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A
SICILIAN ROMANCE.


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A
:
*
SICILIAN ROMANCE.
-
BY THE AUTHORESS OF THE
CASTLEs of ATHLIN AND DUNBAYNE.
27/7
~
IN TWO VOLUMES.
T H E S E C O N D, E D I T I C) N.
VOLUM E. I.
-
“I could a Tale unfold.”
L O N D O N :
PRINTED FOR HO OK HAM AND CA R PEN TER 2. O L.P
AND NEw Bo ND-STREET.
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***
×
A
SICILIAN ROMAN CE.
N the northern shore of Sicily are
still to be seen the magnificent
remains of a castle, which formerly be-
longed to the noble house of Mazzini.
It stands in the centre of a small bay,
and upon a gentle acclivity, which, on
one side, slopes towards the sea, and on
the other rises into an eminence crown-
ed by dark woods. The situation is ad-
mirably beautiful and picturesque, and
the ruins have an air of ancient gran-
deur, which, contrasted with the present
solitude of the scene, impresses the
traveller with awe and curiosity. During
my travels abroad I visited this spot.
r— As I walked over the loose fragments
* Vol. I. B of


( 2 )
of stone, which lay scattered through
the immense area of the fabrick, and
surveyed the sublimity and grandeur of
the ruins, I recurred, by a natural asso-
ciation of ideas, to the times when these
walls stood proudly in their original
splendour, when the halls were the
scenes of hospitality and festive magni-
ficence, and when they resounded with
the voices of those whom death had long
since swept from the earth. “ Thus,"
said I, "shall the present generation—
he who now sinks in misery—and he
who now swims in pleasure, alike pass
away and be forgotten." My heart swell-
ed with the reflection; and, as I turned
from the scene with a sigh, I fixed
my eyes upon a friar, whose venerable
figure, gently bending towards the
earth, formed no uninteresting object in
the picture. He observed my emotion;
and, as my eye met his, shook his head
and pointed to the ruin. "These walls,"
said he, "were once the seat of luxury
and


( 3 )
and vice. They exhibited a singular
instance of the retribution of Heaven,
and were from that period forsaken,
and abandoned to decay." His words
excited my curiosity, and I enquired
further concerning their meaning.
"A solemn history belongs to this
castle," said he, "which is too long and
intricate for me to relate. It is, how-
ever, contained in a manuscript in our
library, of which I could, perhaps, pro-
cure you a fight. A brother of our or-
der, a descendant of the noble house of
Mazzini, collected and recorded the
most striking incidents relating to his
family, and the history thus formed, he
left as a legacy to our convent. If you
please, we will walk thither."
I accompanied him to the convent,
and the friar introduced me to his supe-
rior, a man of an intelligent mind and
benevolent heart, with whom I pasted
some hours in interesting conversation.
I believe my sentiments pleased him;
B 2. for


( 4 )
for by his indulgence, I was permitted
to take abstracts of the history before
me, which, with some further particu-
lars obtained in conversation with the
abate, I have arranged in the following
pages.
CHAP,


( 5 )
CHAPTER I.
OWARDS the close of the six-
teenth century, this castle was in
the possession of Ferdinand, fifth mar-
quis of Mazzini, and was for some years
the principal residence of his family.
He was a man of a voluptuous and
imperious character. To his first wife,
he married Louisa Bernini, second
daughter of the count della Salario,
a lady yet more distinguished for the
sweetness of her manners and the gen-
tleness of her disposition, than for her
beauty. She brought the marquis
one son and two daughters, who lost
their amiable mother in early child-
hood. The arrogant and impetuous cha-
racter of the marquis, operated power-
fully upon the mild and susceptible na-
ture of his lady; and it was by many
persons believed, that his unkindness
and neglect put a period to her life.
B 3 How-


( 6 )
However this might be, he soon after-
wards married Maria de Vellorno, a
young lady eminently beautiful, but of
a character very opposite to that of her
predecessor. She was a woman of infi-
nite art, devoted to pleasure, and of an
unconquerable spirit. The marquis,
whose heart was dead to paternal ten-
derness, and whose present lady was too
volatile to attend to domestic concerns,
committed the education of his daugh-
ters to the care of a lady, completely
qualified for the undertaking, and who
was distantly related to the late mar-
chioness.
He quitted Mazzini soon after his
second marriage, for the gaieties and
splendour of Naples, whither his son
accompanied him. Though naturally
of a haughty and overbearing disposi-
tion, he was governed by his wife. His
passions were vehement, and she had the
address to bend them to her own pur-
poſe;


( 7 )
poſe; and so well to conceal her influ-
ence, that he thought himself most in-
dependent when he was most enslaved.
He paid an annual visit to the castle of
Mazzini; but the marchioness seldom
attended him, and he staid only to give
such general directions concerning the
education of his daughters, as his pride,
rather than his affection, seemed to
dictate.
Emilia, the elder, inherited much of
her mother's disposition. She had a
mild and sweet temper, united with a
clear and comprehensive mind. Her
younger sister, Julia, was of a more
lively cast. An extreme sensibility sub-
jected her to frequent uneasiness; her
temper was warm, but generous ; she
was quickly irritated, and quickly ap-
peased; and to a reproof, however gen-
tle, she would often weep, but was never
sullen. Her imagination was ardent,
and her mind early exhibited symp-
B 4 - to 11S


( 8 )
toms of genius. It was the particular
care of madame de Menon to counter-
act those traits in the disposition of her
young pupils, which appeared inimical
to their future happineſs ; and for this
task she had abilities which entitled her
to hope for success. A series of early
misfortunes had entendered her heart,
without weakening the powers of her un-
derstanding. In retirement she had ac-
quired tranquillity, and had almost lost
the consciousness of those sorrows which
yet threw a soft and not unpleasing
shade over her character. She loved
her young charge with maternal fond-
ness, and their gradual improvement
and respectful tenderness repaid all
her anxiety. Madame excelled in mu-
sic and drawing. She had often forgot
her sorrows in these amusements, when
her mind was too much occupied to de-
rive consolation from books, and ſhe was
assiduous to impart to Emilia and Julia
a power so valuable as that of beguil-
1ng


( 9 )
ing the sense of affliction. Emilia's
taste led her to drawing, and she soon
made rapid advances in that art. Julia
was uncommonly susceptible of the
charms of harmony. She had feelings
which trembled in unison to all its va-
rious and enchanting powers.
The instructions of madame she caught
with astonishing quickness, and in a short
time attained to a degree of excellence
in her favourite study, which few per-
sons have ever exceeded. Her manner
was entirely her own. It was not in
the rapid intricacies of execution, that
she excelled so much in as in that deli-
cacy of taste, and in these enchanting
powers of expression, which seem to
breathe a soul through the sounds and
which take captive the heart of the
hearer. The lute was her favourite in-
strument, and its tender notes accorded
well with the sweet and melting tones
of her voice.
The castle of Mazzini was a large ir-
B 5 regular


( Io )
regular fabrick, and seemed suited to
receive a numerous train of followers,
such as, in those days, served the nobi-
lity, either in the splendour of peace, or
the turbulence of war. Its present fa-
mily inhabited only a small part of it;
and even this part appeared forlorn and
almost desolate from the spaciousness of
the apartments, and the length of the
galleries which led to them. A melan-
choly stillness reigned through the halls,
and the silence of the courts, which
were shaded by high turrets, was for
many hours together undisturbed by
the found of any foot-step. Julia, who
discovered an early taste for books,
loved to retire in an evening to a small
closet in which she had collected her fa-
vourite authors. This room formed
the western angle of the castle: one of
its windows looked upon the sea, be-
yond which was faintly seen, skirting
the horizon, the dark rocky coast of
Calabria; the other opened towards a
- part


( 11 )
part of the castle, and afforded a proſ.
pect of the neighbouring woods. Her
musical instruments were here deposit-
ed, with whatever assisted her favourite
amusements. This spot, which was at
once elegant, pleasant, and retired, was
embellished with many little ornaments
of her own invention, and with some
drawings executed by her sister. The
closet was adjoining her chamber, and
was separated from the apartments of
madame, only by a short gallery. This
gallery opened into another, long and
winding, which led to the grand stair-
case, terminating in the north hall, with
which the chief apartments of the north
side of the edifice communicated.
Madame de Menon's apartment open-
ed into both galleries. It was in one of
these rooms that she usually spent the
mornings, occupied in the improve-
ment of her young charge. The win-
dows looked towards the sea, and the
room was light and pleasant. It was
B 6 their


( 12 )
their custom to dine in one of the lower
apartments, and at table they were al-
ways joined by a dependant of the
marquis's, who had resided many years
in the castle, and who instructed the
young ladies in the Latin tongue, and
in geography. During the fine even-
ings of summer, this little party fre-
quently supped in a pavilion, which
was built on an eminence in the woods
belonging to the castle. From this spot
the eye had an almost boundless range
of sea and land. It commanded the
straits of Messina, with the opposite
shores of Calabria, and a great extent
of the wild and picturesque scenery of
Sicily. Mount Etna, crowned with
eternal snows, and ſhooting from among
the clouds, formed a grand and sub-
lime picture in the back ground of the
scene. The city of Palermo was also
distinguishable; and Julia, as she gazed
on its glittering spires, would endea-
vour in imagination to depicture its
beau-


( 13 )
beauties, while she secretly sighed for
a view of that world, from which she
had hitherto been secluded by the mean
jealousy of the marchioness, upon whose
mind the dread of rival beauty operated
strongly to the prejudice of Emilia and
Julia. She employed all her influence
over the marquis to detain them in re-
tirement; and, though Emilia was now
twenty, and her sister eighteen, they
had never passed the boundaries of their
father's domains.
Vanity often produces unreasonable
alarm; but the marchioness had in this
instance just grounds for apprehension;
the beauty of her lord's daughters has
seldom been exceeded. The person of
Emilia was finely proportioned. Her
complexion Was fair, her hair flaxen,
and her dark blue eyes were full of
sweet expression. Her manners were
dignified and elegant, and in her air was
a feminine softness, a tender timidity,
which irresistibly attracted the heart of
the beholder. The figure of Julia was
- light


m - -
-
( 14 )
light and graceful—her step was airy-
her mien animated, and her smile en-
chanting. Here eyes were dark, and
full of fire, but tempered with modest
sweetness. Her features were finely
turned—every laughing grace played
round her mouth, and her countenance
quickly discovered all the various emo-
tions of her soul. The dark auburn
hair which curled in beautiful profusion
in her neck, gave a finishing charm to
her appearance.
Thus lovely, and thus veiled in ob-
scurity, were the daughters of the no-
ble Mazzini. But they were happy, for
they knew not enough of the world se-
riously to regret the want of its enjoy-
ments, though Julia would sometimes
sigh for the airy image which her fan-
cies painted, and a painful curiosity
would arise concerning the busy scenes
from which she was excluded. A re-
turn to her customary amusements,
however, would chafe the ideal image
from


( 15 )
from her mind, and restore her usual
happy complacency. Books, music,
and painting, divided the hours of her
leisure, and many beautiful summer
evenings were spent in the pavillion,
where the refined conversation of ma-
dame, the poetry of Tasso, the lute
of Julia, and the friendship of Emilia,
combined to form a species of happi-
ness, such as elevated and highly sus-
ceptible minds are alone capable of re-
ceiving or communicating. Madame
understood and practised all the graces
of conversation, and her young pupils
perceived its value, and caught the spi-
rit of its character.
Conversation may be divided into
two classes—the familiar and the senti-
mental. It is the province of the familiar,
to diffuse chearfulness and ease—to open
the heart of man to man, and to beam a
temperate sunshine upon the mind.—
Nature and art must conspire to render
us susceptible of the charms, and to
qualify


( 16 )
qualify us for the practice of the second
class of conversation, here termed senti-
mental, and in which madame de Menon
particularly excelled. To good sense,
lively feeling, and natural delicacy of .
taste, must be united an expansion of
mind, and a refinement of thought,
which is the result of high cultivation.
To render this fort of conversation irre-
sistibly attractive, a knowledge of the
world is requisite, and that enchanting
ease, that elegance of manner, which is
to be acquired only by frequenting the
higher circles of polished life. In sen-
timental conversation, subjects interest-
ing to the heart, and to the imagination,
are brought forward ; they are dis-
cussed in a kind of sportive way, with
animation and refinement, and are never
continued longer than politeness allows.
Here fancy flourishes, -the sensibilities
expand—and wit, guided by delicacy
and embellished by taste—points to the
heart.
Such
-


( 17 )
0nd
nt.
70ſ.
iſe,
Such was the conversation of madame
de Menon; and the pleasant gaiety of
the pavillion seemed peculiarly to adapt
it for the ficene of social delights. On
the evening of a very sultry day, hav-
ing supped in their favourite spot, the
coolness of the hour, and the beauty of
the night, tempted this happy party to
remain there later than usual. Return-
ing home, they were surprised by the
appearance of a light through the bro-
ken window-shutters of an apartment,
belonging to a division of the castle
which had for many years been shut up.
They stopped to observe it, when it
suddenly disappeared, and was seen no
more. Madame de Menon, disturbed
at this phaenomenon, hastened into the
castle, with a view of enquiring into the
cause of it, when she was met in the
north hall by Vincent. She related to
him what she had seen, and ordered an
immediate search to be made for the
keys of those apartments. She appre-
hended


( 18 )
hended that some person had penetrated
that part of the edifice with an intention
of plunder ; and, disdaining a paltry
fear where her duty was concerned, she
summoned the servants of the castle,
with an intention of accompanying them
thither. Vincent smiled at her appre-
hensions, and imputed what she had seen
to an illusion, which the solemnity of
the hour had impressed upon her fancy.
Madame, however, persevered in her
purpose; and, after a long and repeat-
ed search, a massey key, covered with
rust, was produced. She then proceeded
to the southern side of the edifice, ac-
companied by Vincent, and followed
by the servants, who were agitated with
impatient wonder. The key was ap-
plied to an iron gate, which opened
into a court that separated this division
from the other parts of the castle. They
entered this court, which was overgrown
with grass and weeds, and ascended
some steps that led to a large door,
which


( 19 )
which they vainly endeavoured to open.
All the different keys of the castle were
applied to the lock, without effect, and
they were at length compelled to quit
the place, without having either satis-
fied their curiosity, or quieted their
fears. Every thing, however, was still,
and the light did not re-appear. Ma-
dame concealed her apprehensions, and
the family retired to rest.
This circumstance dwelt on the mind
of madame de Menon, and it was some
time before she ventured again to
spend an evening in the pavillion. After
several months passed, without further
disturbance or discovery, another oc-
currence renewed the alarm. Julia had
one night remained in her closet later
than usual. A favourite book had en-
gaged her attention beyond the hour of
customary repose, and every inhabitant
of the castle, except herself, had long
been lost in sleep. She was roused from
her forgetfulness, by the found of the
caſtle


( 20 )
caſtle clock, which struck one. Sur-
prised at the lateness of the hour, she
rose in haste, and was moving to her
chamber, when the beauty of the night
attracted her to the window. She open-
ed it; and observing a fine effect of
moon-light upon the dark woods, lean-
ed forwards. In that situation she had
not long remained, when she perceived
a light faintly flash through a casement
in the uninhabited part of the castle.
A sudden trenuor seized her, and she
with difficulty supported herself. In a
few moments it disappeared, and soon
after a figure, bearing a lamp, proceed-
ed from an obscure door belonging to
the south tower; and stealing along the
outside of the castle walls, turned round
the southern angle, by which it was
afterwards hid from the view. Asto-
nished and terrified at what she had
seen, she hurried to the apartment of
madame de Menon, and related the cir-
cumstance. The servants were imme-
diately


( 21 )
diately roused, and the alarm became
general. Madame arose and descended
into the north hall, where the domestics
were already assembled. No one could
be found of courage sufficient to enter
into the courts; and the orders of ma-
dame were disregarded, when opposed
to the effects of superstitious terror.
She perceived that Vincent was absent,
but as she was ordering him to be called,
he entered the hall. Surprised to find
the family thus assembled, he was told
the occasion. He immediately ordered
a party of the servants to attend him
round the castle walls; and with some
reluctance, and more fear, they obeyed
him. They all returned to the hall,
without having witnessed any extraor-
dinary appearance ; but though their
fears were not confirmed, they were by
no means dissipated. The appearance
of a light in a part of the castle which
had for several years been shut up, and
to which time and circumstance had
given


( 22 )
given an air of singular desolation, .
might reasonably be supposed to excite
a strong degree of surprise and terror.
In the minds of the vulgar, any species
of the wonderful, is received with avi-
dity; and the servants did not hesitate
in believing the southern division of
the castle to be inhabited by a super-
natural power. Too much agitated
to sleep, they agreed to watch for
the remainder of the night. For this
purpose they arranged themselves in
the east gallery, where they had a
view of the south tower from which
the light had issued. The night, how-
ever, passed without any further disturb-
ance; and the morning dawn, which
they beheld with inexpressible pleasure,
dissipated for a while the glooms of
apprehension. But the return of even-
ing renewed the general fear, and for
several successive nights the domestics
watched the southern tower. Although
nothing remarkable was seen, a report
was soon raised, and believed, that the
southern


( 23 )
fouthern ſide of the castle was haunted.
Madame de Menon, whose mind was
superior to the effects of superstition,
was yet disturbed and perplexed, and
she determined, if the light re-appeared,
to inform the marquis of the circum-
stance, and request the keys of those
apartments. -
The marquis, immersed in the dis-
sipations of Naples, seldom remember-
ed the castle, or its inhabitants. His
son, who had been educated under his
immediate care, was the sole object of
his pride, as the marchioness was that of
his affection. He loved her with ro-
mantic fondness, which she repaid with
seeming tenderness, and secret perfidy.
She allowed herself a free indulgence
in the most licentious pleasures, yet con-
ducted herself with an art so exquisite
as to elude discovery, and even suspi-
cion. In her amours she was equally in-
constant as ardent, till the young count
Hippolitus de Vereza attracted her at-
tention. The natural fickleness of her
diſ-


( 24 )
diſposition seemed then to cease, and,
upon him she centered all her desires.
The count Vereza lost his father in
early childhood. He was now of age,
and had just entered upon the possession
of his estates. His person was grace-
ful, yet manly; his mind accomplished,
and his manners elegant ; his counte-
nance expressed a happy union of spirit,
dignity, and benevolence, which form-
ed the principal traits of his character.
He had a sublimity of thought, which
taught him to despise the voluptuous
vices of the Neapolitans, and led him
to higher pursuits. He was the chosen
and early friend of young Ferdinand,
the son of the marquis, and was a fre-
quent visitor in the family. When the
marchioness first saw him, she treated
him with great distinction, and at length
made such advances, as neither the ho-
nour nor the inclinations of the count
permitted him to notice. He conducted
himself toward her with frigid indif-
ference, which served only to inflame
- the
i
l


( 25 )
the passion it was meant to chill. The
savours of the marchioness had hitherto
been sought with avidity, and accepted
with rapture; and the repulsive insensi-
bility which she now experienced, rous-
ed all her pride, and called into action
every refinement of coquetry.
It was about this period that Vincent
was seized with a disorder which in-
creased so rapidly, as in a short time to
assume the most alarming appearance.
Despairing of life, he desired that a mes-
senger might be dispatched to inform
the marquis of his situation, and to sig-
nify his earnest wish to fee him before
he died. The progress of his disorder
defied every art of medicine, and his
visible distress of mind seemed to acce-
lerate his fate. Perceiving his last hour
approaching, he requested to have a
confessor. The confessor was shut up
with him a considerable time, and he
had already received extreme unction,
when madame de Menon was summoned
to his bed side. The hand of death
Vol. I. C WaS


( 26 )
was now upon him, cold damps hung
upon his brows, and he, with difficulty,
raised his heavy eyes to Madame as she
entered the apartment. He beckoned
her towards him, and desiring that no
person might be permitted to enter the
room, was for a few moments silent.
His mind appeared to labour under op-
pressive remembrances; he made seve-
ral attempts to speak, but either resolu-
tion or strength failed him. At length,
giving Madame a look of unutterable
anguish, “ Alas, madam," said he,
"Heaven grants not the prayer of such
a wretch as I am. I must expire long be-
fore the marquis can arrive. Since I shall
fee him no more, I would impart to you
a secret which lies heavy at my heart,
and which makes my last moments
dreadful, as they are without hope."
"Be comforted," said Madame, who was
affected by the energy of his manner,
"we are taught to believethat forgiveness
is never denied to sincere repentance."
"You, madam, are ignorant of the
CIn Or-
t’ -
*


( 27 )
enormity of my crime, and of the se-
cret—the horrid secret which labours
at my breast. My guilt is beyond re-
medy in this world, and I fear will be
without pardon in the next; I therefore
hope little from confession even to a
priest. Yet some good it is still in my
power to do; let me disclose to you that
secret which is so mysteriously connected
with the southern apartments of this
castle." "What of them!" exclaimed
Madame, with impatience. Vincent re-
turned no answer; exhausted by the ef-
fort of speaking, he had fainted. Ma-
dame rung for assistance, and by proper
applications, his senses were recalled.
He was, however, entirely speechless,
and in this state he remained till he ex-
pired, which was about an hour after
he had conversed with Madame.
The perplexity and astonishment of
Madame, were by the late scene height-
ened to a very painful degree. She
recollected the various particulars rela-
tive to the southern division of the
C 2. caſtle,


( 28 )
caſtle, the many years it had stood un-
inhabited—the silence which had been
observed concerning it—the appearance
of the light and the figure—the fruit-
less search for the keys, and the reports
so generally believed ; and thus remem-
brance presented her with a combina-
tion of circumstances, which served only
to increase her wonder, and heighten her
curiosity. A veil of mystery enveloped
that part of the castle, which it now
seemed impossible should ever be pene-
trated, since the only person who could
have removed it, was no more.
The marquis arrived on the day
after that on which Vincent had ex-
pired. He came attended by servants
only, and alighted at the gates of the
castle with an air of impatience, and a
countenance expressive of strong emo-
tion. Madame, with the young ladies,
received him in the hall. He hastily
saluted his daughters, and pasted on to
the oak parlour, desiring Madame to
follow


( 29 )
follow him. She obeyed, and the mar-
quis enquired with great agitation after
Vincent. When told of his death, he
paced the room with hurried steps, and
was for some time silent. At length.
seating himself, and surveying Madame
with a scrutinizing eye, he asked some
questions concerning the particulars
of Vincent's death. She mentioned
his earnest desire to see the marquis,
and repeated his last words. The mar-
quis remained silent, and Madame pro-
ceeded to mention those circustances
relative to the southern division of the
castle, which she thought it of so much
importance to discover. He treated the
affair very lightly, laughed at her con-
jectures, represented the appearances ſhe
described as the illusions of a weak and
timid mind, and broke up the conversa-
tion, by going to visit the chamber of
Vincent, in which he remained a consi-
derable time.
On the following day Emilia and
Julia dined with the marquis. He was
C 3 gloomy


( 3o )
gloomy and silent; their efforts to amuse
him seemed to excite displeasure rather
than kindness; and when the repast was
concluded, he withdrew to his own
apartment, leaving his daughters in a
state of sorrow and surprise.
Vincent was to be interred, accord-
ing to his own desire, in the church be-
longing to the convent of St. Nicholas.
One of the servants, after receiving
some necessary orders concerning the
funeral, ventured to inform the marquis
of the appearance of the lights in the
south tower. He mentioned the super-
stitious reports that prevailed amongst
the houshold, and complained that the
servants would not cross the courts after
it was dark. "And who is he that has
commissioned you with this story " said
the marquis, in a tone of displeasure;
are the weak and ridiculous fancies of
women and servants to be obtruded
upon my notice Away—appear no
more before me, till you have learned
to speak what it is proper for me to
hear.”


