hanging all in Curls on
his Back and Shoulders, very long. He had a Prayer-Book of black Velvet
in his Hand, and behaved himself with much Penitence and Devotion.
When he came under the Gibbet, he seeing his Mistress in that Condition,
shew’d an infinite Concern, and his fair Face was cover’d over with
Blushes; and falling at her Feet, he humbly ask’d her Pardon for having
been the Occasion of so great an Infamy to her, by a weak Confession,
which the Fears of Youth, and Hopes of Life, had obliged him to make, so
greatly to her Dishonour; for indeed he wanted that manly Strength, to
bear the Efforts of dying, as he ought, in Silence, rather than of
commiting so great a Crime against his Duty, and Honour itself; and that
he could not die in Peace, unless she would forgive him. The Princess
only nodded her Head, and cried, _I do_--
And after having spoken a little to his Father-Confessor, who was with
him, he chearfully mounted the Ladder, and in Sight of the Princess he
was turned off, while a loud Cry was heard thro’ all the Market-Place,
especially from the Fair Sex; he hanged there till the Time the Princess
was to depart; and then she was put into a rich embroider’d Chair, and
carry’d away, _Tarquin_ going into his, for he had all that Time stood
supporting the Princess under the Gallows, and was very weary. She was
sent back, till her Releasement came, which was that Night about seven
o’Clock; and then she was conducted to her own House in great State,
with a Dozen White Wax Flambeaux about her Chair.
If the Guardian of _Alcidiana_, and her Friends, before were impatient
of having the Portion out of the Hands of these Extravagants, it is not
to be imagined, but they were now much more so; and the next Day they
sent an Officer, according to Law, to demand it, or to summon the Prince
to give Reasons why he would not pay it. The Officer received for
Answer, That the Money should be call’d in, and paid in such a Time,
setting a certain Time, which I have not been so curious as to retain,
or put in my Journal-Observations; but I am sure it was not long, as may
be easily imagin’d, for they every Moment suspected the Prince would
pack up, and be gone, some time or other, on the sudden; and for that
Reason they would not trust him without Bail, or two Officers to remain
in his House, to watch that nothing should be remov’d or touch’d. As for
Bail, or Security, he could give none; every one slunk their Heads out
of the Collar, when it came to that: So that he was oblig’d, at his own
Expence, to maintain Officers in his House.
The Princess finding her self reduced to the last Extremity, and that
she must either produce the Value of a hundred thousand Crowns, or see
the Prince her Husband lodged for ever in a Prison, and all their Glory
vanish; and that it was impossible to fly, since guarded; she had
Recourse to an Extremity, worse than the Affair of _Van Brune_. And in
order to this, she first puts on a world of Sorrow and Concern, for what
she feared might arrive to the Prince: And indeed, if ever she shed
Tears which she did not dissemble, it was upon this Occasion. But here
she almost over-acted: She stirred not from her Bed, and refused to eat,
or sleep, or see the Light; so that the Day being shut out of her
Chamber, she lived by Wax-lights, and refus’d all Comfort and
Consolation.
The Prince, all raving with Love, tender Compassion and Grief, never
stirred from her Bed-side, nor ceas’d to implore, that she would suffer
herself to live. But she, who was not now so passionately in Love with
_Tarquin_, as she was with the Prince; nor so fond of the Man as his
Titles, and of Glory; foresaw the total Ruin of the last, if not
prevented by avoiding the Payment of this great Sum; which could not
otherwise be, than by the Death of _Alcidiana_: And therefore, without
ceasing, she wept, and cry’d out, ‘She could not live, unless
_Alcidiana_ died. This _Alcidiana_ (_continued she_) who has been the
Author of my Shame; who has expos’d me under a Gibbet, in the Publick
Market-Place--Oh!--I am deaf to all Reason, blind to natural Affection.
I renounce her, I hate her as my mortal Foe, my Stop to Glory, and the
Finisher of my Days, e’er half my Race of Life be run.’
Then throwing her false, but snowy, charming Arms about the Neck her
Heart-breaking Lord, and Lover, who lay sighing, and listening by her
Side, he was charmed and bewitch’d into saying all Things that appeased
her; and lastly, told her, ‘_Alcidiana_ should be no longer any Obstacle
to her Repose; but that, if she would look up, and cast her Eyes of
Sweetness and Love upon him, as heretofore; forget her Sorrow, and
redeem her lost Health; he would take what Measures she should propose
to dispatch this fatal Stop to her Happiness, out of the Way.’
These Words failed not to make her caress him in the most endearing
Manner that Love and Flattery could invent; and she kiss’d him to an
Oath, a solemn Oath, to perform what he had promised; and he vow’d
liberally. And she assumed in an Instant her Good-Humour, and suffer’d a
Supper to be prepared, and did eat; which in many Days before she had
not done: So obstinate and powerful was she in dissembling well.
The next Thing to be consider’d was, which Way this Deed was to be done;
for they doubted not, but when it was done, all the World would lay it
upon the Princess, as done by her Command: But she urged, Suspicion was
no Proof; and that they never put to Death any one, but when they had
great and certain Evidence who were the Offenders. She was sure of her
own Constancy, that Racks and Tortures should never get the Secret from
her Breast; and if he were as confident on his Part, there was no
Danger. Yet this Preparation she made towards laying the Fact on others,
that she caused several Letters to be wrote from _Germany_, as from the
Relations of _Van Brune_, who threaten’d _Alcidiana_ with Death, for
depriving their Kinsman (who was a Gentleman) of his Life, though he had
not taken away hers. And it was the Report of the Town, how this young
Maid was threaten’d. And indeed, the Death of the Page had so afflicted
a great many, that _Alcidiana_ had procured her self abundance of
Enemies upon that Account, because she might have saved him if she had
pleased; but, on the contrary, she was a Spectator, and in full Health
and Vigour, at his Execution: And People were not so much concerned for
her at this Report, as they would have been.
The Prince, who now had, by reasoning the Matter soberly with _Miranda_,
found it absolutely necessary to dispatch _Alcidiana_, resolved himself,
and with his own Hand, to execute it; not daring to trust to any of his
most favourite Servants, though he had many, who possibly would have
obey’d him; for they loved him as he deserved, and so would all the
World, had he not been so purely deluded by this fair Enchantress. He
therefore, as I said, resolved to keep this great Secret to himself; and
taking a Pistol, charged well with two Bullets, he watch’d an
Opportunity to shoot her as she should go out or into her House, or
Coach, some Evening.
To this End he waited several Nights near her Lodgings, but still,
either she went not out, or when she return’d, she was so guarded with
Friends, her Lover, and Flambeaux, that he could not aim at her without
endangering the Life of some other. But one Night above the rest, upon a
_Sunday_, when he knew she would be at the Theatre, for she never missed
that Day seeing the Play, he waited at the Corner of the Stadt-House,
near the Theatre, with his Cloak cast over his Face, and a black
Periwig, all alone, with his Pistol ready cock’d; and remain’d not very
long but he saw her Kinsman’s Coach come along; ’twas almost dark, Day
was just shutting up her Beauties, and left such a Light to govern the
World, as serv’d only just to distinguish one Object from another, and a
convenient Help to Mischief. He saw alight out of the Coach only one
young Lady, the Lover, and then the destin’d Victim; which he (drawing
near) knew rather by her Tongue than Shape. The Lady ran into the
Play-House, and left _Alcidiana_ to be conducted by her Lover into it:
Who led her to the Door, and went to give some Order to the Coachman; so
that the Lover was about twenty Yards from _Alcidiana_; when she stood
the fairest Mark in the World, on the Threshold of the Entrance of the
Theatre, there being many Coaches about the Door, so that hers could not
come so near. _Tarquin_ was resolved not to lose so fair an Opportunity,
and advanc’d, but went behind the Coaches; and when he came over-against
the Door, through a great booted Velvet Coach, that stood between him
and her, he shot; and she having the Train of her Gown and Petticoat on
her Arm, in great Quantity, he missed her Body, and shot through her
Clothes, between her Arm and her Body. She, frighten’d to find something
hit her, and to see the Smoke, and hear the Report of the Pistol;
running in, cried, _I am shot, I am dead._
This Noise quickly alarm’d her Lover; and all the Coachmen and Footmen
immediately ran, some one Way, and some another. One of ’em seeing a Man
haste away in a Cloak; he being a lusty, bold _German_, stopped him; and
drawing upon him, bad him stand, and deliver his Pistol, or he would run
him through.
_Tarquin_ being surprised at the Boldness of this Fellow to demand his
Pistol, as if he positively knew him to be the Murderer (for so he
thought himself, since he believed _Alcidiana_ dead) had so much
Presence of Mind as to consider, if he suffered himself to be taken, he
should poorly die a publick Death; and therefore resolv’d upon one
Mischief more, to secure himself from the first: And in the Moment that
the _German_ bad him deliver his Pistol, he cried, _Though I have no
Pistol to deliver, I have a Sword to chastise thy Insolence_. And
throwing off his Cloak, and flinging his Pistol from him, he drew, and
wounded, and disarmed the Fellow.
This Noise of Swords brought every body to the Place; and immediately
the Bruit ran, _The Murderer was taken, the Murderer was taken_; Tho’
none knew which was he, nor as yet so much as the Cause of the Quarrel
between the two fighting Men; for it was now darker than before. But at
the Noise of the Murderer being taken, the Lover of _Alcidiana_, who by
this Time found his Lady unhurt, all but the Trains of her Gown and
Petticoat, came running to the Place, just as _Tarquin_ had disarm’d the
_German_, and was ready to kill him; when laying hold of his Arm, they
arrested the Stroke, and redeemed the Footman.
They then demanded who this Stranger was, at whose Mercy the Fellow lay;
but the Prince, who now found himself venturing for his last Stake, made
no Reply; but with two Swords in his Hands went to fight his Way through
the Rabble; And tho’ there were above a hundred Persons, some with
Swords, others with long Whips, (as Coachmen) so invincible was the
Courage of this poor unfortunate Gentleman at that Time, that all these
were not able to seize him; but he made his Way through the Ring that
encompassed him, and ran away; but was, however, so closely pursued, the
Company still gathering as they ran, that toiled with fighting,
oppressed with Guilt, and Fear of being taken, he grew fainter and
fainter, and suffered himself, at last, to yield to his Pursuers, who
soon found him to be Prince _Tarquin_ in Disguise: And they carry’d him
directly to Prison, being _Sunday_, to wait the coming Day, to go before
a Magistrate.
In an Hour’s Time the whole fatal Adventure was carried all over the
City, and every one knew that _Tarquin_ was the intended Murderer of
_Alcidiana_; and not one but had a real Sorrow and Compassion for him.
They heard how bravely he had defended himself, how many he had wounded
before he could be taken, and what numbers he had fought through: And
even those that saw his Valour and Bravery, and who had assisted at his
being seiz’d, now repented from the Bottom of their Hearts their having
any Hand in the Ruin of so gallant a Man; especially since they knew the
Lady was not hurt. A thousand Addresses were made to her, not to
prosecute him; but her Lover, a hot-headed Fellow, more fierce than
brave, would by no Means be pacified, but vowed to pursue him to the
Scaffold.
The _Monday_ came, and the Prince being examined, confessed the Matter
of Fact, since there was no Harm done; believing a generous Confession
the best of his Game: But he was sent back to closer Imprisonment,
loaded with Irons, to expect the next Sessions. All his Household-Goods
were seiz’d, and all they could find, for the Use of _Alcidiana_. And
the Princess, all in Rage, tearing her Hair, was carried to the same
Prison, to behold the cruel Effects of her hellish Designs.
One need not tell here how sad and horrid this Meeting appear’d between
her Lord and her: Let it suffice, it was the most melancholy and
mortifying Object that ever Eyes beheld. On _Miranda’s_ Part, ’twas
sometimes all Rage and Fire, and sometimes all Tears and Groans; but
still ’twas sad Love, and mournful Tenderness on his. Nor could all his
Sufferings, and the Prospect of Death itself, drive from his Soul one
Spark of that Fire the obstinate God had fatally kindled there: And in
the midst of all his Sighs, he would re-call himself, and cry,--_I have
+Miranda+ still._
He was eternally visited by his Friends and Acquaintance; and this last
Action of Bravery had got him more than all his former Conduct had lost.
The Fathers were perpetually with him; and all join’d with one common
Voice in this, That he ought to abandon a Woman so wicked as the
Princess; and that however Fate dealt with him, he could not shew
himself a true Penitent, while he laid the Author of so much Evil in his
Bosom: That Heaven would never bless him, till he had renounced her: And
on such Conditions he would find those that would employ their utmost
Interest to save his Life, who else would not stir in this Affair. But
he was so deaf to all, that he could not so much as dissemble a
Repentance for having married her.
He lay a long Time in Prison, and all that Time the poor Father
_Francisco_ remained there also: And the good Fathers who daily visited
these two amorous Prisoners, the Prince and Princess; and who found, by
the Management of Matters, it would go very hard with _Tarquin_,
entertained ’em often with holy Matters relating to the Life to come;
from which, before his Trial, he gathered what his Stars had appointed,
and that he was destin’d to die.
This gave an unspeakable Torment to the now repenting Beauty, who had
reduced him to it; and she began to appear with a more solid Grief:
Which being perceived by the good Fathers, they resolved to attack her
on the yielding Side; and after some Discourse upon the Judgment for
Sin, they came to reflect on the Business of Father _Francisco_; and
told her, she had never thriven since her accusing of that Father, and
laid it very home to her Conscience; assuring her that they would do
their utmost in her Service, if she would confess that secret Sin to all
the World, so that she might atone for the Crime, by the saving that
good Man. At first she seemed inclined to yield; but Shame of being her
own Detector, in so vile a Matter, recalled her Goodness, and she
faintly persisted in it.
At the End of six Months, Prince _Tarquin_ was called to his Tryal;
where I will pass over the Circumstances, which are only what is usual
in such criminal Cases, and tell you, that he being found guilty of the
Intent of killing _Alcidiana_, was condemned to lose his Head in the
Market-Place, and the Princess to be banished her Country.
After Sentence pronounced, to the real Grief of all the Spectators, he
was carry’d back to Prison, and now the Fathers attack her anew; and
she, whose Griefs daily encreased, with a Languishment that brought her
very near her Grave, at last confess’d all her Life, all the Lewdness of
her Practices with several Princes and great Men, besides her Lusts with
People that served her, and others in mean Capacity: And lastly, the
whole Truth of the young Friar; and how she had drawn the Page, and the
Prince her Husband, to this design’d Murder of her Sister. This she
signed with her Hand, in the Presence of the Prince, her Husband, and
several Holy Men who were present. Which being signify’d to the
Magistrates, the Friar was immediately deliver’d from his Irons (where
he had languished more than two whole Years) in great Triumph, with much
Honour, and lives a most exemplary pious Life, as he did before; for he
is now living in _Antwerp_.
After the Condemnation of these two unfortunate Persons, who begot such
different Sentiments in the Minds of the People (the Prince, all the
Compassion and Pity imaginable; and the Princess, all the Contempt and
Despite;) they languished almost six Months longer in Prison; so great
an Interest there was made, in order to the saving his Life, by all the
Men of the Robe. On the other side, the Princes, and great Men of all
Nations, who were at the Court of _Brussels_, who bore a secret Revenge
in their Hearts against a Man who had, as they pretended, set up a false
Title, only to take Place of them; who indeed was but a Merchant’s Son
of _Holland_, as they said; so incens’d them against him, that they were
too hard at Court for the Church-men. However, this Dispute gave the
Prince his Life some Months longer than was expected; which gave him
also some Hope, that a Reprieve for ninety Years would have been
granted, as was desired. Nay, Father _Francisco_ so interested himself
in this Concern, that he writ to his Father, and several Princes of
_Germany_, with whom the Marquis _Castel Roderigo_ was well acquainted,
to intercede with him for the saving of _Tarquin_; since ’twas more by
his Persuasions, than those of all who attacked her, that made _Miranda_
confess the Truth of her Affair with him. But at the End of six Months,
when all Applications were found fruitless and vain, the Prince receiv’d
News, that in two Days he was to die, as his Sentence had been before
pronounced, and for which he prepared himself with all Chearfulness.
On the following _Friday_, as soon as it was light, all People of any
Condition came to take their Leaves of him; and none departed with dry
Eyes, or Hearts unconcern’d to the last Degree: For _Tarquin_, when he
found his Fate inevitable bore it with a Fortitude that shewed no Signs
of Regret; but address’d himself to all about him with the same
chearful, modest, and great Air, he was wont to do in his most
flourishing Fortune. His Valet was dressing him all the Morning, so many
Interruptions they had by Visitors; and he was all in Mourning, and so
were all his Followers; for even to the last he kept up his Grandeur, to
the Amazement of all People. And indeed, he was so passionately belov’d
by them, that those he had dismiss’d, serv’d him voluntarily, and would
not be persuaded to abandon him while he liv’d.
The Princess was also dress’d in Mourning, and her two Women; and
notwithstanding the unheard-of Lewdness and Villanies she had confess’d
of her self, the Prince still ador’d her; for she had still those Charms
that made him first do so; nor, to his last Moment, could he be brought
to wish, that he had never seen her; but on the contrary, as a Man yet
vainly proud of his Fetters, he said, ‘All the Satisfaction this short
Moment of Life could afford him, was, that he died in endeavouring to
serve _Miranda_, his adorable Princess.’
After he had taken Leave of all, who thought it necessary to leave him
to himself for some Time, he retir’d with his Confessor; where they were
about an Hour in Prayer, all the Ceremonies of Devotion that were fit to
be done, being already past. At last the Bell toll’d, and he was to take
Leave of the Princess, as his last Work of Life, and the most hard he
had to accomplish. He threw himself at her Feet, and gazing on her as
she sat more dead than alive, overwhelm’d with silent Grief, they both
remain’d some Moments speechless; and then, as if one rising Tide of
Tears had supply’d both their Eyes, it burst out in Streams at the same
Instant: and when his Sighs gave Way, he utter’d a thousand Farewels, so
soft, so passionate, and moving, that all who were by were extremely
touch’d with it, and said, _That nothing could be seen more deplorable
and melancholy_. A thousand Times they bad Farewel, and still some
tender Look, or Word, would prevent his going; then embrace, and bid
Farewel again. A thousand Times she ask’d his Pardon for being the
Occasion of that fatal Separation; a thousand Times assuring him, she
would follow him, for she could not live without him. And Heaven knows
when their soft and sad Caresses would have ended, had not the Officers
assur’d him ’twas Time to mount the Scaffold. At which Words the
Princess fell fainting in the Arms of her Woman, and they led _Tarquin_
out of Prison.
When he came to the Market-Place, whither he walked on Foot, follow’d by
his own Domesticks, and some bearing a black Velvet Coffin with Silver
Hinges; the Head’s-man before him with his fatal Scimiter drawn, his
Confessor by his Side, and many Gentlemen and Church-men, with Father
_Francisco_ attending him, the People showring Millions of Blessings on
him, and beholding him with weeping Eyes, he mounted the Scaffold; which
was strewed with some Saw-dust, about the Place where he was to kneel,
to receive the Blood: For they behead People kneeling, and with the
Back-Stroak of a Scimiter; and not lying on a Block, and with an Axe, as
we in _England_. The Scaffold had a low Rail about it, that every body
might more conveniently see. This was hung with black, and all that
State that such a Death could have, was here in most decent Order.
He did not say much upon the Scaffold: The Sum of what he said to his
Friends was, to be kind, and take Care of the poor Penitent his Wife: To
others, recommending his honest and generous Servants, whose Fidelity
was so well known and commended, that they were soon promised
Preferment. He was some time in Prayer, and a very short time in
speaking to his Confessor; then he turned to the Head’s-man, and desired
him to do his Office well, and gave him twenty _Louis d’Ors_; and
undressing himself with the Help of his Valet and Page, he pull’d off
his Coat, and had underneath a white Sattin Waistcoat: He took off his
Periwig, and put on a white Sattin Cap, with a Holland one done with
Point under it, which he pulled over his Eyes; then took a chearful
Leave of all, and kneel’d down, and said, ‘When he lifted up his Hands
the third Time, the Head’s-man should do his Office.’ Which accordingly
was done, and the Head’s-man gave him his last Stroke, and the Prince
fell on the Scaffold. The People with one common Voice, as if it had
been but one entire one, pray’d for his Soul; and Murmurs of Sighs were
heard from the whole Multitude, who scrambled for some of the bloody
Saw-dust, to keep for his Memory.
The Head’s-man going to take up the Head, as the Manner is, to shew it
to the People, he found he had not struck it off, and that the Body
stirr’d; with that he stepped to an Engine, which they always carry with
’em, to force those who may be refractory; thinking, as he said, to have
twisted the Head from the Shoulders, conceiving it to hang but by a
small Matter of Flesh. Tho’ ’twas an odd Shift of the Fellow’s, yet
’twas done, and the best Shift he could suddenly propose. The Margrave,
and another Officer, old Men, were on the Scaffold, with some of the
Prince’s Friends, and Servants; who seeing the Head’s-man put the Engine
about the Neck of the Prince, began to call out, and the People made a
great Noise. The Prince, who found himself yet alive; or rather, who was
past thinking but had some Sense of Feeling left, when the Head’s-man
took him up, and set his Back against the Rail, and clapp’d the Engine
about his Neck, got his two Thumbs between the Rope and his Neck,
feeling himself press’d there; and struggling between Life and Death,
and bending himself over the Rail backward, while the Head’s-man pulled
forward, he threw himself quite over the Rail, by Chance, and not
Design, and fell upon the Heads and Shoulders of the People, who were
crying out with amazing Shouts of Joy. The Head’s-man leap’d after him,
but the Rabble had lik’d to have pull’d him to Pieces: All the City was
in an Uproar, but none knew what the Matter was, but those who bore the
Body of the Prince, whom they found yet living; but how, or by what
strange Miracle preserv’d, they knew not, nor did examine; but with one
Accord, as if the whole Crowd had been one Body, and had had but one
Motion, they bore the Prince on their Heads about a hundred Yards from
the Scaffold, where there is a Monastery of Jesuits; and there they
secur’d him. All this was done, his beheading, his falling, and his
being secur’d, almost in a Moment’s Time; the People rejoiceing, as at
some extraordinary Victory won. One of the Officers being, as I said, an
old timorous Man, was so frighten’d at the Accident, the Bustle, the
Noise, and the Confusion, of which he was wholly ignorant, that he dy’d
with Amazement and Fear; and the other was fain to be let blood.
The Officers of Justice went to demand the Prisoner, but they demanded
in vain; the Jesuits had now a Right to protect him, and would do so.
All his overjoy’d Friends went to see in what Condition he was, and all
of Quality found Admittance: They saw him in Bed, going to be dress’d by
the most skilful Surgeons, who yet could not assure him of Life. They
desired no body should speak to him, or ask him any Questions. They
found that the Head’s-man had struck him too low, and had cut him into
the Shoulder-bone. A very great Wound, you may be sure; for the Sword,
in such Executions, carries an extreme Force: However, so great Care was
taken on all Sides, and so greatly the Fathers were concern’d for him,
that they found an Amendment, and Hopes of a good Effect of their
incomparable Charity and Goodness.
At last, when he was permitted to speak, the first News he ask’d was
after the Princess. And his Friends were very much afflicted to find,
that all his Loss of Blood had not quenched that Flame, not let out that
which made him still love that bad Woman. He was sollicited daily to
think no more of her: And all her Crimes are laid so open to him, and so
shamefully represented; and on the other Side, his Virtues so admir’d;
and which, they said, would have been eternally celebrated, but for his
Folly with this infamous Creature; that at last, by assuring him of all
their Assistance if he abandon’d her; and to renounce him, and deliver
him up, if he did not; they wrought so far upon him, as to promise, he
would suffer her to go alone into Banishment, and would not follow her,
or live with her any more. But alas! this was but his Gratitude that
compell’d this Complaisance, for in his Heart he resolv’d never to
abandon her; nor was he able to live, and think of doing it: However,
his Reason assur’d him, he could not do a Deed more justifiable, and one
that would regain his Fame sooner.
His Friends ask’d him some Questions concerning his Escape; and since he
was not beheaded, but only wounded, why he did not immediately rise up?
But he replied, he was so absolutely prepossessed, that at the third
lifting up his Hands he should receive the Stroke of Death, that at the
same Instant the Sword touch’d him, he had no Sense; nay, not even of
Pain, so absolutely dead he was with Imagination; and knew not that he
stirr’d, as the Head’s-man found he did; nor did he remember any Thing,
from the lifting up of his Hands, to his fall; and then awaken’d, as out
of a Dream, or rather a Moment’s Sleep without Dream, he found he liv’d,
and wonder’d what was arriv’d to him, or how he came to live; having
not, as yet, any Sense of his Wound, tho’ so terrible an one.
After this, _Alcidiana_, who was extremely afflicted for having been the
Prosecutor of this great Man; who, bating this last Design against her,
which she knew was at the Instigation of her Sister, had oblig’d her
with all the Civility imaginable; now sought all Means possible of
getting his Pardon, and that of her Sister; tho’ of an hundred thousand
Crowns, which she should have paid her, she could get but ten thousand;
which was from the Sale of her rich Beds, and some other Furniture. So
that the young Count, who before should have marry’d her, now went off
for want of Fortune; and a young Merchant (perhaps the best of the two)
was the Man to whom she was destin’d.
At last, by great Intercession, both their Pardons were obtain’d; and
the Prince, who would be no more seen in a Place that had prov’d every
way so fatal to him, left _Flanders_, promising never to live with the
Fair Hypocrite more; but e’er he departed, he wrote her a Letter,
wherein he order’d her, in a little Time, to follow him into _Holland_;
and left a Bill of Exchange with one of his trusty Servants, whom he had
left to wait upon her, for Money for her Accommodation; so that she was
now reduced to one Woman, one Page, and this Gentleman. The Prince, in
this Time of his Imprisonment, had several Bills of great Sums from his
Father, who was exceeding rich, and this all the Children he had in the
World, and whom he tenderly loved.
As soon as _Miranda_ was come into _Holland_, she was welcom’d with all
imaginable Respect and Endearment by the old Father; who was impos’d
upon so, as that he knew not she was the fatal Occasion of all these
Disasters to his Son; but rather look’d on her as a Woman, who had
brought him an hundred and fifty thousand Crowns, which his Misfortunes
had consum’d. But, above all, she was receiv’d by _Tarquin_ with a Joy
unspeakable; who, after some Time, to redeem his Credit, and gain
himself a new Fame, put himself into the _French_ Army, where he did
Wonders; and after three Campaigns, his Father dying, he return’d home,
and retir’d to a Country-House; where, with his Princess, he liv’d as a
private Gentleman, in all the Tranquillity of a Man of good Fortune.
They say _Miranda_ has been very penitent for her Life past, and gives
Heaven the Glory for having given her these Afflictions that have
reclaim’d her, and brought her to as perfect a State of Happiness, as
this troublesome World, can afford.
Since I began this Relation, I heard that Prince _Tarquin_, dy’d about
three Quarters of a Year ago.
NOTES: The Fair Jilt.
p. 70 _To Henry Pain, Esq._ Henry Neville Payne, politician and author,
was a thorough Tory and an ardent partisan of James II. Downes ascribes
to him three plays: _The Fatal Jealousy_, produced at Dorset Garden in
the winter of 1672, a good, if somewhat vehement, tragedy (4to, 1673);
_Morning Ramble; or, Town Humours_, produced at the same theatre in 1673
(4to, 1673), which, though lacking in plot and quick incident, is far
from a bad comedy; and _The Siege of Constantinople_, acted by the
Duke’s company in 1674 (4to, 1675), a tragedy which very sharply lashes
Shaftesbury as the Chancellor, especially in Act II, when Lorenzo, upon
his patron designing a frolic, says:--
My Lord, you know your old house, Mother Somelie’s,
You know she always fits you with fresh girls.
Mother Somelie is, of course, the notorious Mother Mosely.
Henry Payne wrote several loyal pamphlets, and after the Revolution he
became, according to Burnet, ‘the most active and determined of all King
James’ agents.’ He is said to have been the chief instigator of the
Montgomery plot in 1690, and whilst in Scotland was arrested. 10 and 11
December of that year he was severely tortured under a special order of
William III, but nothing could be extracted from him. This is the last
occasion on which torture was applied in Scotland. After being treated
with harshest cruelty by William III, Payne was finally released from
prison in December, 1700, or January, 1701, as the Duke of Queensbury,
recognizing the serious illegalities of the whole business, urgently
advised his liberation. Payne died in 1710. As Macaulay consistently
confounds him with a certain Edward Neville, S.J., the statements of
this historian with reference to Henry Neville Payne must be entirely
disregarded.
p. 72 _The Fair Jilt._ Editio princeps, ‘London. Printed by _R. Holt_
for _Will. Canning_, at his Shop in the _Temple-Cloysters_’ (1688),
‘Licensed 17 April, 1688. _Ric. Pocock_’, has as title: _The Fair Jilt;
or, The History of Prince Tarquin and Miranda_. As half-title it prints:
_The Fair Hypocrite; or, The Amours of Prince Tarquin and Miranda_. All
subsequent editions, however, give: _The Fair Jilt; or, The Amours of
Prince Tarquin and Miranda_. The Dedication only occurs in the first
edition.
p. 73 _Scrutore._ Escritoire, cf. Sir T. Herbert, _Trav._ (1677): ‘There
they sell . . . Scrutores or Cabinets of Mother of Pearl.’
p. 75 _Canonesses, Begines, Quests, Swart-Sisters and Jesuitesses._
_Canonesses_ are very ancient in history. The most important
Congregations are the Sepulchrines or Canonesses of the Holy Sepulchre,
and the Lateran Canonesses. There was an old community of French
Hospitaller Canonesses of Saint-Esprit. Thomassin tells us that the
Béguines were canonesses, and that their name is derived from S. Begghe
(_ob._ 689), who founded the Canonesses of Andenne. There are also
Chapters of secular canonesses, nearly all Benedictine in origin. Many
of these only admitted ladies of the highest rank. The French Revolution
swept away a great number of these institutions, and some were
suppressed by Joseph II of Austria. Premonstratensian (white) Canonesses
were common in Belgium.
_Begines._ Either founded by S. Begghe, or their name is derived from
Lambert de Bègue, a priest of Liège, in 1177. Some place their
foundation at the beginning of the eleventh century in the Netherlands
or Germany. After three years women who are enrolled are entitled to a
little house. No vows are taken, but they assist in choir thrice daily.
There are several hundreds at Ghent, and the Béguinage (ten Wijngaarde)
of Bruges is famous.
_Quests._ Quêteuses. Extern Sisters, Poor Clares and Colettines; Lay
Sisters, Dominicanesses, who go out and beg for the community. ‘To
quest’ is to go alms-begging. The Sisters of Charity are of later
foundation. cf. Translation, D’Emilliane’s _Frauds of Romish Monks_
(1691): ‘The Farmer [of Purgatory Money] sends some of his Emissaries
into the Fields to carry on the Quest there for the said Souls’; and
_Earthquake . . . Peru_, iii, 303 (1748): ‘If the Friars go into the
Country a questing for their Monastery.’
_Swart-Sisters._ Black Nuns. Dominicanesses, a feature of whose dresses
is the cappa, a large black cloak and hood, worn from All Saints’ Day
till the ‘Gloria’ on Easter Eve, and on all great solemnities.
_Jesuitesses._ A common misnomer for the original Congregation founded
by Mary Ward (_ob._ 1645), and named by her ‘The Institute of Mary’. It
was not until 1703 that they were fully approved by Clement XI.
p. 78 _Cordeliers._ Observant Franciscans, who follow the strict Rule of
Poverty and observe all the fasts and austerities of the Order. This
name was first given them in France, where later they were known as
Recollects.
* * * * *
* * * *
OROONOKO; OR THE ROYAL SLAVE.
INTRODUCTION.
The tale of _Oroonoko, the Royal Slave_ is indisputedly Mrs. Behn’s
masterpiece in prose. Its originality and power have singled it out for
a permanence and popularity none of her other works attained. It is
vivid, realistic, pregnant with pathos, beauty, and truth, and not only
has it so impressed itself upon the readers of more than two centuries,
but further, it surely struck a new note in English literature and one
which was re-echoed far and wide. It has been said that ‘_Oroonoko_ is
the first emancipation novel’, and there is no little acumen in this
remark. Certainly we may absolve Mrs. Behn from having directly written
with a purpose such as animated Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe’s _Uncle
Tom’s Cabin_; but none the less her sympathy with the oppressed blacks,
her deep emotions of pity for outraged humanity, her anger at the
cruelties of the slave-driver aye ready with knout or knife, are
manifest in every line. Beyond the intense interest of the pure
narrative we have passages of a rhythm that is lyric, exquisitely
descriptive of the picturesque tropical scenery and exotic vegetations,
fragrant and luxuriant; there are intimate accounts of adventuring and
primitive life; there are personal touches which lend a colour only
personal touches can, as Aphara tells her prose-epic of her Superman,
Cæsar the slave, Oroonoko the prince.
It is not difficult to trace the influence of _Oroonoko_. We can
see it in many an English author; in Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, in
Chateaubriand. Her idyllic romance has inspired writers who perhaps but
dimly remember even her name and her genius.
It was often reprinted separately from the rest. There is a little 12mo
_Oroonoko_, ‘the ninth edition corrected’, published at Doncaster, 1759,
‘for C. Plummer’, which is rarely seen save in a torn and well-thumbed
state.[1]
In 1777 the sentimental and highly proper Mrs. Elizabeth Griffith
included _Oroonoko_ in her three volume _Collection of Novels selected
and revised._ _Oroonoko_, ‘written originally by Mrs. Behn and revised
by Mrs. Griffith’[2], was also issued separately, ‘price sixpence’[3],
in 1800, frontispieced by a very crude picture of a black-a-moor about
to attack a tiger.
As early as 1709 we find _Lebens und Liebes-Geschichte des Königlichen
Sclaven Oroonoko in West-Indien_, a German translation published at
Hamburg, with a portrait of ‘Die Sinnreiche Engelländerin Mrs. Afra
Behn.’
In 1745 _Oroonoko_ was ‘traduit de l’Anglois de Madame Behn,’ with the
motto from Lucan ‘Quo fata trahunt virtus secura sequetur.’ There is a
rhymed dedication ‘A Madame La M. P. D’l . . .’ (35 lines), signed
D. L.****, i.e., Pierre-Antoine de la Place, a fecund but mediocre
writer of the eighteenth century (1707-93), who also translated, _Venice
Preserv’d_, _The Fatal Marriage_, _Tom Jones_, and other English
masterpieces. There is another edition of de la Place’s version with
fine plates engraved by C. Baron after Marillier, Londres, 1769.
In 1696 Southerne’s great tragedy, founded upon Mrs. Behn’s novel, was
produced at Drury Lane. Oroonoko was created by Verbruggen, Powell acted
Aboan, and the beautiful Mrs. Rogers Imoinda. The play has some
magnificent passages, and long kept the stage. Southerne had further
added an excellent comic underplot, full of humour and the truest _vis
comica_. It is perhaps worth noting that the intrigues of Lucy and
Charlotte and the Lackitt _ménage_ were dished up as a short slap-bang
farce by themselves with, curiously enough, two or three scenes _in
extenso_ from Fletcher’s _Monsieur Thomas_ (III, iii, and V, ii). This
hotch potch entitled _The Sexes Mis-match’d; or, A New Way to get a
Husband_ is printed in _The Strollers’ Pacquet open’d_. (12mo, 1741.) On
1 December, 1759, there was brought out at Drury Lane a most insipid
alteration of _Oroonoko_ by Dr. Hawkesworth, who omitted all Southerne’s
lighter fare and inserted serious nonsense of his own. Garrick was the
Oroonoko and Mrs. Cibber Imoinda. Although Hawkesworth’s version was not
tolerated, the underplot was none the less pruned in later productions
to such an extent that it perforce lost nearly all its pristine wit and
fun. There is another adaption of Southerne: ‘_Oroonoko_ altered from
the original play . . . to which the editor has added near six hundred
lines in place of the comic scenes, together with an addition of two new
characters, intended for one of the theatres.’ (8vo, 1760.) The two new
characters are Maria, sister to the Lieutenant-Governor and contracted
to Blandford, and one Heartwell; both thoroughly tiresome individuals.
In the same year Frank Gentleman, a provincial actor, produced his idea
of _Oroonoko_ ‘as it was acted at Edinburgh.’ (12mo, 1760.) There is yet
a fourth bastard: _The Prince of Angola_, by one J. Ferriar, ‘a tragedy
altered from the play of _Oroonoko_ and adapted to the circumstances of
the present times.’[4] (Manchester, 1788.) It must be confessed that all
this tinkering with an original, which does not require from any point
of view the slightest alteration or omission, is most uncalled for,
crude, and unsuccessful.
In 1698 William Walker, a lad nineteen years old, the son of a wealthy
Barbadoes planter, wrote in three weeks a tragedy entitled _Victorious
Love_ (4to, 1698), which is confessedly a close imitation of Southerne’s
theme. It was produced at Drury Lane in June, 1698, with the author
himself as Dafila, a youth, and young Mrs. Cross as the heroine Zaraida,
‘an European Shipwrack’d an Infant at Gualata’. Possibly Verbruggen
acted Barnagasso, the captive king who corresponds to Oroonoko. The
scene is laid in the Banze, or Palace of Tombut, whose Emperor, Jamoan,
is Barnagasso’s rival in Zaraida’s love. There is a villain, Zanhaga,
who after various more or less successful iniquities, poisons the
Emperor; whereon hero and heroine are happily united. _Victorious Love_
is far from being entirely a bad play; it is, however, very reminiscent
of the heroic tragedies of two decades before.
Southerne’s _Oroonoko_ was (with some alterations) translated into
German. This version is prose and probably either the work of W. H. von
Dalberg or von Eisenthal. It has little merit, but proved popular and
was printed in 1789 with a somewhat grotesque frontispiece of Oroonoko
and Imoinda, both of whom are black ‘as pitch or as the cole’.
[Footnote 1: There were also many chap-books on similar themes
which enjoyed no small popularity, e.g., _The Royal African; or,
The Memoirs of the Young Prince of Annamaboe_ (circa 1750), the
romantic narrative of a negro prince, who became a slave in
Barbadoes, from whence he was redeemed and brought to England.]
[Footnote 2: Mis-spelt ‘Griffiths’ in the 1800 edition.]
[Footnote 3: There was ‘a superior edition on a fine wove paper,
Hot-pressed, with Proof Impressions of the Plates. Price only
Nine-pence.’]
[Footnote 4: The Agitation for the Abolition of the Slave Trade.]
Epistle Dedicatory.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD MAITLAND.
[Transcriber’s Note:
The Epistle Dedicatory was printed as an Appendix; see Note.]
My Lord,
Since the World is grown so Nice and Critical upon Dedications, and will
Needs be Judging the Book by the Wit of the Patron; we ought, with a
great deal of Circumspection to chuse a Person against whom there can be
no Exception; and whose Wit and Worth truly Merits all that one is
capable of saying upon that Occasion.
The most part of Dedications are charg’d with Flattery; and if the World
knows a Man has some Vices, they will not allow one to speak of his
Virtues. This, My Lord, is for want of thinking Rightly; if Men wou’d
consider with Reason, they wou’d have another sort of Opinion, and
Esteem of Dedications; and wou’d believe almost every Great Man has
enough to make him Worthy of all that can be said of him there. My Lord,
a Picture-drawer, when he intends to make a good Picture, essays the
Face many Ways, and in many Lights, before he begins; that he may chuse
from the several turns of it, which is most Agreeable and gives it the
best Grace; and if there be a Scar, an ungrateful Mole, or any little
Defect, they leave it out; and yet make the Picture extreamly like: But
he who has the good Fortune to draw a Face that is exactly Charming in
all its Parts and Features, what Colours or Agreements can be added to
make it Finer? All that he can give is but its due; and Glories in a
Piece whose Original alone gives it its Perfection. An ill Hand may
diminish, but a good Hand cannot augment its Beauty. A Poet is a Painter
in his way; he draws to the Life, but in another kind; we draw the
Nobler part, the Soul and Mind; the Pictures of the Pen shall out-last
those of the Pencil, and even Worlds themselves. ’Tis a short Chronicle
of those Lives that possibly wou’d be forgotten by other Historians, or
lye neglected there, however deserving an immortal Fame; for Men of
eminent Parts are as Exemplary as even Monarchs themselves; and Virtue
is a noble Lesson to be learn’d, and ’tis by Comparison we can Judge and
Chuse. ’Tis by such illustrious Presidents as your Lordship the World
can be Better’d and Refin’d; when a great part of the lazy Nobility
shall, with Shame, behold the admirable Accomplishments of a Man so
Great, and so Young.
Your Lordship has Read innumerable Volumes of Men and Books, not Vainly
for the gust of Novelty, but Knowledge, excellent Knowledge: Like the
industrious Bee, from every Flower you return Laden with the precious
Dew, which you are sure to turn to the Publick Good. You hoard no one
Reflection, but lay it all out in the Glorious Service of your Religion
and Country; to both which you are a useful and necessary Honour: They
both want such Supporters; and ’tis only Men of so elevated Parts, and
fine Knowledge; such noble Principles of Loyalty and Religion this
Nation Sighs for. Where shall we find a Man so Young, like St.
Augustine, in the midst of all his Youth and Gaiety, Teaching the World
Divine Precepts, true Notions of Faith, and Excellent Morality, and, at
the same time be also a perfect Pattern of all that accomplish a Great
Man? You have, My Lord, all that refin’d Wit that Charms, and the
Affability that Obliges; a Generosity that gives a Lustre to your
Nobility; that Hospitality, and Greatness of Mind that ingages the
World; and that admirable Conduct, that so well Instructs it. Our Nation
ought to regret and bemoan their Misfortunes, for not being able to
claim the Honour of the Birth of a Man who is so fit to serve his
Majesty, and his Kingdoms in all Great and Publick Affairs; And to the
Glory of your Nation, be it spoken, it produces more considerable Men,
for all fine Sence, Wit, Wisdom, Breeding and Generosity (for the
generality of the Nobility) than all other Nations can Boast; and the
Fruitfulness of your Virtues sufficiently make amends for the Barrenness
of your Soil: Which however cannot be incommode to your Lordship; since
your Quality and the Veneration that the Commonalty naturally pay their
Lords creates a flowing Plenty there . . . that makes you Happy. And to
compleat your Happiness, my Lord, Heaven has blest you with a Lady, to
whom it has given all the Graces, Beauties, and Virtues of her Sex; all
the Youth, Sweetness of Nature, of a most illustrious Family; and who is
a most rare Example to all Wives of Quality, for her eminent Piety,
Easiness, and Condescention; and as absolutely merits Respect from all
the World as she does that Passion and Resignation she receives from
your Lordship; and which is, on her part, with so much Tenderness
return’d. Methinks your tranquil Lives are an Image of the new Made and
Beautiful Pair in Paradise: And ’tis the Prayers and Wishes of all, who
have the Honour to know you, that it may Eternally so continue with
Additions of all the Blessings this World can give you.
My Lord, the Obligations I have to some of the Great Men of your Nation,
particularly to your Lordship, gives me an Ambition of making my
Acknowledgements by all the Opportunities I can; and such humble Fruits
as my Industry produces I lay at your Lordship’s Feet. This is a true
Story, of a Man Gallant enough to merit your Protection, and, had he
always been so Fortunate, he had not made so Inglorious an end: The
Royal Slave I had the Honour to know in my Travels to the other World;
and though I had none above me in that Country yet I wanted power to
preserve this Great Man. If there be anything that seems Romantick I
beseech your Lordship to consider these Countries do, in all things, so
far differ from ours that they produce unconceivable Wonders, at least,
so they appear to us, because New and Strange. What I have mentioned I
have taken care shou’d be Truth, let the Critical Reader judge as he
pleases. ’Twill be no Commendation to the Book to assure your Lordship I
writ it in a few Hours, though it may serve to Excuse some of its Faults
of Connexion, for I never rested my Pen a Moment for Thought: ’Tis
purely the Merit of my Slave that must render it worthy of the Honour it
begs; and the Author of that of Subscribing herself,
My Lord
Your Lordship’s most oblig’d
and obedient Servant
A. Behn.
THE HISTORY OF THE _ROYAL SLAVE_.
I do not pretend, in giving you the History of this _ROYAL SLAVE_, to
entertain my Reader with the Adventures of a feign’d _Hero_, whose Life
and Fortunes Fancy may manage at the Poet’s Pleasure; nor in relating
the Truth, design to adorn it with any Accidents, but such as arrived in
earnest to him: And it shall come simply into the World, recommended by
its own proper Merits, and natural Intrigues; there being enough of
Reality to support it, and to render it diverting, without the Addition
of Invention.
I was myself an Eye-witness to a great Part of what you will find here
set down; and what I could not be Witness of, I receiv’d from the Mouth
of the chief Actor in this History, the _Hero_ himself, who gave us the
whole Transactions of his Youth: And I shall omit, for Brevity’s Sake,
a thousand little Accidents of his Life, which, however pleasant to us,
where History was scarce, and Adventures very rare, yet might prove
tedious and heavy to my Reader, in a World where he finds Diversions for
every Minute, new and strange. But we who were perfectly charm’d with
the Character of this great Man, were curious to gather every
Circumstance of his Life.
The Scene of the last Part of his Adventures lies in a Colony in
_America_, called _Surinam_, in the _West-Indies_.
But before I give you the Story of this _Gallant Slave_, ’tis fit I tell
you the Manner of bringing them to these new _Colonies_; those they make
Use of there, not being _Natives_ of the Place: for those we live with
in perfect Amity, without daring to command ’em; but, on the contrary,
caress ’em with all the brotherly and friendly Affection in the World;
trading with them for their Fish, Venison, Buffaloes Skins, and little
Rarities; as _Marmosets_, a sort of Monkey, as big as a Rat or Weasel,
but of a marvellous and delicate Shape, having Face and Hands like a
Human Creature; and _Cousheries_, a little Beast in the Form and Fashion
of a Lion, as big as a Kitten, but so exactly made in all Parts like
that Noble Beast, that it is it in _Miniature_: Then for little
_Paraketoes_, great _Parrots_, _Muckaws_, and a thousand other Birds and
Beasts of wonderful and surprizing Forms, Shapes, and Colours: For Skins
of prodigious Snakes, of which there are some three-score Yards in
Length; as is the Skin of one that may be seen at his Majesty’s
_Antiquary’s_; where are also some rare Flies, of amazing Forms and
Colours, presented to ’em by myself; some as big as my Fist, some less;
and all of various Excellencies, such as Art cannot imitate. Then we
trade for Feathers, which they order into all Shapes, make themselves
little short Habits of ’em, and glorious Wreaths for their Heads, Necks,
Arms and Legs, whose Tinctures are unconceivable. I had a Set of these
presented to me, and I gave ’em to the _King’s Theatre_; it was the
Dress of the _Indian Queen_, infinitely admir’d by Persons of Quality;
and was inimitable. Besides these, a thousand little Knacks, and
Rarities in Nature; and some of Art, as their Baskets, Weapons, Aprons,
&c. We dealt with ’em with Beads of all Colours, Knives, Axes, Pins and
Needles, which they us’d only as Tools to drill Holes with in their
Ears, Noses and Lips, where they hang a great many little Things; as
long Beads, Bits of Tin, Brass or Silver beat thin, and any shining
Trinket. The Beads they weave into Aprons about a Quarter of an Ell
long, and of the same Breadth; working them very prettily in Flowers of
several Colours; which Apron they wear just before ’em, as _Adam_ and
_Eve_ did the Fig-leaves; the Men wearing a long Stripe of Linen, which
they deal with us for. They thread these Beads also on long
Cotton-threads, and make Girdles to tie their Aprons to, which come
twenty times, or more, about the Waste, and then cross, like a
Shoulder-belt, both Ways, and round their Necks, Arms and Legs. This
Adornment, with their long black Hair, and the Face painted in little
Specks or Flowers here and there, makes ’em a wonderful Figure to
behold. Some of the Beauties, which indeed are finely shap’d, as almost
all are, and who have pretty Features, are charming and novel; for they
have all that is called Beauty, except the Colour, which is a reddish
Yellow; or after a new Oiling, which they often use to themselves, they
are of the Colour of a new Brick, but smooth, soft and sleek. They are
extreme modest and bashful, very shy, and nice of being touch’d. And
tho’ they are all thus naked, if one lives for ever among ’em, there is
not to be seen an indecent Action, or Glance: and being continually us’d
to see one another so unadorn’d, so like our first Parents before the
Fall, it seems as if they had no Wishes, there being nothing to heighten
Curiosity: but all you can see, you see at once, and every Moment see;
and where there is no Novelty, there can be no Curiosity. Not but I have
seen a handsome young _Indian_, dying for Love of a very beautiful young
_Indian_ Maid; but all his Courtship was, to fold his Arms, pursue her
with his Eyes, and Sighs were all his Language: While she, as if no such
Lover were present, or rather as if she desired none such, carefully
guarded her Eyes from beholding him; and never approach’d him, but she
looked down with all the blushing Modesty I have seen in the most Severe
and Cautious of our World. And these People represented to me an
absolute _Idea_ of the first State of Innocence, before Man knew how to
sin: And ’tis most evident and plain, that simple Nature is the most
harmless, inoffensive and virtuous Mistress. ’Tis she alone, if she were
permitted, that better instructs the World, than all the Inventions of
Man: Religion would here but destroy that Tranquillity they possess by
Ignorance; and Laws would but teach ’em to know Offences, of which now
they have no Notion. They once made Mourning and Fasting for the Death
of the _English_ Governor, who had given his Hand to come on such a Day
to ’em, and neither came nor sent; believing, when a Man’s Word was
past, nothing but Death could or should prevent his keeping it: And when
they saw he was not dead, they ask’d him what Name they had for a Man
who promis’d a Thing he did not do? The Governor told them, Such a Man
was a _Lyar_, which was a Word of Infamy to a Gentleman. Then one of ’em
reply’d, _Governor, you are a Lyar, and guilty of that Infamy_. They
have a native Justice, which knows no Fraud; and they understand no
Vice, or Cunning, but when they are taught by the _White_ Men. They have
Plurality of Wives; which, when they grow old, serve those that succeed
’em, who are young, but with a Servitude easy and respected; and unless
they take Slaves in War, they have no other Attendants.
Those on that _Continent_ where I was, had no King; but the oldest
War-Captain was obey’d with great Resignation.
A War-Captain is a Man who has led them on to Battle with Conduct and
Success; of whom I shall have Occasion to speak more hereafter, and of
some other of their Customs and Manners, as they fall in my Way.
With these People, as I said, we live in perfect Tranquillity, and good
Understanding, as it behoves us to do; they knowing all the Places where
to seek the best Food of the Country, and the Means of getting it; and
for very small and unvaluable Trifles, supplying us with what ’tis
almost impossible for us to get; for they do not only in the Woods, and
over the _Sevana’s_, in Hunting, supply the Parts of Hounds, by swiftly
scouring thro’ those almost impassable Places, and by the mere Activity
of their Feet, run down the nimblest Deer, and other eatable Beasts; but
in the Water, one would think they were Gods of the Rivers, or
Fellow-Citizens of the Deep; so rare an Art they have in swimming,
diving, and almost living in Water; by which they command the less swift
Inhabitants of the Floods. And then for shooting, what they cannot take,
or reach with their Hands, they do with Arrows; and have so admirable an
Aim, that they will split almost an Hair, and at any Distance that an
Arrow can reach: they will shoot down Oranges, and other Fruit, and only
touch the Stalk with the Dart’s Point, that they may not hurt the Fruit.
So that they being on all Occasions very useful to us, we find it
absolutely necessary to caress ’em as Friends, and not to treat ’em as
Slaves; nor dare we do otherwise, their Numbers so far surpassing ours
in that Continent.
Those then whom we make use of to work in our Plantations of Sugar, are
_Negroes_, Black-Slaves altogether, who are transported thither in this
Manner.
Those who want Slaves, make a Bargain with a Master, or a Captain of a
Ship, and contract to pay him so much apiece, a Matter of twenty Pound a
Head, for as many as he agrees for, and to pay for ’em when they shall
be deliver’d on such a Plantation: So that when there arrives a Ship
laden with Slaves, they who have so contracted, go aboard, and receive
their Number by Lot; and perhaps in one Lot that may be for ten, there
may happen to be three or four Men, the rest Women and Children. Or be
there more or less of either Sex, you are obliged to be contented with
your Lot.
_Coramantien_, a Country of _Blacks_ so called, was one of those Places
in which they found the most advantageous Trading for these Slaves, and
thither most of our great Traders in that Merchandize traffick; for that
Nation is very warlike and brave; and having a continual Campaign, being
always in Hostility with one neighbouring Prince or other, they had the
Fortune to take a great many Captives: for all they took in Battle were
sold as Slaves; at least those common Men who could not ransom
themselves. Of these Slaves so taken, the General only has all the
Profit; and of these Generals our Captains and Masters of Ships buy all
their Freights.
The King of _Coramantien_ was of himself a Man of an hundred and odd
Years old, and had no Son, tho’ he had many beautiful Black Wives: for
most certainly there are Beauties that can charm of that Colour. In his
younger Years he had had many gallant Men to his Sons, thirteen of whom
died in Battle, conquering when they fell; and he had only left him for
his Successor, one Grand-child, Son to one of these dead Victors, who,
as soon as he could bear a Bow in his Hand, and a Quiver at his Back,
was sent into the Field, to be train’d up by one of the oldest Generals
to War; where, from his natural Inclination to Arms, and the Occasions
given him, with the good Conduct of the old General, he became, at the
Age of seventeen, one of the most expert Captains, and bravest Soldiers
that ever saw the Field of _Mars_: so that he was ador’d as the Wonder
of all that World, and the Darling of the Soldiers. Besides, he was
adorn’d with a native Beauty, so transcending all those of his gloomy
Race, that he struck an Awe and Reverence, even into those that knew not
his Quality; as he did into me, who beheld him with Surprize and Wonder,
when afterwards he arrived in our World.
He had scarce arrived at his seventeenth Year, when, fighting by his
Side, the General was kill’d with an Arrow in his Eye, which the Prince
_Oroonoko_ (for so was this gallant _Moor_ call’d) very narrowly
avoided; nor had he, if the General who saw the Arrow shot, and
perceiving it aimed at the Prince, had not bow’d his Head between, on
Purpose to receive it in his own Body, rather than it should touch that
of the Prince, and so saved him.
’Twas then, afflicted as _Oroonoko_ was, that he was proclaimed General
in the old Man’s Place: and then it was, at the finishing of that War,
which had continu’d for two Years, that the Prince came to Court, where
he had hardly been a Month together, from the Time of his fifth Year to
that of seventeen: and ’twas amazing to imagine where it was he learn’d
so much Humanity; or to give his Accomplishments a juster Name, where
’twas he got that real Greatness of Soul, those refined Notions of true
Honour, that absolute Generosity, and that Softness, that was capable of
the highest Passions of Love and Gallantry, whose Objects were almost
continually fighting Men, or those mangled or dead, who heard no Sounds
but those of War and Groans. Some Part of it we may attribute to the
Care of a _Frenchman_ of Wit and Learning, who finding it turn to a very
good Account to be a sort of Royal Tutor to this young Black, and
perceiving him very ready, apt, and quick of Apprehension, took a great
Pleasure to teach him Morals, Language and Science; and was for it
extremely belov’d and valu’d by him. Another Reason was, he lov’d when
he came from War, to see all the _English_ Gentlemen that traded
thither; and did not only learn their Language, but that of the
_Spaniard_ also, with whom he traded afterwards for Slaves.
I have often seen and conversed with this Great Man, and been a Witness
to many of his mighty Actions; and do assure my Reader, the most
illustrious Courts could not have produced a braver Man, both for
Greatness of Courage and Mind, a Judgment more solid, a Wit more quick,
and a Conversation more sweet and diverting. He knew almost as much as
if he had read much: He had heard of and admired the _Romans_: He had
heard of the late Civil Wars in _England_, and the deplorable Death of
our great Monarch; and would discourse of it with all the Sense and
Abhorrence of the Injustice imaginable. He had an extreme good and
graceful Mien, and all the Civility of a well-bred Great Man. He had
nothing of Barbarity in his Nature, but in all Points address’d himself
as if his Education had been in some _European_ Court.
This great and just Character of _Oroonoko_ gave me an extreme Curiosity
to see him, especially when I knew he spoke _French_ and _English_, and
that I could talk with him. But tho’ I had heard so much of him, I was
as greatly surprized when I saw him, as if I had heard nothing of him;
so beyond all Report I found him. He came into the Room, and addressed
himself to me, and some other Women, with the best Grace in the World.
He was pretty tall, but of a Shape the most exact that can be fancy’d:
The most famous Statuary could not form the Figure of a Man more
admirably turn’d from Head to Foot. His Face was not of that brown rusty
Black which most of that Nation are, but a perfect Ebony, or polished
Jet. His Eyes were the most aweful that could be seen, and very
piercing; the White of ’em being like Snow, as were his Teeth. His Nose
was rising and _Roman_, instead of _African_ and flat: His Mouth the
finest shaped that could be seen; far from those great turn’d Lips,
which are so natural to the rest of the Negroes. The whole Proportion
and Air of his Face was so nobly and exactly form’d, that bating his
Colour, there could be nothing in Nature more beautiful, agreeable and
handsome. There was no one Grace wanting, that bears the Standard of
true Beauty. His Hair came down to his Shoulders, by the Aids of Art,
which was by pulling it out with a Quill, and keeping it comb’d; of
which he took particular Care. Nor did the Perfections of his Mind come
short of those of his Person; for his Discourse was admirable upon
almost any Subject: and whoever had heard him speak, would have been
convinced of their Errors, that all fine Wit is confined to the white
Men, especially to those of Christendom; and would have confess’d that
_Oroonoko_ was as capable even of reigning well, and of governing as
wisely, had as great a Soul, as politick Maxims, and was as sensible of
Power, as any Prince civiliz’d in the most refined Schools of Humanity
and Learning, or the most illustrious Courts.
This Prince, such as I have describ’d him, whose Soul and Body were so
admirably adorned, was (while yet he was in the Court of his
Grandfather, as I said) as capable of Love, as ’twas possible for a
brave and gallant Man to be; and in saying that, I have named the
highest Degree of Love: for sure great Souls are most capable of that
Passion.
I have already said, the old General was kill’d by the Shot of an Arrow,
by the Side of this Prince, in Battle; and that _Oroonoko_ was made
General. This old dead Hero had one only Daughter left of his Race,
a Beauty, that to describe her truly, one need say only, she was Female
to the noble Male; the beautiful Black _Venus_ to our young _Mars_; as
charming in her Person as he, and of delicate Virtues. I have seen a
hundred White Men sighing after her, and making a thousand Vows at her
Feet, all in vain and unsuccessful. And she was indeed too great for any
but a Prince of her own Nation to adore.
_Oroonoko_ coming from the Wars (which were now ended) after he had made
his Court to his Grandfather, he thought in Honour he ought to make a
Visit to _Imoinda_, the Daughter of his Foster-father, the dead General;
and to make some Excuses to her, because his Preservation was the
Occasion of her Father’s Death; and to present her with those Slaves
that had been taken in this last Battle, as the Trophies of her Father’s
Victories. When he came, attended by all the young Soldiers of any
Merit, he was infinitely surpriz’d at the Beauty of this fair Queen of
Night, whose Face and Person were so exceeding all he had ever beheld,
that lovely Modesty with which she receiv’d him, that Softness in her
Look and Sighs, upon the melancholy Occasion of this Honour that was
done by so great a Man as _Oroonoko_, and a Prince of whom she had heard
such admirable Things; the Awfulness wherewith she receiv’d him, and the
Sweetness of her Words and Behaviour while he stay’d, gain’d a perfect
Conquest over his fierce Heart, and made him feel, the Victor could be
subdu’d. So that having made his first Compliments, and presented her an
hundred and fifty Slaves in Fetters, he told her with his Eyes, that he
was not insensible of her Charms; while _Imoinda_, who wish’d for
nothing more than so glorious a Conquest, was pleas’d to believe, she
understood that silent Language of new-born Love; and, from that Moment,
put on all her Additions to Beauty.
The Prince return’d to Court with quite another Humour than before; and
tho’ he did not speak much of the fair _Imoinda_, he had the Pleasure to
hear all his Followers speak of nothing but the Charms of that Maid,
insomuch, that, even in the Presence of the old King, they were
extolling her, and heightning, if possible, the Beauties they had found
in her: so that nothing else was talk’d of, no other Sound was heard in
every Corner where there were Whisperers, but _Imoinda! Imoinda!_
’Twill be imagin’d _Oroonoko_ stay’d not long before he made his second
Visit; nor, considering his Quality, not much longer before he told her,
he ador’d her. I have often heard him say, that he admir’d by what
strange Inspiration he came to talk Things so soft, and so passionate,
who never knew Love, nor was us’d to the Conversation of Women; but
(to use his own Words) he said, ‘Most happily, some new, and, till then,
unknown Power instructed his Heart and Tongue in the Language of Love;
and at the same Time, in Favour of him, inspir’d _Imoinda_ with a Sense
of his Passion.’ She was touch’d with what he said, and return’d it all
in such Answers as went to his very Heart, with a Pleasure unknown
before. Nor did he use those Obligations ill, that Love had done him,
but turn’d all his happy Moments to the best Advantage; and as he knew
no Vice, his Flame aim’d at nothing but Honour, if such a Distinction
may be made in Love; and especially in that Country, where Men take to
themselves as many as they can maintain; and where the only Crime and
Sin against a Woman, is, to turn her off, to abandon her to Want, Shame
and Misery: such ill Morals are only practis’d in _Christian_ Countries,
where they prefer the bare Name of Religion; and, without Virtue or
Morality, think that sufficient. But _Oroonoko_ was none of those
Professors; but as he had right Notions of Honour, so he made her such
Propositions as were not only and barely such; but, contrary to the
Custom of his Country, he made her Vows, she should be the only Woman he
would possess while he liv’d; that no Age or Wrinkles should incline him
to change: for her Soul would be always fine, and always young; and he
should have an eternal _Idea_ in his Mind of the Charms she now bore;
and should look into his Heart for that _Idea_, when he could find it no
longer in her Face.
After a thousand Assurances of his lasting Flame, and her eternal Empire
over him, she condescended to receive him for her Husband; or rather,
receive him, as the greatest Honour the Gods could do her.
There is a certain Ceremony in these Cases to be observ’d, which I
forgot to ask how ’twas perform’d; but ’twas concluded on both Sides,
that in Obedience to him, the Grandfather was to be first made
acquainted with the Design: For they pay a most absolute Resignation to
the Monarch, especially when he is a Parent also.
On the other Side, the old King, who had many Wives, and many
Concubines, wanted not Court-Flatterers to insinuate into his Heart a
thousand tender Thoughts for this young Beauty; and who represented her
to his Fancy, as the most charming he had ever possess’d in all the long
Race of his numerous Years. At this Character, his old Heart, like an
extinguish’d Brand, most apt to take Fire, felt new Sparks of Love, and
began to kindle; and now grown to his second Childhood, long’d with
Impatience to behold this gay Thing, with whom, alas! he could but
innocently play. But how he should be confirm’d she was this _Wonder_,
before he us’d his Power to call her to Court, (where Maidens never
came, unless for the King’s private Use) he was next to consider; and
while he was so doing, he had Intelligence brought him, that _Imoinda_
was most certainly Mistress to the Prince _Oroonoko_. This gave him some
Chagrine: however, it gave him also an Opportunity, one Day, when the
Prince was a hunting, to wait on a Man of Quality, as his Slave and
Attendant, who should go and make a Present to _Imoinda_, as from the
Prince; he should then, unknown, see this fair Maid, and have an
Opportunity to hear what Message she would return the Prince for his
Present, and from thence gather the State of her Heart, and Degree of
her Inclination. This was put in Execution, and the old Monarch saw, and
burn’d: He found her all he had heard, and would not delay his
Happiness, but found he should have some Obstacle to overcome her Heart;
for she express’d her Sense of the Present the Prince had sent her, in
Terms so sweet, so soft and pretty, with an Air of Love and Joy that
could not be dissembled, insomuch that ’twas past Doubt whether she
lov’d _Oroonoko_ entirely. This gave the old King some Affliction; but
he salv’d it with this, that the Obedience the People pay their King,
was not at all inferior to what they paid their Gods; and what Love
would not oblige _Imoinda_ to do, Duty would compel her to.
He was therefore no sooner got into his Apartment, but he sent the Royal
Veil to _Imoinda_; that is the Ceremony of Invitation: He sends the Lady
he has a Mind to honour with his Bed, a Veil, with which she is covered,
and secur’d for the King’s Use; and ’tis Death to disobey; besides, held
a most impious Disobedience.
’Tis not to be imagin’d the Surprize and Grief that seiz’d the lovely
Maid at this News and Sight. However, as Delays in these Cases are
dangerous, and Pleading worse than Treason; trembling, and almost
fainting, she was oblig’d to suffer herself to be cover’d, and led away.
They brought her thus to Court; and the King, who had caus’d a very rich
Bath to be prepar’d, was led into it, where he sat under a Canopy, in
State, to receive this long’d-for Virgin; whom he having commanded to be
brought to him, they (after disrobing her) led her to the Bath, and
making fast the Doors, left her to descend. The King, without more
Courtship, bad her throw off her Mantle, and come to his Arms. But
_Imoinda_, all in Tears, threw herself on the Marble, on the Brink of
the Bath, and besought him to hear her. She told him, as she was a Maid,
how proud of the Divine Glory she should have been, of having it in her
Power to oblige her King: but as by the Laws he could not, and from his
Royal Goodness would not take from any Man his wedded Wife; so she
believ’d she should be the occasion of making him commit a great Sin, if
she did not reveal her State and Condition; and tell him she was
another’s, and could not be so happy to be his.
The King, enrag’d at this Delay, hastily demanded the Name of the bold
Man, that had married a Woman of her Degree, without his Consent.
_Imoinda_ seeing his Eyes fierce, and his Hands tremble, (whether with
Age or Anger, I know not, but she fancy’d the last) almost repented she
had said so much, for now she fear’d the Storm would fall on the Prince;
she therefore said a thousand Things to appease the raging of his Flame,
and to prepare him to hear who it was with Calmness: but before she
spoke, he imagin’d who she meant, but would not seem to do so, but
commanded her to lay aside her Mantle, and suffer herself to receive his
Caresses, or, by his Gods he swore, that happy Man whom she was going to
name should die, tho’ it was even _Oroonoko_ himself. _Therefore_
(said he) _deny this Marriage, and swear thyself a Maid. That_ (reply’d
_Imoinda_) _by all our Powers I do; for I am not yet known to my
Husband. ’Tis enough_ (said the King) _’tis enough both to satisfy my
Conscience and my Heart._ And rising from his Seat, he went and led her
into the Bath; it being in vain for her to resist.
In this Time, the Prince, who was return’d from Hunting, went to visit
his _Imoinda_, but found her gone; and not only so, but heard she had
receiv’d the Royal Veil. This rais’d him to a Storm; and in his Madness,
they had much ado to save him from laying violent Hands on himself.
Force first prevail’d, and then Reason: They urg’d all to him, that
might oppose his Rage; but nothing weigh’d so greatly with him as the
King’s old Age, uncapable of injuring him with _Imoinda_. He would give
Way to that Hope, because it pleas’d him most, and flatter’d best his
Heart. Yet this serv’d not altogether to make him cease his different
Passions, which sometimes rag’d within him, and soften’d into Showers.
’Twas not enough to appease him, to tell him, his Grandfather was old,
and could not that Way injure him, while he retain’d that awful Duty
which the young Men are us’d there to pay to their grave Relations. He
could not be convinc’d he had no Cause to sigh and mourn for the Loss of
a Mistress, he could not with all his Strength and Courage retrieve, and
he would often cry, ‘Oh, my Friends! were she in wall’d Cities, or
confin’d from me in Fortifications of the greatest Strength; did
Inchantments or Monsters detain her from me; I would venture thro’ any
Hazard to free her; But here, in the Arms of a feeble old Man, my Youth,
my violent Love, my Trade in Arms, and all my vast Desire of Glory,
avail me nothing. _Imoinda_ is as irrecoverably lost to me, as if she
were snatch’d by the cold Arms of Death: Oh! she is never to be
retrieved. If I would wait tedious Years; till Fate should bow the old
King to his Grave, even that would not leave me _Imoinda_ free; but
still that Custom that makes it so vile a Crime for a Son to marry his
Father’s Wives or Mistresses, would hinder my Happiness; unless I would
either ignobly set an ill Precedent to my Successors, or abandon my
Country, and fly with her to some unknown World who never heard our
Story.’
But it was objected to him, That his Case was not the same: for
_Imoinda_ being his lawful Wife by solemn Contract, ’twas he was the
injur’d Man, and might, if he so pleas’d, take _Imoinda_ back, the
Breach of the Law being on his Grandfather’s Side; and that if he could
circumvent him, and redeem her from the _Otan_, which is the Palace of
the King’s Women, a sort of _Seraglio_, it was both just and lawful for
him so to do.
This Reasoning had some Force upon him, and he should have been entirely
comforted, but for the Thought that she was possess’d by his
Grandfather. However, he lov’d her so well, that he was resolv’d to
believe what most favour’d his Hope, and to endeavour to learn from
_Imoinda’s_ own Mouth, what only she could satisfy him in, whether she
was robb’d of that Blessing which was only due to his Faith and Love.
But as it was very hard to get a Sight of the Women, (for no Men ever
enter’d into the _Otan_ but when the King went to entertain himself with
some one of his Wives or Mistresses; and ’twas Death, at any other Time,
for any other to go in) so he knew not how to contrive to get a Sight of
her.
While _Oroonoko_ felt all the Agonies of Love, and suffer’d under a
Torment the most painful in the World, the old King was not exempted
from his Share of Affliction. He was troubled, for having been forc’d,
by an irresistible Passion, to rob his Son of a Treasure, he knew, could
not but be extremely dear to him; since she was the most beautiful that
ever had been seen, and had besides, all the Sweetness and Innocence of
Youth and Modesty, with a Charm of Wit surpassing all. He found, that
however she was forc’d to expose her lovely Person to his wither’d Arms,
she could only sigh and weep there, and think of _Oroonoko_; and
oftentimes could not forbear speaking of him, tho’ her Life were, by
Custom, forfeited by owning her Passion. But she spoke not of a Lover
only, but of a Prince dear to him to whom she spoke; and of the Praises
of a Man, who, ’till now, fill’d the old Man’s Soul with Joy at every
Recital of his Bravery, or even his Name. And ’twas this Dotage on our
young Hero, that gave _Imoinda_ a thousand Privileges to speak of him
without offending; and this Condescension in the old King, that made her
take the Satisfaction of speaking of him so very often.
Besides, he many times enquir’d how the Prince bore himself: And those
of whom he ask’d, being entirely Slaves to the Merits and Virtues of the
Prince, still answer’d what they thought conduc’d best to his Service;
which was, to make the old King fancy that the Prince had no more
Interest in _Imoinda_, and had resign’d her willingly to the Pleasure of
the King; that he diverted himself with his Mathematicians, his
Fortifications, his Officers, and his Hunting.
This pleas’d the old Lover, who fail’d not to report these Things again
to _Imoinda_, that she might, by the Example of her young Lover,
withdraw her Heart, and rest better contented in his Arms. But, however
she was forc’d to receive this unwelcome News, in all Appearance, with
Unconcern and Content; her Heart was bursting within, and she was only
happy when she could get alone, to vent her Griefs and Moans with Sighs
and Tears.
What Reports of the Prince’s Conduct were made to the King, he thought
good to justify, as far as possibly he could, by his Actions; and when
he appear’d in the Presence of the King, he shew’d a Face not at all
betraying his Heart: so that in a little Time, the old Man, being
entirely convinc’d that he was no longer a Lover of _Imoinda_ he carry’d
him with him in his Train to the _Otan_, often to banquet with his
Mistresses. But as soon as he enter’d, one Day, into the Apartment of
_Imoinda_, with the King, at the first Glance from her Eyes,
notwithstanding all his determined Resolution, he was ready to sink in
the Place where he stood; and had certainly done so, but for the Support
of _Aboan_, a young Man who was next to him; which, with his Change of
Countenance, had betray’d him, had the King chanc’d to look that Way.
And I have observ’d, ’tis a very great Error in those who laugh when one
says, _A +Negro+ can change Colour_: for I have seen ’em as frequently
blush, and look pale, and that as visibly as ever I saw in the most
beautiful _White_. And ’tis certain, that both these Changes were
evident, this Day, in both these Lovers. And _Imoinda_, who saw with
some Joy the Change in the Prince’s Face, and found it in her own,
strove to divert the King from beholding either, by a forc’d Caress,
with which she met him; which was a new Wound in the Heart of the poor
dying Prince. But as soon as the King was busy’d in looking on some fine
Thing of _Imoinda’s_ making, she had Time to tell the Prince, with her
angry, but Love-darting Eyes, that she resented his Coldness, and
bemoan’d her own miserable Captivity. Nor were his Eyes silent, but
answer’d her’s again, as much as Eyes could do, instructed by the most
tender and most passionate Heart that ever lov’d: And they spoke so
well, and so effectually, as _Imoinda_ no longer doubted but she was the
only Delight and Darling of that Soul she found pleading in ’em its
Right of Love, which none was more willing to resign than she. And ’twas
this powerful Language alone that in an Instant convey’d all the
Thoughts of their Souls to each other; that they both found there wanted
but Opportunity to make them both entirely happy. But when he saw
another Door open’d by _Onahal_ (a former old Wife of the King’s, who
now had Charge of _Imoinda_) and saw the Prospect of a Bed of State made
ready, with Sweets and Flowers for the Dalliance of the King, who
immediately led the trembling Victim from his Sight, into that prepar’d
Repose; what Rage! what wild Frenzies seiz’d his Heart! which forcing to
keep within Bounds, and to suffer without Noise, it became the more
insupportable, and rent his Soul with ten thousand Pains. He was forc’d
to retire to vent his Groans, where he fell down on a Carpet, and lay
struggling a long Time, and only breathing now and then--Oh _Imoinda_!
When _Onahal_ had finished her necessary Affair within, shutting the
Door, she came forth, to wait till the King called; and hearing some one
sighing in the other Room, she pass’d on, and found the Prince in that
deplorable Condition, which she thought needed her Aid. She gave him
Cordials, but all in vain; till finding the Nature of his Disease, by
his Sighs, and naming _Imoinda_, she told him he had not so much Cause
as he imagined to afflict himself: for if he knew the King so well as
she did, he would not lose a Moment in Jealousy; and that she was
confident that _Imoinda_ bore, at this Minute, Part in his Affliction.
_Aboan_ was of the same Opinion, and both together persuaded him to
re-assume his Courage; and all sitting down on the Carpet, the Prince
said so many obliging Things to _Onahal_, that he half-persuaded her to
be of his Party: and she promised him, she would thus far comply with
his just Desires, that she would let _Imoinda_ know how faithful he was,
what he suffer’d, and what he said.
This Discourse lasted till the King called, which gave _Oroonoko_ a
certain Satisfaction; and with the Hope _Onahal_ had made him conceive,
he assumed a Look as gay as ’twas possible a Man in his Circumstances
could do: and presently after, he was call’d in with the rest who waited
without. The King commanded Musick to be brought, and several of his
young Wives and Mistresses came all together by his Command, to dance
before him; where _Imoinda_ perform’d her Part with an Air and Grace so
surpassing all the rest, as her Beauty was above ’em, and received the
Present ordained as a Prize. The Prince was every Moment more charmed
with the new Beauties and Graces he beheld in this Fair-One; and while
he gazed, and she danc’d, _Onahal_ was retired to a Window with _Aboan_.
This _Onahal_, as I said, was one of the Cast-Mistresses of the old
King; and ’twas these (now past their Beauty) that were made Guardians
or Governantees to the new and the young ones, and whose Business it was
to teach them all those wanton Arts of Love, with which they prevail’d
and charm’d heretofore in their Turn; and who now treated the triumphing
Happy-ones with all the Severity, as to Liberty and Freedom, that was
possible, in Revenge of the Honours they rob them of; envying them those
Satisfactions, those Gallantries and Presents, that were once made to
themselves, while Youth and Beauty lasted, and which they now saw pass,
as it were regardless by, and paid only to the Bloomings. And certainly,
nothing is more afflicting to a decay’d Beauty, than to behold in itself
declining Charms, that were once ador’d; and to find those Caresses paid
to new Beauties, to which once she laid Claim; to hear them whisper, as
she passes by, that once was a delicate Woman. Those abandon’d ladies
therefore endeavour to revenge all the Despights and Decays of Time, on
these flourishing Happy-ones. And ’twas this Severity that gave
_Oroonoko_ a thousand Fears he should never prevail with _Onahal_ to see
_Imoinda_. But, as I said, she was now retir’d to a Window with _Aboan_.
This young Man was not only one of the best Quality, but a Man extremely
well made, and beautiful; and coming often to attend the King to the
_Otan_, he had subdu’d the Heart of the antiquated _Onahal_, which had
not forgot how pleasant it was to be in love. And tho’ she had some
Decays in her Face, she had none in her Sense and Wit; she was there
agreeable still, even to _Aboan’s_ Youth: so that he took Pleasure in
entertaining her with Discourses of Love. He knew also, that to make his
Court to these She-favourites, was the Way to be great; these being the
Persons that do all Affairs and Business at Court. He had also observed,
that she had given him Glances more tender and inviting than she had
done to others of his Quality. And now, when he saw that her Favour
could so absolutely oblige the Prince, he fail’d not to sigh in her Ear,
and look with Eyes all soft upon her, and gave her Hope that she had
made some Impressions on his Heart. He found her pleas’d at this, and
making a thousand Advances to him: but the Ceremony ending, and the King
departing, broke up the Company for that Day, and his Conversation.
_Aboan_ fail’d not that Night to tell the Prince of his Success, and how
advantageous the Service of _Onahal_ might be to his Amour with
_Imoinda_. The Prince was overjoy’d with this good News, and besought
him, if it were possible, to caress her so, as to engage her entirely,
which he could not fail to do, if he comply’d with her Desires: _For
then_ (said the Prince) _her Life lying at your Mercy, she must grant
you the Request you make in my Behalf_. _Aboan_ understood him, and
assur’d him he would make Love so effectually, that he would defy the
most expert Mistress of the Art, to find out whether he dissembled it,
or had it really. And ’twas with Impatience they waited the next
Opportunity of going to the _Otan_.
The Wars came on, the Time of taking the Field approached; and ’twas
impossible for the Prince to delay his going at the Head of his Army to
encounter the Enemy; so that every Day seem’d a tedious Year, till he
saw his _Imoinda_: for he believed he could not live, if he were forced
away without being so happy. ’Twas with Impatience therefore that he
expected the next Visit the King would make; and, according to his Wish,
it was not long.
The Parley of the Eyes of these two Lovers had not pass’d so secretly,
but an old jealous Lover could spy it; or rather, he wanted not
Flatterers who told him they observ’d it: so that the Prince was
hasten’d to the Camp, and this was the last Visit he found he should
make to the _Otan_; he therefore urged _Aboan_ to make the best of this
last Effort, and to explain himself so to _Onahal_, that she deferring
her Enjoyment of her young Lover no longer, might make Way for the
Prince to speak to _Imoinda_.
The whole Affair being agreed on between the Prince and _Aboan_, they
attended the King, as the Custom was, to the _Otan_; where, while the
whole Company was taken up in beholding the Dancing, and Antick Postures
the Women-Royal made to divert the King, _Onahal_ singled out _Aboan_,
whom she found most pliable to her Wish. When she had him where she
believed she could not be heard, she sigh’d to him, and softly cry’d,
‘Ah, _Aboan!_ when will you be sensible of my Passion? I confess it with
my Mouth, because I would not give my Eyes the Lye; and you have but too
much already perceived they have confess’d my Flame: nor would I have
you believe, that because I am the abandon’d Mistress of a King,
I esteem myself altogether divested of Charms: No, _Aboan_; I have still
a Rest of Beauty enough engaging, and have learn’d to please too well,
not to be desirable. I can have Lovers still, but will have none but
_Aboan_. Madam, (_reply’d the half-feigning Youth_) you have already, by
my Eyes, found you can still conquer; and I believe ’tis in pity of me
you condescend to this kind Confession. But, Madam, Words are used to be
so small a Part of our Country-Courtship, that ’tis rare one can get so
happy an Opportunity as to tell one’s Heart; and those few Minutes we
have, are forced to be snatch’d for more certain Proofs of Love than
speaking and sighing: and such I languish for.’
He spoke this with such a Tone, that she hoped it true, and could not
forbear believing it; and being wholly transported with Joy for having
subdued the finest of all the King’s Subjects to her Desires, she took
from her Ears two large Pearls, and commanded him to wear ’em in his. He
would have refused ’em, crying, _Madam these are not the Proofs of our
Love that I expect; ’tis Opportunity, ’tis a Lone-Hour only, that can
make me happy._ But forcing the Pearls into his Hand, she whisper’d
softly to him; _Oh! do not fear a Woman’s Invention, when Love sets her
a thinking._ And pressing his Hand, she cry’d, _This Night you shall be
happy. Come to the Gate of the Orange-Grove, behind the +Otan+, and I
will be ready about midnight to receive you._ ’Twas thus agreed, and she
left him, that no Notice might be taken of their speaking together.
The Ladies were still dancing, and the King, laid on a Carpet, with a
great deal of Pleasure was beholding them, especially _Imoinda_, who
that Day appeared more lovely than ever, being enlivened with the good
Tidings _Onahal_ had brought her, of the constant Passion the Prince had
for her. The Prince was laid on another Carpet at the other End of the
Room, with his Eyes fixed on the Object of his Soul; and as she turned
or moved, so did they; and she alone gave his Eyes and Soul their
Motions. Nor did _Imoinda_ employ her Eyes to any other use, than in
beholding with infinite Pleasure the Joy she produced in those of the
Prince. But while she was more regarding him than the Steps she took,
she chanced to fall, and so near him, as that leaping with extreme Force
from the Carpet, he caught her in his Arms as she fell; and ’twas
visible to the whole Presence, the Joy wherewith he received her. He
clasped her close to his Bosom, and quite forgot that Reverence that was
due to the Mistress of a King, and that Punishment that is the Reward of
a Boldness of this Nature. And had not the Presence of Mind of _Imoinda_
(fonder of his Safety than her own) befriended him, in making her spring
from his Arms, and fall into her Dance again, he had at that Instant met
his Death; for the old King, jealous to the last Degree, rose up in
Rage, broke all the Diversion, and led _Imoinda_ to her Apartment, and
sent out Word to the Prince, to go immediately to the Camp; and that if
he were found another Night in Court, he should suffer the Death
ordained for disobedient Offenders.
You may imagine how welcome this News was to _Oroonoko_, whose
unseasonable Transport and Caress of _Imoinda_ was blamed by all Men
that loved him: and now he perceived his Fault, yet cry’d, _That for
such another Moment he would be content to die_.
All the _Otan_ was in Disorder about this Accident; and _Onahal_ was
particularly concern’d, because on the Prince’s Stay depended her
Happiness; for she could no longer expect that of _Aboan_: So that e’er
they departed, they contrived it so, that the Prince and he should both
come that Night to the Grove of the _Otan_, which was all of Oranges and
Citrons, and that there they would wait her Orders.
They parted thus with Grief enough ’till Night, leaving the King in
Possession of the lovely Maid. But nothing could appease the Jealousy of
the old Lover; he would not be imposed on, but would have it, that
_Imoinda_ made a false Step on Purpose to fall into _Oroonoko’s_ Bosom,
and that all things looked like a Design on both Sides; and ’twas in
vain she protested her Innocence: He was old and obstinate, and left
her, more than half assur’d that his Fear was true.
The King going to his Apartment, sent to know where the Prince was, and
if he intended to obey his Command. The Messenger return’d, and told
him, he found the Prince pensive, and altogether unprepar’d for the
Campaign; that he lay negligently on the Ground, and answer’d very
little. This confirmed the Jealousy of the King, and he commanded that
they should very narrowly and privately watch his Motions; and that he
should not stir from his Apartment, but one Spy or other should be
employ’d to watch him: So that the Hour approaching, wherein he was to
go to the Citron-Grove; and taking only _Aboan_ along with him, he
leaves his Apartment, and was watched to the very Gate of the _Otan_;
where he was seen to enter, and where they left him, to carry back the
Tidings to the King.
_Oroonoko_ and _Aboan_ were no sooner enter’d, but _Onahal_ led the
Prince to the Apartment of _Imoinda_; who, not knowing any thing of her
Happiness, was laid in Bed. But _Onahal_ only left him in her Chamber,
to make the best of his Opportunity, and took her dear _Aboan_ to her
own; where he shewed the Height of Complaisance for his Prince, when, to
give him an Opportunity, he suffered himself to be caressed in Bed by
_Onahal_.
The Prince softly waken’d _Imoinda_, who was not a little surpriz’d with
Joy to find him there; and yet she trembled with a thousand Fears.
I believe he omitted saying nothing to this young Maid, that might
persuade her to suffer him to seize his own, and take the Rights of
Love. And I believe she was not long resisting those Arms where she so
longed to be; and having Opportunity, Night, and Silence, Youth, Love,
and Desire, he soon prevail’d, and ravished in a Moment what his old
Grandfather had been endeavouring for so many Months.
’Tis not to be imagined the Satisfaction of these two young Lovers; nor
the Vows she made him, that she remained a spotless Maid till that
Night, and that what she did with his Grandfather had robb’d him of no
Part of her Virgin-Honour; the Gods, in Mercy and Justice, having
reserved that for her plighted Lord, to whom of Right it belonged. And
’tis impossible to express the Transports he suffer’d, while he listen’d
to a Discourse so charming from her loved Lips; and clasped that Body in
his Arms, for whom he had so long languished; and nothing now afflicted
him, but his sudden Departure from her; for he told her the Necessity,
and his Commands, but should depart satisfy’d in this, That since the
old King had hitherto not been able to deprive him of those Enjoyments
which only belonged to him, he believed for the future he would be less
able to injure him; so that, abating the Scandal of the Veil, which was
no otherwise so, than that she was Wife to another, he believed her
safe, even in the Arms of the King, and innocent; yet would he have
ventur’d at the Conquest of the World, and have given it all to have had
her avoided that Honour of receiving the _Royal Veil_. ’Twas thus,
between a thousand Caresses, that both bemoan’d the hard Fate of Youth
and Beauty, so liable to that cruel Promotion: ’Twas a Glory that could
well have been spared here, tho’ desired and aim’d at by all the young
Females of that Kingdom.
But while they were thus fondly employ’d, forgetting how Time ran on,
and that the Dawn must conduct him far away from his only Happiness,
they heard a great Noise in the _Otan_, and unusual Voices of Men; at
which the Prince, starting from the Arms of the frighted _Imoinda_, ran
to a little Battle-Ax he used to wear by his Side; and having not so
much Leisure as to put on his Habit, he opposed himself against some who
were already opening the Door: which they did with so much Violence,
that _Oroonoko_ was not able to defend it; but was forced to cry out
with a commanding Voice, ‘Whoever ye are that have the Boldness to
attempt to approach this Apartment thus rudely; know, that I, the Prince
_Oroonoko_, will revenge it with the certain Death of him that first
enters: Therefore stand back, and know, this Place is sacred to Love and
Me this Night; To-morrow ’tis the King’s.’
This he spoke with a Voice so resolv’d and assur’d, that they soon
retired from the Door; but cry’d, ‘’Tis by the King’s Command we are
come; and being satisfy’d by thy Voice, O Prince, as much as if we had
enter’d, we can report to the King the Truth of all his Fears, and leave
thee to provide for thy own Safety, as thou art advis’d by thy Friends.’
At these Words they departed, and left the Prince to take a short and
sad Leave of his _Imoinda_; who, trusting in the Strength of her Charms,
believed she should appease the Fury of a jealous King, by saying, she
was surprized, and that it was by Force of Arms he got into her
Apartment. All her Concern now was for his Life, and therefore she
hasten’d him to the Camp, and with much ado prevail’d on him to go. Nor
was it she alone that prevail’d; _Aboan_ and _Onahal_ both pleaded, and
both assured him of a Lye that should be well enough contrived to secure
_Imoinda_. So that at last, with a Heart sad as Death, dying Eyes, and
sighing Soul, _Oroonoko_ departed, and took his way to the Camp.
It was not long after, the King in Person came to the _Otan_; where
beholding _Imoinda_, with Rage in his Eyes, he upbraided her Wickedness,
and Perfidy; and threatning her Royal Lover, she fell on her Face at his
Feet, bedewing the Floor with her Tears, and imploring his Pardon for a
Fault which she had not with her Will committed; as _Onahal_, who was
also prostrate with her, could testify: That, unknown to her, he had
broke into her Apartment, and ravished her. She spoke this much against
her Conscience; but to save her own Life, ’twas absolutely necessary she
should feign this Falsity. She knew it could not injure the Prince, he
being fled to an Army that would stand by him, against any Injuries that
should assault him. However, this last Thought of _Imoinda’s_ being
ravished, changed the Measures of his Revenge; and whereas before he
designed to be himself her Executioner, he now resolved she should not
die. But as it is the greatest Crime in Nature amongst them, to touch a
Woman after having been possess’d by a Son, a Father, or a Brother, so
now he looked on _Imoinda_ as a polluted thing wholly unfit for his
Embrace; nor would he resign her to his Grandson, because she had
received the _Royal Veil_: He therefore removes her from the _Otan_,
with _Onahal_; whom he put into safe Hands, with Order they should be
both sold off as Slaves to another Country, either _Christian_ or
_Heathen_, ’twas no Matter where.
