UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY Class My 08-15M Book / Volume del Mclb.c»' $a>h> THE HERMIT «f the CAVE . I cnidcm, T//^ forked Jy*C THE HERMIT QP the CAVE OR THE ROYAL SHEPHERDESS. AND AJLFIREB AND ZAIRA, •A PATHETIC TALE. LONDON: PRINTED AND SOLD BY DEAN AND MONDAY, 35, THREADN EEDLE- STREET. Price Six pence. HERMIT OF THE; CAVE. \ r ’ ’ / Covered with the skin of a lion, his face tanned with the heat of the sun, his hair long, and flowing wildly over his shoulders, from which hung a quiver filled with arrows, a large club in his hand, and a poignard in his belt, a man of a majestic form descended from the moun- tains of Armenia. After casting his eyes towards heaven, he threw himself on the enamelled ground, and taking a picture from his bosom, he pressed it teuderly to his lips, and sighing deeply, addressed the picture in the following words, which were interrupted by sighs and tears, “ Ah, beloved Policena, whom I am doomed to behold no more! how little did I think, some years ago, that this little picture would be one day my only consolation. Alas! what cannot adverse fate do, when joined to envy and hatred ? Beloved of my soul, who could have thought when I resided at court, possessed of a brilliant fortune, and adorned by a sumptuous vest embroidered by thy fair hand, that I should be forsaken, and forced to take re- fuge upon a bleak mountain, with no other covering than the skins of wild beasts, and to sleep in a lion’s cave? And yet, God knows, that neither these hardships, nor the dangers or fatigue to which I am exposed in order to support mj miserable existence, nor the horrors of this solitude, g ve me a moment’s uneasmess. No! nothing but the fear that thou shouldest forget the unhappy Ge- simonde, can draw a tear from these sad eyes. During twelve years of absence, thy image has never for an in- stant, been absent from my imagination. Unfortu* ate as I am, has thy constancy equal ed mine? Ah, l fear some happy rival has replaced me in tb\ atf i t on. Per- haps even now he possesses those charms for woich [ stdl continue to sigh. Oh God ! avert Ir . m me these distracting thoughts, or put an end to my agonized ex« ietence.” 1# THE HERMIT OP THE CAYB. Gesimonde was at that instant interrupted by the sight of a young shepherdess, who �« crossing a narrow path an^ongthe rocks, which edged on each side by a tow of poplars and speaking to herself wnh the utmost agi- ta ion, Astpn sned at the soft melody of her voics he called to her: — At the y ght *d' Gesimonde, the timid shepherdess fled t wi f $h *the utmost precipitation, nor did she stop till she was dverp wered by iatigue. Gesim -nde, who had followed her at a short distance, now came up to her, ai d found her panting fortreath; he felt ex- tremely distressed at having caused her so much terror. He took lurtn his arms, and tamed her to his cave, where he gave her some water to drink, which brought her to herself: he theu presented her some wild honey and titled fruits. #< Cease to fear me!” said he, with the gentlest torn* of voice, u although my dress and appear- ance are uncouth, my heart is tender and humane; and were 1 the most ferocious of men, 3 our youth and beauty w uld preserve you from harm; you are as free in my miserable habitation as in the fields. I will not ask you to remain with me; your presence would render my soli- tude too pleasing: yet if you should feel no repugnance to soften my grief* in participating in them, I will use every endeavour that the most sincere friendship can dic- tate, to enliven this gloomy solitude.” Tranquillized by his words, the young and lovely shep- herded, whose name was lsmena, informed him, that she had fled from her father’s house to avoid marrying a shepherd, whom she detested. “ I consent,” she said, (i to pass my days with you; your humanity and gentle- ness have inspired me with sentiments of gratitude, which will bind me to you by the purest ties of friendship.” She then requested him to lighten his griefs, by suffering her to participate in them, if the 'recital were not too painful to him. Gesimonde, with his eyes bathed in tears, complied with her request, and began his story as follows: “ 1 am natural son to Policarp, king of Albania. This prince, who floated upon Clarinda, indulged himself in his tender attachment for that beauteous Armenian; when, for the good of his subjects, he was obliged to share his crown with Rosimonda. This princess gave birth to a son on the same day that Clarinda brought me intp the world. Flaminius my brother, legitimate heir to the THE HERMIT OF THE CAVE. crown, was beloved by my father, who seemed to behold me with horror. My mother also treated me with cold indifference, and the queen, from whom l had no reason to expect kindness, was the only person that evinced any good will towards me. My brother and I were already advancing towards manhood, and the people took every opportunity of evincing their attachment to me, and their dislike to my brother; who possessed none of the qualities requisite for one who was to become their sovereign. Sanur, who was related to the royal family, and much beloved by the king, had a daughter named Polieena, with whom my brother and I, had been bred from our tenderest years ; 1 will not attempt to describe her beau- ty, it is sufficient to say that she was the brightest orna- ment of my father’s court. “ The inclination which from my childhood I felt for the beauteous maid, increased with my years; but as I did not move in al! the pomp- and grandeur, which ever attended Fiaminius as heir to the crown, I feared that her young heart, would be dazzled by his greatness, and she would prefer him to me, for he was also her admirer. Polieena however soon tranquillized my mind, and made me the happiest of mankind; she treated Fiaminius with disdain, and returned my affection. We were privately manned by means of her confessor, who was greatly at- tached to us both, and undertook to perform the cere- mony; which was done during the night in the apartment of Polieena, who had entrusted one of her women with the secret of our loves. I was the happiest of men, and forgot in the arms of my beloved Polieena, the grief which I felt at the aversion my father and mother mani- fested towards me. “ At length, Fiaminius demanded Polieena in mar- riage of her father; and the ambitious Sahur, bade his daughter henceforth to avoid my presence, which wa6 now more necessary to her than ever, for my beloved Polieena was on the point of presenting to her doating Gesimonde a pledge of our mutual affection. She was obliged to use the utmost caution to conceal her situation. I did not dare to intrust the secret to her women, as 1 knew that most of them were bribed by Fiaminius, and that the least indiscretion would endanger the life of the ob- ject dearest to me in the universe. We were in continual fear of a discovery, when one night Polieena was attacked B 3 THE HERMIT OF THE CAV1< 12 by the pains of childbirth so violently, that she was cer- tain the critical moment was near at hand. She quitted the palace, and went out by the door which led into the gardens, with the intention of taking refuge at the house of ont of my friends, to whom I had entrusted our secret; but she had scarcely proceeded half her journey, when her pains became so violent, that she was obliged to rest herself under the portico of a temple, where she was in a few moments delivered of a female child, whose piteous cries reached the ears of two men who were walking in the environs. Policena disguised her voice as much as possible, entreated the strangers to take charge of the in- nocent babe, and deliver it into the hands of Gesimonde, son of the king; assuring them at the same time, that they would be magnificently rewarded. She then re- turned to the palace privately, by the same way she had quitted it, and kept her bed for some time under the pretext of an indisposition. 66 Flaminius was unfortunately one of those, to whom she had entrusted her babe! The darkness of the night had howe�r, prevented him from knowing the mother of the child, which had so singularly been delivered to him. He wished very much to know who she was, and made various enquir es, when unfortunately, he learned Poli- cena’s indisposition. This sudden illness, and the resem- blance which lie fancied he could of silence. We entered an apartment elegantly decorated, and sleeping slaves surrounded an empty couch. The lady took a taper, and Jed me to a smaller apartment, where she threw off her mantle; I then be- held with wonder, the elegant form of my conductress.