* ( 31 )
hear.” Robert withdrew abashed, and
it was some time before any person ven-
tured to renew the subject with the mar-
quis.
The majority of young Ferdinand
now drew near, and the marquis deter-
mined to celebrate the occasion with
festive magnificence at the castle of
Mazzini. He therefore summoned
the marchioness, and his son, from Na-
ples, and very splendid preparations
were ordered to be made. Emelia and.
Julia dreaded the arrival of the marchi-
oness, whose influence they had long
been sensible of, and from whose pre-
sence they anticipated a painful restraint.
Beneath the gentle guidance of Madame
de Menon, their hours had pasted in
happy tranquillity, for they were igno-
rant alike of the sorrows and the plea-
sures of the world. Those did not op-
press, and these did not inflame them.
Engaged in the pursuits of knowledge,
and in the attainment of elegant accom-
C 4 pliſhments,


( 32 )
pliſhments, their moments flew lightly
away, and the flight of time was mark-
ed only by improvement. In Madame
was united the tenderness of the mother,
with the sympathy of a friend; and they
loved her with a warm and inviolable
affection.
The purposed visit of their brother,
whom they had not seen for several
years, gave them great pleasure. Al-
though their minds retained no very
distinct remembrance of him, they look-
ed forward with eager and delightful
expectation to his virtues and his ta-
lents ; and hoped to find in his com-
pany, a consolation for the uneasiness
which the presence of the marchioness
would excite. Neither did Julia con-
template with indifference the approach-
ing festival. A new scene was now
opening to her, which her young ima-
gination painted in the warm and glow-
ing colours of delight. The near ap-
proach of pleasure frequently awakens
the


( 33 )
the heart to emotions, which would fail
to be excited by a more remote and ab-
stracted observance. Julia, who in the
distance, had considered the splendid
gaieties of life with tranquillity, now
lingered with impatient hope through
the moments which withheld her from
their enjoyments. Emilia, whose feel-
ings were less lively, and whose imagi-
nation was less powerful, beheld the
approaching festival with calm consider-
ation, and almost regretted the interrup-
tion of those tranquil pleasures, which
she knew to be more congenial with
her powers and disposition.
In a few days the marchioness arriv-
ed at the castle. She was followed by a
numerous retinue, and accompanied by
Ferdinand, and several of the Italian
noblesse, whom pleasure attracted to her
train. Her entrance was proclaimed
by the found of music, and those gates
which had long rusted on their hinges,
were thrown open to receive her. The
C 5 COllrtS


( 34 )
courts and halls, whose aspect so lately
expressed only gloom and desolation,
now shone with sudden splendor, and
echoed the sounds of gaiety and glad-
ness. Julia surveyed the scene from an
obscure window; and as the triumphal
strains filled the air, her breast throb-
-bed, her heart beat quick with joy, and
she lost her apprehensions from the mar-
chioness in a sort of wild delight hither-
to unknown to her. The arrival of the
marchioness seemed indeed the signal
of universal and unlimited pleasure.
When the marquis came out to receive
her, the gloom that lately clouded his
countenance, broke away in smiles of
welcome, which the whole company
appeared to consider as invitations to
joy.
The tranquil heart of Emilia was not
proof against a scene so alluring, and
she sighed at the prospect, yet scarcely
knew why. Julia pointed out to her
sister, the graceful figure of a young
1113 I


( 35 )
man who followed the marchioness,
and she expressed her wishes that he
might be her brother. From the con-
templation of the scene before them,
they were summoned to meet the mar-
chioness. Julia trembled with appre-
hension, and for a few moments wished :
the castle was in its former state. As
they advanced through the saloon, in
which they were presented, Julia was
covered with blushes; but Emilia, tho’
equally timid, preserved her graceful
dignity. The marchioness received
them with a mingled smile of conde-
scension and politeness, and immediately
the whole attention of the company
was attracted by their elegance and
beauty. The eager eyes of Julia sought
in vain to discover her brother, of whose
features she had no recollection in those
of any of the persons then present. At
length her father presented him, and
she perceived with a sigh of regret, that
he was not the youth she had observed
C 6 from


( 36 )
from the window. He advanced with
a very engaging air, and she met him
with an unfeigned welcome. His figure
was tall and majestic; he had a very
noble and spirited carriage ; and his
countenance expressed at once sweet-
ness and dignity. Supper was served
in the east hall, and the tables were
spread with a profusion of delicacies.
A band of music played during the re-
past, and the evening concluded with a
concert in the saloon.
CHAP.
!
º


( 37 )
CHAPTER II.
THE day of the festival, so long and
so impatiently looked for by Julia,
was now arrived. All the neighbour-
ing nobility were invited, and the gates
of the castle were thrown open for a ge-
neral rejoicing. A magnificent enter-
tainment, consisting of the most luxuri-
ous and expensive dishes, was served
in the halls. Soft music floated along
the vaulted roofs, the walls were hung
with decorations, and it seemed as if the
hand of a magician had suddenly meta-
morphosed this once gloomy fabric into
the palace of a fairy. The marquis,
notwithstanding the gaiety of the scene,
frequently appeared abstracted from its
enjoyments, and in spite of all his efforts
at cheerfulness, the melancholy of his
heart was visible in his countenance.
In the evening there was a grand
- ball :


( 38 )
ball : the marchioness, who was still
distinguished for her beauty, and for
the winning elegance of her manners,
appeared in the most splendid attire.
Her hair was ornamented with a profu-
sion of jewels, but was so disposed as to
give an air rather of voluptuousness,
than of grace, to her figure. Although
conscious of her charms, she beheld the
beauty of Emilia and Julia with a jea-
lous eye, and was compelled secretly to
acknowledge, that the simple elegance
with which they were adorned, was
more enchanting than all the studied
artifice of splendid decoration. They
were dressed alike in light Sicilian
habits, and the beautiful luxuriance of
their flowing hair, was restrained only
by bandellets of pearl. The ball was
opened by Ferdinand, and the lady
Matilda Constanza. Emilia danced with
the young marquis della Fazelli, and
acquitted herself with the ease and dig-
nity so natural to her. Julia experi-
enced


( 39 )
enced a various emotion of pleasure and
fear when the count de Vereza, in whom
she recollected the cavalier she had ob-
served from the window, led her forth.
The grace of her step, and the elegant
symmetry of her figure, raised in the
assembly a gentle murmur of applause,
and the soft blush which now stole over
her cheek, gave an additional charm to
her appearance. But when the music
changed, and she danced to the soft Si-
cilian measure, the airy grace of her
movement, and the unaffected tender-
ness of her air, funk attention into si-
lence, which continued for some time
after the dance had ceased. The mar-
chioness observed the general admira-
tion with seeming pleasure, and secret
uneasiness. She had suffered a very
painful solicitude, when the count de
Vereza selected her for his partner in
the dance, and she pursued him through
the evening with an eye of jealous scru-
tiny. Her bosom, which before glow-
ed


( 4o )
ed only with love, was now torn by the
agitation of other passions more vio-
lent and destructive. Her thoughts
were restless, her mind wandered from
the scene before her, and it required all
her address to preserve an apparent ease.
She saw, or fancied the saw, an impas-
sioned air in the count, when he address-
ed himself to Julia, that corroded her
heart with jealous fury.
At twelve the gates of the castle were
thrown open, and the company quitted
it for the woods, which were splendidly
illuminated. Arcades of light lined the
long vistas, which were terminated by
pyramids of lamps that presented to
the eye one bright column of flame.
At irregular distances buildings were
erected, hung with variegated lamps
disposed in the gayest and most fantastic
forms. Collations were spread under
the trees; and music, touched by unseen
hands, breathed around. The musici-
ans were placed in the most obscure
and


( 41 )
and embowered spots, so as to elude the
eye and strike the imagination. The
scene appeared enchanted. Nothing
met the eye but beauty and romantic
splendor; the ear received no sounds
but those of mirth and melody. The
younger part of the company formed
themselves into groups, which at inter-
vals glanced through the woods, and
were again unseen. Julia seemed the
magic queen of the place. Her heart
dilated with pleasure, and diffused over
her features an expression of pure and
complacent delight. A generous, frank,
and exalted sentiment sparkled in her
eyes, and animated her manner. Her
bosom glowed with benevolent affec-
tions; and she seemed anxious to impart
to all around her, a happiness as unmix-
ed as that she experienced. Wherever
she moved, admiration followed her
steps. Ferdinand was as gay as the
scene around him. Emilia was pleased;
and the marquis seemed to have left his
melan-


( 4.2 )
melancholy in the castle. The mar-
chioness alone was wretched. She sup-
ped with a select party, in a pavillion on
the sea ſhore, which was fitted up with
peculiar elegance. It was hung with
white silk, drawn up in festoons, and
richly fringed with gold. The sofas
were of the fame materials, and alter-
nate wreaths of lamps and of roses en-
twined the columns. A row of small
lamps placed about the cornice, formed
an edge of light round the roof which,
with the other numerous lights, was re-
flected in a blaze of splendor from the
large mirrors that adorned the room.
The count Muriani was of the party;—
he complimented the marchioness on
the beauty of her daughters; and after
lamenting with gaiety the captives
which their charms would enthral, he
mentioned the count de Vereza. "He
is certainly of all others the man most
deserving the lady Julia. As they
danced, I thought they exhibited a per-
fect


( 43 )
fečt model of the beauty of either sex;
and if I mistake not, they are inspired
with a mutual admiration." The mar-
chioness, endeavouring to conceal her
uneasiness, said, "Yes, my lord, I al-
low the count all the merit you ad-
judge him, but from the little I have
seen of his disposition, he is too volatile
for a serious attachment." At that in-
stant the count entered the pavillion :
"Ah, said Muriani, laughingly, you
was the subject of our conversation, and
seem to be come in good time to
receive the honours allotted you. I
was interceding with the marchioness
for her interest in your favour, with the
lady Julia; but she absolutely refuses
it; and though the allows you merit,
alledges, that you are by nature fickle
and inconstant. What fay you—would
not the beauty of lady Julia bind your
unsteady heart?”
** I know not how I have deserved
that character of the marchioness," said
he


( 44 )
the count with a smile, ‘‘ but that
heart must be either fickle or insensible
in an uncommon degree, which can
boast of freedom in the presence of lady
Julia." The marchioness, mortified by
the whole conversation, now felt the
full force of Vereza's reply, which she
imagined he pointed with particular em-
phasis.
The entertainment concluded with a
grand firework, which was exhibited on
the margin of the sea, and the company
did not part till the dawn of morning.
Julia retired from the scene with regret.
She was enchanted with the new world
that was now exhibited to her, and she
was not cool enough to distinguish the
vivid glow of imagination from the co-
lours of real bliss. The pleasure she
now felt, she believed would always be
renewed, and in an equal degree, by the
objects which first excited it. The
weakness of humanity is never willing-
ly perceived by young minds. It is
pain-


( 45 )
painful to know, that we are operated
upon by objects whose impressions are
variable as they are indefinable—and that
what yesterday affected us strongly, is
to-day but imperfectly felt, and to-mor-
row perhaps shall be disregarded. When
at length this unwelcome truth is re-
ceived into the mind, we at first reject,
with disgust, every appearance of good,
we disdain to partake of a happiness
which we cannot always command, and
we not unfrequently sink into a tem-
porary despair. Wisdom or accident,
at length, recall us from our error, and
offers to us some object capable of pro-
ducing a pleasing, yet lasting effect,
which effect, therefore, we call happi-
ness. Happiness has this essential dif-
ference from what is commonly called
pleasure, that virtue forms its basis,
and virtue being the offspring of reason,
may be expected to produce uniformity
of effect.
The passions which had hitherto lain
COIl-


( 46 y
cealed in Julia's heart, touched by
circumstance, dilated to its power, and
afforded her a slight experience of the
pain and delight which flow from their
influence. The beauty and accom-
plishments of Vereza raised in her a
new and various emotion, which reflec-
tion made her fear to encourage, but
which was too pleasing to be wholly re-
sisted. Tremblingly alive to a sense of
delight, and unchilled by disappoint-
ment, the young heart welcomes every
feeling, not simply painful, with a ro-
mantic expectation, that it will expand
into bliss.
Julia sought with eager anxiety to
discover the sentiments of Vereza to-
wards her; she revolved each circum-
stance of the day, but they afforded her
little satisfaction; they reflected only a
glimmering and uncertain light, which
instead of guiding, served only to per-
plex her. Now the remembered some
instance of particular attention, and then
ſome


( 47 )
ſome mark of apparent indifference.
She compared his conduct with that of
the other young noblesse; and thought
each appeared equally desirous of the
favour of every lady present. All the
ladies, however, appeared to her to
court the admiration of Vereza, and she
trembled lest he should be too sensible
of the distinction. She drew from these
reflections no positive inference; and
though distrust rendered pain the pre-
dominate sensation, it was so exquisite-
ly interwoven with delight, that she
could not wish it exchanged for her
former ease. Thoughtful and restless,
sleep fled from her eyes, and she long-
ed with impatience for the morning,
which should again present Vereza,
and enable her to pursue the enquiry.
She rose early, and adorned herself
with unusual care. In her favourite
closet she awaited the hour of break-
fast, and endeavoured to read, but her
thoughts wandered from the subject,
Her


( 48 )
Her lute and favourite airs lost half
their power to please; the day seemed
to stand still—she became melancholy,
and thought the breakfast hour would
never arrive. At length the clock
struck the signal, the sound vibrated on
every nerve, and trembling she quitted
the closet for her sister's apartment.
Love taught her disguise. Till then
Emilia had shared all her thoughts;
they now descended to the breakfast-
room in silence, and Julia almost feared
to meet her eye. In the breakfast-room
they were alone. Julia found it impos-
sible to support a conversation with
Emilia, whose observations interrupt-
ing the course of her thoughts, became
uninteresting and tiresome. She was
therefore about to retire to her closet,
when the marquis entered. His air was
haughty, and his look severe. He cold-
ly saluted his daughters, and they had
scarcely time to reply to his general
enquiries, when the marchioness enter-
}


( 49 )
ed, and the company soon after assem-
bled. Julia, who had awaited with so
painful an impatience for the moment
which ſhould present Vereza to her
sight, now sighed that it was arrived.
She scarcely dared to lift her timid
eyes from the ground, and when by ac-
cident they met his, a soft tremour
seized her; and apprehension lest he
ſhould discover her sentiments, served
only to render her confusion conspicu-
ous. At length a glance from the
marchioness recalled her bewildered
thoughts; and other fears superceding
those of love, her mind, by degrees, re-
covered its dignity. She could distin-
guish in the behaviour of Vereza no
symptoms of particular admiration, and
she resolved to conduct herself towards
him with the most scrupulous care.
This day, like the preceding one, was
devoted to joy. In the evening there
was a concert, which was chiefly per-
formed by the nobility. Ferdinand play-
Vol. I. D ed


( 50 )
ed the violincello, Vereza the german
flute, and Julia the piano forte, which
she touched with a delicacy and execu-
tion that engaged every auditor. The
confusion of Julia may be easily ima-
gined, when Ferdinand, selecting a
beautiful duet, desired Vereza would
accompany his sister. The pride of
conscious excellence, however, quickly
overcame her timidity, and enabled her
to exert all her powers. The air was
simple and pathetic, and she gave it
those charms of expression so peculiarly
her own. She struck the chords of her
piano forte in beautiful accompani-
ment, and towards the close of the se-
cond stanza, her voice resting on one
note, swelled into a tone so exquisite,
and from thence descended to a few
simple notes, which she touched with
such impassioned tenderness that every
eye wept to the sounds. The breath of
the flute trembled, and Hippolitus en-
tranced, forgot to play. A pause of
silence


( 51 )
ſilence enſued at the conclusion of the
piece, and continued till a general sigh
seemed to awaken the audience from
their enchantment. Amid the general
applause, Hippolitus was silent. Julia
observed his behaviour, and gently rais-
ing her eyes to his, there read the sen-
timents which she had inspired. An
exquisite emotion thrilled her heart, and
she experienced one of those rare mo-
ments which illuminate life with a ray of
bliss, by which the darkness of its ge-
neral-shade is contrasted. Care, doubt,
every disagreeable sensation vanished,
and for the remainder of the evening
she was conscious only of delight. A
timid respect marked the manner of
Hippolitus, more flattering to Julia than
the most ardent professions. The even-
ing concluded with a ball, and Julia
was again the partner of the count.
When the ball broke up, the retired
to her apartment, but not to sleep. Joy
is as restless as anxiety or sorrow. She
D 2 ſeemed


- ( 52 )
ſeemed to have entered upon a new
state of existence;—those fine springs
of affection which had hitherto lain con-
cealed, were now touched, and yielded
to her a happiness more exalted than
any her imagination had ever painted.
She reflected on the tranquillity of her
past life, and comparing it with the emo-
tions of the present hour, exulted in the
difference. All her former pleasures
now appeared insipid ; she wondered
that they ever had power to affect her,
and that she had endured with content
the dull uniformity to which she had
been condemned. It was now only that
she appeared to live. Absorbed in the
single idea of being beloved, her imagi-
nation soared into the regions of roman-
tic bliss, and bore her high above the
possibility of evil. Since she was be-
loved by Hippolitus, she could only be
happy.
From this state of entranced delight,
she was awakened by the found of mu-
ſic


( 53 )
fic immediately under her window. It
was a lute touched by a masterly hand.
After a wild and melancholy symphony,
a voice of more than magic expression
swelled into an air so pathetie and ten-
der, that it seemed to breathe the very
soul of love. The chords of the lute
were struck in low and sweet accom-
paniment. Julia listened, and distin-
guished the following words:
-
S O N N E T.
STILL is the night-breeze!—not a lonely sound
Steals through the silence of this dreary hour;
O'er these high battlements Sleep reigns profound,
And sheds on all, his sweet oblivious power.
On all but me—I vainly ask his dews
To steep in short forgetfulness my cares.
Th' affrighted god still flies when Love pursues,
Still—still denies the wretched lover's prayers.
An interval of silence followed, and
the air was repeated ; after which the
music was heard no more. If before
Julia believed that she was loved by
D 3 Hip-


( 54 )
Hippolitus, she was now confirmed in
the sweet reality. But sleep at length
fell upon her senses, and the airy forms
of ideal bliss no longer fleeted before
her imagination. Morning came, and
she arose light and refreshed. How
different were her present sensations
from those of the preceding day. Her
anxiety had now evaporated in joy, and
she experienced that airy dance of spi-
rits which accumulates delight from
every object; and with a power like the
touch of enchantment, can transform
a gloomy desert into a smiling Eden.
She flew to the breakfast-room, scarcely
conscious of motion; but, as she en-
tered it, a soft confusion overcame her;
she blushed, and almost feared to meet
the eyes of Vereza. She was presently
relieved, however, for the count was
not there. The company assembled—
Julia watched the entrance of every
person with painful anxiety, but he for
whom she looked did not appear. Sur-
prized


( 55 )
prized and uneasy, she fixed her eyes on
the door, and whenever it opened, her
heart, beat with an expectation which
was as often checked by disappoint-
ment. In spite of all her efforts, her
vivacity funk into languor, and she
then perceived that love may produce
other sensations than those of delight.
She found it possible to be unhappy,
though loved by Hippolitus ; and ac-
knowledged with a sigh of regret, which
was yet new to her, how tremblingly
her peace depended upon him. He
neither appeared nor was mentioned at
breakfast; but though delicacy prevent-
ed her enquiring after him, conversation
soon became irksome to her, and she
retired to the apartment of Madame de
Menon. There she employed herself
in painting, and endeavoured to be-
guile the time till the hour of dinner,
when she hoped to see Hippolitus.
Madame was, as usual, friendly and
cheerful, but she perceived a reserve
D 4 in


( 56 )
in the conduct of Julia, and penetrated
without difficulty into its cause. She
was, however, ignorant of the object of
her pupil's admiration. The hour so
eagerly desired by Julia at length ar-
rived, and with a palpitating heart she
entered the hall. The count was not
there, and in the course of conversa-
tion, she learned that he had that morn-
ing sailed for Naples. The scene which
so lately appeared enchanting to hereyes,
now changed its hue ; and in the midst
of society, and surrounded by gaiety,
she was solitary and dejected. She ac-
cused herself of havingſuffered her wishes
to mislead her judgment; and the pre-
sent conduct 0f Hippolitus convinced
her, that the had mistaken admiration,
for a sentiment more tender. She be-
lieved too, that the musician who had
addressed her in his sonnet, was not the
count; and thus at once was dissolved
all the ideal fabrick of her happiness.
How shore a period often reverses the
character


( 57 )
chara&er of our sentiments, rendering
that which yesterday we despised, to day
desirable. The tranquil state which she
had so lately delighted to quit, she now
reflected upon with regret. She had,
however, the consolation of believing
that her sentiments towards the count
were unknown, and the sweet consci-
ousness that her conduct had been go-
verned by a nice sense of propriety.
The public rejoicings at the castle
closed with the week; but the gay spi-
rit of the marchioness forbade a return
to tranquillity; and she substituted di-
versions more private, but in splendour
scarcely inferior to the preceding ones.
She had observed the behaviour of Hip-
politus on the night of the concert with
chagrin, and his departure with sorrow ;
yet disdaining to perpetuate misfortune
by reflection, she sought to lose the
sense of disappointment in the hurry of
dissipation. But her efforts to erase him
from her remembrance were ineffectual.
D 5 Unaccuſ-