This cruel Sentence, worse than Death, they implor’d might be reversed;
but their Prayers were vain, and it was put in Execution accordingly,
and that with so much Secrecy, that none, either without or within the
_Otan_, knew any thing of their Absence, or their Destiny.
The old King nevertheless executed this with a great deal of Reluctancy;
but he believed he had made a very great Conquest over himself, when he
had once resolved, and had perform’d what he resolved. He believed now,
that his Love had been unjust; and that he could not expect the Gods, or
_Captain of the Clouds_ (as they call the unknown Power) would suffer a
better Consequence from so ill a Cause. He now begins to hold _Oroonoko_
excused; and to say, he had reason for what he did. And now every body
could assure the King how passionately _Imoinda_ was beloved by the
Prince; even those confess’d it now, who said the contrary before his
Flame was not abated. So that the King being old, and not able to defend
himself in War, and having no Sons of all his Race remaining alive, but
only this, to maintain him on his Throne; and looking on this as a man
disobliged, first by the Rape of his Mistress, or rather Wife, and now
by depriving him wholly of her, he fear’d, might make him desperate, and
do some cruel thing, either to himself or his old Grandfather the
Offender, he began to repent him extremely of the Contempt he had, in
his Rage, put on _Imoinda_. Besides, he consider’d he ought in Honour to
have killed her for this Offence, if it had been one. He ought to have
had so much Value and Consideration for a Maid of her Quality, as to
have nobly put her to Death, and not to have sold her like a common
Slave; the greatest Revenge, and the most disgraceful of any, and to
which they a thousand times prefer Death, and implore it; as _Imoinda_
did, but could not obtain that Honour. Seeing therefore it was certain
that _Oroonoko_ would highly resent this Affront, he thought good to
make some Excuse for his Rashness to him; and to that End, he sent a
Messenger to the Camp, with Orders to treat with him about the Matter,
to gain his Pardon, and endeavour to mitigate his Grief: but that by no
Means he should tell him she was sold, but secretly put to Death; for he
knew he should never obtain his Pardon for the other.
When the Messenger came, he found the Prince upon the Point of engaging
with the Enemy; but as soon as he heard of the Arrival of the Messenger,
he commanded him to his Tent, where he embraced him, and received him
with Joy; which was soon abated by the down-cast Looks of the Messenger,
who was instantly demanded the Cause by _Oroonoko_; who, impatient of
Delay, ask’d a thousand Questions in a Breath, and all concerning
_Imoinda_. But there needed little Return; for he could almost answer
himself of all he demanded, from his Sight and Eyes. At last the
Messenger casting himself at the Prince’s Feet, and kissing them with
all the Submission of a Man that had something to implore which he
dreaded to utter, besought him to hear with Calmness what he had to
deliver to him, and to call up all his noble and heroick Courage, to
encounter with his Words, and defend himself against the ungrateful
Things he had to relate. _Oroonoko_ reply’d, with a deep Sigh, and a
languishing Voice,--_I am armed against their worst Efforts--For I know
they will tell me, +Imoinda+ is no more--And after that, you may spare
the rest._ Then, commanding him to rise, he laid himself on a Carpet,
under a rich Pavilion, and remained a good while silent, and was hardly
heard to sigh. When he was come a little to himself, the Messenger asked
him Leave to deliver that Part of his Embassy which the Prince had not
yet divin’d: And the Prince cry’d, _I permit thee_--Then he told him the
Affliction the old King was in, for the Rashness he had committed in his
Cruelty to _Imoinda_; and how he deign’d to ask Pardon for his Offence,
and to implore the Prince would not suffer that Loss to touch his Heart
too sensibly, which now all the Gods could not restore him, but might
recompense him in Glory, which he begged he would pursue; and that
Death, that common Revenger of all Injuries, would soon even the Account
between him and a feeble old Man.
_Oroonoko_ bad him return his Duty to his Lord and Master; and to assure
him, there was no Account of Revenge to be adjudged between them; If
there was, he was the Aggressor, and that Death would be just, and,
maugre his Age, would see him righted; and he was contented to leave his
Share of Glory to Youths more fortunate and worthy of that Favour from
the Gods: That henceforth he would never lift a Weapon, or draw a Bow,
but abandon the small Remains of his Life to Sighs and Tears, and the
continual Thoughts of what his Lord and Grandfather had thought good to
send out of the World, with all that Youth, that Innocence and Beauty.
After having spoken this, whatever his greatest Officers and Men of the
best Rank could do, they could not raise him from the Carpet, or
persuade him to Action, and Resolutions of Life; but commanding all to
retire, he shut himself into his Pavilion all that Day, while the Enemy
was ready to engage: and wondring at the Delay, the whole Body of the
chief of the Army then address’d themselves to him, and to whom they had
much ado to get Admittance. They fell on their Faces at the Foot of his
Carpet, where they lay, and besought him with earnest Prayers and Tears
to lead them forth to Battle, and not let the Enemy take Advantages of
them; and implored him to have Regard to his Glory, and to the World,
that depended on his Courage and Conduct. But he made no other Reply to
all their Supplications than this, That he had now no more Business for
Glory; and for the World, it was a Trifle not worth his Care: _Go_,
(continued he, sighing) _and divide it amongst you, and reap with Joy
what you so vainly prize, and leave me to my more welcome Destiny._
They then demanded what they should do, and whom he would constitute in
his Room, that the Confusion of ambitious Youth and Power might not ruin
their Order, and make them a Prey to the Enemy. He reply’d, he would not
give himself that Trouble--but wished ’em to chuse the bravest Man
amongst ’em, let his Quality or Birth be what it would: ‘For, Oh my
Friends! (says he) it is not Titles make Men Brave or Good; or Birth
that bestows Courage and Generosity, or makes the Owner Happy. Believe
this, when you behold _Oroonoko_ the most wretched, and abandoned by
Fortune, of all the Creation of the Gods.’ So turning himself about, he
would make no more Reply to all they could urge or implore.
The Army beholding their Officers return unsuccessful, with sad Faces
and ominous Looks, that presaged no good Luck, suffer’d a thousand Fears
to take Possession of their Hearts, and the Enemy to come even upon them
before they could provide for their Safety by any Defence: and tho’ they
were assured by some who had a Mind to animate them, that they should be
immediately headed by the Prince; and that in the mean time _Aboan_ had
Orders to command as General; yet they were so dismay’d for want of that
great Example of Bravery, that they could make but a very feeble
Resistance; and, at last, down-right fled before the Enemy, who pursued
’em to the very Tents, killing ’em: Nor could all _Aboan’s_ Courage,
which that Day gained him immortal Glory, shame ’em into a manly Defence
of themselves. The Guards that were left behind about the Prince’s Tent,
seeing the Soldiers flee before the Enemy, and scatter themselves all
over the Plain, in great Disorder, made such Out-cries, as rouz’d the
Prince from his amorous Slumber, in which he had remained buried for two
Days, without permitting any Sustenance to approach him. But, in Spite
of all his Resolutions, he had not the Constancy of Grief to that
Degree, as to make him insensible of the Danger of his Army; and in that
Instant he leaped from his Couch, and cry’d--‘Come, if we must die, let
us meet Death the noblest Way; and ’twill be more like _Oroonoko_ to
encounter him at an Army’s Head, opposing the Torrent of a conquering
Foe, than lazily on a Couch, to wait his lingering Pleasure, and die
every Moment by a thousand racking Thoughts; or be tamely taken by an
Enemy, and led a whining, love-sick Slave to adorn the Triumphs of
_Jamoan_, that young Victor, who already is enter’d beyond the Limits I
have prescrib’d him.’
While he was speaking, he suffer’d his People to dress him for the
Field; and sallying out of his Pavilion, with more Life and Vigour in
his Countenance than ever he shew’d, he appear’d like some Divine Power
descended to save his Country from Destruction: And his People had
purposely put him on all Things that might make him shine with most
Splendor, to strike a reverend Awe into the Beholders. He flew into the
thickest of those that were pursuing his Men; and being animated with
Despair, he fought as if he came on Purpose to die, and did such Things
as will not be believed that human Strength could perform; and such, as
soon inspir’d all the rest with new Courage, and new Ardor. And now it
was that they began to fight indeed; and so, as if they would not be
out-done even by their ador’d Hero; who turning the Tide of the Victory,
changing absolutely the Fate of the Day, gain’d an entire Conquest: And
_Oroonoko_ having the good Fortune to single out _Jamoan_, he took him
Prisoner with his own Hand, having wounded him almost to Death.
This _Jamoan_ afterwards became very dear to him, being a Man very
Gallant, and of excellent Graces, and fine Parts; so that he never put
him amongst the Rank of Captives as they used to do, without
Distinction, for the common Sale, or Market, but kept him in his own
Court, where he retain’d nothing of the Prisoner but the Name, and
returned no more into his own Country; so great an Affection he took for
_Oroonoko_, and by a thousand Tales and Adventures of Love and
Gallantry, flatter’d his Disease of Melancholy and Languishment; which I
have often heard him say, had certainly kill’d him, but for the
Conversation of this Prince and _Aboan_, and the _French_ Governor he
had from his Childhood, of whom I have spoken before, and who was a Man
of admirable Wit, great Ingenuity and Learning; all which he had infused
into his young Pupil. This _Frenchman_ was banished out of his own
Country for some Heretical Notions he held; and tho’ he was a Man of
very little Religion, yet he had admirable Morals, and a brave Soul.
After the total Defeat of _Jamoan’s_ Army, which all fled, or were left
dead upon the Place, they spent some Time in the Camp; _Oroonoko_
chusing rather to remain a While there in his Tents, than to enter into
a Palace, or live in a Court where he had so lately suffer’d so great a
Loss, the Officers therefore, who saw and knew his Cause of Discontent,
invented all sorts of Diversions and Sports to entertain their Prince:
So that what with those Amusements abroad, and others at home, that is,
within their Tents, with the Persuasions, Arguments, and Care of his
Friends and Servants that he more peculiarly priz’d, he wore off in Time
a great Part of that Chagrin, and Torture of Despair, which the first
Efforts of _Imoinda’s_ Death had given him; insomuch, as having received
a thousand kind Embassies from the King, and Invitation to return to
Court, he obey’d, tho’ with no little Reluctancy; and when he did so,
there was a visible Change in him, and for a long Time he was much more
melancholy than before. But Time lessens all Extremes, and reduces ’em
to Mediums, and Unconcern; but no Motives of Beauties, tho’ all
endeavour’d it, could engage him in any sort of Amour, tho’ he had all
the Invitations to it, both from his own Youth, and other Ambitions and
Designs.
_Oroonoko_ was no sooner return’d from this last Conquest, and receiv’d
at Court with all the Joy and Magnificence that could be express’d to a
young Victor, who was not only return’d Triumphant, but belov’d like a
Deity, than there arriv’d in the Port an _English_ Ship.
The Master of it had often before been in these Countries, and was very
well known to _Oroonoko_, with whom he had traffick’d for Slaves, and
had us’d to do the same with his Predecessors.
This Commander was a Man of a finer sort of Address and Conversation,
better bred, and more engaging, than most of that sort of Men are; so
that he seem’d rather never to have been bred out of a Court, than
almost all his Life at Sea. This Captain therefore was always better
receiv’d at Court, than most of the Traders to those Countries were; and
especially by _Oroonoko_, who was more civiliz’d, according to the
_European_ Mode, than any other had been, and took more Delight in the
_White_ Nations; and, above all, Men of Parts and Wit. To this Captain
he sold abundance of his Slaves; and for the Favour and Esteem he had
for him, made him many Presents, and oblig’d him to stay at Court as
long as possibly he could. Which the Captain seem’d to take as a very
great Honour done him, entertaining the Prince every Day with Globes and
Maps, and Mathematical Discourses and Instruments; eating, drinking,
hunting, and living with him with so much Familiarity, that it was not
to be doubted but he had gain’d very greatly upon the Heart of this
gallant young Man. And the Captain, in Return of all these mighty
Favours, besought the Prince to honour his Vessel with his Presence some
Day or other at Dinner, before he should set sail; which he condescended
to accept, and appointed his Day. The Captain, on his Part, fail’d not
to have all Things in a Readiness, in the most magnificent Order he
could possibly: And the Day being come, the Captain, in his Boat, richly
adorn’d with Carpets and Velvet Cushions, rowed to the Shore, to receive
the Prince; with another Long-boat, where was plac’d all his Musick and
Trumpets, with which _Oroonoko_ was extremely delighted; who met him on
the Shore, attended by his _French_ Governor, _Jamoan_, _Aboan_, and
about an Hundred of the noblest of the Youths of the Court: And after
they had first carried the Prince on Board, the Boats fetch’d the rest
off; where they found a very splendid Treat, with all Sorts of fine
Wines; and were as well entertain’d, as ’twas possible in such a Place
to be.
The Prince having drank hard of Punch, and several Sorts of Wine, as did
all the rest, (for great Care was taken they should want nothing of that
Part of the Entertainment) was very merry, and in great Admiration of
the Ship, for he had never been in one before; so that he was curious of
beholding every Place where he decently might descend. The rest, no less
curious, who were not quite overcome with drinking, rambled at their
Pleasure _Fore_ and _Aft_, as their Fancies guided ’em: So that the
Captain, who had well laid his Design before, gave the Word, and seiz’d
on all his Guests; they clapping great Irons suddenly on the Prince,
when he was leap’d down into the Hold, to view that Part of the Vessel;
and locking him fast down, secur’d him. The same Treachery was used to
all the rest; and all in one Instant, in several Places of the Ship,
were lash’d fast in Irons, and betray’d to Slavery. That great Design
over, they set all Hands at Work to hoist Sail; and with as treacherous
as fair a Wind they made from the Shore with this innocent and glorious
Prize, who thought of nothing less than such an Entertainment.
Some have commended this Act, as brave in the Captain; but I will spare
my Sense of it, and leave it to my Reader to judge as he pleases. It may
be easily guess’d, in what Manner the Prince resented this Indignity,
who may be best resembled to a Lion taken in a Toil; so he raged, so he
struggled for Liberty, but all in vain: And they had so wisely managed
his Fetters, that he could not use a Hand in his Defence, to quit
himself of a Life that would by no Means endure Slavery; nor could he
move from the Place where he was ty’d, to any solid Part of the Ship,
against which he might have beat his Head, and have finish’d his
Disgrace that Way. So that being deprived of all other Means, he
resolv’d to perish for want of Food; and pleas’d at last with that
Thought, and toil’d and tir’d by Rage and Indignation, he laid himself
down, and sullenly resolv’d upon dying, and refused all Things that were
brought him.
This did not a little vex the Captain, and the more so, because he found
almost all of ’em of the same Humour; so that the Loss of so many brave
Slaves, so tall and goodly to behold, would have been very considerable:
He therefore order’d one to go from him (for he would not be seen
himself) to _Oroonoko_, and to assure him, he was afflicted for having
rashly done so unhospitable a Deed, and which could not be now remedied,
since they were far from Shore; but since he resented it in so high a
Nature, he assur’d him he would revoke his Resolution, and set both him
and his Friends ashore on the next Land they should touch at; and of
this the Messenger gave him his Oath, provided he would resolve to live.
And _Oroonoko_, whose Honour was such, as he never had violated a Word
in his Life himself, much less a solemn Asseveration, believ’d in an
Instant what this Man said; but reply’d, He expected, for a Confirmation
of this, to have his shameful Fetters dismis’d. This Demand was carried
to the Captain; who return’d him Answer, That the Offence had been so
great which he had put upon the Prince, that he durst not trust him with
Liberty while he remain’d in the Ship, for fear, lest by a Valour
natural to him, and a Revenge that would animate that Valour, he might
commit some Outrage fatal to himself, and the King his Master, to whom
the Vessel did belong. To this _Oroonoko_ reply’d, He would engage his
Honour to behave himself in all friendly Order and Manner, and obey the
Command of the Captain, as he was Lord of the King’s Vessel, and General
of those Men under his Command.
This was deliver’d to the still doubting Captain, who could not resolve
to trust a Heathen, he said, upon his Parole, a Man that had no Sense or
Notion of the God that he worshipp’d. _Oroonoko_ then reply’d, He was
very sorry to hear that the Captain pretended to the Knowledge and
Worship of any Gods, who had taught him no better Principles, than not
to credit as he would be credited. But they told him, the Difference of
their Faith occasion’d that Distrust: for the Captain had protested to
him upon the Word of a Christian, and sworn in the Name of a great GOD;
which if he should violate, he must expect eternal Torments in the World
to come. ‘Is that all the Obligations he has to be just to his Oath?
(reply’d _Oroonoko_) Let him know, I swear by my Honour; which to
violate, would not only render me contemptible and despised by all brave
and honest Men, and so give my self perpetual Pain, but it would be
eternally offending and displeasing all Mankind; harming, betraying,
circumventing, and outraging all Men. But Punishments hereafter are
suffer’d by one’s self; and the World takes no Cognizance whether this
GOD has reveng’d ’em or not, ’tis done so secretly, and deferr’d so
long; while the Man of no Honour suffers every Moment the Scorn and
Contempt of the honester World, and dies every Day ignominiously in his
Fame, which is more valuable than Life. I speak not this to move Belief,
but to shew you how you mistake, when you imagine, that he who will
violate his Honour, will keep his Word with his _Gods_.’ So, turning
from him with a disdainful Smile, he refused to answer him, when he
urged him to know what Answer he should carry back to his Captain; so
that he departed without saying any more.
The Captain pondering and consulting what to do, it was concluded, that
nothing but _Oroonoko’s_ Liberty would encourage any of the rest to eat,
except the _Frenchman_, whom the Captain could not pretend to keep
Prisoner, but only told him, he was secur’d, because he might act
something in Favour of the Prince; but that he should be freed as soon
as they came to Land. So that they concluded it wholly necessary to free
the Prince from his Irons, that he might shew himself to the rest; that
they might have an Eye upon him, and that they could not fear a single
Man.
This being resolved, to make the Obligation the greater, the Captain
himself went to _Oroonoko_; where, after many Compliments, and
Assurances of what he had already promis’d, he receiving from the Prince
his Parole, and his Hand, for his good Behaviour, dismiss’d his Irons,
and brought him to his own Cabin; where, after having treated and
repos’d him a While, (for he had neither eat nor slept in four Days
before) he besought him to visit those obstinate People in Chains, who
refused all manner of Sustenance; and intreated him to oblige ’em to
eat, and assure ’em of their Liberty the first Opportunity.
_Oroonoko_, who was too generous not to give Credit to his Words, shew’d
himself to his People, who were transported with Excess of Joy at the
Sight of their darling Prince; falling at his Feet, and kissing and
embracing ’em; believing, as some divine Oracle, all he assur’d ’em. But
he besought ’em to bear their Chains with that Bravery that became those
whom he had seen act so nobly in Arms; and that they could not give him
greater Proofs of their Love and Friendship, since ’twas all the
Security the Captain (his Friend) could have against the Revenge, he
said, they might possibly justly take for the Injuries sustained by him.
And they all, with one Accord, assur’d him, that they could not suffer
enough, when it was for his Repose and Safety.
After this, they no longer refus’d to eat, but took what was brought
’em, and were pleas’d with their Captivity, since by it they hoped to
redeem the Prince, who, all the rest of the Voyage, was treated with all
the Respect due to his Birth, tho’ nothing could divert his Melancholy;
and he would often sigh for _Imoinda_, and think this a Punishment due
to his Misfortune, in having left that noble Maid behind him, that fatal
Night, in the _Otan_, when he fled to the Camp.
Possess’d with a thousand Thoughts of past Joys with this fair young
Person, and a thousand Griefs for her eternal Loss, he endur’d a tedious
Voyage, and at last arriv’d at the Mouth of the River of _Surinam_, a
Colony belonging to the King of _England_, and where they were to
deliver some Part of their Slaves. There the Merchants and Gentlemen of
the Country going on Board, to demand those Lots of Slaves they had
already agreed on; and, amongst those, the Overseers of those
Plantations where I then chanc’d to be: The Captain, who had given the
Word, order’d his Men to bring up those noble Slaves in Fetters, whom I
have spoken of; and having put ’em, some in one, and some in other Lots,
with Women and Children, (which they call _Pickaninies_) they sold ’em
off, as Slaves to several Merchants and Gentlemen; not putting any two
in one Lot, because they would separate ’em far from each other; nor
daring to trust ’em together, lest Rage and Courage should put ’em upon
contriving some great Action, to the Ruin of the Colony.
_Oroonoko_ was first seiz’d on, and sold to our Overseer, who had the
first Lot, with seventeen more of all Sorts and Sizes, but not one of
Quality with him. When he saw this, he found what they meant; for, as I
said, he understood _English_ pretty well; and being wholly unarm’d and
defenceless, so as it was in vain to make any Resistance, he only beheld
the Captain with a Look all fierce and disdainful, upbraiding him with
Eyes that forc’d Blushes on his guilty Cheeks, he only cry’d in passing
over the Side of the Ship; _Farewel, Sir, ’tis worth my Sufferings to
gain so true a Knowledge, both of you, and of your Gods, by whom you
swear._ And desiring those that held him to forbear their Pains, and
telling ’em he would make no Resistance, he cry’d, _Come, my
Fellow-Slaves, let us descend, and see if we can meet with more Honour
and Honesty in the next World we shall touch upon._ So he nimbly leapt
into the Boat, and shewing no more Concern, suffer’d himself to be row’d
up the River, with his seventeen Companions.
The Gentleman that bought him, was a young _Cornish_ Gentleman, whose
Name was _Trefry_; a Man of great Wit, and fine Learning, and was
carried into those Parts by the Lord ---- Governor, to manage all his
Affairs. He reflecting on the last Words of _Oroonoko_ to the Captain,
and beholding the Richness of his Vest, no sooner came into the Boat,
but he fix’d his Eyes on him; and finding something so extraordinary in
his Face, his Shape and Mein, a Greatness of Look, and Haughtiness in
his Air, and finding he spoke _English_, had a great Mind to be
enquiring into his Quality and Fortune; which, though _Oroonoko_
endeavour’d to hide, by only confessing he was above the Rank of common
Slaves, _Trefry_ soon found he was yet something greater than he
confess’d; and from that Moment began to conceive so vast an Esteem for
him, that he ever after lov’d him as his dearest Brother, and shew’d him
all the Civilities due to so great a Man.
_Trefry_ was a very good Mathematician, and a Linguist; could speak
_French_ and _Spanish_; and in the three Days they remain’d in the Boat,
(for so long were they going from the Ship to the Plantation) he
entertain’d _Oroonoko_ so agreeably with his Art and Discourse, that he
was no less pleas’d with _Trefry_, than he was with the Prince; and he
thought himself, at least, fortunate in this, that since he was a Slave,
as long as he would suffer himself to remain so, he had a Man of so
excellent Wit and Parts for a Master. So that before they had finish’d
their Voyage up the River, he made no Scruple of declaring to _Trefry_
all his Fortunes, and most Part of what I have here related, and put
himself wholly into the Hands of his new Friend, who he found resented
all the Injuries were done him, and was charm’d with all the Greatnesses
of his Actions; which were recited with that Modesty, and delicate
Sense, as wholly vanquish’d him, and subdu’d him to his Interest. And he
promis’d him, on his Word and Honour, he would find the Means to
re-conduct him to his own Country again; assuring him, he had a perfect
Abhorrence of so dishonourable an Action; and that he would sooner have
dy’d, than have been the Author of such a Perfidy. He found the Prince
was very much concerned to know what became of his Friends, and how they
took their Slavery; and _Trefry_ promised to take Care about the
enquiring after their Condition, and that he should have an Account
of ’em.
Tho’, as _Oroonoko_ afterwards said, he had little Reason to credit the
Words of a _Backearary_; yet he knew not why, but he saw a kind of
Sincerity, and aweful Truth in the Face of _Trefry_; he saw Honesty in
his Eyes, and he found him wise and witty enough to understand Honour:
for it was one of his Maxims, _A Man of Wit could not be a Knave or
Villain_.
In their Passage up the River, they put in at several Houses for
Refreshment; and ever when they landed, Numbers of People would flock to
behold this Man: not but their Eyes were daily entertain’d with the
Sight of Slaves; but the Fame of _Oroonoko_ was gone before him, and all
People were in Admiration of his Beauty. Besides, he had a rich Habit
on, in which he was taken, so different from the rest, and which the
Captain could not strip him of, because he was forc’d to surprize his
Person in the Minute he sold him. When he found his Habit made him
liable, as he thought, to be gazed at the more, he begged _Trefry_ to
give him something more befitting a Slave, which he did, and took off
his Robes: Nevertheless, he shone thro’ all, and his _Osenbrigs_ (a sort
of brown _Holland_ Suit he had on) could not conceal the Graces of his
Looks and Mein; and he had no less Admirers than when he had his dazling
Habit on: The Royal Youth appear’d in spite of the Slave, and People
could not help treating him after a different Manner, without designing
it. As soon as they approached him, they venerated and esteemed him; his
Eyes insensibly commanded Respect, and his Behaviour insinuated it into
every Soul. So that there was nothing talked of but this young and
gallant Slave, even by those who yet knew not that he was a Prince.
I ought to tell you, that the Christians never buy any Slaves but they
give ’em some Name of their own, their native ones being likely very
barbarous, and hard to pronounce; so that Mr. _Trefry_ gave _Oroonoko_
that of _Cæsar_; which name will live in that Country as long as that
(scarce more) glorious one of the great _Roman_: for ’tis most evident
he wanted no Part of the personal Courage of that _Cæsar_, and acted
Things as memorable, had they been done in some Part of the World
replenished with People and Historians, that might have given him his
Due. But his Misfortune was, to fall in an obscure World, that afforded
only a Female Pen to celebrate his Fame; tho’ I doubt not but it had
lived from others Endeavours, if the _Dutch_, who immediately after his
Time took that Country, had not killed, banished and dispersed all those
that were capable of giving the World this great Man’s Life, much better
than I have done. And Mr. _Trefry_, who design’d it, died before he
began it, and bemoan’d himself for not having undertook it in Time.
For the future therefore I must call _Oroonoko Cæsar_; since by that
Name only he was known in our Western World, and by that Name he was
received on Shore at _Parham-House_, where he was destin’d a Slave. But
if the King himself (God bless him) had come ashore, there could not
have been greater Expectation by all the whole Plantation, and those
neighbouring ones, than was on ours at that Time; and he was received
more like a Governor than a Slave: Notwithstanding, as the Custom was,
they assigned him his Portion of Land, his House and his Business up in
the Plantation. But as it was more for Form, than any Design to put him
to his Task, he endured no more of the Slave but the Name, and remain’d
some Days in the House, receiving all Visits that were made him, without
stirring towards that Part of the Plantation where the _Negroes_ were.
At last, he would needs go view his Land, his House, and the Business
assign’d him. But he no sooner came to the Houses of the Slaves, which
are like a little Town by itself, the _Negroes_ all having left Work,
but they all came forth to behold him, and found he was that Prince who
had, at several Times, sold most of ’em to these Parts; and from a
Veneration they pay to great Men, especially if they know ’em, and from
the Surprize and Awe they had at the Sight of him, they all cast
themselves at his Feet, crying out, in their Language, _Live, O King!
Long live, O King!_ and kissing his Feet, paid him even Divine Homage.
Several _English_ Gentlemen were with him, and what Mr. _Trefry_ had
told ’em was here confirm’d; of which he himself before had no other
Witness than _Cæsar_ himself: But he was infinitely glad to find his
Grandeur confirmed by the Adoration of all the Slaves.
_Cæsar_, troubled with their Over-Joy, and Over-Ceremony, besought ’em
to rise, and to receive him as their Fellow-Slave; assuring them he was
no better. At which they set up with one Accord a most terrible and
hideous Mourning and Condoling, which he and the _English_ had much ado
to appease: but at last they prevailed with ’em, and they prepared all
their barbarous Musick, and every one kill’d and dress’d something of
his own Stock (for every Family has their Land apart, on which, at their
Leisure-times, they breed all eatable Things) and clubbing it together,
made a most magnificent Supper, inviting their _Grandee Captain_, their
_Prince_, to honour it with his Presence; which he did, and several
_English_ with him, where they all waited on him, some playing, others
dancing before him all the Time, according to the Manners of their
several Nations, and with unwearied Industry endeavouring to please and
delight him.
While they sat at Meat, Mr. _Trefry_ told _Cæsar_, that most of these
young Slaves were undone in Love with a fine She-Slave, whom they had
had about six Months on their Land; the Prince, who never heard the Name
of _Love_ without a Sigh, nor any Mention of it without the Curiosity of
examining further into that Tale, which of all Discourses was most
agreeable to him, asked, how they came to be so unhappy, as to be all
undone for one fair Slave? _Trefry_, who was naturally amorous, and
delighted to talk of Love as well as any Body, proceeded to tell him,
they had the most charming Black that ever was beheld on their
Plantation, about fifteen or sixteen Years old, as he guess’d; that for
his Part he had done nothing but sigh for her ever since she came; and
that all the White Beauties he had seen, never charm’d him so absolutely
as this fine Creature had done; and that no Man, of any Nation, ever
beheld her, that did not fall in love with her; and that she had all the
Slaves perpetually at her Feet; and the whole Country resounded with the
Fame of _Clemene_, for so (said he) we have christen’d her: but she
denies us all with such a noble Disdain, that ’tis a Miracle to see,
that she who can give such eternal Desires, should herself be all Ice
and all Unconcern. She is adorn’d with the most graceful Modesty that
ever beautify’d Youth; the softest Sigher--that, if she were capable of
Love, one would swear she languished for some absent happy Man; and so
retired, as if she fear’d a Rape even from the God of Day, or that the
Breezes would steal Kisses from her delicate Mouth. Her Task of Work,
some sighing Lover every Day makes it his Petition to perform for her;
which she accepts blushing, and with Reluctancy, for Fear he will ask
her a Look for a Recompence, which he dares not presume to hope; so
great an Awe she strikes into the Hearts of her Admirers. ‘I do not
wonder (_reply’d the Prince_) that _Clemene_ should refuse Slaves,
being, as you say, so beautiful; but wonder how she escapes those that
can entertain her as you can do: or why, being your Slave, you do not
oblige her to yield?’ ‘I confess (_said +Trefry+_) when I have, against
her Will, entertained her with Love so long, as to be transported with
my Passion even above Decency, I have been ready to make Use of those
Advantages of Strength and Force Nature has given me: But Oh! she
disarms me with that Modesty and Weeping, so tender and so moving, that
I retire, and thank my Stars she overcame me.’ The Company laugh’d at
his Civility to a Slave, and _Cæsar_ only applauded the Nobleness of
his Passion and Nature, since that Slave might be noble, or, what was
better, have true Notions of Honour and Virtue in her. Thus passed they
this Night, after having received from the Slaves all imaginable Respect
and Obedience.
The next Day, _Trefry_ ask’d _Cæsar_ to walk when the Heat was allay’d,
and designedly carried him by the Cottage of the fair Slave; and told
him she whom he spoke of last Night lived there retir’d: _But_ (says he)
_I would not wish you to approach; for I am sure you will be in Love as
soon as you behold her._ _Cæsar_ assured him, he was Proof against all
the Charms of that Sex; and that if he imagined his Heart could be so
perfidious to love again after _Imoinda_, he believed he should tear it
from his Bosom. They had no sooner spoke, but a little Shock-Dog, that
_Clemene_ had presented her, which she took great Delight in, ran out;
and she, not knowing any Body was there, ran to get it in again, and
bolted out on those who were just speaking of her: when seeing them, she
would have run in again, but _Trefry_ caught her by the Hand, and cry’d,
Clemene, _however you fly a Lover, you ought to pay some Respect to this
Stranger_, (pointing to _Cæsar_.) But she, as if she had resolved never
to raise her Eyes to the Face of a Man again, bent ’em the more to the
Earth, when he spoke, and gave the Prince the Leisure to look the more
at her. There needed no long gazing, or Consideration, to examine who
this fair Creature was; he soon saw _Imoinda_ all over her: in a Minute
he saw her Face, her Shape, her Air, her Modesty, and all that call’d
forth his Soul with Joy at his Eyes, and left his Body destitute of
almost Life: it stood without Motion, and for a Minute knew not that it
had a Being; and, I believe, he had never come to himself, so oppress’d
he was with Over-joy, if he had not met with this Allay, that he
perceived _Imoinda_ fall dead in the Hands of _Trefry_. This awaken’d
him, and he ran to her Aid, and caught her in his Arms, where by Degrees
she came to her self; and ’tis needless to tell with what Transports,
what Extasies of Joy, they both a While beheld each other, without
speaking; then snatched each other to their Arms; then gaze again, as if
they still doubted whether they possess’d the Blessing they grasped: but
when they recover’d their Speech, ’tis not to be imagined what tender
Things they express’d to each other; wondring what strange Fate had
brought them again together. They soon inform’d each other of their
Fortunes, and equally bewail’d their Fate; but at the same Time they
mutually protested, that even Fetters and Slavery were soft and easy,
and would be supported with Joy and Pleasure, while they could be so
happy to possess each other, and to be able to make good their Vows.
_Cæsar_ swore he disdained the Empire of the World, while he could
behold his _Imoinda_; and she despised Grandeur and Pomp, those Vanities
of her Sex, when she could gaze on _Oroonoko_. He ador’d the very
Cottage where she resided, and said, That little Inch of the World would
give him more Happiness than all the Universe could do; and she vow’d it
was a Palace, while adorned with the Presence of _Oroonoko_.
_Trefry_ was infinitely pleased with this Novel, and found this
_Clemene_ was the fair Mistress of whom _Cæsar_ had before spoke; and
was not a little satisfy’d, that Heaven was so kind to the Prince as to
sweeten his Misfortunes by so lucky an Accident; and leaving the Lovers
to themselves, was impatient to come down to _Parham-House_ (which was
on the same Plantation) to give me an Account of what had happened.
I was as impatient to make these Lovers a Visit, having already made
a Friendship with _Cæsar_, and from his own Mouth learned what I have
related; which was confirmed by his _Frenchman_, who was set on shore
to seek his Fortune, and of whom they could not make a Slave, because
a Christian; and he came daily to _Parham-Hill_ to see and pay his
Respects to his Pupil Prince. So that concerning and interesting myself
in all that related to _Cæsar_, whom I had assured of Liberty as soon
as the Governour arrived, I hasted presently to the Place where these
Lovers were, and was infinitely glad to find this beautiful young
Slave (who had already gain’d all our Esteems, for her Modesty and
extraordinary Prettiness) to be the same I had heard _Cæsar_ speak so
much of. One may imagine then we paid her a treble Respect; and tho’
from her being carved in fine Flowers and Birds all over her Body, we
took her to be of Quality before, yet when we knew _Clemene_ was
_Imoinda_, we could not enough admire her.
I had forgot to tell you, that those who are nobly born of that Country,
are so delicately cut and raised all over the Fore-part of the Trunk of
their Bodies, that it looks as if it were japan’d, the Works being
raised like high Point round the Edges of the Flowers. Some are only
carved with a little Flower, or Bird, at the Sides of the Temples, as
was _Cæsar_; and those who are so carved over the Body, resemble our
antient _Picts_ that are figur’d in the Chronicles, but these Carvings
are more delicate.
From that happy Day _Cæsar_ took _Clemene_ for his Wife, to the general
Joy of all People; and there was as much Magnificence as the Country
could afford at the Celebration of this Wedding: And in a very short
Time after she conceived with Child, which made _Cæsar_ even adore her,
knowing he was the last of his great Race. This new Accident made him
more impatient of Liberty, and he was every Day treating with _Trefrey_
for his and _Clemene’s_ Liberty, and offer’d either Gold, or a vast
Quantity of Slaves, which should be paid before they let him go,
provided he could have any Security that he should go when his Ransom
was paid. They fed him from Day to Day with Promises, and delay’d him
till the Lord-Governor should come; so that he began to suspect them of
Falshood, and that they would delay him till the Time of his Wife’s
Delivery, and make a Slave of the Child too; for all the Breed is theirs
to whom the Parents belong. This Thought made him very uneasy, and his
Sullenness gave them some Jealousies of him; so that I was obliged, by
some Persons who fear’d a Mutiny (which is very fatal sometimes in those
Colonies that abound so with Slaves, that they exceed the Whites in vast
Numbers) to discourse with _Cæsar_, and to give him all the Satisfaction
I possibly could: They knew he and _Clemene_ were scarce an Hour in a
Day from my Lodgings; that they eat with me, and that I oblig’d them in
all Things I was capable. I entertained them with the Lives of the
_Romans_, and great Men, which charmed him to my Company; and her, with
teaching her all the pretty Works that I was Mistress of, and telling
her Stories of Nuns, and endeavouring to bring her to the Knowledge of
the true God: But of all Discourses, _Cæsar_ liked that the worst, and
would never be reconciled to our Notions of the Trinity, of which he
ever made a Jest; it was a Riddle he said would turn his Brain to
conceive, and one could not make him understand what Faith was. However,
these Conversations fail’d not altogether so well to divert him, that he
liked the Company of us Women much above the Men, for he could not
drink, and he is but an ill Companion in that Country that cannot. So
that obliging him to love us very well, we had all the Liberty of Speech
with him, especially my self, whom he call’d his _Great Mistress_; and
indeed my Word would go a great Way with him. For these Reasons I had
Opportunity to take Notice to him, that he was not well pleased of late,
as he used to be; was more retired and thoughtful; and told him, I took
it ill he should suspect we would break our Words with him, and not
permit both him and _Clemene_ to return to his own Kingdom, which was
not so long a Way, but when he was once on his Voyage he would quickly
arrive there. He made me some Answers that shew’d a Doubt in him, which
made me ask, what Advantage it would be to doubt? It would but give us a
Fear of him, and possibly compel us to treat him so as I should be very
loth to behold; that is, it might occasion his Confinement. Perhaps this
was not so luckily spoke of me, for I perceiv’d he resented that Word,
which I strove to soften again in vain: However, he assur’d me, that
whatsoever Resolutions he should take, he would act nothing upon the
_White_ People; and as for myself, and those upon that _Plantation_
where he was, he would sooner forfeit his eternal Liberty, and Life
itself, than lift his Hand against his greatest Enemy on that Place. He
besought me to suffer no Fears upon his Account, for he could do nothing
that Honour should not dictate; but he accused himself for having
suffer’d Slavery so long; yet he charg’d that Weakness on Love alone,
who was capable of making him neglect even Glory itself; and, for which,
now he reproaches himself every Moment of the Day. Much more to this
Effect he spoke, with an Air impatient enough to make me know he would
not be long in Bondage; and tho’ he suffer’d only the Name of a Slave,
and had nothing of the Toil and Labour of one, yet that was sufficient
to render him uneasy; and he had been too long idle, who us’d to be
always in Action, and in Arms. He had a Spirit all rough and fierce, and
that could not be tam’d to lazy Rest: And tho’ all Endeavours were us’d
to exercise himself in such Actions and Sports as this World afforded,
as Running, Wrestling, Pitching the Bar, Hunting and Fishing, Chasing
and Killing _Tygers_ of a monstrous Size, which this Continent affords
in abundance; and wonderful _Snakes_, such as _Alexander_ is reported to
have encounter’d at the River of _Amazons_, and which _Cæsar_ took great
Delight to overcome; yet these were not Actions great enough for his
large Soul, which was still panting after more renown’d Actions.
Before I parted that Day with him, I got, with much ado, a Promise from
him to rest yet a little longer with Patience, and wait the Coming of
the Lord Governour, who was every Day expected on our Shore: He assur’d
me he would, and this Promise he desired me to know was given perfectly
in Complaisance to me, in whom he had an entire Confidence.
After this, I neither thought it convenient to trust him much out of our
View, nor did the Country, who fear’d him; but with one Accord it was
advis’d to treat him fairly, and oblige him to remain within such a
Compass, and that he should be permitted, as seldom as could be, to go
up to the Plantations of the _Negroes_; or, if he did, to be accompany’d
by some that should be rather, in Appearance, Attendants than Spies.
This Care was for some time taken, and _Cæsar_ look’d upon it as a Mark
of extraordinary Respect, and was glad his Discontent had oblig’d ’em to
be more observant to him; he received new Assurance from the Overseer,
which was confirmed to him by the Opinion of all the Gentlemen of the
Country, who made their Court to him. During this Time that we had his
Company more frequently than hitherto we had had, it may not be
unpleasant to relate to you the Diversions we entertain’d him with, or
rather he us.
My Stay was to be short in that Country; because my Father dy’d at Sea,
and never arriv’d to possess the Honour design’d him, (which was
Lieutenant-General of six and thirty Islands, besides the Continent of
_Surinam_) nor the Advantages he hop’d to reap by them: So that though
we were oblig’d to continue on our Voyage, we did not intend to stay
upon the Place. Though, in a Word, I must say thus much of it; That
certainly had his late Majesty, of sacred Memory, but seen and known
what a vast and charming World he had been Master of in that Continent,
he would never have parted so easily with it to the _Dutch_. ’Tis a
Continent, whose vast Extent was never yet known, and may contain more
noble Earth than all the Universe beside; for, they say, it reaches from
East to West one Way as far as _China_, and another to _Peru_: It
affords all Things, both for Beauty and Use; ’tis there eternal Spring,
always the very Months of _April_, _May_, and _June_; the Shades are
perpetual, the Trees bearing at once all Degrees of Leaves, and Fruit,
from blooming Buds to ripe Autumn: Groves of Oranges, Lemons, Citrons,
Figs, Nutmegs, and noble Aromaticks, continually bearing their
Fragrancies: The Trees appearing all like Nosegays, adorn’d with Flowers
of different Kinds; some are all White, some Purple, some Scarlet, some
Blue, some Yellow; bearing at the same Time ripe Fruit, and blooming
young, or producing every Day new. The very Wood of all these Trees has
an intrinsic Value, above common Timber; for they are, when cut, of
different Colours, glorious to behold, and bear a Price considerable, to
inlay withal. Besides this, they yield rich Balm, and Gums; so that we
make our Candles of such an aromatic Substance, as does not only give a
sufficient Light, but as they burn, they cast their Perfumes all about.
Cedar is the common Firing, and all the Houses are built with it. The
very Meat we eat, when set on the Table, if it be native, I mean of the
Country, perfumes the whole Room; especially a little Beast call’d an
_Armadillo_, a Thing which I can liken to nothing so well as a
_Rhinoceros_; ’tis all in white Armour, so jointed, that it moves as
well in it, as if it had nothing on: This Beast is about the Bigness of
a Pig of six Weeks old. But it were endless to give an Account of all
the divers wonderful and strange Things that Country affords, and which
we took a great Delight to go in Search of; tho’ those Adventures are
oftentimes fatal, and at least dangerous: But while we had _Cæsar_ in
our Company on these Designs, we fear’d no Harm, nor suffer’d any.
As soon as I came into the Country, the best House in it was presented
me, call’d _St. John’s Hill_: It stood on a vast Rock of white Marble,
at the Foot of which, the River ran a vast Depth down, and not to be
descended on that Side; the little Waves still dashing and washing the
Foot of this Rock, made the softest Murmurs and Purlings in the World;
and the opposite Bank was adorn’d with such vast Quantities of different
Flowers eternally blowing, and every Day and Hour new, fenc’d behind ’em
with lofty Trees of a thousand rare Forms and Colours, that the Prospect
was the most ravishing that Sands can create. On the Edge of this white
Rock, towards the River, was a Walk, or Grove, of Orange and
Lemon-Trees, about half the Length of the _Mall_ here, whose flowery and
Fruit-bearing Branches met at the Top, and hinder’d the Sun, whose Rays
are very fierce there, from entring a Beam into the Grove; and the cool
Air that came from the River, made it not only fit to entertain People
in, at all the hottest Hours of the Day, but refresh the sweet Blossoms,
and made it always sweet and charming; and sure, the whole Globe of the
World cannot shew so delightful a Place as this Grove was: Not all the
Gardens of boasted _Italy_ can produce a Shade to out-vie this, which
Nature had join’d with Art to render so exceeding fine; and ’tis a
Marvel to see how such vast Trees, as big as _English_ Oaks, could take
Footing on so solid a Rock, and in so little Earth as cover’d that Rock:
But all Things by Nature there are rare, delightful, and wonderful. But
to our Sports.
Sometimes we would go surprising, and in Search of young _Tygers_ in
their Dens, watching when the old ones went forth to forage for Prey;
and oftentimes we have been in great Danger, and have fled apace for our
Lives, when surpriz’d by the Dams. But once, above all other Times, we
went on this Design, and _Cæsar_ was with us; who had no sooner stoln a
young _Tyger_ from her Nest, but going off, we encounter’d the Dam,
bearing a Buttock of a Cow, which she had torn off with her mighty Paw,
and going with it towards her Den: We had only four Women, _Cæsar_, and
an _English_ Gentleman, Brother to _Harry Martin_ the great _Oliverian_;
we found there was no escaping this enraged and ravenous Beast. However,
we Women fled as fast as we could from it; but our Heels had not saved
our Lives, if _Cæsar_ had not laid down her _Cub_, when he found the
_Tyger_ quit her Prey to make the more Speed towards him; and taking Mr.
_Martin’s_ Sword, desired him to stand aside, or follow the Ladies. He
obey’d him; and _Cæsar_ met this monstrous Beast of mighty Size, and
vast Limbs, who came with open Jaws upon him; and fixing his aweful
stern Eyes full upon those of the Beast, and putting himself into a very
steady and good aiming Posture of Defence, ran his Sword quite through
his Breast, down to his very Heart, home to the Hilt of the Sword: The
dying Beast stretch’d forth her Paw, and going to grasp his Thigh,
surpriz’d with Death in that very Moment, did him no other Harm than
fixing her long Nails in his Flesh very deep, feebly wounded him, but
could not grasp the Flesh to tear off any. When he had done this, he
hallow’d to us to return; which, after some Assurance of his Victory, we
did, and found him lugging out the Sword from the Bosom of the _Tyger_,
who was laid in her Blood on the Ground. He took up the _Cub_, and with
an Unconcern that had nothing of the Joy or Gladness of Victory, he came
and laid the Whelp at my Feet. We all extremely wonder’d at his daring,
and at the Bigness of the Beast, which was about the Height of an
Heifer, but of mighty great and strong Limbs.
Another time, being in the Woods, he kill’d a _Tyger_, that had long
infested that Part, and borne away abundance of Sheep and Oxen, and
other Things, that were for the Support of those to whom they belong’d.
Abundance of People assail’d this Beast, some affirming they had shot
her with several Bullets quite through the Body at several times; and
some swearing they shot her through the very Heart; and they believed
she was a Devil, rather than a mortal Thing. _Cæsar_ had often said, he
had a Mind to encounter this Monster, and spoke with several Gentlemen
who had attempted her; one crying, I shot her with so many poison’d
Arrows, another with his Gun in this Part of her, and another in that;
so that he remarking all the Places where she was shot, fancy’d still he
should overcome her, by giving her another Sort of a Wound than any had
yet done; and one Day said (at the Table), ‘What Trophies and Garlands,
Ladies, will you make me, if I bring you home the Heart of this ravenous
Beast, that eats up all your Lambs and Pigs?’ We all promis’d he should
be rewarded at our Hands. So taking a Bow, which he chose out of a great
many, he went up into the Wood, with two Gentlemen, where he imagin’d
this Devourer to be. They had not pass’d very far into it, but they
heard her Voice, growling and grumbling, as if she were pleas’d with
something she was doing. When they came in View, they found her muzzling
in the Belly of a new ravish’d Sheep, which she had torn open; and
seeing herself approach’d, she took fast hold of her Prey with her fore
Paws, and set a very fierce raging Look on _Cæsar_, without offering to
approach him, for Fear at the same Time of loosing what she had in
Possession: So that _Cæsar_ remain’d a good while, only taking Aim, and
getting an Opportunity to shoot her where he design’d. ’Twas some Time
before he could accomplish it; and to wound her, and not kill her, would
but have enrag’d her the more, and endanger’d him. He had a Quiver of
Arrows at his Side, so that if one fail’d, he could be supply’d: At
last, retiring a little, he gave her Opportunity to eat, for he found
she was ravenous, and fell to as soon as she saw him retire, being more
eager of her Prey, than of doing new Mischiefs; when he going softly to
one Side of her, and hiding his Person behind certain Herbage, that grew
high and thick, he took so good Aim, that, as he intended, he shot her
just into the Eye, and the Arrow was sent with so good a Will, and so
sure a Hand, that it stuck in her Brain, and made her caper, and become
mad for a Moment or two; but being seconded by another Arrow, she fell
dead upon the Prey. _Cæsar_ cut her open with a Knife, to see where
those Wounds were that had been reported to him, and why she did not die
of ’em. But I shall now relate a Thing that, possibly, will find no
Credit among Men; because ’tis a Notion commonly receiv’d with us, That
nothing can receive a Wound in the Heart, and live: But when the Heart
of this courageous Animal was taken out, there were seven Bullets of
Lead in it, the Wound seam’d up with great Scars, and she liv’d with the
Bullets a great While, for it was long since they were shot: This Heart
the Conqueror brought up to us, and ’twas a very great Curiosity, which
all the Country came to see; and which gave _Cæsar_ Occasion of many
fine Discourses of Accidents in War, and strange Escapes.
At other times he would go a Fishing; and discoursing on that Diversion,
he found we had in that Country a very strange Fish, call’d a
_Numb-Eel_, (an _Eel_ of which I have eaten) that while it is alive, it
has a Quality so cold, that those who are angling, tho’ with a Line of
ever so great a Length, with a Rod at the End of it, it shall in the
same Minute the Bait is touch’d by this _Eel_, seize him or her that
holds the Rod with a Numbness, that shall deprive ’em of Sense for a
While; and some have fallen into the Water, and others drop’d, as dead,
on the Banks of the Rivers where they stood, as soon as this Fish
touches the Bait. _Cæsar_ us’d to laugh at this, and believ’d it
impossible a Man could lose his Force at the Touch of a Fish; and could
not understand that Philosophy, that a cold Quality should be of that
Nature; however, he had a great Curiosity to try whether it would have
the same Effect on him it had on others, and often try’d, but in vain.
At last, the sought-for Fish came to the Bait, as he stood angling on
the Bank; and instead of throwing away the Rod, or giving it a sudden
Twitch out of the Water, whereby he might have caught both the _Eel_,
and have dismiss’d the Rod, before it could have too much Power over
him; for Experiment-sake, he grasp’d it but the harder, and fainting,
fell into the River; and being still possess’d of the Rod, the Tide
carry’d him, senseless as he was, a great Way, till an _Indian_ Boat
took him up; and perceiv’d, when they touch’d him, a Numbness seize
them, and by that knew the Rod was in his Hand; which with a Paddle,
(that is a short Oar) they struck away, and snatch’d it into the Boat,
_Eel_ and all. If _Cæsar_ was almost dead, with the Effect of this Fish,
he was more so with that of the Water, where he had remain’d the Space
of going a League, and they found they had much ado to bring him back to
Life; but at last they did, and brought him home, where he was in a few
Hours well recover’d and refresh’d, and not a little asham’d to find he
should be overcome by an _Eel_, and that all the People, who heard his
Defiance, would laugh at him. But we chear’d him up; and he being
convinc’d, we had the _Eel_ at Supper, which was a quarter of an Ell
about, and most delicate Meat; and was of the more Value, since it cost
so dear as almost the Life of so gallant a Man.
About this Time we were in many mortal Fears, about some Disputes the
_English_ had with the _Indians_; so that we could scarce trust our
selves, without great Numbers, to go to any _Indian_ Towns, or Place
where they abode, for fear they should fall upon us, as they did
immediately after my coming away; and the Place being in the Possession
of the _Dutch_, they us’d them not so civilly as the _English_; so that
they cut in Pieces all they could take, getting into Houses and hanging
up the Mother, and all her Children about her; and cut a Footman, I left
behind me, all in Joints, and nail’d him to Trees.
This Feud began while I was there; so that I lost half the Satisfaction
I propos’d, in not seeing and visiting the _Indian_ Towns. But one Day,
bemoaning of our Misfortunes upon this Account, _Cæsar_ told us, we need
not fear, for if we had a Mind to go, he would undertake to be our
Guard. Some would, but most would not venture: About eighteen of us
resolv’d, and took Barge; and after eight Days, arriv’d near an _Indian_
Town: But approaching it, the Hearts of some of our Company fail’d, and
they would not venture on Shore; so we poll’d, who would, and who would
not. For my Part, I said, if _Cæsar_ would, I would go. He resolv’d; so
did my Brother, and my Woman, a Maid of good Courage. Now none of us
speaking the Language of the People, and imagining we should have a half
Diversion in gazing only; and not knowing what they said, we took a
Fisherman that liv’d at the Mouth of the River, who had been a long
Inhabitant there, and oblig’d him to go with us: But because he was
known to the _Indians_, as trading among ’em, and being, by long living
there, become a perfect _Indian_ in Colour, we, who had a Mind to
surprize ’em, by making them see something they never had seen, (that
is, _White_ People) resolv’d only my self, my Brother and Woman should
go: So _Cæsar_, the Fisherman, and the rest, hiding behind some thick
Reeds and Flowers that grew in the Banks, let us pass on towards the
Town, which was on the Bank of the River all along. A little distant
from the Houses, or Huts, we saw some dancing, others busy’d in fetching
and carrying of Water from the River. They had no sooner spy’d us, but
they set up a loud Cry, that frighted us at first; we thought it had
been for those that should kill us, but it seems it was of Wonder and
Amazement. They were all naked; and we were dress’d, so as is most
commode for the hot Countries, very glittering and rich; so that we
appear’d extremely fine; my own Hair was cut short, and I had a Taffety
Cap, with black Feathers on my Head; my Brother was in a Stuff-Suit,
with Silver Loops and Buttons, and abundance of green Ribbon. This was
all infinitely surprising to them; and because we saw them stand still
till we approach’d ’em, we took Heart and advanc’d, came up to ’em, and
offer’d ’em our Hands; which they took, and look’d on us round about,
calling still for more Company; who came swarming out, all wondering,
and crying out _Tepeeme_; taking their Hair up in their Hands, and
spreading it wide to those they call’d out to; as if they would say
(as indeed it signify’d) _Numberless Wonders_, or not to be recounted,
no more than to number the Hair of their Heads. By Degrees they grew
more bold, and from gazing upon us round, they touch’d us, laying their
Hands upon all the Features of our Faces, feeling our Breasts, and Arms,
taking up one Petticoat, then wondering to see another; admiring our
Shoes and Stockings, but more our Garters, which we gave ’em, and they
ty’d about their Legs, being lac’d with Silver Lace at the Ends; for
they much esteem any shining Things. In fine, we suffer’d ’em to survey
us as they pleas’d, and we thought they would never have done admiring
us. When _Cæsar_, and the rest, saw we were receiv’d with such Wonder,
they came up to us; and finding the _Indian_ Trader whom they knew, (for
’tis by these Fishermen, call’d _Indian_ Traders, we hold a Commerce
with ’em; for they love not to go far from home, and we never go to
them) when they saw him therefore, they set up a new Joy, and cry’d in
their Language, _Oh, here’s our +Tiguamy+, and we shall know whether
those Things can speak._ So advancing to him, some of ’em gave him their
Hands, and cry’d, _Amora Tiguamy_; which is as much as, _How do you do?_
or, _Welcome Friend_; and all, with one din, began to gabble to him, and
ask’d, if we had Sense and Wit? If we could talk of Affairs of Life and
War, as they could do? If we could hunt, swim, and do a thousand Things
they use? He answer’d ’em, We could. Then they invited us into their
Houses, and dress’d Venison and Buffalo for us; and going out, gather’d
a Leaf of a Tree, called a _Sarumbo_ Leaf, of six Yards long, and spread
it on the Ground for a Table-Cloth; and cutting another in Pieces,
instead of Plates, set us on little low _Indian_ Stools, which they cut
out of one entire Piece of Wood, and paint in a sort of Japan-Work. They
serve every one their Mess on these Pieces of Leaves; and it was very
good, but too high-season’d with Pepper. When we had eat, my Brother and
I took out our Flutes, and play’d to ’em, which gave ’em new Wonder; and
I soon perceiv’d, by an Admiration that is natural to these People, and
by the extreme Ignorance and Simplicity of ’em, it were not difficult to
establish any unknown or extravagant Religion among them, and to impose
any Notions or Fictions upon ’em. For seeing a Kinsman of mine set some
Paper on Fire with a Burning-Glass, a Trick they had never before seen,
they were like to have ador’d him for a God, and begg’d he would give
’em the Characters or Figures of his Name, that they might oppose it
against Winds and Storms: which he did, and they held it up in those
Seasons, and fancy’d it had a Charm to conquer them, and kept it like a
holy Relique. They are very superstitious, and call’d him the Great
_Peeie_, that is, _Prophet_. They shewed us their _Indian Peeie_, a
Youth of about sixteen Years old, as handsome as Nature could make a
Man. They consecrate a beautiful Youth from his Infancy, and all Arts
are used to compleat him in the finest Manner, both in Beauty and Shape:
He is bred to all the little Arts and Cunning they are capable of; to
all the legerdemain Tricks, and Slight of Hand, whereby he imposes on
the Rabble; and is both a Doctor in Physick and Divinity: And by these
Tricks makes the Sick believe he sometimes eases their Pains, by drawing
from the afflicted Part little Serpents, or odd Flies, or Worms, or any
strange Thing; and though they have besides undoubted good Remedies for
almost all their Diseases, they cure the Patient more by Fancy than by
Medicines, and make themselves feared, loved, and reverenced. This young
_Peeie_ had a very young Wife, who seeing my Brother kiss her, came
running and kiss’d me. After this they kiss’d one another, and made it a
very great Jest, it being so novel; and new Admiration and Laughing went
round the Multitude, that they never will forget that Ceremony, never
before us’d or known. _Cæsar_ had a Mind to see and talk with their
War-Captains, and we were conducted to one of their Houses, where we
beheld several of the great Captains, who had been at Council: But so
frightful a Vision it was to see ’em, no Fancy can create; no sad Dreams
can represent so dreadful a Spectacle. For my Part, I took ’em for
Hobgoblins, or Fiends, rather than Men; But however their Shapes
appear’d, their Souls were very humane and noble; but some wanted their
Noses, some their Lips, some both Noses and Lips, some their Ears, and
others cut through each Cheek, with long Slashes, through which their
Teeth appear’d: They had several other formidable Wounds and Scars, or
rather Dismembrings. They had _Comitias_, or little Aprons before them;
and Girdles of Cotton, with their Knives naked stuck in it; a Bow at
their Back, and a Quiver of Arrows on their Thighs; and most had
Feathers on their Heads of divers Colours. They cry’d _Amora Tiguamy_ to
us, at our Entrance, and were pleas’d we said as much to them: They
seated us, and gave us Drink of the best Sort, and wonder’d as much as
the others had done before to see us. _Cæsar_ was marvelling as much at
their Faces, wondring how they should be all so wounded in War; he was
impatient to know how they all came by those frightful Marks of Rage or
Malice, rather than Wounds got in noble Battle: They told us by our
Interpreter, That when any War was waging, two Men, chosen out by some
old Captain whose fighting was past, and who could only teach the Theory
of War, were to stand in Competition for the Generalship, or great
War-Captain; and being brought before the old Judges, now past Labour,
they are ask’d, What they dare do, to shew they are worthy to lead an
Army? When he who is first ask’d, making no Reply, cuts off his Nose,
and throws it contemptibly on the Ground; and the other does something
to himself that he thinks surpasses him, and perhaps deprives himself of
Lips and an Eye: So they slash on ’till one gives out, and many have
dy’d in this Debate. And it’s by a passive Valour they shew and prove
their Activity; a sort of Courage too brutal to be applauded by our
_Black_ Hero; nevertheless, he express’d his Esteem of ’em.
In this Voyage _Cæsar_ begat so good an Understanding between the
_Indians_ and the _English_, that there were no more Fears or
Heart-burnings during our Stay, but we had a perfect, open, and free
Trade with ’em. Many Things remarkable, and worthy reciting, we met with
in this short Voyage; because _Cæsar_ made it his Business to search out
and provide for our Entertainment, especially to please his dearly
ador’d _Imoinda_, who was a Sharer in all our Adventures; we being
resolv’d to make her Chains as easy as we could, and to compliment the
Prince in that Manner that most oblig’d him.
As we were coming up again, we met with some _Indians_ of strange
Aspects; that is, of a larger Size, and other sort of Features, than
those of our Country. Our _Indian Slaves_, that row’d us, ask’d ’em some
Questions; but they could not understand us, but shew’d us a long Cotton
String, with several Knots on it, and told us, they had been coming from
the Mountains so many Moons as there were Knots: they were habited in
Skins of a strange Beast, and brought along with ’em Bags of Gold-Dust;
which, as well as they could give as to understand, came streaming in
little small Channels down the high Mountains, when the Rains fell; and
offer’d to be the Convoy to any Body, or Persons, that would go to the
Mountains. We carry’d these Men up to _Parham_, where they were kept
till the Lord-Governor came: And because all the Country was mad to be
going on this Golden Adventure, the Governor, by his Letters, commanded
(for they sent some of the Gold to him) that a Guard should be set at
the Mouth of the River of _Amazons_ (a River so call’d, almost as broad
as the River of _Thames_) and prohibited all People from going up that
River, it conducting to those Mountains or Gold. But we going off for
_England_ before the Project was further prosecuted, and the Governor
being drown’d in a Hurricane, either the Design died, or the _Dutch_
have the Advantage of it: And ’tis to be bemoan’d what his Majesty lost,
by losing that Part of _America_.
Though this Digression is a little from my Story, however, since it
contains some Proofs of the Curiosity and Daring of this great Man,
I was content to omit nothing of his Character.
It was thus for some Time we diverted him; but now _Imoinda_ began to
shew she was with Child, and did nothing but sigh and weep for the
Captivity of her Lord, herself, and the Infant yet unborn; and believ’d,
if it were so hard to gain the Liberty of two, ’twould be more difficult
to get that for three. Her Griefs were so many Darts in the great Heart
of _Cæsar_, and taking his Opportunity, one _Sunday_, when all the
_Whites_ were overtaken in Drink, as there were abundance of several
Trades, and _Slaves_ for four Years, that inhabited among the _Negro_
Houses; and _Sunday_ being their Day of Debauch, (otherwise they were a
sort of Spies upon _Cæsar_) he went, pretending out of Goodness to ’em,
to feast among ’em, and sent all his Musick, and order’d a great Treat
for the whole Gang, about three hundred _Negroes_, and about an hundred
and fifty were able to bear Arms, such as they had, which were
sufficient to do Execution, with Spirits accordingly: For the _English_
had none but rusty Swords, that no Strength could draw from a Scabbard;
except the People of particular Quality, who took Care to oil ’em, and
keep ’em in good Order: The Guns also, unless here and there one, or
those newly carried from _England_, would do no Good or Harm; for ’tis
the Nature of that Country to rust and eat up Iron, or any Metals but
Gold and Silver. And they are very expert at the Bow, which the
_Negroes_ and _Indians_ are perfect Masters of.
_Cæsar_, having singled out these Men from the Women and Children, made
an Harangue to ’em, of the Miseries and Ignominies of Slavery; counting
up all their Toils and Sufferings, under such Loads, Burdens and
Drudgeries, as were fitter for Beasts than Men; senseless Brutes, than
human Souls. He told ’em, it was not for Days, Months or Years, but for
Eternity; there was no End to be of their Misfortunes: They suffer’d not
like Men, who might find a Glory and Fortitude in Oppression; but like
Dogs, that lov’d the Whip and Bell, and fawn’d the more they were
beaten: That they had lost the divine Quality of Men, and were become
insensible Asses, fit only to bear: Nay, worse; an Ass, or Dog, or
Horse, having done his Duty, could lie down in Retreat, and rise to work
again, and while he did his Duty, endur’d no Stripes; but Men,
villanous, senseless Men, such as they, toil’d on all the tedious Week
’till _Black Friday_; and then, whether they work’d or not, whether they
were faulty or meriting, they, promiscuously, the Innocent with the
Guilty, suffer’d the infamous Whip, the sordid Stripes, from their
Fellow-Slaves, ’till their Blood trickled from all Parts of their Body;
Blood, whose every Drop ought to be revenged with a Life of some of
those Tyrants that impose it. ‘And why (_said he_) my dear Friends and
Fellow-sufferers, should we be Slaves to an unknown People? Have they
vanquished us nobly in Fight? Have they won us in Honourable Battle? And
are we by the Chance of War become their Slaves? This would not anger a
noble Heart; this would not animate a Soldier’s Soul: No, but we are
bought and sold like Apes or Monkeys, to be the Sport of Women, Fools
and Cowards; and the Support of Rogues and Runagades, that have
abandoned their own Countries for Rapine, Murders, Theft and Villanies.
Do you not hear every Day how they upbraid each other with Infamy of
Life, below the wildest Salvages? And shall we render Obedience to such
a degenerate Race, who have no one human Virtue left, to distinguish
them from the vilest Creatures? Will you, I say, suffer the Lash from
such Hands?’ _They all reply’d with one Accord_, ‘No, No, No; _Cæsar_
has spoke like a great Captain, like a great King.’
After this he would have proceeded, but was interrupted by a tall
_Negro_, of some more Quality than the rest, his Name was _Tuscan_; who
bowing at the Feet of _Cæsar_, cry’d, ‘My Lord, we have listen’d with
Joy and Attention to what you have said; and, were we only Men, would
follow so great a Leader through the World: But O! consider we are
Husbands and Parents too, and have Things more dear to us than Life; our
Wives and Children, unfit for Travel in those unpassable Woods,
Mountains and Bogs. We have not only difficult Lands to overcome, but
Rivers to wade, and Mountains to encounter; ravenous Beasts of
Prey,’--_To this +Cæsar+ reply’d_, ‘That Honour was the first Principle
in Nature, that was to be obey’d; but as no Man would pretend to that,
without all the Acts of Virtue, Compassion, Charity, Love, Justice and
Reason, he found it not inconsistent with that, to take equal Care of
their Wives and Children as they would of themselves; and that he did
not design, when he led them to Freedom, and glorious Liberty, that they
should leave that better Part of themselves to perish by the Hand of the
Tyrant’s Whip: But if there were a Woman among them so degenerate from
Love and Virtue, to chuse Slavery before the Pursuit of her Husband, and
with the Hazard of her Life, to share with him in his Fortunes; that
such a one ought to be abandoned, and left as a Prey to the common
Enemy.’
To which they all agreed--and bowed. After this, he spoke of the
impassable Woods and Rivers; and convinced them, the more Danger the
more Glory. He told them, that he had heard of one _Hannibal_, a great
Captain, had cut his Way through Mountains of solid Rocks; and should a
few Shrubs oppose them, which they could fire before ’em? No, ’twas a
trifling Excuse to Men resolved to die, or overcome. As for Bogs, they
are with a little Labour filled and harden’d; and the Rivers could be no
Obstacle, since they swam by Nature, at least by Custom, from the first
Hour of their Birth: That when the Children were weary, they must carry
them by Turns, and the Woods and their own Industry would afford them
Food. To this they all assented with Joy.
_Tuscan_ then demanded, what he would do: He said he would travel
towards the Sea, plant a new Colony, and defend it by their Valour; and
when they could find a Ship, either driven by Stress of Weather, or
guided by Providence that Way, they would seize it, and make it a Prize,
till it had transported them to their own Countries: at least they
should be made free in his Kingdom, and be esteem’d as his
Fellow-Sufferers, and Men that had the Courage and the Bravery to
attempt, at least, for Liberty; and if they died in the Attempt, it
would be more brave, than to live in perpetual Slavery.
They bow’d and kiss’d his Feet at this Resolution, and with one Accord
vow’d to follow him to Death; and that Night was appointed to begin
their March. They made it known to their Wives, and directed them to tie
their Hamocks about their Shoulders, and under their Arms, like a Scarf
and to lead their Children that could go, and carry those that could
not. The Wives, who pay an entire Obedience to their Husbands, obey’d,
and stay’d for ’em where they were appointed: The Men stay’d but to
furnish themselves with what defensive Arms they could get; and all met
at the Rendezvouz, where _Cæsar_ made a new encouraging Speech to ’em
and led ’em out.
But as they could not march far that Night, on _Monday_ early, when the
Overseers went to call ’em all together, to go to work, they were
extremely surprized, to find not one upon the Place, but all fled with
what Baggage they had. You may imagine this News was not only suddenly
spread all over the Plantation, but soon reached the neighbouring ones;
and we had by Noon about 600 Men, they call the Militia of the Country,
that came to assist us in the Pursuit of the Fugitives: But never did
one see so comical an Army march forth to War. The Men of any Fashion
would not concern themselves, tho’ it were almost the Common Cause; for
such Revoltings are very ill Examples, and have very fatal Consequences
oftentimes, in many Colonies: But they had a Respect for _Cæsar_, and
all Hands were against the _Parhamites_ (as they called those of
_Parham-Plantation_) because they did not in the first Place love the
Lord-Governor; and secondly, they would have it that _Cæsar_ was ill
used, and baffled with: and ’tis not impossible but some of the best in
the Country was of his Council in this Flight, and depriving us of all
the Slaves; so that they of the better sort would not meddle in the
Matter. The Deputy-Governor, of whom I have had no great Occasion to
speak, and who was the most fawning fair-tongu’d Fellow in the World,
and one that pretended the most Friendship to _Cæsar_, was now the only
violent Man against him; and though he had nothing, and so need fear
nothing, yet talked and looked bigger than any Man. He was a Fellow,
whose Character is not fit to be mentioned with the worst of the Slaves:
This Fellow would lead his Army forth to meet _Cæsar_, or rather to
pursue him. Most of their Arms were of those Sort of cruel Whips they
call _Cat with nine Tails_; some had rusty useless Guns for Shew; others
old Basket Hilts, whose Blades had never seen the Light in this Age; and
others had long Staffs and Clubs. Mr. _Trefry_ went along, rather to be
a Mediator than a Conqueror in such a Battle; for he foresaw and knew,
if by fighting they put the _Negroes_ into Despair, they were a sort of
sullen Fellows, that would drown or kill themselves before they would
yield; and he advis’d that fair Means was best: But _Byam_ was one that
abounded in his own Wit, and would take his own Measures.
It was not hard to find these Fugitives; for as they fled, they were
forced to fire and cut the Woods before ’em: So that Night or Day they
pursu’d ’em by the Light they made, and by the Path they had cleared.
But as soon as _Cæsar_ found that he was pursu’d, he put himself in a
Posture of Defence, placing all the Woman and Children in the Rear; and
himself, with _Tuscan_ by his Side, or next to him, all promising to die
or conquer. Encouraged thus, they never stood to parley, but fell on
pell-mell upon the _English_, and killed some, and wounded a great many;
they having Recourse to their Whips, as the best of their Weapons. And
as they observed no Order, they perplexed the Enemy so sorely, with
lashing ’em in the Eyes; and the Women and Children seeing their
Husbands so treated, being of fearful and cowardly Dispositions, and
hearing the _English_ cry out, _Yield and Live! Yield, and be Pardon’d!_
they all ran in amongst their Husbands and Fathers, and hung about them,
crying out, _Yield! Yield, and leave +Cæsar+ to their Revenge_; that by
Degrees the Slaves abandon’d _Cæsar_, and left him only _Tuscan_ and his
Heroick _Imoinda_, who grown as big as she was, did nevertheless press
near her Lord, having a Bow and a Quiver full of poisoned Arrows, which
she managed with such Dexterity, that she wounded several, and shot the
Governor into the Shoulder; of which Wound he had like to have died, but
that an _Indian_ Woman, his Mistress, sucked the Wound, and cleans’d it
from the Venom: But however, he stir’d not from the Place till he had
parly’d with _Cæsar_, who he found was resolved to die fighting, and
would not be taken; no more would _Tuscan_ or _Imoinda_. But he, more
thirsting after Revenge of another Sort, than that of depriving him of
Life, now made use of all his Art of Talking and Dissembling, and
besought _Cæsar_ to yield himself upon Terms which he himself should
propose, and should be sacredly assented to, and kept by him. He told
him, It was not that he any longer fear’d him, or could believe the
Force of two Men, and a young Heroine, could overthrow all them, and
with all the Slaves now on their Side also; but it was the vast Esteem
he had for his Person, the Desire he had to serve so gallant a Man, and
to hinder himself from the Reproach hereafter, of having been the
Occasion of the Death of a Prince, whose Valour and Magnanimity deserved
the Empire of the World. He protested to him, he looked upon his Action
as gallant and brave, however tending to the Prejudice of his Lord and
Master, who would by it have lost so considerable a Number of Slaves;
that this Flight of his should be look’d on as a Heat of Youth, and a
Rashness of a too forward Courage, and an unconsider’d Impatience of
Liberty, and no more; and that he labour’d in vain to accomplish that
which they would effectually perform as soon as any Ship arrived that
would touch on his Coast: ‘So that if you will be pleased
(_continued he_) to surrender yourself, all imaginable Respect shall be
paid you; and your Self, your Wife and Child, if it be born here, shall
depart free out of our Land.’ But _Cæsar_ would hear of no Composition;
though _Byam_ urged, if he pursued and went on in his Design, he would
inevitably perish, either by great Snakes, wild Beasts or Hunger; and he
ought to have Regard to his Wife, whose Condition requir’d Ease, and not
the Fatigues of tedious Travel, where she could not be secured from
being devoured. But _Cæsar_ told him, there was no Faith in the White
men, or the Gods they ador’d; who instructed them in Principles so
false, that honest Men could not live amongst them; though no People
profess’d so much, none perform’d so little: That he knew what he had to
do when he dealt with Men of Honour; but with them a Man ought to be
eternally on his Guard, and never to eat and drink with Christians,
without his Weapon of Defence in his Hand; and, for his own Security,
never to credit one Word they spoke. As for the Rashness and
Inconsiderateness of his Action, he would confess the Governor is in the
right; and that he was ashamed of what he had done in endeavouring to
make those free, who were by Nature Slaves, poor wretched Rogues, fit to
be used as Christian Tools; Dogs, treacherous and cowardly, fit for such
Masters; and they wanted only but to be whipped into the Knowledge of
the Christian Gods, to be the vilest of all creeping Things; to learn to
worship such Deities as had not Power to make them just, brave, or
honest: In fine, after a thousand Things of this Nature, not fit here to
be recited, he told _Byam_, He had rather die, than live upon the same
Earth with such Dogs. But _Trefry_ and _Byam_ pleaded and protested
together so much, that _Trefry_ believing the Governor to mean what he
said, and speaking very cordially himself, generously put himself into
_Cæsar’s_ Hands, and took him aside, and persuaded him, even with Tears,
to live, by surrendring himself, and to name his Conditions. _Cæsar_ was
overcome by his Wit and Reasons, and in Consideration of _Imoinda_; and
demanding what he desired, and that it should be ratify’d by their Hands
in Writing, because he had perceived that was the common Way of Contract
between Man and Man amongst the Whites; all this was performed, and
_Tuscan’s_ Pardon was put in, and they surrender’d to the Governor, who
walked peaceably down into the Plantation with them, after giving Order
to bury their Dead. _Cæsar_ was very much toil’d with the Bustle of the
Day, for he had fought like a Fury; and what Mischief was done, he and
_Tuscan_ performed alone; and gave their Enemies a fatal Proof, that
they durst do any Thing, and fear’d no mortal Force.
But they were no sooner arrived at the Place where all the Slaves
receive their Punishments of Whipping, but they laid Hands on _Cæsar_
and _Tuscan_, faint with Heat and Toil; and surprizing them, bound them
to two several Stakes, and whipped them in a most deplorable and inhuman
Manner, rending the very Flesh from their Bones, especially _Cæsar_, who
was not perceived to make any Moan, or to alter his Face, only to roll
his Eyes on the faithless Governor, and those he believed Guilty, with
Fierceness and Indignation; and to complete his Rage, he saw every one
of those Slaves who but a few Days before ador’d him as something more
than Mortal, now had a Whip to give him some Lashes, while he strove not
to break his Fetters; tho’ if he had, it were impossible: but he
pronounced a Woe and Revenge from his Eyes, that darted Fire, which was
at once both aweful and terrible to behold.
When they thought they were sufficiently revenged on him, they unty’d
him, almost fainting with Loss of Blood, from a thousand Wounds all over
his Body; from which they had rent his Clothes, and led him bleeding and
naked as he was, and loaded him all over with Irons; and then rubb’d his
Wounds, to complete their Cruelty, with _Indian_ Pepper, which had like
to have made him raving mad; and, in this Condition made him so fast to
the Ground, that he could not stir, if his Pains and Wounds would have
given him Leave. They spared _Imoinda_, and did not let her see this
Barbarity committed towards her Lord, but carried her down to _Parham_,
and shut her up; which was not in Kindness to her, but for Fear she
should die with the Sight, or miscarry, and then they should lose a
young Slave, and perhaps the Mother.
You must know, that when the News was brought on _Monday_ Morning, that
_Cæsar_ had betaken himself to the Woods, and carry’d with him all the
_Negroes_, we were possess’d with extreme Fear, which no Persuasions
could dissipate, that he would secure himself till Night, and then would
come down and cut all our Throats. This Apprehension made all the
Females of us fly down the River, to be secured; and while we were away,
they acted this Cruelty; for I suppose I had Authority and Interest
enough there, had I suspected any such Thing, to have prevented it: but
we had not gone many Leagues, but the News overtook us, that _Cæsar_ was
taken and whipped liked a common Slave. We met on the River with Colonel
_Martin_, a Man of great Gallantry, Wit, and Goodness, and whom I have
celebrated in a Character of my new Comedy, by his own Name, in Memory
of so brave a Man: He was wise and eloquent, and, from the Fineness of
his Parts, bore a great Sway over the Hearts of all the Colony: He was a
Friend to _Cæsar_, and resented this false Dealing with him very much.
We carried him back to _Parham_, thinking to have made an Accommodation;
when he came, the first News we heard, was, That the Governor was dead
of a Wound _Imoinda_ had given him; but it was not so well. But it
seems, he would have the Pleasure of beholding the Revenge he took on
_Cæsar_; and before the cruel Ceremony was finished, he dropt down; and
then they perceived the Wound he had on his Shoulder was by a venom’d
Arrow, which, as I said, his _Indian_ Mistress healed by sucking the
Wound.
We were no sooner arrived, but we went up to the Plantation to see
_Cæsar_; whom we found in a very miserable and unexpressible Condition;
and I have a thousand Times admired how he lived in so much tormenting
Pain. We said all Things to him, that Trouble, Pity and Good-Nature
could suggest, protesting our Innocency of the Fact, and our Abhorrence
of such Cruelties; making a thousand Professions and Services to him,
and begging as many Pardons for the Offenders, till we said so much,
that he believed we had no Hand in his ill Treatment; but told us, He
could never pardon _Byam_; as for _Trefry_, he confess’d he saw his
Grief and Sorrow for his Suffering, which he could not hinder, but was
like to have been beaten down by the very Slaves, for speaking in his
Defence: But for _Byam_, who was their Leader, their Head--and should,
by his Justice and Honour, have been an Example to ’em--for him, he
wished to live to take a dire Revenge of him; and said, _It had been
well for him, if he had sacrificed me, instead of giving me the
comtemptible Whip._ He refused to talk much; but begging us to give him
our Hands, he took them, and protested never to lift up his to do us any
Harm. He had a great Respect for Colonel _Martin_, and always took his
Counsel like that of a Parent; and assured him, he would obey him in any
Thing but his Revenge on _Byam_: ‘Therefore (_said he_) for his own
Safety, let him speedly dispatch me; for if I could dispatch myself,
I would not, till that Justice were done to my injured Person, and the
Contempt of a Soldier: No, I would not kill myself, even after a
Whipping, but will be content to live with that Infamy, and be pointed
at by every grinning Slave, till I have completed my Revenge; and then
you shall see, that _Oroonoko_ scorns to live with the Indignity that
was put on _Cæsar_.’ All we could do, could get no more Words from him;
and we took Care to have him put immediately into a healing Bath, to rid
him of his Pepper, and ordered a Chirurgeon to anoint him with healing
Balm, which he suffer’d, and in some Time he began to be able to walk
and eat. We failed not to visit him every Day, and to that End had him
brought to an Apartment at _Parham_.
The Governor had no sooner recover’d, and had heard of the Menaces of
_Cæsar_, but he called his Council, who (not to disgrace them, or
burlesque the Government there) consisted of such notorious Villains as
_Newgate_ never transported; and, possibly, originally were such who
understood neither the Laws of God or Man, and had no sort of Principles
to make them worthy the Name of Men; but at the very Council-Table would
contradict and fight with one another, and swear so bloodily, that ’twas
terrible to hear and see ’em. (Some of ’em were afterwards hanged, when
the _Dutch_ took Possession of the Place, others sent off in Chains.)
But calling these special Rulers of the Nation together, and requiring
their Counsel in this weighty Affair, they all concluded, that (damn
’em) it might be their own Cases; and that _Cæsar_ ought to be made an
Example to all the _Negroes_, to fright ’em from daring to threaten
their Betters, their Lords and Masters; and at this Rate no Man was safe
from his own Slaves; and concluded, _nemine contradicente_, That _Cæsar_
should be hanged.
_Trefry_ then thought it Time to use his Authority, and told _Byam_, his
Command did not extend to his Lord’s Plantation; and that _Parham_ was
as much exempt from the Law as _White-Hall_; and that they ought no more
to touch the Servants of the Lord--(who there represented the King’s
Person) than they could those about the King himself; and that _Parham_
was a Sanctuary; and tho’ his Lord were absent in Person, his Power was
still in being there, which he had entrusted with him, as far as the
Dominions of his particular Plantations reached, and all that belonged
to it; the rest of the Country, as _Byam_ was Lieutenant to his Lord, he
might exercise his Tyranny upon. _Trefry_ had others as powerful, or
more, that interested themselves in _Cæsar’s_ Life, and absolutely said,
he should be defended. So turning the Governor, and his wise Council,
out of Doors, (for they sat at _Parham-House_) we set a Guard upon our
Lodging-Place, and would admit none but those we called Friends to us
and _Cæsar_.
The Governor having remain’d wounded at _Parham_, till his Recovery was
completed, _Cæsar_ did not know but he was still there, and indeed for
the most Part, his Time was spent there: for he was one that loved to
live at other Peoples Expence, and if he were a Day absent, he was ten
present there; and us’d to play, and walk, and hunt, and fish with
_Cæsar_: So that _Cæsar_ did not at all doubt, if he once recover’d
Strength, but he should find an Opportunity of being revenged on him;
though, after such a Revenge, he could not hope to live: for if he
escaped the Fury of the _English_ Mobile, who perhaps would have been
glad of the Occasion to have killed him, he was resolved not to survive
his Whipping; yet he had some tender Hours, a repenting Softness, which
he called his Fits of Cowardice, wherein he struggled with Love for the
Victory of his Heart, which took Part with his charming _Imoinda_ there;
but for the most Part, his Time was pass’d in melancholy Thoughts, and
black Designs. He consider’d, if he should do this Deed, and die either
in the Attempt, or after it, he left his lovely _Imoinda_ a Prey, or at
best a Slave to the enraged Multitude; his great Heart could not endure
that Thought: _Perhaps_ (said he) _she may be first ravish’d by every
Brute; expos’d first to their nasty Lusts, and then a shameful Death_:
No, he could not live a Moment under that Apprehension, too
insupportable to be borne. These were his Thoughts, and his silent
Arguments with his Heart, as he told us afterwards: So that now
resolving not only to kill _Byam_, but all those he thought had enraged
him; pleasing his great Heart with the fancy’d Slaughter he should make
over the whole Face of the Plantation; he first resolved on a Deed,
(that however horrid it first appear’d to us all) when we had heard his
Reasons, we thought it brave and just. Being able to walk, and, as he
believed, fit for the Execution of his great Design, he begg’d _Trefry_
to trust him into the Air, believing a Walk would do him good; which was
granted him; and taking _Imoinda_ with him, as he used to do in his more
happy and calmer Days, he led her up into a Wood, where (after with a
thousand Sighs, and long gazing silently on her Face, while Tears
gush’d, in spite of him, from his Eyes) he told her his Design, first of
killing her, and then his Enemies, and next himself, and the
Impossibility of escaping, and therefore he told her the Necessity of
dying. He found the heroick Wife faster pleading for Death, than he was
to propose it, when she found his fix’d Resolution; and, on her Knees,
besought him not to leave her a Prey to his Enemies. He (grieved to
Death) yet pleased at her noble Resolution, took her up, and embracing
of her with all the Passion and Languishment of a dying Lover, drew his
Knife to kill this Treasure of his Soul, this Pleasure of his Eyes;
while Tears trickled down his Cheeks, hers were smiling with Joy she
should die by so noble a Hand, and be sent into her own Country (for
that’s their Notion of the next World) by him she so tenderly loved, and
so truly ador’d in this: For Wives have a Respect for their Husbands
equal to what any other People pay a Deity; and when a Man finds any
Occasion to quit his Wife, if he love her, she dies by his Hand; if not,
he sells her, or suffers some other to kill her. It being thus, you may
believe the Deed was soon resolv’d on; and ’tis not to be doubted, but
the parting, the eternal Leave-taking of two such Lovers, so greatly
born, so sensible, so beautiful, so young, and so fond, must be very
moving, as the Relation of it was to me afterwards.
All that Love could say in such Cases, being ended, and all the
intermitting Irresolutions being adjusted, the lovely, young and ador’d
Victim lays herself down before the Sacrificer; while he, with a Hand
resolved, and a Heart-breaking within, gave the fatal Stroke, first
cutting her Throat, and then severing her yet smiling Face from that
delicate Body, pregnant as it was with the Fruits of tenderest Love. As
soon as he had done, he laid the Body decently on Leaves and Flowers, of
which he made a Bed, and conceal’d it under the same Cover-lid of
Nature; only her Face he left yet bare to look on: But when he found she
was dead, and past all Retrieve, never more to bless him with her Eyes,
and soft Language, his Grief swell’d up to Rage; he tore, he rav’d, he
roar’d like some Monster of the Wood, calling on the lov’d Name of
_Imoinda_. A thousand Times he turned the fatal Knife that did the Deed
towards his own Heart, with a Resolution to go immediately after her;
but dire Revenge, which was now a thousand Times more fierce in his Soul
than before, prevents him; and he would cry out, ‘No, since I have
sacrific’d _Imoinda_ to my Revenge, shall I lose that Glory which I have
purchased so dear, as at the Price of the fairest, dearest, softest
Creature that ever Nature made? No, no!’ Then at her Name Grief would
get the Ascendant of Rage, and he would lie down by her Side, and water
her Face with Showers of Tears, which never were wont to fall from those
Eyes; and however bent he was on his intended Slaughter, he had not
Power to stir from the Sight of this dear Object, now more beloved, and
more ador’d than ever.
He remained in this deplorable Condition for two Days, and never rose
from the Ground where he had made her sad Sacrifice; at last rouzing
from her Side, and accusing himself with living too long, now _Imoinda_
was dead, and that the Deaths of those barbarous Enemies were deferred
too long, he resolved now to finish the great Work: but offering to
rise, he found his Strength so decay’d, that he reeled to and fro, like
Boughs assailed by contrary Winds; so that he was forced to lie down
again, and try to summon all his Courage to his Aid. He found his Brains
turned round, and his Eyes were dizzy, and Objects appear’d not the same
to him they were wont to do; his Breath was short, and all his Limbs
surpriz’d with a Faintness he had never felt before. He had not eat in
two Days, which was one Occasion of his Feebleness, but Excess of Grief
was the greatest; yet still he hoped he should recover Vigour to act his
Design, and lay expecting it yet six Days longer; still mourning over
the dead Idol of his Heart, and striving every Day to rise, but could
not.
In all this time you may believe we were in no little Affliction for
_Cæsar_ and his Wife; some were of Opinion he was escaped, never to
return; others thought some Accident had happened to him: But however,
we fail’d not to send out a hundred People several Ways, to search for
him. A Party of about forty went that Way he took, among whom was
_Tuscan_, who was perfectly reconciled to _Byam_: They had not gone
very far into the Wood, but they smelt an unusual Smell, as of a dead
Body; for Stinks must be very noisom, that can be distinguish’d among
such a Quantity of natural Sweets, as every Inch of that Land produces:
so that they concluded they should find him dead, or some body that was
so; they pass’d on towards it, as loathsom as it was, and made such
rustling among the Leaves that lie thick on the Ground, by continual
falling, that _Cæsar_ heard he was approach’d; and though he had, during
the Space of these eight Days, endeavour’d to rise, but found he wanted
Strength, yet looking up, and seeing his Pursuers, he rose, and reel’d
to a neighbouring Tree, against which he fix’d his Back; and being
within a dozen Yards of those that advanc’d and saw him, he call’d out
to them, and bid them approach no nearer, if they would be safe. So that
they stood still, and hardly believing their Eyes, that would persuade
them that it was _Cæsar_ that spoke to them, so much he was alter’d;
they ask’d him, what he had done with his Wife, for they smelt a Stink
that almost struck them dead? He pointing to the dead Body, sighing,
cry’d, _Behold her there._ They put off the Flowers that cover’d her,
with their Sticks, and found she was kill’d, and cry’d out, _Oh,
Monster! that hast murder’d thy Wife._ Then asking him, why he did so
cruel a Deed? He reply’d, He had no Leisure to answer impertinent
Questions: ‘You may go back (_continued he_) and tell the faithless
Governor, he may thank Fortune that I am breathing my last; and that my
Arm is too feeble to obey my Heart, in what it had design’d him’: But
his Tongue faultering, and trembling, he could scarce end what he was
saying. The _English_ taking Advantage by his Weakness, cry’d, _Let us
take him alive by all Means._ He heard ’em; and, as if he had reviv’d
from a Fainting, or a Dream, he cried out, ‘No, Gentlemen, you are
deceived; you will find no more _Cæsars_ to be whipt; no more find a
Faith in me; Feeble as you think me, I have Strength yet left to secure
me from a second Indignity.’ They swore all anew; and he only shook his
Head, and beheld them with Scorn. Then they cry’d out, _Who will venture
on this single Man? Will nobody?_ They stood all silent, while _Cæsar_
replied, _Fatal will be the Attempt of the first Adventurer, let him
assure himself_, (and, at that Word, held up his Knife in a menacing
Posture:) _Look ye, ye faithless Crew_, said he, _’tis not Life I seek,
nor am I afraid of dying_, (and at that Word, cut a Piece of Flesh from
his own Throat, and threw it at ’em) _yet still I would live if I could,
till I had perfected my Revenge: But, oh! it cannot be; I feel Life
gliding from my Eyes and Heart; and if I make not haste, I shall fall a
Victim to the shameful Whip._ At that, he rip’d up his own Belly, and
took his Bowels and pull’d ’em out, with what Strength he could; while
some, on their Knees imploring, besought him to hold his Hand. But when
they saw him tottering, they cry’d out, _Will none venture on him?_ A
bold _Englishman_ cry’d, _Yes, if he were the Devil_, (taking Courage
when he saw him almost dead) and swearing a horrid Oath for his farewel
to the World, he rush’d on him. _Cæsar_ with his arm’d Hand, met him so
fairly, as stuck him to the Heart, and he Fell dead at his feet.