— Her features were of the most perfect symmetry, although her smooth skin was of the same dark hue as that of her slaves. Youth, beauty, and gentleness, beamed in her countenance. Jewels of great value enriched her wrists, and large folds of muslin wrapt her fine form. She held a conversation in a strange language with her old slave, then turning to me, she said, “ I shall see you no more, before your departure; keep this in remembrance for hapless Zara’s sake.” She bound a chain of jewels round my arm. “ Wear this,’* she said, “ until the hand that gave it you is cold.” A tear stole from her moistened eye, but she disregarded the precious drop, and proceeded . — u You have wander- ed into an unknown part of the country, suffer me to give you a guide in this little page; he is faithful, and will iead you safely through these unknown tracts.” The strange and melancholy accidents which had be- fallen me in one night, so overpowered my senses, that a confused noise was all I was sensible of. My mind op- pressed by sorrow, I sunk in an apathy at her feet, and lost the sensation of anguish by having felt misfortunes too heavily. I found myself when I recovered on a couch, and the old slave kneeling before me; but on seeing me recover, he left me. Sleep soon weighed down my weary eye-lids, and for some hours I forgot that 1 was wretched. When I awoke, l perceived the young negro whom Zara had spoken of, standing in a distant part of the chamber. The elegance of his person, which in the dark I had not observed, now attracted my notice, and when he spoke, I thought his voice resembled that of Zara’s; he hastened my departure, and taking my hand, drew me towards the subterraneous passage, and opening the door that had given us entrance, conducted me out. c 3 M ALFRED AND ZARA. The rising sun gilded the tall trees that shaded this spot. I turned and blessed the ground that enclosed the lowly and benevolent Zara; and over ways almost inac- cessible, Aibuka led me to escape from observation. I attempted to d.aw from my conductor the history of Zara, but an impenetrable mystery seemed to envelope every circumstance of her life. 1 learned that Zara was of noble birth, but cap*ive among the free, and wretched amidst the honouts of her state. We had walked long, the rays of the sun struck hot on my bewildered head, and I begged to repose myself in a distant wood. Aibuka consented, and with tea* ful eyes, he bent his trembling steps towards it. “We soon reached the shade of some lofty pines; I laid myself down to sleep whilst Aibuka watched, lest any one should intrude on my slumbers. Scarcely had I closed my eyes, when a dreadful yell of negroes roused me from my sleep; 1 arose, and saw my faithful guide struggling with the slaves. 1 darted forward, and seizing the foremost, .plunged my dagger into his jetty breast. The rest of the negroes fled, and I received the trembling prize into my arms. I bore the frightened boy to a bank, and had the sa- tisfaction of soon seeing him revive. He entreated me to continue our journey. We accordingly hastened to the river side, when a stronger body of men than before, rushed forward, and forced us to separate. “ Oh ! my Alfred!” exclaimed the gentle page, “ rescue the wretch- ed Zara.” Too late 1 knew the unfortunate maid, the weeping Zara was torn from me. Whilst I was held by two of the ruffians, in order to prevent my running to the struggling Zara, she was borne out of sight; her cries still vibrated in my ears, when the ruffians that held me, suddenly plunged me into the river, and fled. I buffeted with the waves, until finding myself unable to reach the shore, my strength failed me, and I sank to the bottom. From the bosom of a peasant I raised my head, and Was again blessed with the sight of the sun. 1 leaned upon the peasant’s arm, and tottered towards a clump of trees, from which a waving smoke rose from the whitened chimney of a cottage, where we were received with plea- sure by the peasant’s son; who led me to his bed, and strove by his unpolished but gentle manners, to bestow that consolation which Zara alone could bestow. ALFRED AND ZARA. 25 About midnight, methought a dim light shone in my little chamber, and aghast with horror, 1 beheld the form of my imagined parent. “ Alfred,” said the shadow, as it approached my bed, “ let not the spirit of the mur- dered Jaques inspire thee with such dread. Affection summoned me from the tomb, to tell thee that I am not thy father.— Thy mother lives, but dreadful is her fate, she wildly calls on thee to relieve her. — Arise, noble boy, shake from thy mind the seducing form of Zara, and re- venge thy mother’s wrongs.” The apparition vanished ; I arose in the morning, determined to comply with my awful monitor’s commands; then thanking the honest cottager’s for their benevolence, departed. After travelling for a considerable time, I found my- self near a rock, in which I perceived an arched cavern. By the seclusion of this place, I imagined it was the re- sidence of some pious hermit. I entered, and perceived a half-closed door, which led to an inner room, in which I beheld a lady sitting on the ground, and veiled. I thought the form resembled that of my beloved Zara, I rushed into the room with a palpitating heart — the lady rose, and throwing aside her veil, discovered a counte- nance which had all the softness and beauty of Zara’s, but blended with a skin so fair, that I soon, alas ! disco- vered that it was not she for whom my soul mourned. I gazed with anguish on a form so lovely, but which seemed to be labouring under all the agonies of incurable grief. The lady, unconscious of my presence, clasped her hands, and exclaimed, “ Oh ! my Alfred! where dost thou now wander; where can I search for thee!” Saying this, she was hurrying towards the door, when a negro held her ; I drew my poignard, which he dashed to the ground, and fled. I turned to the distracted beauty, and saw her extended on the ground, grasping my poignard, which she drew from her side. I shrieked with terror, several slaves rushed info the room, and see- ing their mistress’s state, thought I had murdered her. The cave wrung with their cries, the lady bent her eyes on me, and said with a faint voice, whilst I pressed her hand in an agony to my bosom, “ Ah, my Alfred, thou art come to revenge the death of Jaques. — Alas! let this blocd expiate the offence which Zara has caused, although guilt has never tinged her cheek, which will soon be cold in death.” I hung over her I adored, and overcome by grief, I sunk senseless to the ground. 26 ALFRED AND ZARA. When I again unclosed my sad eyes, I found myself in a damp dungeon, and a dwarf of uncommon deformity presented himself to my sight. With the most horrible sensations, I heard myself accused of being the mur- derer of Zara; the dwarf bound me with heavy chains, and I remained in a state of mind impossible to be de- scribed. I was a few days after informed by the dwarf, who had rather relaxed in his severity towards me, that the lady whom I had murdered, was buried. In an agony of despair, I knelt before the dwarf, and supplicated him to lead me to the sacred tomb that en- closed her ashes. He was deaf to my entreaties till I forced a jewel from the chain Zara had bound round my arm, and presented it to him; he consented, and led me at night into a large and elegant sepulchre, where, de- scending by the light of a small lamp a flight of steps, I entered a stone room, lighted by a half extinguished lamp, I beheld the coffin of Zara richly ornamented. I threw myself on the coffin, and gave vent to my over- charged heart, by tears and groans. Nearly distracted, I resolved not to survive any longer the object of my af- fections, I pushed aside the lid of the coffin, to take a farewell look at all my soul held dear, and press the cold inanimate form to my bosom; but recoiled with horror, to find I clasped a waxen image. I hastened away from this scene of wonder, and rushed out of the sepulchre; nor ever ventured to rest till some miles separated me from the spot. I then laid myself on the ground, and fell into a deep slumber; and did not awake till the next evening was far advanced. I was wandering an unfre- quented wild, and fearing that night woi Id surprize me in that lonesome spot, I threw my self on my knees, and commended myself to heaven, that I might hear a hu- man voice to break the gloomy silence. A follow echo returned my sad accents. The last rays of the setting sun gilded a superb mausoleum, whose majestic roof I discovered through the trees. “ Ah!” I exclaimed, 4( wretched Alfred ! no marb e tomb shall receive thy dust, the winds will scatter thy allies over this dreary waste.” As I drew nearer, I faintly heard plaintive music issu- ing from the recesses of the tomb, and perceived a small grated door, which led into me tomb, half unclosed. No other asylum offered to screen me from the cold blast. I was on the point of entering, when the door gently ALFRED AND ZARA. 27 closed, and the breeze blew* a paper towards me. I took the scroll, and putting it into my bosom, fled the dreary abode, which seemed to my aflrighted imagination, to be haunted by unquiet spirits. Almost expiring with hunger, I laid myself down, hoping heaven would put an end to my sufferings by death; when some berries and wild fruit caught my eye. I snatched with eagerness the fruit thus offered by Providence: as I rested on a bank, the mysterious paper recurred to my mind; I took it from my bosom and read the following lines. “ To Alfred, “ Unconscious that these lines will ever meet thine eyes, I would repress each fond emotion ; but it is in vain, my heart will dictate, while my trembling hand writes the woes of the hapless Zara. In an humble cot- tage I first drew my breath: on a cold night I was wrap- ped in a rich mantle, and carried to the river side, where a black slave received me, brought me to the tower, and laid me in an embroidered cradle, still warmed by an infant, which had just been taken out of it. Bred in a secret apartment, and only attended by a black female slave, my thoughts never strayed beyond its limits. One night ray busy fancy painted to my youthful ima- gination, that delight dwelt on the outside of my prison walls; and could I once escape from the tower, r peace and happiness would be my portion for ever. The black slave was sleeping beside me, and the keys by her side. The wish of realizing those pleasures which only yet had been imaginary, inspired me; I took the taper, and ex- amining the eyes of the sleeping slave, to assure myself that she was really asleep, I took the keys from her pil- low; — I tried the door, it opened, and taking a last look at my sleeping companion whom 1 loved, I stole out softly ; the door closed after me, and 1 was now shut for ever from the guardian of my youth. “ I walked forward, lighted only by the moon that beamed upon me through a large painted window of a staircase; every object around me was new, but the de- sire of escaping repressed my curiosity. I rather ran than walked, through a long range of rooms hung with portraits at full length. As I was passing thr ugh one of these, a moon-beam rested on the portrait of a lady, whose dying countenance was turned to a man of majes- tic height, as if beseeching him to protect the infant she held in her aims. *8 ALFRED AND ZARA. “ 1 ga2ed on the portrait until the moon hid itself in a mist, and I proceeded. 