( 59 )
s
º
neſs was now faded. Pleasure had with-
drawn her beam from the prospect, and
the objects no longer illumined by her
ray, became dark and colourless. As
often as her situation would permit, she
withdrew from society, and sought the
freedom of solitude, where she could in-
dulge in melancholy thoughts, and give
a loose to that despair which is so apt to
follow the disappointment of our fir
hopes. -
Week after week elapsed, yet no
mention was made of returning to Na-
ples. The marquis at length declared
it his intention to spend the remainder
of the summer in the castle. To this
determination the marchioness submit-
ted with decent resignation, for she was
here surrounded by a croud of flatterers,
and her invention supplied her with .
continual diversions: that gaiety which
rendered Naples so dear to her, glittered
in the woods of Mazzini, and resound-
ed through the castle.
D 6 The


( 6o )
The apartments of Madame de Menon
were spacious and noble. The windows
opened upon the sea, and command-
ed a view of the straits of Messina,
bounded on one side by the beautiful
shores of the isle of Sicily, and on the
other by the high mountains of Calabria.
The straits, filled with vessels whose
gay streamers glittered to the fun beam,
presented to the eye an ever moving
scene. The principal room opened upon
a gallery that overhung the grand ter-
race of the castle, and it commanded a
prospect which for beauty and extent
has seldom been equalled. These were
formerly considered the chief apart-
ments of the castle; and when the Mar-
quis quitted them for Naples, were al-
lotted for the residence of Madame de
Menon, and her young charge. The
marchioness, struck with the prospect
which the windows afforded, and with
the pleasantness of the gallery, deter-
mined to restore the rooms to their for-
nner


( 61 )
mer splendour. She signified this inten-
tion to Madame, for whom other apart-
ments were provided. The chambers
of Emilia and Julia forming part of the
suite, they were also claimed by the mar-
chioness, who left Julia only her favou-
rite closet. The rooms to which they
removed, were spacious, but gloomy;
they had been for some years uninhabit-
ed; and though preparations had been
made for the reception of their new in-
habitants, an air of desolation reigned
within them that inspired melancholy
sensations. Julia observed that her
chamber, which opened beyond Ma-
dame's, formed a part of the southern
building, with which, however, there
appeared no means of communication.
The late mysterious circumstances relat-
ing to this part of the fabric, now arose
to her imagination, and conjured up a
terror which reason could not subdue.
She told her emotions to Madame, who,
with more prudence than sincerity,
laughed


( 6.2 )
laughed at her fears. The behaviour
of the marquis, the dying words of
Vincent, together with the preceding
circumstances of alarm, had funk deep
in the mind of Madame, but ſhe saw
the necessity of confining to her own
breast, doubts which time only could
resolve.
Julia endeavoured to reconcile her-
self to the change, and a circumstance
soon occurred which obliterated her pre-
sent sensations, and excited others far
more interesting. One day that she was
arranging some papers in the small
drawers of a cabinet that stood in her
apartment, the found a picture which
fixed all her attention. It was a mi-
niature of a lady, whose countenance
was touched with sorrow, and expressed
an air of dignified resignation. The
mournful sweetness of her eyes, raised
towards Heaven with a look of suppli-
cation, and the melancholy languor
that shaded her features, so deeply af-
fečted


( 63 )
fečted Julia, that her eyes were filled
with involuntary tears. She sighed and
wept, still gazing on the picture, which
seemed to engage her by a kind of
fascination. She almost fancied that
the portrait breathed, and that the eyes
were fixed on her's with a look of pene-
trating softness. Full of the emotions
which the miniature had excited, she
presented it to Madame, whose min-
gled sorrow and surprize increased her
curiosity. But what were the various
sensations which preſſed upon her heart,
on learning that she had wept over the
resemblance of her mother Deprived
of a mother's tenderness before she
was sensible of its value, it was now
only that she mourned the event which
lamentation could not recall. Emilia,
with an emotion as exquisite, mingled
her tears with those of her sister. With
eager impatience they pressed Madame
to disclose the cause of that sorrow
which so emphatically marked the fea-
tures of their mother.
“ Alas!


( 64 )
“ Alas! my dear children," said
Madame, deeply sighing, “ you en-
gage me in a task too severe, not only
for your peace, but for mine; since, in
giving you the information you require,
I must retrace scenes of my own life,
which I wish for ever obliterated. It
would, however, be both cruel and un-
just to with-hold an explanation so near-
ly interesting to you, and I will sacri-
fice my own ease to your wishes.
“ Louisa de Bernini, your mother,
was, as you well know, the only daugh-
ter of the count de Bernini. Of the
misfortunes of your family, I believe
you are yet ignorant. The chief es-
tates of the count were situated in the
Val di Demona, a valley deriving its
name from its vicinity to Mount AEtna,
which vulgar tradition has peopled with
devils. In one of those dreadful erup-
tions of Ætna, which deluged this valley
with a flood of fire, a great part of your
grandfather's domains in that quarter
Were
|


( 65 ) •
were laid waste. The count was at that
time with a part of his family at Mes-
sina, but the countess and her son, who
were in the country, were destroyed.
The remaining property of the count
was proportionably inconsiderable, and
the loss of his wife and son deeply af-
fected him. He retired with Louisa,
his only surviving child, who was then
near fifteen, to a small estate near Cat-
tania. There was some degree of rela-
tionship between your grandfather and
myself; and your mother was attached
to me by the ties of sentiment, which,
as we grew up, united us still more
strongly than those of blood. Our plea-
sures and our tastes were the fame; and
a similarity of misfortunes might, per-
haps, contribute to cement our early
friendship. I, like herself, had lost a
parent in the eruption of AEtna. My
mother had died before I understood .
her value, but my father, whom I re-
vered and tenderly loved, was destroyed
by


( 66 )
by one of those terrible events; his
lands were buried beneath the lava, and
he left an only son and myself to mourn
his fate, and encounter the evils of po-
verty. The count, who was our nearest
surviving relation, generously took us
home to his house, and declared that he
considered us as his children. To amuse
his leisure hours, he undertook to finish
the education of my brother, who was
then about seventen, and whose rising
genius promised to reward the labours
of the count. Louisa and myself often
shared the instruction of her father, and
at those hours Orlando was generally of
the party. The tranquil retirement of
the count's situation, the rational em-
ployment of his time between his own
studies, the education of those whom
he called his children, and the conver-
sation of a few select friends, anticipated
the effect of time, and softened the as-
perities of his distress into a tender
complacent melancholy. As for Louiſa
and
-


( 67 )
and myself, who were yet new in life,
and whose spirits possessed the happy
elasticity of youth, our minds gradually
shifted from suffering to tranquillity, and
from tranquillity to happiness. I have
sometimes thought that when my bro-
ther has been reading to her a delightful
passage, the countenance of Louisa dis-
covered a tender interest, which seem-
ed to be excited rather by the reader
than by the author. These days, which
was surely the most enviable of our
lives, now passed in serene enjoyments,
and in continual gradations of improve-
Inent.
“ The count designed my brother
for the army, and the time now drew
nigh when he was to join the Sicilian
regiment, in which he had a commission.
The absent thoughts, and dejected spi-
rits of my cousin, now discovered to
me the secret which had long been con-
cealed even from herself; for it was not
till Orlando was about to depart, that
she perceived how dear he was to
her


( 68 )
her peace. On the eve of his de-
parture, the count lamented with fa-
therly, yet manly tenderness, the dis-
tance which was soon to separate us.
"But we shall meet again," said he,
** when the honours of war shall have
rewarded the bravery of my son. Lou-
isa grew pale, a half suppressed sigh es-
caped her, and to conceal her emotion,
she turned to her harpsichord.
"My brother had a favourite dog,
which, before he set off, he presented
to Julia, and committing it to her care,
begged she would be kind to it, and
sometimes remember its master. He
checked his rising emotion, but as he
turned from her, I perceived the tear
that wetted his cheek. He departed,
and with him the spirit of our happi-
ness seemed to evaporate. The scenes
which his presence had formerly en-
livened, were now forlorn and melan-
choly, yet we loved to wander in what
were once his favourite haunts. Louisa
forbore


( 69 )
forbore to mention my brother even to
me, but frequently when she thought
herself unobserved, she would steal to
her harpsichord, and repeat the strain
which she had played on the evening
before his departure.
"We had the pleasure to hear from
time to time that he was well; and
though his own modesty threw a veil
over his conduct, we could collect
from other accounts that he had be-
haved with great bravery. At length
the time of his return approached, and
the enlivened spirits of Julia declared
the influence he retained in her heart.
He returned, bearing public testimony
of his valour in the honours which had
been conferred upon him. He was re-
ceived with universal joy ; the count
welcomed him with the pride and fond-
ness of a father, and the villa became
again the feat of happiness. His per-
son and manners were much improved;
the elegant beauty of the youth was
In OW


( 7o )
now exchanged for the graceful dignity
of manhood, and some knowledge of
the world was added to that of the
sciences. The joy which illumined
his countenance when he met Julia,
spoke at once his admiration and his
love; and the blush which her obser-
vation of it brought upon her cheek,
would have discovered even to an un-
interested spectator that this joy was
mutual.
"Orlando brought with him a young
Frenchman, a brother officer, who had
rescued him from imminent danger in
battle, and whom he introduced to the
count as his preserver. The count re-
ceived him with gratitude and distinc-
tion, and he was for a considerable time
an inmate at the villa. His manners
were singularly pleasing, and his under-
standing was cultivated and refined.
He soon discovered a partiality for me,
and he was indeed too pleasing to be
seen with indifference. Gratitude for
the


( 71 )
the valuable life he had preserved, was
perhaps the ground work of an esteem
which soon increased into the most af-
fectionate love. Our attachment grew
stronger as our acquaintance increased;
and at length the chevalier de Me-
non asked me of the count, who con-
sulted my heart, and finding it favour-
able to the connection, proceeded to
make the necessary enquiries concern-
ing the family of the stranger. He ob-
tained a satisfactory and pleasing ac-
count of it. The chevalier was the se-
cond son of a French gentleman of large
estates in France, who had been some
years deceased. He had left several
sons; the family estate, of course, de-
volved to the eldest, but to the two
younger he had bequeathed considerable
property. Our marriage was solem-
nized in a private manner at the villa, in
the presence of the count, Louisa, and
my brother. Soon after the nuptials,
my husband and Orlando were remand-
ed


( 72 )
ed to their regiments. My brother's
affections were now unalterably fixed
upon Louisa, but a sentiment of deli-
cacy and generosity still kept him silent.
He thought, poor as he was, to solicit
the hand of Louisa, would be to repay
the kindness of the count with ingrati-
tude. I have seen the inward struggles
of his heart, and mine has bled for him.
The count and Louisa so earnestly soli-
cited me to remain at the villa during
the campaign, that at length my hus-
band consented. We parted—O ! let
me forget that period!—Had I accom-
panied him, all might have been well;
and the long, long years of affliction
which followed had been spared me."
The horn now sounded the signal
for dinner, and interrupted the narra-
tive of Madame. Her beauteous au-
ditors wiped the tears from their eyes,
and with extreme reluctance deſcended
to the hall. The day was occupied
with company and diverſions, and it
- WaS


( 73 )
was not till late in the evening that
they were ſuffered to retire. They
haſtened to Madame immediately upon
their being releaſed; and too much in-
tereſted for ſleep, and too importunate
to be repulſed, ſolicited the ſequel of
her ſtory. She obječted the lateneſs of
the hour, but at length yielded to their
entreaties. They drew their chairs cloſe
to her’s ; and every ſenſe being abſorb-
ed in the fingle one of hearing, fol-
lowed her through the courſe of her
narrative. - - -
“My brother again departed with-
out diſcloſing his ſentiments; the effort
it coſt him was evident, but his ſenſe
of honour ſurmounted every oppoſing
confideration. Louiſa again drooped,
and pined in filent ſorrow. I lamented
equally for my friend and my brother;
and have a thouſand times accuſed that
delicacy as falſe, which with-held them
from the happineſs they might ſo eaſily
and ſo innocently have obtained. The
Vol. I. E beha-


( 74 )
behaviour of the count, at leaſt to my
eye, ſeemed to indicate the ſatisfaction
which this union would have given him.
It was about this period that the mar-
quis Mazzini firſt ſaw and became ena-
moured of Louiſa. His propoſals were
very flattering, but the count forbore to
exert the undue authority of a father;
and he ceaſed to preſs the connection,
when he perceived that Louiſa was really
averſe to it. Louiſa was ſenſible of the
generoſity of his condućt, and ſhe could
ſcarcely rejećt the alliance without a
figh, which her gratitude paid to the
kindneſs of her father.
“But an event now happened which
diſſolved at once our happineſs, and all
our air drawn ſchemes for futurity. A
diſpute, which it ſeems originated in a
trifle, but ſoon increaſed to a ſerious de-
gree, aroſe between the Chevalier de Me-
non and my brother. It was decided
by the ſword, and my dear brother fell
by the hand of my huſband. I ſhall
paſs


( 75 )
ſ
paſs over this period of my life. It is
too painful for recollečtion. The ef-
fect of this event upon Louiſa was ſuch
as may be imagined. The world was now
become indifferent to her, and as ſhe
had no proſpect of happineſs for her-
ſelf, ſhe was unwilling to with-hold it
from the father who had deſerved ſo
much of her. After ſome time, when
the marquis renewed his addreſſes, ſhe
gave him her hand. The charaćters of
the marquis and his lady were in their
nature too oppoſite to form a happy
union. Of this Louiſa was very ſoon
ſenſible; and though the mildneſs of
her diſpoſition made her tamely ſubmit
to the unfeeling authority of her huſ-
band, his behaviour ſunk deep in her
heart, and ſhe pined in ſecret. It was
impoſfible for her to avoid oppoſing the
charaćter of the marquis to that of him
upon whom her affections had been ſo
fondly and ſo juſtly fixed. The com-
pariſon increaſed her ſufferings, which
E 2 ſoon


( 66 )
by one of thoſe terrible events; his
lands were buried beneath the lava, and
he left an only ſon and myſelf to mourn
his fate, and encounter the evils of po-
verty. The count, who was our neareſt
ſurviving relation, generouſly took us
home to his houſe, and declared that he
conſidered us as his children. To amuſe
his leiſure hours, he undertook to finiſh
the education of my brother, who was
then about ſeventen, and whoſe riſing
genius promiſed to reward the labours
of the count. Louiſa and myſelf often
ſhared the inſtruction of her father, and
at thoſe hours Orlando was generally of
the party. The tranquil retirement of
the count's ſituation, the rational em-
ployment of his time between his own
ſtudies, the education of thoſe whom
he called his children, and the conver-
ſation of a few ſelect friends, anticipated
the effect of time, and ſoftened the aſ-
perities of his diſtreſs into a tender
complacent melancholy. As for Louiſa
and


( 67 )
and myſelf, who were yet new in life,
and whoſe ſpirits poſſeſſed the happy
elaſticity of youth, our minds gradually
ſhifted from ſuffering to tranquillity, and
from tranquillity to happineſs. I have
ſometimes thought that when my bro-
ther has been reading to her a delightful
paſſage, the countenance of Louiſa diſ-
covered a tender intereſt, which ſeem-
ed to be excited rather by the reader
than by the author. Theſe days, which
was ſurely the moſt enviable of our
lives, now paſſed in ſerene enjoyments,
and in continual gradations of improve-
Inent.
“ The count defigned my brother
for the army, and the time now drew
nigh when he was to join the Sicilian
regiment, in which he had a commiſſion.
The abſent thoughts, and dejećted ſpi-
rits of my couſin, now diſcovered to
me the ſecret which had long been con-
cealed even from herſelf; for it was not
till Orlando was about to depart, that
ſhe perceived how dear he was to
her


( 68 )
her peace. On the eve of his de-
parture, the count lamented with fa-
therly, yet manly tenderneſs, the diſ-
tance which was ſoon to ſeparate us.
“But we ſhall meet again,” ſaid he,
** when the honours of war ſhall have
rewarded the bravery of my ſon. Lou-
ifa grew pale, a half ſuppreſſed figh eſ-
caped her, and to conceal her emotion,
ſhe turned to her harpſichord.
“My brother had a favourite dog,
which, before he ſet off, he preſented
to Julia, and committing it to her care,
begged ſhe would be kind to it, and
ſometimes remember its maſter. He
checked his riſing emotion, but as he
turned from her, I perceived the tear
that wetted his cheek. He departed,
and with him the ſpirit of our happi-
neſs ſeemed to evaporate. The ſcenes
which his preſence had formerly en-
livened, were now forlorn and melan-
choly, yet we loved to wander in what
were once his favourite haunts. Louiſa
forbore


( 69 )
forbore to mention my brother even to
me, but frequently when ſhe thought
herſelf unobſerved, ſhe would ſteal to
her harpfichord, and repeat the ſtrain
which ſhe had played on the evening
before his departure.
“We had the pleaſure to hear from
time to time that he was well; and
though his own modeſty threw a veil
over his conduct, we could colle&t
from other accounts that he had be-
haved with great bravery. At length
the time of his return approached, and
the enlivened ſpirits of Julia declared
the influence he retained in her heart.
He returned, bearing public teſtimony
of his valour in the honours which had
been conferred upon him. He was re-
ceived with univerſal joy ; the count
welcomed him with the pride and fond-
neſs of a father, and the villa became
again the ſeat of happineſs. His per-
ſon and manners were much improved;
the elegant beauty of the youth was
In OW


( 7o )
now exchanged for the graceful dignity
of manhood, and ſome knowledge of
the world was added to that of the
ſciences. The joy which illumined
his countenance when he met Julia,
ſpoke at once his admiration and his
love; and the bluſh which her obſer-
vation of it brought upon her cheek,
would have diſcovered even to an un-
intereſted ſpećtator that this joy was
mutual.
“Orlando brought with him a young
Frenchman, a brother officer, who had
reſcued him from imminent danger in
battle, and whom he introduced to the
count as his preſerver. The count re-
ceived him with gratitude and diſtinc-
tion, and he was for a conſiderable time
an inmate at the villa. His manners
were fingularly pleaſing, and his under-
ſtanding was cultivated and refined.
He ſoon diſcovered a partiality for me,
and he was indeed too pleafing to be
ſeen with indifference. Gratitude for
the


( 71 )
the valuable life he had preſerved, was
perhaps the ground work of an eſteem
which ſoon increaſed into the moſt af.
fečtionate love. Our attachment grew
ſtronger as our acquaintance increaſed;
and at length the chevalier de Me-
non aſked me of the count, who con-
ſulted my heart, and finding it favour-
able to the connection, proceeded to
make the neceſſary enquiries concern-
ing the family of the ſtranger. He ob-
tained a ſatisfactory and pleaſing ac-
count of it. The chevalier was the ſe-
cond ſon of a French gentleman of large
eſtates in France, who had been ſome
years deceaſed. He had left ſeveral
ſons; the family eſtate, of courſe, de-
volved to the eldeſt, but to the two
younger he had bequeathed conſiderable
property. Our marriage was ſolem-
nized in a private manner at the villa, in
the preſence of the count, Louiſa, and
my brother. Soon after the nuptials,
my huſband and Orlando were remand-
ed


( 72 )
ed to their regiments. My brother's
affections were now unalterably fixed
upon Louiſa, but a ſentiment of deli-
cacy and generoſity ſtill kept him filent.
He thought, poor as he was, to ſolicit
the hand of Louiſa, would be to repay
the kindneſs of the count with ingrati-
tude. I have ſeen the inward ſtruggles
of his heart, and mine has bled for him.
The count and Louiſa ſo earneſtly ſoli-
cited me to remain at the villa during
the campaign, that at length my huſ-
band conſented. We parted—O ! let
me forget that period!—Had I accom-
panied him, all might have been well;
and the long, long years of afflićtion
which followed had been ſpared me.”
The horn now ſounded the ſignal
for dinner, and interrupted the narra-
tive of Madame. Her beauteous au-
ditors wiped the tears from their eyes,
and with extreme reluétance deſcended
to the hall. The day was occupied
with company and diverſions, and it
- WaS


( 73 )
was not till late in the evening that
they were ſuffered to retire. They
haſtened to Madame immediately upon
their being releaſed; and too much in-
tereſted for ſleep, and too importunate
to be repulſed, ſolicited the ſequel of
her ſtory. She obječted the lateneſs of
the hour, but at length yielded to their
entreaties. They drew their chairs cloſe
to her’s; and every ſenſe being abſorb-
led in the fingle one of hearing, fol-
lowed her through the courſe of her
narrative. - -
“My brother again departed with-
out diſcloſing his ſentiments; the effort
it coſt him was evident, but his ſenſe
of honour ſurmounted every oppoſing
confideration. Louiſa again drooped,
and pined in filent ſorrow. I lamented
equally for my friend and my brother;
and have a thouſand times accuſed that
delicacy as falſe, which with-held them
from the happineſs they might ſo eaſily
and ſo innocently have obtained. The
Vol. I. E beha-


( 74 )
behaviour of the count, at leaſt to my
eye, ſeemed to indicate the ſatisfaction
which this union would have given him.
It was about this period that the mar-
quis Mazzini firſt ſaw and became ena-
moured of Louiſa. His propoſals were
very flattering, but the count forbore to
exert the undue authority of a father;
and he ceaſed to preſs the connection,
when he perceived that Louiſa was really
averſe to it. Louiſa was ſenſible of the
generoſity of his condućt, and ſhe could
ſcarcely rejećt the alliance without a
figh, which her gratitude paid to the
kindneſs of her father.
“But an event now happened which
diſſolved at once our happineſs, and all
our air drawn ſchemes for futurity. A
diſpute, which it ſeems originated in a
trifle, but ſoon increaſed to a ſerious de-
gree, aroſe between the Chevalier de Me-
mon and my brother. It was decided
by the ſword, and my dear brother fell
by the hand of my huſband. I ſhall
paſs