_Tuscan_ seeing that, cry’d out, _I love thee, O +Cæsar+! and therefore
will not let thee die, if possible_; and running to him, took him in his
Arms; but, at the same time, warding a Blow that _Cæsar_ made at his
Bosom, he receiv’d it quite through his Arm; and _Cæsar_ having not
Strength to pluck the Knife forth, tho’ he attempted it, _Tuscan_
neither pull’d it out himself, nor suffer’d it to be pull’d out, but
came down with it sticking in his Arm; and the Reason he gave for it,
was, because the Air should not get into the Wound. They put their Hands
a-cross, and carry’d _Cæsar_ between six of ’em, fainting as he was, and
they thought dead, or just dying; and they brought him to _Parham_, and
laid him on a Couch, and had the Chirurgeon immediately to him, who
dressed his Wounds, and sow’d up his Belly, and us’d Means to bring him
to Life, which they effected. We ran all to see him; and, if before we
thought him so beautiful a Sight, he was now so alter’d, that his Face
was like a Death’s-Head black’d over, nothing but Teeth and Eye-holes:
For some Days we suffer’d no Body to speak to him, but caused Cordials
to be poured down his Throat; which sustained his Life, and in six or
seven Days he recovered his Senses: For, you must know, that Wounds are
almost to a Miracle cur’d in the _Indies_; unless Wounds in the Legs,
which they rarely ever cure.
When he was well enough to speak, we talk’d to him, and ask’d him some
Questions about his Wife, and the Reasons why he kill’d her; and he then
told us what I have related of that Resolution, and of his Parting, and
he besought us we would let him die, and was extremely afflicted to
think it was possible he might live: He assur’d us, if we did not
dispatch him, he would prove very fatal to a great many. We said all we
could to make him live, and gave him new Assurances; but he begg’d we
would not think so poorly of him, or of his Love to _Imoinda_, to
imagine we could flatter him to Life again: But the Chirurgeon assur’d
him he could not live, and therefore he need not fear. We were all (but
_Cæsar_) afflicted at this News, and the Sight was ghastly: His
Discourse was sad; and the earthy Smell about him so strong, that I was
persuaded to leave the Place for some time, (being my self but sickly,
and very apt to fall into Fits of dangerous Illness upon any
extraordinary Melancholy.) The Servants, and _Trefry_, and the
Chirurgeons, promis’d all to take what possible Care they could of the
Life of _Cæsar_; and I, taking Boat, went with other Company to Colonel
_Martin’s_, about three Days Journey down the River. But I was no sooner
gone, than the Governor taking _Trefry_, about some pretended earnest
Business, a Day’s Journey up the River, having communicated his Design
to one _Banister_, a wild _Irish_ Man, one of the Council, a Fellow of
absolute Barbarity, and fit to execute any Villany, but rich; he came up
to _Parham_, and forcibly took _Cæsar_, and had him carried to the same
Post where he was whipp’d; and causing him to be ty’d to it, and a great
Fire made before him, he told him he should die like a Dog, as he was.
_Cæsar_ replied, This was the first piece of Bravery that ever
_Banister_ did, and he never spoke Sense till he pronounc’d that Word;
and if he would keep it, he would declare, in the other World, that he
was the only Man, of all the _Whites_, that ever he heard speak Truth.
And turning to the Men that had bound him, he said, _My Friends, am I to
die, or to be whipt?_ And they cry’d, _Whipt! no, you shall not escape
so well._ And then he reply’d, smiling, _A Blessing on thee_; and
assur’d them they need not tie him, for he would stand fix’d like a
Rock, and endure Death so as should encourage them to die: _But if you
whip me_ (said he) _be sure you tie me fast_.
He had learn’d to take Tobacco; and when he was assur’d he should die,
he desir’d they would give him a Pipe in his Mouth, ready lighted; which
they did: And the Executioner came, and first cut off his Members, and
threw them into the Fire; after that, with an ill-favour’d Knife, they
cut off his Ears and his Nose, and burn’d them; he still smoak’d on, as
if nothing had touch’d him; then they hack’d off one of his Arms, and
still he bore up and held his Pipe; but at the cutting off the other
Arm, his Head sunk, and his Pipe dropt, and he gave up the Ghost,
without a Groan, or a Reproach. My Mother and Sister were by him all the
While, but not suffer’d to save him; so rude and wild were the Rabble,
and so inhuman were the Justices who stood by to see the Execution, who
after paid dear enough for their Insolence. They cut _Cæsar_ into
Quarters, and sent them to several of the chief Plantations: One Quarter
was sent to Colonel _Martin_; who refus’d it, and swore, he had rather
see the Quarters of _Banister_, and the Governor himself, than those of
_Cæsar_, on his Plantations; and that he could govern his _Negroes_,
without terrifying and grieving them with frightful Spectacles of a
mangled King.
Thus died this great Man, worthy of a better Fate, and a more sublime
Wit than mine to write his Praise: Yet, I hope, the Reputation of my Pen
is considerable enough to make his glorious Name to survive to all Ages,
with that of the brave, the beautiful and the constant _Imoinda_.
NOTES: Oroonoko.
p. 509 _Appendix. Oronooko: Epistle Dedicatory._ Richard Maitland,
fourth Earl of Lauderdale (1653-95), eldest son of Charles, third Earl
of Lauderdale by Elizabeth, daughter and heiress of Richard Lauder of
Halton, was born 20 June, 1653. Before his father succeeded to the
Lauderdale title he was styled of Over-Gogar; after that event he
was known as Lord Maitland. 9 October, 1678, he was sworn a Privy
Councillor, and appointed Joint General of the Mint with his father.
In 1681 he was made Lord Justice General, but deprived of that office
three years later on account of suspected communications with his
father-in-law, Argyll, who had fled to Holland in 1681. Maitland,
however, was in truth a strong Jacobite, and refusing to accept the
Revolution settlement became an exile with his King. He is said to have
been present at the battle of the Boyne, 1 July, 1690. He resided for
some time at St. Germains, but fell into disfavour, perhaps owing to the
well-known protestant sympathies of his wife, Lady Agnes Campbell
(1658-1734), second daughter of the fanatical Archibald, Earl of Argyll.
From St. Germains Maitland retired to Paris, where he died in 1695. He
had succeeded to the Earldom of Lauderdale 9 June, 1691, but was
outlawed by the Court of Justiciary, 23 July, 1694. He left no issue.
Lauderdale was the author of a verse translation of Virgil (8vo, 1718
and 2 Vols., 12mo, 1737). Dryden, to whom he sent a MS. copy from Paris,
states that whilst working on his own version he consulted this whenever
a crux appeared in the Latin text. Lauderdale also wrote _A Memorial on
the Estate of Scotland_ (about 1690), printed in Hooke’s
_Correspondence_ (Roxburghe Club), and there wrongly ascribed to the
third Earl, his father.
The Dedication only occurs in the first edition of _Oronooko_ (1688),
of which I can trace but one copy. This is in the library of Mr. F. F.
Norcross of Chicago, whose brother-in-law, Mr. Harold B. Wrenn, most
kindly transcribed and transmitted to me the Epistle Dedicatory. It,
unfortunately, arrived too late for insertion at p. 129.
p. 130 _I gave ’em to the King’s Theatre._ Sir Robert Howard and
Dryden’s heroic tragedy, _The Indian Queen_, was produced at the Theatre
Royal in mid-January, 1663. It is a good play, but the extraordinary
success it attained was in no small measure due to the excellence and
magnificence of the scenic effects and mounting. 27 January, Pepys
noticed that the streets adjacent to the theatre were ‘full of coaches
at the new play _The Indian Queen_, which for show, they say, exceeds
_Henry VIII_.’ On 1 February he himself found it ‘indeed a most pleasant
show’. The grandeur of the _mise en scène_ became long proverbial in
theatrical history. Zempoalla, the Indian Queen, a fine rôle, was
superbly acted by Mrs. Marshall, the leading tragedienne of the day. The
feathered ornaments which Mrs. Behn mentions must have formed a quaint
but doubtless striking addition to the actress’s pseudo-classic attire.
Bernbaum pictures ‘Nell Gwynn[5] in the true costume of a Carib belle’,
a quite unfair deduction from Mrs. Behn’s words.
p. 168 _Osenbrigs._ More usually ‘osnaburg’, so named from Osnabrück in
North Germany, a kind of coarse linen made in this town. Narborough’s
Journal, 1669 (_An Account of Several Late Voyages_, 1694), speaks of
‘Cloth, Osenbrigs, Tobacco’. cf. _Pennsylvania Col. Records_ (1732):
‘That to each there be given a couple of Shirts, a Jackett, two pairs of
trowsers of Oznabrigs.’
p. 174 _as soon as the Governour arrived_. The Governor was Francis
Willoughby, fifth Baron Willoughby of Parham (1613?-1666). He had
arrived at Barbadoes, 29 April, 1650, and was received as Governor 7
May, which same day he caused Charles II to be proclaimed. An ardent
royalist, he was dispossessed by an Act of Parliament, 4 March, 1652,
and summoned back to England. At the Restoration he was reinstated, and
arrived the second time with full powers in Barbadoes, 10 August, 1663.
About the end of July, 1666, he was lost at sea on board the good ship
_Hope_.
p. 177 _my Father . . . never arriv’d to possess the Honour design’d
him._ Bernbaum, following the mistaken statement that Mrs. Behn’s
father, John Amis, was a barber, argues that a man in such a position
could hardly have obtained so important a post, and if her ‘father was
not sent to Surinam, the only reason she gives for being there
disappears.’ However, since we know her father to have been no barber,
but of good family, this line of discussion falls to the ground.
p. 180 _Brother to Harry Martin the great Oliverian._ Henry, or Harry,
and George Marten were the two sons of Sir Henry Marten (_ob._ 1641)
and his first wife, Elizabeth, who died 19 June, 1618. For the elder
brother, Henry Marten, (1602-80), see note Vol. I, p. 457.
p. 193 _The Deputy Governor._ William Byam was ‘Lieutenant General of
Guiana and Governor of Willoughby Land’, 1661-7. Even previously to this
he had gained no little influence and power in these colonies. He headed
the forces that defended Surinam in 1667 against the Dutch Admiral
Crynsens, who, however, proved victorious.
p. 198 _my new Comedy. The Younger Brother; or, The Amorous Jilt_,
posthumously produced under the auspices of, and with some alterations
by, Charles Gildon at Drury Lane in 1696. George Marteen, acted by
Powell, is the young and gallant hero of the comedy.
p. 200 _his Council_. In _The Widow Ranter_ Mrs. Behn draws a vivid
picture of these deboshed ruffians.
p. 207 _one Banister_. Sergeant Major James Banister being, after
Byam’s departure in 1667, ‘the only remaining eminent person’ became
Lieutenant-Governor. It was he who in 1668 made the final surrender of
the colony. Later, having quarrelled with the Dutch he was imprisoned by
them.
[Footnote 5: Nell Gwynne had no part in the play.]
Cross-Reference from Critical Notes: _Oroonoko_
Note to p. 180: For the elder brother, Henry Marten, (1602-80), see note
Vol. I, p. 457.
Vol. I, p. 457 note (referring to _The Roundheads_, V, ii):
p. 414 _Peters the first_, _Martin the Second_. Hugh Peters has been
noticed before. Henry Martin was an extreme republican, and at one
time even a Leveller. He was a commissioner of the High Court of
Justice and a regicide. At the Restoration he was imprisoned for
life and died at Chepstow Castle, 1681, aged seventy-eight. He was
notorious for profligacy and shamelessness, and kept a very seraglio
of mistresses. [[The date “1681” is in the original.]]
* * * * *
* * * *
AGNES DE CASTRO.
INTRODUCTION.
The ‘sweet sentimental tragedy’ of Agnes de Castro was founded by Mrs.
Behn upon a work by Mlle S. B. de Brillac, _Agnès de Castro, nouvelle
portugaise_ (1688), and various subsequent editions. In the same year
(1688) as Mrs. Behn’s _Agnes de Castro; or, The Force of Generous Blood_
was published there appeared ‘Two New Novels, i. _The Art of Making
Love_.[1] ii. _The Fatal Beauty of Agnes de Castro_: Taken out of the
History of Portugal. Translated from the French by P. B. G.[2] For
R. Bentley’ (12mo). Each has a separate title page. Bellon’s version
does not differ materially from Mrs. Behn, but she far exceeds him in
spirit and niceness of style.
So much legend has surrounded the romantic history of the beautiful Ines
de Castro that it is impossible fully to elucidate every detail of her
life. Born in the early years of the fourteenth century, she was the
daughter of Pedro Fernandez de Castro, major domo to Alphonso XI of
Castille. She accompanied her relative, Dona Constança Manuel, daughter
to the Duke of Peñafiel, to the court of Alphonso IV of Portugal when
this lady was to wed the Infante Don Pedro. Here Ines excited the
fondest love in Pedro’s heart and the passion was reciprocated. She bore
him several children, and there can be no doubt that Dona Constança was
madly jealous of her husband’s amour with her fair friend. 13 November,
1345, Constança died, and Pedro immediately married his mistress at
Braganza in the presence of the Bishop of Guarda. Their nuptials were
kept secret, and the old King kept pressing his son to take a wife.
Before long his spies found out the reason of the Infante’s constant
refusals; and, beside himself with rage, he watched an opportunity
whilst Pedro, on a great hunting expedition, was absent from Coimbra
where they resided, and had Ines cruelly assassinated 7 January, 1355.
The grief of Pedro was terrible, he plunged the country into civil war,
and it was only by the tenderest solicitations of his mother and the
authority of several holy monks and bishops that he was restrained from
taking a terrible revenge upon his father. Alphonso died, his power
curtailed, his end unhappy, May, 1357.
A very literature has grown up around the lovely Ines, and many more
than a hundred items of interest could be enumerated. The best authority
is J. de Araujo, whose monumental _Bibliographia Inesiana_ was published
in 1897. Mrs. Behn’s novel was immensely popular and is included, with
some unnecessary moral observations as preface, in Mrs. Griffith’s _A
Collection of Novels_ (1777), Vol. III, which has a plate illustrating
the tale. It was turned into French by Marie-Geneviève-Charlotte Tiroux
d’ Arconville (1720-1805), wife of a councillor of the Parliament, an
aimable blue-stocking who devoted her life wholly to literature, and
translated freely from English. This work is to be found in _Romans (les
deux premiers . . . tirés des Lettres Persanes . . . par M. Littleton et
le dernier . . . d’un Recueil de Romans . . . de Madame Behn) traduits
de l’ Anglois_, (Amsterdam, 1761.) It occurs again in _Mélanges de
Litterature_ (12mo, 1775, etc.), Vol. VI.
A tragedy, _Agnes de Castro_, written by that philosophical lady,
Catherine Trotter (afterwards Cockburn), at the early age of sixteen,
and produced at the Theatre Royal, 1696, with Powell, Verbruggen, Mrs.
Rogers in the principal parts, is directly founded upon Mrs. Behn. It is
a mediocre play, and the same can even more truly be said of Mallet’s
cold _Elvira_ (1763). This was acted, however, with fair success
thirteen times. Garrick played Don Pedro, his last original part, and
Mrs. Cibber Elvira. Such dull exercises as C. Symmons, _Inez, a tragedy_
(1796), and _Ignez de Castro_, a tragedy in verse, intended for _Hoad’s
Magazine_ call for no comment.
There is a French play by Lamotte on the subject of Ines de Castro,
which was first produced 6 April, 1723. Voltaire found the first four
acts execrable and laughed consumedly. The fifth was so tender and true
that he melted into tears. In Italian we have, from the pen of
Bertoletti, _Inez de Castro_, tragedia, Milano, 1826.
In Spanish and Portuguese there are, of course, innumerable poems,
treaties, tragedies, studies, romances. Lope de Vega wrote _Dona Inez de
Castro_, and the beautiful episode of Camoens is deservedly famous.
Antonio Ferreira’s splendid tragedy is well known. First published in
_Comedias Famosas dos Doctores de Sa de Mirande_ (4to, 1622), it can
also be read in _Poemas lusitanos_ (2 Vols., 8vo, Lisbon, 1771). Domingo
dos Reis Quita wrote a drama, _Ignez de Castro_, a translation of which,
by Benjamin Thompson, was published in 1800. There is also a play _Dona
Ignez de Castro_, by Nicolas Luiz, which was Englished by John Adamson,
whose version was printed at Newcastle, 1808.
[Footnote 1: Mr. Arundell Esdaile in his _Bibliography of Fiction_
(_printed before 1740_) erroneously identifies this amusing little
piece with Mrs. Behn’s _The Lover’s Watch_. It is, however, quite
another thing, dealing with a pseudo-Turkish language of love.]
[Footnote 2: i.e., Peter Bellon, Gent. Bellon was an assiduous
hackney writer and translator of the day. He has also left one
comedy, _The Mock Duellist; or, The French Valet_ (4to, 1675).]
THE HISTORY OF _AGNES de CASTRO_.
Tho’ Love, all soft and flattering, promises nothing but Pleasures; yet
its Consequences are often sad and fatal. It is not enough to be in
love, to be happy; since Fortune, who is capricious, and takes delight
to trouble the Repose of the most elevated and virtuous, has very little
respect for passionate and tender Hearts, when she designs to produce
strange Adventures.
Many Examples of past Ages render this Maxim certain; but the Reign of
_Don Alphonso_ the IVth, King of _Portugal_, furnishes us with one, the
most extraordinary that History can produce.
He was the Son of that _Don Denis_, who was so successful in all his
Undertakings, that it was said of him, that he was capable of performing
whatever he design’d, (and of _Isabella_, a Princess of eminent Virtue)
who when he came to inherit a flourishing and tranquil State,
endeavour’d to establish Peace and Plenty in abundance in his Kingdom.
And to advance this his Design, he agreed on a Marriage between his Son
_Don Pedro_ (then about eight Years of Age) and _Bianca_, Daughter of
_Don Pedro_, King of _Castile_; and whom the young Prince married when
he arriv’d to his sixteenth Year.
_Bianca_ brought nothing to _Coimbra_ but Infirmities and very few
Charms. _Don Pedro_, who was full of Sweetness and Generosity, lived
nevertheless very well with her; but those Distempers of the Princess
degenerating into the Palsy, she made it her request to retire, and at
her Intercession the Pope broke the Marriage, and the melancholy
Princess conceal’d her Languishment in a solitary Retreat: And _Don
Pedro_, for whom they had provided another Match, married _Constantia
Manuel_, Daughter of _Don John Manuel_, a Prince of the Blood of
_Castile_, and famous for the Enmity he had to his King.
_Constantia_ was promised to the King of _Castile_; but the King not
keeping his word, they made no Difficulty of bestowing her on a young
Prince, who was one Day to reign over a number of fine Provinces. He was
but five and twenty years of Age, and the Man of all _Spain_ that had
the best Fashion and Grace: and with the most advantageous Qualities of
the Body he possest those of the Soul, and shewed himself worthy in all
things of the Crown that was destin’d for him.
The Princess _Constantia_ had Beauty, Wit, and Generosity, in as great a
measure as ’twas possible for a Woman to be possest with; her Merit
alone ought to have attach’d _Don Pedro_, eternally to her; and
certainly he had for her an Esteem, mix’d with so great a Respect, as
might very well pass for Love with those that were not of a nice and
curious Observation: but alas! his real Care was reserved for another
Beauty.
_Constantia_ brought into the World, the first Year after her Marriage,
a Son, who was called _Don Louis_: but it scarce saw the Light, and dy’d
almost as soon as born. The loss of this little Prince sensibly touched
her, but the Coldness she observ’d in the Prince her Husband, went yet
nearer her Heart; for she had given her self absolutely up to her Duty,
and had made her Tenderness for him her only Concern: But puissant
Glory, which ty’d her so entirely to the Interest of the Prince of
_Portugal_, open’d her Eyes upon his Actions, where she observ’d nothing
in his Caresses and Civilities that was natural, or could satisfy her
delicate Heart.
At first she fancy’d her self deceiv’d, but time having confirmed her in
what she fear’d, she sighed in secret; yet had that Consideration for
the Prince, as not to let him see her Disorder: and which nevertheless
she could not conceal from _Agnes de Castro_, who lived with her, rather
as a Companion, than a Maid of Honour, and whom her Friendship made her
infinitely distinguish from the rest.
This Maid, so dear to the Princess, very well merited the Preference her
Mistress gave her; she was beautiful to excess, wise, discreet, witty,
and had more Tenderness for _Constantia_ than she had for her self,
having quitted her Family, which was illustrious, to give her self
wholly to the Service of the Princess, and to follow her into
_Portugal_. It was into the Bosom of this Maid, that the Princess
unladed her first Moans; and the charming _Agnes_ forgot nothing that
might give ease to her afflicted Heart.
Nor was _Constantia_ the only Person who complained of _Don Pedro_:
Before his Divorce from _Bianca_, he had expressed some Care and
Tenderness for _Elvira Gonzales_, Sister to Don _Alvaro Gonzales_,
Favourite to the King of _Portugal_; and this Amusement in the young
Years of the Prince, had made a deep Impression on _Elvira_, who
flatter’d her Ambition with the Infirmities of _Bianca_. She saw, with a
secret Rage, _Constantia_ take her place, who was possest with such
Charms, that quite divested her of all Hopes.
Her Jealousy left her not idle, she examined all the Actions of the
Prince, and easily discover’d the little Regard he had for the Princess;
but this brought him not back to her. And it was upon very good grounds
that she suspected him to be in love with some other Person, and
possessed with a new Passion; and which she promised herself, she would
destroy as soon as she could find it out. She had a Spirit altogether
proper for bold and hazardous Enterprizes; and the Credit of her Brother
gave her so much Vanity, as all the Indifference of the Prince was not
capable of humbling.
The Prince languished, and concealed the Cause with so much Care, that
’twas impossible for any to find it out. No publick Pleasures were
agreeable to him, and all Conversations were tedious; and it was
Solitude alone that was able to give him any ease.
This Change surprized all the World. The King, who loved his Son very
tenderly, earnestly pressed him to know the Reason of his Melancholy;
but the Prince made no answer, but only this, That it was the effect of
his Temper.
But Time ran on, and the Princess was brought to bed of a second Son,
who liv’d, and was called _Fernando_. _Don Pedro_ forc’d himself a
little to take part in the publick Joy, so that they believ’d his Humour
was changing; but this Appearance of a Calm endur’d not long, and he
fell back again into his black Melancholy.
The artful _Elvira_ was incessantly agitated in searching out the
Knowledge of this Secret. Chance wrought for her; and, as she was
walking, full of Indignation and Anger, in the Garden of the Palace of
_Coimbra_, she found the Prince of _Portugal_ sleeping in an obscure
Grotto.
Her Fury could not contain it self at the sight of this loved Object,
she roll’d her Eyes upon him, and perceived in spite of Sleep, that some
Tears escaped his Eyes; the Flame which burnt yet in her Heart, soon
grew soft and tender there: But oh! she heard him sigh, and after that
utter these words, _Yes, Divine +Agnes+, I will sooner die than let you
know it: +Constantia+ shall have nothing to reproach me with._ _Elvira_
was enraged at this Discourse, which represented to her immediately, the
same moment, _Agnes de Castro_ with all her Charms; and not at all
doubting, but it was she who possest the Heart of _Don Pedro_, she found
in her Soul more Hatred for this fair Rival, than Tenderness for him.
The Grotto was not a fit Place to make Reflections in, or to form
Designs. Perhaps her first Transports would have made her waken him, if
she had not perceived a Paper lying under his Hand, which she softly
seiz’d on; and that she might not be surprized in the reading it, she
went out of the Garden with as much haste as confusion.
When she was retired to her Apartment, she open’d the Paper, trembling,
and found in it these Verses, writ by the Hand of _Don Pedro_; and
which, in appearance, he had newly then compos’d.
_In vain, Oh! Sacred Honour, you debate
The mighty Business in my Heart:
Love! Charming Love! rules all my Fate;
Interest and Glory claim no part.
The God, sure of his Victory, triumphs there,
And will have nothing in his Empire share._
_In vain, Oh! Sacred Duty, you oppose;
In vain, your Nuptial Tye you plead:
Those forc’d Devoirs LOVE overthrows,
And breaks the Vows he never made.
Fixing his fatal Arrows every where,
I burn and languish in a soft Despair._
_Fair Princess, you to whom my Faith is due;
Pardon the Destiny that drags me on:
’Tis not my fault my Heart’s untrue,
I am compell’d to be undone.
My Life is yours, I gave it with my Hand,
But my Fidelity I can’t command._
_Elvira_ did not only know the Writing of _Don Pedro_, but she knew also
that he could write Verses. And seeing the sad Part which _Constantia_
had in these which were now fallen into her hands, she made no scruple
of resolving to let the Princess see ’em: but that she might not be
suspected, she took care not to appear in this Business her self; and
since it was not enough for _Constantia_ to know that the Prince did not
love her, but that she must know also that he was a Slave to _Agnes de
Castro_, _Elvira_ caused these few Verses to be written in an unknown
Hand, under those writ by the Prince.
_Sleep betrayed th’ unhappy Lover,
While Tears were streaming from his Eyes;
His heedless Tongue without disguise,
The Secret did discover:
The Language of his Heart declare,
That +Agnes’+ Image triumphs there._
_Elvira_ regarded neither Exactness nor Grace in these Lines: And if
they had but the effect she design’d, she wished no more.
Her Impatience could not wait till the next day to expose them: she
therefore went immediately to the Lodgings of the Princess, who was then
walking in the Garden of the Palace; and passing without resistance,
even to her Cabinet, she put the Paper into a Book, in which the
Princess used to read, and went out again unseen, and satisfy’d with her
good Fortune.
As soon as _Constantia_ was return’d, she enter’d into her Cabinet, and
saw the Book open, and the Verses lying in it, which were to cost her so
dear: She soon knew the Hand of the Prince which was so familiar to her;
and besides the Information of what she had always fear’d, she
understood it was _Agnes de Castro_ (whose Friendship alone was able to
comfort her in her Misfortunes) who was the fatal Cause of it: she read
over the Paper an hundred times, desiring to give her Eyes and Reason
the Lye; but finding but too plainly she was not deceiv’d, she found her
Soul possest with more Grief than Anger: when she consider’d, as much in
love as the Prince was, he had kept his Torment secret. After having
made her moan, without condemning him, the Tenderness she had for him,
made her shed a Torrent of Tears, and inspir’d her with a Resolution of
concealing her Resentment.
She would certainly have done it by a Virtue extraordinary, if the
Prince, who missing his Verses when he waked, and fearing they might
fall into indiscreet Hands, had not enter’d the Palace, all troubled
with his Loss; and hastily going into _Constantia’s_ Apartment, saw her
fair Eyes all wet with Tears, and at the same instant cast his own on
the unhappy Verses that had escaped from his Soul, and now lay before
the Princess.
He immediately turned pale at this sight, and appear’d so mov’d, that
the generous Princess felt more Pain than he did: ‘Madam, _said he_,
(infinitely alarm’d) from whom had you that Paper? It cannot come but
from the Hand of some Person, _answer’d_ Constantia, who is an Enemy
both to your Repose and mine. It is the Work, Sir, of your own Hand; and
doubtless the Sentiment of your Heart. But be not surprized, and do not
fear; for if my Tenderness should make it pass for a Crime in you, the
same Tenderness which nothing is able to alter, shall hinder me from
complaining.’
The Moderation and Calmness of _Constantia_, served only to render the
Prince more asham’d and confus’d. _How generous are you, Madam_,
(pursu’d he) _and how unfortunate am I!_ Some Tears accompany’d his
Words, and the Princess, who lov’d him with extreme Ardour, was so
sensibly touch’d, that it was a good while before she could utter a
word. _Constantia_ then broke silence, and shewing him what _Elvira_ had
caus’d to be written: _You are betray’d, Sir_, (added she) _you have
been heard speak, and your Secret is known._ It was at this very moment
that all the Forces of the Prince abandon’d him; and his Condition was
really worthy Compassion: He could not pardon himself the involuntary
Crime he had committed, in exposing of the lovely and the innocent
_Agnes_. And tho’ he was convinced of the Virtue and Goodness of
_Constantia_, the Apprehensions that he had, that this modest and
prudent Maid might suffer by his Conduct, carry’d him beyond all
Consideration.
The Princess, who heedfully survey’d him, saw so many Marks of Despair
in his Face and Eyes, that she was afraid of the Consequences; and
holding out her Hand, in a very obliging manner to him, she said,
‘I promise you, Sir, I will never more complain of you, and that _Agnes_
shall always be very dear to me; you shall never hear me make you any
Reproaches: And since I cannot possess your Heart, I will content myself
with endeavouring to render myself worthy of it.’ _Don Pedro_, more
confus’d and dejected than before he had been, bent one of his Knees at
the feet of _Constantia_, and with respect kiss’d that fair kind Hand
she had given him, and perhaps forgot _Agnes_ for a moment.
But Love soon put a stop to all the little Advances of _Hymen_; the
fatal Star that presided over the Destiny of _Don Pedro_ had not yet
vented its Malignity; and one moment’s sight of _Agnes_ gave new Force
to his Passion.
The Wishes and Desires of this charming Maid had no part in this
Victory; her Eyes were just, tho’ penetrating, and they searched not in
those of the Prince, what they had a desire to discover to her.
As she was never far from _Constantia_, _Don Pedro_ was no sooner gone
out of the Closet, but _Agnes_ enter’d; and finding the Princess all
pale and languishing in her Chair, she doubted not but there was some
sufficient Cause for her Affliction: she put herself in the same Posture
the Prince had been in before, and expressing an Inquietude, full of
Concern; ‘Madam, _said she_, by all your Goodness, conceal not from me
the Cause of your Trouble. Alas, _Agnes_, _reply’d the Princess_, what
would you know? And what should I tell you? The Prince, the Prince, my
dearest Maid, is in love; the Hand that he gave me, was not a Present of
his Heart; and for the Advantage of this Alliance, I must become the
Victim of it--What! the Prince in Love! (_reply’d +Agnes+, with an
Astonishment mix’d with Indignation_) What Beauty can dispute the Empire
over a Heart so much your due? Alas, Madam, all the Respect I owe him,
cannot hinder me from murmuring against him. Accuse him of nothing,
(_interrupted_ Constantia) he does what he can; and I am more oblig’d to
him for desiring to be faithful, than if I possest his real Tenderness.
It is not enough to fight, but to overcome; and the Prince does more in
the Condition wherein he is, than I ought reasonably to hope for: In
fine, he is my Husband, and an agreeable one; to whom nothing is
wanting, but what I cannot inspire; that is, a Passion which would have
made me but too happy. Ah! Madam, (_cry’d out +Agnes+, transported with
her Tenderness for the Princess_) he is a blind and stupid Prince, who
knows not the precious Advantages he possesses. He must surely know
something, (_reply’d the Princess modestly._) But, Madam, (_reply’d
+Agnes+_) Is there any thing, not only in _Portugal_, but in all
_Spain_, that can compare with you? And without considering the charming
Qualities of your Person, can we enough admire those of your Soul? My
dear _Agnes_, (_interrupted +Constantia+, sighing_) she who robs me of
my Husband’s Heart, has but too many Charms to plead his Excuse; since
it is thou, Child, whom Fortune makes use of, to give me the killing
Blow. Yes, _Agnes_, the Prince loves thee; and the Merit I know thou art
possest of, puts bounds to my Complaints, without suffering me to have
the least Resentment.’
The delicate _Agnes_ little expected to hear what the Princess told her:
Thunder would have less surpriz’d, and less oppres’d her. She remain’d a
long time without speaking; but at last, fixing her Looks all frightful
on _Constantia_, ‘What say you, Madam? (_cry’d she_) And what Thoughts
have you of me? What, that I should betray you? And coming hither only
full of Ardor to be the Repose of your Life, do I bring a fatal Poison
to afflict it? What Detestation must I have for the Beauty they find in
me, without aspiring to make it appear? And how ought I to curse the
unfortunate Day, on which I first saw the Prince?--But, Madam, it cannot
be me whom Heaven has chosen to torment you, and to destroy all your
Tranquillity: No, it cannot be so much my Enemy, to put me to so great a
Tryal. And if I were that odious Person, there is no Punishment, to
which I would not condemn my self. It is _Elvira_, Madam, the Prince
loves, and loved before his Marriage with you, and also before his
Divorce from _Bianca_; and somebody has made an indiscreet Report to you
of this Intrigue of his Youth: But, Madam, what was in the time of
_Bianca_, is nothing to you. It is certain that _Don Pedro_ loves you,
(_answer’d the Princess_) and I have Vanity enough to believe, that,
none besides your self could have disputed his Heart with me: But the
Secret is discover’d, and _Don Pedro_ has not disown’d it. What,
(_interrupted +Agnes+, more surpriz’d than ever_) is it then from
himself you have learned his Weakness?’ The Princess then shew’d her the
Verses, and there was never any Despair like to hers.
While they were both thus sadly employ’d, both sighing, and both
weeping, the impatient _Elvira_, who was willing to learn the Effect of
her Malice, returned to the Apartment of the Princess, where she freely
enter’d; even to the Cabinet where these unhappy Persons were: who all
afflicted and troubled as they were, blushed at her approach, whose
Company they did not desire: She had the Pleasure to see _Constantia_
hide from her the Paper which had been the Cause of all their Trouble,
and which the Princess had never seen, but for her Spite and Revenge;
and to observe also in the Eyes of the Princess, and those of _Agnes_,
an immoderate Grief: She staid in the Cabinet as long as it was
necessary to be assur’d, that she had succeeded in her Design; but the
Princess, who did not desire such a Witness of the Disorder in which she
then was, pray’d to be left alone. _Elvira_ then went out of the
Cabinet, and _Agnes de Castro_ withdrew at the same time.
It was in her own Chamber, that _Agnes_ examining more freely this
Adventure, found it as cruel as Death. She loved _Constantia_ sincerely,
and had not till then any thing more than an Esteem, mixt with
Admiration, for the Prince of _Portugal_; which indeed, none could
refuse to so many fine Qualities. And looking on her self as the most
unfortunate of her Sex, as being the Cause of all the Sufferings of the
Princess, to whom she was obliged for the greatest Bounties, she spent
the whole Night in Tears and Complaints, sufficient to have reveng’d
_Constantia_ for all the Griefs she made her suffer.
The Prince, on his side, was in no great Tranquillity; the Generosity of
his Princess increas’d his Remorse, without diminishing his Love: he
fear’d, and with reason, that those who were the occasion of
_Constantia’s_ seeing those Verses, should discover his Passion to the
King, from whom he hoped for no Indulgence: and he would most willingly
have given his Life, to have been free from this Extremity.
In the mean time the afflicted Princess languished in a most deplorable
Sadness; she found nothing in those who were the Cause of her
Misfortunes, but things fitter to move her Tenderness than her Anger: It
was in vain that Jealousy strove to combat the Inclination she had to
love her fair Rival; nor was there any occasion of making the Prince
less dear to her: and she felt neither Hatred, nor so much as
Indifference for innocent _Agnes_.
While these three disconsolate Persons abandon’d themselves to their
Melancholy, _Elvira_, not to leave her Vengeance imperfect, study’d in
what manner she might bring it to the height of its Effects. Her
Brother, on whom she depended, shew’d her a great deal of Friendship,
and judging rightly that the Love of _Don Pedro_ to _Agnes de Castro_
would not be approved by the King, she acquainted _Don Alvaro_ her
Brother with it, who was not ignorant of the Passion the Prince had once
protested to have for his Sister. He found himself very much interested
in this News, from a second Passion he had for _Agnes_; which the
Business of his Fortune had hitherto hindred him from discovering: and
he expected a great many Favours from the King, that might render the
Effort of his Heart the more considerable.
He hid not from his Sister this one thing, which he found difficult to
conceal; so that she was now possest with a double Grief, to find
_Agnes_ Sovereign of all the Hearts to which she had a pretension.
_Don Alvaro_ was one of those ambitious Men, that are fierce without
Moderation, and proud without Generosity; of a melancholy, cloudy
Humour, of a cruel Inclination, and to effect his Ends, found nothing
difficult or unlawful. Naturally he lov’d not the Prince, who, on all
accounts, ought to have held the first Rank in the Heart of the King,
which should have set bounds to the Favour of _Don Alvaro_; who when he
knew the Prince was his Rival, his Jealousy increas’d his Hate of him:
and he conjured _Elvira_ to employ all her Care, to oppose an Engagement
that could not but be destructive to them both; she promised him, and he
not very well satisfy’d, rely’d on her Address.
_Don Alvaro_, who had too lively a Representation within himself, of the
Beauties and Grace of the Prince of _Portugal_, thought of nothing, but
how to combat his Merits, he himself not being handsome, or well made:
His Fashion was as disagreeable as his Humour, and _Don Pedro_ had all
the Advantages that one Man may possibly have over another. In fine, all
that _Don Alvaro_ wanted, adorn’d the Prince: but as he was the Husband
of _Constantia_, and depended upon an absolute Father, and that _Don
Alvaro_ was free, and Master of a good Fortune, he thought himself more
assur’d of _Agnes_, and fixed his Hopes on that Thought.
He knew very well, that the Passion of _Don Pedro_ could not but inspire
a violent Anger in the Soul of the King. Industrious in doing ill, his
first Business was to carry this unwelcome News to him. After he had
given time to his Grief, and had compos’d himself to his Desire, he then
besought the King to interest himself in his amorous Affair, and to be
the Protector of his Person.
Tho’ _Don Alvaro_ had no other Merit to recommend him to the King, than
a continual and blind Obedience to all his Commands; yet he had favour’d
him with several Testimonies of his vast Bounty: and considering the
Height to which the King’s Liberality had rais’d him, there were few
Ladies that would have refused his Alliance. The King assured him of the
Continuation of his Friendship and Favour, and promised him, if he had
any Authority, he would give him the charming _Agnes_.
_Don Alvaro_, perfectly skilful in managing his Master, answer’d the
King’s last Bounties with a profound Submission. He had yet never told
_Agnes_ what he felt for her; but he thought now he might make a publick
Declaration of it, and sought all means to do it.
The Gallantry which _Coimbra_ seem’d to have forgotten, began now to be
awakened. The King to please _Don Alvaro_, under pretence of diverting
_Constantia_, order’d some publick Sports, and commanded that every
thing should be magnificent.
Since the Adventure of the Verses, _Don Pedro_ endeavour’d to lay a
constraint on himself, and to appear less troubled; but in his heart he
suffer’d always alike: and it was not but with great uneasiness he
prepar’d himself for the Tournament. And since he could not appear with
the Colours of _Agnes_, he took those of his Wife, without Device, or
any great Magnificence.
_Don Pedro_ adorn’d himself with the Liveries of _Agnes de Castro_; and
this fair Maid, who had yet found no Consolation from what the Princess
had told her, had this new cause of being displeas’d.
_Don Pedro_ appear’d in the List with an admirable Grace; and _Don
Alvaro_, who looked on this Day as his own, appear’d there all shining
with Gold, mix’d with Stones of Blue, which were the Colours of _Agnes_;
and there were embroider’d all over his Equipage, flaming Hearts of Gold
on blue Velvet, and Nets for the Snares of Love, with abundance of
double _A’s_; his Device was a Love coming out of a Cloud, with these
Verses written underneath:
_Love from a Cloud breaks like the God of Day,
And to the World his Glories does display;
To gaze on charming Eyes, and make ’em know,
What to soft Hearts, and to his Power they owe._
The Pride of _Don Alvaro_ was soon humbled at the feet of the Prince of
_Portugal_, who threw him against the Ground, with twenty others, and
carry’d alone the Glory of the Day. There was in the Evening a noble
Assembly at _Constantia’s_, where _Agnes_ would not have been, unless
expresly commanded by the Princess. She appear’d there all negligent and
careless in her Dress, but yet she appear’d all beautiful and charming.
She saw, with disdain, her Name, and her Colours, worn by _Don Alvaro_,
at a publick Triumph; and if her Heart was capable of any tender
Motions, it was not for such a Man as he for whom her Delicacy destin’d
them: She look’d on him with a Contempt, which did not hinder him from
pressing so near, that there was a necessity for her to hear what he had
to declare to her.
She treated him not uncivilly, but her Coldness would have rebated the
Courage of any but _Alvaro_. ‘Madam, said he, (when he could be heard of
none but herself) I have hitherto concealed the Passion you have
inspired me with, fearing it should displease you; but it has committed
a Violence on my Respect; and I could no longer conceal it from you.
I never reflected on your Actions (answer’d _Agnes_ with all the
Indifference of which she was capable) and if you think you offend me,
you are in the wrong to make me perceive it. This Coldness is but an ill
Omen for me (reply’d _Don Alvaro_) and if you have not found me out to
be your Lover to-day, I fear you will never approve my Passion.’
‘Oh! what a time have you chosen to make it appear to me? (pursued
_Agnes_.) Is it so great an Honour for me, that you must take such care
to shew it to the World? And do you think that I am so desirous of
Glory, that I must aspire to it by your Actions? If I must, you have
very ill maintain’d it in the Tournament; and if it be that Vanity that
you depend upon, you will make no great progress on a Soul that is not
fond of Shame. If you were possest of all the Advantages, which the
Prince has this day carried away, you yet ought to consider what you are
going about; and it is not a Maid like me, who is touched with
Enterprizes, without respect or permission.’
The Favourite of the King was too proud to hear _Agnes_, without
Indignation: but as he was willing to conceal it, and not offend her, he
made not his Resentment appear; and considering the Observation she made
on the Triumphs of _Don Pedro_, (which increased his Jealousies) ‘If I
have not overcome at the Tournament, reply’d he, I am not the less in
love for being vanquish’d, nor less capable of Success on occasion.’
They were interrupted here, but from that day, _Don Alvaro_, who had
open’d the first Difficulties, kept no more his wonted Distance, but
perpetually persecuted _Agnes_; yet, tho’ he were protected by the King,
that inspir’d in her never the more Consideration for him. _Don Pedro_
was always ignorant by what means the Verses he had lost in the Garden,
fell into the hands of _Constantia_. As the Princess appeared to him
indulgent, he was only concerned for _Agnes_; and the love of _Don
Alvaro_, which was then so well known, increas’d the Pain: and had he
been possess’d of the Authority, he would not have suffer’d her to have
been expos’d to the Persecutions of so unworthy a Rival. He was also
afraid of the King’s being advertised of his Passion, but he thought not
at all of _Elvira_, nor apprehended any Malice from her Resentment.
While she burnt with a Desire of destroying _Agnes_, against whom she
vented all her Venom, she was never weary of making new Reports to her
Brother, assuring him, that tho’ they could not prove that _Agnes_ made
any returns to the Tenderness of the Prince, yet that was the Cause of
_Constantia’s_ Grief: And, that if this Princess should die of it, _Don
Pedro_ might marry _Agnes_. In fine, she so incens’d the jealous _Don
Alvaro’s_ Jealousy, that he could not hinder himself from running
immediately to the King, with the discovery of all he knew, and all he
guest, and who, he had the pleasure to find, was infinitely inrag’d at
the News. ‘My dear _Alvaro_, said the King, you shall instantly marry
this dangerous Beauty: And let Possession assure your Repose and mine.
If I have protected you on other Occasions, judge what a Service of so
great an Importance for me, would make me undertake; and without any
reserve, the Forces of this State are in your power, and almost any
thing that I can give shall be assured you, so you render your self
Master of the Destiny of _Agnes_.’
_Don Alvaro_ pleas’d, and vain with his Master’s Bounty, made use of all
the Authority he gave him: He passionately lov’d _Agnes_, and would not,
on the sudden, make use of Violence; but resolv’d with himself to employ
all possible Means to win her fairly; yet if that fail’d, to have
recourse to force, if she continued always insensible.
While _Agnes de Castro_ (importun’d by his Assiduities, despairing at
the Grief of _Constantia_, and perhaps made tender by those she had
caus’d in the Prince of _Portugal_) took a Resolution worthy of her
Virtue; yet, amiable as _Don Pedro_ was, she found nothing in him, but
his being Husband to _Constantia_, that was dear to her: And, far from
encouraging the Power she had got over his Heart, she thought of nothing
but of removing from _Coimbra_. The Passion of _Don Alvaro_, which she
had no inclination to favour, served her as a Pretext; and press’d with
the fear of causing, in the end, a cruel Divorce between the Prince and
his Princess, she went to find _Constantia_, with a trouble, which all
her Care was not able to hide from her.
The Princess easily found it out; and their common Misfortunes having
not chang’d their Friendship--‘What ails you, _Agnes_? (said the
Princess to her, in a soft Tone, and with her ordinary Sweetness) And
what new Misfortune causes that sadness in thy Looks? Madam (reply’d
_Agnes_, shedding a Rivulet of Tears) the Obligations and Ties I have to
you, put me upon a cruel Tryal; I had bounded the Felicity of my Life in
hope of passing it near your Highness, yet I must carry to some other
part of the World this unlucky Face of mine, which renders me nothing
but ill Offices: And it is to obtain that Liberty, that I am come to
throw my self at your feet; looking upon you as my Sovereign.’
_Constantia_ was so surpriz’d and touch’d with the Proposition of
_Agnes_, that she lost her Speech for some moments; Tears, which were
sincere, express’d her first Sentiments: And after having shed
abundance, to give a new mark of her Tenderness to the fair afflicted
_Agnes_, she with a sad and melancholy Look, fix’d her Eyes upon her,
and holding out her Hand to her, in a most obliging manner, sighing,
cry’d--‘You will then, my dear _Agnes_, leave me; and expose me to the
Griefs of seeing you no more? Alas, Madam, (interrupted this lovely
Maid) hide from the unhappy _Agnes_ a Bounty which does but increase her
Misfortunes: It is not I, Madam, that would leave you; it is my Duty,
and my Reason that orders my Fate. And those Days which I shall pass far
from you, promise me nothing to oblige me to this Design, if I did not
see my self absolutely forc’d to it. I am not ignorant of what passes at
_Coimbra_; and I shall be an Accomplice of the Injustice there
committed, if I should stay there any longer.--Ah, I know your Virtue,
(cry’d _Constantia_) and you may remain here in all safety, while I am
your Protectress; and let what will happen, I will accuse you of
nothing. There’s no answering for what’s to come, (reply’d _Agnes_,
sadly) and I shall be sufficiently guilty, if my Presence cause
Sentiments, which cannot be innocent. Besides, Madam, the Importunities
of _Don Alvaro_ are insupportable to me; and tho’ I find nothing but
Aversion to him, since the King protects his Insolence, and he’s in a
condition of undertaking any thing, my Flight is absolutely necessary.
But, Madam, tho’ he has nothing but what seems odious to me; I call
Heaven to witness, that if I could cure the Prince by marrying _Don
Alvaro_, I would not consider of it a moment; and finding in my
Punishment the Consolation of sacrificing my self to my Princess,
I would support it without murmuring. But if I were the Wife of _Don
Alvaro_, _Don Pedro_ would always look upon me with the same Eyes: So
that I find nothing more reasonable for me, than to hide my self in some
Corner of the World; where, tho’ I shall most certainly live without
Pleasure, yet I shall preserve the Repose of my dearest Mistress. All
the Reason you find in this Design, (answered the Princess) cannot
oblige me to approve of your Absence: Will it restore me the Heart of
_Don Pedro_? And will he not fly away with you? His Grief is mine, and
my Life is ty’d to his; do not make him despair then, if you love me.
I know you, I tell you so once more; and let your Power be ever so great
over the Heart of the Prince, I will not suffer you to abandon us.’
Tho’ _Agnes_ thought she had perfectly known _Constantia_, yet she did
not expect to find so intire a Virtue in her, which made her think her
self more happy, and the Prince more criminal. ‘Oh, Wisdom! Oh, Bounty
without Example! (cry’d she) Why is it, that the cruel Destinies do not
give you all you deserve? You are the disposer of my Actions, (continued
she in kissing the Hand of _Constantia_) I’ll do nothing but what you’ll
have me: But consider, and weigh well the Reasons that ought to counsel
you in the Measures you oblige me to take.’
_Don Pedro_, who had not seen the Princess all that day, came in then,
and finding ’em both extremely troubled, with a fierce Impatience,
demanded the Cause: ‘Sir, answered _Constantia_, _Agnes_ too wise, and
too scrupulous, fears the Effects of her Beauty, and will live no longer
at _Coimbra_; and it was on this Subject, (which cannot be agreeable
to me) that she ask’d my Advice.’ The Prince grew pale at this
Discourse, and snatching the Words from her Mouth (with more concern
than possest either of them) cry’d with a Voice very feeble, ‘_Agnes_
cannot fail if she follow your Counsel, Madam: and I leave you full
liberty to give it her.’ He then immediately went out, and the Princess,
whose Heart he perfectly possest, not being able to hide her
Displeasure, said, ‘My dear _Agnes_, if my Satisfaction did not only
depend on your Conversation, I should desire it of you, for _Don
Pedro’s_ sake; it is the only Advantage that his unfortunate Love can
hope: And would not the World have reason to call me barbarous, if I
contribute to deprive him of that? But the sight of me will prove a
Poison to him--(reply’d _Agnes_) And what should I do, my Princess, if
after the Reserve he has hitherto kept, his Mouth should add anything to
the Torments I have already felt, by speaking to me of his Flame? You
would hear him sure, without causing him to despair, (reply’d
_Constantia_) and I should put this Obligation to the account of the
rest you have done. Would you then have me expect those Events which I
fear, Madam? (reply’d _Agnes_) Well--I will obey, but just Heaven
(pursued she) if they prove fatal, do not punish an innocent Heart for
it.’ Thus this Conversation ended. _Agnes_ withdrew into her Chamber,
but it was not to be more at ease.
What _Don Pedro_ had learn’d of the Design of _Agnes_, caus’d a cruel
Agitation in his Soul; he wished he had never loved her, and desir’d a
thousand times to die: But it was not for him to make Vows against a
thing which Fate had design’d him; and whatever Resolutions he made, to
bear the Absence of _Agnes_, his Tenderness had not force enough to
consent to it.
After having, for a long time, combated with himself, he determined to
do what was impossible for him to let _Agnes_ do. His Courage reproach’d
him with the Idleness, in which he past the most youthful and vigorous
part of his Days: and making it appear to the King, that his Allies, and
even the Prince _Don John Emanuel_, his Father-in-law, had concerns in
the World which demanded his Presence on the Frontiers, he easily
obtain’d Liberty to make this Journey, to which the Princess would put
no Obstacle.
_Agnes_ saw him part without any Concern, but it was not upon the
account of any Aversion she had to him. _Don Alvaro_ began then to make
his Importunity an open Persecution; he forgot nothing that might touch
the insensible _Agnes_, and made use, a long time, only of the Arms of
Love: But seeing that this Submission and Respect was to no purpose, he
form’d strange Designs.
As the King had a deference for all his Counsels, it was not difficult
to inspire him with what he had a mind to: He complain’d of the
ungrateful _Agnes_, and forgot nothing that might make him perceive that
she was not cruel to him on his account, but from the too much
Sensibility she had for the Prince. The King, who was extreme angry at
this, reiterated all the Promises he had made him.
The King had not yet spoken to _Agnes_ in favour of _Don Alvaro_; and
not doubting but his Approbation would surmount all Obstacles, he took
an occasion to entertain her with it: And removing some distance from
those who might hear him, ‘I thought _Don Alvaro_ had Merit enough (said
he to her) to have obtained a little share in your Esteem; and I could
not imagine there would have been any necessity of my solliciting it for
him: I know you are very charming, but he has nothing that renders him
unworthy of you; and when you shall reflect on the Choice my Friendship
has made of him from among all the great Men of my Court, you will do
him at the same time Justice. His Fortune is none of the meanest, since
he has me for his Protector: He is nobly born, a Man of Honour and
Courage: he adores you, and it seems to me that all these Reasons are
sufficient to vanquish your Pride.’
The Heart of _Agnes_ was so little disposed to give it self to _Don
Alvaro_, that all the King of _Portugal_ had said had no effect on her
in his favour. ‘If _Don Alvaro_, Sir, (answered she) were without Merit,
he possesses Advantages enough in the Bounty your Majesty is pleased to
honour him with, to make him Master of all things, it is not that I find
any Defect in him that I answer not his Desires: But, Sir, by what
obstinate Power would you that I should love, if Heaven has not given me
a Soul that is tender? And why should you pretend that I should submit
to him, when nothing is dearer to me than my liberty? You are not so
free, nor so insensible, as you say, (answer’d the King, blushing with
Anger;) and if your Heart were exempt from all sorts of Affection, he
might expect a more reasonable Return than what he finds. But imprudent
Maid, conducted by an ill Fate, (added he in fury) what Pretensions have
you to _Don Pedro_? Hitherto I have hid the Chagrin, which his Weakness,
and yours give me; but it was not the less violent for being hid. And
since you oblige me to break out, I must tell you, that if my Son were
not already married to _Constantia_, he should never be your Husband;
renounce then those vain Ideas, which will cure him, and justify you.’
The courageous _Agnes_ was scarce Mistress of the first Transports, at a
Discourse so full of Contempt; but calling her Virtue to the aid of her
Anger, she recover’d herself by the assistance of Reason: And
considering the Outrage she receiv’d, not as coming from a great King,
but a Man blinded and possest by _Don Alvaro_, she thought him not
worthy of her Resentment; her fair Eyes animated themselves with so
shining a vivacity, they answer’d for the purity of her Sentiments; and
fixing them steadfastly on the King, ‘If the Prince _Don Pedro_ have
Weaknesses, (reply’d she, with an Air disdainful) he never communicated
’em to me; and I am certain, I never contributed wilfully to ’em: But to
let you see how little I regard your Defiance, and to put my Glory in
safety, I will live far from you, and all that belongs to you: Yes, Sir,
I will quit _Coimbra_ with pleasure; and for this Man, who is so dear to
you, (answer’d she with a noble Pride and Fierceness, of which the King
felt all the force) for this Favourite, so worthy to possess the most
tender Affections of a great Prince, I assure you, that into whatever
part of the World Fortune conducts me, I will not carry away the least
Remembrance of him.’ At these words she made a profound Reverence, and
made such haste from his Presence, that he could not oppose her going if
he would.
The King was now more strongly convinc’d than ever, that she favour’d
the Passion of _Don Pedro_, and immediately went to _Constantia_, to
inspire her with the same Thought; but she was not capable of receiving
such Impressions, and following her own natural Inclinations, she
generously defended the Virtue of his Actions. The King, angry to see
her so well intentioned to her Rival, whom he would have had her hated,
reproached her with the sweetness of her Temper, and went thence to mix
his Anger with _Don Alvaro’s_ Rage, who was totally confounded when he
saw the Negotiation of his Master had taken no effect. The haughty Maid
braves me then, Sir, said he to the King, and despises the Honour which
your Bounty offered her! Why cannot I resist so fatal a Passion? But I
must love her, in spite of my self; and if this Flame consume me, I can
find no way to extinguish it. What can I further do for you, replied the
King? Alas, Sir, answered _Don Alvaro_, I must do by force, what I
cannot otherwise hope from the proud and cruel _Agnes_. Well then, added
the King, since it is not fit for me to authorize publickly a Violence
in the midst of my Kingdom, chuse those of my Subjects whom you think
most capable of serving you, and take away by force the Beauty that
charms you; and if she do not yield to your Love, put that Power you are
Master of in execution, to oblige her to marry you.
_Don Alvaro_, ravish’d with this Proposition, which at the same time
flatter’d both his Love and his Anger, cast himself at the Feet of the
King, and renewed his Acknowledgments by fresh Protestations, and
thought of nothing but employing his unjust Authority against _Agnes_.
_Don Pedro_ had been about three Months absent, when _Alvaro_ undertook
what the King counselled him to; tho’ the Moderation was known to him,
yet he feared his Presence, and would not attend the return of a Rival,
with whom he would avoid all Disputes.
One Night, when the said _Agnes_, full of her ordinary Inquietudes, in
vain expected the God of Sleep, she heard a Noise, and after saw some
Men unknown enter her Chamber, whose Measures being well consulted, they
carried her out of the Palace, and putting her in a close Coach, forced
her out of _Coimbra_, without being hinder’d by any Obstacle. She knew
not of whom to complain, nor whom to suspect: _Don Alvaro_ seem’d too
puissant to seek his Satisfaction this way; and she accus’d not the
Prince of this attempt, of whom she had so favourable an Opinion:
whatever she could think or say, she could not hinder her ill Fortune:
They hurried her on with diligence, and before it was Day, were a
considerable way off from the Town.
As soon as Day began to break, she surveyed those that encompassed her,
without so much as knowing one of them; and seeing that her Cries and
Prayers were all in vain with these deaf Ravishers, she satisfied her
self with imploring the Protection of Heaven, and abandon’d herself to
its Conduct.
While she sat thus overwhelmed with Grief, uncertain of her Destiny, she
saw a Body of Horse advance towards the Troop which conducted her: the
Ravishers did not shun them, thinking it to be _Don Alvaro_: but when he
approached more near, they found it was the Prince of _Portugal_ who was
at the head of ’em, and who, without foreseeing the occasion that would
offer it self of serving _Agnes_, was returning to _Coimbra_ full of her
Idea, after having performed what he ought in this Expedition.
_Agnes_, who did not expect him, changed now her Opinion, and thought
that it was the Prince that had caused her to be stolen away. ‘Oh, Sir!
(said she to him, having still the same Thought) is it you that have
torn me from the Princess? And could so cruel a Blow come from a Hand
that is so dear to her? What will you do with an unfortunate Creature,
who desires nothing but Death? And why will you obscure the Glory of
your Life, by an Artifice unworthy of you?’ This Language astonish’d the
Prince no less than the sight of _Agnes_ had done; he found by what she
had said, that she was taken away by force; and immediately passing to
the height of Rage, he made her understand by one only Look, that he was
not the base Author of her trouble. ‘I tear you from _Constantia_, whose
only Pleasure you are! replied he: What Opinion have you of _Don Pedro_?
No, Madam, tho’ you see me here, I am altogether innocent of the
Violence that has been done you; and there is nothing I will refuse to
hinder it.’ He then turned himself to behold the Ravishers, but his
Presence had already scatter’d ’em, he order’d some of his Men to pursue
’em, and to seize some of ’em, that he might know what Authority it was
that set ’em at work.
During this, _Agnes_ was no less confus’d than before; she admir’d the
Conduct of her Destiny, that brought the Prince at a time when he was so
necessary to her. Her Inclinations to do him justice, soon repair’d the
Offence her Suspicions had caus’d; she was glad to have escap’d a
Misfortune, which appear’d certain to her: but this was not a sincere
Joy, when she consider’d that her Lover was her Deliverer, and a Lover
worthy of all her Acknowledgments, but who owed his Heart to the most
amiable Princess in the World.
While the Prince’s Men were pursuing the Ravishers of _Agnes_, he was
left almost alone with her; and tho’ he had always resolv’d to shun
being so, yet his Constancy was not proof against so fair an Occasion:
‘Madam, said he to her, is it possible that Men born amongst those that
obey us, should be capable of offending you? I never thought my self
destin’d to revenge such an Offence; but since Heaven has permitted you
to receive it, I will either perish or make them repent it.’ ‘Sir,
replied _Agnes_, more concern’d at this Discourse than at the Enterprize
of _Don Alvaro_, those who are wanting in their respect to the Princess
and you, are not obliged to have any for me. I do not in the least doubt
that _Don Alvaro_ was the undertaker of this Enterprize; and I judged
what I ought to fear from him, by what his Importunities have already
made me suffer. He is sure of the King’s Protection, and he will make
him an Accomplice in his Crime: but, Sir, Heaven conducted you hither
happily for me, and I am indebted to you for the liberty I have of
serving the Princess yet longer.’ ‘You will do for _Constantia_, replied
the Prince, what ’tis impossible not to do for you; your Goodness
attaches you to her, and my Destiny engages me to you for ever.’
The modest _Agnes_, who fear’d this Discourse as much as the Misfortune
she had newly shunned, answer’d nothing but by down-cast Eyes; and the
Prince, who knew the trouble she was in, left her to go to speak to his
Men, who brought back one of those that belong’d to _Don Alvaro_, by
whose Confession he found the truth: He pardon’d him, thinking not fit
to punish him, who obey’d a Man whom the Weakness of his Father had
render’d powerful.
Afterwards they conducted _Agnes_ back to _Coimbra_, where her Adventure
began to make a great Noise: the Princess was ready to die with Despair,
and at first thought it was only a continuation of the design this fair
Maid had of retiring; but some Women that served her having told the
Princess, that she was carried away by Violence, _Constantia_ made her
Complaint to the King, who regarded her not at all.
‘Madam, said he to her, let this fatal Plague remove it self, who takes
from you the Heart of your Husband; and without afflicting your self for
her absence, bless Heaven and me for it.’
The generous Princess took _Agnes’s_ part with a great deal of Courage,
and was then disputing her defence with the King, when _Don Pedro_
arrived at _Coimbra_.
The first Object that met the Prince’s Eyes was _Don Alvaro_, who was
passing thro’ one of the Courts of the Palace, amidst a Croud of
Courtiers, whom his Favour with the King drew after him. This sight made
_Don Pedro_ rage; but that of the Princess and _Agnes_ caus’d in
_Alvaro_ another sort of Emotion: He easily divin’d, that it was _Don
Pedro_, who had taken her from his Men, and, if his Fury had acted what
it would, it might have produc’d very sad effects.
‘_Don Alvaro_, said the Prince to him, is it thus you make use of the
Authority which the King my Father hath given you? Have you receiv’d
Employments and Power from him, for no other end but to do these base
Actions, and to commit Rapes on Ladies? Are you ignorant how the
Princess interests her self in all that concerns this Maid? And do you
not know the tender and affectionate Esteem she has for her.’ No,
replied _Don Alvaro_, (with an Insolence that had like to have put the
Prince past all patience) ‘I am not ignorant of it, nor of the Interest
your Heart takes in her.’ ‘Base and treacherous as thou art, replied the
Prince, neither the Favour which thou hast so much abused, nor the
Insolence which makes thee speak this, should hinder me from punishing
thee, wert thou worthy of my Sword; but there are other ways to humble
thy Pride, and ’tis not fit for such an Arm as mine to seek so base an
Employment to punish such a Slave as thou art.’
_Don Pedro_ went away at these Words, and left _Alvaro_ in a Rage, which
is not to be express’d; despairing to see himself defeated in an
Enterprize he thought so sure; and at the Contempt the Prince shewed
him, he promis’d himself to sacrifice all to his Revenge.
Tho’ the King lov’d his Son, he was so prepossessed against his Passion,
that he could not pardon him what he had done, and condemn’d him as much
for this last act of Justice, in delivering _Agnes_, as if it had been
the greatest of Crimes.
_Elvira_, whom the sweetness of Hope flatter’d some moments, saw the
return of _Agnes_ with a sensible Displeasure, which suffer’d her to
think of nothing but irritating her Brother.
In fine, the Prince saw the King, but instead of being receiv’d by him
with a Joy due to the success of his Journey, he appear’d all sullen and
out of humour. After having paid him his first Respects, and given him
an exact account of what he had done, he spoke to him about the Violence
committed against the Person of _Agnes de Castro_, and complain’d to him
of it in the Name of the Princess, and of his own: ‘You ought to be
silent in this Affair, replied the King; and the Motive which makes you
speak is so shameful for you, that I sigh and blush at it. What is it to
you, if this Maid, whose Presence is troublesome to me, be removed
hence, since ’tis I that desire it?’ ‘But, Sir, interrupted the Prince,
what necessity is there of employing Force, Artifice, and the Night,
when the least of your Orders had been sufficient? _Agnes_ would
willingly have obey’d you; and if she continue at _Coimbra_, it is
perhaps against her Will: but be it as it will, Sir, _Constantia_ is
offended, and if were not for fear of displeasing you, (the only thing
that retains me) the Ravisher should not have gone unpunished.’ ‘How
happy are you, replied the King, smiling with disdain, in making use of
the Name of _Constantia_ to uphold the Interest of your Heart! You think
I am ignorant of it, and that this unhappy Princess looks on the Injury
you do her with Indifference. Never speak to me more of _Agnes_, (with a
Tone very severe.) Content your self, that I pardon what’s past, and
think maturely of the Considerations I have for _Don Alvaro_, when you
would design any thing against him.’ ‘Yes, Sir, replied the Prince with
fierceness, I will speak to you no more of _Agnes_; but _Constantia_ and
I will never suffer, that she should be any more expos’d to the
Insolence of your Favourite.’ The King had like to have broke out into a
Rage at this Discourse: but he had yet a rest of Prudence left that
hinder’d him. ‘Retire (said he to _Don Pedro_) and go make Reflections
on what my Power can do, and what you owe me.’
During this Conversation, _Agnes_ was receiving from the Princess, and
from all the Ladies of the Court, great Expressions of Joy and
Friendship: _Constantia_ saw again her Husband, with a great deal of
satisfaction: and far from being sorry at what he had lately done for
_Agnes_, she privately return’d him thanks for it, and still was the
same towards him, notwithstanding all the Jealousy which was endeavour’d
to be inspir’d in her.
_Don Alvaro_, who found in his Sister a Maliciousness worthy of his
trust, did not conceal his Fury from her. After she had made vain
attempts to moderate it, in blotting _Agnes_ out of his Heart, seeing
that his Disease was incurable, she made him understand, that so long as
_Constantia_ should not be jealous, there were no hopes: That if _Agnes_
should once be suspected by her, she would not fail of abandoning her,
and that then it would be easy to get Satisfaction, the Prince being now
so proud of _Constantia’s_ Indulgency. In giving this Advice to her
Brother, she promis’d to serve him effectually; and having no need of
any body but her self to perform ill things, she recommended _Don
Alvaro_ to manage well the King.
Four Years were pass’d in that melancholy Station, and the Princess,
besides her first dead Child, and _Ferdinando_, who was still living,
had brought two Daughters into the World.
Some days after _Don Pedro’s_ return, _Elvira_, who was most dextrous in
the Art of well-governing any wicked Design, did gain one of the
Servants who belong’d to _Constantia’s_ Chamber. She first spoke her
fair, then overwhelm’d her with Presents and Gifts; and finding in her
as ill a Disposition as in her self, she readily resolv’d to employ her.
After she was sure of her, she compos’d a Letter, which was after writ
over again in an unknown Hand, which she deposited in that Maid’s Hands,
that she might deliver to _Constantia_ with the first Opportunity,
telling her, that _Agnes_ had drop’d it. This was the Substance of it:
_I Employ not my own Hand to write to you, for Reasons that I shall
acquaint you with. How happy am I to have overcome all your
Scruples! And what Happiness shall I find in the Progress of our
Intrigue! The whole Course of my Life shall continually represent to
you the Sincerity of my Affections; pray think on the secret
Conversation that I require of you: I dare not speak to you in
publick, therefore let me conjure you here, by all that I have
suffer’d, to come to-night to the Place appointed, and speak to me
no more of +Constantia+; for she must be content with my Esteem,
since my Heart can be only yours._
The unfaithful _Portuguese_ serv’d _Elvira_ exactly to her Desires; and
the very next day seeing _Agnes_ go out from the Princess, she carry’d
_Constantia_ the Letter; which she took, and found there what she was
far from imagining: Tenderness never produc’d an Effect more full of
grief, than what it made her suffer. ‘Alas! they are both culpable,
(said she, sighing) and in spite of the Defence my Heart would make for
’em, my Reason condemns ’em. Unhappy Princess, the sad subject of the
Capriciousness of Fortune! Why dost not thou die, since thou hast not a
Heart of Honour to revenge it self? O _Don Pedro_! why did you give me
your Hand, without your Heart? And thou, fair, and ungrateful! wert thou
born to be the Misfortune of my Life, and perhaps the only cause of my
Death?’ After having given some Moments to the Violence of her Grief,
she called the Maid, who brought her the Letter, commanding her to speak
of it to no body, and to suffer no one to enter into her Chamber.
She consider’d then of that Prince with more liberty, whose Soul she was
not able to touch with the least Tenderness; and of the cruel Fair One
that had betray’d her: Yet, even while her Soul was upon the Rack, she
was willing to excuse ’em, and ready to do all she could for _Don
Pedro_; at least, she made a firm Resolution, not to complain of him.
_Elvira_ was not long without being inform’d of what had pass’d, nor of
the Melancholy of the Princess, from whom she hop’d all she desir’d.
_Agnes_, far from foreseeing this Tempest, return’d to _Constantia_; and
hearing of her Indisposition, pass’d the rest of the Day at her
Chamber-door, that she might from time to time learn news of her Health:
for she was not suffer’d to come in, at which _Agnes_ was both surpriz’d
and troubled. The Prince had the same Destiny, and was astonish’d at an
Order which ought to have excepted him.
The next day _Constantia_ appear’d, but so alter’d, that ’twas not
difficult to imagine what she had suffer’d. _Agnes_ was the most
impatient to approach her, and the Princess could not forbear weeping,
They were both silent for some time, and _Constantia_ attributed this
silence of _Agnes_ to some Remorse which she felt: and this unhappy Maid
being able to hold no longer; ‘Is it possible, Madam, (said she) that
two Days should have taken from me all the Goodness you had for me? What
have I done? And for what do you punish me?’ The Princess regarded her
with a languishing Look, and return’d her no Answer but Sighs. _Agnes_,
offended with this reserve, went out with very great Dissatisfaction and
Anger; which contributed to her being thought criminal. The Prince came
in immediately after, and found _Constantia_ more disorder’d than usual,
and conjur’d her in a most obliging manner to take care of her Health:
_The greatest good for me_ (said she) _is not the Continuation of my
Life; I should have more care of it if I loved you less: but--_ She
could not proceed; and the Prince, excessively afflicted at her trouble,
sigh’d sadly, without making her any answer, which redoubled her Grief.
Spite then began to mix it self; and all things persuading the Princess
that they made a Sacrifice of her, she would enter into no Explanation
with her Husband, but suffered him to go away without saying any thing
to him.
Nothing is more capable of troubling our Reason, and consuming our
Health, than secret Notions of Jealousy in Solitude.
_Constantia_, who us’d to open her Heart freely to _Agnes_, now
believing she had deceiv’d her, abandon’d her self so absolutely to
Grief, that she was ready to sink under it; she immediately fell sick
with the violence of it, and all the Court was concern’d at this
Misfortune: _Don Pedro_ was truly afflicted at it, but _Agnes_ more than
all the World beside. _Constantia’s_ Coldness towards her, made her
continually sigh; and her Distemper created merely by fancy, caus’d her
to reflect on every thing that offer’d it self to her Memory: so that at
last she began even to fear her self, and to reproach her self for what
the Princess suffer’d.
But the Distemper began to be such, that they fear’d _Constantia’s_
Death, and she her self began to feel the Approaches of it. This Thought
did not at all disquiet her: she look’d on Death as the only relief from
all her Torments; and regarded the Despair of all that approach’d her
without the least concern.
The King, who lov’d her tenderly, and who knew her Virtue, was
infinitely mov’d at the Extremity she was in. And _Don Alvaro_, who lost
not the least Occasion of making him understand that it was Jealousy
which was the cause of _Constantia’s_ Distemper, did but too much
incense him against Criminals, worthy of Compassion. The King was not of
a Temper to conceal his Anger long: ‘You give fine Examples, (said he to
the Prince) and such as will render your Memory illustrious! The Death
of _Constantia_ (of which you are only to be accus’d) is the unhappy
Fruit of your guilty Passion. Fear Heaven after this: and behold your
self as a Monster that does not deserve to see the Light. If the
Interest you have in my Blood did not plead for you, what ought you not
to fear from my just Resentment? But what must not imprudent _Agnes_, to
whom nothing ties me, expect from my hands? If _Constantia_ dies, she,
who has the Boldness, in my Court, to cherish a foolish Flame by vain
Hopes, and make us lose the most amiable Princess, whom thou art not
worthy to possess, shall feel the Effects of her Indiscretion.’
_Don Pedro_ knew very well, that _Constantia_ was not ignorant of his
Sentiments for _Agnes_; but he knew also with what Moderation she
receiv’d it: He was very sensible of the King’s Reproaches; but as his
Fault was not voluntary, and that a commanding Power, a fatal Star, had
forc’d him to love in spite of himself, he appear’d afflicted and
confus’d: ‘You condemn me, Sir, (answer’d he) without having well
examin’d me; and if my Intentions were known to you; perhaps you would
not find me so criminal: I would take the Princess for my Judge, whom
you say I sacrifice, if she were in a condition to be consulted. If I am
guilty of any Weakness, her Justice never reproach’d me for it; and my
Tongue never inform’d _Agnes_ of it. But suppose I have committed any
Fault, why would you punish an innocent Lady, who perhaps condemns me
for it as much as you? Ah, Villain! (interrupted the King) she has but
too much favour’d you: You would not have lov’d thus long, had she not
made you some Returns. Sir, (reply’d the Prince, pierced with Grief for
the Outrage that was committed against _Agnes_) you offend a Virtue,
than which nothing can be purer; and those Expressions which break from
your Choler, are not worthy of you. _Agnes_ never granted me any
Favours; I never asked any of her; and I protest to Heaven, I never
thought of any thing contrary to the Duty I owe _Constantia_.’
As they thus argued, one of the Princess’s Women came all in Tears to
acquaint _Don Pedro_, that the Princess was in the last Extremities of
Life: ‘Go see thy fatal Work, (said the King) and expect from a too-long
patient Father the Usage thou deservest.’
The Prince ran to _Constantia_, whom he found dying, and _Agnes_ in a
swoon, in the Arms of some of the Ladies. What caus’d this double
Calamity, was, that _Agnes_, who could suffer no longer the Indifferency
of the Princess, had conjur’d her to tell her what was her Crime, and
either to take her Life from her, or restore her to her Friendship.
_Constantia_, who found she must die, could no longer keep her secret
Affliction from _Agnes_; and after some Words, which were a Preparation
to the sad Explanation, she shewed her that fatal Billet, which _Elvira_
had caus’d to be written: ‘Ah, Madam! (cry’d out the fair _Agnes_, after
having read it) Ah, Madam! how many cruel Inquietudes had you spared me
had you open’d your Heart to me with your wonted Bounty! ’Tis easy to
see that this Letter is counterfeit, and that I have Enemies without
Compassion. Could you believe the Prince so imprudent, to make use of
any other Hand but his own, on an occasion like this? And do you believe
me so simple to keep about me this Testimony of my Shame, with so little
Precaution? You are neither betray’d by your Husband nor me; I attest
Heaven, and those Efforts I have made to leave _Coimbra_. Alas, my dear
Princess, how little have you known her, whom you have so much honoured?
Do not believe that when I have justify’d my self, I will have any more
Communication with the World: No, no; there will be no Retreat far
enough from hence for me. I will take care to hide this unlucky Face,
where it shall be sure to do no more harm.’
The Princess touched at this Discourse, and the Tears of _Agnes_,
press’d her hand, which she held in hers; and fixing Looks upon her
capable of moving Pity in the most insensible Souls, ‘If I have
committed any Offence, my dear _Agnes_, (answer’d she) Death, which I
expect in a moment, shall revenge it. I ought also to protest to you,
That I have not ceas’d loving you, and that I believe every thing you
have said, giving you back my most tender Affections.’
’Twas at this time that the Grief, which equally oppress’d ’em, put the
Princess into such an Extremity, that they sent for the Prince. He came,
and found himself almost without Life or Motion at this sight. And what
secret Motive soever might call him to the aid of _Agnes_, ’twas to
_Constantia_ he ran. The Princess, who finding her last Moments drawing
on, by a cold Sweat that cover’d her all over; and finding she had no
more business with Life, and causing those Persons she most suspected to
retire, ‘Sir, (said she to _Don Pedro_) if I abandon Life without
regret, it is not without Trouble that I part with you. But, Prince, we
must vanquish when we come to die; and I will forget my self wholly, to
think of nothing but of you. I have no Reproaches to make against you,
knowing that ’tis Inclination that disposes Hearts, and not Reason.
_Agnes_ is beautiful enough to inspire the most ardent Passion, and
virtuous enough to deserve the first Fortunes in the World. I ask her,
once more, pardon for the Injustice I have done her, and recommend her
to you, as a Person most dear to me. Promise me, my dear Prince, before
I expire, to give her my Place in your Throne: it cannot be better
fill’d: you cannot chuse a Princess more perfect for your People, nor a
better Mother for our little Children. And you my dear and faithful
_Agnes_ (pursu’d she) listen not to a Virtue too scrupulous, that may
make any opposition to the Prince of _Portugal_: Refuse him not a Heart
of which he is worthy; and give him that Friendship which you had for
me, with that which is due to his Merit. Take care of my little
_Fernando_, and the two young Princesses: let them find me in you, and
speak to them sometimes of me. Adieu, live both of you happy, and
receive my last Embraces.’
The afflicted _Agnes_, who had recover’d a little her Forces, lost them
again a second time; Her Weakness was follow’d with Convulsions so
vehement, that they were afraid of her Life; but _Don Pedro_ never
removed from _Constantia_: ‘What, Madam (said he) you will leave me
then; and you think ’tis for my Good. Alas, _Constantia_! if my Heart
has committed an Outrage against you, your Virtue has sufficiently
revenged you on me in spite of you. Can you think me so barbarous?’--As
he was going on, he saw Death shut the Eyes of the most generous
Princess for ever; and he was within a very little of following her.
But what Loads of Grief did this bring upon _Agnes_, when she found in
that Interval, wherein Life and Death were struggling in her Soul, that
_Constantia_ was newly expir’d! She would then have taken away her own
Life, and have let her Despair fully appear.
At the noise of the Death of the Princess, the Town and the Palace were
all in Tears. _Elvira_, who saw then _Don Pedro_ free to engage himself,
repented of having contributed to the Death of _Constantia_; and
thinking her self the Cause of it, promis’d in her Griefs never to
pardon herself.
She had need of being guarded several days together; during which time
she fail’d not incessantly to weep. And the Prince gave all those days
to deepest Mourning. But when the first Emotions were past, those of his
Love made him feel that he was still the same.
He was a long time without seeing _Agnes_; but this Absence of his
served only to make her appear the more charming when he did see her.
_Don Alvaro_, who was afraid of the Liberty of the Prince, made new
Efforts to move _Agnes de Castro_, who was now become insensible to
every thing but Grief. _Elvira_, who was willing to make the best of the
Design she had begun, consulted all her Womens Arts, and the Delicacy of
her Wit, to revive the Flames with which the Prince once burnt for her:
But his Constancy was bounded, and it was _Agnes_ alone that was to
reign over his Heart. She had taken a firm Resolution, since the Death
of _Constantia_, to pass the rest of her Days in a solitary Retreat. In
spite of the precaution she took to hide this Design, the Prince was
informed of it, and did all he was able to dispose his Constancy and
Fortitude to it. He thought himself stronger than he really was; but
after he had well consulted his Heart, he found but too well how
necessary the Presence of _Agnes_ was to him. ‘Madam (said he to her one
day, with a Heart big, and his Eyes in Tears) which Action of my Life
has made you determine my Death? Tho’ I never told you how much I loved
you, yet I am persuaded you are not ignorant of it. I was constrained to
be silent during some Years for your sake, for _Constantia’s_, and my
own; but ’tis not possible for me to put this force upon my Heart for
ever: I must once at least tell you how it languishes. Receive then the
Assurances of a Passion, full of Respect and Ardour, with an offer of my
Fortune, which I wish not better, but for your advantage.’
_Agnes_ answer’d not immediately to these words, but with abundance of
Tears; which having wiped away, and beholding _Don Pedro_ with an air
which made him easily comprehend she did not agree with his Desires; ‘If
I were capable of the Weakness with which you’d inspire me, you’d be
obliged to punish me for it: What! (said she) _Constantia_ is scarce
bury’d, and you would have me offend her! No, my Prince (added she with
more Softness) no, no, she whom you have heap’d so many Favours on, will
not call down the Anger of Heaven, and the Contempt of Men upon her, by
an Action so perfidious. Be not obstinate then in a Design in which I
will never shew you Favour. You owe to _Constantia_, after her Death,
a Fidelity that may justify you: and I, to repair the Ills I have made
her suffer ought to shun all converse with you.’ ‘Go, Madam (reply’d the
Prince, growing pale) go, and expect the News of my Death; in that part
of the World, whither your Cruelty shall lead you, the News shall follow
close after; you shall quickly hear of it: and I will go seek it in
those Wars which reign among my Neighbours.’
These Words made the fair _Agnes de Castro_ perceive that her Innocency
was not so great as she imagined, and that her Heart interested it self
in the Preservation of _Don Pedro_: ‘You ought, Sir, to preserve your
Life (reply’d _Agnes_) for the sake of the little Prince and Princesses,
which _Constantia_ has left you. Would you abandon their Youth
(continued she, with a tender Tone) to the Cruelty of _Don Alvaro_?
Live! Sir, live! and let the unhappy _Agnes_ be the only Sacrifice.’
‘Alas, cruel Maid! (interrupted _Don Pedro_) Why do you command me to
live, if I cannot live with you? Is it an effect of your Hatred?’ ‘No,
Sir, (reply’d _Agnes_) I do not hate you; and I wish to God that I could
be able to defend my self against the Weakness with which I find my self
possess’d. Oblige me to say no more, Sir: you see my Blushes, interpret
them as you please: but consider yet, that the less Aversion I find I
have to you, the more culpable I am; and that I ought no more to see, or
speak to you. In fine, Sir, if you oppose my Retreat, I declare to you,
that _Don Alvaro_, as odious as he is to me, shall serve for a Defence
against you; and that I will sooner consent to marry a Man I abhor, than
to favour a Passion that cost _Constantia_ her Life.’ ‘Well then,
_Agnes_ (reply’d the Prince, with Looks all languishing and dying)
follow the Motions which barbarous Virtue inspires you with; take these
Measures you judge necessary against an unfortunate Lover, and enjoy the
Glory of having cruelly refused me.’
At these Words he went away; and troubled as _Agnes_ was, she would not
stay him: Her Courage combated with her Grief, and she thought now, more
than ever, of departing.
’Twas difficult for her to go out of _Coimbra_; and not to defer what
appear’d to her so necessary, she went immediately to the Apartment of
the King, notwithstanding the Interest of _Don Alvaro_. The King
received her with a Countenance severe, not being able to consent to
what she demanded: _You shall not go hence, +(said he)+ and if you are
wise, you shall enjoy here with +Don Alvaro+ both my Friendship and my
Favour. I have taken another Resolution (+answer’d+ Agnes) and the World
has no part in it. You will accept +Don Pedro (reply’d the King)+ his
Fortune is sufficient to satisfy an ambitious Maid: but you will not
succeed +Constantia+, who lov’d you so tenderly; and +Spain+ has
Princesses enough to fill up part of the Throne which I shall leave him.
Sir, (+reply’d+ Agnes, +piqu’d at this Discourse+) if I had a
Disposition to love, and a Design to marry, perhaps the Prince might be
the only Person on whom I would fix it: And you know, if my Ancestors
did not possess Crowns, yet they were worthy to wear ’em. But let it be
how it will, I am resolved to depart, and to remain no longer a Slave in
a Place to which I came free._
This bold Answer, which shew’d the Character of _Agnes_, anger’d and
astonished the King. _You shall go when we think fit +(reply’d he)+ and
without being a Slave at +Coimbra+, you shall attend our order._
_Agnes_ saw she must stay, and was so griev’d at it, that she kept her
Chamber several days, without daring to inform herself of the Prince;
and this Retirement spared her the Affliction of being visited by _Don
Alvaro_.
During this, _Don Pedro_ fell sick, and was in so great danger, that
there was a general apprehension of his Death. _Agnes_ did not in the
least doubt, but it was an effect of his Discontent: she thought at
first she had Strength and Resolution enough to see him die, rather than
to favour him; but had she reflected a little, she had soon been
convinc’d to the contrary. She found not in her Heart that cruel
Constancy she thought there so well established: She felt Pains and
Inquietude, shed Tears, made Wishes; and, in fine, discover’d that she
lov’d.
’Twas impossible to see the Heir of the Crown, a Prince that deserved so
well, even at the point of Death, without a general Affliction. The
People who loved him, pass’d whole days at the Palace-gate to hear News
of him: The Court was all over-whelm’d with Grief.
_Don Alvaro_ knew very well how to conceal a malicious Joy, under an
Appearance of Sadness. _Elvira_, full of Tenderness, and perhaps of
Remorse, suffer’d also on her side. The King, altho’ he condemned the
Love of his Son, yet still had a Tenderness for him, and could not
resolve to lose him. _Agnes de Castro_, who knew the Cause of his
Distemper, expected the End of it with strange Anxieties: In fine, after
a Month had pass’d away in Fears, they began to have a little hopes of
his Recovery. The Prince and _Don Alvaro_ were the only Persons that
were not glad of it: But _Agnes_ rejoic’d enough for all the rest.
_Don Pedro_, seeing that he must live whether he wou’d or no, thought of
nothing but passing his days in melancholy and discontent: As soon as he
was in a condition to walk, he sought out the most solitary Places, and
gain’d so much upon his own Weakness, to go every where, where _Agnes_
was not; but her Idea followed him always, and his Memory, faithful to
represent her to him with all her Charms, render’d her always dangerous.
One day, when they had carry’d him into the Garden, he sought out a
Labyrinth which was at the farthest part of it, to hide his Melancholy,
during some hours; there he found the sad _Agnes_, whom Grief, little
different from his, had brought thither; the sight of her whom he
expected not, made him tremble: She saw by his pale and meagre Face the
remains of his Distemper; his Eyes full of Languishment troubled her,
and tho’ her Desire was so great to have fled from him, an unknown Power
stopt her, and ’twas impossible for her to go.
After some Moments of Silence, which many Sighs interrupted, _Don Pedro_
rais’d himself from the Place where his Weakness had forced him to sit;
he made _Agnes_ see, as he approach’d her, the sad Marks of his
Sufferings: and not content with the Pity he saw in her Eyes, _You have
resolved my Death then, cruel +Agnes+, +(said he)+ my desire was the
same with yours; but Heaven has thought fit to reserve me for other
Misfortunes, and I see you again, as unhappy, but more in love than
ever._
There was no need of these Words to move _Agnes_ to compassion, the
Languishment of the Prince spoke enough; and the Heart of this fair Maid
was but too much disposed to yield it self: She thought then that
_Constantia_ ought to be satisfy’d; Love, which combated for _Don
Pedro_, triumphed over Friendship, and found that happy Moment, for
which the Prince of _Portugal_, had so long sighed.
_Do not reproach me, for that which has cost me more than you, Sir,
+(replied she)+ and do not accuse a Heart, which is neither ingrateful
nor barbarous: and I must tell you, that I love you. But now I have made
you that Confession, what is it farther that you require of me?_ _Don
Pedro_, who expected not a Change so favourable, felt a double
Satisfaction; and falling at the Feet of _Agnes_, he express’d more by
the Silence his Passion created, than he could have done by the most
eloquent Words.
After having known all his good Fortune, he then consulted with the
amiable _Agnes_, what was to be feared from the King; they concluded
that the cruel Billet, which so troubled the last days of _Constantia_,
could come from none but _Elvira_ and _Don Alvaro_. The Prince, who knew
that his Father had searched already an Alliance for him, and was
resolv’d on his Favourite’s marrying _Agnes_, conjur’d her so tenderly
to prevent these Persecutions, by consenting to a secret Marriage, that,
after having a long time consider’d, she at last consented. _I will do
what you will have me_ (said she) _tho’ I presage nothing but fatal
Events from it; all my Blood turns to Ice, when I think of this
Marriage, and the Image of +Constantia+ seems to hinder me from
doing it._
The amorous Prince surmounted all her Scruples, and separated himself
from _Agnes_, with a Satisfaction which soon redoubled his Forces; he
saw her afterward with the Pleasure of a Mystery: And the Day of their
Union being arrived, _Don Gill_, Bishop of _Guarda_, performed the
Ceremony of the Marriage, in the Presence of several Witnesses, faithful
to _Don Pedro_, who saw him Possessor of all the Charms of the fair
_Agnes_.
She lived not the more peaceable for belonging to the Prince of
_Portugal_; her Enemies, who continually persecuted her, left her not
without Troubles: and the King, whom her Refusal inrag’d, laid his
absolute Commands on her to marry _Don Alvaro_, with Threats to force
her to it, if she continu’d rebellious.