1 next came to a glass door, which opened into the country, and accustomed only to view the length of my apartment, I hesitated not to think that I saw the whole world in the scene before me. As I proceeded plucking flowers, and lost in the new and delightful sensations, which 1 for the first time ex- perienced, I at length arrived at a grotto. A light sus- pended to a crucifix, showed me a figure lying on the ground. Fear, for the fi r> t time, assailed me. I re- mained immovable with surprise at beholding one of my complexion, so different in appearance from myself. A long white beard reached almost to his waist, and his countenance was so meek, that it dispelled all my fears. The hermit was greatly astonished to see a young female at the entrance of his grotto at the dead of night, but seeing me amusing myself with throwing the flowers I had plucked on my way, into the flowing stream, and watching the r floating, he asked me from whence I camel I pointed to the tower: he seemed lost in thought, whilst I, un perceived by him, entered farther into the grotto. I arrived at a small room, from whence I had seen the light; a matted couch was the only bed on which the he»mit reposed, and dried fruits were stored on rtne side, while a transparent stream ran bubbling over ihe shining pebbles. As I turned round, I viewed the hermit stand- ing at the entrance, wondering at my childish actions; not daring to tell him of my flight, l turned from him, and went further into a small piec e of ground enamelled with flowers, where finding myself fatigued, I sat down and watched the clouds which surrounded the moon, which soon veiled its pure light from my eyes; they filled with tears at the remembrance of my lost friend, and the loneliness of the place, — I was suddenly roused from any melancholy reflections, on finding myself pressed in the arms of a stranger!” Here the paper ended, tears of love and sorrow for the uncertain fate of Zara rolled down my cheeks, and fell on the writing as I pressed it to my heart. — Darkness now succeeded, and 1 felt alarmed at the hollow sound of footsteps, A female approached me, and I soon recognized the well known accents of the wfe of Jaques. Thus to meet my kind protectress gave in- expressible joy to my heart; which but a rtu rtient before was nearly subdued by despair. We turned to the mau- ALFRED AND ZARA. 29 solemn, and enteied it, when the gentle voice of Zara filled my soul witl rapture. The Aife of Jaqoes viewed with wonder the mutual expression of pleasure which beamed on our countenance at th s unex pec:ed meeting, and after taking some refreshments, she took from her bosom a paper, on which she had written an a- count of my birth, lest, death should deprive her of utterance, before she again met with the son of Osrick. She read as follows: “ I was nurse to Monimia; i shall not describe her beauty; — her mind polished by various accomplishments, and softened by every virtue, won the heart a, which the superiority of her attractions at first had awed. She was one fatal day seized by some ruffians, as she was walking in a wood adjoining to the castie, where she dwelt with her father; and carried away. Search was immediately made, but without success, when the sweet girl was re- stored by a noble gentleman, who had rescued her from the daring plunderers. His gentle mein counterbalanced the warlike nobleness of his appearance, which otherwise would have been taken for pride. Rejoicings were made in the castle for Monimia’ s return; the noble Osrick sought Monimia’ s love, who gratefully returned the ad- miration she inspired, and Osrick won her. “ Months of gay festivity attended their nuptials, when Osrick was summoned to the wars, and left his beloved Monimia, prating to heaven for his safety. A year elapsed before he returned ; the hours passed heavily with Monimia, till her warrior revisited his lands. At length he appeared with his usual affection; lie expressed his adoration of hip wife, and he dropped a tear of joy oil the cheek of his infant son, whom he beheld for the first time. Yon, Alfred, were that infant. Oswald still dwelt with his daughter, and each morning called down blessings on his grandson* From the moment of his re- turn, a heavy gloom hung over Osrick’s mind, and each bright hope was depressed by a dark melancholy. His eyes avoided the scrutinizing looks of Monimia; the lus- tre of his beauty faded, and a slow fever preyed upon his spirits. At length his fortitude forsook him, and one fatal night he forgot he was a warrior! a husband! a fa- ther! and fell on that sword, whose point had never be- fore pierced a heart so ennobled by every virtue that could adorn human nature. Over Osrick’s tomb, all Moni- 30 ALFRED AND ZARA. niia’s blessing’s hung, and within it, rested the ashes of him she most lovi d. Among Osrick’s papers was found the following, which contained the melancholy cause of all his sorrows, written with his own hand. 4 To you my father, to you my wife, and even to you my infant son, I plead for mercy, — may your pity cause some extenuation of an action, that perhaps ere you read this, will have doomed its author to perdition, — guided in my infancy to scenes of war and blood, my heart panted for battle, and bounded at the sound of martial music. One night when every soldier was at rest, I forsook my tent, and wandered over the field of battle; some plain- tive accents reached my ears, and I bent my steps to wherg the sound proceeded. A highland girl clasped the body of a bleeding soldier, the plaid from her shoulder, she had wrapped round his bleeding arm. I offered my as- sistance, and led them to a tent occup ed by a surgeon, and as the girl hung over the old man, I surveyed her beauty. Dare I to you, my Monimia, describe the graces of her person. Her sensibility caused large drops of sor- row to fall from her blue eyes, and fell on her cheeks which sorrow had rendered pale; and which reddened only, when she caught my eyes fixed upon her, and ex- pressing admiration. Her fine hair hung loose and dishevelled, and was disordered by the white hands that now vainly strove to restrain it from overshadowing the wounded man to whom she knelt. Before the morning dawned, the soldier breathed his last, and left his daugh- ter to my protection, to guard her from danger. I re- solved to cement the title of husband with that of protec- tor; and l married the beautiful Scotch girl. I sought for a castle near the encampment, and found one, where I placed my lovely Highlander; and every hour I could spare from my duty, 1 passed in her society. About five months after my marriage, 1 was informed by one of my domestics that my wife met one of my soldiers only at those hours when she knew the camp demanded my pre- sence. ‘ Exasperated by this intelligence, I went unattended to my castle one evening, and saw my wife at the door, pressing both the hands of a young soldier on horseback, who promised in affectionate terms, to return at dawn of day; and embracing her, proceeded towards the camp, and was soon out of sight# My wife anxiously looked ALFRED AND ZARA. 31 after him, and with that gentle innocence, which accom- panied all her actions, put her hand over her face, and I beheld the tears streaming from her eyes. I returned to the camp chilled with horror and despair, and found no soldier missing. I issued orders, that it would be death on the next day, for any man to depart from the camp, as the enemy was expected to commence the attack every hour. ** Next morning I examined my men, only one was missing. 1 flew to my castle, I heard the voice of my wife entreating a longer visit, as perhaps the chance of that day’s battle, might deprive her of him she loved so well. ‘ I will hear no more!’ cried I, as I sprang forward, and buried my sword in her bosom ; lifeless she fell to the earth. — I returned to the field — madness had taken possession of my brain — dauntless, 1 rushed through ja- velins and arrows, to the chiefs of the enemy’s army; unsatiated by their blood, I animated my men to pursue the conquered to their tents, and forgot in my fury, that humanity should ever inhabit the breast of a warrior. “ The body of my wife had been buried by the pea- sants ere I returned. — I gave up my castle to any one who would have it — I forsook my companions — forgot my grandeur — and sadness preyed on my youth. 1 wandered over countries unattended, relieved those in distress, yet pursued my way uncheered by the blessings of those wh se distresses I alleviated. You Monimia, I rescued from daring robbers, and in your angelic countenance, forgot the grief that had hitherto preyed upon my mind; and the bleeding image of my wife ceased to haunt me.— For you, 1 again sought my attendants, reclaimed my wealth, rebuilt my castle, and destroyed in a great mea- sure, the remembrance of my hopeless love. I left you, my fair partner, to encounter the foe; I was nearly over- powered by numbers, when I was defended by a gallant youth rushing forward, who received in his breast the paint aimed at mine. — I supported the generous youth in my arms, who had sacrificed his life to def nd mine* When turning my eyes on the dying face of my defender, I recognized in his features the soldier who had been the cause of my jealousy! — I endeavoured to support him but iu vain ; he dropped from my arms, and as the blood gushed from his side, in broken accents, told me that his sister, whom I would have murdered, still lived. Ah, D 32 ALFRED AND ZARA. my Monimia, suffer her wrongs to be graced by a sigh.— Fearing to own her, as his general’s wife, his del cacy induced him to attract my notice by his valour; and when that attention was softened into friendship, to own his relationship, until which time, he secretly visited his on- ly sister whom he loved. When the order of death was known for any that forsook their tents that day, he ap- pointed the early dawn to take a farewell of the sweetest hope of his family. 