( 75 )
paſs over this period of my life. It is
too painful for recolle&tion. The ef-
fect of this event upon Louiſa was ſuch
as may be imagined. The world was now
become indifferent to her, and as ſhe
had no proſpect of happineſs for her-
ſelf, ſhe was unwilling to with-hold it
from the father who had deſerved ſo
much of her. After ſome time, when
the marquis renewed his addreſſes, ſhe
gave him her hand. The charaćters of
the marquis and his lady were in their
nature too oppoſite to form a happy
union. Of this Louiſa was very ſoon
ſenſible; and though the mildneſs of
her diſpoſition made her tamely ſubmit
to the unfeeling authority of her huſ-
band, his behaviour ſunk deep in her
heart, and ſhe pined in ſecret. It was
impoſfible for her to avoid oppoſing the
charaćter of the marquis to that of him
upon whom her affections had been ſo
fondly and ſo juſtly fixed. The com-
pariſon increaſed her ſufferings, which
E 2 ſoon


( 64 )
“ Alas! my dear children,” ſaid
Madame, deeply fighing, “ you en-
gage me in a taſk too ſevere, not only
for your peace, but for mine; ſince, in
giving you the information you require,
I muſt retrace ſcenes of my own life,
which I wiſh for ever obliterated. It
would, however, be both cruel and un-
juſt to with-hold an explanation ſo near-
ly intereſting to you, and I will ſacri-
fice my own eaſe to your wiſhes.
“ Louiſa de Bernini, your mother,
was, as you well know, the only daugh-
ter of the count de Bernini. Of the
misfortunes of your family, I believe
you are yet ignorant. The chief ef-
tates of the count were ſituated in the
Wal di Demona, a valley deriving its
name from its vicinity to Mount AEtna,
which vulgar tradition has peopled with
devils. In one of thoſe dreadful erup-
tions of Ætna, which deluged this valley
with a flood of fire, a great part of your
grandfather's domains in that quarter
Were


( 65 ) •
were laid waſte. The count was at that
time with a part of his family at Meſ-
fina, but the counteſs and her ſon, who
were in the country, were deſtroyed.
The remaining property of the count
was proportionably inconfiderable, and
the loſs of his wife and ſon deeply af-
fe&ted him. He retired with Louiſa,
his only ſurviving child, who was then
near fifteen, to a ſmall eſtate near Cat-
tania. There was ſome degree of rela-
tionſhip between your grandfather and
myſelf; and your mother was attached
to me by the ties of ſentiment, which,
as we grew up, united us ſtill more
ſtrongly than thoſe of blood. Our plea-
ſures and our taſtes were the ſame; and
a ſimilarity of misfortunes might, per-
haps, contribute to cement our early
friendſhip. I, like herſelf, had loſt a
parent in the eruption of AEtna. My
mother had died before I underſtood .
her value, but my father, whom I re-
vered and tenderly loved, was deſtroyed
by


( 66 )
by one of thoſe terrible events; his
lands were buried beneath the lava, and
he left an only ſon and myſelf to mourn
his fate, and encounter the evils of po-
verty. The count, who was our neareſt
ſurviving relation, generouſly took us
home to his houſe, and declared that he
conſidered us as his children. To amuſe
his leiſure hours, he undertook to finiſh
the education of my brother, who was
then about ſeventen, and whoſe riſing
genius promiſed to reward the labours
of the count. Louiſa and myſelf often
ſhared the inſtruction of her father, and
at thoſe hours Orlando was generally of
the party. The tranquil retirement of
the count's fituation, the rational em-
ployment of his time between his own
ſtudies, the education of thoſe whom
he called his children, and the conver-
ſation of a few ſelect friends, anticipated
the effect of time, and ſoftened the aſ-
perities of his diſtreſs into a tender
complacent melancholy. As for Louiſa
and


( 67 )
and myſelf, who were yet new in life,
and whoſe ſpirits poſſeſſed the happy
elaſticity of youth, our minds gradually
ſhifted from ſuffering to tranquillity, and
from tranquillity to happineſs. I have
ſometimes thought that when my bro-
ther has been reading to her a delightful
paſſage, the countenance of Louiſa diſ-
covered a tender intereſt, which ſeem-
ed to be excited rather by the reader
than by the author. Theſe days, which
was ſurely the moſt enviable of our
lives, now paſſed in ſerene enjoyments,
and in continual gradations of improve-
Inent.
“ The count defigned my brother
for the army, and the time now drew
nigh when he was to join the Sicilian
regiment, in which he had a commiſſion.
The abſent thoughts, and dejećted ſpi-
rits of my couſin, now diſcovered to
me the ſecret which had long been con-
cealed even from herſelf; for it was not
till Orlando was about to depart, that
ſhe perceived how dear he was to
her


( 68 )
her peace. On the eve of his de-
parture, the count lamented with fa-
therly, yet manly tenderneſs, the diſ-
tance which was ſoon to ſeparate us.
“But we ſhall meet again,” ſaid he,
** when the honours of war ſhall have
rewarded the bravery of my ſon. Lou-
iſa grew pale, a half ſuppreſſed figh eſ-
caped her, and to conceal her emotion,
ſhe turned to her harpſichord.
“My brother had a favourite dog,
which, before he ſet off, he preſented
to Julia, and committing it to her care,
begged ſhe would be kind to it, and
ſometimes remember its maſter. He
checked his riſing emotion, but as he
turned from her, I perceived the tear
that wetted his cheek. He departed,
and with him the ſpirit of our happi-
neſs ſeemed to evaporate. The ſcenes
which his preſence had formerly en-
livened, were now forlorn and melan-
choly, yet we loved to wander in what
were once his favourite haunts. Louiſa
forbore


( 69 )
forbore to mention my brother even to
me, but frequently when ſhe thought
herſelf unobſerved, ſhe would ſteal to
her harpfichord, and repeat the ſtrain
which ſhe had played on the evening
before his departure.
“We had the pleaſure to hear from
time to time that he was well; and
though his own modeſty threw a veil
over his condućt, we could colle&t
from other accounts that he had be-
haved with great bravery. At length
the time of his return approached, and
the enlivened ſpirits of Julia declared
the influence he retained in her heart.
He returned, bearing public teſtimony
of his valour in the honours which had
been conferred upon him. He was re-
ceived with univerſal joy ; the count
welcomed him with the pride and fond-
neſs of a father, and the villa became
again the ſeat of happineſs. His per-
ſon and manners were much improved;
the elegant beauty of the youth was
In OW


( 7o )
now exchanged for the graceful dignity
of manhood, and ſome knowledge of
the world was added to that of the
ſciences. The joy which illumined
his countenance when he met Julia,
ſpoke at once his admiration and his
love; and the bluſh which her obſer-
vation of it brought upon her cheek,
would have diſcovered even to an un-
intereſted ſpećtator that this joy was
mutual.
“Orlando brought with him a young
Frenchman, a brother officer, who had
reſcued him from imminent danger in
battle, and whom he introduced to the
count as his preſerver. The count re-
ceived him with gratitude and diſtinc-
tion, and he was for a conſiderable time
an inmate at the villa. His manners
were fingularly pleaſing, and his under-
ſtanding was cultivated and refined.
He ſoon diſcovered a partiality for me,
and he was indeed too pleaſing to be
ſeen with indifference. Gratitude for
the
|


( 71 )
the valuable life he had preſerved, was
perhaps the ground work of an eſteem
which ſoon increaſed into the moſt af.
fe&tionate love. Our attachment grew
ſtronger as our acquaintance increaſed;
and at length the chevalier de Me-
non aſked me of the count, who con-
ſulted my heart, and finding it favour-
able to the connection, proceeded to
make the neceſſary enquiries concern-
ing the family of the ſtranger. He ob-
tained a ſatisfactory and pleaſing ac-
count of it. The chevalier was the ſe-
cond ſon of a French gentleman of large
eſtates in France, who had been ſome
years deceaſed. He had left ſeveral
ſons; the family eſtate, of courſe, de-
volved to the eldeſt, but to the two
younger he had bequeathed conſiderable
property. Our marriage was ſolem-
nized in a private manner at the villa, in
the preſence of the count, Louiſa, and
my brother. Soon after the nuptials,
my huſband and Orlando were remand-
ed


( 72 )
ed to their regiments. My brother's
affections were now unalterably fixed
upon Louiſa, but a ſentiment of deli-
cacy and generoſity ſtill kept him filent.
He thought, poor as he was, to ſolicit
the hand of Louiſa, would be to repay
the kindneſs of the count with ingrati-
tude. I have ſeen the inward ſtruggles
of his heart, and mine has bled for him.
The count and Louiſa ſo earneſtly ſoli-
cited me to remain at the villa during
the campaign, that at length my huſ-
band conſented. We parted—O ! let
me forget that period!—Had I accom-
panied him, all might have been well;
and the long, long years of afflićtion
which followed had been ſpared me.”
The horn now ſounded the ſignal
for dinner, and interrupted the narra-
tive of Madame. Her beauteous au-
ditors wiped the tears from their eyes,
and with extreme reluétance deſcended
to the hall. The day was occupied
with company and diversions, and it
- Was


( 73 )
º
was not till late in the evening that
they were suffered to retire. They
hastened to Madame immediately upon
their being released ; and too much in-
terested for steep, and too importunate
to be repulsed, solicited the sequel of
her story. She objected the lateness of
the hour, but at length yielded to their
entreaties. They drew their chairs close
to her's ; and every sense being absorb-
led in the single one of hearing, fol-
lowed her through the course of her
narrative. - -
"My brother again departed with-
out disclosing his sentiments; the effort
it cost him was evident, but his sense
of honour surmounted every opposing
consideration. Louisa again drooped,
and pined in silent sorrow. I lamented
equally for my friend and my brother;
and have a thousand times accused that
delicacy as false, which with-held them
from the happiness they might so easily
and so innocently have obtained. The
Vol. I. E beha-


( 74 )
behaviour of the count, at least to my
eye, seemed to indicate the satisfaction
which this union would have given him.
It was about this period that the mar-
quis Mazzini first saw and became ena-
moured of Louisa. His proposals were
very flattering, but the count forbore to
exert the undue authority of a father;
and he ceased to press the connection,
when he perceived that Louisa was really
averse to it. Louisa was sensible of the
generosity of his conduct, and she could
scarcely reject the alliance without a
sigh, which her gratitude paid to the
kindness of her father.
"But an event now happened which
dissolved at once our happiness, and all
our air drawn schemes for futurity. A
dispute, which it seems originated in a
trifle, but soon increased to a serious de-
gree, arose between the Chevalier de Me-
son and my brother. It was decided
by the sword, and my dear brother fell
by the hand of my husband. I shall
paſs


( 75 )
paſs over this period of my life. It is
too painful for recollection. The ef-
fect of this event upon Louisa was such
as may be imagined. The world was now
become indifferent to her, and as she
had no prospect of happiness for her-
self, she was unwilling to with-hold it
from the father who had deserved so
much of her. After some time, when
the marquis renewed his addresses, she
gave him her hand. The characters of
the marquis and his lady were in their
nature too opposite to form a happy
union. Of this Louisa was very soon
sensible; and though the mildness of
her disposition made her tamely submit
to the unfeeling authority of her hus-
band, his behaviour funk deep in her
heart, and she pined in secret. It was
impossible for her to avoid opposing the
character of the marquis to that of him
upon whom her affections had been so
fondly and so justly fixed. The com-
parison increased her sufferings, which
E 2 ſoon


( 76 )
ſoon preyed upon her constitution, and
very visibly affected her health. Her
situation deeply afflicted the count, and
united with the infirmities of age to
shorten his life.
“ Upon his death, I bade adieu to
my cousin, and quitted Sicily for Italy,
where the Chevalier de Menon had for
some time expected me. Our meeting
was very affecting. My resentment
towards him was done away, when I
observed his pale and altered counte-
nance, and perceived the melancholy
which preyed upon his heart. All the
airy vivacity of his former manner was
fled, and he was devoured by unavail-
ing grief and remorse. He deplored
with unceasing sorrow the friend he
had murdered, and my presence seem-
ed to open a fresh the wounds which
time had begun to close. His afflic-
tion, united with my own, was almost
more than I could support, but I was
doomed to suffer, and endure yet more.
In
|


( 77 )
In a subsequent engagement my hus-
band, weary of existence, rushed into
the heat of battle, and there obtained
an honourable death. In a paper which
he left behind him, he said it was his
intention to die in that battle ; that he
had long wished for death, and waited
for an opportunity of obtaining it with-
out staining his own character by the
cowardice of suicide, or distressing me
by an act of butchery. This event
gave the finishing stroke to my afflic-
tions; —yet let me retract :—another
misfortune awaited me when I least ex-
pected one. The Chevalier de Menon
died without a will, and his brothers
refused to give up his estate, unless I
could produce a witness of my mar-
riage. I returned to Sicily, and to my
inexpressible sorrow found that your
mother had died during my stay abroad,
a prey, I fear, to grief. The priest who
performed the ceremony of my mar-
riage, having been threatened with.
E 3 puniſh-


( 78 )
puniſhment for some ecclesiastical of.
fences, had secretly left the country;
and thus was I deprived of those proofs
which were necessary to authenticate
my claims to the estates of my husband.
His brothers, to whom I was an utter
stranger, were either too prejudiced to
believe, or believing, were too disho-
nourable to acknowledge the justice of
my claims. I was therefore at once
abandoned to sorrow and to poverty;
a small legacy from the count de Ber-
nini being all that now remained to
me."
"When the marquis married Maria
de Vellorno, which was about this pe-
riod, he designed to quit Mazzini for
Naples. His son was to accompany
him, but it was his intention to leave
you, who were both very young, to the
care of some person qualified to super-
intend your education. My circum-
stances rendered the office acceptable,
and my former friendship for your mo-
ther


( 79 )
ther made the duty pleasing to me.
The marquis was, I believe, glad to be
spared the trouble of searching further
for what he had hitherto found it diffi-
cult to obtain—a person whom inclina-
tion as well as duty would bind to his
interest."
Madame ceased to speak, and Emilia
and Julia wept to the memory of the
mother, whose misfortunes this story
recorded. The sufferings of Madame,
together with her former friendship for
the late marchioness, endeared her to
her pupils, who from this period endea-
voured by every kind and delicate at-
tention to obliterate the traces of her
sorrows. Madame was sensible of this
tenderness, and it was productive in
some degree of the effect desired. But
a subject soon after occurred, which
drew off their minds from the consider-
ation of their mother's fate to a subject
more wonderful and equally interest-
ing.
IE 4 One


( 82 )
One night that Emilia and Julia had
been detained, by company, in ceremo-
nial restraint, later than usual, they were
induced by the easy conversation of Ma-
dame, and by the pleasure which a re-
turn to liberty naturally produces, to
defer the hour of repose till the night
was far advanced. They were engaged
in interesting discourse, when Madame,
who was then speaking, was interrupted
by a low hollow sound, which arose from
beneath the apartment, and seemed like
the closing of a door. Chilled into a
silence, they listened and distinctly heard
it repeated. Deadly ideas crowded upon
their imaginations, and inspired a terror
which scarcely allowed them to breathe.
The noise lasted only for a moment,
and a profound silence soon ensued.
Their feelings at length relaxed, and
suffered them to move to Emilia's
apartment, when again they heard the
fame sounds. Almost distracted with.
fear, they rushed into Madame's apart-
ment,


( 81 )
ment, where Emilia sunk upon the bed
and fainted. It was a considerable time
ere the efforts of Madame recalled her
to sensation. When they were again
tranquil, she employed all her endea-
vours to compose the spirits of the
young ladies, and dissuade them from
alarming the castle. Involved in dark
and fearful doubts, she yet commanded
her feelings, and endeavoured to assume
an appearance of composure. The
late behaviour of the marquis had con-
vinced her that he was nearly connected
with the mystery which hung over this
part of the edifice; and she dreaded to
excite his resentment by a further men-
tion of alarms, which were perhaps only
ideal, and whose reality she had cer-
tainly no means of proving.
Influenced by these considerations,
she endeavoured to prevail on Emilia
and Julia, to await in silence some con-
firmation of their surmises; but their
terror made this a very difficult task.
E 5 They


( 82 )
They acquiesced, however, so far with
her wishes, as to agree to conceal the
preceding circumstances from every
person but their brother, without whose
protecting presence they declared it
utterly impossible to pass another night
in the apartments. For the remainder
of this night they resolved to watch.
To beguile the tediousness of the time
they endeavoured to converse, but the
minds of Emilia and Julia were too
much affected by the late occurrence
to wander from the subject. They
compared this with the foregoing cir-
cumstance of the figure and the light
which had appeared; their imaginations
kindled wild conjectures, and they sub-
mitted their opinions to Madame, en-
treating her to inform them sincerely,
whether she believed that disembodied
spirits were ever permitted to visit this
earth.
"My children," said she, "I will
not attempt to persuade you that the
exiſtence
|


( 83 )
exiſtence of such spirits is impossible.
Who shall say that any thing is impos-
sible to God 2 We know that he has
made us, who are embodied spirits; he,
therefore, can make unembodied spi-
rits. If we cannot understand how such
spirits exist, we should consider the li-
mited powers of our minds, and that
we can not understand many things
which are indisputably true. No one
yet knows why the magnetic needle
points to the north ; yet you, who have
never seen a magnet, do not hesitate to
believe that it has this tendency, be-
cause you have been well assured of it,
both from books and in conversation.
Since, therefore, we are sure that no-
thing is impossible to God, and that
such beings may exist, though we can
not tell how, we ought to consider by
what evidence their existence is sup-
ported. I do not say that spirits have
appeared; but if several discreet unpre-
judiced persons were to assure me that
E 6. they


( 84 )
they had seen one, I should not be
proud or bold enough to reply—“ it is
impossible." Let not, however, such
considerations disturb your minds. I
have said thus much, because I was un-
willing to impose upon your understand-
ings; it is now your part to exercise
your reason, and preserve the unmoved
confidence of virtue. Such spirits, if
indeed they have ever been seen, can
have appeared only by the express per-
mission of God, and for some very sin-
gular purposes; be assured that there
are no beings who act unseen by him ;
and that, therefore, there are none from
whom innocence can ever suffer harm."
No further sounds disturbed them for
that time; and before the morning
dawned, weariness insensibly overcame
apprehension, and sunk them in repose.
When Ferdinand learned the circum-
stances relative to the southern side of
the caſtle, his imagination seized with
avidity each appearance of mystery,
and


( 85 )
and inspired him with an irresistible de-
sire to penetrate the secrets of this deso-
late part of the fabrick. He very rea-
dily consented to watch with his sisters
in Julia's apartment; but as his cham-
ber was in a remote part of the castle,
there would be some difficulty in pas-
sing unobserved to her's. It was agreed,
however, that when all was hushed, he
should make the attempt. Having thus
resolved, Emilia and Julia waited the
return of night with restless and fear-
ful impatience. -
At length the family retired to rest.
The castle clock had struck one, and
Julia began to fear that Ferdinand had
been discovered, when a knocking was
heard at the door of the outer chamber.
Her heart beat with apprehensions,
which reason could not justify. Ma-
dame rose, and enquiring who was there,
was answered by the voice of Ferdinand.
The door was chearfully opened. They
drew their chairs round him, and en-
. . . deavoured


( 86 )
deavoured to pass the time in conversa-
tion; but fear and expectation attracted
all their thoughts to one subject, and
Madame alone preserved her compo-
sure. The hour was now come when
the sounds had been heard the preced-
ing night, and every ear was given to
attention. All, however, remained
quiet, and the night pasted without any
new alarm.
The greater part of several succeed-
ing nights were spent in watching, but
no sounds disturbed their silence. Fer-
dinand, in whose mind the late circum-
stances had excited a degree of astonish-
ment and curiosity superior to common
obstacles, determined, if possible, to
gain admittance to those recesses of the
castle which had for so many years.
been hid from human eye. This, how-
ever, was a design which he saw little
probability of accomplishing, for the
keys of that part of the edifice were in
the possession of the marquis, of whose
late


( 87 )
late conduct he judged too well to be-
lieve he would suffer the apartments to
be explored. He racked his invention
for the means of getting access to them,
and at length recollecting that Julia's
chamber formed a part of these build-
ings, it occurred to him, that according
to the mode of building in old times,
there might formerly have been a com-
munication between them. This con-
sideration suggested to him the possibi-
lity of a concealed door in her apart-
ment, and he determined to survey it
on the following night with great care.
CHAP.


( 88 )
CHAPTER III.
THE castle was buried in sleep when
Ferdinand again joined his sisters
in Madame's apartment. With anxious
curiosity they followed him to the
chamber. The room was hung with
tapestry. Ferdinand carefully sounded
the wall which communicated with
the southern buildings. From one part
of it a sound was returned, which con-
vinced him there was something less
solid than stone. He removed the ta-
pestry, and behind it appeared, to his
inexpressible satisfaction, a small door.
With a hand trembling through eager-
ness, he undrew the bolts, and was
rushing forward, when he perceived
that a lock with held his passage. The
keys of Madame and his sisters were
applied in vain, and he was compelled
to submit to disappointment at the very
moment when he congratulated him-
ſelf


( 89 )
ſelf on success, for he had with him no
means of forcing the door.
He stood gazing on the door, and
inwardly lamenting, when a low hollow
found was heard from beneath. Emilia
and Julia seized his arm ; and almost
finking with apprehension, listened in
profound silence. A footstep was dis-
tinctly heard, as if passing through the
apartment below, after which all was
still. Ferdinand, fired by this confirma-
tion of the late report, rushed on to the
door, and again tried to burst his way,
but it resisted all the efforts of his
strength. The ladies now rejoiced in
that circumstance which they so lately
lamented; for the sounds had renewed
their terror, and though the night passed
without further disturbance, their fears
were very little abated.
Ferdinand, whose mind was wholly
occupied with wonder, could with dif-
ficulty await the return of night. Emi-
lia and Julia were scarcely less impati-
CIlt.