The Prince took loudly her part; and this, join’d to the Refusal he made
of marrying the Princess of _Arragon_, caus’d Suspicions of the Truth in
the King his Father. He was seconded by those that were too much
interested, not to unriddle this Secret. _Don Alvaro_ and his Sister
acted with so much care, gave so many Gifts, and made so many Promises,
that they discover’d the secret Engagements of _Don Pedro_ and _Agnes_.
The King wanted but little of breaking out into all the Rage and Fury so
great a Disappointment could inspire him with, against the Princess.
_Don Alvaro_, whose Love was changed into the most violent Hatred,
appeased the first Transports of the King, by making him comprehend,
that if they could break the Marriage of ’em, that would not be a
sufficient Revenge; and so poison’d the Soul of the King, to consent to
the Death of _Agnes_.
The barbarous _Don Alvaro_ offered his Arm for this terrible Execution,
and his Rage was Security for the Sacrifice.
The King, who thought the Glory of his Family disgraced by this
Alliance, and his own in particular in the Procedure of his Son, gave
full Power to this Murderer, to make the innocent _Agnes_ a Victim to
his Rage.
It was not easy to execute this horrid Design: Tho’ the Prince saw
_Agnes_ but in secret, yet all his Cares were still awake for her, and
he was marry’d to her above a Year, before _Don Alvaro_ could find out
an opportunity so long sought for.
The Prince diverted himself but little, and very rarely went far from
_Coimbra_; but on a Day, an unfortunate Day, and marked out by Heaven
for an unheard-of and horrid Assassination, he made a Party to hunt at a
fine House, which the King of _Portugal_ had near the City.
_Agnes_ lov’d every thing that gave the Prince satisfaction; but a
secret Trouble made her apprehend some Misfortune in this unhappy
Journey. _Sir_, (said she to him, alarm’d, without knowing the Reason
why) _I tremble, seeing you today as it were designed the last of my
Life: Preserve your self, my dear Prince; and tho’ the Exercise you take
be not very dangerous, beware of the least Hazards, and bring me back
all that I trust with you. Don Pedro_, who had never found her so
handsome and so charming before, embraced her several times, and went
out of the Palace with his Followers, with a Design not to return till
the next Day.
He was no sooner gone, but the cruel _Don Alvaro_ prepared himself for
the Execution he had resolv’d on; he thought it of that importance, that
it required more Hands than his own, and so chose for his Companions
_Don Lopez Pacheo_, and _Pedro Cuello_, two Monsters like himself, whose
Cruelty he was assur’d of by the Presents he had made ’em.
They waited the coming of the Night, and the lovely _Agnes_ was in her
first Sleep, which was the last of her Life, when these Assassins
approach’d her Bed. Nothing made resistance to _Don Alvaro_, who could
do every thing, and whom the blackest Furies introduced to _Agnes_; she
waken’d, and opening her Curtains, saw, by the Candle burning in her
Chamber, the Ponyard with which _Don Alvaro_ was armed; he having his
Face not cover’d, she easily knew him, and forgetting herself, to think
of nothing but the Prince: _Just Heaven_ (said she, lifting up her fine
Eyes) _if you will revenge +Constantia+, satisfy your self with my Blood
only, and spare that of_ Don Pedro. The barbarous Man that heard her,
gave her not time to say more; and finding he could never (by all he
could do by Love) touch the Heart of the fair _Agnes_, he pierc’d it
with his Ponyard: his Accomplices gave her several Wounds, tho’ there
was no necessity of so many to put an end to an innocent Life.
What a sad Spectacle was this for those who approach’d her Bed the next
day! And what dismal News was this to the unfortunate Prince of
_Portugal_! He returned to _Coimbra_ at the first report of this
Adventure, and saw what had certainly cost him his Life, if Men could
die of Grief. After having a thousand times embraced the bloody Body of
_Agnes_, and said all that a just Despair could inspire him with, he ran
like a Mad-man into the Palace, demanding the Murderers of his Wife, of
things that could not hear him. In fine, he saw the King, and without
observing any respect, he gave a loose to his Resentment: after having
rail’d a long time, overwhelm’d with Grief, he fell into a Swoon, which
continu’d all that day. They carry’d him into his Apartment: and the
King, believing that his Misfortune would prove his Cure, repented not
of what he had permitted.
_Don Alvaro_, and the two other Assassins, quitted _Coimbra_. This
Absence of theirs made ’em appear guilty of the Crime; for which the
afflicted Prince vow’d a speedy Vengeance to the Ghost of his lovely
_Agnes_, resolving to pursue them to the uttermost part of the Universe;
He got a considerable number of Men together, sufficient to have made
resistance, even to the King of _Portugal_ himself, if he should yet
take the part of the Murderers: with these he ravaged the whole Country,
as far as the _Duero_ Waters, and carry’d on a War, even till the Death
of the King, continually mixing Tears with Blood, which he gave to the
revenge of his dearest _Agnes_.
Such was the deplorable End of the unfortunate Love of _Don Pedro_ of
_Portugal_, and of the fair _Agnes de Castro_, whose Remembrance he
faithfully preserv’d in his Heart, even upon the Throne, to which he
mounted by the Right of his Birth, after the Death of the King.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE HISTORY OF THE NUN; OR, THE FAIR VOW-BREAKER.
INTRODUCTION.
In the Epistle Dedicatory to Antony Hammond, Esq., of Somersham-Place,
prefacing that pathetic tragedy, _The Fatal Marriage; or, The Innocent
Adultery_[1] (4to, 1694), Southerne writes: ‘I took the Hint of the
Tragical part of this Play from a Novel of Mrs. _Behn’s_, call’d _The
Fair Vow-Breaker_; you will forgive me for calling it a Hint, when you
find I have little more than borrow’d the Question, how far such a
Distress was to be carry’d, upon the Misfortune of a Woman’s having
innocently two Husbands, at the same time’.
In the many collected editions of Mrs. Behn’s popular novels and
histories, from the first, published under the auspices of Gildon in
1696, to the ninth (2 vols, 12mo, London, 1751), there appears, however,
no such novel as _The Fair Vow-Breaker_, but on the other hand all
contain _The Nun; or, the Perjur’d Beauty_. For over two hundred years
then, critics, theatrical historians, bibliographers alike have laid
down that _The Fair Vow-Breaker_ is merely another title for _The Nun;
or, The Perjur’d Beauty_, and that it is to this romance we must look
for the source of Southerne’s tragedy. The slight dissimilarity of name
was truly of no great account. On the title-page of another novel we
have _The Fair Jilt; or, The History of Prince Tarquin and Miranda_; on
the half-title of the same _The Fair Hypocrite; or, The Amours of Prince
Tarquin and Miranda_ (12mo, 1688). And so Thomas Evans in the preface to
his edition of Southerne (3 vols, 1774), writing the dramatist’s life,
says: ‘the plot by the author’s confession is taken from a novel of Mrs.
Behn’s called _The Nun; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker_’. All the modern
writers have duly, but wrongly, accepted this; and Miss Charlotte E.
Morgan in her monograph, _The English Novel till 1749_, informs us in
more than one place that _The Fair Vow-Breaker_ (12mo, 1689) was the
name of the editio princeps of _The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty_.
A crux, however, was soon apparent. Upon investigation it is obvious
that the plot of _The Fatal Marriage; or, The Innocent Adultery_ has
simply nothing in common with _The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty_. Mrs.
Behn’s Ardelia is a mere coquette who through her trifling with three
different men is responsible for five deaths: her lovers’, Elvira’s, and
her own. Isabella, Southerne’s heroine, on the other hand, falls a sad
victim to the machinations of Carlos, her wicked brother-in-law. She is
virtuous and constant; Ardelia is a jade capable of heartless treachery.
Both novel and play end tragically it is true, but from entirely
different motives and in a dissimilar manner. There is no likeness
between them.
Whence then did Southerne derive his plot, and what exactly did he mean
by the statement that he owed ‘the Hint of the Tragical part’ of his
drama to a novel of Mrs. Behn’s?
Professor Paul Hamelius of Liège set out to solve the difficulty, and in
a scholarly article (_Modern Language Review_, July, 1909), he marshals
the facts and seeks a solution. ‘Among her [Mrs. Behn’s] collected
novels’[2] he writes ‘there is one entitled _The Nun; or, The Perjur’d
Beauty_ and Mr. Gosse has kindly informed me that the story is identical
with _The Nun; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker_ which appears in the editio
princeps of 1689 (inaccessible to me).’ Unfortunately he can find no
analogy and is obliged to draw attention to other sources. He points to
_The Virgin Captive_, the fifth story in Roger L’Estrange’s _The Spanish
Decameron_ (1687). Again: there is the famous legend of the lovers of
Teruel as dramatized in 1638 by Juan Perez de Montalvan, _Los Amantes de
Teruel_. An earlier comedia exists on the same subject written by A. Rey
de Artieda, 1581, and yet another play by Tirso de Molina, 1635, based
on Artieda. Hamelius was obviously not satisfied with his researches,
and with a half-suggestion that Southerne may have merely intended to
pay a compliment to his ‘literary friend Mrs. Behn,’ his conclusion is
that ‘the question is naturally still open whether Southerne was not
drawing from some more immediate source--possibly even from some lost
version of the story by Mrs. Behn herself.’
In the course of my preparing the present edition of Mrs. Behn’s
complete works, Mr. Gosse, adding yet another to innumerable kindnesses
and encouragements, entrusted me with a little volume[3] from his
private library: _The History of the Nun; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker_
(12mo, 1689, Licensed 22 October, 1688), and I soon found this to be the
immediate source of Southerne’s tragedy, a totally different novel from
_The Nun; or, The Perjur’d Beauty_, and one, moreover, which has never
till now been included in any edition of Mrs. Behn’s works or, indeed,
reprinted in any form. It were superfluous to compare novel and tragedy
detail by detail. Many striking, many minor points are the same in each.
In several instances the nomenclature has been preserved. The chief
divergence is, of course, the main catastrophe. Mrs. Behn’s execution
could ill have been represented on the boards, and Southerne’s heroine,
the victim of villainies and intrigue, is, it must be confessed, an
infinitely more pathetic figure than guilty Isabella in the romance.
The story of a man returning after long absence and finding his spouse
(or betrothed) wedded to another, familiarized to the generality of
modern readers by Tennyson’s _Enoch Arden_, occurs in every shape and
tongue. No. 69 of _Les Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles_ is _L’Honneste femme à
Deux Maris_.[4] A more famous exemplar we have in the _Decameron_, Day
IV, Novella 8, whose rubric runs: ‘Girolamo ama la Salvestra: va,
costretto da’ prieghi della madre, a Parigi: torna, e truovala maritata:
entrale di nascoso in casa, e muorle allato; e portato in una chiesa,
muore la Salvestra allata a lui.’
Scenes of the amusing underplot of _The Fatal Marriage_ which contain
some excellent comedy, Southerne took directly from _The Night Walker;
or, The Little Thief_ (printed as Fletcher’s in 1640 and ‘corrected by
Shirley’ in 1633 according to Herbert’s license). The purgatorial farce
may be traced to the _Decameron_, Day III, 8. ‘Ferondo, mangiata certa
polvere, è sotterrato per morto: e dall’ abate, chi la moglie di lui si
gode, tratto dalla sepoltura, è messo in prigione e fattogli credere,
che egli è in purgatoro; e poi risuscitato . . .’ It is the _Feronde;
ou, le Purgatoire_ of La Fontaine.
_The Fatal Marriage; or, The Innocent Adultery_ long kept the stage.[5]
On 2 December, 1757, Garrick’s version, which omitting the comic relief
weakens and considerably shortens the play, was produced at Drury Lane
with himself as Biron and Mrs. Cibber as Isabella. The actual name of
the tragedy, however, was not changed to _Isabella_ till some years
after. Mrs. Barry, the original Isabella, was acknowledged supreme in
this tragedy, and our greatest actresses, Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Crawford,
Miss Young, Mrs. Siddons, Miss O’Neill, have all triumphed in the rôle.
[Footnote 1: This has nothing to do with Scarron’s novel, _L’
Innocent Adultère_ which translated was so popular in the 17th and
18th centuries. Bellmour carried it in his pocket when he went
a-courting Laetitia, to the horror of old Fondlewife who
discovered the tome, (_The Old Batchelor_, 1693), and Lydia
Languish was partial to its perusal in 1775.]
[Footnote 2: Hamelius used the collected edition of 1705.]
[Footnote 3: It is interesting to note that the book originally
belonged to Scott’s friend and critic, Charles Kirkpatrick
Sharpe.]
[Footnote 4: Reproduced by Celio Malespini _Ducento Novelle_, No.
9 (Venice, 4to, 1609, but probably written about thirty years
before).]
[Footnote 5: A French prose translation of Southerne is to be
found in Vol. VIII of _Le Theâtre Anglois_, Londres, 1746. It is
entitled _L’Adultère Innocent_; but the comic underplot is very
sketchily analyzed, scene by scene, and the whole is very mediocre
withal.]
To the Most Illustrious Princess,
The Dutchess of Mazarine.
Madam,
There are none of an Illustrious Quality, who have not been made, by
some Poet or other, the Patronesses of his Distress’d Hero, or
Unfortunate Damsel; and such Addresses are Tributes, due only to the
most Elevated, where they have always been very well receiv’d, since
they are the greatest Testimonies we can give, of our Esteem and
Veneration.
Madam, when I survey’d the whole Toor of Ladies at Court, which was
adorn’d by you, who appear’d there with a Grace and Majesty, peculiar to
Your Great Self only, mix’d with an irresistible Air of Sweetness,
Generosity, and Wit, I was impatient for an Opportunity, to tell Your
Grace, how infinitely one of Your own Sex ador’d You, and that, among
all the numerous Conquest, Your Grace has made over the Hearts of Men,
Your Grace had not subdu’d a more entire Slave; I assure you, Madam,
there is neither Compliment nor Poetry, in this humble Declaration, but
a Truth, which has cost me a great deal of Inquietude, for that Fortune
has not set me in such a Station, as might justifie my Pretence to the
honour and satisfaction of being ever near Your Grace, to view eternally
that lovely Person, and hear that surprizing Wit; what can be more
grateful to a Heart, than so great, and so agreeable, an Entertainment?
And how few Objects are there, that can render it so entire a Pleasure,
as at once to hear you speak, and to look upon your Beauty? A Beauty
that is heighten’d, if possible, with an air of Negligence, in Dress,
wholly Charming, as if your Beauty disdain’d those little Arts of your
Sex, whose Nicety alone is their greatest Charm, while yours, Madam,
even without the Assistance of your exalted Birth, begets an Awe and
Reverence in all that do approach you, and every one is proud, and
pleas’d, in paying you Homage their several ways, according to their
Capacities and Talents; mine, Madam, can only be exprest by my Pen,
which would be infinitely honour’d, in being permitted to celebrate your
great Name for ever, and perpetually to serve, where it has so great an
inclination.
In the mean time, Madam, I presume to lay this little Trifle at your
Feet; the Story is true, as it is on the Records of the Town, where it
was transacted; and if my fair unfortunate VOW-BREAKER do not deserve
the honour of your Graces Protection, at least, she will be found worthy
of your Pity; which will be a sufficient Glory, both for her, and,
Madam,
Your Graces most humble,
and most obedient Servant,
A. BEHN.
THE HISTORY OF THE NUN; or, The Fair Vow-Breaker.
Of all the sins, incident to Human Nature, there is none, of which
Heaven has took so particular, visible, and frequent Notice, and
Revenge, as on that of _Violated Vows_, which never go unpunished; and
the _Cupids_ may boast what they will, for the encouragement of their
Trade of Love, that Heaven never takes cognisance of Lovers broken Vows
and Oaths, and that ’tis the only Perjury that escapes the Anger of the
_Gods_; But I verily believe, if it were search’d into, we should find
these frequent Perjuries, that pass in the World for so many Gallantries
only, to be the occasion of so many unhappy Marriages, and the cause of
all those Misfortunes, which are so frequent to the Nuptiall’d Pair. For
not one of a Thousand, but, either on his side, or on hers, has been
perjur’d, and broke Vows made to some fond believing Wretch, whom they
have abandon’d and undone. What Man that does not boast of the Numbers
he has thus ruin’d, and, who does not glory in the shameful Triumph?
Nay, what Woman, almost, has not a pleasure in Deceiving, taught,
perhaps, at first, by some dear false one, who had fatally instructed
her Youth in an Art she ever after practis’d, in Revenge on all those
she could be too hard for, and conquer at their own Weapons? For,
without all dispute, Women are by Nature more Constant and Just, than
Men, and did not their first Lovers teach them the trick of Change, they
would be _Doves_, that would never quit their Mate, and, like _Indian_
Wives, would leap alive into the Graves of their deceased Lovers, and be
buried quick with ’em. But Customs of Countries change even Nature her
self, and long Habit takes her place: The Women are taught, by the Lives
of the Men, to live up to all their Vices, and are become almost as
inconstant; and ’tis but Modesty that makes the difference, and, hardly,
inclination; so deprav’d the nicest Appetites grow in time, by bad
Examples.
But, as there are degrees of Vows, so there are degrees of Punishments
for Vows, there are solemn Matrimonial Vows, such as contract and are
the most effectual Marriage, and have the most reason to be so; there
are a thousand Vows and Friendships, that pass between Man and Man, on a
thousand Occasions; but there is another Vow, call’d a _Sacred Vow_,
made to God only; and, by which, we oblige our selves eternally to serve
him with all Chastity and Devotion: This Vow is only taken, and made, by
those that enter into Holy Orders, and, of all broken Vows, these are
those, that receive the most severe and notorious Revenges of God; and I
am almost certain, there is not one Example to be produc’d in the World,
where Perjuries of this nature have past unpunish’d, nay, that have not
been persu’d with the greatest and most rigorous of Punishments. I could
my self, of my own knowledge, give an hundred Examples of the fatal
Consequences of the Violation of Sacred Vows; and who ever make it their
business, and are curious in the search of such Misfortunes, shall find,
as I say, that they never go unregarded.
The young Beauty therefore, who dedicates her self to Heaven, and weds
her self for ever to the service of God, ought, first, very well to
consider the Self-denial she is going to put upon her youth, her fickle
faithless deceiving Youth, of one Opinion to day, and of another to
morrow; like Flowers, which never remain in one state or fashion, but
bud to day, and blow by insensible degrees, and decay as imperceptibly.
The Resolution, we promise, and believe we shall maintain, is not in our
power, and nothing is so deceitful as human Hearts.
I once was design’d an humble Votary in the House of Devotion, but
fancying my self not endu’d with an obstinacy of Mind, great enough to
secure me from the Efforts and Vanities of the World, I rather chose to
deny my self that Content I could not certainly promise my self, than to
languish (as I have seen some do) in a certain Affliction; tho’
possibly, since, I have sufficiently bewailed that mistaken and
inconsiderate Approbation and Preference of the false ungrateful World,
(full of nothing but Nonsense, Noise, false Notions, and Contradiction)
before the Innocence and Quiet of a Cloyster; nevertheless, I could
wish, for the prevention of abundance of Mischiefs and Miseries, that
Nunneries and Marriages were not to be enter’d into, ’till the Maid, so
destin’d, were of a mature Age to make her own Choice; and that Parents
would not make use of their justly assum’d Authority to compel their
Children, neither to the one or the other; but since I cannot alter
Custom, nor shall ever be allow’d to make new Laws, or rectify the old
ones, I must leave the Young Nuns inclos’d to their best Endeavours, of
making a Virtue of Necessity; and the young Wives, to make the best of a
bad Market.
In _Iper_, a Town, not long since, in the Dominions of the King of
_Spain_, and now in possession of the King of _France_, there liv’d a
Man of Quality, of a considerable Fortune, call’d, Count _Henrick de
Vallary_, who had a very beautiful Lady, by whom, he had one Daughter,
call’d _Isabella_, whose Mother dying when she was about two years old
to the unspeakable Grief of the Count, her Husband, he resolv’d never to
partake of any Pleasure more, that this transitory World could court him
with, but determin’d, with himself, to dedicate his Youth, and future
Days, to Heaven, and to take upon him Holy Orders; and, without
considering, that, possibly, the young _Isabella_, when she grew to
Woman, might have Sentiments contrary to those that now possest him, he
design’d she should also become a Nun; However, he was not so positive
in that Resolution, as to put the matter wholly out of her Choice, but
divided his Estate; one half he carried with him to the Monastery of
_Jesuits_, of which number, he became one; and the other half, he gave
with _Isabella_, to the Monastery, of which, his only Sister was Lady
_Abbess_, of the Order of St. _Augustine_; but so he ordered the matter,
that if, at the Age of Thirteen, _Isabella_ had not a mind to take
Orders, or that the Lady _Abbess_ found her Inclination averse to a
Monastick Life, she should have such a proportion of the Revenue, as
should be fit to marry her to a Noble Man, and left it to the discretion
of the Lady _Abbess_, who was a Lady of known Piety, and admirable
strictness of Life, and so nearly related to _Isabella_, that there was
no doubt made of her Integrity and Justice.
The little _Isabella_ was carried immediately (in her Mourning for her
dead Mother) into the Nunnery, and was receiv’d as a very diverting
Companion by all the young Ladies, and, above all, by her Reverend Aunt,
for she was come just to the Age of delighting her Parents; she was the
prettiest forward Pratler in the World, and had a thousand little Charms
to please, besides the young Beauties that were just budding in her
little Angel Face: So that she soon became the dear lov’d Favourite of
the whole House; and as she was an Entertainment to them all, so they
made it their study to find all the Diversions they could for the pretty
_Isabella_; and as she grew in Wit and Beauty every day, so they fail’d
not to cultivate her Mind; and delicate Apprehension, in all that was
advantageous to her Sex, and whatever Excellency any one abounded in,
she was sure to communicate it to the young _Isabella_, if one could
Dance, another Sing, another play on this Instrument, and another on
that; if this spoke one Language, and that another; if she had Wit, and
she Discretion, and a third, the finest Fashion and Manners; all joyn’d
to compleat the Mind and Body of this beautiful young Girl; Who, being
undiverted with the less noble, and less solid, Vanities of the World,
took to these Virtues, and excell’d in all; and her Youth and Wit being
apt for all Impressions, she soon became a greater Mistress of their
Arts, than those who taught her; so that at the Age of eight or nine
Years, she was thought fit to receive and entertain all the great Men
and Ladies, and the Strangers of any Nation, at the _Grate_; and that
with so admirable a Grace, so quick and piercing a Wit, and so
delightful and sweet a Conversation, that she became the whole Discourse
of the Town, and Strangers spread her Fame, as prodigious, throughout
the Christian World; for Strangers came daily to hear her talk, and
sing, and play, and to admire her Beauty; and Ladies brought their
Children, to shame ’em into good Fashion and Manners, with looking on
the lovely young _Isabella_.
The Lady _Abbess_, her Aunt, you may believe, was not a little proud of
the Excellencies and Virtues of her fair _Niece_, and omitted nothing
that might adorn her Mind; because, not only of the vastness of her
Parts and Fame, and the Credit she would do her House, by residing there
for ever; but also, being very loth to part with her considerable
Fortune, which she must resign, if she returned into the World, she us’d
all her Arts and Stratagems to make her become a _Nun_, to which all the
fair Sisterhood contributed their Cunning, but it was altogether
needless; her Inclination, the strictness of her Devotion, her early
Prayers, and those continual, and innate Stedfastness, and Calm, she was
Mistress of; her Ignorance of the World’s Vanities, and those that
uninclos’d young Ladies count Pleasures and Diversions, being all
unknown to her, she thought there was no Joy out of a _Nunnery_, and no
Satisfactions on the other side of a _Grate_.
The Lady _Abbess_, seeing, that of her self she yielded faster than she
could expect; to discharge her Conscience to her Brother, who came
frequently to visit his Darling _Isabella_, would very often discourse
to her of the Pleasures of the World, telling her, how much happier she
would think her self, to be the Wife of some gallant young Cavalier, and
to have Coaches and Equipages; to see the World, to behold a thousand
Rarities she had never seen, to live in Splendor, to eat high, and wear
magnificent Clothes, to be bow’d to as she pass’d, and have a thousand
Adorers, to see in time a pretty Offspring, the products of Love, that
should talk, and look, and delight, as she did, the Heart of their
Parents; but to all, her Father and the Lady _Abbess_ could say of the
World, and its Pleasures, _Isabella_ brought a thousand Reasons and
Arguments, so Pious, so Devout, that the _Abbess_ was very well pleased,
to find her (purposely weak) Propositions so well overthrown; and gives
an account of her daily Discourses to her Brother, which were no less
pleasing to him; and tho’ _Isabella_ went already dress’d as richly as
her Quality deserv’d, yet her Father, to try the utmost that the World’s
Vanity could do, upon her young Heart, orders the most Glorious Clothes
should be bought her, and that the Lady _Abbess_ should suffer her to go
abroad with those Ladies of Quality, that were her Relations, and her
Mother’s Acquaintance; that she should visit and go on the Toore, (that
is, the Hide Park there) that she should see all that was diverting, to
try, whether it were not for want of Temptation to Vanity, that made her
leave the World, and love an inclos’d Life.
As the Count had commanded, all things were performed; and _Isabella_
arriving at her Thirteenth Year of Age, and being pretty tall of
Stature, with the finest Shape that Fancy can create, with all the
Adornment of a perfect brown-hair’d Beauty, Eyes black and lovely,
Complexion fair; to a Miracle, all her Features of the rarest
proportion, the Mouth red, the Teeth white, and a thousand Graces in her
Meen and Air; she came no sooner abroad, but she had a thousand Persons
fighting for love of her; the Reputation her Wit had acquir’d, got her
Adorers without seeing her, but when they saw her, they found themselves
conquer’d and undone; all were glad she was come into the World, of whom
they had heard so much, and all the Youth of the Town dress’d only for
_Isabella de Valerie_, that rose like a new Star that Eclips’d all the
rest, and which set the World a-gazing. Some hop’d, and some despair’d,
but all lov’d, while _Isabella_ regarded not their Eyes, their distant
darling Looks of Love, and their signs of Adoration; she was civil and
affable to all, but so reserv’d, that none durst tell her his Passion,
or name that strange and abhorr’d thing, _Love_, to her; the Relations
with whom she went abroad every day, were fein to force her out, and
when she went, ’twas the motive of Civility, and not Satisfaction, that
made her go; whatever she saw, she beheld with no admiration, and
nothing created wonder in her, tho’ never so strange and Novel. She
survey’d all things with an indifference, that tho’ it was not sullen,
was far from Transport, so that her evenness of Mind was infinitely
admir’d and prais’d. And now it was, that, young as she was, her Conduct
and Discretion appear’d equal to her Wit and Beauty, and she encreas’d
daily in Reputation, insomuch, that the Parents of abundance of young
Noble Men, made it their business to endeavour to marry their Sons to so
admirable and noble a Maid, and one, whose Virtues were the Discourse of
all the World; the _Father_, the Lady _Abbess_, and those who had her
abroad, were solicited to make an Alliance; for the Father, he would
give no answer, but left it to the discretion of _Isabella_, who could
not be persuaded to hear any thing of that nature; so that for a long
time she refus’d her company to all those, who propos’d any thing of
Marriage to her; she said, she had seen nothing in the World that was
worth her Care, or the venturing the losing of Heaven for, and therefore
was resolv’d to dedicate her self to that; that the more she saw of the
World, the worse she lik’d it, and pity’d the Wretches that were
condemn’d to it; that she had consider’d it, and found no one
Inclination that forbad her immediate Entrance into a Religious Life; to
which, her Father, after using all the Arguments he could, to make her
take good heed of what she went about, to consider it well; and had
urg’d all the Inconveniencies of Severe Life, Watchings, Midnight
Risings in all Weathers and Seasons to Prayers, hard Lodging, course
Diet, and homely Habit, with a thousand other things of Labour and Work
us’d among the _Nuns_; and finding her still resolv’d and inflexible to
all contrary persuasions, he consented, kiss’d her, and told her, She
had argu’d according to the wish of his Soul, and that he never believ’d
himself truly happy, till this moment that he was assur’d, she would
become a Religious.
This News, to the Heart-breaking of a thousand Lovers, was spread all
over the Town, and there was nothing but Songs of Complaint, and of her
retiring, after she had shewn her self to the World, and vanquish’d so
many Hearts; all Wits were at work on this Cruel Subject, and one begat
another, as is usual in such Affairs. Amongst the number of these
Lovers, there was a young Gentleman, Nobly born, his name was
_Villenoys_, who was admirably made, and very handsom, had travell’d and
accomplish’d himself, as much as was possible for one so young to do; he
was about Eighteen, and was going to the Siege of _Candia_, in a very
good Equipage, but, overtaken by his Fate, surpris’d in his way to
Glory, he stopt at _Ipers_, so fell most passionately in love with this
Maid of Immortal Fame; but being defeated in his hopes by this News, was
the Man that made the softest Complaints to this fair Beauty, and whose
violence of Passion oppress’d him to that degree, that he was the only
Lover, who durst himself tell her, he was in love with her; he writ
Billets so soft and tender, that she had, of all her Lovers, most
compassion for _Villenoys_, and dain’d several times, in pity of him, to
send him answers to his Letters, but they were such, as absolutely
forbad him to love her; such as incited him to follow Glory, the
Mistress that could noblest reward him; and that, for her part, her
Prayers should always be, that he might be victorious, and the Darling
of that Fortune he was going to court; and that she, for her part, had
fix’d her Mind on Heaven, and no Earthly Thought should bring it down;
but she should ever retain for him all Sisterly Respect, and begg’d, in
her Solitudes, to hear, whether her Prayers had prov’d effectual or not,
and if Fortune were so kind to him, as she should perpetually wish.
When _Villenoys_ found she was resolv’d, he design’d to persue his
Journy, but could not leave the Town, till he had seen the fatal
Ceremony of _Isabella’s_ being made a _Nun_, which was every day
expected; and while he stay’d, he could not forbear writing daily to
her, but receiv’d no more Answers from her, she already accusing her
self of having done too much, for a Maid in her Circumstances; but she
confess’d, of all she had seen, she lik’d _Villenoys_ the best; and if
she ever could have lov’d, she believ’d it would have been _Villenoys_,
for he had all the good Qualities, and grace, that could render him
agreeable to the Fair; besides, that he was only Son to a very rich and
noble Parent, and one that might very well presume to lay claim to a
Maid of _Isabella’s_ Beauty and Fortune.
As the time approach’d, when he must eternally lose all hope, by
_Isabella’s_ taking Orders, he found himself less able to bear the
Efforts of that Despair it possess’d him with, he languished with the
thought, so that it was visible to all his Friends, the decays it
wrought on his Beauty and Gaiety: So that he fell at last into a Feaver;
and ’twas the whole Discourse of the Town, That _Villenoys_ was dying
for the Fair _Isabella_; his Relations, being all of Quality, were
extreamly afflicted at his Misfortune, and joyn’d their Interests yet,
to dissuade this fair young Victoress from an act so cruel, as to
inclose herself in a _Nunnery_, while the finest of all the youths of
Quality was dying for her, and ask’d her, If it would not be more
acceptable to Heaven to save a Life, and perhaps a Soul, than to go and
expose her own to a thousand Tortures? They assur’d her, _Villenoys_ was
dying, and dying Adoring her; that nothing could save his Life, but her
kind Eyes turn’d upon the fainting Lover; a Lover, that could breath
nothing, but her Name in Sighs; and find satisfaction in nothing, but
weeping and crying out, ‘I dye for Isabella!’ This Discourse fetch’d
abundance of Tears from the fair Eyes of this tender Maid; but, at the
same time, she besought them to believe, these Tears ought not to give
them hope, she should ever yield to save his Life, by quitting her
Resolution, of becoming a _Nun_; but, on the contrary, they were Tears,
that only bewail’d her own Misfortune, in having been the occasion of
the death of any Man, especially, a Man, who had so many Excellencies,
as might have render’d him entirely Happy and Glorious for a long race
of Years, had it not been his ill fortune to have seen her unlucky Face.
She believ’d, it was for her Sins of Curiosity, and going beyond the
Walls of the Monastery, to wander after the Vanities of the foolish
World, that had occasion’d this Misfortune to the young Count of
_Villenoys_, and she would put a severe Penance on her Body, for the
Mischiefs her Eyes had done him; she fears she might, by something in
her looks, have intic’d his Heart, for she own’d she saw him, with
wonder at his Beauty, and much more she admir’d him, when she found the
Beauties of his Mind; she confess’d, she had given him hope, by
answering his Letters; and that when she found her Heart grow a little
more than usually tender, when she thought on him, she believ’d it a
Crime, that ought to be check’d by a Virtue, such as she pretended to
profess, and hop’d she should ever carry to her Grave; and she desired
his Relations to implore him, in her Name, to rest contented, in knowing
he was the first, and should be the last, that should ever make an
impression on her Heart; that what she had conceiv’d there, for him,
should remain with her to her dying day, and that she besought him to
live, that she might see, he both deserv’d this Esteem she had for him,
and to repay it her, otherwise he would dye in her debt, and make her
Life ever after reposeless.
This being all they could get from her, they return’d with Looks that
told their Message; however, they render’d those soft things _Isabella_
had said, in so moving a manner, as fail’d not to please, and while he
remain’d in this condition, the Ceremonies were compleated, of making
_Isabella_ a _Nun_; which was a Secret to none but _Villenoys_, and from
him it was carefully conceal’d, so that in a little time he recover’d
his lost health, at least, so well, as to support the fatal News, and
upon the first hearing it, he made ready his Equipage, and departed
immediately for _Candia_; where he behav’d himself very gallantly, under
the Command of the Duke De _Beaufort_, and, with him, return’d to
_France_, after the loss of that noble City to the _Turks_.
In all the time of his absence, that he might the sooner establish his
Repose, he forbore sending to the fair Cruel _Nun_, and she heard no
more of _Villenoys_ in above two years; so that giving her self wholly
up to Devotion, there was never seen any one, who led so Austere and
Pious a Life, as this young _Votress_; she was a Saint in the Chapel,
and an Angel at the _Grate_: She there laid by all her severe Looks, and
mortify’d Discourse, and being at perfect peace and tranquility within,
she was outwardly all gay, sprightly, and entertaining, being satisfy’d,
no Sights, no Freedoms, could give any temptations to worldly desires;
she gave a loose to all that was modest, and that Virtue and Honour
would permit, and was the most charming Conversation that ever was
admir’d; and the whole World that pass’d through _Iper_; of Strangers,
came directed and recommended to the lovely _Isabella_; I mean, those of
Quality: But however Diverting she was at the _Grate_, she was most
exemplary Devout in the Cloister, doing more Penance, and imposing a
more rigid Severity and Task on her self, than was requir’d, giving such
rare Examples to all the _Nuns_ that were less Devout, that her Life was
a Proverb, and a President, and when they would express a very Holy
Woman indeed, they would say, ‘She was a very _ISABELLA_.’
There was in this _Nunnery_, a young _Nun_, call’d, Sister _Katteriena_,
Daughter to the Grave _Vanhenault_, that is to say, an Earl, who liv’d
about six Miles from the Town, in a noble _Villa_; this Sister
_Katteriena_ was not only a very beautiful Maid, but very witty, and had
all the good qualities to make her be belov’d, and had most wonderfully
gain’d upon the Heart of the fair _Isabella_, she was her Chamber-Fellow
and Companion in all her Devotions and Diversions, so that where one
was, there was the other, and they never went but together to the
_Grate_, to the Garden, or to any place, whither their _Affairs_ call’d
either. This young _Katteriena_ had a Brother, who lov’d her intirely,
and came every day to see her, he was about twenty Years of Age, rather
tall than middle Statur’d, his Hair and Eyes brown, but his Face
exceeding beautiful, adorn’d with a thousand Graces, and the most nobly
and exactly made, that ’twas possible for Nature to form; to the
Fineness and Charms of his Person, he had an Air in his Meen and
Dressing, so very agreeable, besides rich, that ’twas impossible to look
on him, without wishing him happy, because he did so absolutely merit
being so. His Wit and his Manner was so perfectly Obliging, a Goodness
and Generosity so Sincere and Gallant, that it would even have aton’d
for Ugliness. As he was eldest Son to so great a Father, he was kept at
home, while the rest of his Brothers were employ’d in Wars abroad; this
made him of a melancholy Temper, and fit for soft Impressions; he was
very Bookish, and had the best Tutors that could be got, for Learning
and Languages, and all that could compleat a Man; but was unus’d to
Action, and of a temper Lazy, and given to Repose, so that his Father
could hardly ever get him to use any Exercise, or so much as ride
abroad, which he would call, Losing Time from his Studies: He car’d not
for the Conversation of Men, because he lov’d not Debauch, as they
usually did; so that for Exercise, more than any Design, he came on
Horseback every day to _Iper_ to the _Monastery_, and would sit at the
_Grate_, entertaining his Sister the most part of the Afternoon, and, in
the Evening, retire; he had often seen and convers’d with the lovely
_Isabella_, and found from the first sight of her, he had more Esteem
for her, than any other of her Sex: But as Love very rarely takes Birth
without Hope; so he never believ’d that the Pleasure he took in
beholding her, and in discoursing with her, was Love, because he
regarded her, as a Thing consecrate to Heaven, and never so much as
thought to wish, she were a Mortal fit for his Addresses; yet he found
himself more and more fill’d with Reflections on her which was not usual
with him; he found she grew upon his Memory, and oftner came there, than
he us’d to do, that he lov’d his Studies less, and going to _Iper_ more;
and, that every time he went, he found a new Joy at his Heart that
pleas’d him; he found, he could not get himself from the _Grate_,
without Pain; nor part from the sight of that all-charming Object,
without Sighs; and if, while he was there, any persons came to visit
her, whose Quality she could not refuse the honour of her sight to, he
would blush, and pant with uneasiness, especially, if they were handsom,
and fit to make Impressions: And he would check this Uneasiness in
himself, and ask his Heart, what it meant, by rising and beating in
those Moments, and strive to assume an Indifferency in vain, and depart
dissatisfy’d, and out of humour.
On the other side, _Isabella_ was not so Gay as she us’d to be, but, on
the sudden, retir’d her self more from the _Grate_ than she us’d to do,
refus’d to receive Visits every day, and her Complexion grew a little
pale and languid; she was observ’d not to sleep, or eat, as she us’d to
do, nor exercise in those little Plays they made, and diverted
themselves with, now and then; she was heard to sigh often, and it
became the Discourse of the whole House, that she was much alter’d: The
Lady _Abbess_, who lov’d her with a most tender Passion, was infinitely
concern’d at this Change, and endeavour’d to find out the Cause, and
’twas generally believ’d, she was too Devout, for now she redoubled her
Austerity; and in cold Winter Nights, of Frost and Snow, would be up at
all Hours, and lying upon the cold Stones, before the Altar, prostrate
at Prayers: So that she receiv’d Orders from the Lady _Abbess_, not to
harass her self so very much, but to have a care of her Health, as well
as her Soul; but she regarded not these Admonitions, tho’ even persuaded
daily by her _Katteriena_, whom she lov’d every day more and more.
But, one Night, when they were retir’d to their Chamber, amongst a
thousand things that they spoke of, to pass away a tedious Evening, they
talk’d of Pictures and Likenesses, and _Katteriena_ told _Isabella_,
that before she was a _Nun_, in her more happy days, she was so like her
Brother _Bernardo Henault_, (who was the same that visited them every
day) that she would, in Men’s Clothes, undertake, she should not have
known one from t’other, and fetching out his _Picture_, she had in a
Dressing-Box, she threw it to _Isabella_, who, at the first sight of it,
turns as pale as Ashes, and, being ready to swound, she bid her take it
away, and could not, for her Soul, hide the sudden surprise the
_Picture_ brought: _Katteriena_ had too much Wit, not to make a just
Interpretation of this Change, and (as a Woman) was naturally curious to
pry farther, tho’ Discretion should have made her been silent, for
Talking, in such cases, does but make the Wound rage the more; ‘Why, my
dear Sister, (said _Katteriena_) is the likeness of my Brother so
offensive to you?’ _Isabella_ found by this, she had discover’d too
much, and that Thought put her by all power of excusing it; she was
confounded with Shame, and the more she strove to hide it, the more it
disorder’d her; so that she (blushing extremely) hung down her Head,
sigh’d, and confess’d all by her Looks. At last, after a considering
Pause, she cry’d, ‘My dearest Sister, I do confess, I was surpriz’d at
the sight of Monsieur _Henault_, and much more than ever you have
observ’d me to be at the sight of his Person, because there is scarce a
day wherein I do not see that, and know beforehand I shall see him; I am
prepar’d for the Encounter, and have lessen’d my Concern, or rather
Confusion, by that time I come to the _Grate_, so much Mistress I am of
my Passions, when they give me warning of their approach, and sure I can
withstand the greatest assaults of Fate, if I can but foresee it; but if
it surprize me, I find I am as feeble a Woman, as the most unresolv’d;
you did not tell me, you had this Picture, nor say, you would shew me
such a Picture; but when I least expect to see that Face, you shew it
me, even in my Chamber.’
‘Ah, my dear Sister! (reply’d _Katteriena_) I believe, that Paleness,
and those Blushes, proceed from some other cause, than the Nicety of
seeing the Picture of a Man in your Chamber’:
‘You have too much Wit, (reply’d _Isabella_) to be impos’d on by such an
Excuse, if I were so silly to make it; but oh! my dear Sister! it was in
my Thoughts to deceive you; could I have concealed my Pain and
Sufferings, you should never have known them; but since I find it
impossible, and that I am too sincere to make use of Fraud in any thing,
’tis fit I tell you, from what cause my change of Colour proceeds, and
to own to you, I fear, ’tis Love, if ever therefore, oh gentle pitying
Maid! thou wert a Lover? If ever thy tender Heart were touch’d with that
Passion? Inform me, oh! inform me, of the nature of that cruel Disease,
and how thou found’st a Cure?’
While she was speaking these words, she threw her Arms about the Neck of
the fair _Katteriena_, and bath’d her Bosom (where she hid her Face)
with a shower of Tears; _Katteriena_, embracing her with all the
fondness of a dear Lover, told her, with a Sigh, that she could deny her
nothing, and therefore confess’d to her, she had been a Lover, and that
was the occasion of her being made a _Nun_, her Father finding out the
Intrigue, which fatally happened to be with his own Page, a Youth of
extraordinary Beauty. ‘I was but Young, (said she) about Thirteen, and
knew not what to call the new-known Pleasure that I felt; when e’re I
look’d upon the young _Arnaldo_, my Heart would heave, when e’re he came
in view, and my disorder’d Breath came doubly from my Bosom; a Shivering
seiz’d me, and my Face grew wan; my Thought was at a stand, and Sense it
self, for that short moment, lost its Faculties; But when he touch’d me,
oh! no hunted Deer, tir’d with his flight, and just secur’d in Shades,
pants with a nimbler motion than my Heart; at first, I thought the Youth
had had some Magick Art, to make one faint and tremble at his touches;
but he himself, when I accus’d his Cruelty, told me, he had no Art, but
awful Passion, and vow’d that when I touch’d him, he was so; so
trembling, so surprized, so charm’d, so pleas’d. When he was present,
nothing could displease me, but when he parted from me; then ’twas
rather a soft silent Grief, that eas’d itself by sighing, and by hoping,
that some kind moment would restore my joy. When he was absent, nothing
could divert me, howe’re I strove, howe’re I toyl’d for Mirth; no Smile,
no Joy, dwelt in my Heart or Eyes; I could not feign, so very well I
lov’d, impatient in his absence, I would count the tedious parting
Hours, and pass them off like useless Visitants, whom we wish were gon;
these are the Hours, where Life no business has, at least, a Lover’s
Life. But, oh! what Minutes seem’d the happy Hours, when on his Eyes I
gaz’d, and he on mine, and half our Conversation lost in Sighs, Sighs,
the soft moving Language of a Lover!’
‘No more, no more, (reply’d _Isabella_, throwing her Arms again about
the Neck of the transported _Katteriena_) thou blow’st my Flame by thy
soft Words, and mak’st me know my Weakness, and my Shame: I love!
I love! and feel those differing Passions!’--Then pausing a moment, she
proceeded,--‘Yet so didst thou, but hast surmounted it. Now thou hast
found the Nature of my Pain, oh! tell me thy saving Remedy?’ ‘Alas!
(reply’d _Katteriena_) tho’ there’s but one Disease, there’s many
Remedies: They say, possession’s one, but that to me seems a Riddle;
Absence, they say, another, and that was mine; for _Arnaldo_ having by
chance lost one of my Billets, discover’d the Amour, and was sent to
travel, and my self forc’d into this Monastery, where at last, Time
convinc’d me, I had lov’d below my Quality, and that sham’d me into Holy
Orders.’ ‘And is it a Disease, (reply’d _Isabella_) that People often
recover?’ ‘Most frequently, (said _Katteriena_) and yet some dye of the
Disease, but very rarely.’ ‘Nay then, (said _Isabella_) I fear, you will
find me one of these Martyrs; for I have already oppos’d it with the
most severe Devotion in the World: But all my Prayers are vain, your
lovely Brother persues me into the greatest Solitude; he meets me at my
very Midnight Devotions, and interrupts my Prayers; he gives me a
thousand Thoughts, that ought not to enter into a Soul dedicated to
Heaven; he ruins all the Glory I have achiev’d, even above my Sex, for
Piety of Life, and the Observation of all Virtues. Oh _Katteriena_! he
has a Power in his Eyes, that transcends all the World besides: And, to
shew the weakness of Human Nature, and how vain all our Boastings are,
he has done that in one fatal Hour, that the persuasions of all my
Relations and Friends, Glory, Honour, Pleasure, and all that can tempt,
could not perform in Years; I resisted all but _Henault’s_ Eyes, and
they were Ordain’d to make me truly wretched; But yet with thy
Assistance, and a Resolution to see him no more, and my perpetual Trust
in Heaven, I may, perhaps, overcome this Tyrant of my Soul, who,
I thought, had never enter’d into holy Houses, or mix’d his Devotions
and Worship with the true Religion; but, oh! no Cells, no Cloysters, no
Hermitages, are secur’d from his Efforts.’
This Discourse she ended with abundance of Tears, and it was resolv’d,
since she was devoted for ever to a Holy Life, That it was best for her
to make it as easy to her as was possible; in order to it, and the
banishing this fond and useless Passion from her Heart, it was very
necessary, she should see _Henault_ no more: At first, _Isabella_ was
afraid, that, in refusing to see him, he might mistrust her Passion; but
_Katteriena_ who was both Pious and Discreet, and endeavour’d truly to
cure her of so violent a Disease, which must, she knew, either end in
her death or destruction, told her, She would take care of that matter,
that it should not blemish her Honour; and so leaving her a while, after
they had resolved on this, she left her in a thousand Confusions, she
was now another Woman than what she had hitherto been; she was quite
alter’d in every Sentiment, thought and Notion; she now repented, she
had promis’d not to see _Henault_; she trembled and even fainted, for
fear she should see him no more; she was not able to bear that thought,
it made her rage within, like one possest, and all her Virtue could not
calm her; yet since her word was past, and, as she was, she could not,
without great Scandal, break it in that point, she resolv’d to dye a
thousand Deaths, rather than not perform her Promise made to
_Katteriena_; but ’tis not to be express’d what she endur’d; what Fits,
Pains, and Convulsions, she sustain’d; and how much ado she had to
dissemble to Dame _Katteriena_, who soon return’d to the afflicted Maid;
the next day, about the time that _Henault_ was to come, as he usually
did, about two or three a Clock after Noon, ’tis impossible to express
the uneasiness of _Isabella_; she ask’d, a thousand times, ‘What, is not
your Brother come?’ When Dame _Katteriena_ would reply, ‘Why do you
ask?’ She would say, ‘Because I would be sure not to see him’: ‘You need
not fear, Madam, (reply’d _Katteriena_) for you shall keep your
Chamber.’ She need not have urg’d that, for _Isabella_ was very ill
without knowing it, and in a Feaver.
At last, one of the _Nuns_ came up, and told Dame _Katteriena_, that her
Brother was at the _Grate_, and she desired, he should be bid come about
to the Private _Grate_ above stairs, which he did, and she went to him,
leaving _Isabella_ even dead on the Bed, at the very name of _Henault_:
But the more she conceal’d her Flame, the more violently it rag’d, which
she strove in vain by Prayers, and those Recourses of Solitude to
lessen; all this did but augment the Pain, and was Oyl to the Fire, so
that she now could hope, that nothing but Death would put an end to her
Griefs, and her Infamy. She was eternally thinking on him, how handsome
his Face, how delicate every Feature, how charming his Air, how graceful
his Meen, how soft and good his Disposition, and how witty and
entertaining his Conversation. She now fancy’d, she was at the _Grate_,
talking to him as she us’d to be, and blest those happy Hours she past
then, and bewail’d her Misfortune, that she is no more destin’d to be so
Happy, then gives a loose to Grief; Griefs, at which, no Mortals, but
Despairing Lovers, can guess, or how tormenting they are; where the most
easie Moments are, those, wherein one resolves to kill ones self, and
the happiest Thought is Damnation; but from these Imaginations, she
endeavours to fly, all frighted with horror; but, alas! whither would
she fly, but to a Life more full of horror? She considers well, she
cannot bear Despairing Love, and finds it impossible to cure her
Despair; she cannot fly from the Thoughts of the Charming _Henault_, and
’tis impossible to quit ’em; and, at this rate, she found, Life could
not long support it self, but would either reduce her to Madness, and so
render her an hated Object of Scorn to the Censuring World, or force her
Hand to commit a Murder upon her self. This she had found, this she had
well consider’d, nor could her fervent and continual Prayers, her
nightly Watchings, her Mortifications on the cold Marble in long Winter
Season, and all her Acts of Devotion abate one spark of this shameful
Feaver of Love, that was destroying her within. When she had rag’d and
struggled with this unruly Passion, ’till she was quite tir’d and
breathless, finding all her force in vain, she fill’d her fancy with a
thousand charming _Ideas_ of the lovely _Henault_, and, in that soft
fit, had a mind to satisfy her panting Heart, and give it one Joy more,
by beholding the Lord of its Desires, and the Author of its Pains:
Pleas’d, yet trembling, at this Resolve, she rose from the Bed where she
was laid, and softly advanc’d to the Stair-Case, from whence there
open’d that Room where Dame _Katteriena_ was, and where there was a
private _Grate_, at which, she was entertaining her _Brother_; they were
earnest in Discourse, and so loud, that _Isabella_ could easily hear all
they said, and the first words were from _Katteriena_, who, in a sort of
Anger, cry’d, ‘Urge me no more! My Virtue is too nice, to become an
Advocate for a Passion, that can tend to nothing but your Ruin; for,
suppose I should tell the fair _Isabella_, you dye for her, what can it
avail you? What hope can any Man have, to move the Heart of a Virgin, so
averse to Love? A Virgin, whose Modesty and Virtue is so very curious,
it would fly the very word, Love, as some monstrous Witchcraft, or the
foulest of Sins, who would loath me for bringing so lewd a Message, and
banish you her Sight, as the Object of her Hate and Scorn; is it unknown
to you, how many of the noblest Youths of _Flanders_ have address’d
themselves to her in vain, when yet she was in the World? Have you been
ignorant, how the young Count de _Villenoys_ languished, in vain, almost
to Death for her? And, that no Persuasions, no Attractions in him, no
wordly Advantages, or all his Pleadings, who had a Wit and Spirit
capable of prevailing on any Heart, less severe and harsh, than hers? Do
you not know, that all was lost on this insensible fair one, even when
she was a proper Object for the Adoration of the Young and Amorous? And
can you hope, now she has so entirely wedded her future days to
Devotion, and given all to Heaven; nay, lives a Life here more like a
Saint, than a Woman; rather an Angel, than a mortal Creature? Do you
imagin, with any Rhetorick you can deliver, now to turn the Heart, and
whole Nature, of this Divine Maid, to consider your Earthly Passion? No,
’tis fondness, and an injury to her Virtue, to harbour such a Thought;
quit it, quit it, my dear Brother! before it ruin your Repose.’ ‘Ah,
Sister! (replied the dejected _Henault_) your Counsel comes too late,
and your Reasons are of too feeble force, to rebate those Arrows, the
Charming _Isabella’s_ Eyes have fix’d in my Heart and Soul; and I am
undone, unless she know my Pain, which I shall dye, before I shall ever
dare mention to her; but you, young Maids, have a thousand Familiarities
together, can jest, and play, and say a thousand things between Railery
and Earnest, that may first hint what you would deliver, and insinuate
into each others Hearts a kind of Curiosity to know more; for naturally,
(my dear Sister) Maids, are curious and vain; and however Divine the
Mind of the fair _Isabella_ may be, it bears the Tincture still of
Mortal Woman.’
‘Suppose this true, how could this Mortal part about her Advantage you,
(said _Katteriena_) all that you can expect from this Discovery, (if she
should be content to hear it, and to return you pity) would be, to make
her wretched, like your self? What farther can you hope?’ ‘Oh! talk not,
(replied _Henault_) of so much Happiness! I do not expect to be so
blest, that she should pity me, or love to a degree of Inquietude; ’tis
sufficient, for the ease of my Heart, that she know its Pains, and what
it suffers for her; that she would give my Eyes leave to gaze upon her,
and my Heart to vent a Sigh now and then; and, when I dare, to give me
leave to speak, and tell her of my Passion; This, this, is all, my
Sister.’ And, at that word, the Tears glided down his Cheeks, and he
declin’d his Eyes, and set a Look so charming, and so sad, that
_Isabella_, whose Eyes were fix’d upon him, was a thousand times ready
to throw her self into the Room, and to have made a Confession, how
sensible she was of all she had heard and seen: But, with much ado, she
contain’d and satisfy’d her self, with knowing, that she was ador’d by
him whom she ador’d, and, with Prudence that is natural to her, she
withdrew, and waited with patience the event of their Discourse. She
impatiently long’d to know, how _Katteriena_ would manage this Secret
her Brother had given her, and was pleas’d, that the Friendship and
Prudence of that Maid had conceal’d her Passion from her Brother; and
now contented and joyful beyond imagination, to find her self belov’d,
she knew she could dissemble her own Passion and make him the first
Aggressor; the first that lov’d, or at least, that should seem to do so.
This Thought restores her so great a part of her Peace of Mind, that she
resolv’d to see him, and to dissemble with _Katteriena_ so far, as to
make her believe, she had subdu’d that Passion, she was really asham’d
to own; she now, with her Woman’s Skill, begins to practise an Art she
never before understood, and has recourse to Cunning, and resolves to
seem to reassume her former Repose: But hearing _Katteriena_ approach,
she laid her self again on her Bed, where she had left her, but compos’d
her Face to more chearfulness, and put on a Resolution that indeed
deceiv’d the Sister, who was extreamly pleased, she said, to see her
look so well: When _Isabella_ reply’d, ‘Yes, I am another Woman now;
I hope Heaven has heard, and granted, my long and humble Supplications,
and driven from my Heart this tormenting God, that has so long disturb’d
my purer Thoughts.’ ‘And are you sure, (said Dame _Katteriena_) that
this wanton Deity is repell’d by the noble force of your Resolutions? Is
he never to return?’ ‘No, (replied _Isabella_) never to my Heart.’ ‘Yes,
(said _Katteriena_) if you should see the lovely Murderer of your
Repose, your Wound would bleed anew.’ At this, _Isabella_ smiling with a
little Disdain, reply’d, ‘Because you once to love, and _Henault’s_
Charms defenceless found me, ah! do you think I have no Fortitude? But
so in Fondness lost, remiss in Virtue, that when I have resolv’d, (and
see it necessary for my after-Quiet) to want the power of keeping that
Resolution? No, scorn me, and despise me then, as lost to all the
Glories of my Sex, and all that Nicety I’ve hitherto preserv’d.’ There
needed no more from a Maid of _Isabella’s_ Integrity and Reputation, to
convince any one of the Sincerity of what she said, since, in the whole
course of her Life, she never could be charg’d with an Untruth, or an
Equivocation; and _Katteriena_ assur’d her, she believ’d her, and was
infinitely glad she had vanquish’d a Passion, that would have prov’d
destructive to her Repose: _Isabella_ reply’d, She had not altogether
vanquish’d her Passion, she did not boast of so absolute a power over
her soft Nature, but had resolv’d things great, and Time would work the
Cure; that she hop’d, _Katteriena_ would make such Excuses to her
Brother, for her not appearing at the _Grate_ so gay and entertaining as
she us’d, and, by a little absence, she should retrieve the Liberty she
had lost: But she desir’d, such Excuses might be made for her, that
young _Henault_ might not perceive the Reason. At the naming him, she
had much ado not to shew some Concern extraordinary, and _Katteriena_
assur’d her, She had now a very good Excuse to keep from the _Grate_,
when he was at it; ‘For, (said she) now you have resolv’d, I may tell
you, he is dying for you, raving in Love, and has this day made me
promise to him, to give you some account of his Passion, and to make you
sensible of his Languishment: I had not told you this, (reply’d
_Katteriena_) but that I believe you fortify’d with brave Resolution and
Virtue, and that this knowledge will rather put you more upon your
Guard, than you were before.’ While she spoke, she fixed her Eyes on
_Isabella_, to see what alteration it would make in her Heart and Looks;
but the Master-piece of this young Maid’s Art was shewn in this minute,
for she commanded her self so well, that her very Looks dissembled and
shew’d no concern at a Relation, that made her Soul dance with Joy; but
it was, what she was prepar’d for, or else I question her Fortitude.
But, with a Calmness, which absolutely subdu’d _Katteriena_, she
reply’d, ‘I am almost glad he has confess’d a Passion for me, and you
shall confess to him, you told me of it, and that I absent my self from
the _Grate_, on purpose to avoid the sight of a Man, who durst love me,
and confess it; and I assure you, my dear Sister! (continued she,
dissembling) You could not have advanc’d my Cure by a more effectual
way, than telling me of his Presumption.’ At that word, _Katteriena_
joyfully related to her all that had pass’d between young _Henault_ and
her self, and how he implor’d her Aid in this Amour; at the end of which
Relation, _Isabella_ smil’d, and carelesly reply’d, ‘I pity him’: And so
going to their Devotion, they had no more Discourse of the Lover.
In the mean time, young _Henault_ was a little satisfy’d, to know, his
Sister would discover his Passion to the lovely _Isabella_; and though
he dreaded the return, he was pleas’d that she should know, she had a
Lover that ador’d her, though even without hope; for though the thought
of possessing _Isabella_, was the most ravishing that could be; yet he
had a dread upon him, when he thought of it, for he could not hope to
accomplish that, without Sacrilege; and he was a young Man, very Devout,
and even bigotted in Religion; and would often question and debate
within himself, that, if it were possible, he should come to be belov’d
by this Fair Creature, and that it were possible for her, to grant all
that Youth in Love could require, whether he should receive the Blessing
offer’d? And though he ador’d the Maid, whether he should not abhor the
_Nun_ in his Embraces? ’Twas an undetermin’d Thought, that chill’d his
Fire as often as it approach’d; but he had too many that rekindled it
again with the greater Flame and Ardor.
His impatience to know, what Success _Katteriena_ had, with the Relation
she was to make to _Isabella_ in his behalf, brought him early to _Iper_
the next day. He came again to the private _Grate_, where his Sister
receiving him, and finding him, with a sad and dejected Look, expect
what she had to say; she told him, That Look well became the News she
had for him, it being such, as ought to make him, both Griev’d, and
Penitent; for, to obey him, she had so absolutely displeas’d _Isabella_,
that she was resolv’d never to believe her her Friend more, ‘Or to see
you, (said she) therefore, as you have made me commit a Crime against my
Conscience, against my Order, against my Friendship, and against my
Honour, you ought to do some brave thing; take some noble Resolution,
worthy of your Courage, to redeem all; for your Repose, I promis’d,
I would let Isabella know you lov’d, and, for the mitigation of my
Crime, you ought to let me tell her, you have surmounted your Passion,
as the last Remedy of Life and Fame.’
At these her last words, the Tears gush’d from his Eyes, and he was able
only, a good while, to sigh; at last, cry’d, ‘What! see her no more! see
the Charming _Isabella_ no more!’ And then vented the Grief of his Soul
in so passionate a manner, as his Sister had all the Compassion
imaginable for him, but thought it great Sin and Indiscretion to cherish
his Flame: So that, after a while, having heard her Counsel, he reply’d,
‘And is this all, my Sister, you will do to save a Brother?’ ‘All!
(reply’d she) I would not be the occasion of making a _NUN_ violate her
Vow, to save a Brother’s Life, no, nor my own; assure your self of this,
and take it as my last Resolution: Therefore, if you will be content
with the Friendship of this young Lady, and so behave your self, that we
may find no longer the Lover in the Friend, we shall reassume our former
Conversation, and live with you, as we ought; otherwise, your Presence
will continually banish her from the _Grate_, and, in time, make both
her you love, and your self, a Town Discourse.’
Much more to this purpose she said, to dissuade him, and bid him retire,
and keep himself from thence, till he could resolve to visit them
without a Crime; and she protested, if he did not do this, and master
his foolish Passion, she would let her Father understand his Conduct,
who was a Man of temper so very precise, that should he believe, his Son
should have a thought of Love to a Virgin vow’d to Heaven, he would
abandon him to Shame, and eternal Poverty, by disinheriting him of all
he could: Therefore, she said, he ought to lay all this to his Heart,
and weigh it with his unheedy Passion. While the Sister talk’d thus
wisely, _Henault_ was not without his Thoughts, but consider’d as she
spoke, but did not consider in the right place; he was not considering,
how to please a Father, and save an Estate, but how to manage the matter
so, to establish himself, as he was before with _Isabella_; for he
imagin’d, since already she knew his Passion, and that if after that she
would be prevail’d with to see him, he might, some lucky Minute or
other, have the pleasure of speaking for himself, at least, he should
again see and talk to her, which was a joyful Thought in the midst of so
many dreadful ones: And, as if he had known what pass’d in _Isabella’s_
Heart, he, by a strange sympathy, took the same measures to deceive
_Katteriena_, a well-meaning young Lady, and easily impos’d on from her
own Innocence, he resolv’d to dissemble Patience, since he must have
that Virtue, and own’d, his Sister’s Reasons were just, and ought to be
persu’d; that she had argu’d him into half his Peace, and that he would
endeavour to recover the rest; that Youth ought to be pardon’d a
thousand Failings, and Years would reduce him to a condition of laughing
at his Follies of Youth, but that grave Direction was not yet arriv’d:
And so desiring, she would pray for his Conversion, and that she would
recommend him to the Devotions of the Fair _Isabella_, he took his
leave, and came no more to the _Nunnery_ in ten Days; in all which time,
none but Impatient Lovers can guess, what Pain and Languishments
_Isabella_ suffer’d, not knowing the Cause of his Absence, nor daring to
enquire; but she bore it out so admirably, that Dame _Katteriena_ never
so much as suspected she had any Thoughts of that nature that perplex’d
her, and now believ’d indeed she had conquer’d all her Uneasiness: And
one day, when _Isabella_ and she were alone together, she ask’d that
fair Dissembler, if she did not admire at the Conduct and Resolution of
her Brother? ‘Why!’ (reply’d _Isabella_ unconcernedly, while her Heart
was fainting within, for fear of ill News:) With that, _Katteriena_ told
her the last Discourse she had with her Brother, and how at last she had
persuaded him (for her sake) to quit his Passion; and that he had
promis’d, he would endeavour to surmount it; and that, that was the
reason he was absent now, and they were to see him no more, till he had
made a Conquest over himself. You may assure your self, this News was
not so welcom to _Isabella_, as _Katteriena_ imagin’d; yet still she
dissembled, with a force, beyond what the most cunning Practitioner
could have shewn, and carry’d her self before People, as if no Pressures
had lain upon her Heart; but when alone retir’d, in order to her
Devotion, she would vent her Griefs in the most deplorable manner, that
a distress’d distracted Maid could do, and which, in spite of all her
severe Penances, she found no abatement of.
At last _Henault_ came again to the _Monastery_, and, with a Look as gay
as he could possibly assume, he saw his Sister, and told her, He had
gain’d an absolute Victory over his Heart; and desir’d, he might see
_Isabella_, only to convince, both her, and _Katteriena_, that he was no
longer a Lover of that fair Creature, that had so lately charm’d him;
that he had set Five thousand Pounds a Year, against a fruitless
Passion, and found the solid Gold much the heavier in the Scale: And he
smil’d, and talk’d the whole Day of indifferent things, with his Sister,
and ask’d no more for _Isabella_; nor did _Isabella_ look, or ask, after
him, but in her Heart. Two Months pass’d in this Indifference, till it
was taken notice of, that Sister _Isabella_ came not to the _Grate_,
when _Henault_ was there, as she us’d to do; this being spoken to Dame
_Katteriena_, she told it to _Isabella_, and said, ‘The _NUNS_ would
believe, there was some Cause for her Absence, if she did not appear
again’: That if she could trust her Heart, she was sure she could trust
her Brother, for he thought no more of her, she was confident; this, in
lieu of pleasing, was a Dagger to the Heart of _Isabella_, who thought
it time to retrieve the flying Lover, and therefore told _Katteriena_,
She would the next Day entertain at the Low _Grate_, as she was wont to
do, and accordingly, as soon as any People of Quality came, she appear’d
there, where she had not been two Minutes, but she saw the lovely
_Henault_, and it was well for both, that People were in the Room, they
had else both sufficiently discover’d their Inclinations, or rather
their not to be conceal’d Passions; after the General Conversation was
over, by the going away of the Gentlemen that were at the _Grate_,
_Katteriena_ being employ’d elsewhere, _Isabella_ was at last left alone
with _Henault_; but who can guess the Confusion of these two Lovers, who
wish’d, yet fear’d, to know each others Thoughts? She trembling with a
dismal Apprehension, that he lov’d no more; and he almost dying with
fear, she should Reproach or Upbraid him with his Presumption; so that
both being possess’d with equal Sentiments of Love, Fear, and Shame,
they both stood fix’d with dejected Looks and Hearts, that heav’d with
stifled Sighs. At last, _Isabella_, the softer and tender-hearted of the
two, tho’ not the most a Lover perhaps, not being able to contain her
Love any longer within the bounds of Dissimulation or Discretion, being
by Nature innocent, burst out into Tears, and all fainting with pressing
Thoughts within, she fell languishly into a Chair that stood there,
while the distracted _Henault_, who could not come to her Assistance,
and finding Marks of Love, rather than Anger or Disdain, in that
Confusion of _Isabella’s_, throwing himself on his Knees at the _Grate_,
implor’d her to behold him, to hear him, and to pardon him, who dy’d
every moment for her, and who ador’d her with a violent Ardor; but yet,
with such an one, as should (tho’ he perish’d with it) be conformable to
her Commands; and as he spoke, the Tears stream’d down his dying Eyes,
that beheld her with all the tender Regard that ever Lover was capable
of; she recover’d a little, and turn’d her too beautiful Face to him,
and pierc’d him with a Look, that darted a thousand Joys and Flames into
his Heart, with Eyes, that told him her Heart was burning and dying for
him; for which Assurances, he made Ten thousand Asseverations of his
never-dying Passion, and expressing as many Raptures and Excesses of
Joy, to find her Eyes and Looks confess, he was not odious to her, and
that the knowledge he was her Lover, did not make her hate him: In fine,
he spoke so many things all soft and moving, and so well convinc’d her
of his Passion, that she at last was compell’d by a mighty force,
absolutely irresistible, to speak.
‘Sir, (said she) perhaps you will wonder, where I, a Maid, brought up in
the simplicity of Virtue, should learn the Confidence, not only to hear
of Love from you, but to confess I am sensible of the most violent of
its Pain my self; and I wonder, and am amazed at my own Daring, that I
should have the Courage, rather to speak, than dye, and bury it in
silence; but such is my Fate. Hurried by an unknown Force, which I have
endeavoured always, in vain, to resist, I am compell’d to tell you,
I love you, and have done so from the first moment I saw you; and you
are the only Man born to give me Life or Death, to make me Happy or
Blest; perhaps, had I not been confin’d, and, as it were, utterly forbid
by my Vow, as well as my Modesty, to tell you this, I should not have
been so miserable to have fallen thus low, as to have confess’d my
Shame; but our Opportunities of Speaking are so few, and Letters so
impossible to be sent without discovery, that perhaps this is the only
time I shall ever have to speak with you alone.’ And, at that word the
Tears flow’d abundantly from her Eyes, and gave _Henault_ leave to
speak. ‘Ah Madam! (said he) do not, as soon as you have rais’d me to the
greatest Happiness in the World, throw me with one word beneath your
Scorn, much easier ’tis to dye, and know I am lov’d, than never, never,
hope to hear that blessed sound again from that beautiful Mouth: Ah,
Madam! rather let me make use of this one opportunity our happy Luck has
given us, and contrive how we may for ever see, and speak, to each
other; let us assure one another, there are a thousand ways to escape a
place so rigid, as denies us that Happiness; and denies the fairest Maid
in the World, the privilege of her Creation, and the end to which she
was form’d so Angelical.’ And seeing _Isabella_ was going to speak, lest
she should say something, that might dissuade from an Attempt so
dangerous and wicked, he persu’d to tell her, it might be indeed the
last moment Heaven would give ’em, and besought her to answer him what
he implor’d, whether she would fly with him from the _Monastery_? At
this Word, she grew pale, and started, as at some dreadful Sound, and
cry’d, ‘Hah! what is’t you say? Is it possible, you should propose a
thing so wicked? And can it enter into your Imagination, because I have
so far forget my Virtue, and my Vow, to become a Lover, I should
therefore fall to so wretched a degree of Infamy and Reprobation? No,
name it to me no more, if you would see me; and if it be as you say,
a Pleasure to be belov’d by me; for I will sooner dye, than yield to
what . . . Alas! I but too well approve!’ These last words, she spoke
with a fainting Tone, and the Tears fell anew from her fair soft Eyes.
‘If it be so,’ said he, (with a Voice so languishing, it could scarce be
heard) ‘If it be so, and that you are resolv’d to try, if my Love be
eternal without Hope, without expectation of any other Joy, than seeing
and adoring you through the _Grate_; I am, and must, and will be
contented, and you shall see, I can prefer the Sighing to these cold
Irons, that separate us, before all the Possessions of the rest of the
World; that I chuse rather to lead my Life here, at this cruel Distance
from you, for ever, than before the Embrace of all the Fair; and you
shall see, how pleas’d I will be, to languish here; but as you see me
decay, (for surely so I shall) do not triumph o’re my languid Looks, and
laugh at my Pale and meager Face; but, Pitying, say, How easily I might
have preserv’d that Face, those Eyes, and all that Youth and Vigour, now
no more, from this total Ruine I now behold it in, and love your Slave
that dyes, and will be daily and visibly dying, as long as my Eyes can
gaze on that fair Object, and my Soul be fed and kept alive with her
Charming Wit and Conversation; if Love can live on such Airy Food, (tho’
rich in it self, yet unfit, alone, to sustain Life) it shall be for ever
dedicated to the lovely _ISABELLA_: But, oh! that time cannot be long!
Fate will not lend her Slave many days, who loves too violently, to be
satisfy’d to enjoy the fair Object of his Desires, no otherwise than at
a _Grate_.’
He ceas’d speaking, for Sighs and Tears stopt his Voice, and he begg’d
the liberty to sit down; and his Looks being quite alter’d, _ISABELLA_
found her self touch’d to the very Soul, with a concern the most tender,
that ever yielding Maid was oppress’d with: She had no power to suffer
him to Languish, while she by one soft word could restore him, and being
about to say a thousand things that would have been agreeable to him,
she saw herself approach’d by some of the _Nuns_, and only had time to
say, ‘If you love me, live and hope.’ The rest of the _Nuns_ began to
ask _Henault_ of News, for he always brought them all that was Novel in
the Town, and they were glad still of his Visits, above all other, for
they heard, how all Amours and Intrigues pass’d in the World, by this
young Cavalier. These last words of _Isabella’s_ were a Cordial to his
Soul, and he, from that, and to conceal the present Affair, endeavour’d
to assume all the Gaity he could, and told ’em all he could either
remember, or invent, to please ’em, tho’ he wish’d them a great way off
at that time.
Thus they pass’d the day, till it was a decent hour for him to quit the
_Grate_, and for them to draw the Curtain; all that Night did _Isabella_
dedicate to Love, she went to Bed, with a Resolution, to think over all
she had to do, and to consider, how she should manage this great Affair
of her Life: I have already said, she had try’d all that was possible in
Human Strength to perform, in the design of quitting a Passion so
injurious to her Honour and Virtue, and found no means possible to
accomplish it: She had try’d Fasting long, Praying fervently, rigid
Penances and Pains, severe Disciplines, all the Mortification, almost to
the destruction of Life it self, to conquer the unruly Flame; but still
it burnt and rag’d but the more; so, at last, she was forc’d to permit
that to conquer her, she could not conquer, and submitted to her Fate,
as a thing destin’d her by Heaven it self; and after all this
opposition, she fancy’d it was resisting even Divine Providence, to
struggle any longer with her Heart; and this being her real Belief, she
the more patiently gave way to all the Thoughts that pleas’d her.
As soon as she was laid, without discoursing (as she us’d to do) to
_Katteriena_, after they were in Bed, she pretended to be sleepy, and
turning from her, setled her self to profound Thinking, and was resolv’d
to conclude the Matter, between her Heart, and her Vow of Devotion, that
Night, and she, having no more to determine, might end the Affair
accordingly, the first opportunity she should have to speak to
_Henault_, which was, to fly, and marry him; or, to remain for ever
fix’d to her Vow of Chastity. This was the Debate; she brings Reason on
both sides: Against the first, she sets the Shame of a Violated Vow, and
considers, where she shall shew her Face after such an Action; to the
Vow, she argues, that she was born in Sin, and could not live without
it; that she was Human, and no Angel, and that, possibly, that Sin might
be as soon forgiven, as another; that since all her devout Endeavours
could not defend her from the Cause, Heaven ought to execute the Effect;
that as to shewing her Face, so she saw that of _Henault_ always turned
(Charming as it was) towards her with love; what had she to do with the
World, or car’d to behold any other?
Some times, she thought, it would be more Brave and Pious to dye, than
to break her Vow; but she soon answer’d that, as false Arguing, for
Self-Murder was the worst of Sins, and in the Deadly Number. She could,
after such an Action, live to repent, and, of two Evils, she ought to
chuse the least; she dreads to think, since she had so great a
Reputation for Virtue and Piety, both in the _Monastery_, and in the
World, what they both would say, when she should commit an Action so
contrary to both these, she posest; but, after a whole Night’s Debate,
Love was strongest, and gain’d the Victory. She never went about to
think, how she should escape, because she knew it would be easy, the
keeping of the Key of the _Monastery_, [was] often intrusted in her
keeping, and was, by turns, in the hands of many more, whose Virtue and
Discretion was Infallible, and out of Doubt; besides, her Aunt being the
Lady _Abbess_, she had greater privilege than the rest; so that she had
no more to do, she thought, than to acquaint _Henault_ with her Design,
as soon as she should get an opportunity. Which was not quickly; but, in
the mean time, _Isabella’s_ Father dy’d, which put some little stop to
our Lover’s Happiness, and gave her a short time of Grief; but Love,
who, while he is new and young, can do us Miracles, soon wip’d her Eyes,
and chas’d away all Sorrows from her Heart, and grew every day more and
more impatient, to put her new Design in Execution, being every day more
resolv’d. Her Father’s Death had remov’d one Obstacle, and secur’d her
from his Reproaches; and now she only wants Opportunity, first, to
acquaint _Henault_, and then to fly.
She waited not long, all things concurring to her desire; for
_Katteriena_ falling sick, she had the good luck, as she call’d it then,
to entertain _Henault_ at the _Grate_ oftentimes alone; the first moment
she did so, she entertain’d him with the good News, and told him, She
had at last vanquish’d her Heart in favour of him, and loving him above
all things, Honour, her Vow or Reputation, had resolv’d to abandon her
self wholly to him, to give her self up to love and serve him, and that
she had no other Consideration in the World; but _Henault_, instead of
returning her an Answer, all Joy and Satisfaction, held down his Eyes,
and Sighing, with a dejected Look, he cry’d, ‘Ah, Madam! Pity a Man so
wretched and undone, as not to be sensible of this Blessing as I ought.’
She grew pale at this Reply, and trembling, expected he would proceed:
‘’Tis not (continued he) that I want Love, tenderest Passion, and all
the desire Youth and Love can inspire; But, Oh, Madam! when I consider,
(for raving mad in Love as I am for your sake, I do consider) that if I
should take you from this Repose, Nobly Born and Educated, as you are;
and, for that Act, should find a rigid Father deprive me of all that
ought to support you, and afford your Birth, Beauty, and Merits, their
due, what would you say? How would you Reproach me?’ He sighing,
expected her Answer, when Blushes overspreading her Face, she reply’d,
in a Tone all haughty and angry, ‘Ah, _Henault_! Am I then refus’d,
after having abandon’d all things for you? Is it thus, you reward my
Sacrific’d Honour, Vows, and Virtue? Cannot you hazard the loss of
Fortune to possess _Isabella_, who loses all for you!’ Then bursting
into Tears, at her misfortune of Loving, she suffer’d him to say, ‘Oh,
Charming fair one! how industrious is your Cruelty, to find out new
Torments for an Heart, already press’d down with the Severities of Love?
Is it possible, you can make so unhappy a Construction of the tenderest
part of my Passion? And can you imagin it want of Love in me, to
consider, how I shall preserve and merit the vast Blessing Heaven has
given me? Is my Care a Crime? And would not the most deserving Beauty of
the World hate me, if I should, to preserve my Life, and satisfy the
Passion of my fond Heart, reduce her to the Extremities of Want and
Misery? And is there any thing, in what I have said, but what you ought
to take for the greatest Respect and tenderness!’ ‘Alas! (reply’d
_Isabella_ sighing) young as I am, all unskilful in Love I find, but
what I feel, that Discretion is no part of it; and Consideration,
inconsistent with the Nobler Passion, who will subsist of its own
Nature, and Love unmixed with any other Sentiment? And ’tis not pure, if
it be otherwise: I know, had I mix’d Discretion with mine, my Love must
have been less, I never thought of living, but my Love; and, if I
consider’d at all, it was, that Grandure and Magnificence were useless
Trifles to Lovers, wholly needless and troublesom. I thought of living
in some loanly Cottage, far from the noise of crowded busie Cities, to
walk with thee in Groves, and silent Shades, where I might hear no Voice
but thine; and when we had been tir’d, to sit us done by some cool
murmuring Rivulet, and be to each a World, my Monarch thou, and I thy
Sovereign Queen, while Wreaths of Flowers shall crown our happy Heads,
some fragrant Bank our Throne, and Heaven our Canopy: Thus we might
laugh at Fortune, and the Proud, despise the duller World, who place
their Joys in mighty Shew and Equipage. Alas! my Nature could not bear
it, I am unus’d to Wordly Vanities, and would boast of nothing but my
_Henault_; no Riches, but his Love; no Grandure, but his Presence.’ She
ended speaking, with Tears, and he reply’d, ‘Now, now, I find, my
_Isabella_ loves indeed, when she’s content to abandon the World for my
sake; Oh! thou hast named the only happy Life that suits my quiet
Nature, to be retir’d, has always been my Joy! But to be so with thee!
Oh! thou hast charm’d me with a Thought so dear, as has for ever
banish’d all my Care, but how to receive thy Goodness! Please think no
more what my angry Parent may do, when he shall hear, how I have
dispos’d of my self against his Will and Pleasure, but trust to Love and
Providence; no more! be gone all Thoughts, but those of _Isabella_!’
As soon as he had made an end of expressing his Joy, he fell to
consulting how, and when, she should escape; and since it was uncertain,
when she should be offer’d the Key, for she would not ask for it, she
resolv’d to give him notice, either by word of Mouth, or a bit of Paper
she would write in, and give him through the _Grate_ the first
opportunity; and, parting for that time, they both resolv’d to get up
what was possible for their Support, till Time should reconcile Affairs
and Friends, and to wait the happy hour.
_Isabella’s_ dead Mother had left Jewels, of the value of 2000_l._ to
her Daughter, at her Decease, which Jewels were in the possession, now,
of the Lady _Abbess_, and were upon Sale, to be added to the Revenue of
the _Monastery_; and as _Isabella_ was the most Prudent of her Sex, at
least, had hitherto been so esteem’d, she was intrusted with all that
was in possession of the Lady _Abbess_, and ’twas not difficult to make
her self Mistress of all her own Jewels; as also, some 3 or 400_l._ in
Gold, that was hoarded up in her Ladyship’s Cabinet, against any
Accidents that might arrive to the _Monastery_; these _Isabella_ also
made her own, and put up with the Jewels; and having acquainted
_Henault_, with the Day and Hour of her Escape, he got together what he
could, and waiting for her, with his Coach, one Night, when no body was
awake but her self, when rising softly, as she us’d to do, in the Night,
to her Devotion, she stole so dexterously out of the _Monastery_, as no
body knew any thing of it; she carry’d away the Keys with her, after
having lock’d all the Doors, for she was intrusted often with all. She
found _Henault_ waiting in his Coach, and trusted none but an honest
Coachman that lov’d him; he receiv’d her with all the Transports of a
truly ravish’d Lover, and she was infinitely charm’d with the new
Pleasure of his Embraces and Kisses.
They drove out of Town immediately, and because she durst not be seen in
that Habit, (for it had been immediate Death for both) they drove into a
Thicket some three Miles from the Town, where _Henault_ having brought
her some of his younger Sister’s Clothes, he made her put off her Habit,
and put on those; and, rending the other, they hid them in a Sand-pit,
covered over with Broom, and went that Night forty Miles from _Iper_, to
a little Town upon the River _Rhine_, where, changing their Names, they
were forthwith married, and took a House in a Country Village, a Farm,
where they resolv’d to live retir’d, by the name of _Beroone_, and drove
a Farming Trade; however, not forgetting to set Friends and Engines at
work, to get their Pardon, as Criminals, first, that had trangress’d the
Law; and, next, as disobedient Persons, who had done contrary to the
Will and Desire of their Parents: _Isabella_ writ to her Aunt the most
moving Letters in the World, so did _Henault_ to his Father; but she was
a long time, before she could gain so much as an answer from her Aunt,
and _Henault_ was so unhappy, as never to gain one from his Father; who
no sooner heard the News that was spread over all the Town and Country,
that young _Henault_ was fled with the so fam’d _Isabella_, a _Nun_, and
singular for Devotion and Piety of Life, but he immediately setled his
Estate on his younger Son, cutting _Henault_ off with all his
Birthright, which was 5000_l._ a Year. This News, you may believe, was
not very pleasing to the young Man, who tho’ in possession of the
loveliest Virgin, and now Wife, that ever Man was bless’d with; yet when
he reflected, he should have children by her, and these and she should
come to want, (he having been magnificently Educated, and impatient of
scanty Fortune) he laid it to Heart, and it gave him a thousand
Uneasinesses in the midst of unspeakable Joys; and the more be strove to
hide his Sentiments from _Isabella_, the more tormenting it was within;
he durst not name it to her, so insuperable a Grief it would cause in
her, to hear him complain; and tho’ she could live hardly, as being bred
to a devout and severe Life, he could not, but must let the Man of
Quality shew it self; even in the disguise of an humbler Farmer: Besides
all this, he found nothing of his Industry thrive, his Cattel still dy’d
in the midst of those that were in full Vigour and Health of other
Peoples; his Crops of Wheat and Barly, and other Grain, tho’ manag’d by
able and knowing Husbandmen, were all, either Mildew’d, or Blasted, or
some Misfortune still arriv’d to him; his Coach-Horses would fight and
kill one another, his Barns sometimes be fir’d; so that it became a
Proverb all over the Country, if any ill Luck had arriv’d to any body,
they would say, ‘They had Monsieur _BEROONE’S_ Luck.’ All these
Reflections did but add to his Melancholy, and he grew at last to be in
some want, insomuch, that _Isabella_, who had by her frequent Letters,
and submissive Supplications, to her Aunt, (who lov’d her tenderly)
obtain’d her Pardon, and her Blessing; she now press’d her for some
Money, and besought her to consider, how great a Fortune she had brought
to the _Monastery_, and implor’d, she would allow her some Sallary out
of it, for she had been marry’d two Years, and most of what she had was
exhausted. The Aunt, who found, that what was done, could not be undone,
did, from time to time, supply her so, as one might have liv’d very
decently on that very Revenue; but that would not satisfy the great
Heart of _Henault_. He was now about three and twenty Years old, and
_Isabella_ about eighteen, too young, and too lovely a Pair, to begin
their Misfortunes so soon; they were both the most Just and Pious in the
World; they were Examples of Goodness, and Eminent for Holy Living, and
for perfect Loving, and yet nothing thriv’d they undertook; they had no
Children, and all their Joy was in each other; at last, one good Fortune
arriv’d to them, by the Solicitations of the Lady _Abbess_, and the
_Bishop_, who was her near Kinsman, they got a Pardon for _Isabella’s_
quitting the _Monastery_, and marrying, so that she might now return
to her own Country again. _Henault_ having also his Pardon, they
immediately quit the place, where they had remain’d for two Years, and
came again into _Flanders_, hoping, the change of place might afford ’em
better Luck.
_Henault_ then began again to solicit his Cruel Father, but nothing
would do, he refus’d to see him, or to receive any Letters from him;
but, at last, he prevail’d so far with him, as that he sent a Kinsman to
him, to assure him, if he would leave his Wife, and go into the _French_
Campagn, he would Equip him as well as his Quality requir’d, and that,
according as he behav’d himself, he should gain his Favour; but if he
liv’d Idly at home, giving up his Youth and Glory to lazy Love, he would
have no more to say to him, but race him out of his Heart, and out of
his Memory.
He had setled himself in a very pretty House, furnished with what was
fitting for the Reception of any Body of Quality that would live a
private Life, and they found all the Respect that their Merits deserv’d
from all the World, every body entirely loving and endeavouring to serve
them; and _Isabella_ so perfectly had the Ascendent over her Aunt’s
Heart, that she procur’d from her all that she could desire, and much
more than she could expect. She was perpetually progging and saving all
that she could, to enrich and advance her, and, at last, pardoning and
forgiving _Henault_, lov’d him as her own Child; so that all things
look’d with a better Face than before, and never was so dear and fond a
Couple seen, as _Henault_ and _Isabella_; but, at last, she prov’d with
Child, and the Aunt, who might reasonably believe, so young a Couple
would have a great many Children, and foreseeing there was no Provision
likely to be made them, unless he pleas’d his Father, for if the Aunt
should chance to dye, all their Hope was gone; she therefore daily
solicited him to obey his Father, and go to the Camp; and that having
atchiev’d Fame and Renown, he would return a Favourite to his Father,
and Comfort to his Wife: After she had solicited in vain, for he was not
able to endure the thought of leaving _Isabella_, melancholy as he was
with his ill Fortune; the _Bishop_, kinsman to _Isabella_, took him to
task, and urg’d his Youth and Birth, and that he ought not to wast both
without Action, when all the World was employ’d; and, that since his
Father had so great a desire he should go into a Campagn, either to
serve the _Venetian_ against the _Turks_, or into the _French_ Service,
which he lik’d best; he besought him to think of it; and since he had
satisfy’d his Love, he should and ought to satisfy his Duty, it being
absolutely necessary for the wiping off the Stain of his Sacrilege, and
to gain him the favour of Heaven, which, he found, had hitherto been
averse to all he had undertaken: In fine, all his Friends, and all who
lov’d him, joyn’d in this Design, and all thought it convenient, nor was
he insensible of the Advantage it might bring him; but Love, which every
day grew fonder and fonder in his Heart, oppos’d all their Reasonings,
tho’ he saw all the Brave Youth of the Age preparing to go, either to
one Army, or the other.
At last, he lets _Isabella_ know, what Propositions he had made him,
both by his Father, and his Relations; at the very first Motion, she
almost fainted in his Arms, while he was speaking, and it possess’d her
with so intire a Grief, that she miscarry’d, to the insupportable
Torment of her tender Husband and Lover, so that, to re-establish her
Repose, he was forc’d to promise not to go; however, she consider’d all
their Circumstances, and weigh’d the Advantages that might redound both
to his Honour and Fortune, by it; and, in a matter of a Month’s time,
with the Persuasions and Reasons of her Friends, she suffer’d him to
resolve upon going, her self determining to retire to the _Monastery_,
till the time of his Return; but when she nam’d the _Monastery_, he grew
pale and disorder’d, and obliged her to promise him, not to enter into
it any more, for fear they should never suffer her to come forth again;
so that he resolv’d not to depart, till she had made a Vow to him, never
to go again within the Walls of a Religious House, which had already
been so fatal to them. She promis’d, and he believ’d.
_Henault_, at last, overcame his Heart, which pleaded so for his Stay,
and sent his Father word, he was ready to obey him, and to carry the
first Efforts of his Arms against the common Foes of Christendom, the
_Turks_; his Father was very well pleas’d at this, and sent him Two
thousand Crowns, his Horses and Furniture sutable to his Quality, and a
Man to wait on him; so that it was not long e’re he got himself in order
to be gone, after a dismal parting.
He made what hast he could to the _French_ Army, then under the Command
of the Monsignior, the Duke of _Beaufort_, then at _Candia_, and put
himself a Voluntier under his Conduct; in which Station was _Villenoys_,
who, you have already heard, was so passionate a Lover of _Isabella_,
who no sooner heard of _Henault’s_ being arriv’d, and that he was
Husband to _Isabella_, but he was impatient to learn, by what strange
Adventure he came to gain her, even from her Vow’d Retreat, when he,
with all his Courtship, could not be so happy, tho’ she was then free in
the World, and Unvow’d to Heaven.