4 You, my noble general,’ continued he, 4 were deceived, and wounded the supposed deceiver. She fell — yet your arm, unaccustomed to destroy the helpless, lost its strength, and only inflicted a slight wound, — I bore your wife to a cottage, and left her to the care of honest peasants. I returned and saw you were victorious, and again fled to my unfortunate sister, who when she heard of your departure from the country, would with despair have ended her life; bur the gentle hope of beholding you again calmed her agony, which otherwise must have broken her heart. 44 And now, my noble general,’ continued the youth, pressing my hand, 4 I giory in my death, — my fall has restored a husband to my sister, and a father to your in- fant daughter, who both reside i 0 a cottage on the neigh* bouring heath.’ After blessing his sister and me, the valiant youth expired. What horror filled my breast! to be it arried to thee, my Monimia, yet the gentle girl I would have murdered, still living; — these reflections drew drops ol blood from my heart. How could I return to tmbrat e thee with the smile of innocence? how could ] behold you with calmness, when my heart was break- ing? I gave orders for the burial of my galbmt friend, and was weeping over his body, when a female form rushed through a heap of slain, and fell fainting near me. The pale, but well known beauties of in) wi e, attrac ted all my attention towards her; I bore her still insensible to the cottage, directed to me by her gallant brother* Myi nfant girl ran owurdsus, and in the sweetness of her smile, I traced her loveliness that lay insensible before me. She recovered only to prove a life of innocence; and in the sweet hope of leaving a protector to her child, folded me to her constant bosom and expired. 44 Is it being inconstant to thy daughter, my father, to drop a tear to her dear memory? Alas! no; rather let these stains prove the anguish which I felt when the cold ALFRED AND ZARA. 35 remains of the girl that loved me, were sunk into the earth. Nature pleaded for my child, I bore her to some peasants who pointed out to me a man, who lives on the summit of a high hill, not a mile from this castle to be her instructor; there breathes my little unfortunate Zara, who if unprotected, will remain a sorrowful fugitive till she rexts in the grave. This, my Monimia, is the ac- count of a life full of misfortunes. When I pressed my boy in my arms, I would, had i been alone, have given my spirit liberty to fly from this sorrowful world. Ah 1 Matilda, wife of my heart, love my little Alfred; his fa- ther only is guilty. Plead for me, noble Oswald, that his infant purity may be preserved, without imbibing a hatred for hi* haple^ father. And you, my gentle boy, learn by h;s misery to quell those stormy passions which poisoned his existence, and at length guided him to de- spondency and despair. “ OSRICK.” 44 This was your father’s story,” continued the wife of Jaques, 46 press therefore Zara to your bosom, as the sis- ter of your heart, and let the obliteration of a more fer- vent passion take place, by reflecting on the hapless fate of both your parents.” I turned to the swett girl, but her eyes were turned up towards heaven. In despair I clasped my aged monitress, who thus continued, 44 Os- wald’s pr< ud spirit shrunk at the idea of Mummia’s fate, and would not suffer her to peruse a paper, that would prove him blameable, in not having made enquiries con- cerning Osrick’s situation, before he gave him his daugh- ter in marriage. 44 After the misfortune which doomed Monimia to ceaseless misery, Oswald’s first r are wss, to prevent every circumstance concerning Osrick s death from transpiring to the world, and particularly to keep the bitter tidings from Monimia. Five month's after the death of Osrick, Oswald went to the cottage of Jaques, where Zara was placed; and obtained, by a large sum of gold, the smil- ing infant, and in return placed his grandson Alfred with him, sealing his lips by vows, never to reveal his ever having seen, or delivered to his care, the daughter of the general. Oswald gave me a dower of five thousand crowns, and with this sum Jaques took me for his wife. 44 Zara was bred in a remote apartment in the tower of Oswald. About twelve years after she was taken from 34 ALFRED AND ZARA. •Jaques, she escaped from her confinement, and my mas- ter dared not express his uneasiness to Monimia. Thus in a state of inquietude two years more passed on; the health of Monimia gradually declining, whilst the graces ot Alfred increased daily. One night I was alarmed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, 1 fled mto Jaques’s chamber, and was pursued by two negroes, who ap- proached my husband’s bed, and demanded how he had dared murder a female infant, once given to his protec- tion? he denied the charge. They insisted on seeing the apartment where reposed t he you h for whose convenience Osrick’s daughter had been put to death. I .old them that he did not sleep in the cottage; they took a light and searched our dwelling, but returning unsuccessful, they vowed revenge, and plunged a shining poignard into the heart of Jaques; and forcibly dragged me away over many fields to the cell of Egbert the hermit, who receiv- ed me, and desired me not to be alarmed; 1 told him they had murdered my husband 1 he reproved the negroes angrily, and led me to a splendid subterraneous dwelling, where I was told that Zara had fled with a noble youth. • Ah,’ cried I, ‘ Zara is fled with her brother, they are both the children of Osrick, who are seeking thus in mutual love that consolation which their destiny denies.’ I parfed with the hermit, and was returning to my cot- tage, when I met with Oswald, to whom I unfolded the dreadful mystery of the night, which awakened in his breast, rage, astonishment, and honor. He was exas- perated against the hermit, whom he suspected to be the destroyer of Jaques, and whom he abhorred as the pro- tector of Zara, and caused him to be poisoned.” Such is the history of my misfortunes. — i confess that I love Zara too violently, ever to behave to her with the calm affection of a brother. — 1 left my friends, my coun- try, my wretched fhome, and vowed to end my days in solitude, until the handjof death puts an end to my men- tal and heartfelt agony ; and I have only to hope the mo- ment is not far distant. FINIS. Dean and Munday, Printers, 35, Threadneedle-sti eet, London. Published by Jhaygil/ fc jldcork Aug, J, J&03 MONKCLIFFE ABBEY, 2tXale OF THE FIFTEENTH CENT BUY • By S. WILKINSON. To which is added 9 LOPEZ AND ARANTHEf OR, LONDON. Printed for KAYGILL, at his Circulating Library, Upper Rathbone-Place ; MACE, New Round-Court, Strand ; ADCOCK, Charles-Street, Fitzroy-Square ; and may be had of all other Booksellers in Town or Country, PRICE SIXPENCE. Printed by WV G LIN DON, R 0 PE RT -STREET, HayvMatket. MONKCLIFFE ABBEY, A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. Monkcliffe Abbey a venerable building, formerly belonging to the Carthusians, was situated at the foot of a large hill, in a pleasant valley, in the north of England ; as far back as the year 1517, it was inhabited by sir Archibald Barnett, a famous warrior, but now grown aged, he had retired to this abbey to pass the remainder of his days in peace, and domestic felicity, with lady Barnett, and two daughters ; blooming, fair, and elegant in form as the graces. Adeline Barnett was fair as the lilly, tall as the pine, her fine dark eyes sparkling as diamonds, and she moved with the majestic air of a goddess ; but pride and ambition ap- peared on the brow of this famed maiden, and destroying the effect of her charms. Not so, Elwina, whose mild blue eyes, cast around a look of benevolence and pity ; while her hand bestowed the li- beral boon to distressed innocence, and the virtuous poor ; she walked from cottage to cottage, enquiring into their means of livelihood, and the health of their inhabitants. — Seldom did she leave their bumble dwellings without the blessings of the poor, in heartfelt gratitude to Elwina, and her excellent mother ; by whom she was assisted in her cha- ritable exertions. Lady Barnett was of a retired character, her health joined to a love of rural life, and domestic virtues ; had made her intreat sir Archibald to retire to this ruinated edifice, and spend their lives in calm retreat. This plan perfectly met the approbation of sir Archibald, whose fortune having being greatly diminished by his ancestors, in the contest between York and Lancaster, and not meeting with reward from 6 MONKCI.IFFE ABBEY# Henry; he longed to avoid the snares of a courtier’s life, and retired into the Nortii to this Abbey ; the monks having abdicated some years before, he took possession in right of his grandfather, to whom the domain belonged. Here they lived with very few domestics, but happier far than in splendid palaces, and gilded domes ; when they con- templated with pleasure, the progress of their lovely daugh- ters, the eldest of whom, was now seventeen ; El win a, two years younger ; only one circumstance now appeared to damp their happiness. The ambitious turn of mind that seemed to take possession of Adeline, who sighed for the pleasures of a court, and longed for masques, balls, and tournaments. But as these wishes sir Archibald steadily refused to gra- tify, she was obliged to acquiesce to their present mode of living with apparent cheariulness. Though daily were her prayers, that some plumed knight would take her from her castle, but as yet no suitor had appeared, nor did sir Archi- bald wish for their retirement to be known to the vindictive Henry, or the proud cardinal Woisey ; with whom Barnett had been some years at variance. They had now passed some years unnoticed and unseen, till an affair happened, that altered the sameness that usually ruled each day. Adeline and Elwina were walking at the extremity of a wood that belonged to the abbey, when they perceived a gallant knight weltering in his blood, and ap- peared quite senseless ; his horse was gracing at some dis- tance, while a little dog lay licking the face of his master. The ladies shrieked aloud, but recovering their surprize, humanity got the better of their fears, and they hastened towards the stranger, to render him wliat assistance was in their power. Elwina drew forth a small bottle of salts, and applied it to his nostril Is, while Adeline chafed his temples ; but in vain, for he continued insensible> Elwina entreated Adeline to watch the stranger, while she ran to a neigh- bouring cottage to procure relief. She was too far from the abbey, besides the fears of sir Archibald’s reproof. Anthony and his wife, readily offered the best the hovel afforded to lodge the knight ; with great difficulty they helped him to the cottage, where the ladies left him, informing Edda, that they would call the next day. On the way to Monkcliffc, they discoursed on the event,, which gave great uneasiness to Elwina, while on the con- MOXKCLIFFE ABBEY. 