( 90 )
ent. They counted the minutes as they
passed; and when the family retired to
rest, hastened with palpitating hearts to
the apartment of Madame. They were
soon after joined by Ferdinand, who
brought with him tools for cutting away
the lock of the door. They paused a
few moments in the chamber in fear-
ful silence, but no found disturbed the
stillness of night. Ferdinand applied a
knife to the door, and in a short time se-
parated the lock. The door yielded,
and disclosed a large and gloomy gal-
lery. He took a light. Emilia and
Julia, fearful of remaining in the cham-
ber, resolved to accompany him, and
each seizing an arm of Madame, they
followed in silence. The gallery was
in many parts falling to decay, the ciel-
ing was broke, and the window shutters
shattered, which, together with the
dampness of the walls, gave the place
an air of wild desolation.
They passed lightly on, for their steps
Tall


( 91 )
ran in whispering echoes through the
gallery, and often did Julia cast a fear-
ful glance around.
The gallery terminated in a large old
stair-case, which led to a hall below ;
on the left appeared several doors which
seemed to lead to separate apartments.
While they hesitated which course to
pursue, a light flashed faintly up the
stair-case, and in a moment after passed
away ; at the same time was heard the
found of a distant footstep. Ferdinand
drew his sword and sprang forward; his
companions screaming with terror, ran
back to Madame's apartment.
Ferdinand descended a large vaulted
hall; he crossed it towards a low arched
door which was left half open, and
through which streamed a ray of light.
The door opened upon a narrow winding
passage; he entered, and the light re-
tiring, was quickly lost in the windings
of the place. Still he went on. The
passage grew narrower, and the frequent
frag-


( 92 )
fragments of loose stone, made it now
difficult to proceed. A low door closed
the avenue, resembling that by which
he had entered. He opened it, and dis-
covered a square room, from whence
rose a winding stair-case, which led up
the south tower of the castle. Ferdi-
nand paused to listen ; the sound of
steps was ceased, and all was profoundly
silent. A door on the right attracted
his notice; he tried to open it, but it was
fastened. He concluded, therefore,
that the person, if indeed a human be-
ing it was that bore the light he had
seen, had passed up the tower. After a
momentary hesitation, he determined to
ascend the stair-case, but its ruinous
condition made this an adventure of
some difficulty. The steps were decay-
ed and broken, and the looseness of the
stones rendered a footing very insecure.
Impelled by an irresistible curiosity, he
was undismayed, and began the ascent.
He had not proceeded very far, when the
ſtones


( 93 )
ſtones of a step which his foot had just
quitted, loosened by his weight, gave
way; and dragging with them those ad-
joining, formed a chasm in the stair-
case that terrified even Ferdinand, who
was left tottering on the suspended half
of the steps, in momentary expectation
of falling to the bottom with the stone
on which he rested. In the terror which
this occasioned, he attempted to save
himself by catching at a kind of beam
which projected over the stairs, when
the lamp dropped from his hand, and he
was left in total darkness. Terror now
usurped the place of every other inter-
est, and he was utterly perplexed how
to proceed. He feared to go on, lest the
steps above, as infirm as those below,
should yield to his weight;—to return
was impracticable, for the darkness pre-
cluded the possibility of discovering a
means. He determined, therefore, to
remain in this situation till light should
dawn through the narrow grates in the
walls,


( 94 )
walls, and enable him to contrive some
method of letting himself down to the
ground.
He had remained here above an hour,
when he suddenly heard a voice from
below. It seemed to come from the
passage leading to the tower, and per-
ceptibly drew nearer. His agitation
was now extreme, for he had no power
of defending himself, and while he re-
mained in the state of torturing expec-
tation, a blaze of light burst upon the
stair-case beneath him. In the succeed-
ing moment he heard his own name
sounded from below. His apprehensions
instantly vanished, for he distinguished
the voices of Madame and his sisters.
They had awaited his return in all
the horrors of apprehension, till at
length all fear for themselves was lost
in their concern for him ; and they, who
so lately had not dared to enter this part
of the edifice, now undauntedly search-
ed it in quest of Ferdinand. What
Were


( 95 )
were their emotions when they disco-
vered his perilous situation 1
The light now enabled him to take
a more accurate survey of the place.
He perceived that some few stones of
the steps which had fallen, still remain-
ed attached to the wall, but he feared
to trust to their support only. He ob-
served, however, that the wall itself
was partly decayed, and consequently
rugged with the corners of half worn
stones. On these small projections he
contrived, with the assistance of the steps
already mentioned, to suspend himself,
and at length gained the unbroken part
of the stairs in safety. It is difficult to
determine which individual of the party
rejoiced most at this escape. The morn-
ing now dawned, and Ferdinand desist-
ed for the present from farther enquiry.
The interest which these mysterious
circumstances excited in the mind of
Julia, had with-drawn her attention
from a subject more dangerous to its
peace. The image of Vereza, notwith-
ſtanding,


( 96 )
ſtanding, would frequently intrude upon
her fancy; and awakening the recol-
lection of happy emotions, would call
forth a sigh which all her efforts could
not suppress. She loved to indulge the
melancholy of her heart in the solitude
of the woods. One evening she took
her lute to a favourite spot on the sea
shore, and resigning herself to a pleasing
sadness, touched some sweet and plain-
tive airs. The purple flush of evening
was diffused over the heavens. . The
fun, involved in clouds of splendid and
innumerable hues, was setting o'er the
distant waters, whose clear bosom glow-
ed with rich reflection. The beauty of
the scene, the soothing murmur of the
high trees, waved by the light air
which overshadowed her, and the soft
swelling of the waves that flowed gently
in upon the shores, insensibly sunk her
mind into a state of repose. She touch-
ed the chords of her lute in sweet and
wild melody, and sung the following
ode :
EVEN-


( 97 )
E V E N IN G.
EVENING veil'd in dewy shades, *
Slowly sinks upon the main;
See th' empurpled glory fades,
Beneath her sober, chasten'd reign.
Around her car the pensive Hours,
In sweet illapses meet the sight,
Crown'd their brows with closing flow'rs
Rich with chrystal dews of night.
Her hands, the dusky hues arrange
O'er the fine tints of parting day;
Insensibly the colours change,
And languish into soft decay.
Wide o'er the waves her shadowy veil she draws,
As faint they die along the distant shores;
Through the still air I mark each solemn pause,
Each rising murmur which the wild wave pours.
A browner shadow spreads upon the air -
And o'er the scene a pensive grandeur throws;
The rocks—the woods a wilder beauty wear,
And the deep wave in softer music flows,
And now the distant view where vision fails
Twilight and grey obscurity pervade;
Tint following tint each dark'ning object veils,
Till all the landscape sinks into the shade.
Wol, I F Oft


( 98 )
Oft from the airy steep of some lone hill,
While sleeps the scene beneath the purple glow;
And evening lives o'er all serene and still,
Wrapt let me view the magic world below !
-
And catch the dying gale that swells remote,
That steals the sweetness from the shepherd's flute;
The distant torrent's melancholy note
And the soft warblings of the lover's lute.
Still through the deep'ning gloom of bow'ry shades
To Fancy's eye fantastic forms appear;
Low whispering echoes steal along the glades
And thrill the hear with wildly-pleasing fear.
Parent of shades!—of silence!—dewy airs!
Of solemn musing, and of vision wild !
To thee my soul her pensive tribute bears,
And hails thy gradual step, thy influence mild. .
Having ceased to sing, her fingers
wandered over the lute in melancholy
symphony, and for some moments she
remained lost in the sweet sensations
which the music and the scenery had
inspired. She was awakened from her
reverie, by a sigh that stole from among
the trees, and directing her eyes whence
it came, beheld—Hippolitus ! A thou-
sand
l


( 99 )
fand ſweet and mingled emotions pressed
upon her heart, yet ſhe scarcely dared
to trust the evidence of sight. He ad-
vanced, and throwing himself at her
feet. "Suffer me," said he, in a tre-
mulous voice, "to disclose to you the
sentiments which you have inspired,
and to offer you the effusions of a heart
filled only with love and admiration."
"Rife, my lord," said Julia, moving
from her seat with an air of dignity,
“ that attitude is neither becoming you
to use, or me to suffer. The evening
is closing, and Ferdinand will be impa-
tient to see you.”
* Never will I rise, Madam," re-
plied the count, with an impassioned
air, till—He was interrupted by the
marchioness, who at this moment en-
tered the grove. On observing the po-
sition of the count she was retiring.
"Stay Madam," said Julia, almost
sinking under her confusion. "By no
F 2 means,”
i25,773


( 100 )
means,” replied the marchioness in a
tone of irony, "my presence would
only interrupt a very agreeable scene.
The count, I see, is willing to pay you
his earliest respects." Saying this she
disappeared, leaving Julia distressed
and offended, and the count provoked
at the intrusion. He attempted to re-
new the subject, but Julia hastily fol-
lowed the steps of the marchioness, and
entered the castle.
The scene she had witnessed, raised
in the marchioness a tumult of dread-
ful emotions. Love, hatred, and jea-
lousy, raged by turns in her heart, and
defied all power of controul. Subjected
to their alternate violence, she expe-
rienced a misery more acute than any
she had yet known. Her imagination,
invigorated by opposition, heightened to
her the graces of Hippolitus; her bosom
glowed with more intense passion, and
her brain was at length exasperated al-
most to madness.
2
In


( IoI )
In Julia this sudden and unexpected
interview excited a mingled emotion
of love and vexation, which did not
soon subside. At length, however, the
delightful consciousness of Vereza's love
bore her high above every other sen-
sation; again the scene more brightly
glowed, and again her fancy overcame
the possibility of evil.
During the evening a tender and
timid respect distinguished the behavi-
our of the count towards Julia, who,
contented with the certainty of being
loved, resolved to conceal her senti-
ments till an explanation of his abrupt
departure from Mazzini, and subse-
quent absence, should have dissipated
the shadow of mystery which hung over
this part of his conduct. She observed
that the marchioness pursued her with
steady and constant observation, and she
carefully avoided affording the count an
opportunity of renewing the subject of
the preceding interview, which when-
F 3 ever


( 102 )
ever he approached her seemed to trem-
ble on his lips.
Night returned, and Ferdinand re-
paired to the chamber of Julia to pur-
sue his enquiry. Here he had not long
remained, when the strange and alarm-
ing sounds which had been heard on
the preceding night were repeated.
The circumstance that now sunk in ter-
ror the minds of Emilia and Julia, fired
with new wonder that of Ferdinand,
who seizing a light, darted through the
discovered door, and almost instantly
disappeared.
He descended into the same wild
hall he had passed on the preceding
night. He had scarcely reached the
bottom of the stair-case, when a feeble
light gleamed across the hall, and his eye
caught the glimpse of a figure retiring
through the low arched door which led
to the south tower. He drew his sword
and rushed on. A faint sound died
away along the passage, the windings of
which


( 103 )
which prevented his seeing the figure
he pursued. Of this, indeed, he had
obtained so flight a view, that he scarce-
ly knew whether it bore the impression
of a human form. The light quickly
disappeared, and he heard the door that
opened upon the tower suddenly close.
He reached it, and forcing it open,
sprang forward; but the place was dark
and solitary, and there was no appear-
ance of any person having passed along
it. He looked up the tower, and the
chasm which the stair-case exhibited,
convinced him that no human being
could have passed up. He stood silent
and amazed ; examining the place
with an eye of strict enquiry, he per-
ceived a door, which was partly con-
cealed by hanging stairs, and which
till now had escaped his notice. Hope
invigorated curiosity, but his expecta-
tion was quickly disappointed, for this
door also was fastened. He tried in
vain to force it. He knocked, and a
F 4 hollow


( 104 )
hollow ſullen sound ran in echoes
through the place, and died away at a
distance. It was evident that beyond
this door were chambers of considerable
extent, but after long and various at-
tempts to reach them, he was obliged
to desist, and he quitted the tower as
ignorant and more dissatisfied than he
had entered it. He returned to the
hall, which he now for the first time de-
liberately surveyed. It was a spacious
and desolate apartment, whose lofty
roof rose into arches supported by pil-
lars of black marble. The fame sub-
stance inlaid the floor, and formed the
stair-case. The windows were high
and gothic. An air of proud sublimity,
united with singular wildness, charac-
terized the place, at the extremity of
which arose several gothic arches, whose
dark shade veiled in obscurity the ex-
tent beyond. On the left hand appear-
ed two doors, each of which was fasten-
ed, and on the right the grand en-
trail Cé


( 105 . )
trance from the courts. Ferdinand de-
termined to explore the dark recess
which terminated his view, and as he
traversed the hall, his imagination, af-
feded by the surrounding scene, often
multiplied the echoes of his footsteps
into uncertain founds of strange and fear-
ful import.
He reached the arches, and discover-
ed beyond a kind of inner hall of consi-
derable extent, which was closed at the
farther end by a pair of massy folding
doors, heavily ornamented with carving.
They were fastened by a lock, and de-
fied his utmost strength.
As he surveyed the place in silent
wonder, a sullen groan arose from be-
neath the spot where he stood. His
blood ran cold at the sound, but silence
returning, and continuing unbroken, he
attributed his alarm to the illusion of a
fancy, which terror had impregnated.
He made another effort to force the
door, when a groan was repeated more
F 5 hollow,


( 106 )
hollow, and more dreadful than the first.
At this moment all his courage forsook
him; he quitted the door, and hastened
to the stair-case, which he ascended al-
most breathless with terror.
He found Madame de Menon and
his sisters awaiting his return in the most
painful anxiety; and, thus disappoint-
ed in all his endeavours to penetrate the
secret of these buildings, and fatigued
with fruitless search, he resolved to sus-
pend farther enquiry.
When he related the circumstances
of his late adventure, the terror of Emi-
lia and Julia was heightened to a de-
gree that overcame every prudent consi-
deration. Their apprehension of the mar-
quis's displeasure, was lost in a stronger
feeling, and they resolved no longer to
remain in apartments which offered on-
ly terrific images to their fancy. Ma-
dame de Menon almost equally alarm-
ed, and more perplexed, by this com-
bination of strange and unaccountable
C1r-


( 167 )
circumstances, ceased to oppose their
design. It was resolved, therefore, that
on the following day, Madame should
acquaint the marchioness with such par-
ticulars of the late occurrences as their
purpose made it necessary she should
know, concealing their knowledge of
the hidden door, and the incidents im-
mediately dependant on it; and that
Madame should entreat a change of
apartments.
Madame accordingly waited on the
marchioness. The marchioness having
listened to the account at first with sur-
prize, and afterwards with indifference,
condescended to reprove Madame for
encouraging superstitious belief in the
minds of her young charge. She con-
cluded with ridiculing as fanciful the
circumstances related, and with refu-
sing, on account of the numerous visi-
tants at the castle, the request preferred
to her.
It is true the castle was crouded with
F 6 viſitors;


r
daine de Menon were t
>
* Prevailed


( 109 )
been prevented formally declaring his
passion by the circumstance which so
suddenly called him to Naples. This
was the dangerous illness of the mar-
quis de Lomelli, his near and much-
valued relation. But it was a task too
painful to depart in silence, and he con-
trived to inform Julia of his sentiments
in the air which she heard so sweetly sung
beneath her window.
When Hippolitus reached Naples,
the marquis was yet living, but expir-
ed a few days after his arrival, leaving
the count heir to the small possessions
which remained from the extravagance
of their ancestors.
The business of adjusting his rights
had till now detained him from Sicily,
whither he came for the sole purpose of
declaring his love. Here unexpected
obstacles awaited him. The jealous
vigilance of the marchioness, conspired
with the delicacy of Julia, to with-hold
from him the opportunity he so anxious-
ly sought.
When


( 11o )
When Ferdinand entered upon the
subject of the southern buildings to the
marquis, he carefully avoided mention-
ing the hidden door. The marquis
listened for some time to the relation in
gloomy silence, but at length assuming
an air of displeasure, reprehended Fer-
dinand for yielding his confidence to
those idle alarms, which he said were
the suggestions of a timid imagination.
* Alarms," continued he, “ which
will readily find admittance to the
weak mind of a woman, but which the
firmer nature of man should disdain.
Degenerate boy Is it thus you reward
my care * Do I live to fee my son the
sport of every idle tale a woman may
repeat? Learn to trust reason and your
senses, and you will then be worthy of
my attention."
The marquis was retiring, and Fer-
dinand now perceived it necessary to de-
clare, that he had himself witnessed the
sounds he mentioned. “ Pardon me,
my
!


( 111 )
.
my lord," said he, "in the late instance
I have been just to your command—
my senses have been the only evidences
I have trusted. I have heard those
sounds which I can not doubt." The
marquis appeared shocked. Ferdinand
perceived the change, and urged the
subject so vigorously, that the marquis
suddenly assuming a look of grave im-
portance, commanded him to attend
him in the evening in his closet.
Ferdinand in passing from the mar-
quis met Hippolitus. He was pacing
the gallery in much seeming agitation,
but observing Ferdinand, he advanced
to him. "I am ill at heart," said he,
in a melancholy tone, "assist me with
your advice. We will step into this
apartment, where we can converse with-
out interruption.” -
“You are not ignorant," said he,
throwing himself into a chair, “ of the
tender sentiments which your sister
Julia has inspired. I entreat you by
that
-


( 1 12 )
that ſacred friendship which has so long
united us, to afford me an opportunity
of pleading my passion. Her heart,
which is so susceptible of other impres-
sions, is, I fear, insensible to love. Pro-
cure me, however, the satisfaction of
certainty upon a point where the tor-
tures of suspense are surely the most
intolerable."
"Your penetration," replied Ferdi-
nand, "has for once forsaken you, else
you would now be spared the tortures
of which you complain, for you would
have discovered what I have long ob-
served, that Julia regards you with a
partial eye."
"Do not," said Hippolitus, "make
disappointment more terrible by flat-
tery; neither suffer the partiality of
friendship to mislead your judgment.
Your perceptions are affected by the
warmth of your feelings, and because
you think I deserve her distinction, you
believe I possess it. Alas! you de-
ceive yourself, but not me!”
** The


( 113 )
“The very reverie," replied Ferdi-
nand ; "tis you who deceive yourself,
or rather it is the delicacy of the passion
which animates you, and which will
ever operate against your clear percep-
tion of a truth in which your happiness
is so deeply involved. Believe me, I
speak not without reason :—she loves
you."
At these words Hippolitus started
from his feat, and clasping his hands in
fervent joy, "Enchanting sounds !"
cried he, in a voice tenderly impassion-
ed; “ could I but believe ye!—could I
but believe ye—this world were para-
dise P’
During this exclamation, the emoti-
ons of Julia, who fat in her closet ad-
joining, can with difficulty be imagin-
ed. A door which opened into it from
the apartment where this conversation
was held, was only half closed. Agi-
tated with the pleasure this declaration
excited, ſhe yet trembled with appre-
henſion


( 114 )
henſion lest ſhe should be discovered.
She hardly dared to breathe, much less
to move across the closet to the door,
which opened upon the gallery, whence
she might probably have escaped unno-
ticed, lest the sound of her step should
betray her. Compelled, therefore, to
remain where the was, she fat in a state
of fearful distress, which no colour of
language can paint.
"Alas!" resumed Hippolitus, "I
too eagerly admit the possibility of what
I wish. If you mean that I should really
believe you, confirm your assertion by
some proof." “ Readily," rejoined
Ferdinand.
The heart of Julia beat quick.
"When you was so suddenly called
to Naples upon the illness of the mar-
quis Lomelli, I marked her conduct
well, and in that read the sentiments of
her heart. On the following morning,
I observed in her countenance a restless
anxiety which I had never seen before.
She


( 115 )
She watched the entrance of every per-
son with an eager expectation, which
was as often succeeded by evident
disappointment. At dinner your de-
parture was mentioned :—she spilt the
wine she was carrying to her lips, and
for the remainder of the day was spirit-
less and melancholy. I saw her inef-
fectual struggles to conceal the oppres-
sion at her heart. Since that time she
has seized every opportunity of with-
drawing from company. The gaiety
with which she was so lately charmed-
charmed her no longer; she became
pensive, retired, and I have often heard
her singing in some lonely spot, the
most moving and tender airs. Your
return produced a visible and instanta-
neous alteration; she has now resumed
her gaiety; and the soft confusion of
her countenance, whenever you ap-
proach, might alone suffice to convince
you of the truth of my assertion."
"O! talk forever thus!" sighed Hip-
politus.