As soon as he sent his Name to _Henault_, he was sent for up, for
_Henault_ had heard of _Villenoys_, and that he had been a Lover of
_Isabella_; they receiv’d one another with all the endearing Civility
imaginable for the aforesaid Reason, and for that he was his
Country-man, tho’ unknown to him, _Villenoys_ being gone to the Army,
just as _Henault_ came from the _Jesuits_ College. A great deal of
Endearment pass’d between them, and they became, from that moment, like
two sworn Brothers, and he receiv’d the whole Relation from _Henault_,
of his Amour.
It was not long before the Siege began anew, for he arriv’d at the
beginning of the Spring, and, as soon as he came, almost, they fell to
Action; and it happen’d upon a day, that a Party of some Four hundred
Men resolv’d to sally out upon the Enemy, as, when ever they could, they
did; but as it is not my business to relate the History of the War,
being wholly unacquainted with the Terms of Battels, I shall only say,
That these Men were led by _Villenoys_, and that _Henault_ would
accompany him in this Sally, and that they acted very Noble, and great
Things, worthy of a Memory in the History of that Siege; but this day,
particularly, they had an occasion to shew their Valour, which they did
very much to their Glory; but, venturing too far, they were ambush’d, in
the persuit of the Party of the Enemies, and being surrounded,
_Villenoys_ had the unhappiness to see his gallant Friend fall, fighting
and dealing of Wounds around him, even as he descended to the Earth, for
he fell from his Horse at the same moment that he kill’d a _Turk_; and
_Villenoys_ could neither assist him, nor had he the satisfaction to be
able to rescue his dead Body from under the Horses, but, with much ado,
escaping with his own Life, got away, in spite of all that follow’d him,
and recover’d the Town, before they could overtake him: He passionately
bewail’d the Loss of this brave young Man, and offer’d any Recompence to
those, that would have ventur’d to have search’d for his dead Body among
the Slain; but it was not fit to hazard the Living, for unnecessary
Services to the Dead; and tho’ he had a great mind to have Interr’d him,
he rested content with what he wish’d to pay his Friends Memory, tho’ he
could not: So that all the Service now he could do him, was, to write to
_Isabella_, to whom he had not writ, tho’ commanded by her so to do, in
three Years before, which was never since she took Orders. He gave her
an Account of the Death of her Husband, and how Gloriously he fell
fighting for the Holy Cross, and how much Honour he had won, if it had
been his Fate to have outliv’d that great, but unfortunate, Day, where,
with 400 Men, they had kill’d 1500 of the Enemy. The General _Beaufort_
himself had so great a Respect and Esteem for this young Man, and
knowing him to be of Quality, that he did him the honour to bemoan him,
and to send a Condoling Letter to _Isabella_, how much worth her Esteem
he dy’d, and that he had Eterniz’d his Memory with the last Gasp of his
Life.
When this News arriv’d, it may be easily imagin’d, what Impressions, or
rather Ruins, it made in the Heart of this fair Mourner; the Letters
came by his Man, who saw him fall in Battel, and came off with those few
that escap’d with _Villenoys_; he brought back what Money he had, a few
Jewels, with _Isabella’s_ Picture that he carry’d with him and had left
in his Chamber in the Fort at _Candia_, for fear of breaking it in
Action. And now _Isabella’s_ Sorrow grew to the Extremity, she thought,
she could not suffer more than she did by his Absence, but she now found
a Grief more killing; she hung her Chamber with Black, and liv’d without
the Light of Day: Only Wax Lights, that let her behold the Picture of
this Charming Man, before which she sacrific’d Floods of Tears. He had
now been absent about ten Months, and she had learnt just to live
without him, but Hope preserv’d her then; but now she had nothing, for
which to wish to live. She, for about two Months after the News arriv’d,
liv’d without seeing any Creature but a young Maid, that was her Woman;
but extream Importunity oblig’d her to give way to the Visits of her
Friends, who endeavour’d to restore her Melancholy Soul to its wonted
Easiness; for, however it was oppress’d within, by _Henault’s_ Absence,
she bore it off with a modest Chearfulness; but now she found, that
Fortitude and Virtue fail’d her, when she was assur’d, he was no more:
She continu’d thus Mourning, and thus inclos’d, the space of a whole
Year, never suffering the Visit of any Man, but of a near Relation; so
that she acquir’d a Reputation, such as never any young Beauty had, for
she was now but Nineteen, and her Face and Shape more excellent than
ever; she daily increas’d in Beauty, which, joyn’d to her Exemplary
Piety, Charity, and all other excellent Qualities, gain’d her a
wonderous Fame, and begat an Awe and Reverence in all that heard of her,
and there was no Man of any Quality, that did not Adore her. After her
Year was up, she went to the Churches, but would never be seen any where
else abroad, but that was enough to procure her a thousand Lovers; and
some, who had the boldness to send her Letters, which, if she receiv’d,
she gave no Answer to, and many she sent back unread and unseal’d: So
that she would encourage none, tho’ their Quality was far beyond what
she could hope; but she was resolv’d to marry no more, however her
Fortune might require it.
It happen’d, that, about this time, _Candia_ being unfortunately taken
by the _Turks_, all the brave Men that escap’d the Sword, return’d,
among them, _Villenoys_, who no sooner arriv’d, but he sent to let
_Isabella_ know of it, and to beg the Honour of waiting on her; desirous
to learn what Fate befel her dear Lord, she suffer’d him to visit her,
where he found her, in her Mourning, a thousand times more Fair,
(at least, he fancy’d so) than ever she appear’d to be; so that if he
lov’d her before, he now ador’d her; if he burnt then, he rages now; but
the awful Sadness, and soft Languishment of her Eyes, hinder’d him from
the presumption of speaking of his Passion to her, tho’ it would have
been no new thing; and his first Visit was spent in the Relation of
every Circumstance of _Henault’s_ Death; and, at his going away, he
begg’d leave to visit her sometimes, and she gave him permission: He
lost no time, but made use of the Liberty she had given him; and when
his Sister, who was a great Companion of _Isabella’s_, went to see her,
he would still wait on her; so that, either with his own Visits, and
those of his Sister’s, he saw _Isabella_ every day, and had the good
luck to see, he diverted her, by giving her Relations of Transactions of
the Siege, and the Customs and Manners of the _Turks_: All he said, was
with so good a Grace, that he render’d every thing agreeable; he was,
besides, very Beautiful, well made, of Quality and Fortune, and fit to
inspire Love.
He made his Visits so often, and so long, that, at last, he took the
Courage to speak of his Passion, which, at first, _Isabella_ would by no
means hear of, but, by degrees, she yielded more and more to listen to
his tender Discourse; and he liv’d thus with her two Years, before he
could gain any more upon her Heart, than to suffer him to speak of Love
to her; but that, which subdu’d her quite was, That her Aunt, the Lady
_Abbess_, dy’d, and with her, all the Hopes and Fortune of _Isabella_,
so that she was left with only a Charming Face and Meen, a Virtue, and a
Discretion above her Sex, to make her Fortune within the World; into a
Religious House, she was resolv’d not to go, because her Heart deceiv’d
her once, and she durst not trust it again, whatever it promis’d.
The death of this Lady made her look more favourably on _Villenoys_; but
yet, she was resolv’d to try his Love to the utmost, and keep him off,
as long as ’twas possible she could subsist, and ’twas for Interest she
married again, tho’ she lik’d the Person very well; and since she was
forc’d to submit her self to be a second time a Wife, she thought, she
could live better with _Villenoys_, than any other, since for him she
ever had a great Esteem; and fancy’d the Hand of Heaven had pointed out
her Destiny, which she could not avoid, without a Crime.
So that when she was again importun’d by her impatient Lover, she told
him, She had made a Vow to remain three Years, at least, before she
would marry again, after the Death of the best of Men and Husbands, and
him who had the Fruits of her early Heart; and, notwithstanding all the
Solicitations of _Villenoys_, she would not consent to marry him, till
her Vow of Widowhood was expir’d.
He took her promise, which he urg’d her to give him, and to shew the
height of his Passion in his obedience; he condescends to stay her
appointed time, tho’ he saw her every day, and all his Friends and
Relations made her Visits upon this new account, and there was nothing
talk’d on, but this design’d Wedding, which, when the time was expir’d,
was perform’d accordingly with great Pomp and Magnificence, for
_Villenoys_ had no Parents to hinder his Design; or if he had, the
Reputation and Virtue of this Lady would have subdu’d them.
The Marriage was celebrated in this House, where she liv’d ever since
her Return from _Germany_, from the time she got her Pardon; and when
_Villenoys_ was preparing all things in a more magnificent Order at his
Villa, some ten Miles from the City, she was very melancholy, and would
often say, She had been us’d to such profound Retreat, and to live
without the fatigue of Noise and Equipage, that, she fear’d, she should
never endure that Grandeur, which was proper for his Quality; and tho’
the House, in the Country, was the most beautifully Situated in all
_Flanders_, she was afraid of a numerous Train, and kept him, for the
most part, in this pretty City Mansion, which he Adorn’d and Enlarg’d,
as much as she would give him leave; so that there wanted nothing, to
make this House fit to receive the People of the greatest Quality,
little as it was: But all the Servants and Footmen, all but one _Valet_,
and the Maid, were lodg’d abroad, for _Isabella_, not much us’d to the
sight of Men about her, suffer’d them as seldom as possible, to come in
her Presence, so that she liv’d more like a _Nun_ still, than a Lady of
the World; and very rarely any Maids came about her, but _Maria_, who
had always permission to come, when ever she pleas’d, unless forbidden.
As _Villenoys_ had the most tender and violent Passion for his Wife, in
the World, he suffer’d her to be pleas’d at any rate, and to live in
what Method she best lik’d, and was infinitely satisfy’d with the
Austerity and manner of her Conduct, since in his Arms, and alone, with
him, she wanted nothing that could Charm; so that she was esteemed the
fairest and best of Wives, and he the most happy of all Mankind. When
she would go abroad, she had her Coaches Rich and Gay, and her Livery
ready to attend her in all the Splendour imaginable; and he was always
buying one rich Jewel, or Necklace, or some great Rarity or other, that
might please her; so that there was nothing her Soul could desire, which
it had not, except the Assurance of Eternal Happiness, which she
labour’d incessantly to gain. She had no Discontent, but because she was
not bless’d with a Child; but she submits to the pleasure of Heaven, and
endeavour’d, by her good Works, and her Charity, to make the Poor her
Children, and was ever doing Acts of Virtue, to make the Proverb good,
_That more are the Children of the Barren, than the Fruitful Woman_. She
liv’d in this Tranquility, belov’d by all, for the space of five Years,
and Time (and perpetual Obligations from _Villenoys_, who was the most
indulgent and indearing Man in the World) had almost worn out of her
Heart the Thought of _Henault_, or if she remember’d him, it was in her
Prayers, or sometimes with a short sigh, and no more, tho’ it was a
great while, before she could subdue her Heart to that Calmness; but she
was prudent, and wisely bent all her Endeavours to please, oblige, and
caress, the deserving Living, and to strive all she could, to forget the
unhappy Dead, since it could not but redound to the disturbance of her
Repose, to think of him; so that she had now transferr’d all that
Tenderness she had for him, to _Villenoys_.
_Villenoys_, of all Diversions, lov’d Hunting, and kept, at his Country
House, a very famous Pack of Dogs, which he us’d to lend, sometimes, to
a young Lord, who was his dear Friend, and his Neighbour in the Country,
who would often take them, and be out two or three days together, where
he heard of Game, and oftentimes _Villenoys_ and he would be a whole
Week at a time exercising in this Sport, for there was no Game near at
hand. This young Lord had sent him a Letter, to invite him fifteen Miles
farther than his own _Villa_, to hunt, and appointed to meet him at his
Country House, in order to go in search of this promis’d Game; So that
_Villenoys_ got about a Week’s Provision, of what Necessaries he thought
he should want in that time; and taking only his _Valet_, who lov’d the
Sport, he left _Isabella_ for a Week to her Devotion, and her other
innocent Diversions of fine Work, at which she was Excellent, and left
the Town to go meet this young Challenger.
When _Villenoys_ was at any time out, it was the custom of _Isabella_ to
retire to her Chamber, and to receive no Visits, not even the Ladies, so
absolutely she devoted her self to her Husband: All the first day she
pass’d over in this manner, and Evening being come, she order’d her
Supper to be brought to her Chamber, and, because it was Washing-day the
next day, she order’d all her Maids to go very early to Bed, that they
might be up betimes, and to leave only _Maria_ to attend her; which was
accordingly done. This _Maria_ was a young Maid, that was very discreet,
and, of all things in the World, lov’d her Lady, whom she had liv’d
with, ever since she came from the _Monastery_.
When all were in Bed, and the little light Supper just carry’d up to the
Lady, and only, as I said, _Maria_ attending, some body knock’d at the
Gate, it being about Nine of the Clock at Night; so _Maria_ snatching up
a Candle, went to the Gate, to see who it might be; when she open’d the
Door, she found a Man in a very odd Habit, and a worse Countenance, and
asking, Who he would speak with? He told her, Her Lady: My Lady (reply’d
_Maria_) does not use to receive Visits at this hour; Pray, what is your
Business? He reply’d, That which I will deliver only to your Lady, and
that she may give me Admittance, pray, deliver her this Ring: And
pulling off a small Ring, with _Isabella’s_ Name and Hair in it, he gave
it _Maria_, who, shutting the Gate upon him, went in with the Ring; as
soon as _Isabella_ saw it, she was ready to swound on the Chair where
she sate, and cry’d, Where had you this? _Maria_ reply’d, An old rusty
Fellow at the Gate gave it me, and desired, it might be his Pasport to
you; I ask’d his Name, but he said, You knew him not, but he had great
News to tell you. _Isabella_ reply’d, (almost swounding again) Oh,
_Maria!_ I am ruin’d. The Maid, all this while, knew not what she meant,
nor, that that was a Ring given to _Henault_ by her Mistress, but
endeavouring to recover her, only ask’d her, What she should say to the
old Messenger? _Isabella_ bid her bring him up to her, (she had scarce
Life to utter these last words) and before she was well recover’d,
_Maria_ enter’d with the Man; and _Isabella_ making a Sign to her, to
depart the Room, she was left alone with him.
_Henault_ (for it was he) stood trembling and speechless before her,
giving her leisure to take a strict Survey of him; at first finding no
Feature nor Part of _Henault_ about him, her Fears began to lessen, and
she hop’d, it was not he, as her first Apprehensions had suggested; when
he (with the Tears of Joy standing in his Eyes, and not daring suddenly
to approach her, for fear of encreasing that Disorder he saw in her pale
Face) began to speak to her, and cry’d, Fair Creature! is there no
Remains of your _Henault_ left in this Face of mine, all o’regrown with
Hair? Nothing in these Eyes, sunk with eight Years Absence from you, and
Sorrows? Nothing in this Shape, bow’d with Labour and Griefs, that can
inform you? I was once that happy Man you lov’d! At these words, Tears
stop’d his Speech, and _Isabella_ kept them Company, for yet she wanted
Words. Shame and Confusion fill’d her Soul, and she was not able to lift
her Eyes up, to consider the Face of him, whose Voice she knew so
perfectly well. In one moment, she run over a thousand Thoughts. She
finds, by his Return, she is not only expos’d to all the Shame
imaginable; to all the Upbraiding, on his part, when he shall know she
is marry’d to another; but all the Fury and Rage of _Villenoys_, and the
Scorn of the Town, who will look on her as an Adulteress: She sees
_Henault_ poor, and knew, she must fall from all the Glory and
Tranquility she had for five happy Years triumph’d in; in which time,
she had known no Sorrow, or Care, tho’ she had endur’d a thousand with
_Henault_. She dyes, to think, however, that he should know, she had
been so lightly in Love with him, to marry again; and she dyes, to
think, that _Villenoys_ must see her again in the Arms of _Henault_;
besides, she could not recal her Love, for Love, like Reputation, once
fled, never returns more. ’Tis impossible to love, and cease to love,
(and love another) and yet return again to the first Passion, tho’ the
Person have all the Charms, or a thousand times more than it had, when
it first conquer’d. This Mistery in Love, it may be, is not generally
known, but nothing is more certain. One may a while suffer the Flame to
languish, but there may be a reviving Spark in the Ashes, rak’d up, that
may burn anew; but when ’tis quite extinguish’d, it never returns or
rekindles.
’Twas so with the Heart of _Isabella_; had she believ’d, _Henault_ had
been living, she had lov’d to the last moment of their Lives; but, alas!
the Dead are soon forgotten, and she now lov’d only _Villenoys_.
After they had both thus silently wept, with very different sentiments,
she thought ’twas time to speak; and dissembling as well as she could,
she caress’d him in her Arms, and told him, She could not express her
Surprize and Joy for his Arrival. If she did not Embrace him heartily,
or speak so Passionately as she us’d to do, he fancy’d it her Confusion,
and his being in a condition not so fit to receive Embraces from her;
and evaded them as much as ’twas possible for him to do, in respect to
her, till he had dress’d his Face, and put himself in order; but the
Supper being just brought up, when he knock’d, she order’d him to sit
down and Eat, and he desir’d her not to let _Maria_ know who he was, to
see how long it would be, before she knew him or would call him to mind.
But _Isabella_ commanded _Maria_, to make up a Bed in such a Chamber,
without disturbing her Fellows, and dismiss’d her from waiting at Table.
The Maid admir’d, what strange, good, and joyful News, this Man had
brought her Mistress, that he was so Treated, and alone with her, which
never any Man had yet been; but she never imagin’d the Truth, and knew
her Lady’s Prudence too well, to question her Conduct. While they were
at Supper, _Isabella_ oblig’d him to tell her, How he came to be
reported Dead; of which, she receiv’d Letters, both from Monsieur
_Villenoys_, and the Duke of _Beaufort_, and by his Man the News, who
saw him Dead? He told her, That, after the Fight, of which, first, he
gave her an account, he being left among the Dead, when the Enemy came
to Plunder and strip ’em, they found, he had Life in him, and appearing
as an Eminent Person, they thought it better Booty to save me,
(continu’d he) and get my Ransom, than to strip me, and bury me among
the Dead; so they bore me off to a Tent, and recover’d me to Life; and,
after that, I was recover’d of my Wounds, and sold, by the Soldier that
had taken me, to a Spahee, who kept me a Slave, setting a great Ransom
on me, such as I was not able to pay. I writ several times, to give you,
and my Father, an account of my Misery, but receiv’d no Answer, and
endur’d seven Years of Dreadful Slavery: When I found, at last, an
opportunity to make my Escape, and from that time, resolv’d, never to
cut the Hair of this Beard, till I should either see my dearest
_Isabella_ again, or hear some News of her. All that I fear’d, was, That
she was Dead; and, at that word, he fetch’d a deep Sigh; and viewing all
things so infinitely more Magnificent than he had left ’em, or,
believ’d, she could afford; and, that she was far more Beautiful in
Person, and Rich in Dress, than when he left her: He had a thousand
Torments of Jealousie that seiz’d him, of which, he durst not make any
mention, but rather chose to wait a little, and see, whether she had
lost her Virtue: He desir’d, he might send for a Barber, to put his Face
in some handsomer Order, and more fit for the Happiness ’twas that Night
to receive; but she told him, No Dress, no Disguise, could render him
more Dear and Acceptable to her, and that to morrow was time enough, and
that his Travels had render’d him more fit for Repose, than Dressing. So
that after a little while, they had talk’d over all they had a mind to
say, all that was very indearing on his side, and as much Concern as she
could force, on hers; she conducted him to his Chamber, which was very
rich, and which gave him a very great addition of Jealousie: However, he
suffer’d her to help him to Bed, which she seem’d to do, with all the
tenderness in the World; and when she had seen him laid, she said, She
would go to her Prayers, and come to him as soon as she had done, which
being before her usual Custom, it was not a wonder to him she stay’d
long, and he, being extreamly tir’d with his Journy, fell asleep. ’Tis
true, _Isabella_ essay’d to Pray, but alas! it was in vain, she was
distracted with a thousand Thoughts what to do, which the more she
thought, the more it distracted her; she was a thousand times about to
end her Life, and, at one stroke, rid her self of the Infamy, that, she
saw, must inevitably fall upon her; but Nature was frail, and the
Tempter strong: And after a thousand Convulsions, even worse than Death
it self, she resolv’d upon the Murder of _Henault_, as the only means of
removing all the obstacles to her future Happiness; she resolv’d on
this, but after she had done so, she was seiz’d with so great Horror,
that she imagin’d, if she perform’d it, she should run Mad; and yet, if
she did not, she should be also Frantick, with the Shames and Miseries
that would befal her; and believing the Murder the least Evil, since she
could never live with him, she fix’d her Heart on that; and causing her
self to be put immediately to Bed, in her own Bed, she made _Maria_ go
to hers, and when all was still, she softly rose, and taking a Candle
with her, only in her Night-Gown and Slippers, she goes to the Bed of
the Unfortunate _Henault_, with a Penknife in her hand; but considering,
she knew not how to conceal the Blood, should she cut his Throat, she
resolves to Strangle him, or Smother him with a Pillow; that last
thought was no sooner borne, but put in Execution; and, as he soundly
slept, she smother’d him without any Noise, or so much as his Strugling:
But when she had done this dreadful Deed, and saw the dead Corps of her
once-lov’d Lord, lye Smiling (as it were) upon her, she fell into a
Swound with the Horror of the Deed, and it had been well for her she had
there dy’d; but she reviv’d again, and awaken’d to more and new Horrors,
she flyes all frighted from the Chamber, and fancies, the Phantom of her
dead Lord persues her; she runs from Room to Room, and starts and
stares, as if she saw him continually before her. Now all that was ever
Soft and Dear to her, with him, comes into her Heart, and, she finds, he
conquers anew, being Dead, who could not gain her Pity, while Living.
While she was thus flying from her Guilt, in vain, she hears one knock
with Authority at the Door: She is now more affrighted, if possible, and
knows not whither to fly for Refuge; she fancies, they are already the
Officers of Justice, and that Ten thousand Tortures and Wrecks are
fastening on her, to make her confess the horrid Murder; the knocking
increases, and so loud, that the Laundry Maids believing it to be the
Woman that us’d to call them up, and help them to Wash, rose, and,
opening the Door, let in _Villenoys_; who having been at his Country
_Villa_, and finding there a Footman, instead of his Friend, who waited
to tell him, His Master was fallen sick of the Small Pox, and could not
wait on him, he took Horse, and came back to his lovely _Isabella_; but
running up, as he us’d to do, to her Chamber, he found her not, and
seeing a Light in another Room, he went in, but found _Isabella_ flying
from him, out at another Door, with all the speed she could, he admires
at this Action, and the more, because his Maid told him Her Lady had
been a Bed a good while; he grows a little Jealous, and persues her, but
still she flies; at last he caught her in his Arms, where she fell into
a swound, but quickly recovering, he set her down in a Chair, and,
kneeling before her, implor’d to know what she ayl’d, and why she fled
from him, who ador’d her? She only fix’d a ghastly Look upon him, and
said, She was not well: ‘Oh! (said he) put not me off with such poor
Excuses, _Isabella_ never fled from me, when Ill, but came to my Arms,
and to my Bosom, to find a Cure; therefore, tell me, what’s the matter?’
At that, she fell a weeping in a most violent manner, and cry’d, She was
for ever undone: He, being mov’d with Love and Compassion, conjur’d her
to tell what she ayl’d: ‘Ah! (said she) thou and I, and all of us, are
undone!’ At this, he lost all Patience and rav’d, and cry’d, Tell me,
and tell me immediately, what’s the matter? When she saw his Face pale,
and his Eyes fierce, she fell on her knees, and cry’d, ‘Oh! you can
never Pardon me, if I should tell you, and yet, alas! I am innocent of
Ill, by all that’s good, I am.’ But her Conscience accusing her at that
word, she was silent. If thou art Innocent, said _Villenoys_, taking her
up in his Arms, and kissing her wet Face, ‘By all that’s Good, I Pardon
thee, what ever thou hast done.’ ‘Alas! (said she) Oh! but I dare not
name it, ’till you swear.’ ‘By all that’s Sacred, (reply’d he) and by
whatever Oath you can oblige me to; by my inviolable Love to thee, and
by thy own dear Self, I swear, whate’re it be, I do forgive thee;
I know, thou art too good to commit a Sin I may not with Honour,
pardon.’
With this, and hearten’d by his Caresses, she told him, That _Henault_
was return’d; and repeating to him his Escape, she said, She had put him
to Bed, and when he expected her to come, she fell on her Knees at the
Bedside, and confess’d, She was married to _Villenoys_; at that word
(said she) he fetch’d a deep Sigh or two, and presently after, with a
very little struggling, dy’d; and, yonder, he lyes still in the Bed.
After this, she wept so abundantly, that all _Villenoys_ could do, could
hardly calm her Spirits; but after, consulting what they should do in
this Affair, _Villenoys_ ask’d her, Who of the House saw him? She said,
Only _Maria_, who knew not who he was; so that, resolving to save
_Isabella’s_ Honour, which was the only Misfortune to come, _Villenoys_
himself propos’d the carrying him out to the Bridge, and throwing him
into the River, where the Stream would carry him down to the Sea, and
lose him; or, if he were found, none could know him. So _Villenoys_ took
a Candle, and went and look’d on him, and found him altogether chang’d,
that no Body would know who he was; he therefore put on his Clothes,
which was not hard for him to do, for he was scarce yet cold, and
comforting again _Isabella_, as well as he could, he went himself into
the Stable, and fetched a Sack, such as they us’d for Oats, a new Sack,
whereon stuck a great Needle, with a Pack-thread in it; this Sack he
brings into the House, and shews to _Isabella_, telling her, He would
put the Body in there, for the better convenience of carrying it on his
Back. _Isabella_ all this while said but little, but, fill’d with
Thoughts all Black and Hellish, she ponder’d within, while the Fond and
Passionate _Villenoys_ was endeavouring to hide her Shame, and to make
this an absolute Secret: She imagin’d, that could she live after a Deed
so black, _Villenoys_ would be eternal reproaching her, if not with his
Tongue, at least with his Heart, and embolden’d by one Wickedness, she
was the readier for another, and another of such a Nature, as has, in my
Opinion, far less Excuse, than the first; but when Fate begins to
afflict, she goes through stitch with her Black Work.
When _Villenoys_, who would, for the Safety of _Isabella’s_ Honour, be
the sole Actor in the disposing of this Body; and since he was Young,
Vigorous, and Strong, and able to bear it, would trust no one with the
Secret, he having put up the Body, and ty’d it fast, set it on a Chair,
turning his Back towards it, with the more conveniency to take it upon
his Back, bidding _Isabella_ give him the two Corners of the Sack in his
Hands; telling her, They must do this last office for the Dead, more, in
order to the securing their Honour and Tranquility hereafter, than for
any other Reason, and bid her be of good Courage, till he came back, for
it was not far to the Bridge, and it being the dead of the Night, he
should pass well enough. When he had the Sack on his Back, and ready to
go with it, she cry’d, Stay, my Dear, some of his Clothes hang out,
which I will put in; and with that, taking the Pack-needle with the
Thread, sew’d the Sack, with several strong Stitches, to the Collar of
_Villenoy’s_ Coat, without his perceiving it, and bid him go now; and
when you come to the Bridge, (said she) and that you are throwing him
over the Rail, (which is not above Breast high) be sure you give him a
good swing, least the Sack should hang on any thing at the side of the
Bridge, and not fall into the Stream; I’le warrant you, (said
_Villenoys_) I know how to secure his falling. And going his way with
it, Love lent him Strength, and he soon arriv’d at the Bridge; where,
turning his Back to the Rail, and heaving the Body over, he threw
himself with all his force backward, the better to swing the Body into
the River, whose weight (it being made fast to his Collar) pull’d
_Villenoys_ after it, and both the live and the dead Man falling into
the River, which, being rapid at the Bridge, soon drown’d him,
especially when so great a weight hung to his Neck; so that he dy’d,
without considering what was the occasion of his Fate.
_Isabella_ remain’d the most part of the Night sitting in her Chamber,
without going to Bed, to see what would become of her Damnable Design;
but when it was towards Morning, and she heard no News, she put herself
into Bed, but not to find Repose or Rest there, for that she thought
impossible, after so great a Barbarity as she had committed; No, (said
she) it is but just I should for ever wake, who have, in one fatal
Night, destroy’d two such Innocents. Oh! what Fate, what Destiny, is
mine? Under what cursed Planet was I born, that Heaven it self could not
divert my Ruine? It was not many Hours since I thought my self the most
happy and blest of Women, and now am fallen to the Misery of one of the
worst Fiends of Hell.
Such were her Thoughts, and such her Cryes, till the Light brought on
new Matter for Grief; for, about Ten of the Clock, News was brought,
that Two Men were found dead in the River, and that they were carry’d to
the Town-Hall, to lye there, till they were own’d: Within an hour after,
News was brought in, that one of these Unhappy Men was _Villenoys_; his
_Valet_, who, all this while, imagin’d him in Bed with his Lady, ran to
the Hall, to undeceive the People, for he knew, if his Lord were gone
out, he should have been call’d to Dress him; but finding it, as ’twas
reported, he fell a weeping, and wringing his Hands, in a most miserable
manner, he ran home with the News; where, knocking at his Lady’s Chamber
Door, and finding it fast lock’d, he almost hop’d again, he was
deceiv’d; but _Isabella_ rising, and opening the Door, _Maria_ first
enter’d weeping, with the News, and then brought the _Valet_, to testify
the fatal Truth of it. _Isabella_, tho’ it were nothing but what she
expected to hear, almost swounded in her Chair; nor did she feign it,
but felt really all the Pangs of Killing Grief; and was so alter’d with
her Night’s Watching and Grieving, that this new Sorrow look’d very
Natural in her. When she was recover’d, she asked a thousand Questions
about him, and question’d the Possibility of it; for (said she) he went
out this Morning early from me, and had no signs, in his Face, of any
Grief or Discontent. Alas! (said the _Valet_) Madam, he is not his own
Murderer, some one has done it in Revenge; and then told her, how he was
found fasten’d to a Sack, with a dead strange Man ty’d up within it; and
every body concludes, that they were both first murder’d, and then drawn
to the River, and thrown both in. At the Relation of this Strange Man,
she seem’d more amaz’d than before, and commanding the _Valet_ to go to
the Hall, and to take Order about the Coroner’s sitting on the Body of
_Villenoys_, and then to have it brought home: She called _Maria_ to
her, and, after bidding her shut the Door, she cry’d, Ah, _Maria_! I
will tell thee what my Heart imagins; but first, (said she) run to the
Chamber of the Stranger, and see, if he be still in Bed, which I fear he
is not; she did so, and brought word, he was gone; then (said she) my
Forebodings are true. When I was in Bed last night, with _Villenoys_
(and at that word, she sigh’d as if her Heart-Strings had broken) I told
him, I had lodg’d a Stranger in my House, who was by, when my first Lord
and Husband fell in Battel; and that, after the Fight, finding him yet
alive, he spoke to him, and gave him that Ring you brought me last
Night; and conjur’d him, if ever his Fortune should bring him to
_Flanders_, to see me, and give me that Ring, and tell me--(with that,
she wept, and could scarce speak) a thousand tender and endearing
things, and then dy’d in his Arms. For my dear _Henault’s_ sake (said
she) I us’d him nobly, and dismiss’d you that Night, because I was
asham’d to have any Witness of the Griefs I paid his Memory: All this I
told to _Villenoys_ whom I found disorder’d; and, after a sleepless
Night, I fancy he got up, and took this poor Man, and has occasion’d his
Death: At that, she wept anew, and _Maria_, to whom, all that her
Mistress said, was Gospel, verily believ’d it so, without examining
Reason; and _Isabella_ conjuring her, since none of the House knew of
the old Man’s being there, (for Old he appear’d to be) that she would
let it for ever be a Secret, and, to this she bound her by an Oath; so
that none knowing _Henault_, altho’ his Body was expos’d there for three
Days to Publick View: When the Coroner had Set on the Bodies, he found,
they had been first Murder’d some way or other, and then afterwards
tack’d together, and thrown into the River, they brought the Body of
_Villenoys_ home to his House, where, it being laid on a Table, all the
House infinitely bewail’d it; and _Isabella_ did nothing but swound
away, almost as fast as she recover’d Life; however, she would, to
compleat her Misery, be led to see this dreadful Victim of her Cruelty,
and, coming near the Table, the Body, whose Eyes were before close shut,
now open’d themselves wide, and fix’d them upon _Isabella_, who, giving
a great Schreek, fell down in a swound, and the Eyes clos’d again; they
had much ado to bring her to Life, but, at last, they did so, and led
her back to her Bed, where she remain’d a good while. Different Opinions
and Discourses were made, concerning the opening of the Eyes of the Dead
Man, and viewing _Isabella_; but she was a Woman of so admirable a Life
and Conversation, of so undoubted a Piety and Sanctity of Living, that
not the least Conjecture could be made, of her having a hand in it,
besides the improbability of it; yet the whole thing was a Mystery,
which, they thought, they ought to look into: But a few Days after, the
Body of _Villenoys_ being interr’d in a most magnificent manner, and, by
Will all he had, was long since setled on _Isabella_, the World, instead
of Suspecting her, Ador’d her the more, and every Body of Quality was
already hoping to be next, tho’ the fair Mourner still kept her Bed, and
Languish’d daily.
It happen’d, not long after this, there came to the Town a _French_
Gentleman, who was taken at the Siege of _Candia_, and was Fellow-Slave
with _Henault_, for seven Years, in _Turky_, and who had escap’d with
_Henault_, and came as far as _Liege_ with him, where, having some
Business and Acquaintance with a Merchant, he stay’d some time; but when
he parted with _Henault_, he ask’d him, Where he should find him in
_Flanders_? _Henault_ gave him a Note, with his Name, and Place of
Abode, if his Wife were alive; if not, to enquire at his Sister’s, or
his Father’s. This _French_ Man came at last, to the very House of
_Isabella_, enquiring for this Man, and receiv’d a strange Answer, and
was laugh’d at; He found, that was the House, and that the Lady; and
enquiring about the Town, and speaking of _Henault’s_ Return, describing
the Man, it was quickly discover’d, to be the same that was in the Sack:
He had his Friend taken up (for he was buried) and found him the same,
and, causing a _Barber_ to Trim him, when his bushy Beard was off,
a great many People remember’d him; and the _French_ Man affirming, he
went to his own Home, all _Isabella’s_ Family, and her self, were cited
before the Magistrate of Justice, where, as soon as she was accus’d, she
confess’d the whole Matter of Fact, and, without any Disorder, deliver’d
her self in the Hands of Justice, as the Murderess of two Husbands (both
belov’d) in one Night: The whole World stood amaz’d at this; who knew
her Life a Holy and Charitable Life, and how dearly and well she had
liv’d with her Husbands, and every one bewail’d her Misfortune, and she
alone was the only Person, that was not afflicted for her self; she was
Try’d, and Condemn’d to lose her Head; which Sentence, she joyfully
receiv’d, and said, Heaven, and her Judges, were too Merciful to her,
and that her Sins had deserv’d much more.
While she was in Prison, she was always at Prayers, and very Chearful
and Easie, distributing all she had amongst, and for the Use of, the
Poor of the Town, especially to the Poor Widows; exhorting daily, the
Young, and the Fair, that came perpetually to visit her, never to break
a Vow: for that was first the Ruine of her, and she never since
prosper’d, do whatever other good Deeds she could. When the day of
Execution came, she appear’d on the Scaffold all in Mourning, but with a
Meen so very Majestick and Charming, and a Face so surprizing Fair,
where no Languishment or Fear appear’d, but all Chearful as a Bride,
that she set all Hearts a flaming, even in that mortifying Minute of
Preparation for Death: She made a Speech of half an Hour long, so
Eloquent, so admirable a warning to the _Vow-Breakers_, that it was as
amazing to hear her, as it was to behold her.
After she had done with the help of _Maria_, she put off her Mourning
Vail, and, without any thing over her Face, she kneel’d down, and the
Executioner, at one Blow, sever’d her Beautiful Head from her Delicate
Body, being then in her Seven and Twentieth Year. She was generally
Lamented, and Honourably Bury’d.
_FINIS._
NOTES: The History of the Nun.
p. 262 _The Dutchess of Mazarine._ Hortense Mancini, niece of the great
Cardinal, was born at Rome in 1646. Her beauty and wit were such that
Charles II (whilst in exile) and other princes of royal blood sought her
hand. She married, however, 28 February, 1661, Armand-Charles de la
Meilleraye, said to be ‘the richest subject in Europe’. The union was
unhappy, and in 1666 she demanded a judicial separation. Fearful,
however, lest this should be refused, she fled from Paris 13 June, 1668,
and, after several years of wandering, in 1675 came to London at the
invitation of Charles II, who assigned her a pension. Her gallantries,
her friendship with Saint-Evremond, her lavish patronage of the fine
arts and literature are well known. She died at her Chelsea house in the
summer of 1699. Her end is said to have been hastened by intemperance.
Evelyn dubs her ‘the famous beauty and errant lady.’
* * * * *
* * * *
THE NUN: or, The Perjur’d Beauty.
A TRUE NOVEL.
Don _Henrique_ was a Person of great Birth, of a great Estate, of a
Bravery equal to either, of a most generous Education, but of more
Passion than Reason: He was besides of an opener and freer Temper than
generally his Countrymen are (I mean, the _Spaniards_) and always
engag’d in some Love-Intrigue or other.
One Night as he was retreating from one of those Engagements, Don
_Sebastian_, whose Sister he had abus’d with a Promise of Marriage, set
upon him at the Corner of a Street, in _Madrid_, and by the Help of
three of his Friends, design’d to have dispatch’d him on a doubtful
Embassy to the Almighty Monarch: But he receiv’d their first
Instructions with better Address than they expected, and dismiss’d his
Envoy first, killing one of Don _Sebastian’s_ Friends. Which so enrag’d
the injur’d Brother, that his Strength and Resolution seem’d to be
redoubled, and so animated his two surviving Companions, that
(doubtless) they had gain’d a dishonourable Victory, had not Don
_Antonio_ accidentally come in to the Rescue; who after a short Dispute,
kill’d one of the two who attack’d him only; whilst Don _Henrique_, with
the greatest Difficulty, defended his Life, for some Moments, against
_Sebastian_, whose Rage depriv’d him of Strength, and gave his Adversary
the unwish’d Advantage of his seeming Death, tho’ not without
bequeathing some bloody Legacies to Don _Henrique_. _Antonio_ had
receiv’d but one slight Wound in the left Arm, and his surviving
Antagonist none; who however thought it not adviseable to begin a fresh
Dispute against two, of whose Courage he had but too fatal a Proof, tho’
one of ’em was sufficiently disabled. The Conquerors, on the other Side,
politickly retreated, and quitting the Field to the Conquer’d, left the
Living to bury the Dead, if he could, or thought convenient.
As they were marching off, Don _Antonio_, who all this while knew not
whose Life he had so happily preserv’d, told his Companion in Arms, that
he thought it indispensibly necessary that he should quarter with him
that Night, for his further Preservation. To which he prudently
consented, and went, with no little Uneasiness, to his Lodgings; where
he surpriz’d _Antonio_ with the Sight of his dearest Friend. For they
had certainly the nearest Sympathy in all their Thoughts, that ever made
two brave Men unhappy: And, undoubtedly, nothing but Death, or more
fatal Love, could have divided them. However, at present, they were
united and secure.
In the mean time, Don _Sebastian’s_ Friend was just going to call Help
to carry off the Bodies, as the ---- came by; who seeing three Men lie
dead, seiz’d the fourth; who as he was about to justify himself, by
discovering one of the Authors of so much Blood-shed, was interrupted by
a Groan from his supposed dead Friend Don _Sebastian_; whom, after a
brief Account of some Part of the Matter, and the Knowledge of his
Quality, they took up, and carried to his House; where, within a few
Days, he was recovered past the Fear of Death. All this While _Henrique_
and _Antonio_ durst not appear, so much as by Night; nor could be found,
tho’ diligent and daily Search was made after the first; but upon Don
_Sebastian’s_ Recovery, the Search ceasing, they took the Advantage of
the Night, and, in Disguise, retreated to _Seville_. ’Twas there they
thought themselves most secure, where indeed they were in the greatest
Danger; for tho’ (haply) they might there have escap’d the murderous
Attempt of Don _Sebastian_, and his Friends, yet they could not there
avoid the malicious Influence of their Stars.
This City gave Birth to _Antonio_, and to the Cause of his greatest
Misfortunes, as well as of his Death. Dona _Ardelia_ was born there,
a Miracle of Beauty and Falshood. ’Twas more than a Year since Don
_Antonio_ had first seen and loved her. For ’twas impossible any Man
should do one without the other. He had had the unkind Opportunity of
speaking and conveying a Billet to her at Church; and to his greater
Misfortune, the next Time he found her there, he met with too Kind a
Return both from her Eyes and from her Hand, which privately slipt a
Paper into his; in which he found abundantly more than he expected,
directing him in that, how he should proceed, in order to carry her off
from her Father with the least Danger he could look for in such an
Attempt; since it would have been vain and fruitless to have asked her
of her Father, because their Families had been at Enmity for several
Years; tho’ _Antonio_ was as well descended as she, and had as ample a
Fortune; nor was his Person, according to his Sex, any way inferior to
her’s; and certainly, the Beauties of his Mind were more excellent,
especially if it be an Excellence to be constant.
He had made several Attempts to take Possession of her; but all prov’d
ineffectual; however, he had the good Fortune not to be known, tho’ once
or twice he narrowly escap’d with Life, bearing off his Wounds with
Difficulty.--(Alas, that the Wounds of Love should cause those of Hate!)
Upon which she was strictly confin’d to one Room, whose only Window was
towards the Garden, and that too was grated with Iron; and, once a
Month, when she went to Church, she was constantly and carefully
attended by her Father, and a Mother-in-Law, worse than a _Duegna_.
Under this miserable Confinement _Antonio_ understood she still
continued, at his Return to _Seville_, with Don _Henrique_, whom he
acquainted with his invincible Passion for her; lamenting the Severity
of her present Circumstances, that admitted of no Prospect of Relief;
which caus’d a generous Concern in Don _Henrique_, both for the
Sufferings of his Friend, and of the Lady. He proposed several Ways to
Don _Antonio_, for the Release of the fair Prisoner; but none of them
was thought practicable, or at least likely to succeed. But _Antonio_,
who (you may believe) was then more nearly engag’d, bethought himself of
an Expedient that would undoubtedly reward their Endeavours. ’Twas, that
Don _Henrique_, who was very well acquainted with _Ardelia’s_ Father,
should make him a Visit, with Pretence of begging his Consent and
Admission to make his Addresses to his Daughter; which, in all
Probability, he could not refuse to Don _Henrique’s_ Quality and Estate;
and then this Freedom of Access to her would give him the Opportunity of
delivering the Lady to his Friend. This was thought so reasonable, that
the very next Day it was put in Practice; and with so good Success, that
Don _Henrique_ was received by the Father of _Ardelia_ with the greatest
and most respectful Ceremony imaginable: And when he made the Proposal
to him of marrying his Daughter, it was embraced with a visible
Satisfaction and Joy in the Air of his Face. This their first
Conversation ended with all imaginable Content on both Sides; Don
_Henrique_ being invited by the Father to Dinner the next Day, when Dona
_Ardelia_ was to be present; who, at that Time, was said to be
indispos’d, (as ’tis very probable she was, with so close an
Imprisonment.) _Henrique_ returned to _Antonio_, and made him happy with
the Account of his Reception; which could not but have terminated in the
perfect Felicity of _Antonio_, had his Fate been just to the Merits of
his Love. The Day and Hour came which brought _Henrique_, with a private
Commission from his Friend, to _Ardelia_. He saw her;--(ah! would he had
only seen her veil’d!) and, with the first Opportunity, gave her the
Letter, which held so much Love, and so much Truth, as ought to have
preserved him in the Empire of her Heart. It contained, besides,
a Discovery of his whole Design upon her Father, for the compleating of
their Happiness; which nothing then could obstruct but her self. But
_Henrique_ had seen her; he had gaz’d, and swallowed all her Beauties at
his Eyes. How greedily his Soul drank the strong Poison in! But yet his
Honour and his Friendship were strong as ever, and bravely fought
against the Usurper Love, and got a noble Victory; at least he thought
and wish’d so. With this, and a short Answer to his Letter, _Henrique_
return’d to the longing _Antonio_; who, receiving the Paper with the
greatest Devotion, and kissing it with the greatest Zeal, open’d and
read these Words to himself:
_Don +Antonio+,_
_You have, at last, made Use of the best and only Expedient for my
Enlargement; for which I thank you, since I know it is purely the
Effect of your Love. Your Agent has a mighty Influence on my Father:
And you may assure yourself, that as you have advis’d and desir’d
me, he shall have no less on me, who am_
Your’s entirely,
And only your’s,
_ARDELIA_.
Having respectfully and tenderly kiss’d the Name, he could not chuse but
shew the _Billet_ to his Friend; who reading that Part of it which
concern’d himself, started and blush’d: Which _Antonio_ observing, was
curious to know the Cause of it. _Henrique_ told him, That he was
surpriz’d to find her express so little Love, after so long an Absence.
To which his Friend reply’d for her, That, doubtless, she had not Time
enough to attempt so great a Matter as a perfect Account of her Love;
and added, that it was Confirmation enough to him of its Continuance,
since she subscrib’d her self his entirely, and only his.--How blind is
Love! Don _Henrique_ knew how to make it bear another Meaning; which,
however, he had the Discretion to conceal. _Antonio_, who was as real in
his Friendship, as constant in his Love, ask’d him what he thought of
her Beauty? To which the other answer’d, that he thought it irresistable
to any, but to a Soul preposses’d, and nobly fortify’d with a perfect
Friendship:--Such as is thine, my _Henrique_, (added _Antonio_;) yet as
sincere and perfect as that is, I know you must, nay, I know you do love
her. As I ought to do, (reply’d _Henrique_.) Yes, yes, (return’d his
Friend) it must be so; otherwise the Sympathy which unites our Souls
would be wanting, and consequently our Friendship were in a State of
Imperfection. How industriously you would argue me into a Crime, that
would tear and destroy the Foundation of the strongest Ties of Truth and
Honour! (said _Henrique_.) But (he continu’d) I hope within a few Days,
to put it out of my Power to be guilty of so great a Sacrilege. I can’t
determine (said _Antonio_) if I knew that you lov’d one another, whether
I could easier part with my Friend, or my Mistress. Tho’ what you say,
is highly generous, (reply’d _Henrique_) yet give me Leave to urge, that
it looks like a Trial of Friendship, and argues you inclinable to
Jealousy: But, pardon me, I know it to be sincerely meant by you; and
must therefore own, that ’tis the best, because ’tis the noblest Way of
securing both your Friend and Mistress. I need not make use of any Arts
to secure me of either, (reply’d _Antonio_) but expect to enjoy ’em both
in a little Time.
_Henrique_, who was a little uneasy with a Discourse of this Nature,
diverted it, by reflecting on what had pass’d at _Madrid_, between them
two and Don _Sebastian_ and his Friends; which caus’d _Antonio_ to
bethink himself of the Danger to which he expos’d his Friend, by
appearing daily, tho’ in Disguise: For, doubtless, Don _Sebastian_ would
pursue his Revenge to the utmost Extremity. These Thoughts put him upon
desiring his Friend, for his own Sake, to hasten the Performance of his
Attempt; and accordingly, each Day Don _Henrique_ brought _Antonio_
nearer the Hopes of Happiness, while he himself was hourly sinking into
the lowest State of Misery. The last Night before the Day in which
_Antonio_ expected to be bless’d in her Love, Don _Henrique_ had a long
and fatal Conference with her about her Liberty. Being then with her
alone in an Arbour of the Garden, which Privilege he had had for some
Days; after a long Silence, and observing Don _Henrique_ in much
Disorder, by the Motion of his Eyes, which were sometimes stedfastly
fix’d on the Ground, then lifted up to her or Heaven, (for he could see
nothing more beautiful on Earth) she made use of the Privilege of her
Sex, and began the Discourse first, to this Effect:--Has any Thing
happened, Sir, since our Retreat hither, to occasion that Disorder which
is but too visible in your Face, and too dreadful in your continued
Silence? Speak, I beseech you, Sir, and let me know if I have any Way
unhappily contributed to it! No, Madam, (replyed he) my Friendship is
now likely to be the only Cause of my greatest Misery; for To-morrow I
must be guilty of an unpardonable Crime, in betraying the generous
Confidence which your noble Father has plac’d in me: To-morrow (added
he, with a piteous Sigh) I must deliver you into the Hands of one whom
your Father hates even to Death, instead of doing myself the Honour of
becoming his Son-in-law within a few Days more.--But--I will consider
and remind myself, that I give you into the Hands of my Friend; of my
Friend, that loves you better than his Life, which he has often expos’d
for your Sake; and what is more than all, to my Friend, whom you love
more than any Consideration on Earth.--And must this be done? (she
ask’d.) Is it inevitable as Fate?--Fix’d as the Laws of Nature, Madam,
(reply’d he) don’t you find the Necessity of it, _Ardelia_? (continued
he, by Way of Question:) Does not your Love require it? Think, you are
going to your dear _Antonio_, who alone can merit you, and whom only you
can love. Were your last Words true (returned she) I should yet be
unhappy in the Displeasure of a dear and tender Father, and infinitely
more, in being the Cause of your Infidelity to him: No, Don _Henrique_
(continued she) I could with greater Satisfaction return to my miserable
Confinement, than by any Means disturb the Peace of your Mind, or
occasion one Moment’s Interruption of your Quiet.--Would to Heaven you
did not, (sigh’d he to himself.) Then addressing his Words more
distinctly to her, cry’d he, Ah, cruel! ah, unjust _Ardelia_! these
Words belong to none but _Antonio_; why then would you endeavour to
persuade me, that I do, or even can merit the Tenderness of such an
Expression?--Have a Care! (pursued he) have a Care, _Ardelia_! your
outward Beauties are too powerful to be resisted; even your Frowns have
such a Sweetness that they attract the very Soul that is not strongly
prepossessed with the noblest Friendship, and the highest Principles of
Honour: Why then, alas! did you add such sweet and Charming Accents?
Why--ah, Don _Henrique_! (she interrupted) why did you appear to me so
charming in your Person, so great in your Friendship, and so illustrious
in your Reputation? Why did my Father, ever since your first Visit,
continually fill my Ears and Thoughts with noble Characters and glorious
Ideas, which yet but imperfectly and faintly represent the inimitable
Original!--But--(what is most severe and cruel) why, Don _Henrique_, why
will you defeat my Father in his Ambition of your Alliance, and me of
those glorious Hopes with which you had bless’d my Soul, by casting me
away from you to _Antonio_!--Ha! (cry’d he, starting) what said you,
Madam? What did _Ardelia_ say? That I had bless’d your Soul with Hopes!
That I would cast you away to _Antonio_!--Can they who safely arrive in
their wish’d-for Port, be said to be shipwreck’d? Or, can an abject
indigent Wretch make a King?--These are more than Riddles, Madam; and I
must not think to expound ’em. No, (said she) let it alone, Don
_Henrique_; I’ll ease you of that Trouble, and tell you plainly that I
love you. Ah! (cry’d he) now all my Fears are come upon me!--How! (ask’d
she) were you afraid I should love you? Is my Love so dreadful then?
Yes, when misplac’d (reply’d he;) but ’twas your Falshood that I fear’d:
Your Love was what I would have sought with the utmost Hazard of my
Life, nay, even of my future Happiness, I fear, had you not been
engag’d: strongly oblig’d to love elsewhere, both by your own Choice and
Vows, as well as by his dangerous Services, and matchless Constancy. For
which (said she) I do not hate him, tho’ his Father kill’d my Uncle:
Nay, perhaps (continu’d she) I have a Friendship for him, but no more.
No more, said you, Madam? (cry’d he;)--but tell me, did you never love
him? Indeed, I did, (reply’d she;) but the Sight of you has better
instructed me, both in my Duty to my Father, and in causing my Passion
for you, without whom I shall be eternally miserable. Ah, then pursue
your honourable Proposal, and make my Father happy in my Marriage! It
must not be (return’d Don _Henrique_) my Honour, my Friendship forbids
it. No (she return’d) your Honour requires it; and if your Friendship
opposes your Honour, it can have no sure and solid Foundation. Female
Sophistry! (cry’d _Henrique_;) but you need no Art nor Artifice,
_Ardelia_, to make me love you: Love you! (pursu’d he:) By that bright
Sun, the Light and Heat of all the World, you are my only Light and
Heat--Oh, Friendship! Sacred Friendship, now assist me!--[Here for a
Time he paus’d, and then afresh proceeded thus,]--You told me, or my
Ears deceiv’d me, that you lov’d me, _Ardelia_. I did, she reply’d; and
that I do love you, is as true as that I told you so. ’Tis well;--But
would it were not so! Did ever Man receive a Blessing thus?--Why,
I could wish I did not love you, _Ardelia_! But that were impossible--At
least unjust, (interrupted she.) Well then (he went on) to shew you that
I do sincerely consult your particular Happiness, without any regard to
my own, To-morrow I will give you to Don _Antonio_; and as a Proof of
your Love to me, I expect your ready Consent to it. To let you see, Don
_Henrique_, how perfectly and tenderly I love you, I will be sacrificed
To-morrow to Don _Antonio_, and to your Quiet. Oh, strongest, dearest
Obligation!--cry’d _Henrique_: To-morrow then, as I have told your
Father, I am to bring you to see the dearest Friend I have on Earth, who
dares not appear within this City for some unhappy Reasons, and
therefore cannot be present at our Nuptials; for which Cause, I could
not but think it my Duty to one so nearly related to my Soul, to make
him happy in the Sight of my beautiful Choice, e’er yet she be my Bride.
I hope (said she) my loving Obedience may merit your Compassion; and
that at last, e’er the Fire is lighted that must consume the Offering,
I mean the Marriage-Tapers (alluding to the old _Roman_ Ceremony) that
you or some other pitying Angel, will snatch me from the Altar. Ah, no
more, _Ardelia_! say no more (cry’d he) we must be cruel, to be just to
our selves. [Here their Discourse ended, and they walked into the House,
where they found the good old Gentleman and his Lady, with whom he
stay’d till about an Hour after Supper, when he returned to his Friend
with joyful News, but a sorrowful Heart.]
_Antonio_ was all Rapture with the Thoughts of the approaching Day;
which tho’ it brought Don _Henrique_ and his dear _Ardelia_ to him,
about five o’Clock in the Evening, yet at the same Time brought his last
and greatest Misfortune. He saw her then at a She Relation’s of his,
above three Miles from _Seville_, which was the Place assigned for their
fatal Interview. He saw her, I say; but ah! how strange! how altered
from the dear, kind _Ardelia_ she was when last he left her! ’Tis true,
he flew to her with Arms expanded, and with so swift and eager a Motion,
that she could not avoid, nor get loose from his Embrace, till he had
kissed, and sighed, and dropt some Tears, which all the Strength of his
Mind could not restrain; whether they were the Effects of Joy, or
whether (which rather may be feared) they were the Heat-drops which
preceded and threaten’d the Thunder and Tempest that should fall on his
Head, I cannot positively say; yet all this she was then forced to
endure, e’er she had Liberty to speak, or indeed to breathe. But as soon
as she had freed herself from the loving Circle that should have been
the dear and lov’d Confinement or Centre of a Faithful Heart, she began
to dart whole Showers of Tortures on him from her Eyes; which that Mouth
that he had just before so tenderly and sacredly kiss’d, seconded with
whole Volleys of Deaths crammed in every Sentence, pointed with the
keenest Affliction that ever pierc’d a Soul. _Antonio_, (she began) you
have treated me now as if you were never like to see me more: and would
to Heaven you were not!--Ha! (cry’d he, starting and staring wildly on
her;) What said you, Madam? What said you, my _Ardelia_? If you like the
Repetition, take it? (reply’d she, unmoved) _Would to Heaven you were
never like to see me more!_ Good! very Good! (cry’d he, with a Sigh that
threw him trembling into a Chair behind him, and gave her the
Opportunity of proceeding thus:)--Yet, _Antonio_, I must not have my
Wish; I must continue with you, not out of Choice, but by Command, by
the strictest and severest Obligation that ever bound Humanity; Don
_Henrique_, your Friend, commands it; Don _Henrique_, the dearest Object
of my Soul, enjoins it; Don _Henrique_, whose only Aversion I am, will
have it so. Oh, do not wrong me, Madam! (cry’d Don _Henrique_.) Lead me,
lead me a little more by the Light of your Discourse, I beseech you
(said Don _Antonio_) that I may see your Meaning! for hitherto ’tis
Darkness all to me. Attend therefore with your best Faculties (pursu’d
_Ardelia_) and know, That I do most sincerely and most passionately love
Don _Henrique_; and as a Proof of my Love to him, I have this Day
consented to be delivered up to you by him; not for your Sake in the
least, _Antonio_, but purely to sacrifice all the Quiet of my Life to
his Satisfaction. And now, Sir (continued she, addressing her self to
Don _Henrique_) now, Sir, if you can be so cruel, execute your own most
dreadful Decree, and join our Hands, though our Hearts never can meet.
All this to try me! It’s too much, _Ardelia_--(said _Antonio_:) And then
turning to Don _Henrique_, he went on, Speak thou! if yet thou art not
Apostate to our Friendship! Yet speak, however! Speak, though the Devil
has been tampering with thee too! Thou art a Man, a Man of Honour once.
And when I forfeit my just Title to that (interrupted Don _Henrique_)
may I be made most miserable!--May I lose the Blessings of thy
Friendship!--May I lose thee!--Say on then, _Henrique_! (cry’d
_Antonio_:) And I charge thee, by all the sacred Ties of Friendship,
say, Is this a Trial of me? Is’t Illusion, Sport, or shameful murderous
Truth?--Oh, my Soul burns within me, and I can bear no longer!--Tell!
Speak! Say on!--[Here, with folded Arms, and Eyes fixed stedfastly on
_Henrique_, he stood like a Statue, without Motion; unless sometimes,
when his swelling Heart raised his over-charged Breast.] After a little
Pause, and a hearty Sigh or two, _Henrique_ began;--Oh, _Antonio_! Oh my
Friend! prepare thy self to hear yet more dreadful Accents!--I am
(pursu’d he) unhappily the greatest and most innocent Criminal that e’er
till now offended:--I love her, _Antonio_,--I love _Ardelia_ with a
Passion strong and violent as thine!--Oh! summon all that us’d to be
more than Man about thee, to suffer to the End of my Discourse, which
nothing but a Resolution like thine can bear! I know it by myself.--Tho’
there be Wounds, Horror, and Death in each Syllable (interrupted
_Antonio_) yet prithee now go on, but with all Haste. I will, (returned
Don _Henrique_) tho’ I feel my own Words have the same cruel Effects on
me. I say, again, my Soul loves _Ardelia_: And how can it be otherwise?
Have we not both the self-same Appetites, the same Disgusts? How then
could I avoid my Destiny, that has decreed that I should love and hate
just as you do? Oh, hard Necessity! that obliged you to use me in the
Recovery of this Lady! Alas, can you think that any Man of Sense or
Passion could have seen, and not have lov’d her! Then how should I,
whose Thoughts are Unisons to yours, evade those Charms that had
prevail’d on you?--And now, to let you know, ’tis no Illusion, no Sport,
but serious and amazing woeful Truth, _Ardelia_ best can tell you whom
she loves. What I have already said, is true, by Heaven (cry’d she) ’tis
you, Don _Henrique_, whom I only love, and who alone can give me
Happiness: Ah, would you would!--With you, _Antonio_, I must remain
unhappy, wretched, cursed: Thou art my Hell; Don _Henrique_ is my
Heaven. And thou art mine, (returned he) which here I part with to my
dearest Friend. Then taking her Hand, Pardon me, _Antonio_, (pursued he)
that I thus take my last Farewel of all the Tastes of Bliss from your
_Ardelia_, at this Moment. [At which Words he kiss’d her Hand, and gave
it to Don _Antonio_; who received it, and gently pressed it close to his
Heart, as if he would have her feel the Disorders she had caus’d there.]
Be happy, _Antonio_, (cry’d _Henrique_:) Be very tender of her;
To-morrow early I shall hope to see thee.--_Ardelia_ (pursued he) All
Happiness and Joy surround thee! May’st thou ne’er want those Blessings
thou can’st give _Antonio_!--Farewel to both! (added he, going out.) Ah
(cry’d she) Farewel to all Joys, Blessings, Happiness, if you forsake
me.--Yet do not go!--Ah, cruel! (continu’d she, seeing him quit the
Room) but you shall take my Soul with you. Here she swooned away in Don
_Antonio’s_ Arms; who, though he was happy that he had her fast there,
yet was obliged to call in his Cousin, and _Ardelia’s_ Attendants, e’er
she could be perfectly recovered. In the mean while Don _Henrique_ had
not the Power to go out of Sight of the House, but wandred to and fro
about it, distracted in his Soul; and not being able longer to refrain
her Sight, her last Words still resounding in his Ears, he came again
into the Room where he left her with Don _Antonio_, just as she revived,
and called him, exclaiming on his Cruelty, in leaving her so soon. But
when, turning her Eyes towards the Door, she saw him; Oh! with what
eager Haste she flew to him! then clasped him round the Waist, obliging
him, with all the tender Expressions that the Soul of a Lover, and a
Woman’s too, is capable of uttering, not to leave her in the Possession
of Don _Antonio_. This so amaz’d her slighted Lover, that he knew not,
at first, how to proceed in this tormenting Scene; but at last,
summoning all his wonted Resolution, and Strength of Mind, he told her,
He would put her out of his Power, if she would consent to retreat for
some few Hours to a Nunnery that was not above half a Mile distant from
thence, till he had discoursed his Friend, Don _Henrique_ something more
particularly than hitherto, about this Matter: To which she readily
agreed, upon the Promise that Don _Henrique_ made her, of seeing her
with the first Opportunity. They waited on her then to the Convent,
where she was kindly and respectfully received by the Lady Abbess; but
it was not long before her Grief renewing with greater Violence, and
more afflicting Circumstances, had obliged them to stay with her till it
was almost dark, when they once more begged the Liberty of an Hour’s
Absence; and the better to palliate their Design, _Henrique_ told her,
that he would make use of her Father Don _Richardo’s_ Coach, in which
they came to Don _Antonio’s_, for so small a Time: which they did,
leaving only _Eleonora_ her Attendant with her, with out whom she had
been at a Loss, among so many fair Strangers; Strangers, I mean, to her
unhappy Circumstances: Whilst they were carry’d near a Mile farther,
where, just as ’twas dark, they lighted from the Coach, Don _Henrique_,
ordering the Servants not to stir thence till their Return from their
private Walk, which was about a Furlong, in a Field that belong’d to the
Convent. Here Don _Antonio_ told Don _Henrique_, That he had not acted
honourably; That he had betray’d him, and robb’d him at once both of a
Friend and Mistress. To which t’other returned, That he understood his
Meaning, when he proposed a particular Discourse about this Affair,
which he now perceived must end in Blood: But you may remind your self
(continued he) that I have kept my Promise in delivering her to you.
Yes, (cry’d _Antonio_) after you had practis’d foully and basely on her.
Not at all! (returned _Henrique_) It was her Fate that brought this
Mischief on her; for I urged the Shame and Scandal of Inconstancy, but
all in vain, to her. But don’t you love her, _Henrique_? (the other
ask’d.) Too well, and cannot live without her, though I fear I may feel
the cursed Effects of the same Inconstancy: However, I had quitted her
all to you, but you see how she resents it. And you shall see, Sir,
(cry’d _Antonio_, drawing his Sword in a Rage) how I resent it. Here,
without more Words, they fell to Action; to bloody Action. (Ah! how
wretched are our Sex, in being the unhappy Occasion of so many fatal
Mischiefs, even between the dearest Friends!) They fought on each Side
with the greatest Animosity of Rivals, forgetting all the sacred Bonds
of their former Friendship; till Don _Antonio_ fell, and said, dying,
‘Forgive me, _Henrique_! I was to blame; I could not live without
her:--I fear she will betray thy Life, which haste and preserve, for my
sake--Let me not die all at once!--Heaven pardon both of us!--Farewel!
Oh, haste! Farewel! (_returned Don +Henrique+_) Farewel, thou bravest,
truest Friend! Farewel thou noblest Part of me!--And Farewel all the
Quiet of my Soul.’ Then stooping, he kissed his Cheek; but, rising, he
found he must retire in time, or else must perish through Loss of Blood,
for he had received two or three dangerous Wounds, besides others of
less Consequence: Wherefore he made all the convenient Haste he could to
the Coach, into which, by the Help of the Footmen, he got, and order’d
’em to drive him directly to Don _Richardo’s_ with all imaginable Speed;
where he arriv’d in little more than half an Hour’s Time, and was
received by _Ardelia’s_ Father with the greatest Confusion and Amazement
that is expressible, seeing him return’d without his Daughter, and so
desperately wounded. Before he thought it convenient to ask him any
Question more than to enquire of his Daughter’s Safety, to which he
receiv’d a short but satisfactory Answer, Don _Richardo_ sent for an
eminent and able Surgeon, who probed and dress’d Don _Henrique’s_
Wounds, who was immediately put to Bed; not without some Despondency of
his Recovery; but (thanks to his kind Stars, and kinder Constitution!)
he rested pretty well for some Hours that Night, and early in the
Morning, _Ardelia’s_ Father, who had scarce taken any Rest all that
Night, came to visit him, as soon as he understood from the Servants who
watched with him, that he was in a Condition to suffer a short
Discourse; which, you may be sure, was to learn the Circumstances of the
past Night’s Adventure; of which Don _Henrique_ gave him a perfect and
pleasant Account, since he heard that Don _Antonio_, his mortal Enemy,
was killed; the Assurance of whose Death was the more delightful to him,
since, by this Relation, he found that _Antonio_ was the Man, whom his
Care of his Daughter had so often frustrated. Don _Henrique_ had hardly
made an End of his Narration, e’er a Servant came hastily to give
_Richardo_ Notice, that the Officers were come to search for his
Son-in-Law that should have been; whom the Old Gentleman’s wise
Precaution had secured in a Room so unsuspected, that they might as
reasonably have imagined the entire Walls of his House had a Door made
of Stones, as that there should have been one to that close Apartment:
He went therefore boldly to the Officers, and gave them all the Keys of
his House, with free Liberty to examine every Room and Chamber; which
they did, but to no Purpose; and Don _Henrique_ lay there undiscover’d,
till his Cure was perfected.
In the mean time _Ardelia_, who that fatal Night but too rightly guess’d
that the Death of one or both her Lovers was the Cause that they did not
return to their Promise, the next Day fell into a high Fever, in which
her Father found her soon after he had clear’d himself of those who come
to search for a Lover. The Assurance which her Father gave her of
_Henrique’s_ Life, seemed a little to revive her; but the Severity of
_Antonio’s_ Fate was no Way obliging to her, since she could not but
retain the Memory of his Love and Constancy; which added to her
Afflictions, and heightned her Distemper, insomuch that _Richardo_ was
constrain’d to leave her under the Care of the good Lady Abbess, and to
the diligent Attendance of _Eleonora_, not daring to hazard her Life in
a Removal to his own House. All their Care and Diligence was however
ineffectual; for she languished even to the least Hope of Recovery, till
immediately after the first Visit of Don _Henrique_, which was the first
he made in a Month’s Time, and that by Night _incognito_, with her
Father, her Distemper visibly retreated each Day: Yet when at last she
enjoy’d a perfect Health of Body, her Mind grew sick, and she plunged
into a deep Melancholy; which made her entertain a positive Resolution
of taking the Veil at the End of her Novitiate; which accordingly she
did, notwithstanding all the Intreaties, Prayers, and Tears both of her
Father and Lover. But she soon repented her Vow, and often wish’d that
she might by any Means see and speak to Don _Henrique_, by whose Help
she promised to her self a Deliverance out of her voluntary
Imprisonment: Nor were his Wishes wanting to the same Effect, tho’ he
was forced to fly into _Italy_, to avoid the Prosecution of _Antonio’s_
Friends. Thither she pursu’d him; nor could he any way shun her, unless
he could have left his Heart at a Distance from his Body: Which made him
take a fatal Resolution of returning to _Seville_ in Disguise, where he
wander’d about the Convent every Night like a Ghost (for indeed his Soul
was within, while his inanimate Trunk was without) till at last he found
Means to convey a Letter to her, which both surprized and delighted her.
The Messenger that brought it her was one of her Mother-in-Law’s Maids,
whom he had known before, and met accidentally one Night as he was going
his Rounds, and she coming out from _Ardelia_; with her he prevail’d,
and with Gold obliged her to Secrecy and Assistance: Which proved so
successful, that he understood from _Ardelia_ her strong Desire of
Liberty, and the Continuance of her Passion for him, together with the
Means and Time most convenient and likely to succeed for her
Enlargement. The Time was the fourteenth Night following, at twelve
o’Clock, which just compleated a Month since his Return thither; at
which Time they both promised themselves the greatest Happiness on
Earth. But you may observe the Justice of Heaven, in their
Disappointment.
Don _Sebastian_, who still pursu’d him with a most implacable Hatred,
had traced him even to _Italy_, and there narrowly missing him, posted
after him to _Toledo_; so sure and secret was his Intelligence! As soon
as he arriv’d, he went directly to the Convent where his Sister _Elvira_
had been one of the Profess’d, ever since Don _Henrique_ had forsaken
her, and where _Ardelia_ had taken her repented Vow. _Elvira_ had all
along conceal’d the Occasion of her coming thither from _Ardelia_; and
tho’ she was her only Confident, and knew the whole Story of her
Misfortunes, and heard the Name of Don _Henrique_ repeated a hundred
Times a Day, whom still she lov’d most perfectly, yet never gave her
beautiful Rival any Cause of Suspicion that she lov’d him, either by
Words or Looks: Nay more, when she understood that Don _Henrique_ came
to the Convent with _Ardelia_ and _Antonio_, and at other Times with her
Father; yet she had so great a Command of her self, as to refrain seeing
him, or to be seen by him; nor ever intended to have spoken or writ to
him, had not her Brother Don _Sebastian_ put her upon the cruel
Necessity of doing the last; who coming to visit his Sister (as I have
said before) found her with Dona _Ardelia_, whom he never remembred to
have seen, nor who ever had seen him but twice, and that was about six
Years before, when she was but ten Years of Age, when she fell
passionately in Love with him, and continu’d her Passion till about the
fourteenth Year of her Empire, when unfortunate _Antonio_ first began
his Court to her. Don _Sebastian_ was really a very desirable Person,
being at that time very beautiful, his Age not exceeding six and twenty,
of a sweet Conversation, very brave, but revengeful and irreconcilable
(like most of his Countrymen) and of an honourable Family. At the Sight
of him _Ardelia_ felt her former Passion renew; which proceeded and
continued with such Violence, that it utterly defac’d the Ideas of
_Antonio_ and _Henrique_. (No Wonder that she who could resolve to
forsake her God for Man, should quit one Lover for another.) In short,
she then only wished that he might love her equally, and then she
doubted not of contriving the Means of their Happiness betwixt ’em. She
had her Wish, and more, if possible; for he lov’d her beyond the Thought
of any other present or future Blessing, and fail’d not to let her know
it, at the second Interview; when he receiv’d the greatest Pleasure he
could have wish’d, next to the Joys of a Bridal Bed: For she confessed
her Love to him, and presently put him upon thinking on the Means of her
Escape; but not finding his Designs so likely to succeed, as those
Measures she had sent to Don _Henrique_, she communicates the very same
to Don _Sebastian_, and agreed with him to make use of them on that very
Night, wherein she had obliged Don _Henrique_ to attempt her
Deliverance: The Hour indeed was different, being determined to be at
eleven. _Elvira_, who was present at the Conference, took the Hint; and
not being willing to disoblige a Brother who had so hazarded his Life in
Vindication of her, either does not, or would not seem to oppose his
Inclinations at that Time: However, when he retired with her to talk
more particularly of his intended Revenge on Don _Henrique_, who he told
her lay somewhere absconded in _Toledo_, and whom he had resolved, as he
assured her, to sacrifice to her injur’d Honour, and his Resentments;
she oppos’d that his vindictive Resolution with all the forcible
Arguments in a virtuous and pious Lady’s Capacity, but in vain: so that
immediately upon his Retreat from the Convent, she took the Opportunity
of writing to Don _Henrique_ as follows, the fatal Hour not being then
seven Nights distant.
Don _Henrique_,
_My Brother is now in Town, in Pursuit of your Life; nay more, of
your Mistress, who has consented to make her Escape from the
Convent, at the same Place of it, and by the same Means on which she
had agreed to give her self entirely to you, but the Hour is eleven.
I know, +Henrique+, your +Ardelia+ is dearer to you than your Life:
But your Life, your dear Life, is more desired than any Thing in
this World, by_
Your injur’d and forsaken
_ELVIRA_.
This she delivered to _Richardo’s_ Servant, whom _Henrique_ had gained
that Night, as soon as she came to visit _Ardelia_, at her usual Hour,
just as she went out of the Cloister.
Don _Henrique_ was not a little surprized with this _Billet_; however,
he could hardly resolve to forbear his accustom’d Visits to _Ardelia_,
at first: But upon more mature Consideration, he only chose to converse
with her by Letters, which still press’d her to be mindful of her
Promise, and of the Hour, not taking notice of any Caution that he had
received of her Treachery. To which she still return’d in Words that
might assure him of her Constancy.
The dreadful Hour wanted not a Quarter of being perfect, when Don
_Henrique_ came; and having fixed his Rope-Ladder to that Part of the
Garden-Wall, where he was expected, _Ardelia_, who had not stir’d from
that very Place for a Quarter of an Hour before, prepar’d to ascend by
it; which she did, as soon as his Servant had returned and fixed it on
the inner-side of the Wall: On the Top of which, at a little Distance,
she found another fasten’d, for her to descend on the out-side, whilst
Don _Henrique_ eagerly waited to receive her. She came at last, and flew
into his Arms; which made _Henrique_ cry out in a Rapture, _Am I at last
once more happy in having my +Ardelia+ in my Possession!_ She, who knew
his Voice, and now found she was betray’d, but knew not by whom,
shriek’d out, _I am ruined! help! help!--Loose me, I charge you,
+Henrique!+ Loose me!_ At that very Moment, and at those very Words,
came _Sebastian_, attended by only one Servant; and hearing _Henrique_
reply, _Not all the Powers of Hell shall snatch you from me_, drawing
his Sword, without one Word, made a furious Pass at him: But his Rage
and Haste misguided his Arm, for his Sword went quite through
_Ardelia’s_ Body, who only said, _Ah, wretched Maid!_ and drop’d from
_Henrique’s_ Arms, who then was obliged to quit her, to preserve his own
Life, if possible: however he had not had so much Time as to draw, had
not _Sebastian_ been amazed at this dreadful Mistake of his Sword; but
presently recollecting himself, he flew with redoubled Rage to attack
_Henrique_; and his Servant had seconded him, had not _Henrique’s_, who
was now descended, otherwise diverted him. They fought with the greatest
Animosity on both Sides, and with equal Advantage; for they both fell
together: _Ah, my +Ardelia+, I come to thee now!_ (_Sebastian_ groan’d
out,)--_’Twas this unlucky Arm, which now embraces thee, that killed
thee._ _Just Heaven!_ (she sigh’d out,)--_Oh, yet have Mercy!_ [Here
they both dy’d.] _Amen_, (cry’d _Henrique_, dying) _I want it most_--
_Oh, +Antonio+!_ _Oh, +Elvira+! Ah, there’s the Weight that sinks
me down.--And yet I wish Forgiveness.--Once more, sweet Heaven, have
Mercy!_ He could not out-live that last Word; which was echo’d by
_Elvira_, who all this while stood weeping, and calling out for Help, as
she stood close to the Wall in the Garden.
This alarmed the Rest of the Sisters, who rising, caus’d the Bell to be
rung out, as upon dangerous Occasions it used to be; which rais’d the
Neighbourhood, who came time enough to remove the dead Bodies of the two
Rivals, and of the late fallen Angel _Ardelia_. The injur’d and
neglected _Elvira_, whose Piety designed quite contrary Effects, was
immediately seiz’d with a violent Fever; which, as it was violent, did
not last long: for she dy’d within four and twenty Hours, with all the
happy Symptoms of a departing Saint.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE LUCKY MISTAKE.
TO GEORGE GREENVIEL, ESQ;
Sir,
At this Critical Juncture, I find the Authors will have need of a
Protector, as well as the Nation, we having peculiar Laws and Liberties
to be defended as well as that, but of how different a Nature, none but
such Judges as you are fit to determine; whatever our Province be, I am
sure it should be Wit, and you know what Ellevated _Ben_ says, _That
none can judge of Wit but Wit._ Let the _Heroes_ toyl for Crowns and
Kingdoms and with what pretences they please. Let the Slaves of State
drudge on for false and empty Glories, troubling the repose of the World
and ruining their own to gain uneasy Grandure, whilst you, oh! happyer
Sir, great enough by your Birth, yet more Illustrious by your Wit, are
capable of enjoying alone that true Felicity of Mind, which belongs to
an absolutely Vertuous and Gallant Man, by that, and the lively Notions
of Honour Imprinted in your Soul, you are above Ambition, and can Form
_Kings_ and _Heroes_, when ’ere your delicate Fancy shall put you upon
the Poetical Creation.
You can make those _Heroes_ Lovers too, and inspire ’em with a Language
so Irresistable as may instruct the Fair, how easily you may Conquer
when it comes to your turn, to plead for a Heart, nor is your delicate
Wit the only Charm; your Person claims an equal share of Graces with
those of your Mind, and both together are capable of rendering you
Victorious, whereever you shall please to Address ’em, but your Vertue
keeps you from those Ravages of Beauty, which so wholly imploy the hours
of the Rest of the Gay and Young, whilst you have business more sollid,
and more noble for yours.
I would not by this have the World imagine you are therefore exempt from
the tenderness of Love, it rather seems you were on purpose form’d for
that Soft Entertainment, such an Agreement there is between the Harmony
of your Soul and your Person, and sure the _Muses_ who have so divinely
inspir’d you with Poetic Fires, have furnisht you with that Necessary
Material (Love) to maintain it, and to make it burn with the more
Ellevated Flame.
’Tis therefore, Sir, I expect you will the more easily Pardon the
Dedicating to your idler hours (if any such you have) this little Amour,
all that I shall say for it, is, that ’tis not Translation but an
Original, that has more of realty than fiction, if I have not made it
fuller of intreague, ’twas because I had a mind to keep close to the
Truth.
I must own, Sir, the Obligations I have to you, deserves a greater
testimony of my respect, than this little piece, too trivial to bear the
honour of your Name, but my increasing Indisposition makes me fear I
shall not have many opportunities of this Kind, and shou’d be loath to
leave this ungrateful World, without acknowledging my Gratitude more
signally than barely by word of Mouth, and without wishing you all the
happiness your merit and admirable Vertues deserve and of assuring you
how unfeignedly I am (and how Proud of being) Sir,
Your most obliged and
most humble servant
A. Behn.
THE LUCKY MISTAKE: A NEW NOVEL.
The River _Loyre_ has on its delightful Banks abundance of handsome,
beautiful and rich Towns and Villages, to which the noble Stream adds no
small Graces and Advantages, blessing their Fields with Plenty, and
their Eyes with a thousand Diversions. In one of these happily situated
Towns, called _Orleans_, where abundance of People of the best Quality
and Condition reside, there was a rich Nobleman, now retir’d from the
busy Court, where in his Youth he had been bred, weary’d with the Toils
of Ceremony and Noise, to enjoy that perfect Tranquillity of Life, which
is no where to be found but in Retreat, a faithful Friend, and a good
Library; and, as the admirable _Horace_ says, in a little House and a
large Garden. Count _Bellyaurd_, for so was this Nobleman call’d, was of
this Opinion; and the rather, because he had one only Son, called
_Rinaldo_, now grown to the Age of fifteen, who having all the excellent
Qualities and Graces of Youth by Nature, he would bring him up in all
Virtues and noble Sciences, which he believ’d the Gaiety and Lustre of
the Court might divert: he therefore in his Retirement spar’d no Cost to
those that could instruct and accomplish him; and he had the best Tutors
and Masters that could be purchased at Court: _Bellyaurd_ making far
less Account of Riches than of fine Parts. He found his Son capable of
all Impressions, having a Wit suitable to his delicate Person, so that
he was the sole Joy of his Life, and the Darling of his Eyes.
In the very next House, which join’d close to that of _Bellyaurd’s_,
there lived another Count, who had in his Youth been banished the Court
of _France_ for some Misunderstandings in some high Affairs wherein he
was concern’d: his Name was _De Pais_, a Man of great Birth, but of no
Fortune; or at least one not suitable to the Grandeur of his Original.
And as it is most natural for great Souls to be most proud (if I may
call a handsome Disdain by that vulgar Name) when they are most
depress’d; so _De Pais_ was more retir’d, more estrang’d from his
Neighbours, and kept a greater Distance, than if he had enjoy’d all he
had lost at Court; and took more Solemnity and State upon him, because
he would not be subject to the Reproaches of the World, by making
himself familiar with it: So that he rarely visited; and, contrary to
the Custom of those in _France_, who are easy of Access, and free of
Conversation, he kept his Family retir’d so close, that ’twas rare to
see any of them; and when they went abroad, which was but seldom, they
wanted nothing as to outward Appearance, that was fit for his Quality,
and what was much above his Condition.
This old Count had two only Daughters, of exceeding Beauty, who gave the
generous Father ten thousand Torments, as often as he beheld them, when
he consider’d their extreme Beauty, their fine Wit, their Innocence,
Modesty, and above all their Birth; and that he had not a Fortune to
marry them according to their Quality; and below it, he had rather see
them laid in their silent Graves, than consent to it: for he scorn’d the
World should see him forced by his Poverty to commit an Action below his
Dignity.
There lived in a neighbouring Town, a certain Nobleman, Friend to _De
Pais_, call’d Count _Vernole_, a Man of about forty years of Age, of low
Stature, Complexion very black and swarthy, lean, lame, extreme proud
and haughty; extracted of a Descent from the Blood-Royal; not extremely
brave, but very glorious: he had no very great Estate, but was in
Election of a greater, and of an Addition of Honour from the King, his
Father having done most worthy Services against the _Hugonots_, and by
the high Favour of Cardinal _Mazarine_, was represented to his Majesty,
as a Man related to the Crown, of great Name, but small Estate: so that
there were now nothing but great Expectations and Preparations in the
Family of Count _Vernole_ to go to the Court, to which he daily hoped an
Invitation or Command.
_Vernole’s_ Fortune being hitherto something a-kin to that of _De Pais_,
there was a greater Correspondency between these two Gentlemen, than
they had with any other Persons; they accounting themselves above the
rest of the World, believed none so proper and fit for their
Conversation, as that of each other: so that there was a very particular
Intimacy between them. Whenever they went abroad, they clubb’d their
Train, to make one great Show; and were always together, bemoaning each
other’s Fortune, and that from so high a Descent, as one from Monarchs
by the Mother’s side, and the other from Dukes of the Father’s Side,
they were reduc’d by Fate to the Degree of private Gentlemen. They would
often consult how to manage Affairs most to Advantage, and often _De
Pais_ would ask Counsel of _Vernole_, how best he should dispose of his
Daughters, which now were about their ninth Year the eldest, and eighth
the youngest. _Vernole_ had often seen those two Buds of Beauty, and
already saw opening in _Atlante’s_ Face and Mind (for that was the Name
of the eldest, and _Charlot_ the youngest) a Glory of Wit and Beauty,
which could not but one Day display it self, with dazling Lustre, to the
wondring World.
_Vernole_ was a great Virtuoso, of a Humour nice, delicate, critical and
opinionative: he had nothing of the _French_ Mein in him, but all the
Gravity of the Don. His ill-favour’d Person, and his low Estate, put him
out of Humour with the World; and because that should not upbraid or
reproach his Follies and Defects, he was sure to be beforehand with
that, and to be always satirick upon it; and lov’d to live and act
contrary to the Custom and Usage of all Mankind besides.
He was infinitely delighted to find a Man of his own Humour in _De
Pais_, or at least a Man that would be persuaded to like his so well, to
live up to it; and it was no little Joy and Satisfaction to him to find,
that he kept his Daughters in that Severity, which was wholly agreeable
to him, and so contrary to the Manner and Fashion of the _French_
Quality; who allow all Freedoms, which to _Vernole’s_ rigid Nature,
seem’d as so many Steps to Vice, and in his Opinion, the Ruiner of all
Virtue and Honour in Womankind. _De Pais_ was extremely glad his Conduct
was so well interpreted, which was no other in him than a proud
Frugality; who, because they could not appear in so much Gallantry as
their Quality required, kept ’em retir’d, and unseen to all, but his
particular Friends, of whom _Vernole_ was the chief.
_Vernole_ never appear’d before _Atlante_ (which was seldom) but he
assum’d a Gravity and Respect fit to have entertain’d a Maid of Twenty,
or rather a Matron of much greater Years and Judgment. His Discourses
were always of Matters of State or Philosophy; and sometimes when _De
Pais_ would (laughing) say, ‘He might as well entertain _Atlante_ with
_Greek_ and _Hebrew_,’ he would reply gravely, ‘You are mistaken, Sir,
I find the Seeds of great and profound Matter in the Soul of this young
Maid, which ought to be nourish’d now while she is young, and they will
grow up to very great Perfection: I find _Atlante_ capable of the noble
Virtues of the Mind, and am infinitely mistaken in my Observations, and
Art of Physiognomy, if _Atlante_ be not born for greater Things than her
Fortune does now Promise: She will be very considerable in the World,
(believe me) and this will arrive to her perfectly from the Force of her
Charms.’ _De Pais_ was extremely overjoy’d to hear such Good prophesied
of _Atlante_, and from that Time set a sort of an Esteem upon her, which
he did not on _Charlot_ his younger; whom, by the Persuasions of
_Vernole_, he resolv’d to put in a Monastery, that what he had might
descend to _Atlante_: not but he confess’d _Charlot_ had Beauty
extremely attractive, and a Wit that promised much, when it should be
cultivated by Years and Experience; and would shew it self with great
Advantage and Lustre in a Monastery. All this pleased _De Pais_ very
well, who was easily persuaded, since he had not a Fortune to marry her
well in the World.
As yet _Vernole_ had never spoke to _Atlante_ of Love, nor did his
Gravity think it Prudence to discover his Heart to so young a Maid; he
waited her more sensible Years, when he could hope to have some Return.
And all he expected from this her tender Age, was by his daily Converse
with her, and the Presents he made her suitable to her Years, to
ingratiate himself insensibly into her Friendship and Esteem, since she
was not yet capable of Love; but even in that he mistook his Aim, for
every day he grew more and more disagreeable to _Atlante_, and would
have been her absolute Aversion, had she known she had every Day
entertained a Lover; but as she grew in Years and Sense, he seemed the
more despicable in her Eyes as to his Person; yet as she had respect to
his Parts and Qualities, she paid him all the Complaisance she could,
and which was due to him, and so must be confess’d. Tho’ he had a stiff
Formality in all he said and did, yet he had Wit and Learning, and was a
great Philosopher. As much of his Learning as _Atlante_ was capable of
attaining to, he made her Mistress of, and that was no small Portion;
for all his Discourse was fine and easily comprehended, his Notions of
Philosophy fit for Ladies; and he took greater Pains with _Atlante_,
than any Master would have done with a Scholar: So that it was most
certain, he added very great Accomplishment to her natural Wit: and the
more, because she took a great Delight in Philosophy; which very often
made her impatient of his Coming, especially when she had many Questions
to ask him concerning it, and she would often receive him with a
Pleasure in her Face, which he did not fail to interpret to his own
Advantage, being very apt to flatter himself. Her Sister _Charlot_ would
often ask her, ‘How she could give whole Afternoons to so disagreeable a
Man. What is it (said she) that charms you so? his tawny Leather-Face,
his extraordinary high Nose, his wide Mouth and Eye-brows, that hang
low’ring over his Eyes, his lean Carcase, and his lame and halting
Hips?’ But _Atlante_ would discreetly reply, ‘If I must grant all you
say of Count _Vernole_ to be true, yet he has a Wit and Learning that
will atone sufficiently for all those Faults you mention: A fine Soul is
infinitely to be preferr’d to a fine Body; this decays, but that’s
eternal; and Age that ruins one, refines the other.’ Tho’ possibly
_Atlante_ thought as ill of the Count as her Sister, yet in Respect to
him, she would not own it.