7 tr&ry, Adeline was quite elated, the kind del ties at last have smiled, and sent one of us a lover, for such 1 daresay he will prove.” — > Elwina had the happiness in a fewda) r s to see her patient restored to some degree of convalescence — -she, by degrees, related Albert’s adventures, to the great satisfaction of Edward, who acquainted her, that, stung with remorse, he repaired to Sophia, and, bidding her a last farewell, parted from her in anguish; that though she upbrai *ed him with his cruelty to his friend — whom she cleared of making any professions of love to her — yet her former love returning, to soothe their parting she had presented him with the picture Albert had restored. The generosi- ty of his friend now struck forcibly on his mind, — and he repaired to this spot, which he had once seen when he was travelling with his tutor ; and he preferred it, from its vicinity to the place where he supposed that he had committed murder. He had made several enquiries among the cottagers about the body, but without success. — 4b e was now able to walk; and all concealment being now useless, he became the guest of Elwina, who had no doubts of reconciliation when Albert returned — which, to her great joy, he did in a few days, accompanied by her father, who had been honourably acquitted — his an- cient estate restored, with the title of the Earl of Monk- cliffe bestowed on him by his sovereign. They wrote the next day of his enlargement to the ab- bey ; but the courier had not performed his office. Lord Monkcliffe was highly displeased with Adeline, for absent- ing herself from the abbey so long after she was able to re- turn. — He determined to go to the duke’s chateau the next morning, and brin£ her home. — Albert offered to accom- O'' pany him ; — but this he declined, as he intended to make another visit, where he wished to be alone. As soon as he had taken some refreshment, Lord Monk- cliffb departed. Elwina repaired to the library, where Albert sat indulg- ing himself with the thoughts of Adeline’s return ; when Elwina with a lively ail, presented him with Lady Sophia ’ s pict u re . * C 2 *2 )(I • MONKCLrFFE ABBEY. Ci Here is a pfessni: for you, my dear friend \ yr said sLe' y and ^aS’dly’ withdrew. He was "some time before he could recover his sur- prise.— He hastened t‘o the saloon, — for an explanation, Ef^in&;w^is notf.hefe- — and he was going to retire, when Margaret stopt him, and related all the foregoing parti- culars. — Albert could not suppress his manly tears at the rela- tion ; Margaret conducted him to the cemetery, where he found Elwina and his friend awaited him ; a perfect recon- ciliation now took place, and they walked down the road to meet Lord Monkcliffe — and Adeline. But he returned alone ; — and, while the tears ran down his aged cheeks, informed them, — that Adeline was mar- ried that morning to the duke of B n, and had setoff* for the capital, — he by no means liked the duke’s cha- racter and principles; but Adeline’s secresy and disobe- dience, when she thought him in distress, and unkindness- to her sister, greatly distressed him. — Albert was much hurt; and, exclaiming against the coquetry of the sex, took Edward’s arm and walked on while El win a rode home in the chariot with her father. De Clerville related to his friend his ill success with Adeline, whom he owned had given him encouragement to hope. — On some hints given by his friend of EKvina’s attachment to him, a thousand circumstances rushed on his mind, and confirmed the pleasing truth. By this time they arrived at the abbey. — Elwina had acquainted her father with the name and adventures of his guest, — whom he received with great civility. — Albert was greatly rejoiced to be reconciled to his fVitnd; and soon after, having gained the lovely El win a’ s consent, they were united — with the entire approbation of Lord Monkcliff’e ; — who presented Edward with a colonel’s commission on the joyful occasion — Lord Clifford being reconciled, on the mediation of Albert, he was blest with his Sophia. — The duchess figured away with eclat ; but the mild Elwina and her beloved partner remained with Lord Monkcliffe at the abbey,— a pattern of domestic virtues. EOPEZ AHB AK.ANTHE; OR THE SUICIDE. A SPANISH STORY. BY SARAH WILKINSON. D ON Velasquez was a grandee of Spain, a nobleman possest of vast riches, and in great favour with his mo- narch ; he was in his thirty-fifth year, but had never been married. — In consequenee of a disappointment he had met with some years back, he had seriously resolved on a state of celibacy, and refused several overtures that had been made by different gentlemen, who would have been proud of his alliance for their sisters or daughters. But what what was their surprise and astonishment, when Don Velasquez espoused Melina, the daughter of a poor cottager on his estate ! this circumstance, so op- posite to his former vows, and condition of life, was the reigning conversation at Madrid, when Dop Lopez arri- ved from his tour withdiis tutor; he was nephew to Don Velasquez, and consequently expected to be his heir. He was for a while, choaked with r age : but, being per- suaded by Monsieur Villette, his tut^r, a lively if rench** man, to moderate hh passion ; — resolved co visit his unqle. — • Accordingly, they set out the next morning, to a small villa that he had, about five miles distant, where Ve- lasquez and Donna Melina at present resided; — he re- ceived his nephew and friend with a civility that bordered more on ceremony than friendship ; but the reception aor how to know* OR THE SUICIDE. 27 5 Twaslove! ’twas unrequited love, That faded his fair forep ; Corroded so his youthful heart. He sunk beneath the storm. The friars took this man of woe. And chaunting each a stave, They strewed rosemary and rue. And laid him in the grave. She ended, with an air so pathetic, that it thr/lled thro 5 the soul ofVillette ; he now entered the arbour; — she re- ceived his farewel, with a sorrowful countenance; she told him that she found herself soothed by his friend- ship, and should regret his absence; but thought they should meet no more in this world, — she was hastening fast to the next. ‘Banish such ideas, my sweet girl, and drive sorrow from your bosom. 5 — ‘ Would I could ; but it is too firmly rooted, to be re- moved but with life, monsieur ; the past is without reca], and the future paths of my life without hope !’ Charles dropt a tear, on the hand of the weeping fair; on which he imprinted a respectful kiss, and hastened into the house ; — where, taking leave of the kind family, he departed ; — his mind filled with gratitude for their friendly treatment — Lopez received him with pleasure, — and congratulated him on his recovery. Lopez was never more happy than when engaged in vicious pursuits : his mind wars continually planning some scheme of pleasure, which, as long as it benetitted or amused himself, he cared not for the happiness of others; Villette’s sentiments were more refined ; — but the evil ex- ample of his late pupil, now patron, had an ill effect upon Charles ; — who, from the fear of offending Lopez, entered into all his schemes ; — They had already embroiled themselves in several petty quarrels, which might have brought on more serious con- sequences, — had they not been sent for, from Seville; — - Velasquez having been indisposed sometime, his illness 2-OPE2 ANI> ARANTIIjZ ; 2 $ had now taken a more serious turn, — a^dhe was desirous to see his nephew. They accordingly s«t out. for Madrid ; but in their road called at Don Sebastian according to the promise of Charles — Fie was informed by his old friend, Beatrice, that her young mistress, Floretta, — was married to Frederic ; that she was gone to settle at Barcelona ; that her master and Don Antonio were gone to Madrid; but that Aranthe. was at home ; * Who, l am sure, will be glad to see you ; but in the mean time set down, Seigneurs, and I will bring you some refresh- ment, after so long a journey, it will no doubt be agree- able, x Setting some wine, fruit, and biscuits before them, she departed to fetch her mistress — 4 Upon my soul,, a very pretty adventure ! — what are these girls?’ (for they were absent on a visit the time the accident took place). ‘No wonder you staid to nurse your arm so long; how sly you are, Charles; — was you afraid of my running away with your prize - To all these questions, which were spoken in a breath,. Charles only answered, , there is no adventure, sir, on my part and as for the lady, she is too serious for an* amour; — without the eloquence of your tongue can do wonders. * Aranthe’s voice, being heard in the passage, Charles got up, and opening the door, saluted her, and led her into the parlour — ‘This, madam, is my friend Don Lopez, . who ’ — ‘ Heavenly powers 1’ exclaimed Aranthe, € it is Dori- mont, or else my eyes deceive me,’ Overpowered with surprise, , and almost breathless, she sunk on the carpet. Lopez stood aghast* his countenance was of a deadly pale — a glass of wine lie had in his hand, he let fall to the floor, while he articulated, * What an alteration in that once beauteous face !’