( 116 )
politus. “ These words are so sweet,
so soothing to my soul, that I could
listen till I forgot I had a wish beyond
them. Yes ||—Ferdinand, these cir-
cumstances are not to be doubted, and
conviction opens upon my mind a flow
of extacy I never knew till now. O !
lead me to her, that I may speak the
sentiments which swell my heart."
They arose, when Julia, who with
difficulty had supported herself, now
impelled by an irresistible fear of instant
discovery, rose also, and moved softly
towards the gallery. The found of her
step alarmed the count, who, apprehen-
sive lest his conversation had been over-
heard, was anxious to be satisfied whe-
ther any person was in the closet. He
rushed in, and discovered Julia | She
caught at a chair to support her trem-
bling frame; and overwhelmed with
mortifying sensations, funk into it, and
hid her face in her robe. Hippolitus
threw himself at her feet, and seizing
her


( 1 17 )
her hand, pressed it to his lips in ex-
pressive silence. Some moments passed
before the confusion of either would
suffer them to speak. At length reco-
vering his voice, "Can you, Madam,
said he, forgive this intrusion, so unin-
tentional P or will it deprive me of that
esteem which I have but lately ventured
to believe I possessed, and which I value
more than existence itself. O! speak my
pardon | Let me not believe that a sin-
gle accident has destroyed my peace for
ever."—"If your peace, Sir, depends
upon a knowledge of my esteem," said
Julia, in a tremulous voice, “ that
peace is already secure. If I wished even
to deny the partiality I feel, it would
now be useless; and since I no longer
wish this, it would also be painful."
Hippolitus could only weep his thanks
over the hand he still held. “ Be
sensible, however, of the delicacy of my
situation," continued she, rising, “ and
suffer me to withdraw." Saying this
ſhe


( 118 )
ſhe quitted the closet, leaving Hippoli-
tus overcome with this sweet confirma-
tion of his wishes, and Ferdinand not
yet recovered from the painful surprise
which the discovery of Julia had exci-
ted. He was deeply sensible of the
confusion he had occasioned her, and
knew that apologies would not restore
the composure he had so cruelly yet
unwarily disturbed.
Ferdinand awaited the hour appoint-
ed by the marquis in impatient curiosity.
The solemn air which the marquis as-
sumed when he commanded him to at-
tend, had deeply impressed his mind.
As the time drew nigh, expectation in-
creased, and every moment seemed to
linger into hours. At length he repaired
to the closet, where he did not remain
long before the marquis entered. The
fame chilling solemnity marked his
manner. He locked the door of the
closet, and seating himself, addressed
Ferdinand as follows :
- . “I am
º


( 119 )
-
“I am now going to repose in you
a confidence, which will severely prove
the strength of your honour. But before
I disclose a secret, hitherto so carefully
concealed, and now reluctantly told,
you must swear to preserve on this sub-
ject an eternal silence. If you doubt
the steadiness of your discretion—now
declare it, and save yourself from the
infamy, and the fatal consequences,
* which may attend a breach of your oath;
—if, on the contrary, you believe your-
self capable of a strict integrity—now
accept the terms, and receive the secret
I offer." Ferdinand was awed by this
exordium—the impatience of curiosity
was for a while suspended, and he he-
sitated whether he should receive the se-
cret upon such terms. At length he
signified his consent, and the marquis
arising, drew his sword from the scab-
bard.—"Here," said he, offering it to
Ferdinand, “ ſeal your vows—swear by
this sacred pledge of honour never to
- \ repeat


( 120 )
peat what I shall now reveal." Ferdi-
nand bowed upon the sword, and raising
his eyes to heaven, solemnly swore.
The marquis then resumed his feat, and
proceeded.
** You are not to learn that, about
a century ago, this castle was in the
possession of Vincent, third marquis of
Mazzini, my grandfather. At that
time there existed an inveterate hatred
between our family and that of della
Campo. I shall not now revert to the
origin of the animosity, or relate the
particulars of the consequent feuds—
ſuffice it to observe, that by the power
of our family, the della Campos were
unable to preserve their former conse-
quence in Sicily, and they have there-
fore quitted it for a foreign land to live
in unmolested security. To return to
my subject—My grandfather, believ-
ing his life endangered by his enemy,
planted spies upon him. He employ-
ed some of the numerous banditti who
*. ſought


( 121 )
ſought protection in his service, and
after some weeks past in waiting for an
opportunity, they seized Henry della
Campo, and brought him secretly to this
castle. He was for some time confined
in a close chamber of the southern build-
ings, where he expired; by what means
I shall forbear to mention. The plan
had been so well conducted, and the
secrecy so strictly preserved, that every
endeavour of his family to trace the
means of his disappearance, proved
ineffectual. Their conjectures, if they
fell upon our family, were supported by
no proof; and the della Campo's are to
this day ignorant of the mode of hit
death. A rumour had prevailed long be-
fore the death of my father, that the sou-
thern buildings of the castle were haunt-
ed. I disbelieved the fact, and treated it
accordingly. One night when every hu-
man being of the castle, except myself,
was retired to rest, I had such strong
and dreadful proofs of the general aſ-
Vol. I. G ſertion,


( 12.2 )
ſertion, that even at this moment I can
not recolle& them without horror. Let
me, if possible, forget them. From
that moment I forsook those buildings;
they have ever since been ſhut up, and
the circumstance I have mentioned, is
the true reason why I have resided so
little at the castle.” -
Ferdinand listened to this narrative
in silent horror. He remembered the te-
merity with which he had dared to pene-
trate those apartments—the light, and
figure he had seen—and, above all, his
situation in the stair-case of the tower.
Every nerve thrilled at the recollection;
and the terrors of remembrance almost
equalled those of reality.
The marquis permitted his daughters
to change their apartments, but he com-
in granting their request, he consulted
their ease only, and was himself by no
means convinced of its propriety. They
were accordingly re-instated in their
- - former
... *
manded Ferdinand to tell them, that


( 123 )
former chambers, and the great room
only of Madame's apartments was re-
served for the marchioness, who expres-
sed her discontent to the marquis in
terms of mingled censure and lamenta-
tion. The marquis privately reproved
his daughters, for what he termed the
idle fancies of a weak mind; and de-
sired them no more to disturb the peace
of the castle with the subject of their
late fears. They received this reproof
with silent submission—too much pleas-
ed with the success of their suit to be
susceptible of any emotion but joy.
Ferdinand, reflecting on the late dis-
covery, was shocked to learn, what was
now forced upon his belief, that he was
the descendant of a murderer. He now
knew that innocent blood had been
shed in the castle, and that the walls
were still the haunt of an unquiet spirit,
which seemed to call aloud for retribu-
tion on the posterity of him who had
disturbed its eternal rest. Hippolitus
G 2 per-


( 124 )
perceived his dejection, and entreated
that he might participate this uneasi-
ness; but Ferdinand, who had hitherto
been frank and ingenuous, was now
inflexibly reserved. "Forbear," said
he, "to urge a discovery of what I am
not permitted to reveal; this is the only
point upon which I conjure you to be
silent, and this, even to you, I can not
explain." Hippolitus was surprized,
but pressed the subject no farther.
Julia, though she had been extremely
mortified by the circumstances attend-
ant on the discovery of her sentiments
to Hippolitus, experienced, after the
first shock had subsided, an emotion
more pleasing than painful. The late
conversation had painted in strong co-
lours the attachment of her lover. His
diffidence—his slowness to perceive the
effect of his merit—his succeeding rap-
ture, when conviction was at length
forced upon his mind; and his conduct
upon discovering Julia, proved to her
3t
---


( 125 )
at once the delicacy and the strength of
his passion, and she yielded her heart to
sensations of pure and unmixed delight.
She was roused from this state of vision-
ary happiness, by a summons from the
marquis to attend him in the library.
A circumstance so unusual surprized
her, and the obeyed with trembling cu-
riosity. She found him pacing the room
in deep thought, and the had shut the
door before he perceived her. . The
authoritative severity in his countenance
alarmed her, and prepared her for a sub-
ject of importance. He seated himself
by her, and continued a moment silent.
At length, steadily observing her, "I
sent for you, my child," said he, "to
declare the honour which awaits you;
The duke de Luovo has solicited your
hand. An alliance so splendid was be-
yond my expectation. You will re-
ceive the distinction with the gratitude
it claims, and prepare for the celebra-
tion of the nuptials.” -
G 3 This


( 126 )
This ſpeech fell like the dart of death
upon the heart of Julia. She sat mo-
tionless—stupified and deprived of the
power of utterance. The marquis ob-
served her consternation; and mistaking
its cause, "I acknowledge," said he,
“ that there is somewhat abrupt in this
affair; but the joy occasioned by a dis-
tinction so unmerited on your part,
ought to overcome the little feminine
weakness you might otherwise indulge.
Retire and compose yourself; and ob-
serve," continued he, in a stern voice,
“ this is no time for finesse." These
words roused Julia from her state of
horrid stupefaction. "O ! Sir," said
she, throwing herself at his feet, "for-
bear to enforce authority upon a point
where to obey you would be worse than
death ; if, indeed, to obey you were
possible.—"Cease," said the marquis,
“ this affectation, and practise what be-
comes you." "Pardon me, my lord,"
she replied, “ my distress is, alas ! un-
feigned.
a


( 127 )
feigned. I cannot love the duke."
"Away !" interrupted the marquis,
“ nor tempt my rage with objections
thus childish and absurd." "Yet hear
me, my lord," said Julia, tears swelling
in her eyes, “ and pity the sufferings of
a child, who never till this moment
has dared to dispute your commands.”,
“Nor shall she now," said the mar-
quis. "What—when wealth, honour,
and distinction, are laid at my feet, shall
they be refused, because a foolish girl-
a very baby, who knows got good from
evil, cries, and fays she cannot love!
Let me not think of it—My just anger
may, perhaps, outrun discretion, and
tempt me to chastise your folly.—At-
tend to what I say—accept the duke,
or quit this castle for ever, and wander
where you will." Saying this, he burst
away, and Julia, who had hung weep-
ing upon his knees, fell prostrate upon
the floor. The violence of the fall
completed the effect of her distress, and
G 4 ſhe


( 128 )
ſhe fainted. In this state she remained
a considerable time. When she reco-
vered her senses, the recollection of her
calamity burst upon her mind with a
force that almost again overwhelmed
her. She at length raised herself from
the ground, and moved towards her
own apartment, but had scarcely reach-
ed the great gallery, when Hippolitus
entered it. Her trembling limbs would
no longer support her; she caught at
a bannister to save herself; and Hippo-
litus, with all his speed, was scarcely in
time to prevent her falling. The pale
distress exhibited in her countenance
terrified him, and he anxiously enquired
concerning it. She could answer him
only with her tears, which she found it
impossible to suppress; and gently dis-
engaging herself, tottered to her closet.
Hippolitus followed her to the door,
but desisted from further importunity.
He pressed her hand to his lips in ten-
der silence, and withdrew surprized and
alarmed.
Julia,


( 129 )
Julia, resigning herself to despair,
indulged in solitude the excess of her
grief. A calamity, so dreadful as the
present, had never before presented it-
self to her imagination. The union:
proposed would have been hateful to
her, even if she had no prior attach-
ment; what then must have been her.
distress, when she had given her heart to
him who deserved all her admiration,.
and returned all her affection. ,
The duke de Luovo was of a charac-
ter, very similar to that of the marquis.
The love of power was his ruling pas-
sion;–with him no gentle or generous
sentiment meliorated the harshness of
authority, or directed it to acts of bene-
ficence. He delighted in simple undiſ,
guised tyranny. He had been twice
married, and the unfortunate women
subjected to his power, had fallen vic-
tims to the slow but corroding hand of
sorrow. He had oneson, who some
years before had escaped the tyranny of
-- - G 5 his


( 13o )
his father, and had not been since heard
of. At the late festival the duke had
seen Julia; and her beauty made so
strong an impression upon him, that he
had been induced now to solicit her
hand. The marquis, delighted with the
prospect of a connection so flattering to
his favourite passion, readily granted
his consent, and immediately sealed it
with a promise. -
Julia remained for the rest of the day
shut up in her closet, where the tender
efforts of Madame and Emilia were
exerted to soften her distress. Towards
the close of evening Ferdinand entered.
Hippolitus, shocked at her absence, had
requested him to visit her, to alleviate
her affliction, and if possible to discover
its cause. Ferdinand, who tenderly loved
his sister, was alarmed by the words of
Hippolitus, and immediately sought her.
Her eyes were swelled with weeping, and
her countenance was but too expressive
of the state of her mind. Ferdinand's diſ-
. treſs,


( 131 )
tress, when told of his father's conduct,
was scarcely less than her own. He
had pleased himself with the hope of
uniting the sister of his heart, with the
friend whom he loved. An act of cruel
authority now dissolved the fairy dream
of happiness which his fancy had form-
ed, and destroyed the peace of those
most dear to him. He sat for a long
time silent and dejected; at length,
starting from his melancholy reverie,
he bad Julia good night, and returned.
to Hippolitus, who was waiting for him.
with anxious impatience in the north
hall. -
Ferdinand dreaded the effect of that
despair, which the intelligence he had
to communicate would produce in the
mind of Hippolitus. He revolved some
means of softening the dreadful truth;
but Hippolitus, quick to apprehend the
evil which love taught him to fear,
seized at once upon the reality. "Tell
me all," said he, in a tone of assumed
- G 6 firm-


( 132 )
firmneſs. “ “I am prepared for the
worst." Ferdinand related the decree
of the marquis, and Hippolitus, soon
funk into an excess of grief which de-
fied, as much as it required, the powers
of alleviation.
Julia, at length, retired to her cham-
ber, but the sorrow which occupied
her mind, with-held the blessings of
sleep. Distracted and restless ſhe arose,
and gently opened the window of her
apartment. The night was still, and
not a breath disturbed the surface of the
waters. The moon shed a mild radi-
ance over the waves, which in gentle
undulations flowed upon the sands.
The scene insensibly tranquillized her
spirits. A tender and pleasing melan-
choly diffused itself over her mind; and
as she mused, she heard the dashing of
distant oars. Presently the perceived
upon the light surface of the sea a small
boat. The sound of the oars ceased,
and a solemn strain of harmony (such
3S


( 133 ).
as fancy wafts from the abodes of the
blessed) stole upon the silence of night.
A chorus of voices now swelled upon
the air, and died away at distance. In
the strain Julia recollected the mid-
night hymn to the virgin, and holy en-
thusiasm filled her heart. The chorus
was repeated, accompanied by a solemn
striking of oars. A sigh of extacy stole
from her bosom. Silence returned.
The divine melody she had heard calm.
ed the tumult of her mind, and the sunk
in sweet repose. * ...,
She arose in the morning refreshed
by light slumbers; but the recollec.
tion of her sorrows soon returned with
new forces and sickening faintness over-
came her. In this situation she receiv-
ed a message from the marquis to at-
tend him instantly. She obeyed, and
he bade her prepare to receive the duke,
who that morning purposed to visit the
castle. He commanded her to attire
herself richly, and to welcome him with
ſmiles:


( 134. )
ſmiles. Julia submitted in silence. She
saw the marquis was inflexibly resolved,
and she withdrew to indulge the an-
guish of her heart, and prepare for this
detested interview.
The clock had struck twelve, when
a flourish of trumpets announced the
approach of the duke. The heart of
Julia funk at the sound, and she threw
herself on a sopha overwhelmed with
bitter sensations. Here she was soon diſ.
turbed by a message from the marquis.
She arose, and tenderly embracing Emi-
lia, their tears for some moments flow-
ed together. At length summoning all.
her fortitude, the descended to the hall,
where she was met by the marquis. He
led her to the saloon in which the duke -
ſat, with whom having conversed a short
time, he withdrew. The emotion of
Julia at this instant was beyond any
thing she had before suffered; but by a
sudden and strange exertion of fortitude,
which the force of desperate calamity
some-


( 135 )
formetimes affords us, but which infe-
rior sorrow toils after in vain, she re-
covered her composure, and resumed
her natural dignity. For a moment she
wondered at herself, and she formed the
dangerous resolution of throwing her-
self upon the generosity of the duke, by
acknowledging her reluctance to the
engagement, and soliciting him to with-
draw his suit.
The duke approached her with an
air of proud condescension; and taking
her hand, placed himself beside her.
Having paid some formal and general
compliments to her beauty, he proceed-
ed to profess himself her admirer. She
listened for some time to his professions,
and when he appeared willing to hear
her, she addressed him—"I am justly
sensible, my lord, of the distinction you
offer me, and must lament that respect-
ful gratitude is the only sentiment I can
return. Nothing can more strongly
prove my confidence in your generosity,
than


( 136 ),
than when I confess to you, that parenz.
tal authority urges me to give my hand,
whither my heart cannot accompany
it."
She paused—the duke continued si-
lent.—“ ”Tis you only, my lord, who
can release me from a situation so diſ.
tressing; and to your goodness and juſ.
tice I appeal, certain that necessity will
excuse the singularity of my conduct, ,
and that I shall not appeal in vain."
The duke was embarrassed—a flushº
of pride overspread, his countenance,
and he seemed endeavouring to stifle
the feelings that swelled his heart. "I.
had been prepared Madam," said he, ,
to expect a very different reception, ,
and had certainly no reason to believe
that the duke de Luovo was likely to sue
in vain. Since, however, Madam, you
acknowledge that you have already dis-
posed of your affections, I shall certainly
be very willing, if the marquis will re-
lease me from our mutual engagements,
to resign you to a more favoured lover."
“ Pardon


( 137 )
* “Pardon me, my lord," said Julia,
blushing, “ ſuffer me to"—“I am
not easily deceived, Madam," interrupt-
ed the duke, -“ your conduct can be
attributed only to the influence of a prior
attachment ; and though for so young
a lady, such a circumstance is some-
what extraordinary, I have certainly no
right to arraign your choice. Permit
me to wish you a good morning," He
bowed low, and quitted the room. Ju-
lia now experienced a new distress; she
dreaded the resentment of the marquis,
when he should be informed of her con-
versation with the duke, of whose cha-
racter she now judged too justly not to
repent the confidence she had reposed
in him.
. The duke, on quitting Julia, went
to the marquis, with whom he remained
in conversation some hours. When he
had left the castle, the marquis sent for
his daughter, and poured forth his re-
sentment with all the violence of threats,
and


( 138 )
and all the acrimony of contempt. So
severely did he ridicule the idea of her
disposing of her heart, and so dreadfully
did he denounce vengeance on her dis-
obedience, that she scarcely thought her-
self safe in his presence. She stood trem-
bling and confused, and heard his re-
proaches without the power to reply.
At length the marquis informed her,
that the nuptials would be solemnized
on the third day from the present; and
as he quitted the room, a flood of tears
came to her relief, and saved her from
fainting. - -
Julia passed the remainder of the day
in her closet with Emilia. Night re-
turned, but brought her no peace. She
sat long after the departure of Emilia;
and to beguile recollection, the selected
a favourite author, endeavouring to re-
vive those sensations his page had once
excited. She opened to a passage, the
tender sorrow of which was applicable
taller own situation, and her tears flowed
- 2.Il£Wa.


( 139 )
anew. Her grief was soon suspended
by apprehension. Hitherto a deadly
silence had reigned through the castle,
interrupted only by the wind, whose
low sound crept at intervals through the
galleries. She now thought she heard
a foot-ſtep near her door, but presently
all was still, for the believed she had
been deceived by the wind. The suc- .
ceeding moment, however, convinced
her of her error, for the distinguished
the low whisperings of some persons in
the gallery. Her spirits, already weak-
ened by sorrow, deserted her; she was
seized with an universal terror, and
presently afterwards a low voice called
her from without, and the door was
opened by Ferdinand. -
She shrieked and fainted. On reco-
vering, the found herself supported by
* and Hippolitus, who had
olen this moment of silence and secu-
rity to gain admittance to her presence.
Hippolitus came to urge a propoſal,
. . . . . which,


( 14o )
which despair only could have suggest-
ed. “ Fly," said he, “ from the au-
thority of a father who abuses his power,
and assert the liberty of choice, which
nature assigned you. Let the desperate
situation of my hopes plead excuse for
the apparent boldness of this address,
and let the man who exists but for you,
be the means of saving you from de-
struction. Alas! Madam, you are si-
lent, and perhaps I have forfeited by
this proposal, the confidence I so lately
flattered myself I possessed. If so, I
will submit to my fate in silence, and
will to-morrow quit a scene which pre-
sents only images of distress to my mind.
Julia could speak but with her tears.
A variety of strong and contending
emotions struggled at her breast, and
suppressed the power of utterance. Fer-
dinand seconded the proposal of the
count. “ It is unnecessary," my sister,
said he, "to point out the misery which
awaits you; here. I love you too.well
- tamely:


( 141 )
tamely to suffer you to be sacrificed to
ambition, and to a passion still more
hateful. I now glory in calling Hippo-
litus my friend—let me ere long re-
ceive him as a brother, I can give no
stronger testimony of my esteem for his
character, than in the with I now ex-
press. Believe me he has a heart wor-
thy of your acceptance—a heart noble
and expansive as your own." "Ah,
cease," said Julia, “ to dwell upon a
character of whose worth I am fully
sensible. Your kindness and his merit
can never be forgotten by her whose
misfortunes you have so generously suf-
fered to interest you." She paused in
silent hesitation. A sense of delicacy
made her hesitate upon the decision
which her heart so warmly prompted.
If she fled with Hippolitus, she would
avoid one evil, and encounter another.
She would escape the dreadful destiny
awaiting her, but must, perhaps, fully
the purity of that reputation, which was
** dearer


( 14.2 )
dearer to her than existence. In a mind
like her's, exquisitelysusceptible of the
pride of honour, this fear was able
to counteract every other consideration,
and to keep her intentions in a state of
painful suspense. She sighed deeply,
and continued silent. Hippolitus was
alarmed by the calm distress which her
countenance exhibited. "O ! Julia,"
said he, "relieve me from this dread-
ful suspense!—speak tome—explain this
silence." She looked mournfully upon
him—her lips moved, but no sounds
were uttered. As he repeated his queſ.
tion, she waved her hand, and sunk back
in her chair. She had not fainted, but
continued some time in a state of stupor
not less alarming. The importance of
the present question, operating upon
her mind, already harassed by distress,
had produced a temporary suspension
of reason, Hippolitus hung over her in
an agony not to be described, and Ferdi-
nand vainly repeated her name. . At
. . . length,


( 143 )
length, uttering a deep sigh, she raised
herself, and like one awakened from a
dream, gazed around her. Hippolitus
thanked God fervently. in his heart.
* Tell me but that you are well," said
he, “ and that I may dare to hope,
and we will leave you to repose." "My
filter," said Ferdinand, "consult only
your own wishes, and leave the rest to
me. Suffer a confidence in me to dis-
sipate the doubts with which you are
agitated." “ Ferdinand," said Julia,
emphatically, "how shall I express the
gratitude your kindness has excited 2*
"Your gratitude," said he, “ will be
best shewn in consulting your own
wishes ; for be assured, that whatever
procures you happiness, will most ef-
fectually establish mine. Do not suffer
the prejudices of education to render
you miserable. Believe that a choice
which involves the happiness or misery
of your whole life, ought to be decided
only by yourself.” -- --
* “Let


( 144 )
“Let us forbear for the present,"
said Hippolitus, "to urge the subject.
Repose is necessary for you, addressing
Julia, “ and I will not suffer a selfish
consideration any longer to with-hold
you from it.—Grant me but this request
—that at this hour to-morrow night, I
may return hither to receive my doom."
Julia having consented to receive Hip-
politus and Ferdinand, they quitted the
closet. In turning into the grand gal-
lery, they were surprised by the appear-
ance of a light, which gleamed upon
the wall that terminated their view. It
seemed to proceed from a door which
opened upon a back stair-case. They
pushed on, but it almost instantly disap-
peared, and upon the stair-case all was
still. They then separated, and retired
to their apartments, somewhat alarmed
by this circumstance, which induced
them to suspect that their visit to Julia
had been observed.
Julia passed the night in broken slum-
bers,


( 145 )
flumbers, and anxious consideration.
On her present decision hung the crisis
of her fate. Her consciousness of the
influence of Hippolitus over her heart,
made her fear to indulge its predilec-
tion, by trusting to her own opinion of
its fidelity. She shrunk from the dis-
graceful idea of an elopement; yet she
saw no means of avoiding this, but by
rushing upon the fate so dreadful to
her imagination.
On the following night, when the in-
habitants of the castle were retired to
rest, Hippolitus, whose expectation had
lengthened the hours into ages, accom-
panied by Ferdinand, revisited the clo-
set. Julia, who had known no interval
of rest since they last left her, received
them with much agitation. The vivid
glow of health had fled her cheek, and
was succeeded by a languid delicacy,
less beautiful, but more interesting.
To the eager enquiries of Hippolitus,
she returned no answer, but faintly smil-
WoL. I. H ing