_Atlante_ was now arriv’d to her thirteenth Year, when her Beauty, which
every Day increas’d, became the Discourse of the whole Town, which had
already gain’d her as many Lovers as had beheld her; for none saw her
without languishing for her, or at least, but what were in very great
Admiration of her. Every body talk’d of the young _Atlante_, and all the
Noblemen, who had Sons (knowing the Smallness of her Fortune, and the
Lustre of her Beauty) would send them, for fear of their being charm’d
with her Beauty, either to some other part of the World, or exhorted
them, by way of Precaution, to keep out of her Sight. Old _Bellyaurd_
was one of those wise Parents; and timely Prevention, as he thought, of
_Rinaldo’s_ falling in Love with _Atlante_, perhaps was the Occasion of
his being so: He had before heard of _Atlante_, and of her Beauty, yet
it had made no Impressions on his Heart; but his Father no sooner forbid
him Loving, than he felt a new Desire tormenting him, of seeing this
lovely and dangerous young Person: he wonders at his unaccountable Pain,
which daily sollicits him within, to go where he may behold this Beauty;
of whom he frames a thousand Ideas, all such as were most agreeable to
him; but then upbraids his Fancy for not forming her half so delicate as
she was; and longs yet more to see her, to know how near she approaches
to the Picture he has drawn of her in his Mind: and tho’ he knew she
liv’d the next House to him, yet he knew also she was kept within like a
vow’d _Nun_, or with the Severity of a _Spaniard_. And tho’ he had a
Chamber, which had a jutting Window, that look’d just upon the Door of
Monsieur _De Pais_, and that he would watch many Hours at a time, in
hope to see them go out, yet he could never get a Glimpse of her; yet he
heard she often frequented the Church of _our Lady_. Thither then young
_Rinaldo_ resolv’d to go, and did so two or three Mornings; in which
time, to his unspeakable Grief, he saw no Beauty appear that charm’d
him; and yet he fancy’d that _Atlante_ was there, and that he had seen
her; that some one of those young Ladies that he saw in the Church was
she, tho’ he had no body to enquire of, and that she was not so fair as
the World reported; for which he would often sigh, as if he had lost
some great Expectation. However, he ceased not to frequent this Church,
and one day saw a young Beauty, who at first glimpse made his Heart leap
to his Mouth, and fall a trembling again into its wonted Place; for it
immediately told him, that that young Maid was _Atlante_: she was with
her Sister _Charlot_, who was very handsome, but not comparable to
_Atlante_. He fix’d his Eyes upon her as she kneel’d at the Altar; he
never moved from that charming Face as long as she remain’d there; he
forgot all Devotion, but what he paid to her; he ador’d her, he burnt
and languished already for her, and found he must possess _Atlante_ or
die. Often as he gaz’d upon her, he saw her fair Eyes lifted up towards
his, where they often met; which she perceiving, would cast hers down
into her Bosom, or on her Book, and blush as if she had done a Fault.
_Charlot_ perceiv’d all the Motions of _Rinaldo_, how he folded his
Arms, how he sigh’d and gaz’d on her Sister; she took notice of his
Clothes, his Garniture, and every particular of his Dress, as young
Girls use to do; and seeing him so very handsome, and so much better
dress’d than all the young Cavaliers that were in the Church, she was
very much pleas’d with him; and could not forbear saying, in a low
Voice, to _Atlante_, ‘Look, look my Sister, what a pretty Monsieur
yonder is! see how fine his Face is, how delicate his Hair, how gallant
his Dress! and do but look how he gazes on you!’ This would make
_Atlante_ blush anew, who durst not raise her Eyes for fear she should
encounter his. While he had the Pleasure to imagine they were talking of
him, and he saw in the pretty Face of _Charlot_, that what she said was
not to his Disadvantage, and by the Blushes of _Atlante_, that she was
not displeas’d with what was spoken to her; he perceiv’d the young one
importunate with her; and _Atlante_ jogging her with her Elbow, as much
as to say, Hold your Peace: all this he made a kind Interpretation of,
and was transported with Joy at the good Omens. He was willing to
flatter his new Flame, and to compliment his young Desire with a little
Hope; but the divine Ceremony ceasing, _Atlante_ left the Church, and it
being very fair Weather, she walk’d home. _Rinaldo_, who saw her going,
felt all the Agonies of a Lover, who parts with all that can make him
happy; and seeing only _Atlante_ attended with her Sister, and a Footman
following with their Books, he was a thousand times about to speak to
’em; but he no sooner advanc’d a step or two towards ’em to that purpose
(for he followed them) but his Heart fail’d, and a certain Awe and
Reverence, or rather the Fears and Tremblings of a Lover, prevented him:
but when he consider’d, that possibly he might never have so favourable
an Opportunity again, he resolv’d a-new, and called up so much Courage
to his Heart, as to speak to _Atlante_; but before he did so, _Charlot_
looking behind her, saw _Rinaldo_ very near to ’em, and cry’d out with a
Voice of Joy, ‘Oh! Sister, Sister! look where the handsome _Monsieur_
is, just behind us! sure he is some-body of Quality, for see he has two
Footmen that follow him, in just such Liveries, and so rich as those of
our Neighbour _Monsieur Bellyaurd_.’ At this _Atlante_ could not
forbear, but before she was aware of it, turn’d her Head, and look’d on
_Rinaldo_; which encourag’d him to advance, and putting off his Hat,
which he clapt under his Arm, with a low Bow, said, ‘Ladies, you are
slenderly attended, and so many Accidents arrive to the Fair in the rude
Streets, that I humbly implore you will permit me, whose Duty it is as a
Neighbour, to wait on you to your Door.’ ‘Sir, (said _Atlante_ blushing)
we fear no Insolence, and need no Protector; or if we did, we should not
be so rude to take you out of your way, to serve us.’ ‘Madam, (said he)
my way lies yours. I live at the next Door, and am Son to _Bellyaurd_,
your Neighbour. But, Madam, (added he) if I were to go all my Life out
of the way, to do you Service, I should take it for the greatest
Happiness that could arrive to me; but, Madam, sure a Man can never be
out of his Way, who has the Honour of so charming Company.’ _Atlante_
made no reply to this, but blush’d and bow’d: But _Charlot_ said, ‘Nay,
Sir, if you are our Neighbour, we will give you leave to conduct us
home; but pray, Sir, how came you to know we are your Neighbours? for we
never saw you before, to our knowledge.’ ‘My pretty Miss, (reply’d
_Rinaldo_) I knew it from that transcendent Beauty that appear’d in your
Faces, and fine Shapes; for I have heard, there was no Beauty in the
World like that of _Atlante’s_; and I no sooner saw her, but my Heart
told me it was she.’ ‘Heart! (said _Charlot_ laughing) why, do Hearts
use to speak?’ ‘The most intelligible of any thing, (_Rinaldo_ reply’d)
when ’tis tenderly touch’d, when ’tis charm’d and transported.’ At these
Words he sigh’d, and _Atlante_, to his extreme Satisfaction, blush’d.
‘Touch’d, charm’d, and transported, (said _Charlot_) what’s that? And
how do you do to have it be all these things? For I would give any thing
in the World to have my Heart speak.’ ‘Oh! (said _Rinaldo_) your Heart
is too young, it is not yet arrived to the Years of Speaking; about
thirteen or fourteen, it may possibly be saying a thousand soft things
to you; but it must be first inspir’d by some noble Object, whose Idea
it must retain.’ ‘What (reply’d the pretty Prattler) I’ll warrant I must
be in Love?’ ‘Yes, (said _Rinaldo_) most passionately, or you will have
but little Conversation with your Heart.’ ‘Oh! (reply’d she) I am afraid
the Pleasure of such a Conversation, will not make me amends for the
Pain that Love will give me.’ ‘That (said _Rinaldo_) is according as the
Object is kind, and as you hope; if he love, and you hope, you will have
double Pleasure: And in this, how great an Advantage have fair Ladies
above us Men! ’Tis always impossible for you to love in vain, you have
your Choice of a thousand Hearts, which you have subdu’d, and may not
only chuse your Slaves, but be assur’d of ’em; without speaking, you are
belov’d, it needs not cost you a Sigh or a Tear: But unhappy Man is
often destin’d to give his Heart, where it is not regarded, to sigh, to
weep, and languish, without any hope of Pity.’ ‘You speak so feelingly,
Sir, (said _Charlot_) that I am afraid this is your Case.’ ‘Yes, Madam,
(reply’d _Rinaldo_, sighing) I am that unhappy Man.’ ‘Indeed it is pity
(said she.) Pray, how long have you been so?’ ‘Ever since I heard of the
charming _Atlante_, (reply’d he, sighing again) I ador’d her Character;
but now I have seen her, I die for her.’ ‘For me, Sir! (said _Atlante_,
who had not yet spoke) this is the common Compliment of all the young
Men, who pretend to be Lovers; and if one should pity all those Sighers,
we should have but very little left for our selves.’ ‘I believe (said
_Rinaldo_) there are none that tell you so, who do not mean as they say:
Yet among all those Adorers, and those who say they will die for you,
you will find none will be so good as their Words but _Rinaldo_.’
‘Perhaps (said _Atlante_) of all those who tell me of Dying, there are
none that tell me of it with so little Reason as _Rinaldo_, if that be
your Name, Sir.’ ‘Madam, it is, (said he) and who am transported with an
unspeakable Joy, to hear those last Words from your fair Mouth: and let
me, Oh lovely _Atlante!_ assure you, that what I have said, are not
Words of course, but proceed from a Heart that has vow’d it self
eternally yours, even before I had the Happiness to behold this divine
Person; but now that my Eyes have made good all my Heart before
imagin’d, and did but hope, I swear, I will die a thousand Deaths,
rather than violate what I have said to you; that I adore you; that my
Soul and all my Faculties, are charm’d with your Beauty and Innocence,
and that my Life and Fortune, not inconsiderable, shall be laid at your
Feet.’ This he spoke with a Fervency of Passion, that left her no Doubt
of what he had said; yet she blush’d for Shame, and was a little angry
at her self, for suffering him to say so much to her, the very first
time she saw him, and accused her self for giving him any Encouragement:
And in this Confusion she replied, ‘Sir, you have said too much to be
believ’d; and I cannot imagine so short an Acquaintance can make so
considerable an Impression; of which Confession I accuse my self much
more than you, in that I did not only hearken to what you said, without
forbidding you to entertain me at that rate, but for unheedily speaking
something, that has encourag’d this Boldness; for so I must call it, in
a Man so great a Stranger to me.’ ‘Madam (said he) if I have offended by
the Suddenness of my presumptuous Discovery, I beseech you to consider
my Reasons for it, the few Opportunities I am like to have, and the
Impossibility of waiting on you, both from the Severity of your Father
and mine; who, ere I saw you, warn’d me of my Fate, as if he foresaw I
should fall in love, as soon as I should chance to see you; and for that
Reason has kept me closer to my Studies, than hitherto I have been. And
from that time I began to feel a Flame, which was kindled by Report
alone, and the Description my Father gave of your wondrous and dangerous
Beauty: Therefore, Madam, I have not suddenly told you of my Passion.
I have been long your Lover, and have long languish’d without telling of
my Pain; and you ought to pardon it now, since it is done with all the
Respect and religious Awe, that ’tis possible for a Heart to deliver and
unload it self in; therefore, Madam, if you have by chance uttered any
thing, that I have taken Advantage or Hope from, I assure you ’tis so
small, that you have no reason to repent it; but rather, if you would
have me live, send me not from you, without a Confirmation of that
little Hope. See, Madam, (said he, more earnestly and trembling) see we
are almost arriv’d at our Homes, send me not to mine in a Despair that I
cannot support with Life; but tell me, I shall be bless’d with your
Sight, sometimes in your Balcony, which is very near to a jetting Window
in our House, from whence I have sent many a longing Look towards yours,
in hope to have seen my Soul’s Tormentor.’ ‘I shall be very unwilling
(said she) to enter into an Intrigue of Love or Friendship with a Man,
whose Parents will be averse to my Happiness, and possibly mine as
refractory, tho’ they cannot but know such an Alliance would be very
considerable, my Fortune not being suitable to yours: I tell you this,
that you may withdraw in time from an Engagement, in which I find there
will be a great many Obstacles.’ ‘Oh! Madam, (reply’d _Rinaldo_,
sighing) if my Person be not disagreeable to you, you will have no
occasion to fear the rest; ’tis that I dread, and that which is all my
Fear.’ He, sighing, beheld her with a languishing Look, that told her,
he expected her Answer; when she reply’d, ‘Sir, if that will be
Satisfaction enough for you at this time, I do assure you, I have no
Aversion for your Person, in which I find more to be valu’d, than in any
I have yet seen; and if what you say be real, and proceed from a Heart
truly affected, I find, in spite of me, you will oblige me to give you
Hope.’
They were come so near their own Houses, that he had not time to return
her any Answer; but with a low Bow he acknowledg’d her Bounty, and
express’d the Joy her last Words had given him, by a Look that made her
understand he was charm’d and pleas’d; and she bowing to him with an Air
of Satisfaction in her Face, he was well assur’d, there was nothing to
be seen so lovely as she then appear’d, and left her to go into her own
House: but till she was out of sight, he had not power to stir, and then
sighing, retired to his own Apartment, to think over all that had past
between them. He found nothing but what gave him a thousand Joys, in all
she had said; and he blest this happy Day, and wondred how his Stars
came so kind, to make him in one hour at once see _Atlante_, and have
the happiness to know from her Mouth, that he was not disagreeable to
her: Yet with this Satisfaction, he had a thousand Thoughts mix’d which
were tormenting, and those were the Fear of their Parents; he foresaw
from what his Father had said to him already, that it would be difficult
to draw him to a Consent of his Marriage with _Atlante_. These Joys and
Fears were his Companions all the Night, in which he took but little
Rest. Nor was _Atlante_ without her Inquietudes: She found _Rinaldo_
more in her Thoughts than she wish’d, and a sudden Change of Humour,
that made her know something was the matter with her more than usual;
she calls to mind _Rinaldo’s_ speaking of the Conversation with his
Heart, and found hers would be tattling to her, if she would give way to
it; and yet the more she strove to avoid it, the more it importun’d her,
and in spight of all her Resistance, would tell her, that _Rinaldo_ had
a thousand Charms: It tells her, that he loves and adores her, and that
she would be the most cruel of her Sex, should she not be sensible of
his Passion. She finds a thousand Graces in his Person and Conversation,
and as many Advantages in his Fortune, which was one of the most
considerable in all those Parts; for his Estate exceeded that of the
most Noble Men in _Orleans_, and she imagines she should be the most
fortunate of all Womankind in such a Match. With these Thoughts she
employ’d all the Hours of the Night; so that she lay so long in Bed the
next Day, that Count _Vernole_, who had invited himself to Dinner, came
before she had quitted her Chamber, and she was forc’d to say, she had
not been well. He had brought her a very fine Book, newly come out, of
delicate Philosophy, fit for the Study of Ladies. But he appear’d so
disagreeable to that Heart, wholly taken up with a new and fine Object,
that she could now hardly pay him that Civility she was wont to do;
while on the other side that little State and Pride _Atlante_ assum’d,
made her appear the more charming to him: so that if _Atlante_ had no
mind to begin a new Lesson of Philosophy, while she fancied her Thoughts
were much better employ’d, the Count every moment expressing his
Tenderness and Passion, had as little an Inclination to instruct her, as
she had to be instructed: Love had taught her a new Lesson, and he would
fain teach her a new Lesson of Love, but fears it will be a diminishing
his Gravity and Grandeur, to open the Secrets of his Heart to so young a
Maid; he therefore thinks it more agreeable to his Quality and Years,
being about Forty, to use her Father’s Authority in this Affair, and
that it was sufficient for him to declare himself to Monsieur _De Pais_,
who he knew would be proud of the Honour he did him. Some time past,
before he could be persuaded even to declare himself to her Father: he
fancies the little Coldness and Pride he saw in _Atlante’s_ Face, which
was not usual, proceeded from some Discovery of Passion, which his Eyes
had made, or now and then a Sigh, that unawares broke forth; and accuses
himself of a Levity below his Quality, and the Dignity of his Wit and
Gravity; and therefore assumes a more rigid and formal Behaviour than he
was wont, which rendred him yet more disagreeable than before; and ’twas
with greater Pain than ever, she gave him that Respect which was due to
his Quality.
_Rinaldo_, after a restless Night, was up very early in the Morning; and
tho’ he was not certain of seeing his adorable _Atlante_, he dress’d
himself with all that Care, as if he had been to have waited on her, and
got himself into the Window, that overlook’d Monsieur _De Pais’s_
Balcony, where he had not remain’d long, before he saw the pretty
_Charlot_ come into it, not with any design of seeing _Rinaldo_, but to
look and gaze about her a little. _Rinaldo_ saw her, and made her a very
low Reverence, and found some disorder’d Joy on the sight of even
_Charlot_, since she was Sister to _Atlante_. He call’d to her, (for the
Window was so near her, he could easily be heard by her) and told her,
‘He was infinitely indebted to her Bounty, for giving him an Opportunity
yesterday of falling on that Discourse, which had made him the happiest
Man in the World’: He said, ‘If she had not by her agreeable
Conversation encourag’d him, and drawn him from one Word to another, he
should never have had the Confidence to have told _Atlante_, how much he
ador’d her.’ ‘I am very glad, (replyed _Charlot_) that I was the
Occasion of the Beginning of an Amour, which was displeasing to neither
one nor the other; for I assure you for your Comfort, my Sister nothing
but thinks on you: We lie together, and you have taught her already to
sigh so, that I could not sleep for her.’ At this his Face was cover’d
over with a rising Joy, which his Heart could not contain: And after
some Discourse, in which this innocent Girl discovered more than
_Atlante_ wish’d she should, he besought her to become his Advocate; and
since she had no Brother, to give him leave to assume that Honour, and
call her Sister. Thus, by degrees, he flatter’d her into a Consent of
carrying a Letter from him to _Atlante_; which she, who believ’d all as
innocent as her self, and being not forbid to do so, immediately
consented to; when he took his Pen and Ink, that stood in the Window,
with Paper, and wrote _Atlante_ this following Letter:
_RINALDO_ to _ATLANTE_.
_If my Fate be so severe, as to deny me the Happiness of sighing out
my Pain and Passion daily at your Feet, if there be any Faith in the
Hope you were pleased to give me (as ’twere a Sin to doubt) Oh
charming +Atlante+! suffer me not to languish, both without
beholding you, and without the Blessing of now and then a Billet, in
answer to those that shall daily assure you of my eternal Faith and
Vows; ’tis all I ask, till Fortune, and our Affairs, shall allow me
the unspeakable Satisfaction of claiming you: yet if your Charity
can sometimes afford me a sight of you, either from your Balcony in
the Evening, or at a Church in the Morning, it would save me from
that Despair and Torment, which must possess a Heart so unassur’d,
as that of_
Your Eternal Adorer,
_Rin. Bellyaurd_.
He having writ and seal’d this, toss’d it into the Balcony to _Charlot_,
having first look’d about to see if none perceiv’d them. She put it in
her Bosom, and ran in to her Sister, whom by chance she found alone;
_Vernole_ having taken _De Pais_ into the Garden, to discourse him
concerning the sending _Charlot_ to the Monastery, which Work he desir’d
to see perform’d, before he declar’d his Intentions to _Atlante_: for
among all his other good Qualities, he was very avaricious; and as fair
as _Atlante_ was, he thought she would be much fairer with the Addition
of _Charlot’s_ Portion. This Affair of his with Monsieur _De Pais_, gave
_Charlot_ an opportunity of delivering her Letter to her Sister; who no
sooner drew it from her Bosom, but _Atlante’s_ Face was covered over
with Blushes: For she imagin’d from whence it came, and had a secret Joy
in that Imagination, tho’ she thought she must put on the Severity and
Niceness of a Virgin, who would not be thought to have surrendered her
Heart with so small an Assault, and the first too. So she demanded from
whence _Charlot_ had that Letter? Who replyed with Joy, ‘From the fine
young Gentleman, our Neighbour.’ At which _Atlante_ assum’d all the
Gravity she could, to chide her Sister; who replied, ‘Well, Sister, had
you this day seen him, you would not have been angry to have receiv’d a
Letter from him; he look’d so handsome, and was so richly dress’d, ten
times finer than he was yesterday; and I promis’d him you should read
it: therefore, pray let me keep my Word with him; and not only so, but
carry him an Answer.’ ‘Well (said _Atlante_) to save your Credit with
Monsieur _Rinaldo_, I will read it’: Which she did, and finish’d with a
Sigh. While she was reading, _Charlot_ ran into the Garden, to see if
they were not likely to be surpriz’d; and finding the Count and her
Father set in an Arbour, in deep Discourse, she brought Pen, Ink, and
Paper to her Sister, and told her, she might write without the Fear of
being disturbed: and urged her so long to what was enough her
Inclination, that she at last obtained this Answer:
_ATLANTE_ to _RINALDO_.
_+Charlot+, your little importunate Advocate, has at last subdued me
to a Consent of returning you This. She has put me on an Affair with
which I am wholly unacquainted; and you ought to take this very
kindly from me, since it is the very first time I ever writ to one
of your Sex, tho’ perhaps I might with less Danger have done it to
any other Man. I tremble while I write, since I dread a
Correspondence of this Nature, which may insensibly draw us into an
Inconvenience, and engage me beyond the Limits of that Nicety I
ought to preserve: For this Way we venture to say a thousand little
kind Things, which in Conversation we dare not do: for now none can
see us blush. I am sensible I shall this Way put my self too soon
into your Power; and tho’ you have abundance of Merit, I ought to be
asham’d of confessing, I am but too sensible of it:--But hold--I
shall discover for your Repose (which I would preserve) too much of
the Heart of_
Atlante.
She gave this Letter to _Charlot_; who immediately ran into the Balcony
with it, where she still found _Rinaldo_ in a melancholy Posture,
leaning his Head on his Hand: She shewed him the Letter, but was afraid
to toss it to him, for fear it might fall to the Ground; so he ran and
fetched a long Cane, which he cleft at one End, and held it while she
put the Letter into the Cleft, and staid not to hear what he said to it.
But never was Man so transported with Joy, as he was at the reading of
this Letter; it gives him new Wounds; for to the Generous, nothing
obliges Love so much as Love: tho’ it is now too much the Nature of that
inconstant Sex, to cease to love as soon as they are sure of the
Conquest. But it was far different with our Cavalier; he was the more
inflamed, by imagining he had made some Impressions on the Heart of
_Atlante_, and kindled some Sparks there, that in time might increase to
something more; so that he now resolves to die hers: and considering all
the Obstacles that may possibly hinder his Happiness, he found none but
his Father’s Obstinacy, perhaps occasioned by the Meanness of
_Atlante’s_ Fortune. To this he urged again, that he was his only Son,
and a Son whom he loved equal to his own Life; and that certainly, as
soon as he should behold him dying for _Atlante_, which if he were
forc’d to quit her he must be, he then believed the Tenderness of so
fond a Parent would break forth into Pity, and plead within for his
Consent. These were the Thoughts that flatter’d this young Lover all the
Day; and whether he were riding the Great Horse, or at his Study of
Philosophy, or Mathematicks, Singing, Dancing, or whatsoever other
Exercise his Tutors ordered, his Thoughts were continually on _Atlante_.
And now he profited no more, whatever he seem’d to do: every Day he
fail’d not to write to her by the Hand of the kind _Charlot_; who, young
as she was, had conceiv’d a great Friendship for _Rinaldo_, and fail’d
not to fetch her Letters, and bring him Answers, such as he wish’d to
receive. But all this did not satisfy our impatient Lover; Absence
kill’d, and he was no longer able to support himself, without a sight of
this adorable Maid; he therefore implores, she will give him that
Satisfaction: And she at last grants it, with a better Will than he
imagin’d. The next Day was the appointed Time, when she would, under
Pretence of going to Church, give him an Assignation: And because all
publick Places were dangerous, and might make a great Noise, and they
had no private Place to trust to, _Rinaldo_, under Pretence of going up
the River in his Pleasure-Boat, which he often did, sent to have it made
ready by the next Day at Ten of the Clock. This was accordingly done,
and he gave _Atlante_ Notice of his Design of going an Hour or two on
the River in his Boat, which lay near to such a Place, not far from the
Church. She and _Charlot_ came thither: and because they durst not come
out without a Footman or two, they taking one, sent him with a
_How-do-ye_ to some young Ladies, and told him, he should find them at
Church: So getting rid of their Spy, they hastened to the River-side,
and found a Boat and _Rinaldo_, waiting to carry them on board his
little Vessel, which was richly adorn’d, and a very handsome Collation
ready for them, of cold Meats, Sallads and Sweetmeats.
As soon as they were come into the Pleasure-Boat, unseen of any, he
kneel’d at the Feet of _Atlante_, and there utter’d so many passionate
and tender Things to her, with a Voice so trembling and soft, with Eyes
so languishing, and a Fervency and a Fire so sincere, that her young
Heart, wholly uncapable of Artifice, could no longer resist such
Language, and such Looks of Love; she grows tender, and he perceives it
in her fine Eyes, who could not dissemble; he reads her Heart in her
Looks, and found it yielding apace; and therefore assaults it anew, with
fresh Forces of Sighs and Tears: He implores she would assure him of her
Heart, which she could no other way do, than by yielding to marry him:
He would carry her to the next Village, there consummate that Happiness,
without which he was able to live no longer; for he had a thousand
Fears, that some other Lover was, or would suddenly be provided for her;
and therefore he would make sure of her while he had this Opportunity:
and to that End, he answer’d all the Objections she could make to the
contrary. But ever, when he named Marriage, she trembled, with fear of
doing something that she fancy’d she ought not to do without the Consent
of her Father. She was sensible of the Advantage, but had been so us’d
to a strict Obedience, that she could not without Horror think of
violating it; and therefore besought him, as he valued her Repose, not
to urge her to that: And told him further, That if he fear’d any Rival,
she would give him what other Assurance and Satisfaction he pleas’d, but
that of Marriage; which she could not consent to, till she knew such an
Alliance would not be fatal to him: for she fear’d, as passionately as
he lov’d her, when he should find she had occasion’d him the Loss of his
Fortune, or his Father’s Affection, he would grow to hate her. Tho’ he
answer’d to this all that a fond Lover could urge, yet she was resolv’d,
and he forc’d to content himself with obliging her by his Prayers and
Protestations, his Sighs and Tears, to a Contract, which they solemnly
made each other, vowing on either Side, they would never marry any
other. This being solemnly concluded, he assum’d a Look more gay and
contented than before: He presented her a very rich Ring, which she
durst not put on her Finger, but hid it in her Bosom. And beholding each
other now as Man and Wife, she suffer’d him all the decent Freedoms he
could wish to take; so that the Hours of this Voyage seem’d the most
soft and charming of his Life: and doubtless they were so; every Touch
of _Atlante_ transported him, every Look pierced his Soul, and he was
all Raptures of Joy, when he consider’d this charming lovely Maid was
his own.
_Charlot_ all this while was gazing above-deck, admiring the Motion of
the little Vessel, and how easily the Wind and Tide bore her up the
River. She had never been in any thing of this kind before, and was very
well pleas’d and entertain’d, when _Rinaldo_ call’d her down to eat;
where they enjoy’d themselves, as well as was possible: and _Charlot_
was wondring to see such a Content in their Eyes.
But now they thought it was high time for them to return; they fancy the
Footman missing them at Church, would go home and alarm their Father,
and the Knight of the Ill-favour’d Countenance, as _Charlot_ call’d
Count _Vernole_, whose Severity put their Father on a greater
Restriction of them, than naturally he would do of himself. At the Name
of this Count, _Rinaldo_ chang’d Colour, fearing he might be some Rival;
and ask’d _Atlante_, if this _Vernole_ was a-kin to her? She answer’d
no; but was a very great Friend to her Father, and one who from their
Infancy had had a particular Concern for their Breeding, and was her
Master for Philosophy. ‘Ah! (reply’d _Rinaldo_, sighing) this Man’s
Concern must proceed from something more than Friendship for her
Father’; and therefore conjur’d her to tell him, whether he was not a
Lover: ‘A Lover! (reply’d _Atlante_) I assure you, he is a perfect
Antidote against that Passion’: And tho’ she suffer’d his ugly Presence
now, she should loathe and hate him, should he but name Love to her.
She said, she believed she need not fear any such Persecution, since he
was a Man who was not at all amorous; that he had too much of the Satire
in his Humour, to harbour any Softness there: and Nature had form’d his
Body to his Mind, wholly unfit for Love. And that he might set his Heart
absolutely at rest, she assur’d him her Father had never yet propos’d
any Marriage to her, tho’ many advantageous ones were offer’d him every
Day.
The Sails being turned to carry them back from whence they came; after
having discoursed of a thousand Things, and all of Love, and Contrivance
to carry on their mutual Design, they with Sighs parted; _Rinaldo_
staying behind in the Pleasure-Boat, and they going a-shore in the
Wherry that attended: after which he cast many an amorous and sad Look,
and perhaps was answer’d by those of _Atlante_.
It was past Church-time two or three Hours, when they arrived at home,
wholly unprepar’d with an Excuse, so absolutely was _Atlante’s_ Soul
possest with softer Business. The first Person that they met was the
Footman, who open’d the Door, and began to cry out how long he had
waited in the Church, and how in vain; without giving them time to
reply. _De Pais_ came towards ’em, and with a frowning Look demanded
where they had been? _Atlante_, who was not accustom’d to Excuses and
Untruth, was a while at a stand; when _Charlot_ with a Voice of Joy
cry’d out, ‘Oh Sir! we have been a-board of a fine little Ship’: At this
_Atlante_ blush’d, fearing she would tell the Truth. But she proceeded
on, and said, that they had not been above a Quarter of an Hour at
Church, when the Lady ----, with some other Ladies and Cavaliers, were
going out of the Church, and that spying them, they would needs have ’em
go with ’em: My Sister, Sir, continu’d she, was very loth to go, for
fear you should be angry; but my Lady ---- was so importunate with her
on one side, and I on the other, because I never saw a little Ship in my
Life, that at last we prevail’d with her: therefore, good Sir, be not
angry. He promised them he was not. And when they came in, they found
Count _Vernole_, who had been inspiring _De Pais_ with Severity, and
counselled him to chide the young Ladies, for being too long absent,
under Pretence of going to their Devotion. Nor was it enough for him to
set the Father on, but himself with a Gravity, where Concern and Malice
were both apparent, reproached _Atlante_ with Levity; and told her, He
believed she had some other Motive than the Invitation of a Lady, to go
on Ship-board; and that she had too many Lovers, not to make them doubt
that this was a design’d thing; and that she had heard Love from some
one, for whom it was design’d. To this she made but a short Reply, That
if it was so, she had no reason to conceal it, since she had Sense
enough to look after herself; and if any body had made love to her, he
might be assur’d, it was some one whose Quality and Merit deserved to be
heard: and with a Look of Scorn, she passed on to another Room, and left
him silently raging within with Jealousy: Which, if before she tormented
him, this Declaration increas’d it to a pitch not to be conceal’d. And
this Day he said so much to the Father, that he resolv’d forthwith to
send _Charlot_ to a Nunnery: and accordingly the next day he bid her
prepare to go. _Charlot_, who was not yet arrived to the Years of
Distinction, did not much regret it; and having no Trouble but leaving
her Sister, she prepared to go to a Nunnery, not many Streets from that
where she dwelt. The Lady Abbess was her Father’s Kinswoman, and had
treated her very well, as often as she came to visit her: so that with
Satisfaction enough, she was condemned to a Monastick Life, and was now
going for her Probation-Year. _Atlante_ was troubled at her Departure,
because she had no body to bring and to carry Letters between _Rinaldo_
and she: however, she took her leave of her, and promis’d to come and
see her as often as she should be permitted to go abroad; for she fear’d
now some Constraint extraordinary would be put upon her: and so it
happened.
_Atlante’s_ Chamber was that to which the Balcony belong’d; and tho’ she
durst not appear there in the Daytime, she could in the Night, and that
way give her Lover as many Hours of Conversation as she pleased, without
being perceiv’d: But how to give _Rinaldo_ notice of this, she could not
tell; who not knowing _Charlot_ was gone to a Monastery, waited many
days at his Window to see her: at last, they neither of them knowing who
to trust with any Message, one day, when he was, as usual upon his
watch, he saw _Atlante_ step into the Balcony, who having a Letter, in
which she had put a piece of Lead, she tost it into his Window, whose
Casement was open, and run in again unperceived by any but himself. The
Paper contained only this:
_My Chamber is that which looks into the Balcony; from whence, tho’
I cannot converse with you in the Day, I can at Night, when I am
retired to go to bed: therefore be at your Window. +Farewel+._
There needed no more to make him a diligent Watcher: and accordingly she
was no sooner retired to her Chamber, but she would come into the
Balcony, where she fail’d not to see him attending at his Window. This
happy Contrivance was thus carry’d on for many Nights, where they
entertain’d one another with all the Endearment that two Hearts could
dictate, who were perfectly united and assur’d of each other; and this
pleasing Conversation would often last till Day appear’d, and forced
them to part.
But old _Bellyaurd_ perceiving his Son frequent that Chamber more than
usual, fancy’d something extraordinary must be the Cause of it; and one
night asking for his Son, his Valet told him, he was gone into the great
Chamber, so this was called: _Bellyaurd_ asked the Valet what he did
there; he told him he could not tell; for often he had lighted him
thither, and that his Master would take the Candle from him at the
Chamber-Door, and suffer him to go no farther. Tho’ the old Gentleman
could not imagine what Affairs he could have alone every Night in that
Chamber, he had a Curiosity to see: and one unlucky Night, putting off
his Shoes, he came to the Door of the Chamber, which was open; he
enter’d softly, and saw the Candle set in the Chimney, and his Son at a
great open Bay-Window: he stopt awhile to wait when he would turn, but
finding him unmoveable, he advanced something farther, and at last heard
the soft Dialogue of Love between him and _Atlante_, whom he knew to be
she, by his often calling her by her Name in their Discourse. He heard
enough to confirm him how Matters went; and unseen as he came, he
returned, full of Indignation, and thought how to prevent so great an
Evil, as this Passion of his Son might produce: at first he thought to
round him severely in the Ear about it, and upbraid him for doing the
only thing he had thought fit to forbid him; but then he thought that
would but terrify him for awhile, and he would return again, where he
had so great an Inclination, if he were near her; he therefore resolves
to send him to _Paris_, that by Absence he might forget the young Beauty
that had charm’d his Youth. Therefore, without letting _Rinaldo_ know
the Reason, and without taking Notice that he knew any thing of his
Amour, he came to him one day, and told him, all the Masters he had for
the improving him in noble Sciences were very dull, or very remiss: and
that he resolved he should go for a Year or two to the Academy at
_Paris_. To this the Son made a thousand Evasions; but the Father was
positive, and not to be persuaded by all his Reasons: And finding he
should absolutely displease him if he refus’d to go, and not daring to
tell him the dear Cause of his Desire to remain at _Orleans_, he
therefore, with a breaking Heart, consents to go, nay, resolves it, tho’
it should be his Death. But alas! he considers that this Parting will
not only prove the greatest Torment upon Earth to him, but that
_Atlante_ will share in his Misfortunes also: This Thought gives him a
double Torment, and yet he finds no Way to evade it.
The Night that finished this fatal Day, he goes again to his wonted
Station, the Window; where he had not sighed very long, but he saw
_Atlante_ enter the Balcony: He was not able a great while to speak to
her, or to utter one Word. The Night was light enough to see him at the
wonted Place; and she admires at his Silence, and demands the Reason in
such obliging Terms as adds to his Grief; and he, with a deep Sigh,
reply’d, ‘Urge me not, my fair _Atlante_, to speak, lest by obeying you
I give you more cause of Grief than my Silence is capable of doing’: and
then sighing again, he held his peace, and gave her leave to ask the
Cause of these last Words. But when he made no Reply but by sighing, she
imagin’d it much worse than indeed it was; and with a trembling and
fainting Voice, she cried, ‘Oh! _Rinaldo_, give me leave to divine that
cruel News you are so unwilling to tell me: It is so,’ added she, ‘you
are destin’d to some more fortunate Maid than _Atlante_.’ At this Tears
stopped her Speech, and she could utter no more. ‘No, my dearest Charmer
(reply’d _Rinaldo_, elevating his Voice) if that were all, you should
see with what Fortitude I would die, rather than obey any such Commands.
I am vow’d yours to the last Moment of my Life; and will be yours in
spite of all the Opposition in the World: that Cruelty I could evade,
but cannot this that threatens me.’ ‘Ah! (cried _Atlante_) let Fate do
her worst, so she still continue _Rinaldo_ mine, and keep that Faith he
hath sworn to me entire: What can she do beside, that can afflict me?’
‘She can separate me (cried he) for some time from _Atlante_.’ ‘Oh!
(reply’d she) all Misfortunes fall so below that which I first imagin’d,
that methinks I do not resent this, as I should otherwise have done: but
I know, when I have a little more consider’d it, I shall even die with
the Grief of it; Absence being so great an Enemy to Love, and making us
soon forget the Object belov’d: This, tho’ I never experienc’d, I have
heard, and fear it may be my Fate.’ He then convinc’d her Fears with a
thousand new Vows, and a thousand Imprecations of Constancy. She then
asked him, ‘If their Loves were discover’d, that he was with such haste
to depart?’ He told her, ‘Nothing of that was the Cause; and he could
almost wish it were discover’d, since he could resolutely then refuse to
go: but it was only to cultivate his Mind more effectually than he could
do here; ’twas the Care of his Father to accomplish him the more; and
therefore he could not contradict it. But (said he) I am not sent where
Seas shall part us, nor vast Distances of Earth, but to _Paris_, from
whence he might come in two Days to see her again; and that he would
expect from that Balcony, that had given him so many happy Moments, many
more when he should come to see her.’ He besought her to send him away
with all the Satisfaction she could, which she could no otherwise do,
than by giving him new Assurances that she would never give away that
Right he had in her to any other Lover: She vows this with innumerable
Tears; and is almost angry with him for questioning her Faith. He tells
her he has but one Night more to stay, and his Grief would be
unspeakable, if he should not be able to take a better leave of her,
than at a Window; and that, if she would give him leave, he would by a
Rope or two, tied together, so as it may serve for Steps, ascend her
Balcony; he not having time to provide a Ladder of Ropes. She tells him
she has so great a Confidence in his Virtue and Love, that she will
refuse him nothing, tho’ it would be a very bold Venture for a Maid, to
trust her self with a passionate young Man, in silence of Night: and
tho’ she did not extort a Vow from him to secure her, she expected he
would have a care of her Honour. He swore to her, his Love was too
religious for so base an Attempt. There needed not many Vows to confirm
her Faith; and it was agreed on between them, that he should come the
next Night into her Chamber.
It happen’d that Night, as it often did, that Count _Vernole_ lay with
Monsieur _De Pais_, which was in a Ground-Room, just under that of
_Atlante’s_. As soon as she knew all were in bed, she gave the word to
_Rinaldo_, who was attending with the Impatience of a passionate Lover
below, under the Window; and who no sooner heard the Balcony open, but
he ascended with some difficulty, and enter’d the Chamber, where he
found _Atlante_ trembling with Joy and Fear: He throws himself at her
Feet, as unable to speak as she; who nothing but blushed and bent down
her Eyes, hardly daring to glance them towards the dear Object of her
Desires, the Lord of all her Vows: She was asham’d to see a Man in her
Chamber, where yet none had ever been alone, and by Night too. He saw
her Fear, and felt her trembling; and after a thousand Sighs of Love had
made way for Speech, he besought her to fear nothing from him, for his
Flame was too sacred, and his Passion too holy to offer any thing but
what Honour with Love might afford him. At last he brought her to some
Courage, and the Roses of her fair Cheeks assum’d their wonted Colour,
not blushing too red, nor languishing too pale. But when the
Conversation began between them, it was the softest in the world: They
said all that parting Lovers could say; all that Wit and Tenderness
could express: They exchanged their Vows anew; and to confirm his, he
tied a Bracelet of Diamonds about her Arm, and she returned him one of
her Hair, which he had long begged, and she had on purpose made, which
clasped together with Diamonds; this she put about his Arm, and he swore
to carry it to his Grave. The Night was far spent in tender Vows, soft
Sighs and Tears on both sides, and it was high time to part: but, as if
Death had been to have arrived to them in that Minute, they both
linger’d away the time, like Lovers who had forgot themselves; and the
Day was near approaching when he bid farewel, which he repeated very
often: for still he was interrupted by some commanding Softness from
_Atlante_, and then lost all his Power of going; till she, more
courageous and careful of his Interest and her own Fame, forc’d him from
her: and it was happy she did, for he was no sooner got over the
Balcony, and she had flung him down his Rope, and shut the Door, but
_Vernole_, whom Love and Contrivance kept waking, fancy’d several times
he heard a Noise in _Atlante’s_ Chamber. And whether in passing over the
Balcony, _Rinaldo_ made any Noise or not, or whether it were still his
jealous Fancy, he came up in his Night-Gown, with a Pistol in his Hand.
_Atlante_ was not so much lost in Grief, tho’ she were all in Tears, but
she heard a Man come up, and imagin’d it had been her Father, she not
knowing of Count _Vernole’s_ lying in the House that Night; if she had,
she possibly had taken more care to have been silent; but whoever it
was, she could not get to bed soon enough, and therefore turn’d her self
to her Dressing-Table, where a Candle stood, and where lay a Book open
of the Story of _Ariadne_ and _Theseus_. The Count turning the Latch,
enter’d halting into her Chamber in his Night-Gown clapped close about
him, which betray’d an ill-favour’d Shape, his Night-Cap on, without a
Perriwig, which discover’d all his lean wither’d Jaws, his pale Face,
and his Eyes staring: and made altogether so dreadful a Figure, that
_Atlante_, who no more dreamt of him than of a Devil, had possibly have
rather seen the last. She gave a great Shriek, which frighted _Vernole_;
so both stood for a while staring on each other, till both were
recollected: He told her the Care of her Honour had brought him thither;
and then rolling his small Eyes round the Chamber, to see if he could
discover any body, he proceeded, and cry’d, ‘Madam, if I had no other
Motive than your being up at this time of Night, or rather of Day,
I could easily guess how you have been entertain’d.’ ‘What Insolence is
this (said she, all in a rage) when to cover your Boldness of
approaching my Chamber at this Hour, you would question how I have been
entertain’d! Either explain your self, or quit my Chamber; for I do not
use to see such terrible Objects here.’ ‘Possibly those you do see (said
the Count) are indeed more agreeable, but I am afraid have not that
Regard to your Honour as I have’: And at that word he stepped to the
Balcony, open’d it, and look’d out; but seeing no body, he shut it to
again. This enraged _Atlante_ beyond all Patience; and snatching the
Pistol out of his Hand, she told him, He deserved to have it aimed at
his Head, for having the Impudence to question her Honour, or her
Conduct; and commanded him to avoid her Chamber as he lov’d his Life,
which she believ’d he was fonder of than of her Honour. She speaking
this in a Tone wholly transported with Rage, and at the same time
holding the Pistol towards him, made him tremble with Fear; and he now
found, whether she were guilty or not, it was his turn to beg Pardon:
For you must know, however it came to pass that his Jealousy made him
come up in that fierce Posture, at other times _Vernole_ was the most
tame and passive Man in the World, and one who was afraid of his own
Shadow in the Night: He had a natural Aversion for Danger, and thought
it below a Man of Wit, or common Sense, to be guilty of that brutal
thing, called Courage or Fighting; His Philosophy told him, _It was safe
sleeping in a whole Skin_; and possibly he apprehended as much Danger
from this _Virago_, as ever he did from his own Sex. He therefore fell
on his Knees, and besought her to hold her fair Hand, and not to suffer
that, which was the greatest Mark of his Respect, to be the Cause of her
Hate or Indignation. The pitiful Faces he made, and the Signs of Mortal
Fear in him, had almost made her laugh, at least it allay’d her Anger;
and she bid him rise and play the fool hereafter somewhere else, and not
in her Presence; yet for once she would deign to give him this
Satisfaction, that she was got into a Book, which had many moving
Stories very well writ; and that she found her self so well entertain’d,
she had forgot how the Night passed. He most humbly thanked her for this
Satisfaction, and retired, perhaps not so well satisfied as he
pretended.
After this, he appear’d more submissive and respectful towards
_Atlante_; and she carry’d herself more reserv’d and haughty towards
him; which was one Reason, he would not yet discover his Passion.
Thus the Time run on at _Orleans_, while _Rinaldo_ found himself daily
languishing at _Paris_. He was indeed in the best Academy in the City,
amongst a Number of brave and noble Youths, where all things that could
accomplish them, were to be learn’d by those that had any Genius; but
_Rinaldo_ had other Thoughts, and other Business: his Time was wholly
past in the most solitary Parts of the Garden, by the melancholy
Fountains, and in the most gloomy Shades, where he could with most
Liberty breathe out his Passion and his Griefs. He was past the Tutorage
of a Boy; and his Masters could not upbraid him, but found he had some
secret Cause of Grief, which made him not mind those Exercises, which
were the Delight of the rest: so that nothing being able to divert his
Melancholy, which daily increased upon him, he fear’d it would bring him
into a Fever, if he did not give himself the Satisfaction of seeing
_Atlante_. He had no sooner thought of this, but he was impatient to put
it in execution; he resolved to go (having very good Horses) without
acquainting any of his Servants with it. He got a very handsom and light
Ladder of Ropes made, which he carry’d under his Coat, and away he rid
for _Orleans_, stay’d at a little Village, till the Darkness of the
Night might favour his Design: And then walking about _Atlante’s_
Lodgings, till he saw a Light in her Chamber, and then making that Noise
on his Sword, as was agreed between them, he was heard by his adorable
_Atlante_, and suffer’d to mount her Chamber, where he would stay till
almost break of Day, and then return to the Village, and take Horse, and
away for _Paris_ again. This, once in a Month, was his Exercise, without
which he could not live; so that his whole Year was past in riding
between _Orleans_ and _Paris_, between Excess of Grief, and Excess of
Joy by turns.
It was now that _Atlante_, arrived to her fifteenth Year, shone out with
a Lustre of Beauty greater than ever; and in this Year, in the Absence
of _Rinaldo_, had carry’d herself with that Severity of Life, without
the youthful Desire of going abroad, or desiring any Diversion, but what
she found in her own retired Thoughts, that _Vernole_, wholly unable
longer to conceal his Passion, resolv’d to make a Publication of it,
first to the Father, and then to the lovely Daughter, of whom he had
some Hope, because she had carry’d her self very well towards him for
this Year past; which she would never have done, if she had imagin’d he
would ever have been her Lover: She had seen no Signs of any such
Misfortune towards her in these many Years he had conversed with her,
and she had no Cause to fear him. When one Day her Father taking her
into the Garden, told her what Honour and Happiness was in store for
her; and that now the Glory of his fall’n Family would rise again, since
she had a Lover of an illustrious Blood, ally’d to Monarchs; and one
whose Fortune was newly encreased to a very considerable Degree,
answerable to his Birth. She changed Colour at this Discourse, imagining
but too well who this illustrious Lover was; when _De Pais_ proceeded
and told her, ‘Indeed his Person was not the most agreeable that ever
was seen: but he marry’d her to Glory and Fortune, not the Man: And a
Woman (says he) ought to look no further.’
She needed not any more to inform her who this intended Husband was; and
therefore, bursting forth into Tears, she throws herself at his Feet,
imploring him not to use the Authority of a Father, to force her to a
thing so contrary to her Inclination: assuring him, she could not
consent to any such thing; and that she would rather die than yield. She
urged many Arguments for this her Disobedience; but none would pass for
current with the old Gentleman, whose Pride had flatter’d him with Hopes
of so considerable a Son-in-law: He was very much surpriz’d at
_Atlante’s_ refusing what he believ’d she would receive with Joy; and
finding that no Arguments on his Side could draw hers to an obedient
Consent, he grew to such a Rage, as very rarely possest him: vowing, if
she did not conform her Will to his, he would abandon her to all the
Cruelty of Contempt and Poverty: so that at last she was forced to
return him this Answer, ‘That she would strive all she could with her
Heart; but she verily believed she should never bring it to consent to a
Marriage with Monsieur the Count.’ The Father continued threatning her,
and gave her some Days to consider of it: So leaving her in Tears, he
returned to his Chamber, to consider what Answer he should give Count
_Vernole_, who he knew would be impatient to learn what Success he had,
and what himself was to hope. _De Pais_, after some Consideration,
resolved to tell him, she receiv’d the Offer very well, but that he must
expect a little Maiden-Nicety in the Case: and accordingly did tell him
so; and he was not at all doubtful of his good Fortune.
But _Atlante_, who resolved to die a thousand Deaths rather than break
her solemn Vows to _Rinaldo_, or to marry the Count, cast about how she
should avoid it with the least Hazard of her Father’s Rage. She found
_Rinaldo_ the better and more advantageous Match of the two, could they
but get his Father’s Consent: He was beautiful and young; his Title was
equal to that of _Vernole_, when his Father should die; and his Estate
exceeded his: yet she dares not make a Discovery, for fear she should
injure her Lover; who at this Time, though she knew it not, lay sick of
a Fever, while she was wondering that he came not as he used to do.
However she resolves to send him a Letter, and acquaint him with the
Misfortune; which she did in these Terms:
_ATLANTE_ to _RINALDO_.
_My Father’s Authority would force me to violate my sacred Vows to
you, and give them to the Count +Vernole+, whom I mortally hate, yet
could wish him the greatest Monarch in the World, that I might shew
you I could even then despise him for your Sake. My Father is
already too much enraged by my Denial, to hear Reason from me, if I
should confess to him my Vows to you: So that I see nothing but a
Prospect of Death before me; for assure your self, my +Rinaldo+,
I will die rather than consent to marry any other: Therefore come my
+Rinaldo+, and come quickly, to see my Funerals, instead of those
Nuptials they vainly expect from_
Your Faithful
_ATLANTE_.
This Letter _Rinaldo_ receiv’d; and there needed no more to make him fly
to _Orleans_: This raised him soon from his Bed of Sickness, and getting
immediately to horse, he arrived at his Father’s House; who did not so
much admire to see him, because he heard he was sick of a Fever, and
gave him leave to return, if he pleas’d: He went directly to his
Father’s House, because he knew somewhat of the Business, he was
resolv’d to make his Passion known, as soon as he had seen _Atlante_,
from whom he was to take all his Measures: He therefore fail’d not, when
all were in Bed, to rise and go from his Chamber into the Street; where
finding a Light in _Atlante’s_ Chamber, for she every Night expected
him, he made the usual Sign, and she went into the Balcony; and he
having no Conveniency of mounting up into it, they discoursed, and said
all they had to say. From thence she tells him of the Count’s Passion,
of her Father’s Resolution, and that her own was rather to die his, than
live any Body’s else: And at last, as their Refuge, they resolv’d to
discover the whole Matter; she to her Father, and he to his, to see what
Accommodation they could make; if not, to die together. They parted at
this Resolve, for she would permit him no longer to stay in the Street
after such a Sickness; so he went home to bed, but not to sleep.
The next Day, at Dinner, Monsieur _Bellyaurd_ believing his Son
absolutely cur’d, by Absence, of his Passion; and speaking of all the
News in the Town, among the rest, told him he was come in good time to
dance at the Wedding of Count _Vernole_ with _Atlante_, the Match being
agreed on: ‘No, Sir (reply’d _Rinaldo_) I shall never dance at the
Marriage of Count _Vernole_ with _Atlante_; and you will see in Monsieur
_De Pais’s_ House a Funeral sooner than a Wedding.’ And thereupon he
told his Father all his Passion for that lovely Maid; and assur’d him,
if he would not see him laid in his Grave, he must consent to this
Match. _Bellyaurd_ rose in a Fury, and told him, ‘He had rather see him
in his Grave, than in the Arms of _Atlante_: Not (continued he) so much
for any Dislike I have to the young Lady, or the Smallness of her
Fortune; but because I have so long warn’d you from such a Passion, and
have with such Care endeavour’d by your Absence to prevent it.’ He
travers’d the Room very fast, still protesting against this Alliance:
and was deaf to all _Rinaldo_ could say. On the other side the Day being
come, wherein _Atlante_ was to give her final Answer to her Father
concerning her Marriage with Count _Vernole_; she assum’d all the
Courage and Resolution she could, to withstand the Storm that threatned
a Denial. And her Father came to her, and demanding her Answer, she told
him, ‘She could not be the Wife of _Vernole_, since she was Wife to
_Rinaldo_, only son to _Bellyaurd_.’ If her Father storm’d before, he
grew like a Man distracted at her Confession; and _Vernole_ hearing them
loud, ran to the Chamber to learn the Cause; where just as he enter’d he
found _De Pais’s_ Sword drawn, and ready to kill his Daughter, who lay
all in Tears at his Feet. He with-held his Hand; and asking the Cause of
his Rage, he was told all that _Atlante_ had confess’d; which put
_Vernole_ quite beside all his Gravity, and made him discover the
Infirmity of Anger, which he used to say ought to be dissembled by all
wise Men: So that _De Pais_ forgot his own to appease his, but ’twas in
vain, for he went out of the House, vowing Revenge to _Rinaldo_: And to
that end, being not very well assur’d of his own Courage, as I said
before, and being of the Opinion, that no Man ought to expose his Life
to him who has injur’d him; he hired _Swiss_ and _Spanish_ Soldiers to
attend him in the nature of Footmen; and watch’d several Nights about
_Bellyaurd’s_ Door, and that of _De Pais’s_, believing he should some
time or other see him under the Window of _Atlante_, or perhaps mounting
into it: for now he no longer doubted, but this happy Lover was he, whom
he fancy’d he heard go from the Balcony that Night he came up with his
Pistol; and being more a _Spaniard_ than a _Frenchman_ in his Nature, he
resolv’d to take him any way unguarded or unarm’d, if he came in his
Way.
_Atlante_, who heard his Threatnings when he went from her in a Rage,
fear’d his Cowardice might put him on some base Action, to deprive
_Rinaldo_ of his Life; and therefore thought it not safe to suffer him
to come to her by Night, as he had before done; but sent him word in a
Note, that he should forbear her Window, for _Vernole_ had sworn his
Death. This Note came, unseen by his Father, to his Hands: but this
could not hinder him from coming to her Window, which he did as soon as
it was dark: he came thither, only attended with his Valet, and two
Footmen; for now he car’d not who knew the Secret. He had no sooner made
the Sign, but he found himself incompass’d with _Vernole’s_ Bravoes; and
himself standing at a distance cry’d out, ‘That is he’: With that they
all drew on both sides, and _Rinaldo_ receiv’d a Wound in his Arm.
_Atlante_ heard this, and ran crying out, ‘That _Rinaldo_, prest by
Numbers, would be kill’d.’ _De Pais_, who was reading in his Closet,
took his Sword, and ran out; and, contrary to all Expectation, seeing
_Rinaldo_ fighting with his Back to the Door, pull’d him into the House,
and fought himself with the Bravoes: who being very much wounded by
_Rinaldo_, gave ground, and sheer’d off; and _De Pais_, putting up old
_Bilbo_ into the Scabbard, went into his House, where he found _Rinaldo_
almost fainting with loss of Blood, and _Atlante_, with her Maids
binding up his Wound; to whom _De Pais_ said, ‘This charity, _Atlante_,
very well becomes you, and is what I can allow you; and I could wish you
had no other Motive for this Action.’ _Rinaldo_ by degrees recover’d of
his Fainting, and as well as his Weakness would permit him, he got up
and made a low Reverence to _De Pais_, telling him, ‘He had now a double
Obligation to pay him all the Respect in the World; first, for his being
the Father of _Atlante_; and secondly, for being the Preserver of his
Life: two Tyes that should eternally oblige him to love and honour him,
as his own Parent.’ _De Pais_ reply’d, ‘He had done nothing but what
common Humanity compell’d him to do: But if he would make good that
Respect he profess’d towards him, it must be in quitting all Hopes of
_Atlante_, whom he had destin’d to another, or an eternal Inclosure in a
Monastery: He had another Daughter, whom if he would think worthy of his
Regard, he should take his Alliance as a very great Honour; but his Word
and Reputation, nay his Vows were past, to give _Atlante_ to Count
_Vernole_.’ _Rinaldo_, who before he spoke took measure from _Atlante’s_
Eyes, which told him her Heart was his, return’d this Answer to _De
Pais_, ‘That he was infinitely glad to find by the Generosity of his
Offer, that he had no Aversion against his being his Son-in-law; and
that, next to _Atlante_, the greatest Happiness he could wish would be
his receiving _Charlot_ from his Hand; but that he could not think of
quitting _Atlante_, how necessary soever it would be, for Glory, and
his--(the further) Repose.’ _De Pais_ would not let him at this time
argue the matter further, seeing he was ill, and had need of looking
after; he therefore begg’d he would for his Health’s sake retire to his
own House, whither he himself conducted him, and left him to the Care of
his Men, who were escap’d the Fray; and returning to his own Chamber, he
found _Atlante_ retir’d, and so he went to bed full of Thoughts. This
Night had increas’d his Esteem for _Rinaldo_, and lessen’d it for Count
_Vernole_; but his Word and Honour being past, he could not break it,
neither with Safety nor Honour: for he knew the haughty resenting Nature
of the Count, and he fear’d some Danger might arrive to the brave
_Rinaldo_, which troubled him very much. At last he resolv’d, that
neither might take any thing ill at his Hands, to lose _Atlante_, and
send her to the Monastery where her Sister was, and compel her to be a
Nun. This he thought would prevent Mischiefs on both sides; and
accordingly, the next Day, (having in the Morning sent Word to the Lady
Abbess what he would have done) he carries _Atlante_, under pretence of
visiting her Sister, (which they often did) to the Monastery, where she
was no sooner come, but she was led into the Inclosure: Her Father had
rather sacrifice her, than she should be the Cause of the Murder of two
such noble Men as _Vernole_ and _Rinaldo_.
The Noise of _Atlante’s_ being inclos’d, was soon spread all over the
busy Town, and _Rinaldo_ was not the last to whom the News arriv’d: He
was for a few Days confin’d to his Chamber; where, when alone, he rav’d
like a Man distracted; But his Wounds had so incens’d his Father against
_Atlante_, that he swore he would see his Son die of them, rather than
suffer him to marry _Atlante_; and was extremely overjoy’d to find she
was condemn’d, for ever, to the Monastery. So that the Son thought it
the wisest Course, and most for the advantage of his Love, to say
nothing to contradict his Father; but being almost assur’d _Atlante_
would never consent to be shut up in a Cloyster, and abandon him, he
flatter’d himself with hope, that he should steal her from thence, and
marry her in spite of all Opposition. This he was impatient to put in
practice: He believ’d, if he were not permitted to see _Atlante_, he had
still a kind Advocate in _Charlot_, who was now arriv’d to her
Thirteenth Year, and infinitely advanc’d in Wit and Beauty. _Rinaldo_
therefore often goes to the Monastery, surrounding it, to see what
Possibility there was of accomplishing his Design; if he could get her
Consent, he finds it not impossible, and goes to visit _Charlot_; who
had command not to see him, or speak to him. This was a Cruelty he
look’d not for, and which gave him an unspeakable Trouble, and without
her Aid it was wholly impossible to give _Atlante_ any account of his
Design. In this Perplexity he remain’d many Days, in which he languish’d
almost to Death; he was distracted with Thought, and continually
hovering about the Nunnery-Walls, in hope, at some time or other, to see
or hear from that lovely Maid, who alone could make his Happiness. In
these Traverses he often met _Vernole_, who had Liberty to see her when
he pleas’d: If it happen’d that they chanc’d to meet in the Daytime,
tho’ _Vernole_ was attended with an Equipage of Ruffians, and _Rinaldo_
but only with a couple of Footmen, he could perceive _Vernole_ shun him,
grow pale, and almost tremble with Fear sometimes, and get to the other
Side of the Street; and if he did not, _Rinaldo_ having a mortal Hate to
him, would often bear up so close to him, that he would jostle him
against the Wall, which _Vernole_ would patiently put up, and pass on;
so that he could never be provok’d to fight by Day-light, how solitary
soever the Place was where they met: but if they chanc’d to meet at
Night, they were certain of a Skirmish, in which he would have no part
himself; so that _Rinaldo_ was often like to be assassinated, but still
came off with some slight Wound. This continu’d so long, and made so
great a Noise in the Town, that the two old Gentlemen were mightily
alarm’d by it; and Count _Bellyaurd_ came to _De Pais_, one Day, to
discourse with him of this Affair; and _Bellyaurd_, for the Preservation
of his Son, was almost consenting, since there was no Remedy, that he
should marry _Atlante_. _De Pais_ confess’d the Honour he proffer’d him,
and how troubled he was, that his Word was already past to his Friend,
the Count _Vernole_, whom he said she should marry, or remain for ever a
Nun; but if _Rinaldo_ could displace his Love from _Atlante_, and place
it on _Charlot_, he should gladly consent to the Match. _Bellyaurd_, who
would now do anything for the Repose of his Son, tho’ he believ’d this
Exchange would not pass, yet resolv’d to propose it, since by marrying
him he took him out of the Danger of _Vernole’s_ Assassinates, who would
never leave him till they had dispatch’d him, should he marry _Atlante_.
While _Rinaldo_ was contriving a thousand ways to come to speak to, or
send Billets to _Atlante_, none of which could succeed without the Aid
of _Charlot_, his Father came and propos’d this Agreement between _De
Pais_ and himself, to his Son. At first _Rinaldo_ receiv’d it with a
chang’d Countenance, and a breaking Heart; but swiftly turning from
Thought to Thought, he conceiv’d this the only way to come at _Charlot_,
and so consequently at _Atlante_: he therefore, after some dissembled
Regret, consents, with a sad put-on Look: And _Charlot_ had Notice given
her to see and entertain _Rinaldo_. As yet they had not told her the
Reason; which her Father would tell her, when he came to visit her, he
said. _Rinaldo_ over-joy’d at this Contrivance, and his own
Dissimulation, goes to the Monastery, and visits _Charlot_; where he
ought to have said something of this Proposition: but wholly bent upon
other Thoughts, he sollicits her to convey some Letters, and Presents to
_Atlante_; which she readily did, to the unspeakable Joy of the poor
Distrest. Sometimes he would talk to _Charlot_ of her own Affairs;
asking her, if she resolv’d to become a Nun? To which she would sigh,
and say, If she must, it would be extremely against her Inclinations;
and, if it pleas’d her Father, she had rather begin the World with any
tolerable Match.
Things past thus for some Days, in which our Lovers were happy, and
_Vernole_ assur’d he should have _Atlante_. But at last _De Pais_ came
to visit _Charlot_, who ask’d her, if she had seen _Rinaldo_? She
answer’d, ‘She had.’ ‘And how does he entertain you? (reply’d _De Pais_)
Have you receiv’d him as a Husband? and has he behav’d himself like
one?’ At this a sudden Joy seiz’d the Heart of _Charlot_; and both to
confess what she had done for him to her Sister, she hung down her
blushing Face to study for an Answer. _De Pais_ continued, and told her
the Agreement between _Bellyaurd_ and him, for the saving of Bloodshed.
She, who blest the Cause, whatever it was, having always a great
Friendship and Tenderness for _Rinaldo_, gave her Father a thousand
Thanks for his Care; and assur’d him, since she was commanded by him,
she would receive him as her Husband.
And the next Day, when _Rinaldo_ came to visit her, as he us’d to do,
and bringing a Letter with him, wherein he propos’d the flight of
_Atlante_; he found a Coldness in _Charlot_, as soon as he told her his
Design, and desir’d her to carry the Letter. He ask’d the Reason of this
Change: She tells him she was inform’d of the Agreement between their
two Fathers, and that she look’d upon herself as his Wife, and would act
no more as a Confident; that she had ever a violent Inclination of
Friendship for him, which she would soon improve into something more
soft.
He could not deny the Agreement, nor his Promise; but it was in vain to
tell her, he did it only to get a Correspondence with _Atlante_: She is
obstinate, and he as pressing, with all the Tenderness of Persuasion: He
vows he can never be any but _Atlante’s_, and she may see him die, but
never break his Vows. She urges her Claim in vain, so that at last she
was overcome, and promised she would carry the Letter; which was to have
her make her Escape that Night. He waits at the Gate for her Answer, and
_Charlot_ returns with one that pleased him very well; which was, that
Night her Sister would make her Escape, and that he must stand in such a
Place of the Nunnery-Wall, and she would come out to him.
After this she upbraids him with his false Promise to her, and of her
Goodness to serve him after such a Disappointment. He receives her
Reproaches with a thousand Sighs, and bemoans her Misfortune in not
being capable of more than Friendship for her; and vows, that next
_Atlante_, he esteems her of all Womankind. She seems to be obliged by
this, and assured him, she would hasten the Flight of _Atlante_; and
taking leave, he went home to order a Coach, and some Servants to assist
him.
In the mean time Count _Vernole_ came to visit _Atlante_; but she
refused to be seen by him: And all he could do there that Afternoon, was
entertaining _Charlot_ at the Grate; to whom he spoke a great many fine
Things, both of her improved Beauty and Wit; and how happy _Rinaldo_
would be in so fair a Bride. She received this with all the Civility
that was due to his Quality; and their Discourse being at an End, he
took his Leave, being towards the Evening.
_Rinaldo_, wholly impatient, came betimes to the Corner of the dead
Wall, where he was appointed to stand, having ordered his Footmen and
Coach to come to him as soon it was dark. While he was there walking up
and down, _Vernole_ came by the End of the Wall to go home; and looking
about, he saw, at the other End, _Rinaldo_ walking, whose Back was
towards him, but he knew him well; and tho’ he feared and dreaded his
Business there, he durst not encounter him, they being both attended but
by one Footman a-piece. But _Vernole’s_ Jealousy and Indignation were so
high, that he resolved to fetch his Bravoes to his Aid, and come and
assault him: For he knew he waited there for some Message from
_Atlante_.
In the mean Time it grew dark, and _Rinaldo_’s Coach came with another
Footman; which were hardly arrived, when _Vernole_, with his Assistants,
came to the Corner of the Wall, and skreening themselves a little behind
it, near to the Place where _Rinaldo_ stood, who waited now close to a
little Door, out of which the Gardeners used to throw the Weeds and
Dirt, _Vernole_ could perceive anon the Door to open, and a Woman come
out of it, calling _Rinaldo_ by his Name, who stept up to her, and
caught her in his Arms with Signs of infinite Joy. _Vernole_ being now
all Rage, cry’d to his Assassinates, ‘Fall on, and kill the Ravisher’:
And immediately they all fell on. _Rinaldo_, who had only his two
Footmen on his Side, was forc’d to let go the Lady; who would have run
into the Garden again, but the Door fell to and lock’d: so that while
_Rinaldo_ was fighting, and beaten back by the Bravoes, one of which he
laid dead at his Feet, _Vernole_ came to the frighted Lady, and taking
her by the Hand, cry’d, ‘Come, my fair Fugitive, you must go along with
me.’ She wholly scar’d out of her Senses, was willing to go any where
out of the Terror she heard so near her, and without Reply, gave her
self into his Hand, who carried her directly to her Father’s House;
where she was no sooner come, but he told her Father all that had past,
and how she was running away with _Rinaldo_, but that his good Fortune
brought him just in the lucky Minute. Her Father turning to reproach
her, found by the Light of a Candle that this was _Charlot_, and not
_Atlante_, whom _Vernole_ had brought Home: At which _Vernole_ was
extremely astonish’d. Her Father demanded of her why she was running
away with a Man, who was design’d her by Consent? ‘Yes, (said _Charlot_)
you had his Consent, Sir, and that of his Father; but I was far from
getting it: I found he resolv’d to die rather than quit _Atlante_; and
promising him my Assistance in his Amour, since he could never be mine,
he got me to carry a Letter to _Atlante_; which was, to desire her to
fly away with him. Instead of carrying her this Letter, I told her, he
was design’d for me, and had cancell’d all his Vows to her: She swoon’d
at this News; and being recover’d a little, I left her in the Hands of
the Nuns, to persuade her to live; which she resolves not to do without
_Rinaldo_. Tho’ they press’d me, yet I resolv’d to pursue my Design,
which was to tell _Rinaldo_ she would obey his kind Summons. He waited
for her; but I put my self into his Hands in lieu of _Atlante_; and had
not the Count receiv’d me, we had been marry’d by this time, by some
false Light that could not have discover’d me: But I am satisfied, if I
had, he would never have liv’d with me longer than the Cheat had been
undiscover’d; for I find them both resolved to die, rather than change.
And for my part, Sir, I was not so much in Love with _Rinaldo_, as I was
out of love with the Nunnery; and took any Opportunity to quit a Life
absolutely contrary to my Humour.’ She spoke this with a Gaiety so
brisk, and an Air so agreeable, that _Vernole_ found it touch’d his
Heart; and the rather because he found _Atlante_ would never be his; or
if she were, he should be still in Danger from the Resentment of
_Rinaldo_: he therefore bowing to _Charlot_, and taking her by the Hand,
cry’d, ‘Madam, since Fortune has dispos’d you thus luckily for me, in my
Possession, I humbly implore you would consent she should make me
entirely happy, and give me the Prize for which I fought, and have
conquer’d with my Sword.’ ‘My Lord, (reply’d _Charlot_, with a modest
Air) I am superstitious enough to believe, since Fortune, so contrary to
all our Designs, has given me into your Hands, that she from the
beginning destin’d me to the Honour, which, with my Father’s Consent,
I shall receive as becomes me.’ _De Pais_ transported with Joy, to find
all Things would be so well brought about, it being all one to him,
whether _Charlot_ or _Atlante_ gave him Count _Vernole_ for his
Son-in-law, readily consented; and immediately a Priest was sent for,
and they were that Night marry’d. And it being now not above seven
o’Clock, many of their Friends were invited, the Musick sent for, and as
good a Supper as so short a Time would provide, was made ready.
All this was perform’d in as short a time as _Rinaldo_ was fighting; and
having kill’d one, and wounded the rest, they all fled before his
conquering Sword, which was never drawn with so good a Will. When he
came where his Coach stood, just against the Back-Garden-Door, he looked
for his Mistress: But the Coachman told him, he was no sooner engaged,
but a Man came, and with a thousand Reproaches on her Levity, bore her
off.
This made our young Lover rave; and he is satisfied she is in the Hands
of his Rival, and that he had been fighting, and shedding his Blood,
only to secure her Flight with him. He lost all Patience, and it was
with much ado his Servants persuaded him to return; telling him in their
Opinion, she was more likely to get out of the Hands of his Rival, and
come to him, than when she was in the Monastery.
He suffers himself to go into his Coach and be carry’d home; but he was
no sooner alighted, than he heard Musick and Noise at _De Pais’s_ House.
He saw Coaches surround his Door, and Pages and Footmen, with Flambeaux.
The Sight and Noise of Joy made him ready to sink at the Door; and
sending his Footmen to learn the Cause of this Triumph, the Pages that
waited told him, That Count _Vernole_ was this Night married to Monsieur
_De Pais’s_ Daughter. He needed no more to deprive him of all Sense; and
staggering against his Coach, he was caught by his Footmen and carried
into his House, and to his Chamber, where they put him to Bed, all
sensless as he was, and had much ado to recover him to Life. He ask’d
for his Father, with a faint Voice, for he desir’d to see him before he
died. It was told him he was gone to Count _Vernole’s_ Wedding, where
there was a perfect Peace agreed on between them, and all their
Animosities laid aside. At this News _Rinaldo_ fainted again; and his
Servants call’d his Father home, and told him in what Condition they had
brought home their Master, recounting to him all that was past. He
hasten’d to _Rinaldo_, whom he found just recover’d of his Swooning;
who, putting his Hand out to his Father, all cold and trembling, cry’d,
‘Well, Sir, now you are satisfied, since you have seen _Atlante_ married
to Count _Vernole_, I hope now you will give your unfortunate Son leave
to die; as you wish’d he should, rather than give him to the Arms of
_Atlante_.’ Here his Speech fail’d, and he fell again into a Fit of
Swooning; His Father ready to die with fear of his Son’s Death, kneel’d
down by his Bed-side; and after having recover’d a little, he said, ‘My
dear Son, I have been indeed at the Wedding of Count _Vernole_, but ’tis
not _Atlante_ to whom he is married, but _Charlot_; who was the Person
you were bearing from the Monastery, instead of _Atlante_, who is still
reserv’d for you, and she is dying till she hear you are reserv’d for
her; Therefore, as you regard her Life, make much of your own, and make
your self fit to receive her; for her Father and I have agreed the
Marriage already.’ And without giving him leave to think, he call’d to
one of his Gentlemen, and sent him to the Monastery, with this News to
_Atlante_. _Rinaldo_ bowed himself as low as he could in his Bed, and
kiss’d the Hand of his Father, with Tears of Joy: But his Weakness
continued all the next Day; and they were fain to bring _Atlante_ to
him, to confirm his Happiness.
It must only be guessed by Lovers, the perfect Joy these two receiv’d in
the sight of each other. _Bellyaurd_ received her as his Daughter; and
the next Day made her so, with very great Solemnity, at which were
_Vernole_ and _Charlot_: Between _Rinaldo_ and him was concluded a
perfect Peace, and all thought themselves happy in this double Union.
NOTES: The Lucky Mistake.
p. 351 This Dedication only appears in the first edition (12mo, 1689),
‘for R. Bentley’. George Granville or Grenville,[1] Lord Lansdowne, the
celebrated wit, dramatist and poet, was born in 1667. Having zealously
offered in 1688 to defend James II, during the subsequent reign he
perforce ‘lived in literary retirement’. He then wrote _The She
Gallants_ (1696, and 4to, 1696), an excellent comedy full of jest and
spirit. Offending, however, some ladies ‘who set up for chastity’ it
made its exit. Granville afterwards revived it as _Once a Lover and
Always a Lover_. _Heroick Love_, a tragedy (1698), had great success.
_The Jew of Venice_ (1701), is a piteously weak adaption of _The
Merchant of Venice_. A short masque, _Peleus and Thetis_ accompanies the
play. _The British Enchanters_, an opera (1706), is a pleasing piece,
and was very well received. At the accession of Queen Anne, Granville
entered the political arena and attained considerable offices of state.
Suspected of being an active Jacobite he was, under George I, imprisoned
from 25 September, 1715, till 8 February, 1717. In 1722 he went abroad,
and lived in Paris for ten years. In 1732 he returned and published a
finely printed edition of his complete _Works_ (2 Vols., 4to, 1732; and
again, 3 Vols., 1736, 12mo). He died 30 January, 1735, and is buried in
St. Clement Danes.
p. 398 _double Union_. In a collection of Novels with running title:
_The Deceived Lovers_ (1696), we find No. V _The Curtezan Deceived_, ‘An
Addition to The Lucky Mistake, Written by Mrs. A. Behn.’ This
introduction of Mrs. Behn’s name was a mere bookseller’s trick to catch
the unwary reader. _The Curtezan Deceived_ is of no value. It has
nothing to do with Aphra’s work and is as commonplace a little novel as
an hundred others of its day.
[Footnote 1: The spelling ‘Greenvil’ ‘Greenviel’ is incorrect.]
* * * * *
* * * *
THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE; OR, THE BLIND LADY A BEAUTY.
TO RICHARD NORTON, OF SOUTHWICK IN HANTSHIRE, ESQUIRE.
Honour’d Sir,
Eminent Wit, Sir, no more than Eminent Beauty, can escape the Trouble
and Presumption of Addresses; and that which can strike every body with
Wonder, can never avoid the Praise which naturally flows from that
Wonder: And Heaven is forc’d to hear the Addresses as well as praises of
the Poor as Rich, of the Ignorant as Learned, and takes, nay rewards,
the officious tho’ perhaps impertinent Zeal of its least qualify’d
Devotees. Wherefore, Sir, tho’ your Merits meet with the Applause of the
Learned and Witty, yet your Generosity will judge favourably of the
untaught Zeal of an humbler Admirer, since what I do your eminent
Vertues compel. The Beautiful will permit the most despicable of their
Admirers to love them, tho’ they never intend to make him happy, as
unworthy their Love, but they will not be angry at the fatal Effect of
their own Eyes.
But what I want in my self, Sir, to merit your Regard, I hope my
Authoress will in some measure supply, so far at least to lessen my
Presumption in prefixing your Name to a Posthumous Piece of hers, whom
all the Men of Wit, that were her Contemporaries, look’d on as the
Wonder of her Sex; and in none of her Performances has she shew’d so
great a Mastery as in her Novels, where Nature always prevails; and if
they are not true, they are so like it, that they do the business every
jot as well.
This I hope, Sir, will induce you to pardon my Presumption in dedicating
this Novel to you, and declaring my self, Sir,
Your most obedient
and most humble Servant,
S. Briscoe.
THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE: or, The Blind Lady a Beauty.
_Frankwit_ and _Wildvill_, were two young Gentlemen of very considerable
Fortunes, both born in _Staffordshire_, and, during their Minority, both
educated together, by which Opportunity they contracted a very
inviolable Friendship, a Friendship which grew up with them; and though
it was remarkably known to every Body else, they knew it not themselves;
they never made Profession of it in Words, but Actions; so true a Warmth
their Fires could boast, as needed not the Effusion of their Breath to
make it live. _Wildvill_ was of the richest Family, but _Frankwit_ of
the noblest; _Wildvill_ was admired for outward Qualifications, as
Strength, and manly Proportions, _Frankwit_ for a much softer Beauty,
for his inward Endowments, Pleasing in his Conversation, of a free, and
moving Air, humble in his Behaviour, and if he had any Pride, it was but
just enough to shew that he did not affect Humility; his Mind bowed with
a Motion as unconstrained as his Body, nor did he force this Vertue in
the least, but he allowed it only. So aimable he was, that every Virgin
that had Eyes, knew too she had a Heart, and knew as surely she should
lose it. His _Cupid_ could not be reputed blind, he never shot for him,
but he was sure to wound. As every other Nymph admired him, so he was
dear to all the Tuneful Sisters; the Muses were fired with him as much
as their own radiant God _Apollo_; their loved Springs and Fountains
were not so grateful to their Eyes as he, him they esteemed their
_Helicon_ and _Parnassus_ too; in short, when ever he pleased, he could
enjoy them all. Thus he enamour’d the whole Female Sex, but amongst all
the sighing Captives of his Eyes, _Belvira_ only boasted Charms to move
him; her Parents lived near his, and even from their Childhood they felt
mutual Love, as if their Eyes, at their first meeting, had struck out
such Glances, as had kindled into amorous Flame. And now _Belvira_ in
her fourteenth Year, (when the fresh Spring of young Virginity began to
cast more lively Bloomings in her Cheeks, and softer Longings in her
Eyes) by her indulgent Father’s Care was sent to _London_ to a Friend,
her Mother being lately dead: When, as if Fortune ordered it so,
_Frankwit’s_ Father took a Journey to the other World, to let his Son
the better enjoy the Pleasures and Delights of this: The young Lover now
with all imaginable haste interred his Father, nor did he shed so many
Tears for his Loss, as might in the least quench the Fire which he
received from his _Belvira’s_ Eyes, but (Master of seventeen Hundred
Pounds a Year, which his Father left him) with all the Wings of Love
flies to _London_, and sollicits _Belvira_ with such Fervency, that it
might be thought he meant Death’s Torch should kindle _Hymen’s_; and now
as soon as he arrives at his Journey’s end, he goes to pay a Visit to
the fair Mistress of his Soul, and assures her, That tho’ he was absent
from her, yet she was still with him; and that all the Road he
travell’d, her beauteous Image danced before him, and like the ravished
Prophet, he saw his Deity in every Bush; in short, he paid her constant
Visits, the Sun ne’er rose or set, but still he saw it in her Company,
and every Minute of the Day he counted by his Sighs. So incessantly he
importuned her that she could no longer hold out, and was pleased in the
surrender of her Heart, since it was he was Conqueror; and therefore
felt a Triumph in her yielding. Their Flames now joyned, grew more and
more, glowed in their Cheeks, and lightened in their Glances: Eager they
looked, as if there were Pulses beating in their Eyes; and all
endearing, at last she vowed, that _Frankwit_ living she would ne’er be
any other Man’s. Thus they past on some time, while every Day rowl’d
over fair; Heaven showed an Aspect all serene, and the Sun seemed to
smile at what was done. He still caressed his Charmer, with an Innocence
becoming his Sincerity; he lived upon her tender Breath, and basked in
the bright Lustre of her Eyes, with Pride, and secret Joy.
He saw his Rivals languish for that Bliss, those Charms, those Raptures
and extatick Transports, which he engrossed alone. But now some eighteen
Months (some Ages in a Lover’s Kalendar) winged with Delights, and fair
_Belvira_ now grown fit for riper Joys, knows hardly how she can deny
her pressing Lover, and herself, to crown their Vows, and joyn their
Hands as well as Hearts. All this while the young Gallant wash’d himself
clean of that shining Dirt, his Gold; he fancied little of Heaven dwelt
in his yellow Angels, but let them fly away, as it were on their own
golden Wings; he only valued the smiling Babies in _Belvira’s_ Eyes. His
Generosity was boundless, as his Love, for no Man ever truly loved, that
was not generous. He thought his Estate, like his Passion, was a sort of
a _Pontick_ Ocean, it could never know an Ebb; But now he found it could
be fathom’d, and that the Tide was turning, therefore he sollicits with
more impatience the consummation of their Joys, that both might go like
Martyrs from their Flames immediately to Heaven; and now at last it was
agreed between them, that they should both be one, but not without some
Reluctancy on the Female side; for ’tis the Humour of our Sex, to deny
most eagerly those Grants to Lovers, for which most tenderly we sigh, so
contradictory are we to our selves, as if the Deity had made us with a
seeming Reluctancy to his own Designs; placing as much Discords in our
Minds, as there is Harmony in our Faces. We are a sort of aiery Clouds,
whose Lightning flash out one way, and the Thunder another. Our Words
and Thoughts can ne’er agree. So this young charming Lady thought her
Desires could live in their own longings, like Misers wealth-devouring
Eyes; and e’er she consented to her Lover, prepared him first with
speaking Looks, and then with a fore-running Sigh, applyed to the dear
Charmer thus: ‘_Frankwit_, I am afraid to venture the Matrimonial
Bondage, it may make you think your self too much confined, in being
only free to one.’ ‘Ah! my dear _Belvira_,’ he replied, ‘That one, like
_Manna_, has the Taste of all, why should I be displeased to be confined
to Paradice, when it was the Curse of our Forefathers to be set at
large, tho’ they had the whole World to roam in: You have, my love,
ubiquitary Charms, and you are all in all, in every Part.’ ‘Ay, but,’
reply’d _Belvira_, ‘we are all like Perfumes, and too continual Smelling
makes us seem to have lost our Sweets, I’ll be judged by my Cousin
_Celesia_ here, if it be not better to live still in mutual Love,
without the last Enjoyment.’ (I had forgot to tell my Reader that
_Celesia_ was an Heiress, the only Child of a rich _Turkey_ Merchant,
who, when he dyed, left her Fifty thousand Pound in Money, and some
Estate in Land; but, poor Creature, she was Blind to all these Riches,
having been born without the use of Sight, though in all other Respects
charming to a wonder.) ‘Indeed,’ says _Celesia_, (for she saw clearly in
her Mind) ‘I admire you should ask my Judgment in such a Case, where I
have never had the least Experience; but I believe it is but a sickly
Soul which cannot nourish its Offspring of Desires without preying upon
the Body.’ ‘Believe me,’ reply’d _Frankwit_, ‘I bewail your want of
Sight, and I could almost wish you my own Eyes for a Moment, to view
your charming Cousin, where you would see such Beauties as are too
dazling to be long beheld; and if too daringly you gazed, you would feel
the Misfortune of the loss of Sight, much greater than the want of it:
And you would acknowledge, that in too presumptuously seeing, you would
be blinder then, than now unhappily you are.’
‘Ah! I must confess,’ reply’d _Belvira_, ‘my poor, dear Cousin is Blind,
for I fancy she bears too great an Esteem for _Frankwit_, and only longs
for Sight to look on him.’ ‘Indeed,’ reply’d _Celesia_, ‘I would be glad
to see _Frankwit_, for I fancy he’s as dazling, as he but now describ’d
his Mistress, and if I fancy I see him, sure I do see him, for Sight is
Fancy, is it not? or do you feel my Cousin with your Eyes?’ ‘This is
indeed, a charming Blindness,’ reply’d _Frankwit_, ‘and the fancy of
your Sight excels the certainty of ours. Strange! that there should be
such Glances even in blindness? You, fair Maid, require not Eyes to
conquer, if your Night has such Stars, what Sunshine would your Day of
Sight have, if ever you should see?’ ‘I fear those Stars you talk of,’
said _Belvira_, ‘have some Influence on you, and by the Compass you sail
by now, I guess you are steering to my Cousin. She is indeed charming
enough to have been another Offspring of bright _Venus_, Blind like her
Brother _Cupid_.’ ‘That _Cupid_,’ reply’d _Celesia_, ‘I am afraid has
shot me, for methinks I would not have you marry _Frankwit_, but rather
live as you do without the last Enjoyment, for methinks if he were
marry’d, he would be more out of Sight than he already is.’ ‘Ah, Madam,’
return’d _Frankwit_, ‘Love is no Camelion, it cannot feed on Air alone.’
‘No but,’ rejoyn’d _Celesia_, ‘you Lovers that are not Blind like Love
it self, have am’rous Looks to feed on.’ ‘Ah! believe it,’ said
_Belvira_, ‘’tis better, _Frankwit_, not to lose Paradice by too much
Knowledge; Marriage Enjoyments does but wake you from your sweet golden
Dreams: Pleasure is but a Dream, dear _Frankwit_, but a Dream, and to be
waken’d.’ ‘Ah! Dearest, but unkind _Belvira_,’ answer’d _Frankwit_,
‘sure there’s no waking from Delight, in being lull’d on those soft
Breasts of thine.’ ‘Alas! (reply’d the Bride to be) it is that very
lulling wakes you; Women enjoy’d, are like Romances read, or Raree-shows
once seen, meer Tricks of the slight of Hand, which, when found out, you
only wonder at your selves for wondering so before at them. ’Tis
Expectation endears the Blessing; Heaven would not be Heaven, could we
tell what ’tis. When the Plot’s out you have done with the Play, and
when the last Act’s done, you see the Curtain drawn with great
indifferency.’ ‘O my _Belvira_’, answered _Frankwit_, ‘that Expectation
were indeed a Monster which Enjoyment could not satisfy: I should take
no pleasure,’ he rejoin’d, ‘running from Hill to Hill, like Children
chasing that Sun, which I could never catch.’ ‘O thou shalt have it
then, that Sun of Love,’ reply’d _Belvira_, fir’d by this Complaint,
and gently rush’d into Arms, (rejoyn’d) so _Phœbus_ rushes radiant and
unsullied, into a gilded Cloud. ‘Well then, my dear _Belvira_,’ answered
_Frankwit_, ‘be assured I shall be ever yours, as you are mine; fear not
you shall never draw Bills of Love upon me so fast, as I shall wait in
readiness to pay them; but now I talk of Bills, I must retire into
_Cambridgeshire_, where I have a small Concern as yet unmortgaged,
I will return thence with a Brace of thousand Pounds within a Week at
furthest, with which our Nuptials, by their Celebration, shall be worthy
of our Love. And then, my Life, my Soul, we shall be join’d, never to
part again.’ This tender Expression mov’d _Belvira_ to shed some few
Tears, and poor _Celesia_ thought herself most unhappy that she had not
Eyes to weep with too; but if she had, such was the greatness of her
Grief, that sure she would have soon grown Blind with weeping. In short,
after a great many soft Vows, and Promises of an inviolable Faith, they
parted with a pompous sort of pleasing Woe; their Concern was of such a
mixture of Joy and Sadness, as the Weather seems, when it both rains and
shines. And now the last, the very last Adieu’s was over, for the
Farewels of Lovers hardly ever end, and _Frankwit_ (the Time being
Summer) reach’d _Cambridge_ that Night, about Nine a Clock; (Strange!
that he should have made such Haste to fly from what so much he lov’d!)
and now, tir’d with the fatigue of his Journey, he thought fit to
refresh himself by writing some few Lines to his belov’d _Belvira_; for
a little Verse after the dull Prose Company of his Servant, was as great
an Ease to him, (from whom it flow’d as naturally and unartificially, as
his Love or his Breath) as a Pace or Hand-gallop, after a hard, uncouth,
and rugged Trot. He therefore, finding his _Pegasus_ was no way tir’d
with his Land-travel, takes a short Journey thro’ the Air, and writes as
follows:
_My dearest dear +Belvira+,_
You knew my Soul, you knew it yours before,
I told it all, and now can tell no more;
Your Presents never wants fresh Charms to move, }
But now more strange, and unknown Pow’r you prove, }
For now your very Absence ’tis I love. }
Something there is which strikes my wandring View,
And still before my Eyes I fancy you.
Charming you seem, all charming, heavenly fair, }
Bright as a Goddess, does my Love appear, }
You seem, _Belvira_, what indeed you are. }
Like the Angelick Off-spring of the Skies,
With beatifick Glories in your Eyes:
Sparkling with radiant Lustre all Divine, }
Angels, and Gods! oh Heavens! how bright they shine! }
Are you _Belvira_? can I think you mine! }
Beyond ev’n Thought, I do thy Beauties see,
Can such a Heaven of Heavens be kept for me!
Oh be assur’d, I shall be ever true,
I must----
For if I would, I can’t be false to you.
Oh! how I wish I might no longer stay, }
Tho’ I resolve I will no Time delay, }
One Tedious Week, and then I’ll fleet away. }
Tho’ Love be blind, he shall conduct my Road, }
Wing’d with almighty Love, to your Abode, }
I’ll fly, and grow Immortal as a God. }
Short is my stay, yet my impatience strong,
Short tho’ it is, alas! I think it long.
I’ll come, my Life, new Blessings to pursue, }
Love then shall fly a Flight he never flew, }
I’ll stretch his balmy Wings; I’m yours,--_Adieu_. }
_Frankwit._
This Letter _Belvira_ receiv’d with unspeakable Joy, and laid it up
safely in her Bosom; laid it, where the dear Author of it lay before,
and wonderfully pleas’d with his Humour of writing Verse, resolv’d not
to be at all behind-hand with him, and so writ as follows:
_My dear Charmer,_
You knew before what Power your Love could boast,
But now your constant Faith confirms me most.
Absent Sincerity the best assures, }
Love may do much, but Faith much more allures, }
For now your Constancy has bound me yours. }
I find, methinks, in Verse some Pleasure too,
I cannot want a Muse, who write to you.