— deep compunction of conscience seemed to strike him, and he exclaimed, . ‘Am I such a wretch !’ Charles had half raised her from the floor but Lopez, darting forward, stove to snatch her from Villette’s arm. She exoJaimed, ‘ off, base seducer ! vile ungrateful OR THE SUICIDE. *9 man ! — dost thou come' here, to triumph over this poor faded form ? — to sting me with tortures worse than death ? hence from my sight 1 / — She attempted to withdraw; but, catching hold of Villette, actually fainted . Fearful of calling for assistance, lest Aranthe shduld notdike Beatrice to iind out a secret, she had so carefully guarded; he seated her in a chair; and giving her a glass of water, he untied a black veh- vet string from about her neck, to give her freer respira- lion ; and drawing it out to lay it on the table, to his sur- prise, there was a smaller string attachedto it ; from whence was suspended a miniature of Lopez, — carefully concealed from observation. — Charles remembered, when they were in France, — that Lopez had told him, he had lost this picture at the Opera. — She now revived, and seemed more calm ; but casting a look of anguish on Villette, — she said, 4 How could you have the cruelty to bring him here ?’ 4 Believe me, madam, it was unintentional on my part ; the words and actions of you both are a mystery to me.’ 4 No, Aranthe !’ exclaimed Lopez, 4 I have not had the meanness to make you the subject of conversation, nor wantonly expose you ! ’ — 6 I accquityou of that charge, in respect of this lady ; the rest of your apology 1 leave you to make to this afflicted girl, whose silent sorrows have often drawn the tear of .pity from my eye.’ 4 You plead weD,’ replied Lopez, with a sneering smile— 4 perhaps you have been the confidante ofher silent woes ?’ . 4 Dorimont, I was going to call v *you ; but, even in your name, I find you have deceived me ; disturb not the only tranquillity I have left ; here I weep my wrongs, (nay, frown not;) I repeat it, my wrongs, — in secret, — to no one have 1 disclosed my loss of honour : Mr. Vil- lette will not disclose the story of my shame ! I rest upon his honour without a doubt : then leave me,. Don Lopez, leave me to die in peace .’ 6 But, why then keep this miniature ? surely — you must still regard the giver P 3 * LOPEZ AWB aranthe; 4 Too much, I fear — replied Aranthe, ‘ but then l knew not half the deception, I now see — * Lopez was about to utter something in vindication of himself; — but Aranthe left the room, without deigning to hear what he had to say* — Charles, who was extremely hurt, at tha confirmation of his patron’s villainy, now pressed him to depart ; which he did, without much seeming reluctance. — On the road, Villette asked him how he came to be so ignorant of the abode pf his mistress, — or where he had met with Aranthe, — * In Paris ; she is a silly girl to fret in this manner ; what consequence is this honor, that she makes such a parade about ? ’twas her foolish qualms, that so soon made me sick of her.* 4 I should be ashamed to avow it.’ said Villette, 4 You are very free,’ replied Lopez/ how long have you turned saint ? * 4 I never had any pretensions to that title, seigneur ; but, thank my stars, in that respect, I have never been the seducer of innocence ! ’ 4 Why don’t you make love to Aranthe, Charles ? — She seems calculated to your pious temper, — now you are grown such an advocate for virtuous sentiments.’ 4 Not for worlds, would I hurt the feelings of such a wo- man ; — who suffers such severe pangs, by self condem- nation; — and still loves her base betrayer, while she must detest his actions.’ 4 Well, Charles, will you take the office of mediator, and persuade her to see me once more ?’ 4 Most readily, if you promise to make it on purpose to Offer some reparation to her wrongs, and not to insult the victim of your falsehood.’ ’Sdeath, you give your tongue great liberties, nad take upon you the freedom of speech to a greater extent, than I care lo put up with.’ 4 Pardon me, Don Lopez,’ said Villette, 4 though I am not many years older than yourself, and have had my share in most fashionable follies, yeti sometimes recollect I was your tutor, I am now your sincere friend ; — but I take a pride to say, — that neither by precept, or example, you learnt these dangerous vices from me;— but, as the sub-. OH THE SUICIDE. 3 * ject only seems to make us differ, let us drop it. — I wish not to interrupt the amity that has hitherto subsisted/ Lopez bit his lip, and seemed hurt, but took the offer* ed hand of Charles, and pressed it with cordiality. — In a little time, they arrived at Madrid ; they hastened to Don Velasquez, whom they found much worse than they had expected from the letter; — bis disorder on the preceding day, had taken a dangerous turn — and the physicians had given him over, without any hopes. They found him surrounded with his counsellors, and the necessary attendants of the law, — signing his will with a composed and steady countenance ; he welcomed them with affection, and told his nephew his only request to him, was, to take care and protect Donna Melina, and his dear little Raymond : — that by his will he had be- queathed a considerable legacy to Villette, whom he wished to be preceptor to his son as soon as he was arrived at a proper age ; — that his mother and Lopez, he appointed to be his guardians ; — that, in case of the death of either of the guardians, he wished Charles to take that office : — - 6 The estate I purchased in Catakmia is yours, my dear nephew : continue in the paths of virtue; and, when you marry, may you be as blest as I have been ; — • Melina is not old Godfred’s daughter, a cottager on my estate, though she has always past as such; he is ignorant of her extraction, but he has behaved with kindness to her; and, as such, I have rewarded him. 6 About three years before my marriage, he met with considerable losses in his farming stock ; — and being seiz- ed with a dangerous illness, thought he should die — he requested to see me ; — and always attentive to the calls of the afflicted, I waited on him immediately. — 6 After some preamble, he told me that he had an affair that lay heavy on his mind. 4 My good Seigneur, J am in want ! — Melina, my love, retire into the next room/ I was struck with the beauty and graces of her person, * Godlred, said 1/ 4 you are blest with a lovely girl / 4 Ah 1 seigneur, that is my grief ; she is not my daugh- ter, nor do I know whose child she is/ 4 Some years ago, — I was driving my cattle along the road ; I heard the piercing cry of an infant. I stopt, at 3 * LOPEZ AND APANl'ilE; tentive to the sound — it seemed to proceed from a small inclosure of trees, near the road side — 6 Robert, my man that attended me in my farm, leapt over the hedge, and discovered a sweet infant, not above thyce weeks old, — wrapt in a rich mantle; in it was a bracelet of pearl, with a magnificent diamond — In all my distress, 1 have never parted with them ; ail my fear is, that I should now be obliged to part with them from mere necessity. Take them, Don Velasquez, I pray you ; you will befriend the orphan, — I know the excellenceofyour heart; she is not informed of her being a foundling — ‘ My wife who had lately lost her only child, took great delight in this sweet infant, and brought her up as our own, nor did she know any other, when my wife embraced her on her dying bed, and admonished her, on her future conduct in life. — ‘ We thought it would make her unsettled, and un- happy— were she informed of it, but now, that death stares. me in my face, the fate of this dear girl embitters my last moments. * Do not let that distress you, my good Godfred; — I will provide for Melina; — I will place her in a convent for education ; — and take care that you want for nothing.* He surrendered to me the mantle and bracelet; — but all rny endeavours to trace her parentage were fruitless, . though I doubt not, her birth is noble. — Godfred recovered, and in my fftquent visits to the co went, I became enamoured of Melina ; disregarding her want of fortune, and not being answerable to any one for my conduct, 1 espoused her; and must do her the justice to say, that she behaved to me with such duty and kindness, — that she is the only cause of my regret, in leaving this world ! God bless you, Lopez; and you, my (dear Charles, be kind to Raymond !