( 146 )
ing through her tears, presented him
her hand, and covered her face with
her robe. "I receive it," cried he,
“ as the pledge of my happiness;—yet
—yet let your voice ratify the gift."
"If the present concession does not
fink me in your esteem," said Julia, in
a low tone, "this hand is your's." "The
concession, my love, (for by that tender
name I may now call you) would, if
possible, raise you in my esteem; but
since that has been long incapable of ad-
dition, it can only heighten my opinion
of myself, and increase my gratitude to
you : gratitude which I will endeavour
to shew by an anxious care of your
happiness, and by the tender attentions
of a whole life. From this blessed mo-
ment," continued he, in a voice of rap-
ture, "permit me, in thought, to hail
you as my wife. From this moment
let me banish every vestige of sorrow ;
—let me dry those tears," gently press-
ing her cheek with his lips, "never
to


( 147 )
to spring again."—The gratitude and
joy which Ferdinand expressed upon
this occasion, united with the tender-
ness of Hippolitus to soothe the agi-
tated spirits of Julia, and she gradually
recovered her complacency.
They now arranged their plan of .
escape; in the execution of which, no
time was to be lost, since the nuptials
with the duke were to be solemnized
on the day after the morrow. Their
scheme, whatever it was that should be
adopted, they, therefore, resolved to
execute on the following night. But
when they descended from the first
warmth of enterprize, to minuter exa-
mination, they soon found the difficul-
ties of the undertaking. The keys of
the castle were kept by Robert, the
confidential servant of the marquis,
who every night deposited them in an
iron chest in his chamber. To obtain
them by stratagem seemed impossible,
and Ferdinand feared to tamper with
H 2. the


( 148 )
the honesty of this man, who had been
many years in the service of the mar-
quis. Dangerous as was the attempt,
no other alternative appeared, and they
were therefore compelled to rest all
their hopes upon the experiment. It
was settled, that if the keys could be
procured, Ferdinand and Hippolitus
should meet Julia in the closet; that
they should convey her to the sea shore,
from whence a boat, which was to be
kept in waiting, would carry them to
the opposite coast of Calabria, where the
marriage might be solemnized without
danger of interruption. But, as it was
necessary that Ferdinand should not ap-
pear in the affair, it was agreed that he
should return to the castle immediately
upon the embarkation of his sister.
Having thus arranged their plan of
operation, they separated till the follow-
ing night, which was to decide the fate
of Hippolitus and Julia.
Julia, whose mind was soothed by
- the


( 149 )
the fraternal kindness of Ferdinand, and
the tender assurances of Hippolitus, now
experienced an interval of repose. At
the return of day she awoke refreshed,
and tolerably composed. She selected
the few clothes which were necessary,
and prepared them for her journey. A
sentiment of generosity justified her in
the reserve she preserved to Emilia and
Madame de Menon, whose faithfulness
and attachment she could not doubt,
but whom she disdained to involve in
the disgrace that must fall upon them,
should their knowledge of her flight be
discovered.
In the mean time the castle was a
scene of confusion. The magnificent
preparations which were making for
the nuptials engaged all eyes, and bu-
sied all hands. The marchioness had
the direction of the whole; and the ala-
crity with which she acquitted herself,
testified how much she was pleased with
the alliance, and created a suspicion,
H 3 that


( 150 )
that it had not been concerted without
some exertion of her influence. Thus
was Julia designed the joint victim of
ambition and illicit love.
The composure of Julia declined
with the day, whose hours had crept
heavily along. As the night drew on,
her anxiety for the success of Ferdi-
nand's negociation with Robert in-
creased to a painful degree. A variety
of new emotions pressed at her heart,
and subdued her spirits. When she bade
Emilia good night, she thought she be-
held her for the last time. The ideas
of the distance which would separate
them, of the dangers she was going to
encounter, with a train of wild and
fearful anticipations, crouded upon her
mind, tears sprang in her eyes, and it
was with difficulty she avoided betray-
ing her emotions. Of Madame too,
her heart took a tender farewell. At
length she heard the marquis retire to
his apartment, and the doors belonging
[O


( 151 )
to the several chambers of the guests
successively close. She marked with
trembling attention the gradual change
from bustle to quiet, till all was still.
She now held herself in readiness to
depart at the moment in which Ferdi-
nand and Hippolitus, for whose steps
in the gallery she eagerly listened, should
appear. The castle clock struck twelve.
The sound seemed to shake the pile.
Julia felt it thrill upon her heart. "I
hear you," sighed she, "for the last
time." The stillness of death succeeded.
She continued to listen; but no sound
met her ear. For a considerable time
she sat in a state of anxious expectation
not to be described. The clock chimed
the successive quarters; and her fear
rose to each additional sound. At length
the heard it strike one. Hollow was
that found, and dreadful to her hopes;
for neither Hippolitus nor Ferdinand
appeared. She grew faint with fear and
disappointment. Her mind, which for
H 4 tWO


( 152 )
two hours had been kept upon the
stretch of expectation, now resigned
itself to despair. She gently opened
the door of her closet, and looked upon
the gallery; but all was lonely and si-
lent. It appeared that Robert had re-
fused to be accessary to their scheme ;
and it was probable that he had be-
trayed it to the marquis. Overwhelmed
with bitter reflections, the threw herself
upon the sopha in the first, distraction
of despair. Suddenly she thought she
heard a noise in the gallery; and as she
started from her posture to listen to the
sound, the door of her closet was gently
opened by Ferdinand. "Come, my
love," said he, "the keys are ours, and
we have not a moment to lose; our de-
lay has been unavoidable; but this is
no time for explanation." Julia, almost
fainting, gave her hand to Ferdinand ;
and Hippolitus, after some short ex-
pression of his thankfulness, followed.
They pasted the door of Madame's
chamber ;


( 153 )
chamber; and treading the gallery with
flow and silent steps, descended to the
hall. This they crossed towards a door,
after opening which, they were to find
their way, through various passages, to
a remote part of the castle, where a pri-
vate door opened upon the walls. Fer-
dinand carried the several keys. They
fastened the hall door after them, and
proceeded through a narrow passage
terminating in a stair-case.
They descended, and had hardly
reached the bottom, when they heard
a loud noise at the door above, and
presently the voices of several people.
Julia scarcely felt the ground she trod
on, and Ferdinand flew to unlock a
door that obstructed their way. He
applied the different keys, and at length
found the proper one ; but the lock
was rusted, and refused to yield. Their
distress was not now to be conceived.
. The noise above increased ; and it
seemed as if the people were forcing
H 5 the


( 154 )
the door. Hippolitus and Ferdinand
vainly tried to turn the key. A sud-
den crash from above convinced them
that the door had yielded, when mak-
ing another desperate effort, the key
broke in the lock. Trembling and ex-
hausted, Julia gave herself up for lost.
As she hung upon Ferdinand, Hippolitus
vainly endeavoured to sooth her—the
noise suddenly ceased. They listened,
dreading to hear the sounds renewed;
but, to their utter astonishment, the si-
lence of the place remained undisturbed.
They had now time to breathe, and to
consider the possibility of effecting their
escape; for from the marquis they had
no mercy to hope. Hippolitus, in or-
der to ascertain whether the people had
quitted the door above, began to as-
cend the passage, in which he had not
gone many steps when the noise was re-
newed with increased violence. He in-
stantly retreated; and making a despe-
rate push at the door below, which ob-
ſtructed


( 155 )
ſtructed their passage, it seemed to yield,
and by another effort of Ferdinand, burst
open. They had not an instant to lose ;
for they now heard the steps of persons
descending the stairs. The avenue they
were in opened into a kind of chamber,
whence three passages branched, of
which they immediately chose the first.
Another door now obstructed their pas-
sage; and they were compelled to wait
while Ferdinand applied the keys. "Be
quick," said Julia, “ or we are lost. O !
if this lock too is rusted l—“ Hark!"
said Ferdinand. They now discovered
what apprehension had before prevented
them from perceiving, that the sounds
of pursuit were ceased, and all again
was silent. As this could happen only
by the mistake of their pursuers, in
taking the wrong route, they resolved
to preserve their advantage, by con-
cealing the light, which Ferdinand
now covered with his cloak. The door
was opened, and they passed on ; but
- H 6 - they


( 157 )
countenance the light of his lamp then
shone, and discovered to him his father!
The sword fell from his grasp, and he
started back in an agony of horror. He
was instantly surrounded, and seized by
the servants of the marquis, while the
marquis himself denounced vengeance
upon his head, and ordered him to be
thrown into the dungeon of the castle.
At this instant the servants of the count,
who were awaiting his arrival on the sea
shore, hearing the tumult, hastened to
the scene, and there beheld their be-
loved master lifeless and weltering in
his blood. They conveyed the bleeding
body, with loud lamentations, on board
the vessel which had been prepared for
him, and immediately set sail for Italy.
Julia, on recovering her senses, found
herself in a small room, of which she
had no remembrance, with her maid
weeping over her. Recollection, when
it returned, brought to her mind an
energy of grief which exceeded even
all


( 158 )
all former conceptions of sufferings.
Yet her misery was heightened by the
intelligence which she now received.
She learned that Hippolitus had been
borne away lifeless by his people, that
Ferdinand was confined in a dungeon
by order of the marquis, and that her-
self was a prisoner in a remote room,
from which, on the day after the mor-
row, ſhe was to be removed to the cha-
pel of the castle, and there sacrificed to
the ambition of her father, and the ab-
surd love of the duke de Luovo.
This accumulation of evil subdued
each power of resistance, and reduced
Julia to a state little short of distraction.
No person was allowed to approach her
but her maid, and the servant who
brought her food. Emilia, who, though
shocked by Julia's apparent want of
confidence, severely sympathized in her
distress, solicited to see her ; but the
pain of denial was so sharply aggra-
vated by rebuke, that she dared not
again to urge the request.
In


( 159 )
In the mean time Ferdinand, involv-
ed in the gloom of a dungeon, was re-
signed to the painful recollection of
the past, and a horrid anticipation of the
future. From the resentment of the mar-
quis, whose passions were wild and ter-
rible, and whose rank gave him an un-
limited power of life and death in his own
territories, Ferdinand had much to fear.
Yet selfish apprehension soon yielded to a
more noble sorrow. He mourned the
fate of Hippolitus, and the sufferings
of Julia. He could attribute the fai-
lure of their scheme only to the treach-
ery of Robert, who had, however,
met the wishes of Ferdinand, with
strong apparent sincerity, and generous
interest in the cause of Julia. On the
night of the intended elopement he
had consigned the keys to Ferdinand,
who, immediately on receiving them,
went to the apartment of Hippolitus.
There they were detained till after
the clock had struck one, by a low
noiſe,


( 160 )
noiſe, which returned at intervals, and
convinced them, that some part of the
family was not yet retired to rest. This
noise was undoubtedly occasioned by
the people whom the marquis had em-
ployed to watch, and whose vigilance
was too faithful to suffer the fugitives
to escape. The very caution of Ferdi-
nand defeated its purpose; for it is pro-
bable, that had he attemped to quit
the castle by the common entrance, he
might have escaped. The keys of the
grand door, and those of the courts, re-
maining in the possession of Robert,
the marquis was certain of the intended
place of their departure; and was thus
enabled to defeat their hopes at the very
moment when they exulted in their suc-
cess. -
When the marchioness learned the
fate of Hippolitus, the resentment of
jealous passion, yielded to emotions of
pity. Revenge was satisfied, and she
could now lament the sufferings of a
youth,


( 161 )
youth, whose personal charms had touch-
ed her heart as much as his virtues had
disappointed her hopes. Still true to pas-
sion, and inaccessible to reason, she pour-
ed upon the defenceless Julia her anger
for that calamity of which she herself
was the unwilling cause. By a dextrous
adaptation of her powers, she had work-
ed upon the passions of the marquis, so
aa to render him relentless in the pursuit
of ambitious purposes, and insatiable in
revenging his disappointment. But the
effects of her artifices exceeded her in-
tention in exerting them; and when she
meant only to sacrifice a rival to her
love, she found she had given up its ob-
ject to revenge. -
CHAP.


( 16.2 )
CHAPTER IV.
HE nuptial morn, so justly dread-
ed by Julia, and so impatiently
awaited by the marquis, now arrived.
The marriage was to be celebrated with
a magnificence which demonstrated
the joy it occasioned to the marquis.
The castle was fitted up in a style of
grandeur superior to anything that had
been before seen in it. The neighbour-
ing nobility were invited to an enter-
tainment which was to conclude with
a splendid ball and supper, and the
gates were to be thrown open to all who
chose to partake of the bounty of the
marquis. At an early hour the duke,
attended by a numerous retinue, enter-
ed the castle. Ferdinand heard from
his dungeon, where the rigour and the
policy of the marquis still confined him,
the loud clattering of hoofs in the
court yard above, the rolling of the
carriage


( 163 )
carriage wheels, and all the tumultuous
bustle which the entrance of the duke
occasioned. He too well understood the
cause of this uproar, and it awakened
in him sensations resembling those which
the condemned criminal feels, when his
ears are assailed by the dreadful sounds
that precede his execution. When he
was able to think of himself, he won-
dered by what means the marquis would
reconcile his absence to the guests. He,
however, knew too well the dissipated
character of the Sicilian nobility, to
doubt, that whatever story should be
invented would be very readily believed
by them; who, even if they knew the
truth, would not suffer a discovery of
their knowledge to interrupt the festi-
vity which was offered them.
The marquis and marchioness receiv-
ed the duke in the outer hall, and con-
ducted him to the saloon, where he par-
took of the refreshments prepared for
him, and from thence retired to the cha-
pel,
*


( 164 )
pel. The marquis now withdrew to
lead Julia to the altar, and Emilia was
ordered to attend at the door of the cha-
pel, in which the priest and a numerous
company were already assembled. The
marchioness, a prey to the turbulence of
succeeding passions, exulted in the near
completion of her favourite scheme.
A disappointment, however, was pre-
pared for her, which would at once
crush the triumph of her malice and
her pride. The marquis, on entering
the prison of Julia, found it empty
His astonishment and indignation, upon
the discovery, almost overpowered his
reason. Of the servants of the castle,
who were immediately summoned, he
enquired concerning her escape, with a
mixture of fury and sorrow, which left
them no opportunity for reply. They
had, however, no information to give,
but that her woman had not appeared
during the whole morning. In the
prison were found the bridal habili-
ments which the marchioness herself
had


( 165 )
had sent on the preceeding night, toge-
ther with a letter addressed to Emilia,
which contained the following words:
“ Adieu, dear Emilia ; never more
will you see your wretched sister, who
flies from the cruel fate now prepared
for her, certain that she can never meet
one more dreadful.—In happiness or
misery—in hope or despair—whatever
may be your situation—still remember
me with pity and affection. Dear Emi-
lia, adieu !—You will always be the
sister of my heart—may you never be
the partner of my misfortunes!
While the marquis was reading this
letter, the marchioness, who supposed
the delay occasioned by some opposition
from Julia, flew to the apartment. By
her orders all the habitable parts of the
castle were explored, and ſhe herself
assisted in the search. At length the
intelligence was communicated to the
chapel, and the confusion became uni-
versal. The priest quitted the altar,
and the company returned to the saloon.
- The


( 166 )
The letter when it was given to Emi-
lia, excited emotions which she found
it impossible to disguise, but which did
not, however, protect her from a suspi-
cion that she was concerned in the trans-
action, her knowledge of which this let-
ter appeared intended to conceal.
The marquis immediately dispatched
servants upon the fleetest horses of his
stables, with directions to take different
routes, and to scour every corner of the
island in pursuit of the fugitives. When
these exertions had somewhat quieted
his mind, he began to consider by what
means Julia could have effected her es-
cape. She had been confined in a small
room in a remote part of the castle, to
which no person had been admitted but
her own woman, and Robert, the confi-
dential servant of the marquis. Even
Lisette had not been suffered to enter,
unless accompanied by Robert, in whose
room, since the night of the fatal dis-
covery, the keys had been regularly de-
posited. Without them it was impos-
sible


( 167 )
ſible ſhe could have escaped : the win-
dows of the apartment being barred
and grated, and opening into an inner
court, at a prodigious height from the
ground. Besides, who could she de-
pend upon for protection—or whi-
ther could she intend to fly for con-
cealment 2–The associates of her for-
mer elopement were utterly unable to
assist her even with advice. Ferdinand
himself a prisoner, had been deprived
of any means of intercourse with her,
and Hippolitus had been carried life-
less on board a vessel which had im-
mediately sailed for Italy.
Robert, to whom the keys had been
intrusted, was severely interrogated by
the marquis. He persisted in a simple
and uniform declaration of his inno-
cence; but as the marquis believed it
impossible that Julia could have escap-
ed without his knowledge, he was or-
dered into imprisonment till he should
confess the fact.
The


( 168 )
The pride of the duke was severely
wounded by this elopement, which prov-
ed the excess of Julia's aversion, and com-
pleated the disgraceful circumstances of
his rejection. The marquis had care-
fully concealed from him her prior at-
tempt at elopement, and her consequent
confinement; but the truth now burst
from disguise, and stood revealed with
bitter aggravation. The duke, fired
with indignation at the duplicity of the
marquis, poured forth his resentment
in terms of proud and bitter invective;
and the marquis, galled by recent dis-
appointment, was in no mood to re-
strain the impetuosity of his nature.
He retorted with acrimony; and the con-
sequence would have been serious, had
not the friends of each party interposed
for their preservation. The disputants
were at length reconciled; it was agreed
to pursue Julia with united, and inde-
fatigable search; and that whenever she
should be found, the nuptials should be
ſolem-


( 169 )
folemnized without further delay. With
the character of the duke, this conduct
was consistent. His passions, inflamed
by disappointment, and strengthened
by repulse, now defied the power of
obstacle; and those considerations which
would have operated with a more deli-
cate mind to overcome its original in-
clination, served only to increase the
violence of his.
Madame de Menon, who loved Julia
with maternal affection, was an interest-
ed observer of all that passed at the cas-
tle. The cruel fate to which the mar-
quis destined his daughter, she had se-
verely lamented, yet the could hardly re-
joice to find that this had been avoided
by elopement. She trembled for the
future safety of her pupil; and her tran-
quillity, which was thus first disturbed
for the welfare of others, she was not
soon suffered to recover.
The marchioness had long nourished
a secret dislike to Madame de Menon,
WoL. I. I whoſ:


( 170 )
whoſe virtues were a silent reproof to
her vices. The contrariety of their dis-
position, created in the marchioness an
aversion which would have announted
to contempt, had not that dignity of vir-
tue which strongly characterized the
manners of Madame, compelled the
former to fear what she wished to despise.
Her conscience whispered her that the
dislike was mutual; and she now rejoic-
ed in the opportunity which seemed to
offer itself, of lowering the proud in-
tegrity of Madame's character. Pre-
tending, therefore, to believe that ſhe
had encouraged Ferdinand to disobey his
father's commands, and had been ac-
cessary to the elopement, she accused
her of these offences, and stimulated the
marquis to reprehend her conduct. But
the integrity of Madame de Menon was
not to be questioned with impunity.
Without deigning to answer the impu-
tation, she desired to resign an office of
which she was no longer considered wor-
thy,
z


( 171 )
thy, and to quit the castle immediately.
This the policy of the marquis would
not suffer; and he was compelled to
make such ample concessions to Ma-
dame, as induced her for the present to
continue at the castle.
The news of Julia's elopement at
length reached the ears of Ferdinand,
whose joy at this event was equalled
only by his surprize. He lost, for a
moment, the sense of his own situation,
and thought only of the escape of Julia.
But his sorrow soon returned with ac-
cumulated force, when he recollected
that Julia might then perhaps want that
assistance, which his confinement alone
could prevent his affording her.
The servants, who had been sent in
pursuit, returned to the castle without
any satisfactory information. Week
after week elapsed in fruitless search,
yet the duke was strenuous in continu-
ing the pursuit. Emissaries were dis-
patched to Naples, and to the several
I 2 eſtates


( 172 )
eſtates of the count Vereza, but they
returned without any satisfactory infor-
mation. The count had not been heard
of since he quitted Naples for Sicily.
During these enquiries a new sub-
ject of disturbance broke out in the cas-
tle of Mazzini. On the night so fatal
to the hopes of Hippolitus and Julia,
when the tumult was subsided, and all
was still, a light was observed by a ser-
vant as he passed by the window of the
great stair-cafe in the way to his cham-
ber, to glimmer through the casement
before noticed in the southern build-
ings. While he stood observing it, it
vanished, and presently re-appeared.
The former mysterious circumstances
relative to these buildings rushed upon
his mind; and fired with wonder, he
roused some of his fellow servants to
come and behold this phenomenon.
As they gazed in silent terror, the
light disappeared, and soon after, they
saw a small door belonging to the south
to Wer


( 173 )
tower open, and a figure bearing a light
issue forth, which gliding along the cas-
tle walls, was quickly lost to their view.
Overcome with fear, they hurried back
to their chambers, and revolved all the
late wonderful occurrences. They doubt-
ed not, that this was the figure formerly
seen by the lady Julia. The sudden
change of Madame de Menon's apart-
ments had not passed unobserved by the
servants, but they now no longer hesita-
ted to what to attribute the removal.
They collected each various and uncom-
mon circumstance attendant on this part
of the fabric; and, comparing them with
the present, their superstitious fears were
confirmed, and their terror heightened
to such a degree, that many of them re-
solved to quit the service of the mar-
quis.
The marquis surprized at this sudden
desertion, enquired into its cause, and
learned the truth. Shocked by this dis-
covery, he yet resolved to prevent, if
I 3 poſ-


( 174 )
poſſible, the ill effects which might be
expected from a circulation of the re-
port. To this end it was necessary to
quiet the minds of his people, and to
prevent their quitting his service. Hav-
ing severely reprehended them for the
idle apprehension they encouraged, he
told them that, to prove the fallacy of
their surmises, he would lead them over
that part of the castle which was the
subject of their fears, and ordered them
to attend him at the return of night in
the north hall. Emilia and Madame de
Menon suprized at this procedure,
awaited the issue in silent expectation.
The servants in obedience to the com-
mands of the marquis, assembled at
night in the north hall. The air of de-
solation which reigned through the
south buildings, and the circumstance
of their having been for so many years
shut up, would naturally tend to inspire
awe; but to these people, who firmly
believed them to be the haunt of an
unquiet