Ah! soon return, return, my charming Dear,
Heav’n knows how much we Mourn your Absence here:
My poor _Celesia_ now would Charm your Soul,
Her Eyes, once Blind, do now Divinely rowl.
An aged Matron has by Charms unknown,
Given her clear Sight as perfect as thy own.
And yet, beyond her Eyes, she values thee,
’Tis for thy Sake alone she’s glad to see.
She begg’d me, pray remember her to you,
That is a Task which now I gladly do.
Gladly, since so I only recommend }
A dear Relation, and a dearer Friend, }
Ne’re shall my Love--but here my Note must end. }
_Your ever true +Belvira+._
When this Letter was written, it was strait shown to _Celesia_, who
look’d upon any Thing that belong’d to _Frankwit_, with rejoycing
Glances; so eagerly she perus’d it, that her tender Eyes beginning to
Water, she cry’d out, (fancying she saw the Words dance before her View)
‘Ah! Cousin, Cousin, your Letter is running away, sure it can’t go
itself to _Frankwit_.’ A great Deal of other pleasing innocent Things
she said, but still her Eyes flow’d more bright with lustrous Beams, as
if they were to shine out; now all that glancing Radiancy which had been
so long kept secret, and, as if, as soon as the Cloud of Blindness once
was broke, nothing but Lightnings were to flash for ever after. Thus in
mutual Discourse they spent their Hours, while _Frankwit_ was now
ravished with the Receipt of this charming Answer of _Belvira’s_, and
blest his own Eyes which discovered to him the much welcome News of fair
_Celesia’s_. Often he read the Letters o’re and o’re, but there his Fate
lay hid, for ’twas that very Fondness proved his Ruin. He lodg’d at a
Cousin’s House of his, and there, (it being a private Family) lodged
likewise a Blackamoor Lady, then a Widower; a whimsical Knight had taken
a Fancy to enjoy her: _Enjoy her did I say? Enjoy the Devil in the Flesh
at once!_ I know not how it was, but he would fain have been a Bed with
her, but she not consenting on unlawful Terms, (_but sure all Terms are
with her unlawful_) the Knight soon marry’d her, as if there were not
hell enough in Matrimony, but he must wed the Devil too. The Knight a
little after died, and left this Lady of his (whom I shall _Moorea_) an
Estate of six thousand Pounds _per Ann_. Now this _Moorea_ observed the
joyous _Frankwit_ with an eager Look, her Eyes seemed like Stars of the
first Magnitude glaring in the Night; she greatly importuned him to
discover the Occasion of his transport, but he denying it, (as ’tis the
Humour of our Sex) made her the more Inquisitive; and being Jealous that
it was from a Mistress, employ’d her Maid to steal it, and if she found
it such, to bring it her: accordingly it succeeded, for _Frankwit_
having drank hard with some of the Gentlemen of that Shire, found
himself indisposed, and soon went to Bed, having put the Letter in his
Pocket: The Maid therefore to _Moorea_ contrived that all the other
Servants should be out of the Way, that she might plausibly officiate in
the Warming the Bed of the indisposed Lover, but likely, had it not been
so, she had warmed it by his Intreaties in a more natural Manner; he
being in Bed in an inner Room, she slips out the Letter from his Pocket,
carries it to her Mistress to read, and so restores it whence she had
it; in the Morning the poor Lover wakened in a violent Fever, burning
with a Fire more hot than that of Love. In short, he continued Sick a
considerable while, all which time the Lady _Moorea_ constantly visited
him, and he as unwillingly saw her (poor Gentleman) as he would have
seen a Parson; for as the latter would have perswaded, so the former
scared him to Repentance. In the mean while, during his sickness,
several Letters were sent to him by his dear _Belvira_, and _Celesia_
too, (then learning to write) had made a shift to give him a line or two
in Postscript with her Cousin, but all was intercepted by the jealousy
of the Black _Moorea_, black in her mind, and dark, as well as in her
body. _Frankwit_ too writ several Letters as he was able, complaining of
her unkindness, those likewise were all stopt by the same Blackmoor
Devil. At last, it happened that _Wildvill_, (who I told my Reader was
_Frankwit’s_ friend) came to _London_, his Father likewise dead, and now
Master of a very plentiful fortune, he resolves to marry, and paying a
visit to _Belvira_, enquires of her concerning _Frankwit_, she all in
mourning for the loss, told him his friend was dead. ‘Ah! _Wildvill_, he
is dead,’ said she, ‘and died not mine, a Blackmoor Lady had bewitched
him from me; I received a Letter lately which informed me all; there was
no name subscribed to it, but it intimated, that it was written at the
request of dying _Frankwit_.’ ‘Oh! I am sorry at my Soul,’ said
_Wildvill_, ‘for I loved him with the best, the dearest friendship; no
doubt then,’ rejoyned he, ‘’tis Witchcaft indeed that could make him
false to you; what delight could he take in a Blackmoor Lady, tho’ she
had received him at once with a Soul as open as her longing arms, and
with her Petticoat put off her modesty. Gods! How could he change a
whole _Field Argent_ into downright _Sables_.’ ‘’Twas done,’ returned
_Celesia_, ‘with no small blot, I fancy, to the Female ’Scutcheon.’ In
short, after some more discourse, but very sorrowful, _Wildvill_ takes
his leave, extreamly taken with the fair _Belvira_, more beauteous in
her cloud of woe; he paid her afterwards frequent visits, and found her
wonder for the odd inconstancy of _Frankwit_, greater than her sorrow,
since he dy’d so unworthy of her. _Wildvill_ attack’d her with all the
force of vigorous love, and she (as she thought) fully convinc’d of
_Frankwit’s_ death, urg’d by the fury and impatience of her new ardent
Lover, soon surrender’d, and the day of their Nuptials now arriv’d,
their hands were joyn’d. In the mean time _Frankwit_ (for he still
liv’d) knew nothing of the Injury the base _Moorea_ practis’d, knew not
that ’twas thro’ her private order, that the fore-mention’d account of
his falshood and his death was sent; but impatient to see his Dear
_Belvira_, tho’ yet extremely weak, rid post to _London_, and that very
day arriv’d there, immediately after the Nuptials of his Mistress and
his Friend were celebrated. I was at this time in _Cambridge_, and
having some small acquaintance with this Blackmoor Lady, and sitting in
her Room that evening, after _Frankwit’s_ departure thence, in
_Moorea’s_ absence, saw inadvertently a bundle of Papers, which she had
gathered up, as I suppose, to burn, since now they grew but useless, she
having no farther Hopes of him: I fancy’d I knew the Hand, and thence my
Curiosity only led me to see the Name and finding _Belvira_ subscrib’d,
I began to guess there was some foul play in Hand. _Belvira_ being my
particularly intimate Acquaintance, I read one of them, and finding the
Contents, convey’d them all secretly out with me, as I thought, in Point
of Justice I was bound, and sent them to _Belvira_ by that Night’s Post;
so that they came to her Hands soon after the Minute of her Marriage,
with an Account how, and by what Means I came to light on them. No doubt
but they exceedingly surpriz’d her: But Oh! Much more she grew amaz’d
immediately after, to see the Poor, and now unhappy _Frankwit_, who
privately had enquir’d for her below, being received as a Stranger, who
said he had some urgent Business with her, in a back Chamber below
Stairs. What Tongue, what Pen can express the mournful Sorrow of this
Scene! At first they both stood Dumb, and almost Senseless; she took him
for the Ghost of _Frankwit_; he looked so pale, new risen from his
Sickness, he (for he had heard at his Entrance in the House, that his
_Belvira_ marry’d _Wildvill_) stood in Amaze, and like a Ghost indeed,
wanted the Power to speak, till spoken to the first. At last, he draws
his Sword, designing there to fall upon it in her Presence; she then
imagining it his Ghost too sure, and come to kill her, shrieks out and
Swoons; he ran immediately to her, and catch’d her in his Arms, and
while he strove to revive and bring her to herself, tho’ that he thought
could never now be done, since she was marry’d. _Wildvill_ missing his
Bride, and hearing the loud Shriek, came running down, and entring the
Room, sees his Bride lie clasp’d in _Frankwit’s_ Arms. ‘Ha! Traytor!’ He
cries out, drawing his Sword with an impatient Fury, ‘have you kept that
Strumpet all this while, curst _Frankwit_, and now think fit to put your
damn’d cast Mistress upon me: could not you forbear her neither ev’n on
my Wedding Day? abominable Wretch!’ Thus saying, he made a full Pass at
_Frankwit_, and run him thro’ the left Arm, and quite thro’ the Body of
the poor _Belvira_; that thrust immediately made her start, tho’
_Frankwit’s_ Endeavours all before were useless. Strange! that her Death
reviv’d her! For ah! she felt, that now she only liv’d to die! Striving
thro’ wild Amazement to run from such a Scene of Horror, as her
Apprehensions shew’d her; down she dropt, and _Frankwit_ seeing her
fall, (all Friendship disannull’d by such a Chain of Injuries) Draws,
fights with, and stabs his own loved _Wildvill_. Ah! Who can express the
Horror and Distraction of this fatal Misunderstanding! The House was
alarm’d, and in came poor _Celesia_, running in Confusion just as
_Frankwit_ was off’ring to kill himself, to die with a false Friend, and
perjur’d Mistress, for he suppos’d them such. Poor _Celesia_ now
bemoan’d her unhappiness of sight, and wish’d she again were blind.
_Wildvill_ dy’d immediately, and _Belvira_ only surviv’d him long enough
to unfold all their most unhappy fate, desiring _Frankwit_ with her
dying breath, if ever he lov’d her, (and now she said that she deserv’d
his love, since she had convinced him that she was not false) to marry
her poor dear _Celesia_, and love her tenderly for her _Belvira’s_ sake;
leaving her, being her nearest Relation, all her fortune, and he, much
dearer than it all, to be added to her own; so joyning his and
_Celesia’s_ Hands, she poured her last breath upon his Lips, and said,
‘Dear _Frankwit_, _Frankwit_, I die yours.’ With tears and wondrous
sorrow he promis’d to obey her Will, and in some months after her
interrment, he perform’d his promise.
NOTES: The Unfortunate Bride.
p. 401 _To Richard Norton._ This Epistle Dedicatory is only to be found
in the first edition of _The Unfortunate Bride; or, The Blind Lady a
Beauty_, ‘Printed for Samuel Briscoe, in Charles-Street, Covent-Garden,
1698’, and also dated, on title page facing the portrait of Mrs. Behn,
1700.
Southwick, Hants, is a parish and village some 1¾ miles from
Portchester, 4½ from Fareham. Richard Norton was son and heir of Sir
Daniel Norton, who died seised of the manor in 1636. Richard Norton
married Anne, daughter of Sir William Earle, by whom he had one child,
Sarah. He was, in his county at least, a figure of no little importance.
Tuesday, 12 August, 1701, Luttrell records that ‘an addresse from the
grand jury of Hampshire . . . was delivered by Richard Norton and
Anthony Henly, esqs. to the lords justices, to be laid before his
majestie.’ He aimed at being a patron of the fine arts, and under his
superintendence Dryden’s _The Spanish Friar_ was performed in the frater
of Southwick Priory,[1] the buildings of which had not been entirely
destroyed at the suppression. Colley Cibber addresses the Dedicatory
Epistle (January, 1695) of his first play, _Love’s Last Shift_ (4to,
1696), to Norton in a highly eulogistic strain. The plate of Southwick
Church (S. James), consisting of a communion cup, a standing paten, two
flagons, an alms-dish, and a rat-tail spoon, is silver-gilt, and was
presented by Richard Norton in 1691. He died 10 December, 1732.
[Footnote 1: The house was one of Black (Austin) Canons.]
* * * * *
* * * *
THE DUMB VIRGIN; OR, THE FORCE OF IMAGINATION.
INTRODUCTION.
Consanguinity and love which are treated in this novel so romantically
and with such tragic catastrophe had already been dealt with in happier
mood by Mrs. Behn in _The Dutch Lover_. _Vide_ Note on the Source of
that play, Vol. I, p. 218.
In classic lore the Œdipus Saga enthralled the imagination of antiquity
and inspired dramas amongst the world’s masterpieces. Later forms of the
tale may be found in Suidas and Cedrenus.
The Legend of St. Gregory, based on a similar theme, the hero of which,
however, is innocent throughout, was widely diffused through mediæval
Europe. It forms No. 81 of the _Gesta Romanorum_. There is an old
English poem[1] on the subject, and it also received lyric treatment at
the hands of the German meistersinger, Hartmann von Aue. An Italian
story, _Il Figliuolo di germani_, the chronicle of St. Albinus, and the
Servian romaunt of the Holy Foundling Simeon embody similar
circumstances.
Matteo Bandello, Part II, has a famous[2] novel (35) with rubric, ‘un
gentiluomo navarrese sposa una, che era sua sorella e figliuola, non lo
sapendo,’ which is almost exactly the same as the thirtieth story of the
_Heptameron_. As the good Bishop declares that it was related to him by
a lady living in the district, it is probable that some current
tradition furnished both him and the Queen of Navarre with these
horrible incidents and that neither copied from the other.[3]
Bandello was imitated in Spanish by J. Perez de Montalvan, _Sucesos y
Prodigios de Amor--La Mayor confusion_; in Latin by D. Otho Melander;
and he also gave Desfontaines the subject of _L’Inceste Innocent;
Histoire Véritable_ (Paris, 1644). A similar tale is touched upon in
_Amadis de Gaule_, and in a later century we find _Le Criminel sans le
Savoir, Roman Historique et Poëtique_ (Amsterdam and Paris, 1783). It
is also found in Brevio’s _Rime e Prose_; Volgari, novella iv; and in
T. Grapulo (or Grappolino), _Il Convito Borghesiano_ (Londra, 1800).
A cognate legend is _Le Dit du Buef_ and _Le Dit de la Bourjosee de
Rome_. (ed. Jubinal, _Nouveau Recueil_; and _Nouveau Recueil du Sénateur
de Rome . . ._ ed. Méon.) Again: the _Leggenda di Vergogna, etc. testi
del buon secolo in prosa e in verso_, edited by A. D’Ancona (Bologna,
1869) repeats the same catastrophe. It is also related in Byshop’s
_Blossoms_.
In Luther’s _Colloquia Mensalia_, under the article ‘Auricular
Confession’, the occurrence is said to have taken place at Erfurt in
Germany. Julio de Medrano, a Spanish writer of the sixteenth century,
says that a similar story was related to him when he was in the
Bourbonnois, where the inhabitants pointed out the house which had been
the scene of these morbid passions. France, indeed, seems to have been
the home of the tradition, and Le Roux de Lincy in the notes to his
excellent edition of the _Heptameron_ quotes from Millin, _Antiquités
Nationales_ (t. iii. f. xxviii. p. 6.) who, speaking of the Collegiate
Church of Ecouis, says that in the midst of the nave there was a
prominent white marbel tablet with this epitaph:--
Cy-gist la fille, cy-gist le père,
Cy-gist la soeur, cy-gist le frère;
Cy-gist la femme, et le mary,
Et si n’y a que deux corps icy.
The tradition ran that a son of ‘Madame d’Ecouis avait eu de sa mère
sans la connaître et sans en être reconnu une fille nommée Cécile. Il
épousa ensuite en Lorraine cette même Cécile qui était auprès de la
Duchesse de Bar . . . Il furent enterrés dans le même tombeau en 1512 à
Ecouis.’ An old sacristan used to supply curious visitors to the church
with a leaflet detailing the narrative. The same story is attached to
other parishes, and at Alincourt, a village between Amiens and
Abbeville, the following lines are inscribed upon a grave:--
Ci git le fils, ci git la mère,
Ci git la fille avec le père,
Ci git la soeur, ci git le frère,
Ci git la femme et le mari,
Et ne sont pas que trois corps ici.
When Walpole wrote his tragedy, _The Mysterious Mother_ (1768), he
states he had no knowledge of Bandello or the _Heptameron_, but he gives
the following account of the origin of his theme. ‘I had heard when very
young, that a gentlewoman, under uncommon agonies of mind, had waited on
Archbishop Tillotson and besought his counsel. A damsel that served her
had, many years before, acquainted her that she was importuned by the
gentlewoman’s son to grant him a private meeting. The mother ordered the
maiden to make the assignation, when she said she would discover herself
and reprimand him for his criminal passion; but, being hurried away by a
much more criminal passion herself, she kept the assignation without
discovering herself. The fruit of this horrid artifice was a daughter,
whom the gentlewoman caused to be educated very privately in the
country; but proving very lovely and being accidentally met by her
father-brother, who never had the slightest suspicion of the truth, he
had fallen in love with and actually married her. The wretched guilty
mother learning what had happened, and distracted with the consequence
of her crime, had now resorted to the Archbishop to know in what manner
she should act. The prelate charged her never to let her son and
daughter know what had passed, as they were innocent of any criminal
intention. For herself, he bad her almost despair.’
The same story occurs in the writings of the famous Calvinistic divine,
William Perkins (1558-1602), sometime Rector of St. Andrew’s, Cambridge.
Thence it was extracted for _The Spectator_.
In Mat Lewis’ ghoulish romance, _The Monk_ (1796) it will be remembered
that Ambrosio, after having enjoyed Antonia, to whose bedchamber he has
gained admittance by demoniacal aid, discovers that she is his sister,
and heaping crime upon crime to sorcery and rape he has added incest.
There is a tragic little novel, ‘_The Illegal Lovers; a True Secret
History._ Being an Amour Between A Person of Condition and his Sister.
Written by One who did reside in the Family.’ (8vo, 1728.) After the
death of his wife, Bellario falls in love with his sister Lindamira.
Various sentimental letters pass between the two, and eventually
Bellario in despair pistols himself. The lady lives to wed another
admirer. The tale was obviously suggested by the _Love Letters between a
Nobleman and his Sister_.
[Footnote 1: There are three MSS. _Vernon MS._, Oxford, edited by
Horstmann; _MS. Cott_, _Cleop. D. ix_, British Museum; _Auchinleck
MS._, Advocates’ Library, Edinburgh, edited with glossary by
F. Schultz, 1876.]
[Footnote 2: cf. Masuccio. _Il Novellino_, No. 23.]
[Footnote 3: Bandello’s novels first appeared at Lucca, 4to, 1554.
Marguerite of Angoulême died 21 December, 1549. The _Heptameron_
was composed 1544-8 and published 1558.]
THE DUMB VIRGIN: or, the Force of Imagination.
_Rinaldo_, a Senator of the great City _Venice_, by a plentiful
Inheritance, and industrious Acquisitions, was become Master of a very
plentiful Estate; which, by the Countenance of his Family, sprung from
the best Houses in _Italy_, had rendred him extreamly popular and
honoured; he had risen to the greatest Dignities of that State, all
which Offices he discharged with Wisdom and Conduct, befitting the
Importance of his Charge, and Character of the Manager; but this great
Person had some Accident in his Children, sufficient to damp all the
Pleasure of his more smiling Fortunes; he married when young,
a beautiful and virtuous Lady, who had rendred him the happy Father of a
Son; but his Joys were soon disturbed by the following Occasion.
There stands an Island in the _Adriatick_ Sea, about twenty Leagues from
_Venice_, a Place wonderfully pleasant in the Summer, where Art and
Nature seem to out-rival each other, or seem rather to combine in
rendring it the most pleasant of their products; being placed under the
most benign climate in the World, and situated exactly between _Italy_
and _Greece_, it appears an entire Epitome of all the Pleasures in them
both; the proper glories of the Island were not a little augmented by
the confluence of Gentlemen and Ladies of the chiefest Rank in the City,
insomuch that this was a greater mark for Beauty and Gallantry, than
_Venice_ for Trade. Among others _Rinaldo’s_ Lady begged her Husband’s
permission to view this so much celebrated place.
He was unwilling to trust his treasure to the treachery of the watry
element; but repeating her request, he yielded to her desires, his love
not permitting him the least shew of command, and so thro’ its extent,
conspiring its own destruction. His Lady with her young Son (whom she
would not trust from her sight) and a splendid attendance in a Barge
well fitted, sets out for the Island, _Rinaldo_ being detained at home
himself about some important affairs relating to the publick, committed
the care of his dear Wife and Child to a faithful Servant call’d
_Gaspar_; and for their greater security against Pyrates, had obtained
his Brother, who commanded a _Venetian_ Galley, to attend them as
Convoy. In the evening they set out from _Venice_, with a prosperous
gale, but a storm arising in the night, soon separated the Barge from
her Convoy, and before morning drove her beyond the designed Port, when,
instead of discovering the wish’d-for Island, they could see a _Turkish_
Pyrate bearing towards them, with all her Sail; their late apprehensions
of Shipwrack, were drowned in the greater danger of Captivity and
lasting Slavery, their fears drove some into resolutions as extravagant
as the terrors that caused them, but the confusion of all was so
tumultuous, and the designs so various, that nothing could be put in
execution for the publick safety; the greatest share of the passengers
being Ladies, added strangely to the consternation; beauty always adds a
pomp to woe, and by its splendid show, makes sorrow look greater and
more moving. Some by their piteous plaints and wailings proclaimed their
griefs aloud, whilst others bespoke their sorrows more emphatically by
sitting mournfully silent; the fears of some animated them to
extravagant actions, whilst the terrors of others were so mortifying,
that they shewed no sign of Life, but by their trembling; some mourned
the rigour of their proper fate, others conscious of the sorrows their
Friends and Relations should sustain through their loss, made the griefs
of them their own; but the heaviest load of misfortunes lay on
_Rinaldo’s_ Lady, besides the loss of her liberty, the danger of her
honour, the separation from her dear Husband, the care for her tender
Infant wrought rueful distractions; she caught her Child in her Arms,
and with Tears extorted thro’ Fear and Affection, she deplor’d the
Misfortune of her Babe, the pretty Innocent smiling in the Embraces of
its Mother, shew’d that Innocence cou’d deride the Persecution of
Fortune; at length she delivered the Infant into the Hand of _Gasper_,
begging him to use all Endeavours in its Preservation, by owning it for
his, when they fell into the Hands of the Enemy.
But _Gasper_, who amidst the universal Consternation, had a peculiar
Regard to his own Safety, and Master’s Interest, undertook a Design
desperately brave. Two long Planks, which lay lengthwise in the Barge,
as Seats, he had ty’d together with Ropes, and taking the Infant from
the Mother, whilst the whole Vessel was in a distracted Confusion, he
fast’ned it to the Planks, and shoving both over-board before him,
plung’d into the Sea after, dragging the Planks that bore the Infant
with one Hand, and swimming with t’other, making the next Land; he had
swam about two hundred Paces from the Barge before his Exploit was
discover’d, but then the Griefs of _Rinaldo’s_ Lady were doubly
augmented, seeing her Infant expos’d to the Fury of the merciless Winds
and Waves, which she then judged more rigorous than the _Turks_; for to
a weak Mind, that Danger works still the strongest, that’s most in View;
but when the Pirate, who by this time had fetch’d them within Shot,
began to Fire, she seem’d pleas’d that her Infant was out of that
Hazard, tho’ exposed to a greater. Upon their Sign of yielding, the
_Turk_ launching out her Boat, brought them all on board her; but she
had no time to examine her Booty, being saluted by a Broadside,
vigorously discharg’d from a _Venetian_ Galley, which bore down upon
them, whilst they were taking aboard their Spoil; this Galley was that
commanded by _Rinaldo’s_ Brother, which cruising that Way in quest of
the Barge, happily engag’d the _Turk_, before they had Leisure to offer
any Violence to the Ladies, and plying her warmly the Space of two
Hours, made her a Prize, to the inexpressible Joy of the poor Ladies,
who all this time under Hatches, had sustain’d the Horrors of ten
thousand Deaths by dreading one.
All the greater Dangers over, _Rinaldo’s_ Lady began to reflect on the
strange Riddle of her Son’s Fortune, who by shunning one Fate, had
(in all Probability) fallen into a worse, for they were above ten
Leagues from any Land, and the Sea still retain’d a Roughness, unsettled
since the preceeding Storm; she therefore begg’d her Brother-in-Law to
Sail with all Speed in Search of her Son and _Gasper_; but all in vain,
for cruising that Day, and the succeeding Night along the Coasts,
without making any Discovery of what they sought, he sent a Boat to be
inform’d by the Peasants, of any such Landing upon their Coast; but they
soon had a dismal Account, finding the Body of _Gasper_ thrown dead on
the Sand, and near to him the Planks, the unhappy Occasion of his
Flight, and the Faithless Sustainers of the Infant. So thinking these
mournful Objects Testimonies enough of the Infant’s Loss, they return’d
with the doleful Relation to their Captain and the Lady; her Grief at
the recital of the Tragic Story, had almost transported her to Madness;
what Account must she now make to the mournful Father, who esteem’d this
Child the chief Treasure of his Life; she fear’d, that she might forfeit
the Affection of a Husband, by being the unfortunate Cause of so great a
Loss; but her Fears deceiv’d her, for altho’ her Husband, receiv’d her
with great Grief, ’twas nevertheless moderated by the Patience of a
Christian, and the Joy for recovering his beloved Lady.
This Misfortune was soon lessen’d by the growing Hopes of another
Off-spring, which made them divest their Mourning, to make Preparations
for the joyful Reception of this new Guest into the World; and upon its
Appearance their Sorrows were redoubled, ’twas a Daughter, its Limbs
were distorted, its Back bent, and tho’ the face was the freest from
Deformity, yet had it no Beauty to Recompence the Dis-symetry of the
other Parts; Physicians being consulted in this Affair, derived the
Cause from the Frights and dismal Apprehensions of the Mother, at her
being taken by the Pyrates; about which time they found by Computation,
the Conception of the Child to be; the Mother grew very Melancholy,
rarely speaking, and not to be comforted by any Diversion. She conceiv’d
again, but no hopes of better Fortune cou’d decrease her Grief, which
growing with her Burden, eased her of both at once, for she died in
Child-birth, and left the most beautiful Daughter to the World that ever
adorn’d _Venice_, but naturally and unfortunately Dumb, which defect the
learn’d attributed to the Silence and Melancholy of the Mother, as the
Deformity of the other was to the Extravagance of her Frights.
_Rinaldo_, waving all Intentions of a second Marriage, directs his
Thoughts to the Care of his Children, their Defects not lessening his
Inclination, but stirring up his Endeavours in supplying the Defaults of
Nature by the Industry of Art; he accordingly makes the greatest
Provision for their Breeding and Education, which prov’d so effectual in
a little Time, that their Progress was a greater Prodigy than
themselves.
The Eldest, called _Belvideera_, was indefatigably addicted to Study,
which she had improv’d so far, that by the sixteenth Year of her Age,
she understood all the _European_ Languages, and cou’d speak most of’em,
but was particularly pleas’d with the _English_, which gave me the
Happiness of many Hours Conversation with her; and I may ingenuously
declare, ’twas the most Pleasant I ever enjoy’d, for besides a piercing
Wit, and depth of Understanding peculiar to herself, she delivered her
Sentiments with that easiness and grace of Speech, that it charm’d all
her Hearers.
The Beauties of the second Sister, nam’d _Maria_, grew with her Age,
every twelve Months saluting her with a New-years Gift of some peculiar
Charm; her Shapes were fine set off with a graceful and easy Carriage;
the Majesty and Softness of her Face, at once wrought Love and
Veneration; the Language of her Eyes sufficiently paid the Loss of her
Tongue, and there was something so Commanding in her Look, that it
struck every Beholder as dumb as herself; she was a great Proficient in
Painting, which puts me in mind of a notable Story I can’t omit; her
Father had sent for the most Famous Painter in _Italy_ to draw her
Picture, she accordingly sat for it; he had drawn some of the Features
of her Face; and coming to the Eye, desired her to give him as brisk and
piercing a Glance as she cou’d; but the Vivacity of her Look so
astonished the Painter, that thro’ concern he let his Pencil drop and
spoiled the Picture; he made a second Essay, but with no better Success,
for rising in great Disorder, he swore it impossible to draw that which
he cou’d not look upon; the Lady vexed at the Weakness of the Painter,
took up his Pencils and the Picture, and sitting down to her Glass,
finished it herself; she had improv’d her silent Conversation with her
Sister so far, that she was understood by her, as if she had spoke, and
I remember this Lady was the first I saw use the significative Way of
Discourse by the Fingers; I dare not say ’twas she invented it (tho’ it
probably might have been an Invention of these ingenious Sisters) but I
am positive none before her ever brought it to that Perfection.
In the seventeenth of _Belvideera’s_, and sixteenth Year of _Maria’s_
Age, _Francisco_, Brother to _Rinaldo_, was made Admiral of the
_Venetian_ Fleet, and upon his first Entrance upon his Command, had
obtained a signal Victory over the _Turks_; he returning to _Venice_
with Triumph, applause and spoil, presented to the great Duke a young
_English_ Gentleman, who only as a Volunteer in the Action, had
signalized himself very bravely in the Engagement, but particularly by
first boarding the _Turkish_ Admiral Galley, and killing her Commander
hand to hand; the Fame of this Gentleman soon spread over all _Venice_,
and the two Sisters sent presently for me, to give an Account of the
Exploits of my Countryman, as their Unkle had recounted it to them;
I was pleas’d to find so great an Example of _English_ Bravery, so far
from Home, and long’d extreamly to converse with him, vainly flattering
myself, that he might have been of my Acquaintance. That very Night
there was a grand Ball and Masquerade at the great Duke’s Palace, for
the most signal Joy of the late Success, thither _Belvideera_ invited me
to Accompany her and _Maria_, adding withal as a Motive, that we might
there most probably meet, and Discourse with this young Hero; and
equipping me with a Suit of Masquerade, they carried me in their Coach
to the Ball, where we had pass’d half an Hour, when I saw enter a
handsom Gentleman in a rich _English_ Dress; I show’d him to
_Belvideera_, who moving towards him, with a gallant Air, slaps him on
the Shoulder with her Fan, he turning about, and viewing her Person, the
Defaults of which were not altogether hidden by her Disguise; ‘Sir,
(said he) if you are a Man, know that I am one, and will not bear
Impertinence; but, if you are a Lady, Madam, as I hope in Heavens you
are not, I must inform you, that I am under a Vow, not to converse with
any Female to Night;’ ‘Know then, Sir, (answered _Belvideera_ very
smartly) that I am a Female, and you have broke your Vow already; but
methinks, Sir, the Ladies are very little oblig’d to your Vow, which
wou’d rob them of the Conversation of so fine a Gentleman.’
‘Madam, (said the Gentleman) the Sweetness of your Voice bespeaks you a
Lady, and I hope the breaking my Vow will be so far from Damning me,
that I shall thereby merit Heaven, if I may be blest in your Divine
Conversation.’ _Belvideera_ made such ingenious and smart Repartees to
the Gentleman, who was himself a great Courtier, that he was entirely
captivated with her Wit, insomuch, that he cou’d not refrain making
Protestations of his Passion; he talked about half an Hour in such pure
_Italian_, that I began to mistrust my _Englishman_, wherefore taking
some Occasion to jest upon his Habit, I found ’twas only a Masquerade to
cloak a down-right _Venetian_; in the mean Time, we perceiv’d a
Gentleman Gallantly attir’d with no Disguise but a _Turkish_ Turbant on,
the richliest beset with Jewels I ever saw; he addressed _Maria_ with
all the Mien and Air of the finest Courtier; he had talked to her a good
while before we heard him, but then _Belvideera_, knowing her poor
Sister uncapable of any Defence, ‘Sir, (said she to the _Venetian_,)
yonder is a Lady of my Acquaintance, who lies under a Vow of Silence as
you were, I must therefore beg your Pardon, and fly to her Relief’: ‘She
can never be conquer’d, who has such a Champion,’ (reply’d the
Gentleman) upon which _Belvideera_ turning from him, interpos’d between
the Gentleman and her Sister, saying, ‘This Lady, Sir, is under an
Obligation of Silence, as a Penance imposed by her Father-Confessor.’
‘Madam, (reply’d the Gentleman) whoever impos’d Silence on these fair
Lips, is guilty of a greater Offence than any, such a fair Creature
cou’d commit.’ ‘Why, Sir, (said _Belvideera_) have you seen the Lady’s
Beauty’: ‘Yes, Madam, (answer’d he) for urging her to talk, which I
found she declin’d, I promis’d to disengage her from any farther
Impertinence, upon a Sight of her Face; she agreed by paying the Price
of her Liberty, which was ransom enough for any Thing under Heavens, but
her fair Company’; he spoke in an Accent that easily shew’d him a
Stranger; which _Belvideera_ laying hold of, as an Occasion of Railery,
‘Sir, (said she,) your Tongue pronounces you a great Stranger in this
Part of the World, I hope you are not what that Turbant represents;
perhaps, Sir, you think your self in the Seraglio’; ‘Madam,
(reply’d he,) this Turbant might have been in the _Turkish_ Seraglio,
but never in so fair a one as this; and this Turbant (taking it off) is
now to be laid at the Foot of some Christian Lady, for whose safety, and
by whose protecting Influence, I had the Happiness to win it from the
Captain of the _Turkish_ Admiral Galley.’ We were all surpriz’d, knowing
him then the young _English_ Gentleman, we were so curious of seeing;
_Belvideera_ presently talk’d _English_ to him, and made him some very
pretty Complements upon his Victory, which so charm’d the young Soldier,
that her Tongue claim’d an equal Share in his Heart with _Maria’s_ Eyes;
‘Madam, (said he to her) if you have the Beauty of that Lady, or if she
has your Wit, I am the most happy, or the most unfortunate Man alive.’
‘Sir,’ said the _Venetian_ coming up, ‘pray give me leave to share in
your Misfortunes.’ ‘Sir, (said _Belvideera_ very smartly) you must share
in his good Fortunes, and learn to conquer Men, before you have the
Honour of being subdu’d by Ladies, we scorn mean Prizes, Sir.’ ‘Madam,
(said the _Venetian_ in some Choler) perhaps I can subdue a Rival.’
‘Pray, Sir, (said the Stranger) don’t be angry with the Lady, she’s not
your Rival I hope, Sir.’ Said the _Venetian_, ‘I can’t be angry at the
Lady, because I love her; but my Anger must be levell’d at him, who
after this Declaration dare own a Passion for her.’ ‘Madam, (said the
_English_ Gentleman turning from the _Venetian_) Honour now must extort
a Confession from me, which the Awfulness of my Passion durst never have
own’d: And I must declare,’ added he in a louder Voice, ‘to all the
World, that I love you, lest this Gentleman shou’d think his Threats
forc’d me to disown it.’ ‘O! then (said _Belvideera_) you’re his Rival
in Honour, not in Love.’ ‘In honourable Love I am, Madam,’ answer’d the
Stranger. ‘I’ll try,’ (said the _Venetian_, going off in Choler,) he
Whisper’d a little to a Gentleman, that stood at some Distance, and
immediately went out; this was _Gonzago_, a Gentleman of good Reputation
in _Venice_, his Principles were Honour and Gallantry, but the Former
often sway’d by Passions, rais’d by the Latter. All this while, _Maria_
and I were admiring the Stranger, whose Person was indeed wonderfully
Amiable; his Motions were exact, yet free and unconstrain’d; the Tone of
his Voice carried a sweet Air of Modesty in it, yet were all his
Expressions manly; and to summ up all, he was as fine an _English_
Gentleman, as I ever saw Step in the _Mall_.
Poor _Maria_ never before envied her Sister the Advantage of Speech, or
never deplor’d the Loss of her own with more Regret, she found something
so Sweet in the Mien, Person, and Discourse of this Stranger, that her
Eyes felt a dazling Pleasure in beholding him, and like flattering
Mirrours represented every Action and Feature, with some heightning
Advantage to her Imagination: _Belvideera_ also had some secret Impulses
of Spirit, which drew her insensibly into a great Esteem of the
Gentleman; she ask’d him, by what good Genius, propitious to _Venice_,
he was induced to Live so remote from his Country; he said, that he
cou’d not imploy his Sword better than against the common Foe of
Christianity; and besides, there was a peculiar Reason, which prompted
him to serve there, which Time cou’d only make known. I made bold to ask
him some peculiar Questions, about Affairs at Court, to most of which he
gave Answers, that shew’d his Education liberal, and himself no Stranger
to Quality; he call’d himself _Dangerfield_, which was a Name that so
pleas’d me, that being since satisfied it was a Counterfeit, I us’d it
in a Comedy of mine: We had talk’d ’till the greater Part of the Company
being dispers’d, _Dangerfield_ begg’d Leave to attend us to our Coach,
and waiting us to the Door, the Gentleman, whom _Gonzago_ whisper’d,
advanc’d and offer’d his Service to hand _Maria_; she declin’d it, and
upon his urging, she turn’d to the other Side of _Dangerfield_, who, by
this Action of the Ladies finding himself intitled to her Protection,
‘Sir, (said he) Favours from great Beauties, as from great Monarchs,
must flow Voluntarily, not by Constraint, and whosoever wou’d extort
from either, are liable to the great Severity of Punishment.’ ‘Oh! Sir,
(reply’d the _Venetian_ very arrogantly,) I understand not your
Monarchy, we live here under a free State; besides, Sir, where there is
no Punishment to be dreaded, the Law will prove of little Force; and so,
Sir, by your Leave,’ offering to push him aside, and lay hold on the
Lady. _Dangerfield_ returned the Justle so vigorously, that the
_Venetian_ fell down the Descent of some Stairs at the Door, and broke
his Sword: _Dangerfield_ leap’d down after him, to prosecute his
Chastizement, but seeing his Sword broken, only whisper’d him, that if
he wou’d meet him next Morning at Six, at the Back-part of St. _Mark’s_
Church, he wou’d satisfie him for the Loss of his Sword; upon which, the
_Venetian_ immediately went off, cursing his ill Fate, that prevented
his quarrelling with _Dangerfield_, to whom he had born a grudging Envy
ever since his Success in the late Engagement, and of whom, and his
Lodgings, he had given _Gonzago_ an Account, when he whisper’d him at
the Ball. _Dangerfield_ left us full of his Praises, and went home to
his Lodgings, where he found a Note directed to him to this Effect:
SIR,
_You declared Publickly at the Ball, you were my Rival in Love and
Honour: If you dare prove it by Maintaining it, I shall be to morrow
Morning at Six, at the Back-part of St. +Mark’s+ Church, where I
shall be ready to fall a Sacrifice to both._
Gonzago.
_Dangerfield_, on the Perusal of this Challenge, began to reflect on
the Strangeness of that Evening’s Adventure, which had engag’d him
in a Passion for two Mistresses, and involv’d him in two Duels;
and whether the Extravagance of his Passion, or the Oddness of his
Fighting-Appointments, were most remarkable, he found hard to Determine;
his Love was divided between the Beauty of one Lady, and Wit of another,
either of which he loved passionately, yet nothing cou’d satisfy him,
but the Possibility of enjoying both. He had appointed the Gentleman at
the Ball to meet him at the same Time and Place, which _Gonzago’s_
Challenge to him imported; this Disturbance employed his Thought till
Morning, when rising and dressing himself very richly, he walked to the
appointed Place. _Erizo_, who was the Gentleman whose Sword he had
broke, was in the Place before him; and _Gonzago_ entered at the same
Time with him. _Erizo_, was surprized to see _Gonzago_, as much as he
was to find _Erizo_ there. ‘I don’t remember, Friend (said _Gonzago_)
that I desired your Company here this Morning.’ ‘As much as I expected
yours,’ answered _Erizo_. ‘Come, Gentlemen, (said _Dangerfield_,
interrupting them) I must fight you both, it seems: which shall I
dispatch first?’ ‘Sir, (said _Erizo_) you challeng’d me, and therefore I
claim your Promise.’ ‘Sir, (reply’d _Gonzago_) he must require the same
of me first, as I challenged him.’ Said _Erizo_, ‘the Affront I received
was unpardonable, and therefore I must fight him first, lest if he fall
by your Hands, I be depriv’d of my Satisfaction.’ ‘Nay (reply’d
_Gonzago_) my Love and Honour being laid at Stake, first claims his
Blood; and therefore, Sir, (continued he to _Dangerfield_) defend
yourself.’ ‘Hold (said _Erizo_ interposing,) if you thrust home, you
injure me, your Friend.’ ‘You have forfeited that title, (said _Gonzago_
all in Choler,) and therefore if you stand not aside, I’ll push at you.’
‘Thrust home then, (said _Erizo_) and take what follows.’ They
immediately assaulted each other vigorously. ‘Hold, Gentlemen, (said
_Dangerfield_ striking down their Swords) by righting your selves you
injure me, robbing me of that Satisfaction, which you both owe me, and
therefore, Gentlemen, you shall fight me, before any private Quarrel
among your selves defraud me of my Revenge, and so one or both of you,’
thrusting first at _Erizo_. ‘I’m your Man,’ (said _Gonzago_) parrying
the Thrust made at _Erizo_. The Clashing of so many Swords alarm’d some
Gentlemen at their _Mattins_ in the Church, among whom was _Rinaldo_,
who since the Death of his Wife, had constantly attended Morning-Service
at the Church, wherein she was buried. He with Two or Three more, upon
the Noise ran out, and parting the three Combatants, desired to know the
Occasion of their Promiscuous Quarrel. _Gonzago_ and _Erizo_ knowing
_Rinaldo_, gave him an Account of the Matter, as also who the Stranger
was. _Rinaldo_ was overjoy’d to find the brave _Britain_, whom he had
received so great a Character of, from his Brother the Admiral, and
accosting him very Courteously, ‘Sir, (said he) I am sorry our
Countrymen shou’d be so Ungrateful as to Injure any Person, who has been
so Serviceable to the State; and pray, Gentlemen, (added he, addressing
the other two) be intreated to suspend your Animosities, and come Dine
with me at my House, where I hope to prevail with you to end your
Resentments.’ _Gonzago_ and _Erizo_ hearing him Compliment the Stranger
at their Expence, told him in a Rage, they wou’d chuse some other Place
than his House, to end their Resentments in, and walk’d off.
_Dangerfield_, on _Rinaldo’s_ farther Request, accompanied him to his
House.
_Maria_ had newly risen, and with her Night-gown only thrown loose about
her, had look’d out of the Window, just as her Father and _Dangerfield_
were approaching the Gate, at the same Instant she cast her Eyes upon
_Dangerfield_, and he accidentally look’d up to the Window where she
stood, their Surprize was mutual, but that of _Dangerfield_ the greater;
he saw such an amazing Sight of Beauty, as made him doubt the Reality of
the Object, or distrust the Perfection of his Sight; he saw his dear
Lady, who had so captivated him the preceeding Day, he saw her in all
the heightning Circumstances of her Charms, he saw her in all her native
Beauties, free from the Incumbrance of Dress, her Hair as black as
Ebony, hung flowing in careless Curls over her Shoulders, it hung link’d
in amorous Twinings, as if in Love with its own Beauties; her Eyes not
yet freed from the Dullness of the late Sleep, cast a languishing
Pleasure in their Aspect, which heaviness of Sight added the greatest
Beauties to those Suns, because under the Shade of such a Cloud, their
Lustre cou’d only be view’d; the lambent Drowsiness that play’d upon her
Face, seem’d like a thin Veil not to hide, but to heighten the Beauty
which it cover’d; her Night-gown hanging loose, discover’d her charming
Bosom, which cou’d bear no Name, but Transport, Wonder and Extasy, all
which struck his Soul, as soon as the Object hit his Eye; her Breasts
with an easy Heaving, show’d the Smoothness of her Soul and of her Skin;
their Motions were so languishingly soft, that they cou’d not be said to
rise and fall, but rather to swell up towards Love, the Heat of which
seem’d to melt them down again; some scatter’d jetty Hairs, which hung
confus’dly over her Breasts, made her Bosom show like _Venus_ caught in
_Vulcan’s_ Net, but ’twas the Spectator, not she, was captivated. This
_Dangerfield_ saw, and all this at once, and with Eyes that were adapted
by a preparatory Potion; what must then his Condition be? He was
stricken with such Amazement, that he was forced to Support himself, by
leaning on _Rinaldo’s_ Arm, who started at his sudden Indisposition.
‘I’m afraid, Sir, (said he) you have received some Wound in the Duel.’
‘Oh! Sir, (said he) I am mortally wounded’; but recollecting himself
after a little Pause, ‘now I am better.’ _Rinaldo_ wou’d have sent for a
Surgeon to have it searched. ‘Your pardon, Sir, (said _Dangerfield_) my
Indisposition proceeds from an inward Malady, not by a Sword, but like
those made by _Achilles’s_ Spear, nothing can cure, but what gave the
Wound.’ _Rinaldo_ guessing at the Distemper, but not the Cause of it,
out of good Manners declined any further enquiry, but conducting him in,
entertained him with all the Courtesy imaginable; but in half a Hour,
a Messenger came from the Senate, requiring his immediate Attendance; he
lying under an indispensable Necessity of making his personal
Appearance, begg’d _Dangerfield’s_ Pardon, intreating him to stay, and
command his House till his return, and conducting him to a fine Library,
said he might there find Entertainment, if he were addicted to Study;
adding withal, as a farther Engagement of his Patience, that he should
meet the Admiral at the Senate, whom he wou’d bring home as an Addition
to their Company at Dinner. _Dangerfield_ needed none of these Motives
to stay, being detained by a secret Inclination to the Place; walking
therefore into the Library, _Rinaldo_ went to the Senate. _Dangerfield_
when alone, fell into deep Ruminating on his strange Condition, he knew
himself in the House, with one of his dear Charmers, but durst not hope
to see her, which added to his Torment; like _Tantalus_ remov’d the
farther from Happiness, by being nearer to it, contemplated so far on
the Beauties of that dear Creature, that he concluded, if her Wit were
like that of his t’other Mistress, he wou’d endeavour to confine his
Passion wholly to that Object.
In the mean Time, _Maria_ was no less confounded, she knew herself in
Love with a Stranger, whose Residence was uncertain, she knew her own
Modesty in concealing it; and alas! she knew her Dumbness uncapable of
ever revealing it, at least, it must never expect any Return; she had
gather’d from her Sister’s Discourse, that she was her Rival; a Rival,
who had the Precedency in Age, as the Advantage in Wit, and Intreague,
which want of Speech render’d her uncapable of; these Reflections, as
they drew her farther from the dear Object, brought her nearer Despair;
her Sister was gone that Morning with her Unkle, the Admiral, about two
Miles from _Venice_, to drink some Mineral Waters, and _Maria_ finding
nothing to divert her, goes down to her Father’s Library, to ease her
Melancholy by reading. She was in the same loose Habit in which she
appeared at the Window, her Distraction of Thought not permitting her
any Care in dressing herself; she enter’d whilst _Dangerfield’s_
Thoughts were bent by a full Contemplation of her Idea, insomuch that
his Surprize represented her as a Phantom only, created by the Strength
of his Fancy; her depth of Thought had cast down her Eyes in a fix’d
Posture so low, that she discover’d not _Dangerfield_, till she stood
close where he sat, but then so sudden an Appearance of what she so
lov’d, struck so violently on her Spirits, that she fell in a Swoon, and
fell directly into _Dangerfield’s_ Arms; this soon wakened him from his
Dream of Happiness, to a Reality of Bliss, he found his Phantom turn’d
into the most charming Piece of Flesh and Blood that ever was, he found
her, whom just now he despair’d of seeing; he found her with all her
Beauties flowing loose in his Arms, the Greatness of the Pleasure rais’d
by the two heightning Circumstances of Unexpectancy and Surprize, was
too large for the Capacity of his Soul, he found himself beyond
Expression happy, but could not digest the Surfeit; he had no sooner
Leisure to consider on his Joy, but he must reflect on the Danger of her
that caus’d it, which forced him to suspend his Happiness to administer
some Relief to her expiring Senses: He had a Bottle of excellent Spirits
in his Pocket, which holding to her Nose, soon recover’d her; she
finding herself in the Arms of a Man, and in so loose a Dress, blush’d
now more red, than she look’d lately pale; and disengaging herself in a
Confusion, wou’d have flung from him; but he gently detaining her by a
precarious Hold, threw himself on his Knees, and with the greatest
Fervency of Passion cry’d out: ‘For Heavens sake, dearest Creature, be
not offended at the accidental Blessing which Fortune, not Design, hath
cast upon me; (She wou’d have rais’d him up,) No Madam, (continu’d he)
never will I remove from this Posture, ’till you have pronounc’d my
Pardon; I love you, Madam, to that Degree, that if you leave me in a
distrust of your Anger, I cannot survive it; I beg, intreat, conjure you
to speak, your Silence torments me worse than your Reproaches cou’d; am
I so much disdain’d, that you will not afford me one Word?’ The
lamentable Plight of the wretched Lady every one may guess, but no Body
can comprehend; she saw the dearest of Mankind prostrate at her Feet,
and imploring what she wou’d as readily grant as he desire, yet herself
under a Necessity of denying his Prayers, and her own easy Inclinations.
The Motions of her Soul, wanting the freedom of Utterance, were like to
tear her Heart asunder by so narrow a Confinement, like the force of
Fire pent up, working more impetuously; ’till at last he redoubling his
Importunity, her Thoughts wanting Conveyance by the Lips, burst out at
her Eyes in a Flood of Tears; then moving towards a Writing-Desk, he
following her still on his Knees, amidst her Sighs and Groans she took
Pen and Paper, writ two Lines, which she gave him folded up, then
flinging from him, ran up to her Chamber: He strangely surpriz’d at this
odd manner of Proceeding, opening the Paper, read the following Words:
_You can’t my Pardon, nor my Anger move.
For know, alas! I’m dumb, alas! I love._
He was wonderfully Amaz’d reading these Words. ‘Dumb, (cried he out)
naturally Dumb? O ye niggard Powers, why was such a wond’rous Piece of
Art left imperfect?’ He had many other wild Reasonings upon the
lamentable Subject, but falling from these to more calm Reflections, he
examined her Note again, and finding by the last Words that she loved
him, he might presently imagine, that if he found not some Means of
declaring the Continuance of his Love, the innocent Lady might
conjecture herself slighted, upon the Discovery of her Affection and
Infirmity: Prompted, by which Thought, and animated by the Emotions of
his Passion, he ventured to knock at her Door; she having by this Time
dressed herself, ventured to let him in: _Dangerfield_ ran towards her,
and catching her with an eager Embrace, gave her a thousand Kisses;
‘Madam, (said he) you find that pardoning Offences only prepares more,
by emboldning the Offender; but, I hope, Madam,’ shewing her the Note,
‘this is a general Pardon for all Offences of this sort, by which I am
so encouraged to Transgress, that I shall never cease Crimes of this
Nature’; Kissing her again. His Happiness was interrupted by
_Belvideera’s_ coming Home, who running up Stairs, called, ‘Sister,
Sister, I have News to tell you’: Her Voice alarms _Maria_, who fearing
the Jealousy of _Belvideera_, shou’d she find _Dangerfield_ in her
Bed-Chamber, made Signs that he shou’d run into the Closet, which she
had just lock’d as _Belvideera_ came in: ‘Oh, Sister! (said
_Belvideera_) in a lucky Hour went I abroad this Morning.’ In a more
lucky Hour stay’d I at home this Morning, thought _Maria_. ‘I have,
(continued she,) been Instrumental in parting two Gentlemen fighting
this Morning, and what is more, my Father had parted them before, when
engag’d with the fine _English_ Gentleman we saw at the Ball yesterday;
but the greatest News of all is, that this fine _English_ Gentleman is
now in the House, and must Dine here to Day; but you must not appear,
Sister, because ’twere a Shame to let Strangers know that you are Dumb.’
_Maria_ perceived her Jealousy, pointed to her Limbs, intimating
thereby, that it was as great a Shame for her to be seen by Strangers;
but she made farther Signs, that since it was her Pleasure, she wou’d
keep her Chamber all that Day, and not appear abroad. _Belvideera_ was
extreamly glad of her Resolution, hoping that she shou’d enjoy
_Dangerfield’s_ Conversation without any Interruption. The Consternation
of the Spark in the Closet all this while was not little, he heard the
Voice of the Charmer, that had so captivated him, he found that she was
Sister to that Lady, whom he just now was making so many Protestations
to, but he cou’d not imagine how she was Instrumental in parting the two
Gentlemen, that shou’d have fought him; the Occasion was this:
_Gonzago_ and _Erizo_, parting from _Rinaldo_ and _Dangerfield_, had
walk’d towards the _Rialto_, and both exasperated that they had missed
their intended Revenge against _Dangerfield_, turned their Fury upon
each other, first raising their Anger by incensed Expostulations, then
drawing their Swords, engaged in a desperate Combat, when a Voice very
loud calling, (_Erizo_, hold) stopt their Fury to see whence it
proceeded; when a Coach driving at full Flight stopt close by them, and
_Francisco_ the _Venetian_ Admiral leaped out with his Sword drawn,
saying, ‘Gentlemen, pray let me be an Instrument of Pacification: As for
your part, _Erizo_, this Proceeding suits not well with the Business I
am to move in Favour of you in the Senate to Day; the Post you sue for
claims your Blood to be spilt against the common Foe, not in private
Resentment, to the Destruction of a Citizen; and therefore I intreat you
as my Friend, or I command you as your Officer, to put up.’ _Erizo_,
unwilling to disoblige his Admiral, upon whose Favour his Advancement
depended, told _Gonzago_, that he must find another time to talk with
him. ‘No, no, Gentlemen, (said the Admiral) you shall not part ’till I
have reconciled you, and therefore let me know your Cause of Quarrel.’
_Erizo_ therefore related to him the whole Affair, and mentioning that
_Dangerfield_ was gone Home to Dine with _Rinaldo_; ‘With _Rinaldo_ my
Father?’ said _Belvideera_ from the Coach, overjoy’d with Hopes of
seeing _Dangerfield_ at Home. ‘Yes, (reply’d _Gonzago_ surpriz’d) if
_Rinaldo_ the Senator be your Father, Madam.’ ‘Yes, he is,’ reply’d
_Belvideera_. _Gonzago_ then knew her to be the Lady he was enamour’d
of, and for whom he wou’d have fought _Dangerfield_; and now cursed his
ill Fate, that he had deny’d _Rinaldo’s_ Invitation, which lost him the
Conversation of his Mistress, which his Rival wou’d be sure of. ‘Come,
come, Gentlemen, (said the Admiral) you shall accompany me to see this
Stranger at _Rinaldo’s_ House, I bear a great Esteem for him, and so it
behoves every loyal _Venetian_, for whose Service he hath been so
signal.’ _Erizo_, unwilling to deny the Admiral, and _Gonzago_ glad of
an Opportunity of his Mistress’s Company, which he just now thought
lost, consented to the Proposal, and mounting all into the Coach, the
three Gentlemen were set down at the Senate, and the Lady drove Home as
above-mentioned.
_Rinaldo_ in the mean Time was not idle in the Senate, there being a
Motion made for Election of a Captain to the _Rialto_ Galleon, made void
by the Death of its former Commander in the late Fight, and which was
the Post designed by the Admiral for _Erizo_. _Rinaldo_ catching an
Opportunity of obliging _Dangerfield_, for whom he entertain’d a great
Love and Respect, proposed him as a Candidate for the Command, urging
his late brave Performance against the _Turks_, and how much it
concerned the Interest of the State to encourage Foreigners. He being
the Admiral’s Brother, and being so fervent in the Affair, had by an
unanimous Consent his Commission sign’d just as his Brother came into
the Senate, who fearing how Things were carried, comforted _Erizo_ by
future Preferment; but _Erizo_, however he stifled his Resentment, was
struck with Envy, that a Stranger, and his Enemy shou’d be preferred to
him, and resolved Revenge on the first Opportunity. They all went home
with _Rinaldo_, and arrived whilst _Belvideera_ was talking above Stairs
with her Sister. _Rinaldo_, impatient to communicate his Success to
_Dangerfield_, ran into the Study, where he left him; but missing him
there, went into the Garden, and searching all about, returned to the
Company, telling them he believ’d _Dangerfield_ had fallen asleep in
some private Arbor in the Garden, where he cou’d not find him, or else
impatient of his long stay, had departed; but he was sure, if he had
gone, he wou’d soon return: However they went to Dinner, and
_Belvideera_ came down, making an Apology for her Sister’s Absence,
thro’ an Indisposition that had seized her. _Gonzago_ had his wished for
Opportunity of entertaining his Mistress, whilst she always expecting
some News of _Dangerfield_, sat very uneasie in his Company; whilst
_Dangerfield_ in the Closet, was as impatient to see her. The short
Discourse she had with her Sister, gave him assurance that his Love
wou’d not be unacceptable. _Maria_ durst not open the Closet, afraid
that her Sister shou’d come up every Minute, besides, ’twas impossible
to convey him out of the Chamber undiscovered, untill ’twas dark, which
made him Wonder what occasioned his long Confinement; and being tired
with sitting, got up to the Window, and softly opening the Casement,
looked out to take the Air; his Footman walking accidentally in the
Court, and casting up his Eye that way, spy’d him, which confirm’d his
Patience in attending for him at the Gate; at length it grew Dark, and
_Maria_ knowing that her Sister was engag’d in a Match at Cards with her
Father, _Gonzago_ and _Erizo_, the Admiral being gone, she came softly
to the Closet, and innocently took _Dangerfield_ by the Hand, to lead
him out, he clapt the dear soft Hand to his Mouth, and kissing it
eagerly, it fired his Blood, and the unhappy Opportunity adding to the
Temptation, raised him to the highest Pitch of Passion; he found himself
with the most beautiful Creature in the World, one who loved him, he
knew they were alone in the Dark, in a Bed-chamber, he knew the Lady
young and melting, he knew besides she cou’d not tell, and he was
conscious of his Power in moving; all these wicked Thoughts concurring,
establish’d him in the Opinion, that this was the critical Minute of his
Happiness, resolving therefore not to lose it, he fell down on his
Knees, devouring her tender Hand, sighing out his Passion, begging her
to Crown it with her Love, making Ten thousand Vows and Protestations of
his Secrecy and Constancy, urging all the Arguments that the Subtilty of
the Devil or Man could suggest. She held out against all his Assaults
above two Hours, and often endeavoured to Struggle from him, but durst
make no great Disturbance, thro’ fear of Alarming the Company below, at
last he redoubling his Passion with Sighs, Tears, and all the rest of
Love’s Artillery, he at last gain’d the Fort, and the poor conquered
Lady, all panting, soft, and trembling every Joynt, melted by his
Embraces, he there fatally enjoy’d the greatest Extasy of Bliss,
heightned by the Circumstances of Stealth, and Difficulty in obtaining.
The ruin’d Lady now too late deplored the Loss of her Honour; but he
endeavour’d to Comfort her by making Vows of Secrecy, and promising to
salve her Reputation by a speedy Marriage, which he certainly intended,
had not the unhappy _Crisis_ of his Fate been so near. The Company by
this Time had gone off, and _Belvideera_ had retir’d to her Chamber,
melancholy that she had missed her Hopes of seeing _Dangerfield_.
_Gonzago_ and _Erizo_ going out of the Gate, saw _Dangerfield’s_
Footman, whom they knew, since they saw him with his Master in the
Morning. _Gonzago_ asked him why he waited there? ‘For my Master, Sir,’
reply’d the Footman. ‘Your Master is not here sure,’ said _Gonzago_.
‘Yes, but he is, Sir,’ said the Servant, ‘for I attended him hither this
Morning with _Rinaldo_, and saw him in the Afternoon look out of a
Window above Stairs.’ ‘Ha!’ said _Gonzago_, calling _Erizo_ aside, ‘by
Heavens, he lies here to Night then, and perhaps with my Mistress;
I perceiv’d she was not pressing for our Stay, but rather urging our
Departure. _Erizo_, _Erizo_, this Block must be remov’d, he has stepped
between you and a Command to Day, and perhaps may lye between me and my
Mistress to Night.’ ‘By Hell (answered _Erizo_) thou hast raised a Fury
in me, that will not be lulled asleep, but by a Potion of his Blood;
let’s dispatch this Blockhead first’: And running at the Footman, with
one Thrust killed him. _Dangerfield_ by this time had been let out, and
hearing the Noise, ran to the Place; they presently assaulted him; he
defended himself very bravely the space of some Minutes, having wounded
_Gonzago_ in the Breast; when _Rinaldo_ hearing the Noise, came out; but
too late for _Dangerfield’s_ Relief, and too soon for his own Fate; for
_Gonzago_, exasperated by his Wound, ran treacherously behind
_Dangerfield_, and thrust him quite thro’ the Body. He finding the
mortal Wound, and wild with Rage, thrust desperately forward at _Erizo_,
when at the instant _Rinaldo_ striking in between to part them, received
_Dangerfield’s_ Sword in his Body, which pierced him quite thro’. He no
sooner fell, than _Dangerfield_ perceived his fatal Error, and the other
Two fled. _Dangerfield_ curs’d his Fate, and begg’d with all the Prayers
and Earnestness of a dying Man, that _Rinaldo_ wou’d forgive him. ‘Oh!’
said _Rinaldo_, ‘you have ill rewarded me for my Care in your Concerns
in the Senate to Day.’ The Servants coming out, took up _Rinaldo_, and
_Dangerfield_ leaning upon his Sword, they led him in. _Belvideera_
first heard the Noise, and running down first met the horrid Spectacle,
her dear Father breathing out his last, and her Lover, whom she had all
that Day flattered her self with Hopes of seeing, she now beheld in
Streams of his Blood; but what must poor _Maria’s_ Case be? besides the
Grief for her Father’s Fate, she must view that dear Man, lately Happy
in her Embraces, now folded in the Arms of Death, she finds herself
bereft of a Parent, her Love, her Honour, and the Defender of it, all at
once; and the greatest Torment is, that she must bear all this Anguish,
and cannot Ease her Soul by expressing it. _Belvideera_ sat wiping the
Blood from her Father’s Wound, whilst mournful _Maria_ sat by
_Dangerfield_, administring all the Help she cou’d to his fainting
Spirits; whilst he viewed her with greater Excess of Grief, than he had
heretofore with Pleasure; being sensible what was the Force of her
silent Grief, and the Wrong he had done her, which now he cou’d never
Redress: He had accidentally dropt his Wig in the Engagement, and
inclining his Head over the Couch where he lay, _Rinaldo_ casting his
Eye upon him, perceiv’d the Mark of a bloody Dagger on his Neck, under
his left Ear: ‘Sir, (said _Rinaldo_, raising himself up) I conjure you
answer me directly, were you born with the Mark of that Dagger, or have
you received it since by Accident.’ ‘I was certainly born with it,’
answer’d he. ‘Just such a Mark had my Son _Cosmo_, who was lost in the
_Adriatick_.’ ‘How! (reply’d _Dangerfield_, starting up with a wild
Confusion) Lost! say’st thou in the _Adriatick_? Your Son lost in the
_Adriatick_?’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said _Rinaldo_, ‘too surely lost in the
_Adriatick_.’ ‘O ye impartial Powers (said _Dangerfield_), why did you
not reveal this before? Or why not always conceal it? How happy had been
the Discovery some few Hours ago, and how Tragical is it now? For know,’
continued he, addressing himself to _Rinaldo_, ‘know that my suppos’d
Father, who was a _Turky_ Merchant, upon his Death-bed call’d me to him,
and told me ’twas time to undeceive me, I was not his Son, he found me
in the _Adriatick_ Sea, ty’d to two Planks in his Voyage from _Smyrna_
to _London_; having no Children, he educated me as his own, and finding
me worth his Care, left me all his Inheritance with this dying Command,
that I shou’d seek my Parents at _Venice_.’ _Belvideera_ hearkning all
this while to the lamentable Story, then conjectured whence proceeded
the natural Affection the whole Family bore him, and embracing him,
cry’d out, ‘Oh my unhappy Brother.’ _Maria_ all the while had strong and
wild Convulsions of Sorrow within her, ’till the working Force of her
Anguish racking at once all the Passages of her Breast, by a violent
Impulse, broke the Ligament that doubled in her Tongue, and she burst
out with this Exclamation; ‘Oh! Incest, Incest.’ _Dangerfield_ eccho’d
that Outcry with this, ‘O! Horror, Horror, I have enjoy’d my Sister, and
murder’d my Father.’ _Maria_ running distracted about the Chamber, at
last spy’d _Dangerfield’s_ Sword, by which he had supported himself into
the House, and catching it up, reeking with the Blood of her Father,
plung’d it into her Heart, and throwing herself into _Dangerfield’s_
Arms, calls out, ‘O my Brother, O my Love,’ and expir’d. All the
Neighbourhood was soon alarm’d by the Out-cries of the Family. I lodged
within three Doors of _Rinaldo’s_ House, and running presently thither,
saw a more bloody Tragedy in Reality, than what the most moving Scene
ever presented; the Father and Daughter were both dead, the unfortunate
Son was gasping out his last, and the surviving Sister most miserable,
because she must survive such Misfortunes, cry’d to me; ‘O! behold the
Fate of your wretched Countryman.’ I cou’d make no Answer, being struck
dumb by the Horror of such woeful Objects; but _Dangerfield_ hearing her
name his Country, turning towards me, with a languishing and weak Tone,
‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I was your Countryman, and wou’d to Heavens I were so
still; if you hear my Story mention’d, on your Return to _England_, pray
give these strange Turns of my Fate not the Name of Crimes, but favour
them with the Epithet of Misfortunes; my Name is not Dangerfield, but
_Cla_--’ His Voice there fail’d him, and he presently dy’d; Death
seeming more favourable than himself, concealing the fatal Author of so
many Misfortunes, for I cou’d never since learn out his Name; but have
done him the justice, I hope, to make him be pity’d for his Misfortunes,
not hated for his Crimes. _Francisco_ being sent for, had _Gonzago_ and
_Erizo_ apprehended, condemn’d, and executed. _Belvideera_ consign’d all
her Father’s Estate over to her Uncle, reserving only a Competency to
maintain her a Recluse all the rest of her Life.
NOTES: The Dumb Virgin.
p. 429 _Dangerfield._ This name is not to be found in any one of Mrs.
Behn’s plays, but as it does occur in Sedley’s _Bellamira; or, The
Mistress_ (1687), one can only conclude that Aphra gave it to Sir
Charles and altered her own character’s nomenclature. Mrs. Behn, it may
be remembered, was more than once extraordinarily careless with regard
to the names of the Dramatis Personæ in her comedies. A striking example
occurs in _Sir Patient Fancy_, where the ‘precise clerk’ is called both
Abel and Bartholomew. In _The Feign’d Curtezans_ Silvio and Sabina are
persistently confused, and again, in _The Town Fop_ (Vol. III, p. 15 and
p. 20), the name Dresswell is retained for Friendlove. Sedley’s
_Bellamira_ is derived from Terence’s _Eunuchus_, and Dangerfield is
Thraso; the Pyrgopolinices, Miles Gloriosus, of Plautus.
Cross-Reference from Introduction: _The Dumb Virgin_
Beginning: Consanguinity and love which are treated in this novel so
romantically and with such tragic catastrophe had already been dealt
with in happier mood by Mrs. Behn in _The Dutch Lover_. _Vide_ Note on
the Source of that play, Vol. I, p. 218.
Vol. I, p. 218, beginning of “Source” section:
Mrs. Behn founded the plot of _The Dutch Lover_ upon the stories
of Eufemie and Theodore, Don Jame and Frederic, in a pseudo-Spanish
novel entitled ‘_The History of Don Fenise_, a new Romance written
in Spanish by Francisco de Las Coveras, And now Englished by a
Person of Honour, London, Printed for Humphrey Moseley,’ 8vo, 1651.
* * * * *
* * * *
THE WANDERING BEAUTY.
I was not above twelve Years old, as near as I can remember, when a Lady
of my Acquaintance, who was particularly concern’d in many of the
Passages, very pleasantly entertain’d me with the Relation of the young
Lady _Arabella’s_ Adventures, who was eldest Daughter to Sir _Francis
Fairname_, a Gentleman of a noble Family, and of a very large Estate in
the West of _England_, a true Church-Man, a great Loyalist, and a most
discreetly-indulgent Parent; nor was his Lady any Way inferiour to him
in every Circumstance of Virtue. They had only two Children more, and
those were of the soft, unhappy Sex too; all very beautiful, especially
_Arabella_, and all very much alike; piously educated, and courtly too,
of naturally-virtuous Principles and Inclinations.
’Twas about the sixteenth Year of her Age, that Sir _Robert Richland_,
her Father’s great Friend and inseparable Companion, but superiour to
him in Estate as well as Years, felt the resistless Beauty of this young
Lady raging and burning in his aged Veins, which had like to have been
as fatal to him, as a Consumption, or his Climacterical Year of Sixty
Three, in which he dy’d, as I am told, though he was then hardly Sixty.
However, the Winter Medlar would fain have been inoculated in the
Summer’s Nacturine. His unseasonable Appetite grew so strong and
inordinate, that he was oblig’d to discover it to Sir _Francis_; who,
though he lov’d him very sincerely, had yet a Regard to his Daughter’s
Youth, and Satisfaction in the Choice of a Husband; especially, when he
consider’d the great Disproportion in their Age, which he rightly
imagin’d would be very disagreeable to _Arabella’s_ Inclinations: This
made him at first use all the most powerful and perswading Arguments in
his Capacity, to convince Sir _Robert_ of the Inequality of such a
Match, but all to no Purpose; for his Passion increasing each Day more
violently, the more assiduously, and with the greater Vehemence, he
press’d his Friend to use his Interest and Authority with his Lady and
Daughter, to consent to his almost unnatural Proposition; offering this
as the most weighty and prevailing Argument, (which undoubtedly it was,)
That since he was a Batchelor, he would settle his whole Estate upon
her, if she surviv’d him, on the Day of Marriage, not desiring one Penny
as a Portion with her. This Discourse wrought so powerfully with her
Mother, that she promis’d the old Lover all the Assistance he could hope
or expect from her: In order to which, the next Day she acquainted her
fair Daughter with the Golden Advantage she was like to have, if she
would but consent _to lye by the Parchment that convey’d them to her_.
The dear, fair Creature, was so surpriz’d at this Overture made by her
Mother, that her Roses turn’d all into Lillies, and she had like to have
swoon’d away; but having a greater Command of her Passions than usually
our Sex have, and chiefly Persons of her Age, she, after some little
Disorder, which by no Means she could dissemble, she made as dutiful a
Return to her Mother’s Proposition, as her Aversion to it would permit;
and, for that Time, got Liberty to retreat, and lament in private the
Misfortune which she partly fore-saw was impending. But her Grief (alas)
was no Cure of her Malady; for the next Day she was again doubly
attack’d by her Father and Mother, with all the Reasons that Interest
and Duty could urge, which she endeavour’d to obviate by all the
Arguments that Nature and Inclination could offer; but she found them
all in vain, since they continu’d their ungrateful Solicitations for
several Days together, at the End of which, they both absolutely
commanded her to prepare her self for her Nuptials with Sir _Robert_; so
that finding her self under a Necessity of complying, or at least of
seeming so, she made ’em hope, that her Duty had overcome her Aversion;
upon which she had a whole Week’s Liberty to walk where she would,
unattended, or with what Company she pleas’d, and to make Visits to whom
she had a Mind, either of her Relations or Acquaintance thereabouts;
tho’ for three or four Days before, she was strictly confin’d to her
Chamber.
After Dinner, on the third Day of her Enlargement, being Summer Time,
she propos’d to her Mother that she would take a Walk to a Cousin of
hers, who liv’d about four Miles thence, to intreat her to be one of her
Bride-Maids, being then in a careless plain Dress, and having before
discours’d very pleasantly and freely of her Wedding-Day, of what
Friends she would have invited to that Solemnity, and what Hospitality
Sir _Robert_ should keep when she was marry’d to him: All which was
highly agreeable to her Parents, who then could not forbear thanking and
kissing her for it, which she return’d to ’em both with a Shower of
Tears. This did not a little surprize ’em at first, but asking her what
could cause such Signs of Sorrow, after so chearful a Discourse on the
late Subject? She answer’d, ‘That the Thoughts of her going now suddenly
to live from so dear and tender a Father and Mother, were the sole
Occasion of such Expressions of Grief.’ This affectionate Reply did
amply satisfy their Doubts; and she presently took Leave of ’em, after
having desir’d that they would not be uneasy if she should not return
’till a little before ’twas dark, or if her Cousin should oblige her to
stay all Night with her; which they took for a discreet Caution in her,
considering that young Maidens love dearly to talk of Marriage Affairs,
especially when so near at Hand: And thus easily parted with her, when
they had walk’d with her about a Mile, over a Field or two of their own.
Never before that Time was the dear Creature glad that her Father and
Mother had left her, unless when they had press’d her to a Marriage with
the old Knight. They were therefore no sooner got out of Sight, e’re she
took another Path, that led cross the Country, which she persu’d ’till
past eight at Night, having walk’d ten Miles since two a Clock, when Sir
_Francis_ and her Mother left her: She was just now got to a little
Cottage, the poor, but cleanly Habitation of a Husbandman and his Wife,
who had one only Child, a Daughter, about the Lady _Arabella’s_ Age and
Stature. ’Twas happy for her she got thither before they were a Bed; for
her soft and beautiful Limbs began now to be tir’d, and her tender Feet
to be gall’d. To the good Woman of the House she applies her self,
desiring Entertainment for that Night, offering her any reasonable
Satisfaction. The good Wife, at first Sight of her, had Compassion of
her, and immediately bid her walk in, telling her, that she might lye
with her Daughter, if she pleas’d, who was very cleanly, tho’ not very
vine. The good Man of the House came in soon after, was very well
pleas’d with his new Guest; so to Supper they went very seasonably; for
the poor young Lady, who was e’en ready to faint with Thirst, and not
overcharg’d with what she had eaten the Day before. After Supper they
ask’d her whence she came, and how she durst venture to travel alone,
and a Foot? To which she reply’d, That she came from a Relation who
liv’d at _Exeter_, with whom she had stay’d ’till she found she was
burthensome: That she was of _Welsh_ Parents, and of a good Family; but
her Father dying, left a cruel Mother-in-Law, with whom she could by no
Means continue, especially since she would have forc’d her to marry an
old Man, whom it was impossible she should love, tho’ he was very rich:
That she was now going to seek her Fortune in _London_, where she hop’d,
at least, to get her a good Service. They all seem’d to pity her very
heartily; and, in a little Time after, they went to their two several
Apartments, in one of which _Arabella_ and the Damsel of the House went
to Bed, where the young Lady slept soundly, notwithstanding the Hardness
of her Lodging. In the Morning, about Four, according to her laudable
Custom, the young hardy Maiden got up to her daily Employment; which
waken’d _Arabella_, who presently bethought her self of an Expedient for
her more secure and easy Escape from her Parents Pursuit and Knowledge,
proposing to her Bedfellow an Exchange of their Wearing-Apparel. The
Heiress and Hope of that little Family was extreamly fond of the
Proposal, and ran immediately to acquaint her Mother with it, who was so
well pleas’d, that she could hardly believe it, when the young Lady
confirm’d it, and especially, when she understood the Exchange was to be
made on even Hands. ‘If you be in earnest, Forsooth, (said the Mother)
you shall e’en have her Sunday-Cloaths.’ ‘Agreed (return’d _Arabella_)
but we must change Shifts too; I have now a Couple about me, new and
clean, I do assure you: For my Hoods and Head-dress you shall give me
two Pinners, and her best Straw-Hat; and for my Shoes, which I have not
worn above a Week, I will have her Holliday Shoes.’ ‘A Match, indeed,
young Mistress,’ cry’d the good Wife. So without more Ceremony, the
young unhappy Lady was attir’d in her Bedfellow’s Country Weeds, by Help
of the Mother and Daughter. Then, after she had taken her Leave of the
good old Man too, she put a broad round Shilling into his Wife’s Hand,
as a Reward for her Supper and Lodging, which she would fain have
return’d, but t’other would not receive it. ‘Nay, then, by the Mackins,
(said her Hostess) you shall take a Breakfast e’re you go, and a Dinner
along with you, for Fear you should be sick by the Way.’ _Arabella_
stay’d to eat a Mess of warm Milk, and took some of their Yesterday’s
Provision with her in a little course Linnen Bag. Then asking for the
direct Road to _London_, and begging a few green Wall-nuts, she took her
last Farewel of them.
Near Twelve at Noon she came to a pleasant Meadow, through which there
ran a little Rivulet of clear Water, about nine miles from her last
Lodging, but quite out of the Way to _London_. Here she sate down, and
after drinking some of the Water out of the Hollow of her Hand, she
open’d her Bag, and made as good a Meal as the Courseness of the Fare,
and the Niceness of her Appetite would permit: After which, she bruis’d
the outward green Shells of a Wall-nut or two, and smear’d her lovely
Face, Hands, and Part of her Arms, with the Juice; then looking into the
little purling Stream, that seem’d to murmur at the Injury she did to so
much Beauty, she sigh’d and wept, to think to what base Extremities she
was now likely to be reduc’d! That she should be forc’d to stain that
Skin which Heaven had made so pure and white! ‘But ah! (cry’d she to her
self) if my Disobedience to my Parents had not stain’d my Conscience
worse, this needed not to have been done.’ Here she wept abundantly
again; then, drying her Eyes, she wash’d her Feet to refresh ’em, and
thence continu’d her Journey for ten Miles more, which she compass’d by
seven a Clock; when she came to a Village, where she got Entertainment
for that Night, paying for it, and the next Morning, before Six, as soon
as she had fill’d her little Bag with what good Chear the Place
afforded, she wander’d on ’till Twelve again, still crossing the
Country, and taking her Course to the Northern Parts of _England_, which
doubtless was the Reason her Father and his Servants miss’d of her in
their Pursuit; for he imagin’d that for certain she had taken her
nearest Way to _London_. After she had refresh’d her self for an Hour’s
Time by the Side of a Wood, she arose and wander’d again near twelve
Miles by eight a Clock, and lodg’d at a good substantial Farmer’s.
Thus she continu’d her Errantry for above a Fortnight, having no more
Money than just thirty Shillings, half of which brought her to Sir
_Christian Kindly’s_ House in _Lancashire_. ’Twas near five a Clock in
the Afternoon when she reach’d that happy Port, when, coming to the Hall
Door, she enquir’d for the Lady of the House, who happily was just
coming into the Hall with a little Miss in her Arms, of about four Years
old, very much troubled with weak and sore Eyes: The fair Wanderer,
addressing her self to the Lady with all the Humility and Modesty
imaginable, begg’d to know if her Ladyship had any Place in her Family
vacant, in which she might do her Service? To which the Lady return’d,
(by Way of Question) Alas! poor Creature! what canst thou do? Any thing,
may it please your Ladyship, (reply’d the disguis’d Beauty) any thing
within my Strength and my Knowledge, I mean, Madam. Thou say’st well,
(said the Lady) and I’m sorry I have not any vacant for thee. I beseech
your Ladyship then (said _Arabella_) let me lodge in your Barn to-Night;
for I am told it is a great Way hence to any Town, and I have but little
Money. In my Barn, poor Girl! (cry’d the Lady, looking very earnestly on
her) ay, God forbid else, unless we can find a better Lodging for thee.
Art thou hungry or thirsty? Yes, Madam (reply’d the wandering Fair One)
I could both eat and drink, if it please your Ladyship. The Lady
commanded Victuals and Drink to be brought, and could not forbear
staying in the Hall ’till she had done; when she ask’d her several
Questions, as of what Country she was? To which she answer’d truly, of
_Somersetshire_. What her Parents were, and if living? To which she
return’d, They were good, honest, and religious People, and she hop’d
they were alive, and in as good Health as when she left ’em. After the
Lady had done catechising her, _Arabella_, looking on the little Child
in her Ladyship’s Arms, said, Pardon me, Madam, I beseech you, if I am
too bold in asking your Ladyship how that pretty Creature’s Eyes came to
be so bad? By an extream Cold which she took, (reply’d the Lady.) I had
not presum’d (return’d t’other) to have ask’d your Ladyship this
Question, were I not assur’d that I have an infallible Cure for the
Infirmity; and if, Madam, you will be pleas’d to let me apply it, I will
tell your Ladyship the Remedy in private. The Lady was much surpriz’d to
hear a young Creature, so meanly habited, talk so genteelly; and after
surveying her very strictly, said the Lady, Have you ever experienc’d it
before? Yes, Madam (reply’d the fair Physician) and never without happy
Success: I dare engage, Madam, (added she) that I will make ’em as well
as my own, by God’s Blessing, or else I will be content to lose mine,
which Heaven forbid. Amen, (cry’d the good Lady) for they are very fine
ones, on my Word.--Stay, Child, I will desire Sir _Christian_ to hear it
with me; and if he approves it, you shall about it; and if it take good
Effect, we will endeavour to requite the Care and Pains it shall cost
you. Saying thus, she immediately left her, and return’d very speedily
with Sir _Christian_, who having discours’d _Arabella_ for some time,
with great Satisfaction and Pleasure, took her into the Parlour with his
Lady, where she communicated her Secret to ’em both; which they found so
innocent and reasonable, that they desir’d her to prepare it as soon as
possible, and to make her Application of it with all convenient Speed;
which she could not do ’till the next Morning. In the mean Time she was
order’d a Lodging with the House-Maid, who reported to her Lady, That
she found her a very sweet and cleanly Bed-fellow; (adding) That she
never saw nor felt so white, so smooth, and soft a Skin. _Arabella_
continu’d her Remedy with such good Success, that in a Fortnight’s Time
little Miss’s Eyes were as lively and strong as ever. This so endear’d
her to the Knight and his Lady, that they created a new Office in their
Family, purposely for her, which was, Attendant on their eldest Daughter
_Eleanora_, a Lady much about her Years and Stature; who was so charm’d
with her Conversation, that she could not stir Abroad, nor eat, nor
sleep, without _Peregrina Goodhouse_ (for those were the Names she
borrow’d:) Nor was her Modesty, Humility, and Sweetness of Temper, less
engaging to her Fellow-Servants, who all strove which should best
express their Love to her. On Festival-Days, and for the Entertainment
of Strangers, she would lend her helping Hand to the Cook, and make the
Sauce for every Dish, though her own Province was only to attend the
young Lady, and prepare the Quidlings, and other Sweet-Meats, for the
Reception of Sir _Christian’s_ Friends; all which she did to Admiration.
In this State of easy Servitude she liv’d there for near three Years,
very well contented at all Times, but when she bethought her self of her
Father, Mother, and Sisters, courted by all the principal Men-Servants,
whom she refus’d in so obliging a Manner, and with such sweet, obliging
Words, that they could not think themselves injur’d, though they found
their Addresses were in vain. Mr. _Prayfast_, the Chaplain himself,
could not hold out against her Charms. For her Skin had long since
recover’d its native Whiteness; nor did she need Ornaments of Cloaths to
set her Beauty off, if any Thing could adorn her, since she was dress’d
altogether as costly, though not so richly (perhaps) as _Eleanora_.
_Prayfast_ therefore found that the Spirit was too weak for the Flesh,
and gave her very broad Signs of his Kindness in Sonnets, Anagrams, and
Acrosticks, which she receiv’d very obligingly of him, taking a more
convenient Time to laugh at ’em with her young Lady.
Her kind Reception of them encourag’d him to that Degree, that within a
few Days after, supposing himself secure on her Side, he apply’d himself
to the good old Knight, his Patron, for his Consent to a Marriage with
her, who very readily comply’d with his Demands, esteeming it a very
advantagious Match for _Peregrina_, and withal told him, That he would
give him three hundred Pounds with her, besides the first Benefit that
should fall in his Gift. But (said he) as I doubt not that you are
sufficiently acquainted with her Virtues and other excellent
Qualifications, ’tis necessary that you should know the worst that I can
tell you of her, which is, that she came to us a meer Stranger, in a
very mean, tho’ cleanly Habit; and therefore, as she confesseth, we may
conclude, of very humble, yet honest Parentage. A! (possibly) her Father
might have been, or is, some Husbandman, or somewhat inferiour to that;
for we took her up at the Door, begging one Night’s Entertainment in the
Barn. How, Sir! (cry’d _Prayfast_, starting) have you no better
Knowledge of her Birth, than what you are pleas’d to discover now? No
better, nor more (reply’d the Knight.) Alas! Sir, then (return’d the
proud canonical Sort of a Farmer) she is no Wife for me; I shall
dishonour my Family by marrying so basely. Were you never told any Thing
of this before? (ask’d the Knight.) You know, Sir, (answer’d the Prelate
that would be) that I have not had the Honour to officiate, as your
Chaplain, much more than half a Year; in which Time, ’tis true, I have
heard that she was receiv’d as a Stranger; but that she came in so low a
Capacity I never learn’d ’till now. I find then, Parson, (said the
Knight) that you do not like the Author of your Happiness, at least, who
might be so, because she comes to you in such an humble Manner; I tell
you the _Jews_ are miserable for the same Reason. She cannot be such
perfectly to me (return’d t’other) without the Advantage of good Birth.
With that I’m sure she would not, return’d his Patron, and left him to
go to _Peregrina_, whom he happily found alone. Child, (said he to her)
have you any Obligation to Mr. _Prayfast_? As how, Sir? She ask’d. Do
you love him? Have you made him any Promise of Marriage? Or has he any
Way engag’d himself to you? Neither, Sir, (she answer’d.) ’Tis true,
I love him as my Fellow-Servant, no otherwise. He has indeed been
somewhat lavish of his Wit and Rhimes to me, which serv’d well enough to
divert my young Lady and me. But of all Mankind, perhaps, he should be
the last I would choose for a Husband. I thought (said the good-humour’d
old Knight) that he had already obtain’d a Promise from you, since he
came but just now to ask my Consent, which I freely gave him at first,
upon that Thought; but he is doubtful of your Birth, and fears it may
dishonour his Family, if he should marry you. On my Word, Sir, (return’d
_Peregrina_, blushing with Disdain, no doubt) our Families are by no
Means equal. What thy Family is, I know not; (said Sir _Christian_) but
I am sure thou art infinitely superiour to him in all the natural
Embelishments both of Body and Mind. Be just to thy self, and be not
hasty to wed: Thou hast more Merit than Wealth alone can purchase. O!
dear Sir, (she return’d) you ruin me with Obligations never to be
re-paid, but in Acknowledgment, and that imperfectly too. Here they were
interrupted by the young Lady, to whom she repeated the Conference
betwixt Sir _Christian_ and _Prayfast_, as soon as ever Sir _Christian_
left the Room.
About a Week after, Sir _Lucius Lovewell_, (a young Gentleman, of a good
Presence, Wit, and Learning enough, whose Father, dying near a
Twelve-month before, had left him upwards of 3000_l._ a Year, which,
too, was an excellent Accomplishment, tho’ not the best; for he was
admirably good-humour’d) came to visit Sir _Christian Kindly_; and, as
some of the Family imagin’d, ’twas with Design to make his Addresses to
the young Lady, Sir _Christian’s_ Daughter. Whatever his Thoughts were,
his Treatment, there, was very generous and kind. He saw the Lady, and
lik’d her very well; nay, doubtless, would have admitted a Passion for
her, had not his Destiny at the same Time shewn him _Peregrina_. She was
very beautiful, and he as sensible; and ’tis not to be doubted, but that
he immediately took Fire. However, his Application and Courtship, free
and unaffected, were chiefly directed to Sir _Christian’s_ Daughter:
Some little Respects he paid to _Peregrina_, who could not choose but
look on him as a very fine, good-humour’d, and well-accomplish’d
Gentleman. When the Hour came that he thought fit to retreat, Sir
_Christian_ ask’d him, When he would make ’em happy again in his
Conversation? To which he return’d, That since he was not above seven or
eight Miles from him, and that there were Charms so attractive at Sir
_Christian’s_, he should take the Liberty to visit him sooner and
oftener than he either expected or desir’d. T’other reply’d, That was
impossible; and so, without much more Ceremony, he took his Leave of
that delightful Company for two or three Days; at the End of which he
return’d, with Thoughts much different from those at his first Coming
thither, being strongly agitated by his Passion for _Peregrina_. He took
and made all the Opportunities and Occasions that Chance and his own
Fancy could offer and present to talk to her, both before, at, and after
Dinner; and his Eyes were so constantly fix’d on her, that he seem’d to
observe nothing else; which was so visible to Sir _Christian_, his Lady,
and Daughter, that they were convinc’d of their Error, in believing,
that he came to make his Court to the young Lady. This late Discovery of
the young Knight’s Inclinations, was no Way unpleasant to Sir
_Christian_ and his Lady; and to the young Lady it was most agreeable
and obliging, since her Heart was already pre-engag’d elsewhere; and
since she did equally desire the good fortune of her beautiful Attendant
with her own.
The Table was no sooner clear’d, and a loyal Health or two gone round,
e’re Sir _Christian_ ask’d his young amorous Guest to take a Walk with
him in the Gardens: To which Sir _Lucius_ readily consented, designing
to disclose that to him for a Secret, which was but too apparent to all
that were present at Table: When therefore he thought he had
sufficiently admir’d and commended the Neatness of the Walks and Beauty
of the Flowers, he began, to this Effect:
Possibly, Sir _Christian_, I shall surprize you with the Discourse I’m
going to make you; but ’tis certain no Man can avoid the Necessity of
the Fate which he lies under; at least I have now found it so.--I came
at first, Sir, with the Hopes of prevailing on you to honour and make me
happy in a Marriage with Madam _Eleanora_ your Daughter; but at the same
Instant I was seiz’d with so irresistable a Passion for the charming
_Peregrina_, that I find no Empire, Fame, nor Wit, can make me perfectly
bless’d here below, without the Enjoyment of that beautiful Creature. Do
not mistake me, Sir, (I beseech you, continu’d he) I mean an _honourable
Enjoyment_.--I will make her my Wife, Sir, if you will be generously
pleas’d to use your Interest with her on my Part.