* The gentlemen now withdrew; — and, before night, Don Velasquez breathed his last, to the great loss of his domestics and tenants, who sincerely lamented him. As soon as the funeral was over, Lopez resigned his post officially, that he held at Seville, and prepared to depart for Catalonia ; but first called on Charles, to procure him another interview with Aranthe, which, as he had passed his word, he endeavoured to fulfil. — He took horse, and rode to Don Sebastian’s habitation ; on THE SUICIDE. he informed Aranthe, of the task he had unwillingly un- dertaken : she positively refused to comply ; but informed him, that, if Lopez had any thing to communicate, sh« would receive a letter from him, but nothing farther. — Villette* was sorry to see her looks greatly altered for the worse; — on his return, he told Lopez of the ill success of his mission. Lopez seemed greatly chagrined at what he termed her obstinacy ; and wrote a letter for Villette to take, which he promised should be the last one he would trouble him with— When Villette arrived at the cottage, he found Aran- the very ill, reclining on a sofa ; after perusing the letter, with a countenance full of indignation, she presented it to Charles, — who could not command his temper, when he found it contained, after a number of protestations of regard, an offer of a settlement, on condition of her accom- panying him to Catalonia. — • ‘ Good heavens 1 of what can this wretch’s heart be made ? of what impenetrable stuff can it be made. ? when he sees you in this wretched state, the victim of his wrongs. * But tell me, dear Aranthe, how did you meet with this wretch, for I can give him no other name ? * That I will comply with,’ said she * whatever pain it may give me ; but 1 will be as concise as possible. * When l was at Paris, with Donna Clara, I unfortu- nately attracted the notice of your friend, who went under the name of Dorimont, he informed me that his father was a merchant of considerable property, whom he should disoblige if he married against his consent ; and desired our marriage might be private ; that I would keep it a secret from my relations, and Donna Clara — 6 Numberless were the arts he used to ingratiate him- self into my favor : — at last I gave consent to his measures, though 1 must own I did not like such clandestine pro- ceedings ; but love and importunity overcame my scruples. 6 Donna Clara was gone to the Opera ; Lopez came at the appointed hour, and brought with him a friar, and a young gentleman to witness the contract — 6 We were married ; but still my mind was ill at ease. Don Lopez soon dropt the obsequious lover; he seldom visited me, according to his appointments. I now found my- welfpregnant ; I communicated this intelligence to — Lopez . 3 4 LOPEZ AND ARANTHE; Dorimont, as I then called him. — I toklhim, I rmast beg le ive to inform my family ofmy marriage; that I was sure, for my sake, they would not betray the secret — ‘ But what was my surprise and horror, when he in- formed me that I was not his wife; — but that as I would not yield upon other terms, he had contrived this method to get me in his power. — 4 He informed me he was going to leave Paris shortly, and he would take me with him, offering me a settlement for life. This flung me into an agony of passion, — I could not utter a syllable ; — he took the advantage of this — sa- luting me, he left the house, and told me he would call the next day. I passed the night in unsufferable anguish ; sometimes I thought it was not reality, that his words must be the effect of passion. — 6 I resolved not to see him more ; but , in the midst of this resolution, the servant introduced him ; — he entered with an air of gaiety that gave me great disgust: he again pressed me to fly with him ; — but finding me averse to any such proposal, abruptly told me, my obstinacy must Le on my own head ; that affairs of consequence called him from Paris ; that he was not returning to our native country, but was going to England; — that if ever I thought proper to apply to him, I must send a letter to De Lunger’s hotel, directed for Monsieur le Rvun. - He now left n i e in agonies of mind that almost deprived me of fny reason ; nor have I seen him, till that time he accompanied you here. — • • Almost frantic, I flung myself at the feet of Donna Clara, and confessed the whole atrair. — She inveighed bitterly against my weakness, but melting into p ty, she prrv.-'d herself a sincere friend : 4 The business that brought her to Paris was now finished, but she protracted her stay for some time, till my delivery, when I was brought to bed of a dead child. 4 Donna Clara wrote a letter to De Danger VHotel, ac- quainting Lopez with this circumstance ; whether he re- ceived it, I know not; we now returned tw Donna Clara’s house, which is a few miles from hence. — * 4 In a short time 1 came home, — where I have ever since remained, a victim to grief:! this affair has never transpired, my family is not acquainted with it. Oft TUX SUICIDE. 35 c Grunt, heaven, it never may! my brother’s sense of honour is nice ; I wish not my last moments to be marked either with the blood of Lopez, or Antonio. — Villette, take one melancholy charge; restore this picture to the giver, with my sincere pardon for my wrongs.’ Villette returned home, where he gently expostulated with Lopez, for sending him with such a message : this took no effect ; but when he told him the state of Aranthe, and produced the picture,- with her melancholy pardon, his whole frame became agitated, while he exclaimed ; 4 1 am a murderer, a. guilty wretch ! — my sweet inno- cent Aranthe, would 1 could again see thee in that bloom of health and beauty, I so wantonly destroyed! O ! I cannot survive her; — dead me to her; let me make atonement — at her feet !’ He became delirious, and in a high fever, calling on Aranthe and begging earnestly for death ; he at length recovered, but continued in a weak state. At length, Villette received news of Aranthc’s death ; he tried to conceal it from Lopez. — But in vain — he had privately sent servants to Don Sebastian’s cottage, — and had learnt the fatal intelligence. Don Sebastian had invited Charles to her funeral ; he went, as he understood it was Aranthels desire, and re- joiced that his friend was ignorant of her death; — but in this he was mistaken — The corpse was carried by young maidens in white, singing a funeral dirge — the mourners following behind, in melancholv procession ! No sooner was the ceremony finished, but they were alarmed, at the sound of a pisxl just behind them; it was the unhappy Lopez. By the intercession of his family, he was buried in the same grave with unfortunate Aran- the, with this small inscription i i May heaven take them to itsmerey !’ Villette was greatly shocked at the death of Lopez, and was a considerable time before he recovered the shock. Lopez bad made his will, and bequeathed his fortune and the estate in Catalonia to Charles; — who, soon after married Melina, with whom he lived in happiness and connubial bliss. D 3 ABBEY - OF CMJMJEB A ]L F» A TALE. HH JL HE last rays of tlie setting sun yet lingered on the mountains which surrounded the district of ,when Edward de Courtenay, after two fatiguing campaigns on the plains of Flanders, in one of which the gall-ant Sidney fell, reentered his native village toward the end of August 1 58 7. He had lost his father a few months before his departure from the continent, a loss which had occasioned him the most severe affliction, and had induced him thus early in life to seek, amid the din of arms, and the splendour of mi- litary parade, a pause" from painful recollection . With slow and pausing steps lie moved along the avenue of trees, that led to his paternal mansion. Twilight had by this time wrapt every object in a veil of pleasing obscurity ; the solitary grandeur of his Gothic halls, impressed the imagi- nation of Edward with deep sensations of solemnity and awe. Two gray-headed servants, who had lived for near half a century in the family, received their young master at the gate, and while the tears trickled down their wi- thered cheeks, expressed with artless simplicity their jov, and blessed the return of the son of their ancient benefactor. After some affectionate enquiries concerning the families of these old men, Edward expressed his intention of walk- ing to the abbey of Clunedale, which lay about a mile distant from the house; his filial affection, gave birth to the wish of lingering a few moments over the turf which covered the remains of his beloved parent. Scarce however had be intimated this resolution, when the ghastly paleness which overspread the countenances of his domestics, assur- ed him that something extraordinary was connected with the determination he had adopted, and upon enquiry, his terrified servants informed him, that for some months past, they and the country round had been alarmed by strange eights and noises at the abbey, and that no one durst ap- proach the place after sun-set. Edward, smiling at the superstitious fears of his attendants, turned into the great avenue, and striking off to the left, soon reached the river, on whose winding banks a pathway led to the abbey. ABBEY OF CLUNEDALE. 37 This venerable structure had been surrendered to Hen- ry via. in 1540, and having been partly unroofed du- ring the same year, had experienced a rapid decay. It continued, however, to be a depositary for the dead, and part of the family of the Courtenays had for some centu- ries reposed in vaults built on the outside of the great west entrance of the church . In a spot adjacent to this ancient cemetry lay also the remains of the father of Edward, and hither filial piety was now conducting the young warrior, as the gathering shades of evening dropped their deep gray tints on all around. Tile view of the abbey, dismantled and falling fast to decay, presented an image of departed greatness. Its fine Gothic windows and arches streaming with ivy, were only just perceptible through the dusk as Edward reached the consecrated ground, where, kneeling down at the tomb of his father, he remained for some time absorbed in the tender indulgence of sorrow. Having closed, how- ever, his pious petitions for the soul of the deceased, he was rising from the hollow, mould, and about to retrace his pathway homewards, when a dim light glimmering from amid the ruins, arrested his attention. Greatly astonished at a phenomenon so singular, and suddenly call- ing to remembrance the ghastly appearance and fearful re- ports made by his servants, he stood for some moments rivetted to the spot, with his eyes fixed on the light, which still continued to gleam steadily. Determined, however, to ascertain from what cause it proceeded , he approached the west entrance of the church; here the light appeared to issue from the choir, which being toward the other end of the building, be glided along its exterior, and passing the refectory and chapter-house, re-entered the church by the south portal near the choir. With footsteps light as air he moved along the damp and mouldering pavement, while pale rays gleaming from afar, faintly glanced on the shafts of some pillars seen in distant perspective down the great isle. Having now entered the choir, he could distinctly perceive the place from whence the light pro- ceeded, and on approaching stiil nearer, dimly distinguish- ed a human form kneeling opposite to it. The curiosity of Courtenay being now strongly excited, he determined to ascertain, if possible, who the stranger was, and from what motives he visited, at so unusual. ail ABBEY OF CLUNEDALF. 