To which the good old Knight reply’d, What you think (Sir) you have now
imparted as a Secret, has been the general Observation of all my Family,
e’re since you gave us the Happiness of your Company to Day: Your
Passion is too great to be disguis’d; and I am extremely pleas’d, that
you can think any Thing in my House worthy the Honour you intend
_Peregrina_. Indeed, had you made any particular and publick Address to
my Daughter, I should have believ’d it want of Merit in her, or in us,
her Parents, that you should, after that, quit your Pretensions to her,
without any willing or known Offence committed on our Side. I therefore
(Sir) approve your Choice, and promise you my utmost Assistance afar.
She is really virtuous in all the Latitude of Virtue; her Beauty is too
visible to be disputed ev’n by Envy it self: As for her Birth, she best
can inform you of it; I must only let you know, that, as her Name
imports, she was utterly a Stranger, and entertain’d by us in pure
Charity. But the Antiquity and Honour of your Family can receive no
Diminution by a Match with a beautiful and virtuous Creature, for whom,
you say, and I believe, you have so true a Passion. I have now told you
the worst (Sir) that I know of her; but your Wealth and Love may make
you both eternally happy on Earth. And so they shall, _by her dear
self_, (return’d the amorous Knight) if both of ’em may recommend me to
her, with your Perswasions added, which still I beg. Say, rather you
command; and with those three hundred Pounds which I promis’d her, if
she marry’d with my Consent to Mr. _Prayfast_.
To this, the other smiling, reply’d, Her Person and Love is all I court
or expect, Sir: But since you have thought her worthy of so great an
Expression of your Favour and Kindness, I will receive it with all
Humility as is from a Father, which I shall ever esteem you.--But see,
Sir, (cry’d he in an Extasy) how she comes, led by Madam _Eleanora_,
your Daughter. The young Lady coming to him, began thus: I know (Sir)
’tis my Father and Mother’s Desire and Ambition to shew you the
heartiest Welcome in their Power, which can by no Means be made appear
so particularly and undisputably, as by presenting you with what you
like best in the Family: In Assurance therefore that I shall merit their
Favour by this Act, I have brought your dear _Peregrina_ to you, not
without Advice, and some Instructions of mine, that may concern her
Happiness with you, if discreetly observ’d and persu’d by her. In short,
(Sir) I have told her, that a Gentleman of so good a Figure, such
excellent Parts, and generous Education, of so ancient and honourable a
Family, together with so plentiful an Estate as you at present possess,
is capable of bringing Happiness to any, the fairest Lady in this
Country at least. O Madam! (return’d Sir _Lucius_) your Obligation is so
great, that I want Sense to receive it as I ought; much more Words to
return you any proportionable Acknowledgment of it. But give me Leave to
say thus much, Madam; that my Thoughts of making my Court to your
Ladiship, first invited me to give Sir _Christian_, your Father, the
Trouble of a Visit, since the Death of mine. However, the over-ruling
Powers have thought to divert my Purpose, and the offering of my Heart,
which can never rest, but with this dear charming Creature.--Your
Merits, Madam--are sufficient for the Gentleman on whom I entirely fix’d
my Affections, before you did me the Honour and your self the Trouble of
your first Visit (interrupted Sir _Christian’s_ Daughter.) And now, Sir,
(added she to her Father) if you please, let us leave ’em to make an End
of this Business between themselves. No, Madam, (cry’d Sir _Lucius_)
your Father has promis’d me to make Use of his Interest with her for my
Sake. This I now expect, Sir. Then (said the old Knight) thou dear
beautiful and virtuous Stranger! if I have any Power to perswade thee,
take my Advice, and this honourable Gentleman to thy loving Husband; I’m
sure he’ll prove so to thee. If I could command thee I would. Ah Sir!
(said she, kneeling, with Tears falling from her charming Eyes) I know
none living that has greater Right and Power.--But (alas Sir!) this
honourable Person knows not the Meanness of my Birth, at least, he
cannot think it any Way proportionable or suitable to his. O thou dear
Creature, (cry’d her Lover, setting one Knee to the Ground, and taking
her up) Sir _Christian_ has already discours’d all thy Circumstances to
me: Rise and bless me with thy Consent. I must ask my Lady’s, Sir, (she
reply’d.) See, here my Mother comes (said the young Lady) and entreated
her good Word for Sir _Lucius_. The good ancient Lady began then to use
all the Arguments to incline her to yield to her Happiness; and, in
fine, she was prevail’d on to say, I do consent, and will endeavour to
deserve the honourable Title of your dutiful Wife, Sir. ’Twas with no
common Joy and Transport that he receiv’d her Hand, and kiss’d those
dear Lips that gave him an Assurance of his Happiness; which he resolv’d
should begin about a Month or two afterwards; in which Time he might
send Orders to _London_ for the making their Wedding Cloaths. Into the
House then they all went, Sir _Lucius_ leading _Peregrina_, and the
first they met of the Family was _Prayfast_, who was not a little
surpriz’d nor discompos’d at that Sight; and more especially when Sir
_Christian_ told him, That tho’ he did not think that beautiful sweet
Stranger worthy the Title of his Wife, yet now he should be oblig’d to
join her to that honourable Person. The Slave bow’d, and look’d very
pale.
All Things were at last got ready for the Consummation of their Bliss,
and _Prayfast_ did their Business effectually, tho’ much against his
Will; however he receiv’d the Reward of twenty Broad Pieces. The Wedding
was kept for a Week at Sir _Christian’s_ House; after which they
adjourn’d to the Bridegroom’s, where it lasted as long as Sir
_Christian_, his Lady, Daughter, and the rest of that Family would stay.
As they were leaving him, Sir _Lucius_ dispos’d of two hundred Pounds
amongst Sir _Christian’s_ Servants, and the rest of the three hundred he
distributed among the Poor of both Parishes.
When they were gone, the affectionate tender Bridegroom could by no
Means be perswaded by any Gentlemen, his Neighbours, to hunt with ’em,
or to take any Divertisement, tho’ but for half a Day; esteeming it the
highest Unkindness imaginable to leave his Lady: Not that she could be
alone neither in his Absence; for she never wanted the Visits of all the
Ladies round about, and those of the best Quality; who were equally
charm’d with her Sweetness of Temper, as the Men were with her outward
Beauties. But in a Month’s time, or thereabout, observing that he was
continually solicited and courted to some Sport or Pastime with those
Gentlemen of his Neighbourhood, she was forc’d to do her self the
Violence to beg of him that he would divert himself with ’em, as before
their Marriage he us’d: And she had so good Success, that he did allow
himself two Days in the Week to hunt: In one of which, coming Home about
five a Clock, and not finding his Lady below Stairs, he went directly up
to her Chamber, where he saw her leaning her Head on her Hand, and her
Handkerchief all bath’d in Tears. At this Sight he was strangely amaz’d
and concern’d. Madam, (cry’d he in an unusual Tone) what means such
Postures as these? Tell me! For I must know the Occasion. Surpriz’d, and
trembling at this his unwonted Manner of saluting her, she started up,
and then, falling on her Knees, she wept out, O thou dear Author and
Lord of all my Joys on Earth! Look not, I beseech you, so wildly, nor
speak terribly to me! Thou Center of all my Happiness below,
(return’d he) rise, and make me acquainted with the dreadful Occasion of
this afflicting and tormenting Sight! All you shall know, (she reply’d)
dearest of human Blessings! But sit, and change your Looks; then I can
speak. Speak then, my Life, (said he) but tell me all; all I must know.
Is there a Thought about my Soul that you shall not partake? I’m sure
there is not; (he reply’d) say on then. You know, Sir, (she return’d)
that I have left my Parents now three Years, or thereabouts, and know
not whether they are living or dead: I was reflecting, therefore, on the
Troubles which my undutiful and long Absence may have caus’d them; for
poor and mean as they may be, they well instructed me in all good
Things; and I would once more, by your dear Permission, see them, and
beg their Pardon for my Fault; for they are my Parents still, if living,
Sir, though (unhappily) not worth your Regard. How! (cry’d he) can that
Pair who gave my Dearest Birth, want my Regard, or ought I can do for
them? No! thou shalt see them, and so will I: But tell me, _Peregrina_,
is this the only Cause of your Discomposure? So may I still be bless’d
in your dear Love, (she reply’d) as this is Truth, and all the Cause.
When shall we see them, then? (he ask’d). We see them, (cry’d she) O!
your Goodness descends too much; and you confound me with your unmerited
and unexpected Kindness. ’Tis I alone that have offended, and I alone am
fit to see them. That must not be; (return’d her affectionate Husband)
no, we’ll both go together; and if they want, either provide for them
there, or take them hither with us. Your Education shews their
Principles, and ’tis no Shame to own virtuous Relations. Come, dry thy
dear lamenting Eyes; the Beginning of the next Week we’ll set forwards.
Was ever Disobedience so rewarded with such a Husband? (said she) those
Tears have wash’d that childish Guilt away; and there is no Reward above
thy Virtue.
In a few Days, Monday began the Date of their Journey to the _West_ of
_England_; and in five or six Days more, by the Help of a Coach and Six,
they got to _Cornwall_; where, in a little Town, of little
Accommodation, they were oblig’d to take up their Lodgings the first
Night. In the Morning (said his Lady to him) My Dear, about a Mile and a
half hence lives one Sir _Francis Fairname_ and his Lady, if yet they be
living, who have a very fine House, and worth your seeing; I beg of you
therefore, that you will be so kind to your self as to walk thither, and
dine with the old Gentleman; for that you must, if you see him; whilst I
stay here, and send to my Father and Mother, if to be found, and prepare
them to receive you at your Return. I must not have no Denial; (added
she) for if you refuse this Favour, all my Designs are lost.--Make
Haste, my Life; ’tis now eleven a Clock; In your Absence I’ll dress, to
try if Change of Cloaths can hide me from them. This was so small a
Request, that he did not stay to reply to’t, but presently left her, and
got thither in less than half an Hour, attended only by one Footman. He
was very kindly and respectfully receiv’d by the old Gentleman, who had
certainly been a very beautiful Person in his Youth; and Sir _Lucius_,
fixing his Eyes upon his Face, could hardly remove ’em, being very
pleasantly and surprisingly entertain’d with some Lines that he observ’d
in it. But immediately recollecting himself, he told him, that having
heard how fine a Seat that was, his Curiosity led him to beg the Favour
that he might see it. The worthy old Knight return’d, that his House and
all the Accommodations in it were at his Service: So inviting him in, he
satisfy’d his pretended Curiosity; and after he had shewn all that was
worthy the Sight of a Stranger, in the House, he led him into his
Gardens, which furnish’d Sir _Lucius_ with new Matter of Admiration;
whence the old Knight brought him into the Parlour, telling him, that
’twas his Custom to suffer no Stranger to return, till he had either
din’d or supp’d with him, according as the Hour of the Day or Night
presented.
’Twas here the affectionate Husband was strangely surpriz’d at the Sight
of a Picture, which so nearly counterfeited the Beauties of his
dear-lov’d Lady, that he stood like an Image himself, gazing and
varying; the Colours of his Face agitating by the Diversity of his
Thoughts; which Sir _Francis_ perceiving, ask’d him, What it was that so
visibly concern’d him? To which he reply’d, That indeed he was
concern’d, but with great Satisfaction and Pleasure, since he had never
seen any Thing more beautiful than that Picture, unless it were a Lady
for whom he had the most sincere Affection imaginable, and whom it did
very nearly represent; and then enquir’d for whom that was drawn? Sir
_Francis_ answer’d him, ’Twas design’d for one who was, I dare not say
who is, my Daughter; and the other two were drawn for her younger
Sisters. And see, Sir, (persu’d he) here they come, following their
Mother: At which Words Sir _Lucius_ was oblig’d to divorce his Eyes from
the charming Shadow, and make his Compliments to them; which were no
sooner over than Dinner was serv’d in, where the young Knight eat as
heartily as he could, considering he sate just opposite to it, and in
Sight of the two Ladies, who were now exactly like his own Wife, though
not so very beautiful.
The Table being uncover’d, Sir _Lucius_ desir’d to know why Sir
_Francis_ said, He doubted whether the Original of that Picture were yet
his Daughter? To which the Mother return’d (big with Sorrow, which was
seen in her Tears) That her Husband had spoken but too rightly: For
(added she) ’tis now three Years since we have either seen her or heard
from her. How, Madam! three Years, (cry’d Sir _Lucius_) I believe I can
shew your Ladiship a dear Acquaintance of mine, so wonderfully like that
Picture, that I am almost perswaded she is the very Original; only
(pardon me, Madam) she tells me her Parents are of mean Birth and
Fortune. Dear Sir, (cry’d the tender Mother) Is she in this Country? She
is not two Miles hence, reply’d Sir _Lucius_. By all Things most dear to
you, Sir, (said the Lady) let us be so happy as to see her, and that
with all convenient Expedition! for it will be a Happiness to see any
Creature, the only Like my dearest _Arabella_. _Arabella_, Madam! alas!
No, Madam, her Name is _Peregrina_. No Matter for Names, Sir, (cry’d the
Lady) I want the Sight of the dear Creature. Sir, (added the worthy old
Knight) I can assure you it will be an eternal Obligation to us; or, if
you please, we will wait on you to her. By no Means, Sir, (return’d Sir
_Lucius_) I will repeat my Trouble to you with her, in an Hour at
farthest. We shall desire the Continuance of such Trouble as long as we
live, reply’d Sir _Francis_. So, without farther Ceremony, Sir _Lucius_
left ’em and return’d to his Lady, whom he found ready dress’d, as he
wish’d he might. Madam, (said he) where are your Father and Mother?
I know not, yet, my Dear, she reply’d. Well, (return’d he) we will
expect ’em, or send for ’em hither at Night; in the mean Time I have
engag’d to bring you with me to Sir _Francis Fairname_ and his Lady,
with all imaginable Expedition. So immediately, as soon as Coach and Six
and Equipage was ready, he hurry’d her away with him to Sir _Francis_,
whom they found walking with his Lady and two Daughters in the outward
Court, impatiently expecting their Coming. The Boot of the Coach (for
that was the Fashion in those Days) was presently let down, and Sir
_Lucius_ led his Lady forwards to them; who coming within three or four
Paces of the good old Knight, his Lady fell on her Knees, and begg’d
their Pardon and Blessing. Her affectionate Father answer’d ’em with
Tears from his Eyes; but the good ancient Lady was so overcome with Joy,
that she fell into a Swoon, and had like to have been accompany’d by her
Daughter, who fell upon her Knees by her, and with her Shrieks recall’d
her, when she strait cry’d out, My Daughter, my Daughter’s come again!
my _Arabella_ alive! Ay, my dear offended Mother! with all the Duty and
Penitence that Humanity is capable of, return’d the Lady _Lovewell_. Her
Sisters then express’d their Love in Tears, Embraces, and Kisses, while
her dear Husband begg’d a Blessing of her Parents, who were very
pleasantly surpriz’d, to know that their Daughter was so happily
marry’d, and to a Gentleman of such an Estate and Quality as Sir
_Lucius_ seem’d to be: ’Twas late that Night e’er they went to Bed at
Sir _Francis’s_. The next Day, after they had all pretty well eas’d
themselves of their Passions, Sir _Francis_ told his Son-in-Law, that as
he had three Daughters, so he had 3000_l._ a Year, and he would divide
it equally among ’em; but for Joy of the Recovery of his eldest
Daughter, and her fortunate Match with so worthy a Gentleman as Sir
_Lucius_, who had given him an Account of his Estate and Quality, he
promis’d him ten thousand Pounds in ready Money besides; whereas the
other young Ladies were to have but five thousand a Piece, besides their
Dividend of the Estate. And now, (said he) Daughter, the Cause of your
Retreat from us, old Sir _Robert Richland_, has been dead these three
Months, on such a Day. How, Sir, (cry’d she) on such a Day! that was the
very Day on which I was so happy as to be marry’d to my dear Sir
_Lucius_.
She then gave her Father, and Mother, and Sisters, a Relation of all
that had happen’d to her since her Absence from her dear Parents, who
were extremely pleas’d with the Account of Sir _Christian_ and his
Lady’s Hospitality and Kindness to her; and in less than a Fortnight
after, they took a Journey to Sir _Lucius’s_, carrying the two other
young Ladies along with ’em; and, by the Way, they call’d at Sir
_Christian’s_, where they arriv’d Time enough to be present the next Day
at Sir _Christian’s_ Daughter’s Wedding, which they kept there for a
whole Fortnight.
_FINIS._
NOTES: The Wandering Beauty.
p. 451 _two Pinners_. A pinner is ‘a coif with two long flaps one on
each side pinned on and hanging down, and sometimes fastened at the
breast . . . sometimes applied to the flaps as an adjunct of the
coif.’--_N.E.D._ cf. Pepys, 18 April, 1664: ‘To Hyde Park . . . and my
Lady Castlemaine in a coach by herself, in yellow satin and a
pinner on.’
* * * * *
* * * *
THE UNHAPPY MISTAKE; OR, THE IMPIOUS VOW PUNISH’D.
The Effects of Jealousy have ever been most fatal; and it is certainly
one of the most tormenting Passions that an human Soul can be capable
of, tho’ it be created by the least Appearances of Reason: The Truth of
which this following Story will evince.
Sir _Henry Hardyman_ was a Gentleman of a very large Estate in
_Somersetshire_, of a very generous Temper, hospitable almost to
_Extravagancy_; a _plain down-right Dealer, wonderfully good-natur’d_,
but very _passionate_: Whose Lady dying, left him only a Son and a
Daughter; between whom there were about six Years Difference in their
Age. _Miles Hardyman_ (for so the Son was call’d) being the eldest; both
of naturally virtuous Inclinations, which were carefully improv’d by a
generous and pious Education. _Miles_ was a very tall, large, and
well-proportion’d Person at Two and Twenty; brave and active, and seem’d
to be born for War, tho’ he had a Heart as tender and capable of
receiving the Impressions of Love as any of our Sex. He had been bred
for some Years at the University; where, among other Things, he learn’d
to fence; in which, however, he was mightily improv’d in a Twelvemonth’s
Time that he stay’d here in Town. _Lucretia_, his Sister, was beautiful
enough, her Father designing to give ten thousand Pounds with her on
Marriage; but (which is above all) she was incomparably good-humour’d.
At his Return to his Father in the Country, young _Hardyman_ found Madam
_Diana Constance_, a most beautiful Lady, with his Sister, at that Time
about 16 Years old; somewhat tall of her Age, of happy and virtuous
Education, of an indifferent Fortune, not exceeding two thousand Pounds,
which was no Way answerable to the Expectations he had after his
Father’s Death; but it was impossible he should not love her, she was so
prodigiously charming both in her inward and outward Excellencies;
especially since he had the Opportunity of conversing with her at his
Father’s for above a Month. ’Tis true, he had seen her before, but it
was then five Years since. Love her he did then, and that most
passionately; nor was she insensible or ungrateful. But our young Lovers
had not Discretion enough to conceal the Symptoms of their Passion,
which too visibly and frequently sally’d out at their Eyes before the
old Gentleman; which made him prudently, as he thought, and timely
enough, offer his Daughter _Lucretia_ the Liberty of taking a small
Journey with _Diana_ to her House, which was not above 20 Miles thence,
where that young Lady’s Aunt govern’d in her Absence; for _Diana_ had no
other Relation, so near as she was, living in _England_, her only
Brother _Lewis_ having been in _Italy_ and _France_ ever since her
Father dy’d, which was then near five Years past.
_Lucretia_, over-joy’d at her Father’s pretended Kindness, propos’d it
to the young Lady, her Friend, who was very fond of the Proposal, hoping
that _Lucretia’s_ Brother might bear ’em Company there for some little
Time; but old Sir _Henry_ had quite different Thoughts of the Matter.
The third Day, from the first Discourse of it, was assign’d for their
Departure. In the mean Time young _Hardyman_ knew not what to think of
the Divorce he was going to suffer; for he began to have some
Apprehensions that the old Knight was sensible, and displeas’d, that
they lov’d each other: Not but that the Family of the _Constances_ was
as ancient and honourable as that of _Hardymans_, and was once endow’d
with as plentiful an Estate, tho’ now young _Lewis Constance_ had not
above 1200_l._ a Year. (O the unkind Distance that Money makes, even
between Friends!)
Old ’Squire _Constance_ was a very worthy Gentleman, and Sir _Henry_ had
a particular Friendship for him; but (perhaps) that dy’d with him, and
only a neighbourly Kindness, or something more than an ordinary Respect,
surviv’d to his Posterity. The Day came that was to carry ’em to the
young Lady _Constance’s_, and her Lover was preparing to attend ’em,
when the old Gentleman ask’d him, What he meant by that Preparation? And
whether he design’d to leave him alone? Or if he could think ’twere
dutifully or decently done? To which the Son reply’d, That his Care of
his Sister, and his Respect to a young Lady, in a Manner a Stranger to
him, had misled his Thoughts from that Duty and Regard he ought to have
pay’d to his Father, which he hop’d and begg’d he would pardon, tho’ he
design’d only just to have seen her safe there, and to have return’d at
Night. With this the old Gentleman seem’d pacify’d for the present; and
he bid him go take Leave of the Lady; which he did with a great deal of
Concern, telling her, that he should be most miserable ’till he had the
Happiness of seeing her again; however, he begg’d she would converse
with him by Letters, which might (happily) a little palliate his
Misfortune in her Absence: Adding, that he would be eternally hers, and
none but hers. To which she made as kind a Return as he could wish;
letting him know, that she desired to live no longer than she was
assur’d that she was belov’d by him. Then taking as solemn a Farewel of
her as if he had never been to see her more, after he had given his
Sister a parting Kiss or two, he led ’em down to his Father, who saw ’em
mounted, and attended by two of his Servants. After which he walked with
’em about a Mile from the House, where he and young _Hardyman_ left ’em
to persue their Journey.
In their Return to the House, said Sir _Henry_, I find, Son, I have
hitherto mistaken your Inclinations: I thought they had altogether
prompted you to great and manly Actions and Attempts; but, to my Sorrow,
I now find my Error. How, I beseech you, Sir? (ask’d the Son.) You are
guilty of a foolish lazy Passion, (reply’d the Father) you are in Love,
_Miles_; in Love with one who can no Way advance your Fortune, Family,
nor Fame. ’Tis true, she has Beauty, and o’my Conscience she is virtuous
too; but will Beauty and Virtue, with a small Portion of 2000_l._ answer
to the Estate of near 4000_l._ a Year, which you must inherit if you
survive me? Beauty and Virtue, Sir, (return’d young _Hardyman_) with the
Addition of good Humour and Education, is a Dowry that may merit a
Crown. Notion! Stuff! All Stuff (cry’d the old Knight) Money is Beauty,
Virtue, good Humour, Education, Reputation, and high Birth. Thank
Heaven, Sir, (said _Miles_) you don’t live as if you believ’d your own
Doctrine; you part with your Money very freely in your House-keeping,
and I am happy to see it. ’Tis that I value it for; (reply’d the Father)
I would therefore have thee, my Son, add to what in all Likelihood will
be thine, so considerably, by Marriage, that thou mayst better deserve
the Character of Hospitable _Hardyman_ than thy Father Sir
_Henry_.--Come, _Miles_, (return’d he) thou shalt think no more on her.
I can’t avoid it, Sir, (said t’other.) Well, well, think of her you may,
(said Sir _Henry_) but not as for a Wife; no, if you mean to continue in
your Father’s Love, be not in Love with Madam _Diana_, nor with any of
her Nymphs, tho’ never so fair or so chast--unless they have got Store
of Money, Store of Money, _Miles_. Come, come in, we’ll take a Game at
_Chess_ before Dinner, if we can. I obey you, Sir, (return’d the Son)
but if I win, I shall have the Liberty to love the Lady, I hope. I made
no such Promise, (said the Knight) no, no Love without my Leave; but if
you give me _Checque-Mate_, you shall have my Bay Gelding, and I would
not take 50 Broad Pieces for him. I’ll do my best, Sir, to deserve him,
(said the young Gentleman.) ’Tis a mettl’d and fiery Beast (said Sir
_Henry_.) They began their Game then, and had made about six Moves
apiece before Dinner, which was serv’d up near four Hours after they
sate down to play. It happen’d they had no Company din’d with ’em that
Day; so they made a hasty Meal, and fell again to their former Dispute,
which held ’em near six Hours longer; when, either the Knight’s
Inadvertency, or the young Gentleman’s Skill and Application, gave him
the Victory and Reward.
The next Day they hunted; the Day following, the House was fill’d with
Friends, and Strangers; who came with ’em; all which were certain of a
hearty Welcome e’er they return’d. Other Days other Company came in, as
Neighbours; and none of all that made their Visits, could be dismiss’d
under three or four Days at soonest.
Thus they past the Hours away for about six Weeks; in all which Time our
Lover could get but one Opportunity of writing to his adorable, and that
was by the Means of a Servant, who came with a Letter from his Sister
_Lucretia_ to Sir _Henry_, and another to him, that held one inclos’d to
him from the beautiful _Diana_; the Words, as perfectly as I can
remember ’em, were these, or to this Effect:
_My +Hardyman+,_
_Too Dear!--No,--too much lov’d!--That’s impossible too. How have I
enjoy’d my self with your Letters since my Absence from you! In the
first, how movingly you lament the unkind Distances of Time and
Place that thus divorces you from me! In another, in what tender
and prevailing Words your Passion is express’d! In a Third, what
invincible Arguments are urg’d to prove the Presence of your Soul to
me in the Absence of your Body! A Fourth, how fill’d with just
Complaints of a rigorous Father! What Assurances does the Fifth
give me of your speedy Journey hither! And the Sixth, (for no less
methought I should have receiv’d from you) confirms what you last
said to me, +That you will ever be mine, and none but mine.
--O boundless Blessing!+ --These (my Life) are the Dreams, which,
for six several Nights, have mock’d the real Passion of_
_Your forgotten +Diana+._
He read it, smil’d, and kiss’d it, and then proceeded to examine his
Sisters, which held a great many Expressions of a tender Affection, and
withal gave him Notice, that there was a mighty Spark lately come from
Town into those Parts, that made his Court to the young Lady
_Constance_; desiring him therefore to be as sudden in his Visit, if he
intended any, as Possibility would permit. This startled and stung him:
Wherefore, taking the Opportunity of his Father’s Retirement, to write
to the young Lady and his Sister; he dispatch’d a Letter to _Lucretia_,
wherein he thank’d her for her Intelligence and Caution, and promis’d to
be with her the next Night at farthest, if alive; and, at the same Time,
writ to this Purpose to _Diana_:
Thou only Blessing for which I wish to live,
_How delightfully do you punish my seeming Neglect! I acknowledge I
have not sent to you ’till now, but it was because it was utterly
impossible, my Father continually keeping so strict a Guard over me
himself, that not even +Mercury+ could evade or illude his
Vigilance. Alas! my Soul, he is now no Stranger to my Passion for
you, which he pretends, at least, is highly offensive to him, for
what Reasons I blush to think. But what signifies an Offence to him
of so generous a Nature as my Love! I am assured I was born for you,
or none other of your fair Sex, though attended with all the
Advantages of Birth and Fortune. I will therefore proceed in this
Affair, as if we were already united by the outward Ceremonies of
the Church, and forsake him and all the World for you, my better
Part! Be certain, therefore, that to-Morrow Night, e’er you sleep,
you shall see (my Life, my Soul, my All)_
Your most sincere, and
Most passionate Lover,
_Hardyman_.
This, with the Letter to his Sister, he convey’d into the Servant’s Hand
that came from ’em, undiscover’d of his Father; who likewise dismiss’d
the Messenger with his grave Epistle, full of musty Morals, to the two
young gay Ladies. But he had an unlucky Thought, that he was overseen in
giving his Son the Opportunity of retiring from him, whilst he was
writing to his Daughter and t’other fair Creature, having a Jealousy
that young _Hardyman_ might have made Use of that very Article of Time
to the same End. This made him very uneasy and restless. On t’other
Side, the young Gentleman though he was extreamly satisfy’d with those
endearing Expressions of Love which he found in _Diana’s_ Letter, yet he
was all on Fire with the Apprehension of a Rival, and the Desire to see
him, that he might dispute with him for the glorious Prize.
The next Day, at Four in the Afternoon, they went to Bowls about a Mile
off; where, after several Ends, the Knight and his Party lay all nearest
about the Jack for the Game, ’till young _Hardyman_ put in a bold Cast,
that beat all his Adversaries from the Block, and carry’d two of his
Seconds close to it, his own Bowl lying partly upon it, which made them
up. Ha! (cry’d a young Gentleman of his Side) bravely done, _Miles_,
thou hast carry’d the Day, and kiss’d the Mistress. I hope I shall
before ’tis dark yet, (return’d he.) Sir _Henry_ overhearing him, said,
(his Face all glowing red with Passion) How dare you, Sir, express your
self so freely in my Hearing? There, (persu’d he, and struck him a Blow
on the Ear) I first salute you thus: Do you know where you are, and who
I am? Yes, you are my Father, Sir, (reply’d young _Hardyman_, bowing.)
If you see her to Night, (said the passionate Father) resolve to see me
no more. By Heaven, and all my Hopes, no more I will, after this Minute,
(return’d the Son, being retreated some Distance from him, out of his
Hearing.) So taking his Leave of the Company, with the usual Ceremony,
he went directly Home, where immediately he order’d his Servant
_Goodlad_ to saddle their Horses, whilst he himself went up to his
Chamber, and took all the Rings and Jewels that his Mother had left him,
and the Money that he had then in his Possession, which altogether
amounted to near twelve hundred Pounds; and packing up some Linnen in
his Portmanteau, he quickly mounted with his Servant, and made his Way
towards the Lady _Constance’s_.
’Twas near seven a Clock e’er they got within Sight of his Mistress’s,
when our Lover perceiv’d a Gentleman and his Servant mounted at some
Distance on t’other Side of the House, as coming from _London_: This
unfortunately happen’d to be _Lewis Constance_, just return’d from his
Travels, whom young _Hardyman_ had never seen before, and therefore
could not know him at that Time: Observing therefore that they made to
the same Place for which he was design’d, he halted a little, taking
Covert under a large Elm-Tree, within a hundred Paces of the House,
where he had the unlucky Opportunity to see his Mistress and Sister come
out; whom _Lewis_ perceiving at the same Time, alighted, and ran eagerly
to embrace her, who receiv’d him with Arms expanded, crying, O my Dear,
dearest Brother; but that last Word was stifled with Kisses. Do I once
more hold thee in my Arms! O come in, and let me give my Joys a Loose!
I am surpriz’d, and rave with extream Hapiness! O! thou art all to me
that is valuable on Earth! (return’d he.) At these Words she, in a
Manner, hal’d him in. This Sight was certainly the greatest
Mortification to her Lover that ever Man surviv’d! He presently and
positively concluded it could be none but that Rival, of whom his Sister
had given him Advice in her Letter. What to do he could by no Means
determine; sometimes he was for going in, and affronting him before his
Mistress; a second Thought advis’d him to expect his coming out near
that Place; upon another Consideration he was going to send him a
Challenge, but by whom he knew not, for his Servant was as well known
there as himself. At last he resolv’d to ride farther out of the Road,
to see for some convenient Retreat that Night, where he might be
undiscover’d: Such a Place he found about two Miles thence, at a good
substantial Farmer’s, who made him heartily welcome that Night, with the
best Beer he had in his Cellar, so that he slept much better than he
could have expected his Jealousy would have permitted: But the Morning
renew’d and redoubled his Torture: But this jolly Landlord, hugely
pleas’d with his good Company the Night past, visited him as he got out
of his Bed, which was near two Hours after he wak’d; in which Time he
had laid his Design how to proceed, in order to take Satisfaction of
this Rival. He suffer’d himself, therefore, to be manag’d by the good
Man of the House, who wou’d fain have made a Conquest of him; but he
found that the young Gentleman could bear as much in his Head as he
could on his Shoulders, which gave _Hardyman_ the Opportunity of keeping
a Stowage yet for a good Dinner: After which they fell to bumping it
about, ’till the Farmer fell asleep; when young _Hardyman_ retir’d into
his Chamber, where, after a Turn or two, he writ as follows to his
Mistress’s Brother, whose Name he knew not; and therefore the Billet is
not superscrib’d.
_SIR,_
_You have done me an unpardonable Injury; and if you are a
Gentleman, as you seem, you will give me Satisfaction within this
Hour at the Place whither this Messenger shall lead you. Bring
nothing with you but your Sword and your Servant, as I with mine,
to take Care of him that falls.--’Till I see you, I am your
Servant, &c._
An Hour before Supper, his kind Host wak’d, and they eat heartily
together that Night, but did not drink so plentifully as they had since
their first Meeting; young _Hardyman_ telling him, that he was oblig’d
to be mounted at the fore-mention’d Morning, in order to persue his
Journey; and that, in the mean Time, he desir’d the Favour of him to let
one of his Servants carry a Letter from him, to one that was then at the
young Lady _Constance’s_: To which t’other readily agreed. The young
Gentleman then made him a Present of a Tobacco-Box, with the Head of
King _Charles_ the First on the Lid, and his Arms on the Bottom in
Silver; which was very acceptable to him, for he was a great Loyalist,
tho’ it was in the Height of _Oliver’s Usurpation_. About four a-Clock
in the Morning, as our jealous Lover had order’d him, one of the
Servants came to him for the Letter; with which he receiv’d these
Instructions, that he should deliver that Note into the Gentleman’s own
Hand, who came to the Lady _Constance’s_ the Night before the last. That
he should shew that Gentleman to the Field where young _Hardyman_,
should deliver the Note to the Servant, which was just a Mile from
either House; or that he should bring an Answer to the Note from that
Gentleman. The Fellow was a good Scholar, tho’ he could neither read nor
write. For he learn’d his Lesson perfectly well, and repeated it
punctually to _Lewis Constance_; who was strangely surpriz’d at what he
found in the Billet. He ask’d the Messenger if he knew his Name that
sent it; or if he were a Gentleman? Nay (Mass, quoth the Fellow)
I warrant he’s a Gentleman; for he has given me nine good Shillings
here, for coming but hither to you; but for his Name, you may e’en name
it as well as I--He has got one to wait a top of him almost as fine as
himself, zure. The surpriz’d Traveller jump’d out of his Bed, slipt on
his Gown, and call’d up his Servant: Thence he went to his Sister’s
Chamber, with whom _Lucretia_ lay: They both happen’d to be awake, and
talking, as he came to the Door, which his Sister permitted him to
unlock, and ask’d him the Reason of his so early Rising? Who reply’d,
That since he could not sleep, he would take the Air a little. But
first, Sister (continu’d he) I will refresh my self at your Lips: And
now, Madam, (added he to _Lucretia_) I would beg a Cordial from you. For
that (said his Sister) you shall be oblig’d to me this once; saying so,
she gently turn’d _Lucretia’s_ Face towards him, and he had his Wish.
Ten to one, but he had rather continu’d with _Lucretia_, than have gone
to her Brother, had he known him; for he lov’d her truly and
passionately: But being a Man of true Courage and Honour, he took his
Leave of ’em, presently dress’d, and tripp’d away with the Messenger,
who made more than ordinary Haste, because of his Success, which was
rewarded with another piece of Money; and he danc’d Home to the Sound of
the Money in his Pocket.
No sooner was the Fellow out of Hearing, than _Lewis_, coming up to his
Adversary, shew’d him the Billet, and said, Sent you this to me, Sir?
I did, Sir, reply’d _Hardyman_: I never saw you ’till now, return’d
_Lewis_; how then could I injure you? ’Tis enough that I know it,
answer’d _Miles_. But to satisfy you, you shall know that I am sensible
that you pretend to a fair Lady, to whom I have an elder Title. In
short, you entrench on my Prerogative. I own no Subjection to you,
(return’d _Constance_) and my Title is as good as your Prerogative,
which I will maintain as I can hold this, (continu’d he, and drew his
Sword) Hah! Nobly done! (cry’d _Hardyman_ drawing) I could almost wish
thou wert my Friend: You speak generously, return’d _Lewis_, I find I
have to do with a Gentleman. Retire to a convenient Distance, said
_Hardyman_ to _Goodlad_. If you come near while we are disputing, my
Sword shall thank you for’t; and you, Sir, retire! said _Constance_ to
his Servant. And if you will keep your Life, keep your Distance! O my
brave Enemy! (cry’d _Miles_) Give me thy Hand! Here they shook Hands,
and gave one another the Compliment of the Hat, and then (said
_Hardyman_) Come on, Sir! I am with you, Sir, (reply’d _Lewis_ standing
on his Guard) they were both equally knowing in the Use of their Swords;
so that they fought for some few Minutes without any Wound receiv’d on
either Side. But, at last, _Miles_ being taller and much stronger than
his Adversary, resolv’d to close with him; which he did, putting by a
Pass that _Lewis_ made at him with his left Hand, and at the same Time
he run him quite thro’ the Body, threw him, and disarm’d him. Rise if
thou can’st! (cry’d _Hardyman_) thou art really brave. I will not put
thee to the Shame of asking thy Life. Alas! I cannot rise, (reply’d
_Lewis_, endeavouring to get up) so short a Life as mine were not worth
the Breath of a Coward.--Make Haste! Fly hence! For thou are lost if
thou stay’st. My Friends are many and great; they will murther thee by
Law. Fly! Fly in Time! Heaven forgive us both! Amen! (Cry’d _Miles_) I
hope thou may’st recover! ’Tis Pity so much Bravery and Honour should be
lost so early. Farewel.--And now Adieu to the fair and faithless
_Diana_! Ha! (Cry’d _Constance_) O bloody Mistake! But could speak no
more for Loss of Blood. _Hardyman_ heard not those last Words, being
spoken with a fainting Voice, but in Haste mounted, and rode with all
Speed for _London_, attended by _Goodlad_; whilst _Constance’s_ Servant
came up to him, and having all along travell’d with him, had two or
three Times the Occasion of making Use of that Skill in Surgery which he
had learn’d Abroad in _France_ and _Italy_, which he now again practis’d
on his Master, with such Success, that in less than half an Hour, he put
his Master in a Capacity of leaning on him; and so walking Home with
him, tho’ very gently and slowly. By the Way, _Lewis_ charg’d his
Servant not to say which Way _Hardyman_ took, unless he design’d to quit
his Service for ever. But pardon me, Sir! (return’d t’other) your Wound
is very dangerous, and I am not sure that it is not mortal: And if so,
give me Leave to say, I shall persue him over all _England_, for
Vengeance of your Death. ’Twas a Mistake on both Sides, I find; (said
_Lewis_) therefore think not of Revenge: I was as hot and as much to
blame as he. They were near an Hour getting to the House, after his
Blood was stopp’d. As he was led in, designing to be carry’d to his
Chamber, and to take his Bed as sick of an Ague, his Sister and
_Lucretia_ met him, and both swoon’d away at the Sight of him; but in a
little Time they were recover’d, as if to torment him with their Tears,
Sighs, and Lamentations. They ask’d him a thousand impertinent
Questions, which he defer’d to answer, ’till he was laid in Bed; when he
told his Sister, that the Gentleman who had thus treated him, bid her
Adieu, by the Epithet of Fair and Faithless. For Heaven’s Sake, (cry’d
_Diana_) what Manner of Man was he? Very tall and well set, (reply’d her
Brother) of an austere Aspect, but a well-favour’d Face, and
prodigiously strong. Had he a Servant with him, Sir? (ask’d _Lucretia_)
Yes, Madam (answer’d her Lover) and describ’d her Servant. Ah! my
Prophetic Fears (cry’d she) It was my Brother, attended by _Goodlad_.
Your Brother! Dearest and Fairest of your Sex, (said _Lewis_) Heaven
send him safely out of _England_ then! Nay, be he who he may, I wish the
same; for he is truly brave. Alas, my dear, my cruel _Hardyman_! (cry’d
_Diana_) Your _Hardyman_, Sister! (said _Lewis_) Ah! would he had been
so! You might then have had Hopes of an affectionate Brother’s Life;
which yet I will endeavour to preserve, that by the Enjoyment of your
dear and nearest Conversation, Madam, (persu’d he to _Lucretia_) I may
be prepar’d to endure the only greater Joys of Heaven. But O! My Words
prey on my Spirits. And all the World, like a huge Ship at Anchor, turn
round with the ebbing Tide.--I can no more. At these Words both the
Ladies shriek’d aloud, which made him sigh, and move his Hand as well as
he could toward the Door; his Attendant perceiv’d it, and told ’em he
sign’d to them to quit the Room; as indeed it was necessary they should,
that he might repose a while if possible, at least that he might not be
oblig’d to talk, nor look much about him. They obey’d the Necessity, but
with some Reluctancy, and went into their own Chamber, where they
sigh’d, wept, and lamented their Misfortunes for near two Hours
together: When all on a suddain, the Aunt, who had her Share of Sorrow
too in this ugly Business, came running up to ’em, to let ’em know that
old Sir _Harry Hardyman_ was below, and came to carry his Daughter Madam
_Lucretia_ Home with him. This both surpriz’d and troubled the young
Ladies, who were yet more disturb’d, when the Aunt told them, that he
enquir’d for his Son, and would not be convinc’d by any Argument
whatever; no, nor Protestation in her Capacity, that young _Hardyman_
was not in the House, nor that he had not been entertain’d there ever
since he left his Father--But come, Cousin and Madam, (said she to the
young Ladies) go down to him immediately, or I fear he’ll come up to
you. _Lucretia_ knew she must, and t’other would not be there alone: So
down they came to the Old testy Gentleman. Your Servant, Lady, (said he
to _Diana_) _Lucretia_ then kneel’d for his Blessing. Very well, very
well, (cry’d he hastily) God bless you! Where’s your Brother? Ha!
Where’s your Brother? I know not, Sir, (she answer’d) I have not seen
him since I have been here. No, (said he) not since you have been in
this Parlour last, you mean. I mean, Sir, (she return’d) upon my Hopes
of yours and Heaven’s Blessing, I have not seen him since I saw you,
Sir, within a Mile of our own House. Ha! _Lucretia_, Ha! (cry’d the old
Infidel) have a Care you pull not mine and Heaven’s Curse on your Head!
Believe me, Sir, (said _Diana_) to my Knowledge, she has not. Why, Lady,
(ask’d the passionate Knight) are you so curious and fond of him your
self, that you will allow no Body else the Sight of him? Not so much as
his own Sister? I don’t understand you, Sir, (she reply’d) for, by my
Hopes of Heaven, I have not seen him neither since that Day I left you.
Hey! pass and repass, (cry’d the old suspicious Father) _presto_, be
gone!--This is all Conjuration. ’Tis diabolical, dealing with the Devil!
In Lies, I mean, on one Side or other; for he told me to my Teeth, at
least, he said in my Hearing, on the Bowling-Green, but two Nights
since, that he hop’d to see your Ladyship (for I suppose you are his
Mistress) that Night e’re ’twas dark: Upon which I gave him only a kind
and fatherly Memorandum of his Duty, and he immediately left the Company
and me, who have not set Eye on him, nor heard one Syllable of him
since.--Now, judge you, Lady, if I have not Reason to conclude that he
has been and is above still! No, (said the Aunt) you have no Reason to
conclude so, when they both have told you solemnly the contrary; and
when I can add, that I will take a formal Oath, if requir’d, that he has
not been in this House since my Cousin _Lewis_ went to travel, nor
before, to the best of my Memory; and I am confident, neither my Cousin
_Diana_, nor the Lady your Daughter, have seen him since they left him
with you, Sir--I wish, indeed, my dear Cousin _Lewis_ had not seen him
since. How! What’s that you say, good Lady? (ask’d the Knight) Is Mr.
_Lewis Constance_ then in _England_? And do you think that he has seen
him so lately? for your Discourse seems to imply as much. Sir _Henry_,
(reply’d the Aunt) you are very big with Questions, but I will endeavour
to satisfy you in all of ’em.--My Cousin _Lewis Constance_ is in
_England_; nay, more, he is now in his Chamber a-Bed, and dangerously,
if not mortally, wounded, by ’Squire _Miles Hardyman_, your Son. Heaven
forbid, (cry’d the Father) sure ’tis impossible. All Things are so to
the Incredulous. Look you, Sir, (continu’d she, seeing _Lewis’s_ Servant
come in) do you remember his _French_ Servant _Albert_, whom he took
some Months before he left _England_?--There he is. Humh! (said the old
Sceptic) I think verily ’tis the same. Ay, Sir, (said the Servant) I am
the same, at your Service. How does your Master? (ask’d Sir _Henry_)
Almost as bad as when the ’Squire your Son left him, (reply’d _Albert_)
only I have stopp’d the Bleeding, and he is now dozing a little; to say
the Truth, I have only Hopes of his Life because I wish it. When was
this done? (the Knight inquir’d) Not three Hours since, (return’d
t’other.) What was the Occasion? (said Sir _Henry_) An ugly Mistake on
both Sides; your Son, as I understand, not knowing my Master, took him
for his Rival, and bad him quit his Pretensions to the fair Lady, for
whom he had a Passion: My Master thought he meant the Lady _Lucretia_,
your Daughter, Sir, with whom I find he is passionately in
Love,--and--Very well--so--go on! (interrupted the Knight with a
Sigh)--and was resolv’d to dispute his Title with him; which he did; but
the ’Squire is as strong as the Horse he rides on!--And! ’tis a
desperate Wound!--Which Way is he gone, canst thou tell? (ask’d the
Father) Yes, I can; but I must not, ’tis as much as my Place is worth.
My Master would not have him taken for all the World; nay, I must needs
own he is a very brave Person. But you may let me know; (said the
Father) you may be confident I will not expose him to the Law: Besides,
if it please Heaven that your Master recovers, there will be no
Necessity of a Prosecution.--Prithee let me know! You’ll pardon me, Sir,
(said _Lewis’s_ trusty Servant) my Master, perhaps, may give you that
Satisfaction; and I’ll give you Notice, Sir--when you may conveniently
discourse him.--Your humble Servant, Sir, (he added, bowing, and went
out.) The old Gentleman was strangely mortify’d at this News of his Son;
and his Absence perplex’d him more than any thing besides in the
Relation. He walk’d wildly up and down the Room, sighing, foaming, and
rolling his Eyes in a dreadful Manner; and at the Noise of any Horse on
the Road, out he would start as nimbly as if he were as youthful as his
Son, whom he sought in vain among those Passengers. Then returning, he
cry’d out to her, O _Lucretia_! Your Brother! Where’s your Brother?--O
my Son! the Delight, Comfort, and Pride of my Old Age! Why dost thou fly
me? Then answering as for young _Hardyman_, (said he) you struck me
publickly before much Company, in the Face of my Companions.--Come,
(reply’d he for himself) ’Twas Passion, _Miles_, ’twas Passion; Youth is
guilty of many Errors, and shall not Age be allow’d their Infirmities?
_Miles_, thou know’st I love thee.--Love thee above Riches or long
Life.--O! Come to my Arms, dear Fugitive, and make Haste to preserve
his, who gave thee thy Life!--Thus he went raving about the Room, whilst
the sorrowful, compassionate Ladies express’d their Grief in Tears.
After this loving Fit was over with him, he would start out in a
contrary Madness, and threaten his Son with the greatest and the
heaviest Punishment he could imagine; insomuch, that the young Ladies,
who had Thoughts before of perswading _Lewis_ to inform Sir _Harry_
which Way his Son rode, were now afraid of proposing any such Thing to
him. Dinner was at last serv’d in, to which _Diana_ with much Difficulty
prevail’d with him to sit. Indeed, neither he, nor any there present,
had any great Appetite to eat; their Grief had more than satiated ’em.
About five a-Clock, _Albert_ signify’d to the Knight, that he might then
most conveniently speak with his Master; but he begg’d that he would not
disturb him beyond half a Quarter of an Hour: He went up therefore to
him, follow’d by the young Lady and the Aunt: _Lewis_ was the first that
spoke, who, putting his Hand a little out of the Bed, said with a Sigh,
Sir _Henry_, I hope you will pity a great Misfortune, and endeavour to
pardon me, who was the greatest Occasion of it; which has doubly
punish’d me in these Wounds, and in the Loss of that Gentleman’s
Conversation, whose only Friendship I would have courted. Heaven pardon
you both the Injuries done to one another; (return’d the Knight)
I grieve to see you thus, and the more, when I remember my self that
’twas done by my Son’s unlucky Hand. Would he were here.--So would not I
(said _Lewis_) ’till I am assur’d my Wound is not mortal, which I have
some Reasons to believe it is not. Let me beg one Favour of you, Sir,
(said Sir _Henry_) I beseech you do not deny me. It must be a very
difficult Matter that you, Sir, shall not command of me, (reply’d
_Constance_.) It can’t be difficult to you to tell me, or to command
your Servant to let me know what Road my Son took. He may be at
_Bristol_ long e’re this, (return’d _Lewis_.) That was the Road they
took (added the Servant.) I thank you, my worthy, my kind Friend! (said
the afflicted Father) I will study to deserve this Kindness of you. How
do you find your self now? that I may send him an Account by my Servant,
if he is to be found in that City? Pretty hearty, (return’d _Lewis_) if
the Wounds your adorable Daughter here has given me, do not prove more
fatal than my Friend’s your Son’s. She blush’d, and he persu’d, My
Servant has sent for the best Physician and Surgeon in all these Parts;
I expect them every Minute, and then I shall be rightly inform’d in the
State of my Body. I will defer my Messenger ’till then (said Sir
_Henry_.) I will leave that to your Discretion, Sir, (return’d
_Constance_.) As they were discoursing of ’em, in came the learned Sons
of Art: The Surgeon prob’d his Wound afresh, which he found very large,
but not mortal, his Loss of Blood being the most dangerous of all his
Circumstances. The Country-_Æsculapius_ approv’d of his first Intention,
and of his Application; so dressing it once himself, he left the Cure of
Health to the Physician, who prescrib’d some particular Remedy against
Fevers, and a Cordial or two; took his Fee without any Scruples, as the
Surgeon had done before, and then took both their Leaves. Sir _Henry_
was as joyful as _Lewis’s_ Sister, or as his own Daughter _Lucretia_,
who lov’d him perfectly, to hear the Wound was not mortal; and
immediately dispatch’d a Man and Horse to _Bristol_, in Search of his
Son: The Messenger return’d in a short Time with this Account only, that
such a kind of a Gentleman and his Servant took Shipping the Day before,
as ’twas suppos’d, for _London_. This put the old Gentleman into a
perfect Frenzy. He ask’d the Fellow, Why the Devil he did not give his
Son the Letter he sent to him? Why he did not tell him, that his poor
old forsaken Father would receive him with all the Tenderness of an
indulgent Parent? And why he did not assure his Son, from him, that on
his Return, he should be bless’d with the Lady _Diana_? And a thousand
other extravagant Questions, which no body could reply to any better
than the Messenger, who told him, trembling; First, That he could not
deliver the Letter to his Son, because he could not find him: And
Secondly and Lastly, being an Answer in full to all his Demands, That he
could not, nor durst tell the young Gentleman any of those kind Things,
since he had no Order to do so; nor could he enter into his Worship’s
Heart, to know his Thoughts: Which Return, tho’ it was reasonable
enough, and might have been satisfactory to any other Man in better
Circumstances of Mind; so enrag’d Sir _Henry_, that he had certainly
kill’d the poor Slave, had not the Fellow sav’d his Life by jumping down
almost half the Stairs, and continuing his Flight, Sir _Henry_ still
persuing him, ’till he came to the Stables, where finding the Door open,
Sir _Henry_ ran in and saddl’d his Horse his own self, without staying
for any Attendant, or so much as taking his Leave of the Wounded
Gentleman, or Ladies, or giving Orders to his Daughter when she should
follow him Home, whither he was posting alone; but the Servant who came
out with him, accidentally seeing him as he rode out at the farthest
Gate, so timely persu’d him, that he overtook him about a Mile and half
off the House. Home they got then in less than three Hours Time, without
one Word or Syllable all the Way on either Side, unless now and then a
hearty Sigh or Groan from the afflicted Father, whose Passion was so
violent, and had so disorder’d him, that he was constrain’d immediately
to go to Bed, where he was seiz’d with a dangerous Fever, which was
attended with a strange _Delirium_, or rather with an absolute Madness,
of which the Lady _Lucretia_ had Advice that same Night, tho’ very late.
This News so surpriz’d and afflicted her, as well for the Danger of her
Lover as of her Father, that it threw her into a Swoon; out of which,
when, with some Difficulty she was recover’d, with great Perplexity and
Anguish of Mind she took a sad Farewel of the Lady _Diana_, but durst
not be seen by her Brother on such an Occasion, as of taking Leave, lest
it should retard his Recovery: To her Father’s then she was convey’d
with all convenient Expedition: The old Gentleman was so assiduously and
lawfully attended by his fair affectionate Daughter, that in less than
ten Days Time his Fever was much abated, and his _Delirium_ had quite
left him, and he knew every Body about him perfectly; only the Thoughts
of his Son, by Fits, would choak and discompose him: However, he was
very sensible of his Daughter’s Piety in her Care of him, which was no
little Comfort to him: Nor, indeed, could he be otherwise than sensible
of it by her Looks, which were then pale and thin, by over-watching;
which occasion’d her Sickness, as it caus’d her Father’s Health: For no
sooner could Sir _Henry_ walk about the Room, than she was forc’d to
keep her Bed; being afflicted with the same Distemper from which her
Father was yet but hardly freed: Her Fever was high, but the _Delirium_
was not so great: In which, yet, she should often discover her Passion
for _Lewis Constance_, her wounded Lover; lamenting the great Danger his
Life had been in, as if she had not receiv’d daily Letters of his
Amendment. Then again, she would complain of her Brother’s Absence, but
more frequently of her Lover’s; which her Father hearing, sent to invite
him to come to her, with his Sister, as soon as young _Constance_ was
able to undertake the Journey; which he did the very next Day; and he
and _Diana_ gave the languishing Lady a Visit in her Chamber, just in
the happy Time of an Interval, which, ’tis suppos’d, was the sole Cause
of her Recovery; for the Sight of her Lover and Friend was better than
the richest Cordial in her Distemper. In a very short Time she left her
Bed, when Sir _Henry_, to give her perfect Health, himself join’d the
two Lovers Hands; and not many Weeks after, when her Beauty and Strength
return’d in their wonted Vigour, he gave her 10000_l._ and his Blessing,
which was a double Portion, on their Wedding-Day, which he celebrated
with all the Cost and Mirth that his Estate and Sorrow would permit:
Sorrow for the Loss of his Son, I mean, which still hung upon him, and
still hover’d and croak’d over and about him, as Ravens, and other Birds
of Prey, about Camps and dying People. His Melancholy, in few Months,
increas’d to that Degree, that all Company and Conversation was odious
to him, but that of Bats, Owls, Night-Ravens, _&c._ Nay, even his
Daughter, his dear and only Child, as he imagin’d, was industriously
avoided by him. In short, it got so intire a Mastery of him, that he
would not nor did receive any Sustenance for many Days together; and at
last it confin’d him to his Bed; where he lay wilfully speechless for
two Days and Nights; his Son-in-Law, or his own Daughter, still
attending a-Nights by Turns; when on the third Night, his _Lucretia_
sitting close by him in Tears, he fetch’d a deep Sigh, which ended in a
pitious Groan, and call’d faintly, _Lucretia! Lucretia!_ The Lady being
then almost as melancholy as her Father, did not hear him ’till the
third Call; when falling on her Knees, and embracing his Hand, which he
held out to her, she return’d with Tears then gushing out, Yes, Sir, it
is I, your _Lucretia_, your dutiful, obedient, and affectionate
_Lucretia_, and most sorrowfully-afflicted Daughter. Bless her, Heaven!
(said the Father) I’m going now, (continu’d he weakly) O _Miles_! yet
come and take thy last Farewel of thy dear Father! Art thou for ever
gone from me? Wilt thou not come and take thy dying Father’s Blessing?
Then I will send it after thee. Bless him! O Heaven! Bless him! Sweet
Heaven bless my Son! My _Miles_! Here he began to faulter in his Speech,
when the Lady gave a great Shriek, which wak’d and alarm’d her Husband,
who ran down to ’em in his Night-Gown, and, kneeling by the Bed-side
with his Lady, begg’d their departing Father’s Blessing on them. The
Shriek had (it seems) recall’d the dying Gentleman’s fleeting Spirits,
who moving his Hand as well as he could, with Eyes lifted up, as it
were, whisper’d, Heaven bless you both! Bless me! Bless my--O _Miles_!
Then dy’d. His Death (no Doubt) was attended with the Sighs, Tears, and
unfeign’d Lamentations of the Lady and her Husband; for, bating his
sudden Passion, he was certainly as good a Father, Friend, and
Neighbour, as _England_ could boast. His Funeral was celebrated then
with all the Ceremonies due to his Quality and Estate: And the young
happy Couple felt their dying Parent’s Blessing in their mutual Love and
uninterrupted Tranquillity: Whilst (alas) it yet far’d otherwise with
their Brother; of whose Fortune it is fit I should now give you an
Account.
From _Bristol_ he arriv’d to _London_ with his Servant _Goodlad_; to
whom he propos’d, either that he should return to Sir _Henry_, or share
in his Fortunes Abroad: The faithful Servant told him, he would rather
be unhappy in his Service, than quit it for a large Estate. To which his
kind Master return’d, (embracing him) No more my Servant now, but my
Friend! No more _Goodlad_, but _Truelove_! And I am--_Lostall_! ’Tis a
very proper Name, suitable to my wretched Circumstances. So after some
farther Discourse on their Design, they sold their Horses, took
Shipping, and went for _Germany_, where then was the Seat of War.
_Miles’s_ Person and Address soon recommended him to the chief Officers
in the Army; and his Friend _Truelove_ was very well accepted with ’em.
They both then mounted in the same Regiment and Company, as Volunteers;
and in the first Battel behav’d themselves like brave _English_-men;
especially _Miles_, whom now we must call Mr. _Lostall_, who signaliz’d
himself that Day so much, that his Captain and Lieutenant being kill’d,
he succeeded to the former in the Command of the Company, and _Truelove_
was made his Lieutenant. The next Field-Fight _Truelove_ was kill’d, and
_Lostall_ much wounded, after he had sufficiently reveng’d his Friend’s
Death by the Slaughter of many of the Enemies. Here it was that his
Bravery was so particular, that he was courted by the Lieutenant-General
to accept of the Command of a Troop of Horse; which gave him fresh and
continu’d Occasions of manifesting his Courage and Conduct. All this
while he liv’d too generously for his Pay; so that in the three or four
Years Time, the War ceasing, he was oblig’d to make use of what Jewels
and Money he had left of his own, for his Pay was quite spent. But at
last his whole Fund being exhausted to about fifty or threescore Pounds,
he began to have Thoughts of returning to his native Country, _England_;
which in a few Weeks he did, and appear’d at the _Tower_ to some of his
Majesty’s (King _Charles_ the Second’s) Officers, in a very plain and
coarse, but clean and decent Habit: To one of these Officers he
address’d himself, and desir’d to mount his Guards under his Command,
and in his Company; who very readily receiv’d him into Pay. (The Royal
Family had not then been restor’d much above a Twelve-Month.) In this
Post, his Behaviour was such, that he was generally belov’d both by the
Officers and private Soldiers, most punctually and exactly doing his
Duty; and when he was off the Guard, he would employ himself in any
laborious Way whatsoever to get a little Money. And it happen’d, that
one Afternoon, as he was helping to clean the _Tower_ Ditch, (for he
refus’d not to do the meanest Office, in Hopes to expiate his Crime by
such voluntary Penances) a Gentleman, very richly dress’d, coming that
Way, saw him at Work; and taking particular Notice of him, thought he
should know that Face of his, though some of the Lines had been struck
out by a Scar or two: And regarding him more earnestly, he was at last
fully confirm’d, that he was the Man he thought him; which made him say
to the Soldier, Prithee, Friend, What art thou doing there? The unhappy
Gentleman return’d, in his Country Dialect, Why, Master, Cham helping to
clear the _Tower_ Ditch, zure, an’t please you. ’Tis very hot, (said
t’other) Art thou not a dry? Could’st thou not drink? Ay, Master,
reply’d the Soldier, with all my Heart. Well, (said the Gentleman) I’ll
give thee a Flaggon or two; Where is the best Drink? At yonder House,
Master, (answer’d the Soldier) where you see yon Soldier at the Door,
there be the best Drink and the best Measure, zure: Chil woit a top o
your Worship az Zoon as you be got thare. I’ll take thy Word, said
t’other, and went directly to the Place; where he had hardly sate down,
and call’d for some Drink, e’er the Soldier came in, to whom the
Gentleman gave one Pot, and drank to him out of another. _Lostall_, that
was the Soldier, whipp’d off his Flaggon, and said, bowing, Well,
Master, God bless your Worship! Ich can but love and thank you, and was
going; but the Gentleman, who had farther Business with him, with some
Difficulty prevail’d on him to sit down, for a Minute or two, after the
Soldier had urg’d that he must mind his Business, for he had yet half a
Day’s Work almost to complete, and he would not wrong any Body of a
Quarter of an Hour’s Labour for all the World. Th’art a very honest
Fellow, I believe, said his Friend; but prithee what does thy whole
Day’s Work come to? Eighteen-pence, reply’d _Lostall_: Look, there ’tis
for thee, said the Gentleman. Ay; but an’t like your Worship, who must
make an End of my Day’s Business? (the Soldier ask’d.) Get any Body else
to do it for thee, and I’ll pay him. Can’st prevail with one of thy
Fellow-Soldiers to be so kind? Yes, Master, thank God, cham not so ill
belov’d nother. Here’s honest _Frank_ will do so much vor me, Zure: Wilt
not, _Frank_? (withal my Heart, _Tom_, reply’d his Comrade.) Here,
Friend, (said _Lostall’s_ new Acquaintance) here’s Eighteen-pence for
thee too. I thank your Honour, return’d the Soldier, but should have but
Nine-pence. No Matter what thou should’st have, I’ll give thee no less,
said the strange Gentleman. Heavens bless your Honour! (cry’d the
Soldier) and after he had swigg’d off a Pot of good Drink, took
_Lostall’s_ Pick-ax and Spade, and went about his Business. Now (said
the Stranger) let us go and take a Glass of Wine, if there be any that
is good hereabouts, for I fancy thou’rt a mighty honest Fellow; and I
like thy Company mainly. Cham very much bound to behold you, Master,
(return’d _Lostall_) and chave a Fancy that you be and a
_West_-Country-Man, zure; (added he) you do a take zo like en; vor
_Mainly_ be our Country Word, zure. We’ll talk more of that by and by,
said t’other: Mean while I’ll discharge the House, and walk whither thou
wilt lead me. That shan’t be var, zure; (return’d _Lostall_) vor the
_Gun_ upon the Hill there, has the best Report for Wine and Zeck Ale
hereabouts. There they arriv’d then in a little Time, got a Room to
themselves, and had better Wine than the Gentleman expected. After a
Glass or two a-piece, his unknown Friend ask’d _Lostall_ what
Country-Man he was? To whom the Soldier reply’d, That he was a
_Zomerzetshire_ Man, zure. Did’st thou never hear then of one Sir _Henry
Hardyman_? (the Stranger ask’d.) Hier of’n! (cry’d t’other) yes, zure;
chave a zeen ’en often. Ah! Zure my Mother and I have had many a
zwindging Pitcher of good Drink, and many a good Piece of Meat at his
House. Humh! (cry’d the Gentleman) It seems your Mother and you knew
him, then? Ay, zure, mainly well; ich mean, by zight, mainly well, by
zight. They had a great deal of farther Discourse, which lasted near two
Hours; in which Time the Gentleman had the Opportunity to be fully
assur’d, that this was _Miles Hardyman_, for whom he took him at first.
At that first Conference, _Miles_ told him his Name was honest _Tom
Lostall_; and that he had been a Souldier about five Years; having first
obtain’d the Dignity of a Serjeant, and afterward had the Honour to be a
Trooper, which was the greatest Post of Honour that he could boast of.
At last, his new Friend ask’d _Miles_, if he should see him there at
Three in the Afternoon the next Day? _Miles_ return’d, That he should be
at his Post upon Duty then; and that without Leave from his Lieutenant,
who then would command the Guards at the _Tower_, he could not stir a
Foot with him. His Friend return’d, That he would endeavour to get Leave
for him for an Hour or two: After which they drank off their Wine; the
Gentleman pay’d the Reckoning, and gave _Miles_ a Broad piece to drink
more Wine ’till he came, if he pleas’d, and then parted ’till the next
Day. When his Friend was gone, _Miles_ had the Opportunity of reflecting
on that Day’s Adventure. He thought he had seen the Gentleman’s Face,
and heard his Voice, but where, and upon what Occasion, he could not
imagine; but he was in Hopes, that on a second Interview, he might
recollect himself where it was he had seen him. ’Twas exactly Three
a-Clock the next Afternoon, when his Friend came in his own
Mourning-Coach, accompany’d by another, who look’d like a Gentleman,
though he wore no Sword. His Friend was attended by two of his own
Foot-men in black Liveries. _Miles_ was at his Post, when his Friend
ask’d where the Officer of the Guard was? The Soldier reply’d, That he
was at the _Gun_. The Gentleman went directly to the Lieutenant, and
desir’d the Liberty of an Hour or two for _Miles_, then _Tom Lostall_,
to take a Glass of Wine with him: The Lieutenant return’d, That he might
keep him a Week or two, if he pleas’d, and he would excuse him; for
(added he) there is not a more obedient nor better Soldier than _Tom_
was in the whole Regiment; and that he believ’d he was as brave as
obedient. The Gentleman reply’d, That he was very happy to hear so good
a Character of him; and having obtain’d Leave for his Friend, made his
Compliment, and return’d, to take _Miles_ along with him: When he came
to the trusty Centinel, he commanded the Boot to be let down, and
desir’d _Miles_ to come into the Coach, telling him, That the Officer
had given him Leave. Ah! Sir, (return’d _Miles_) altho’ he has,
I cannot, nor will quit my Post, ’till I am reliev’d by a Corporal; on
which, without any more Words, the Gentleman once more went to the
Lieutenant, and told him what the Soldier’s Answer was. The Officer
smil’d, and reply’d, That he had forgot to send a Corporal with him,
e’er he was got out o’ Sight, and begg’d the Gentleman’s Pardon that he
had given him a second Trouble. Then immediately calling for a Corporal,
he dispatch’d him with the Gentleman to relieve _Miles_, who then, with
some little Difficulty, was prevail’d on to step into the Coach, which
carry’d ’em into some Tavern or other in _Leadenhall-street_; where,
after a Bottle or two, his Friend told _Miles_, that the Gentleman who
came with him in the Coach, had some Business with him in another Room.
_Miles_ was surpriz’d at that, and look’d earnestly on his Friend’s
Companion; and seeing he had no Sword, pull’d off his own, and walk’d
with him into the next Room; where he ask’d the Stranger, What Business
he had with him? To which the other reply’d, That he must take Measure
of him. How! (cry’d _Miles_) take Measure of me? That need not be; for I
can tell how tall I am. I am (continu’d he) six Foot and two Inches
high. I believe as much (said t’other.) But, Sir, I am a Taylor, and
must take Measure of you to make a Suit of Cloaths or two for you; or
half a Dozen, if you please. Pray, good Mr. Taylor (said _Miles_) don’t
mock me; for tho’ cham a poor Fellow, yet cham no Vool zure. I don’t,
indeed, Sir, reply’d t’other. Why, who shall pay for ’em? Your Friend,
the Gentleman in the next Room: I’ll take his Word for a thousand
Pounds, and more; and he has already promis’d to be my Pay-Master for as
many Suits as you shall bespeak, and of what Price you please. Ah! mary,
(cry’d _Miles_) he is a Right Worshipful Gentleman; and ich caunt but
love ’n and thank ’n. The Taylor then took Measure of him, and they
return’d to the Gentleman; who, after a Bottle or two a-piece, ask’d
_Miles_ when he should mount the Guard next? _Miles_ told him four Days
thence, and he should be posted in the same Place, and that his Captain
would then command the Guard, who was a very noble Captain, and a good
Officer. His Friend, who then had no farther Business with _Miles_ at
that Time, once more parted with him, ’till Three a-Clock the next
Saturday; when he return’d, and ask’d if the Captain were at the _Gun_,
or no? _Miles_ assur’d him he was. His Friend then went down directly to
the Tavern, where he found the Captain, the Lieutenant, and Ensign; upon
his Address the Captain most readily gave his Consent that _Miles_ might
stay with him a Month, if he would; and added many Things in Praise of
his trusty and dutiful Soldier. The Gentleman then farther entreated,
that he might have the Liberty to give him and the other Officers a
Supper that Night; and that they would permit their poor Soldier, _Tom
Lostall_, the Honour to eat with ’em there. To the first, the Captain
and the rest seem’d something averse; but to the last they all readily
agreed; and at length the Gentleman’s Importunity prevail’d on ’em to
accept his Kindness, he urging that it was in Acknowledgment of all
those Favours they had plac’d on his Friend _Tom_. With his pleasing
Success he came to _Miles_, not forgetting then to take a Corporal with
him. At this second Invitation into the Coach, _Miles_ did not use much
Ceremony, but stepp’d in, and would have sate over against the
Gentleman, by the Gentleman-Taylor; but his Friend oblig’d him to sit on
the same Seat with him. They came then again to their old Tavern in
_Leadenhall-street_, and were shew’d into a large Room; where they had
not been above six Minutes, e’er the Gentleman’s Servants, and another,
who belong’d to Monsieur Taylor, brought two or three large Bags; out of
one they took Shirts, half Shirts, Bands, and Stockings; out of another,
a Mourning-Suit; out of a third, a Mourning Cloak, Hat, and a large
Hatband, with black Cloth-Shoes; and one of the Gentleman’s Servants
laid down a Mourning Sword and Belt on the Table: _Miles_ was amaz’d at
the Sight of all these Things, and kept his Eyes fix’d on ’em, ’till his
Friend cry’d, Come, _Tom_! Put on your Linnen first! Here! (continu’d he
to his Servant) Bid ’em light some Faggots here! For, tho’ ’tis Summer,
the Linnen may want Airing, and there may be some ugly cold Vapours
about the Room, which a good Fire will draw away. _Miles_ was still in a
Maze! But the Fire being well kindled, the Gentleman himself took a
Shirt, and air’d it; commanding one of his Servants to help _Tom_ to
undress. _Miles_ was strangely out o’ Countenance at this, and told his
Friend, that he was of Age and Ability to pull off his own Cloaths; that
he never us’d to have any _Valets de Chambre_; (as they call’d ’em) and
for his Part, he was asham’d, and sorry that so worshipful a Gentleman
should take the Trouble to warm a Shirt for him. Besides (added he)
chave Heat enough (zure) to warm my Shirt. In short, he put on his
Shirt, half Shirt, his Cloaths and all Appurtenances, as modishly as the
best _Valet de Chambre_ in _Paris_ could. When _Miles_ was dress’d, his
Friend told him, That he believ’d he look’d then more like himself than
ever he had done since his Return to _England_. Ah! Noble Sir! said
_Miles_. _Vine Feathers make vine Birds._ But pray, Sir, Why must I wear
Mourning? Because there is a particular Friend of mine dead, for whose
Loss I can never sufficiently mourn my self; and therefore I desire that
all whom I love should mourn with me for him, return’d the Gentleman;
not but that there are three other Suits in Hand for you at this Time.
_Miles_ began then to suspect something of his Father’s Death, which had
like to have made him betray his Grief at his Eyes; which his Friend
perceiving, took him by the Hand, and said, Here, my dear Friend! To the
Memory of my departed Friend! You are so very like what he was,
considering your Difference in Years, that I can’t choose but love you
next to my Wife and my own Sister. Ah! Sir! (said he, and lapping his
Handkerchief to his Eyes) How can I deserve this of you? I have told you
(reply’d t’other.) But--Come! Take your Glass, and about with it! He did
so; and they were indifferently pleasant, the Subject of Discourse being
chang’d, ’till about a quarter after Five; when the Gentleman call’d to
pay, and took Coach with _Miles_ only, for the _Gun-Tavern_; where he
order’d a very noble Supper to be got ready with all Expedition; mean
while they entertain’d one another, in a Room as distant from the
Officers as the House would permit: _Miles_ relating to his new Friend
all his Misfortunes Abroad, but still disguising the true Occasion of
his leaving _England_. Something more than an Hour after, one of the
Drawers came to let ’em know, that Supper was just going to be serv’d
up. They went then directly to the Officers, whom they found all
together, with two or three Gentlemen more of their Acquaintance: They
all saluted the Gentleman who had invited ’em first, and then
complimented _Miles_, whom they mistook for another Friend of the
Gentleman’s that gave ’em the Invitation; not in the least imagining
that it was _Tom Lostall_. When they were all sat, the Captain ask’d,
Where is our trusty and well-beloved Friend Mr. _Thomas Lostall_? Most
honoured Captain! (reply’d _Miles_) I am here, most humbly at your
Honour’s Service, and all my other noble Officers. Ha! _Tom_! (cry’d the
Lieutenant) I thought indeed when thou first cam’st in, that I should
have seen that hardy Face of thine before. Face, Hands, Body, and Heart
and all, are at your, all your Honours Service, as long as I live. We
doubt it not, dear _Tom_! (return’d his Officers, unanimously.) Come,
noble Gentlemen! (interrupted _Miles’s_ Friend) Supper is here, let us
fall to: I doubt not that after Supper I shall surprise you farther.
They then fell to eating heartily; and after the Table was clear’d they
drank merrily: At last, after the King’s, Queen’s, Duke’s, and all the
Royal Family’s, and the Officers Healths, his Friend begg’d that he
might begin a Health to _Tom Lostall_; which was carry’d about very
heartily; every one had a good Word for him, one commending his Bravery,
another, his ready Obedience; and a third, his Knowledge in material
Discipline, _&c._ ’till at length it grew late, their Stomachs grew
heavy, and their Heads light; when the Gentleman, _Miles’s_ Friend,
calling for a Bill, he found it amounted to seven Pounds ten Shillings,
odd Pence, which he whisper’d _Tom Lostall_ to pay; who was in a Manner
Thunder-struck at so strange a Sound; but, recollecting himself, he
return’d, That if his Friend pleas’d, he would leave his Cloak, and any
Thing else, ’till the House were farther satisfy’d: T’other said, He was
sure _Miles_ had Money enough about him to discharge two such Bills: To
which _Miles_ reply’d, That if he had any Money about him, ’twas none of
his own, and that ’twas certainly conjur’d into his Pockets. No Matter
how it came there (said t’other;) but you have above twenty Pounds about
you of your own Money: Pray feel. _Miles_ then felt, and pull’d out as
much Silver as he could grasp, and laid it down on the Table. Hang this
white Pelf; (cry’d his Friend) pay it in Gold, like your self, Come,
apply your Hand to another Pocket: He did so, and brought out as many
Broad-Pieces as Hand could hold. Now (continu’d his Friend) give the
Waiter eight of ’em, and let him take the Overplus for his Attendance.
_Miles_ readily obey’d, and they were _Very Welcome, Gentlemen_.
Now, honoured Captain, (said his Friend) and you, Gentlemen, his other
worthy Officers, be pleas’d to receive your Soldier, as Sir _Miles
Hardyman_, Bar., Son to the late Sir _Henry Hardyman_ of
_Somersetshire_, my dear and honoured Brother-in-Law: Who is
certainly--the most unhappy Wretch crawling on Earth! (interrupted
_Miles_) O just Heaven! (persu’d he) How have I been rack’d in my Soul
ever since the Impious Vow I made, that I never would see my dearest
Father more! This is neither a Time nor Place to vent your Sorrows, my
dearest Brother! (said his Friend, tenderly embracing him.) I have
something now more material than your Expressions of Grief can be here,
since your honoured Father has been dead these five Years almost:--Which
is to let you know, that you are now Master of four thousand Pounds a
Year; and if you will forgive me two Years Revenue, I will refund the
rest, and put you into immediate and quiet Possession; which I promise
before all this worthy and honourable Company. To which _Miles_
return’d, That he did not deserve to inherit one Foot of his Father’s
Lands, tho’ they were entail’d on him, since he had been so strangely
undutiful; and that he rather thought his Friend ought to enjoy it all
in Right of his Sister, who never offended his Father in the whole
Course of her Life:--But, I beseech you, Sir, (continu’d he to his
Friend) how long is it since I have been so happy in so good and
generous a Brother-in-Law? Some Months before Sir _Henry_ our Father
dy’d, who gave us his latest Blessing, except that which his last Breath
bequeath’d and sigh’d after you. O undutiful and ungrateful Villain that
I am, to so kind, and so indulgent, and so merciful a Father: (cry’d
_Miles_) But Heaven, I fear, has farther Punishments in Store for so
profligate a Wretch and so disobedient a Son.--But your Name, Sir, if
you please? (persu’d he to his Brother) I am _Lewis Constance_, whom
once you unhappily mistook for your Rival. Unhappily, indeed: (return’d
_Miles_) I thought I had seen you before. Ay, Sir, (return’d
_Constance_) but you could never think to have seen me again, when you
wounded and left me for dead, within a Mile of my House. O! thou art
brave, (cry’d his Brother, embracing him affectionately) ’tis too much
Happiness, for such a Reprobate to find so true a Friend and so just a
Brother. This, this does in some Measure compensate for the Loss of so
dear a Father.--Take, take all, my Brother! (persu’d he, kissing
_Lewis’s_ Cheek) Take all thou hast receiv’d of what is call’d mine, and
share my whole Estate with me: But pardon me, I beseech you my most
honour’d Officers, and all you Gentlemen here present, (continu’d he to
the whole Company, who sate silent and gazing at one another, on the
Occasion of so unusual an Adventure) pardon the Effects of Grief and Joy
in a distracted Creature! O, Sir _Miles_, (cry’d his Captain) we grieve
for your Misfortune, and rejoice at your Happiness in so noble a Friend
and so just a Brother. _Miles_ then went on, and gave the Company a full
but short Account of the Occasion of all his Troubles, and of all his
Accidents he met with both Abroad and at Home, to the first Day that
_Constance_ saw him digging in the _Tower_-Ditch. About one that
Morning, which preceded that Afternoon (persu’d he) whereon I saw my
dear Brother here, then a Stranger to me, I dream’d I saw my Father at a
Distance, and heard him calling to me to quit my honourable Employment
in his Majesty’s Service: This (my Thought) he repeated seven or nine
Times, I know not which; but I was so disturb’d at it, that I began to
wake, and with my Eyes but half open was preparing to rise; when I
fancy’d I felt a cold Hand take me by the Hand, and force me on my hard
Bolster again, with these Words, take thy Rest, _Miles_! This I confess
did somewhat surprize me; but I concluded, ’twas the Effect of my
Melancholy, which, indeed, has held me ever since I last left _England_:
I therefore resolutely started up, and jump’d out of Bed, designing to
leave you, and sit up with my Fellow-Soldiers on the Guard; but just
then I heard the Watchman cry, _Past one a Clock and a Star-light
Morning_; when, considering that I was to be at Work in the Ditch by
four a Clock, I went to Bed again, and slumber’d, doz’d, and dream’d,
’til Four; ever when I turn’d me, still hearing, as I foolishly
imagin’d, my Father crying to me, _Miles_! Sleep, my _Miles_! Go not to
that nasty Place, nor do such servile Offices! tho’ thou dost, I’ll have
thee out this Day, nay, I will pull thee out: And then I foolishly
imagin’d, that the same cold Hand pull’d me out of the Ditch; and being
in less than a Minute’s Time perfectly awake, I found my self on my Feet
in the Middle of the Room; I soon put on my Cloaths then, and went to my
Labour. Were you thus disturb’d when you were Abroad? (the Captain
ask’d) O worse, Sir, (answer’d _Miles_) especially on a Tuesday Night,
a little after One, being the Twelth of _November_, New Style, I was
wak’d by a Voice, which (methought) cry’d, _Miles_, _Miles_, _Miles!_
Get hence, go Home, go to _England_! I was startled at it, but regarded
it only as proceeding from my going to Sleep with a full Stomach, and so
endeavour’d to sleep again, which I did, till a second Time it rouz’d
me, with _Miles_ twice repeated,--hazard not thy Life here in a foreign
Service! Home! to _England_! to _England_! to _England_! This disturb’d
me much more than at first; but, after I had lay’n awake near half an
Hour, and heard nothing of it all that Time, I assur’d my self ’twas
nothing but a Dream, and so once more address’d my self to Sleep, which
I enjoy’d without Interruption for above two Hours; when I was the third
Time alarm’d, and that with a louder Voice, which cry’d, as twice
before, _Miles!_ _Miles!_ _Miles!_ _Miles!_ Go Home! Go to _England_!
Hazard not thy Soul here! At which I started up, and with a faultering
Speech, and Eyes half sear’d together, I cry’d, In the Name of Heaven,
who calls? Thy Father, _Miles_: Go Home! Go Home! Go Home! (it said.)
O then I knew, I mean, I thought I knew it was my Father’s Voice; and
turning to the Bed-Side, from whence the Sound proceeded, I saw, these
Eyes then open, these very Eyes, at least, my Soul saw my Father, my own
dear Father, lifting up his joined Hands, as if he begg’d me to return
to _England_. I saw him beg it of me.--O Heaven! The Father begs it of
the Son! O obstinate, rebellious, cruel, unnatural, barbarous, inhuman
Son! Why did not I go Home then! Why did I not from that Moment begin my
Journey to _England_? But I hope, e’er long, I shall begin a better.
Here his o’ercharg’d Heart found some little Relief at his Eyes, and
they confess’d his Mother: But he soon resum’d the Man, and then
_Constance_ said, Did you ne’er dream of your Sister, Sir? Yes, often,
Brother, (return’d _Miles_) but then most particularly, before e’er I
heard the first Call of the Voice; when (my Thought) I saw her in Tears
by my Bed Side, kneeling with a Gentleman, whom I thought I had once
seen; but knew him not then, tho’, now I recal my Dream, the Face was
exactly yours. ’Twas I, indeed, Sir, (return’d _Lewis_) who bore her
Company, with Tears, at your Father’s Bed-Side; and at twelve a Clock at
Night your Father dy’d. But come, Sir, (persu’d he) ’tis now near twelve
a Clock, and there is Company waits for you at Home, at my House here in
Town; I humbly beg the Captain’s Leave, that I may rob ’em of so dutiful
a Soldier for a Week or two. Sir, (return’d the Captain) Sir _Miles_
knows how to command himself, and may command us when he pleases.
Captain, Lieutenant, and Ensign, (reply’d Sir _Miles_) I am, and ever
will continue, during Life, your most dutiful Soldier, and your most
obedient and humble Servant. Thus they parted.
As soon as _Constance_ was got within Doors, his Lady and Sir _Miles’s_
Sister, who both did expect him that Night, came running into the Hall
to welcome him? his Sister embrac’d and kiss’d him twenty and twenty
Times again, dropping Tears of Joy and Grief, whilst his Mistress stood
a little Distance, weeping sincerely for Joy to see her Love return’d:
But long he did not suffer her in that Posture; for, breaking from his
Sister’s tender Embraces, with a seasonable Compliment he ran to his
Mistress, and kneeling, kiss’d her Hand, when she was going to kneel to
him; which he perceiving, started up and took her in his Arms, and
there, it may be presum’d, they kiss’d and talk’d prettily; ’till her
Brother perswaded ’em to retire into the Parlour, where he propos’d to
’em that they should marry on the very next morning; and accordingly
they were, after _Lewis_ had deliver’d all Sir _Henry’s_ Estate to Sir
_Miles_, and given him Bills on his Banker for the Payment of ten
thousand Pounds, being the Moiety of Sir _Miles’s_ Revenue for five
Years. Before they went to Church, Sir _Miles_, who then had on a rich
bridal Suit, borrow’d his Brother’s best Coach, and both he and _Lewis_
went and fetch’d the Captain, Lieutenant, and Ensign, to be Witnesses of
their Marriage. The Captain gave the Bride, and afterwards they feasted
and laugh’d heartily, ’till Twelve at Night, when the Bride was put to
Bed; and there was not a Officer of ’em all, who would not have been
glad to have gone to Bed to her; but Sir _Miles_ better supply’d their
Places.
NOTES: The Unhappy Mistake.
p. 477 _the Jack_. The small bowl placed as a mark for the players to
aim at. cf. _Cymbeline_ II, i: ‘Was there ever man had such luck! when I
kissed the jack upon an up-cast to be hit away!’
p. 477 _the Block_. cf. Florio (1598). ‘_Buttino_, a maister or mistres
of boules or coites whereat the plaiers cast or playe; some call it the
blocke.’
p. 495 _vor Mainly be our Country Word, zure_. Wright, _English Dialect
Dictionary_, gives apposite quotations for ‘mainly’ from Gloucester,
Wilts and Devon. He also has two quotations, Somerset and West Somerset
for ‘main’ used adverbially. But ‘mainly’ is also quite common in that
county.
p. 495 _the Gun_. A well-known house of call. 2 June, 1668, Pepys
‘stopped and drank at the Gun’.
p. 496 _a Broad piece_. This very common name was ‘applied after the
introduction of the guinea in 1663 to the “Unite” or 20 shilling pieces
(Jacobus and Carolus) of the preceeding reigns, which were much broader
and thinner than the new milled coinage.’
_Printed by A. H. BULLEN, at the Shakespeare Head Press,
Stratford-upon-Avon._
* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
Errors and Inconsistencies (noted by transcriber)
Typographical errors were corrected only when unambiguous (“Symrna”),
or when the expected spelling occurs many times in the book. A few
variable forms such as “handsom : handsome” are unchanged.
Unless otherwise noted, quotation marks are as printed.
_The Adventure of the Black Lady_
and order’d the Coach to drive [orderd]
[Notes]
[_See King of Bantam, below_]
_The Court of the King of Bantam_
Appearances of Virtue, which he thought [be thought]
So she has (reply’d the titular Monarch): [_close ) missing_]
Come, Madam (continued he, kissing _Lucy_,) [_close ) missing_]
has oblig’d me beyond Imitation.’ [_close quote missing_]
And, (_S_) _Sim. Slyboots_. [_no . after “S”_]
[Notes:
_The header for the “King of Bantam” notes is misprinted, placed
between the two notes for p. 30 instead of between pgs. 9 and 17.
The story begins on p. 11._]
_The Unfortunate Happy Lady_
he designs to gain your Ladyship’s Assistance [Ladship’s]
After she had taken her Money, and other Things of Value [Money,and]
the good old Gentleman returns Home [Gentlemen]
since she was assur’d, that if he marry’d her [asssur’d]
he was arrested, and thrown into a Goal [_spelling unchanged_]
The defeated Lovers knew not how to resent it? [_? in original_]
My Cousin _Eugenia_! (cry’d _Gracelove_!) [_! in original_]
_The Fair Jilt_
[Introduction]
no such person as her ‘Prince Tarpuin of the race of the last Kings
of Rome’
[_obvious error uncorrected because it may be in the quoted
original_]
[Dedication]
at least with a feign’d Civility [lest]
a sort of Coin, not currant in this Age [_spelling unchanged_]
[Text]
in all the finest Manners of Education [_f in “of” obscure_]
‘She complains, in her Heart [_open quote missing_]
had not been sufficient of itself [_f in “of” obscure_]
from whose Mouth I had it.’ [_close quote missing_]
Which so extremely incensed _Alcidiana_, that she [the]
putting her self into the Hands of a wealthy Merchant [wealty]
the other End of which was to be fastned to the Gibbet
[_spelling unchanged: elsewhere “fasten’d”_]
holy Matters relating to the Life to come [to to come]
All his overjoy’d Friends [_elsewhere “over-joy’d” with hyphen_]
[Note to p. 174]
Barbadoes [Barbardoes]
_Oroonoko; Or The Royal Slave_
[Introduction]
as Aphara tells her prose-epic [_spelling unchanged_]
[Text]
there is not to be seen an indecent Action [it not]
still answer’d what they thought conduc’d best [they they]
instead of giving me the comtemptible Whip [_spelling unchanged_]
let him speedly dispatch me [_spelling unchanged_]
[Notes]
[_The header for the “Oroonoko” notes is missing._]
_Agnes De Castro_
[Introduction]
an aimable blue-stocking [_spelling unchanged_]
[Text]
if she had not perceived a Paper lying under his Hand [see]
the charming Qualities of your Person [Qualites]
unless expresly commanded by the Princess [_spelling unchanged_]
I fear you will never approve my Passion.’ [_close quote missing_]
Thus this Conversation ended. [Coversation]
‘You will do for _Constantia_ [_open quote missing_]
will render your Memory illustrious [yonr]
_The History Of The Nun_
_Isabella de Valerie_, that rose like a new Star [the rose]
he found nothing of his Industry thrive [hs found]
foreseeing there was no Provision likely to be made them
[was a / no _at line break_]
_The Nun; Or, The Perjur’d Beauty_
with out whom she had been at a Loss [_elsewhere “without”_]
when she fell passionately in Love with him [passsionately]
_The Lucky Mistake_
I find the Seeds of great and profound Matter [finds]
and wondred how his Stars came so kind
[_spelling unchanged: elsewhere “wonder’d”_]
she assur’d him her Father had never yet [asur’d]
[Note to p. 351]
(... 3 Vols., 1736, 12mo) [3 Vols, 1736]
_The Unfortunate Bride_
So aimable he was [_spelling unchanged_]
for ’twas that very Fondness proved his Ruin [twas]
_The Dumb Virgin_
a handsom Gentleman in a rich _English_ Dress [Gentlemen]
his Voyage from _Smyrna_ to _London_ [_Symrna_]
_The Unhappy Mistake_
and virtuous Education, of an indifferent Fortune [_. for ,_]
which was rewarded with another piece of Money [which which]
came running into the Hall to welcome him? [_? in original_]
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