3S hour, a place so solitary and deserted; passing therefore 2K)iseless along one of the side isles, separated from the choir, by a kind of elegant lattice work, he at length stood parallel with the spot — where the figure was situate, and had a perfect side view of the object of his search. It appeared to be a middk aged man, who was kneeling on a marble slab near the great aitar, and before a small niche in the screen, which divides the choir from the east end of the church ; in the niche was placed a lamp and crucifix : he had round him a coarse black garment bound with a leathern girdle, but no covering on his head, and as the light gleamed upon his features, Edward was shocked at the despair that seemed fixed in their expression ; and was about to ackkess the unhappy man, when groans, as from a spirit in torture, and which seemed to rend the very bosom from which they issued, prevented his intention, and he beheld the miserable stranger prostrate in agony on the marble. In a few minutes he arose, and drawing from beneath his garment an unsheathed sword, held it in his bancs towards heaven, his eyes glared with the lightning of frenzy. At this instant, Edward deemed it highly necessary to interfere, and was stepping forward with that view ; his purpose was suddenly arrested by the sound of distant music, which stealing along the remote parts of the abbey, in notes that breathed a soothing and delicious harmony, seemed to arise from the viewless harps of spirits of the blest. Over the agitated soul of the stranger it appeared to diffuse the balm of peace ; he cross- ed his arms in meek submission on his bosom, and as the tones approached still nearer, the tears started in his eyes, and coursing down his cheeks, bathed the deadly instru- ment, yet gleaming in his grasp: this, however, with a heavy sigh, he now placed in a niche, and bowing gently forward, seemed to pray devoutly ; the convulsions which had shaken his frame ceased ; tranquillity sat upon his brow, while in strains that melted into holy rapture every harsh emotion, the same celestial music still passed alongthe air and 'filled the compass or the abbey. Courtenay witnessed with sincere pleasure the favoura- bl change in the mind and countenance of the stranger, who still knelt before the lamp, by whose pale light he beheld a perfect resignation tranquillize those features, which had been distorted by the struggles of remorse. 40 ABBEY OF CLUNEDALE. While Edward was yet speaking, a ghastly paleness overspread the countenance of the elder stranger; it was momentary, however, for soon resuming his tranqu.lify, he addressed Courtenay, in a low but firm tone of voice. 4 I will conduct you, sir, to the spot we inhabit, where, should you wish for an explanation of the extraordinary scenes you have been a spectator of this night, the recital, though it will cost me many struggles shall be given you; and 1 do this, strange asit may now sound to you, actu- ated by the recollection of past friendship/ Having said this, he and his beautiful partner moved slowly on, and Courtenay followed in silence. They passed along a large portion of the cloy sters, ascend- ing some steps, entered what is called the dormitory. Here in two small chambers, were a couple of beds, and a small quantity of neat furniture, and here the stranger pausing invited Edward to enter. 4 Tiiese rooms,’ obser- ved he, 4 are my occasional habitation for at least twice a week during the night ; but before I commence the me- lancholy narrative of my crimes and sufferings, I will en- deavour to recal your recollection to your companion in arms upon the continent ; for this purpose I will retire for a few minutes and put on the dress I usually come hi- ther in . Edward ventured to ask the lady, if the exquisite per- formance he had listened to with so much delight, had not originated with her. A deeps ghat this question escaped her bosom, and her eyes filled with tears, while in tre- mulous accents she replied, that owing to the great re- lief and support her brother experienced from music, she always accompanied him to this place. At this instant the door opening, the stranger entered clothed in a mourn- ing military undress, and bearing. a taper in his hand ; he placed himself, the light gleaming on his countenance, opposite Courtenay, who involuntarily started at his appearance. 4 Do you not remember,’ he exclaimed 4 the officer who was wounded by your side at the battle of Zut- phen ? ’ 4 My God cried Edward, 4 can it be Clifford r ' 4 The same, my friend, the same/ he replied. 4 You behold, Courtenay, the most miserable of men; but let me not pain my sweet Caroline by the recital of facts, which have already wounded almost to dissolution her tender heart : — we will walk, my friend, into the abbey ; its awful gloom will better suit the dreadful tale I have to ABBEY OF CLUNEBALE. 41 unfold.’ Saying this, and promising h’s sister to return in a few minutes, they descended into the cloysters, and from thence through the choir into the body of the church. Oh, my friend,’ Clifford exclaimed, * the spirits of those’ I have injured hover near us!’ Beneath that marble slab, repose the relics of a beloved wife, the most amiable of her sex, and who owes her death to the wild sugges- tions of my jealous frenzy. You may probably recol- lect, about a twelvemouth ago, my obtaining leave of the carl of Leicester to visit England ; I came, my friend, up- on a fatal errand. 1 learnt, through the medium of an of- ficious relation, that my wife, my beloved Matilda, had attached herself to a young man who had visited in the neighbourhood of my estate at C n, but that she had lately removed for the summer months to a small house and farm I possess, within a mile or two of this abbey, and that here likewise she continued to receive the attentions of the young stranger. Fired by representations such as these, I returned to England in disguise, and found the report of my relation the theme of common conversation in the country, It was on the evening of a fine summer’s day, that I reached the hamlet of G ,and with a tremb- ling hand and palpitating heart knocked at my door. The servant informed me that Matilda had walked toward the abbey. I immediately took the same route; the sun had set, and the gray tints of evening had wrapt every object in uniform repose; the moon however was rising, and in a short time silvered parts of the ruin and its neighbouring trees. I placed myself in the shadow of one of the but- tresses, and had not waited long ere Matilda appeared, leaning on the arm of the stranger. You may conceive the extreme agitation of my soul at a spectacle like this ; un- happily, revenge was, at the instant, the predominating emotion, and rushing forward with my sword, I called upon the villain, as I then thought him, to defend himself: Matilda fell insensible on the earth, and only recovered recollection at the moment when my sword had pierced the bosom of the stranger. With shrieks of agony and despair she sprang toward the murdered youth, and Fil- ing on his body, exclaimed, ‘ My brother, my dear, dear brother !’ ‘ Had all nature fallen in dissolution around me, mr astonishment and horror could not have been greater than 4 S ABBEY OP CLUXEDALE. what I felt from these words. The very marrow froze in my bones, and I stood fixed to the ground, an image of despair and guilt. Meantime the life blood of the un- happy Walsingham ebbed fast away, and he expired at my feet, and in the arms of his bcloted sister, who, at this event, perhaps fortunately for us both, relapsed into a state of insensibility. My own emotions, on recovering from the stupor into which I had been thrown, were those I believe of frenzy, nor can I now dwell upon them with safety, nor without a partial dereliction of intellect. Suffice it to say, that 1 had sufficient presence of mind left to apply for assistance at the nearest cottage, and that the hapless victims of my folly were at length conveyed to the habitation of Matilda. Another dreadful scene awaited her, the recognition of her husband as the murderer of her brother; — -this, through the attention of my friends, for I myself was incapable of acting with rationality, was for some time postponed ; it came at length, however, through the agonies of my remorse and contrition, to her knowiedge^and two months have scarce elapsed since I placed her by the side of her poor brother, who, at the fatal moment of our rencounter, had not been many months returned from the Indies, and was in person a perfect stranger to your friend. Beneath that marble slab they rest; my Courtenay, and ere this, I believe, and through the medium of my own lawless hand, I should have parta- ken of their grave, had not my dear sister stepped in like an angel between her brother and destruction . Such, my friend, is the history of my crimes and sufferings, and such the causes of the phenomena you have beheld to night.* Edward was compelled, though reluctantly, to take leave of his friends, and hasten to remove the extreme alarm into which his servants had been thrown by his unexpected detention. Time, and the soothing attentions of his be- loved sister, restored at length to perfect peace the hitherto agitated mind of Clifford, who saw the union of Caroline and Edward, and with them passed the remainder of his days* FINIS. Eetliam, Printer, Furnival’s-lnn Court, Holbora. 82