( 175 )
unquiet spirit, terror was the predomi-
nant sentiment.
The marquis now appeared with the
keys of these buildings in his hands, and
every heart thrilled with wild expecta-
tion. He ordered Robert to precede him
with a torch, and the rest of the servants
following, he passed on. A pair of iron
gates were unlocked, and they proceed-
ed through a court, whose pavement was
wildly overgrown with long grass, to
the great door of the south fabric. Here
they met with some difficulty, for the
lock, which had not been turned for
many years, was rusted.
During this interval, the silence of
expectation sealed the lips of all present.
At length the lock yielded. That door
which had not been passed for so many
years, creaked heavily upon its hinges,
and disclosed the hall of black marble
which Ferdinand had formerly crossed.
"Now," cried the marquis, in a tone
of irony as he entered, "expect to en-
I 4 COunter


( 176 )
counter the ghosts of which you tell
me; but if you fail to conquer them,
prepare to quit my service. The peo-
ple who live with me, shall at least have
courage and ability sufficient to defend
me from these spiritual attacks. All I
apprehend is, that the enemy will not
appear, and in this cafe your valour will
go untried."
No one dared to answer, but all fol-
lowed, in silent fear, the marquis, who
ascended the great stair-case, and enter-
ed the gallery. “ Unlock that door,"
said he, pointing to one on the left,
“ and we will soon unhouse these
ghosts." Robert applied the key, but
his hand shook so violently that he
could not turn it. “ Here is a fellow,"
cried the marquis, "fit to encounter
a whole legion of spirits. Do you,
Anthony, take the key, and try your
valour.”
“ Please you, my lord," replied
Anthony, "I never was a good one at
unlock-


( 177 )
unlocking a door in my life, but here
is Gregory will do it." "No, my
lord, an' please you," said Gregory,
here is Richard." “ Stand off," said
the marquis, "I will shame your cow-
ardice, and do it myself."
Saying this he turned the key, and
was rushing on, but the door refused to
yield; it shook under his hands, and
seemed as if partially held by some per-
son on the other side. The marquis was
surprized, and made several efforts to
move it, without effect. He then or-
dered his servants to burst it open, but,
shrinking back with one accord, they
cried “ for God's fake, my lord, go no
farther; we are satisfied here are no
ghosts, only let us get back.”.
“It is now then my turn to be satis-
fied," replied the marquis, “ and till I
am, not one of you shall stir. Open
me that door." "My lord l’—“Nay,"
said the marquis, assuming a look of
stern authority—“ dispute not my com-
mands. I am not to be trifled with.”
I 5 They


( 179 )
case, where several doors appeared, one
of which the marquis unclosed. A spa-
cious chamber appeared beyond, whose
walls, decayed and discoloured by the
damps, exhibited a melancholy proof
of desertion.
They passed on through a long suite
of lofty and noble apartments, which
were in the fame ruinous condition.
At length they came to the chamber
whence the noise had issued. ‘‘ Go
first, Robert, with the light," said the
marquis, as they approached the door;
“ this is the key." Robert trembled
—but obeyed, and the other servants
followed in silence. They stopped a mo-
ment at the door to listen, but all was
still within. The door was opened, and
disclosed a large vaulted chamber, near-
ly resembling those they had passed,
and on looking round, they discovered
at once the cause of the alarm.—A part
of the decayed roof was fallen in, and
the stones and rubbish of the ruin fall-
I 6 ing


( 180 )
ing against the gallery door, obstructed
the passage. It was evident, too, whence
the noise which occasioned their terror
had arisen; the loose stones which were
piled against the door being shook by
the effort made to open it, had given
way, and rolled to the floor.
After surveying the place, they re-
turned to the back stairs, which they
descended, and having pursued the seve-
ral windings of a long passage, found
themselves again in the marble hall.
"Now," said the marquis, "what think
ye What evil spirits infest these walls?
Henceforth be cautious how ye credit
the phantasms of idleness, for ye may
not always meet with a master who will
condescend to undeceive ye." "They
acknowledged the goodness of the mar-
quis, and professing themselves per-
fectly conscious of the error of their
former suspicions, desired they might
search no farther. "I chose to leave
>
nothing to your imagination," replied
the


( 181 )
the marquis, lest hereafter it should be-
tray you into a similar error. Follow
me, therefore ; you shall see the whole
of these buildings." Saying this, he
led them to the south tower. They re-
membered, that from a door of this
tower, the figure which caused their
alarm had issued ; and notwithstanding
the late assertion of their suspicions be-
ing removed, fear still operated power-
fully upon their minds, and they would
willingly have been excused from far-
ther research. "Would any of you
chose to explore this tower P’’ said the
marquis, pointing to the broken stair-
case; “ for myself, I am mortal, and
therefore fear to venture; but you, who
hold communion with disembodied spi-
rits, may partake something of their na-
ture ; if so, you may pass without ap-
prehension where the ghost has proba-
bly passed before." They shrunk at
this reproof, and were silent.
The marquis turning to a door on
his


( 182 )
his right hand, ordered it to be un-
locked. It opened upon the country,
and the servants knew it to be the same
whence the figure had appeared. Hav-
ing re-locked it, "Lift that trap-door;
we will descend into the vaults," said
the marquis. "What trap-door, my
Lord P” said Robert, with encreased
agitation; "I see none." The marquis
pointed, and Robert perceived a door
which lay almost concealed beneath the
stones that had fallen from the stair-
case above. He began to remove them,
when the marquis suddenly turning—
“I have already sufficiently indulged
your folly," said he, "and am weary of
this business. If you are capable of re-
ceiving conviction from truth, you must
now be convinced that these buildings
are not the haunt of a supernatural be-
ing; and if you are incapable, it would
be entirely useless to proceed. You,
Robert, may therefore spare yourself
the trouble of removing the rubbish;
we will quit this part of the fabric.”
The


( 183 )
The servants joyfully obeyed, and
the marquis locking the several doors,
returned with the keys to the habitable
part of the castle. -
Every enquiry after Julia had hitherto
proved fruitless; and the imperious na-
ture of the marquis, heightened by the
present vexation, became intolerably
oppressive to all around him. As the
hope of recovering Julia declined, his
opinion that Emilia had assisted her to
escape strengthened, and he inflicted
upon her the severity of his unjust sus-
picions. She was ordered to confine
herself to her apartment till her inno-
cence should be cleared, or her sister
discovered. From Madame de Menon
she received a faithful sympathy, which
was the sole relief of her oppressed
heart. Her anxiety concerning Julia
daily encreased, and was heightened
into the most terrifying apprehensions
for her safety. She knew of no person
in whom her sister could confide, or of
any


( 184 )
any place where she could find protec-
tion ; the most deplorable evils were
therefore to be expected.
One day, as she was sitting at the
window of her apartment, engaged in
melancholy reflection, she saw a man
riding towards the castle on full speed.
Her heart beat with fear and expecta-
tion for his haste made her suspect he
brought intelligence of Julia ; and she
could scarcely refrain from breaking
through the command of the marquis,
and rushing into the hall to learn some-
thing of his errand. She was right in
her conjecture; the person she had seen
was a spy of the marquis's, and came to
inform him that the lady Julia was at
that time concealed in a cottage of the
forest of Marentino. The marquis, re-
joiced at this intelligence, gave the man
a liberal reward. He learned also, that
she was accompanied by a young cava-
lier; which circumstance surprized him
exceedingly ; for he knew of no person
except


( 185 )
except the count de Vereza with whom?
she could have entrusted herself, and
the count had fallen by his sword ' He
immediately ordered a party of his peo-
ple to accompany the messenger to the
forest of Marentino, and to suffer neither
Julia nor the cavalier to escape them,
on pain of death.
When the duke de Luovo was in-
formed of this discovery, he entreated
and obtained permission of the marquis
to join in the pursuit. He immediately
set out on the expedition, armed, and
followed by a number of his servants.
He resolved to encounter all hazards,
and to practise the most desperate ex-
tremes, rather than fail in the object of
his enterprize. In a short time he over-
took the marquis's people, and they
proceeded together with all possible
speed. The forest lay several leagues
distant from the castle of Mazzini, and
the day was closing when they entered
upon the borders. The thick foliage of
the


( 186 )
the trees spread a deeper shade around;
and they were obliged to proceed with
caution. Darkness had long fallen up-
on the earth when they reached the cot-
tage, to which they were directed by a
light that glimmered from afar among
the trees. The duke left his people at
some distance; and dismounting, and
accompanied only by one servant, ap-
proached the cottage. When he reached
it he stopped, and looking through the
window, observed a man and woman
in the habit of peasants seated at their
supper. They were conversing with
earnestness, and the duke, hoping to
obtain farther intelligence of Julia, en-
deavoured to listen to their discourse.
They were praising the beauty of a la-
dy, whom the duke did not doubt to be
Julia, and the woman spoke much in
praise of the cavalier. "He has a
noble heart," said the ; “ and I am sure,
by his look, belongs to some great fa-
mily." "Nay," replied her compa-
nion,


( 187 )
nion, “the lady is as good as he. I
have been at Palermo, and ought to
know what great folks are, and if she
is not one of them, never take my word
again. Poor thing, how she does take
on It made my heart ach to fee her."
They were some time silent. The
duke knocked at the door, and enquired
of the man who opened it concerning
the lady and cavalier then in his cot-
tage. He was assured there were no
other persons in the cottage than those
he then saw. The duke persisted in
affirming that the persons he enquired
for were there concealed; which the
man being as resolute in denying, he
gave the signal, and his people ap-
proached, and surrounded the cottage.
The peasants terrified by this circum-
stance, confessed that a lady and cava-
lier, such as the duke described, had
been for some time concealed in the
cottage; but that they were now de-
parted.
Suſ-


( 188 )
Suspicious of the truth of the latter
assertion, the duke ordered his people
to search the cottage, and that part of
the forest contiguous to it. The search
ended in disappointment. The duke,
however, resolved to obtain all possible
information concerning the fugitives ;
and assuming, therefore, a stern air,
bade the peasant, on pain of instant
death, discover all he knew of them.
The man replied, that on a very dark
and stormy night, about a week before,
two persons had come to the cottage,
and desired shelter. That they were
unattended; but seemed to be persons
of consequence in disguise. That they
paid very liberally for what they had ;
and that they departed from the cot-
tage a few hours before the arrival of
the duke. "
The duke enquired concerning the
course they had taken, and having re-
ceived information, re-mounted his
horse, and set forward in pursuit. The
road


( 189 )
road lay for several leagues through the
forest, and the darkness, and the pro-
bability of encountering banditti, made
the journey dangerous. About the
break of day, they quitted the forest,
and entered upon a wild and moun-
tainous country, in which they travelled
some miles without perceiving a hut,
or a human being. No vestige of cul-
tivation appeared, and no sounds reach-
ed them but those of their horses feet,
and the roaring of the winds through
the deep forests that overhung the
mountains. The pursuit was uncertain,
but the duke resolved to persevere.
They came at length to a cottage,
where he repeated his enquiries, and
learned to his satisfaction that two per-
sons, such as he described, had stopped
there for refreshment about two hours
before. He found it now necessary to
stop for the same purpose. Bread and
milk, the only provisions of the place,
were set before him, and his attendants
would


( 190 )
would have been well contented, had
there been sufficient of this homely fare
to have satisfied their hunger.
Having dispatched an hasty meal,
they again set forward in the way
pointed out to them as the route of the
fugitives. The country assumed a more
civilized aspect. Corn, vineyards, olives,
and groves of mulberry-trees adorned
the hills. The vallies, luxuriant in
shade, were frequently embellished by
the windings of a lucid stream, and di-
versified by clusters of half-seen cot-
tages. Here the rising turrets of a mo-
nastery appeared above the thick trees
with which they were surrounded ; and
there the savage wilds, the travellers
had passed, formed a bold and pictu-
resque back-ground to the scene.
To the questions put by the duke to
the several persons he met, he received
answers that encouraged him to pro-
ceed. At noon he halted at a village to
refresh himself and his people. . He
could


( 191 )
could gain no intelligence of Julia, and
was perplexed which way to chuse;
but determined at length to pursue the
road he was then in, and accordingly
again set forward. He travelled seve-
ral miles without meeting any person
who could give the necessary informa-
tion, and began to despair of success.
The lengthened shadows of the moun-
tains, and the fading light, gave signals
of declining day; when having gained
the summit of a high hill, he observed
two persons travelling on horse-back in
the plains below. On one of them he
distinguished the habiliments of a wo-
man; and in her air he thought he disco-
vered that of Julia. While he stood at-
tentively surveying them, they looked
towards the hill, when, as if urged by
a sudden impulse of terror, they set off
on full speed over the plains. The duke
had no doubt that these were the per-
sons he sought ; and he, therefore, or-
º, dered some of his people to pursue
them,


( 192 )
them, and pushed his horse into a full
gallop. Before he reached the plains,
the fugitives, winding round an abrupt
hill, were lost to his view. The duke
continued his course, and his people,
who were a considerable way before him,
at length reached the hill, behind which
the two persons had disappeared. No
traces of them were to be seen, and they
entered a narrow defile between two
ranges of high and savage mountains;
on the right of which a rapid stream
rolled along, and broke with its deep
resounding murmurs the solemn silence
of the place. The shades of evening
Bow fell thick, and the scene was soon
enveloped in darkness; but to the duke,
who was animated by a strong and im-
petuous passion, these were unimpor-
tant circumstances. Although he knew
that the wilds of Sicily were frequently
infested with banditti, his numbers
made him fearless of attack. Not so
his attendants, many of whom, as the
dark-


( 193 )
darkness increased, testified emotions
not very honourable to their courage;
starting at every bush, and believing it
concealed a murderer. They endea-
voured to dissuade the duke from pro-
ceeding, expressing uncertainty of their
being in the right route, and recom-
mending the open plains. But the duke,
whose eye had been vigilant to mark
the flight of the fugitives, and who
was not to be dissuaded from his pur-
pose, quickly repressed their arguments.
They continued their course without
meeting a single person.
The moon now rose, and afforded
them a shadowy imperfect view of the
surrounding objects. The prospect was
gloomy and vast, and not a human ha-
bitation met their eyes. They had now
lost every trace of the fugitives, and
found themselves bewildered in a wild
and savage country. Their only remain-
ing care was to extricate themselves
from so forlorn a situation, and they liſ-
Vol. I. K tened
w


( 194 )
tened at every step with anxious atten-
tion for some sound that might discover
to them the haunts of men. They lis-
tened in vain; the stillness of night
was undisturbed but by the wind, which
broke at intervals in low and hollow
murmurs from among the mountains.
As they proceeded with silent cau-
tion, they perveived a light break from
among the rocks at some distance. The
duke hesitated whether to approach, since
it might probably proceed from a party
of the banditti with which these moun-
tains were said to be infested. While
he hesitated, it disappeared; but he had
not advanced many steps when it re-
turned. He now perceived it to issue from
the mouth of a cavern, and cast a bright
reflection upon the overhanging rocks
and shrubs.
He dismounted, and followed by two
of his people, leaving the rest at some
distance, moved with flow and silent
steps towards the cave. As he drew
near,


( 195 )
near, he heard the sound of many voices
in high carousal. Suddenly the uproar
ceased, and the following words were
sung by a clear and manly voice :
S O N G.
Pour the rich libation high;
The sparkling cup to Bacchus fill;
His joys shall dance in ev'ry eye,
And chace the forms of future ill
Quick the magic raptures steal
O'er the fancy-kindling brain,
Warm the heart with social zeal,
And song and laughter reign.
Then visions of pleasure shall float on our sight,
While light bounding our spirits shall flow;
And the god shall impart a fine sense of delight
Which in vain sober mortals would know.
The last verse was repeated in loud
chorus. The duke listened with asto-
nishment | Such social merriment amid
a scene of such savage wildness, appeared
more like enchantment than reality. He
would not have hesitated to pronounce
this a party of banditti, had not the
K 2. deli-


( 196 )
delicacy of expression preserved in the
song, appeared unattainable by men of
their class.
He had now a full view of the cave;
and the moment which convinced him
of his error, served also to encrease his
surprize. He beheld, by the light of a
fire, a party of banditti seated within
the deepest recess of the cave round a
rude kind of table formed in the rock.
The table was spread with provisions,
and they were regaling themselves with
great eagerness and joy. The counte-
nances of the men exhibited a strange
mixture of fierceness and sociality;
and the duke could almost have ima-
gined he beheld in these robbers a band
of the early Romans before knowledge
had civilized, or luxury had softened.
them. But he had not much time for
meditation; a sense of his danger bade
him fly while to fly was yet in his power."
As he turned to depart, he observed
two saddle horses grazing upon the herb-
age


( 197 )
age near the mouth of the cave. It in-
stantly occurred to him that they be-
longed to Julia and her companion.
He hesitated, and at length determined
to linger awhile, and listen to the con-
versation of the robbers, hoping from
thence to have his doubts resolved.
They talked for some time in a strain
of high conviviality, and recounted in
exultation many of their exploits. They
described also the behaviour of several
people whom they had robbed, with
highly ludicrous allusions, and with
much rude humour, while the cave re-
echoed with loud bursts of laughter
and applause. They were thus engaged
in tumultuous merriment, till one of
them cursing the scanty plunder of their
late adventure, but praising the beauty
of a lady, they all lowered their voices
together, and seemed as if debating
upon a point uncommonly interesting
to them. The passions of the duke were
roused, and he became certain that it
K 3 Was


( 193 )
was Julia, of whom they had spoken.
In the first impulse of feeling he drew
his sword; but recollecting the number
of his adversaries, restrained his fury.
He was turning from the cave with a
design of summoning his people, when
the light of the fire glittering upon the
bright blade of his weapon, caught the
eye of one of the banditti. He started
from his feat, and his comrades instantly
rising in consternation, discovered the
duke. They rushed with loud vocifera-
tion towards the mouth of the cave.
He endeavoured to escape to his peo-
ple; but two of the banditti mounting
the horses which were grazing near,
quickly overtook and seized him. His
dress and air proclaimed him to be a
person of distinction; and, rejoicing in
their prospect of plunder, they forced
him towards the cave. Here their com-
rades awaited them; but what were the
emotions of the duke, when he dis-
covered in the person of the principal
robber


( 199 )
robber his own son who, to escape the
galling severity of his father, had fled
from his castle some years before, and
had not been heard of since.
He had placed himself at the head of
a party of banditti, and, pleased with
the liberty which till then he had never
tasted, and with the power which his
new situation afforded him, he became
'ſo much attached to this wild and law-
less mode of life, that he determined
never to quit it till death should dissolve
those ties which now made his rank only
oppressive. This event seemed at so
great a distance, that he seldom allowed
himself to think of it. Whenever it
should happen, he had no doubt that he
might either resume his rank without
danger of discovery, or might justify
his present conduct as a frolic which a
few acts of generosity would easily ex-
cuse. He knew his power would then
place him beyond the reach of censure,
in a country where the people are ac-
K.4 cuſtomed


( 200 )
cuſtomed to implicit subordination, and
seldom dare to scrutinize the actions of
the nobility.
His sensations, however, on discover-
ing his father, were not very pleasing;
but proclaiming the duke, he protected
him from farther outrage.
With the duke, whose heart was a
stranger to the softer affections, indigna-
tion usurped the place of parental feel-
ing. His pride was the only passion
affected by the discovery ; and he had
the rashness to express the indignation,
which the conduct of his son had ex-
cited, in terms of unrestrained invec-
tive. The banditti, inflamed by the op-
probium with which he loaded their or-
der, threatened instant punishment to
his temerity; and the authority of Ric-
cardo could hardly restrain them within
the limits of forbearance.
The menaces, and at length entrea-
ties of the duke, to prevail with his son
to abandon his present way of life, were
equally


( 201 )
equally ineffectual. Secure in his own
power, Riccardo laughed at the first,
and was insensible to the latter; and his
father was compelled to relinquish the
attempt. The duke, however, boldly
and passionately accused him of having
plundered and secreted a lady and cava-
lier, his friends, at the fame time deſ.
cribing Julia, for whose liberation he
offered large rewards. Riccardo denied
the fact, which so much exasperated
the duke, that he drew his sword with
an intention of plunging it in the breast
of his son. His arm was arrested by
the surrounding banditti, who half un-
sheathed their swords, and stood sus-
pended in an attitude of menace. The
fate of the father now hung upon the
voice of the son. Riccardo raised his
arm, but instantly dropped it, and turn-
ed away. The banditti sheathed their
weapons, and stepped back.
* Riccardo solemnly swearing that he
knew nothing of the persons described,
- K 5 the


( 203 )
afford necessary refreshment for him-
self and his people. With this, how-
ever, there appeared little hope of
meeting.
K 6 CHAP.


( 204 )
CHAPTER IV.
THE night grew stormy. The hol-
low winds swept over the moun-
tains, and blew bleak and cold around;
the clouds were driven swiftly over the
face of the moon, and the duke and his
people were frequently involved in to-
tal darkness. They had travelled on
silently and dejectedly for some hours,
and were bewildered in the wilds, when
they suddenly heard the bell of a mo-
nastery chiming for midnight prayer.
Their hearts revived at the found, which
they endeavoured to follow, but they
had not gone far, when the gale wafted
it away, and they were abandoned to
the uncertain guide of their own con-
jectures.
They had pursued for some time the
way which they judged led to the mo-
nastery, when the note of the bell re-
turned upon the wind, and discovered
to


( 205 )
!
to them that they had mistaken their
route. After much wandering and dif-
ficulty they arrived, overcome with
weariness, at the gates of a large and
gloomy fabric. The bell had ceased,
and all was still. By the moon light,
which through broken clouds now
streamed upon the building, they be-
came convinced it was the monastery.
they had sought, and the duke himself
struck loudly upon the gate.
Several minutes elapsed, no person
appeared, and he repeated the stroke.
A step was presently heard within, the
gate was unbarred, and a thin shivering
figure presented itself. The duke soli-
cited admission, but was refused, and
reprimanded for disturbing the convent
at the hour sacred to prayer. He
then made known his rank, and bade
the friar inform the Superior that he
requested shelter from the night. The
friar, suspicious of deceit, and appre-
hensive of robbers, refused with much
firm-


( 207 )
head of the table. He was lifting a
large goblet of wine to his lips, and was
roaring out, "profusion and confusion,"
at the moment when the duke entered.
His appearance caused a general alarm;.
that part of the company who were not
too much intoxicated, arose from their
seats; and the Superior, dropping the
goblet from his hands, endeavoured to
assume a look of austerity, which his
rosy countenance belied. The duke re-
ceived a reprimand, delivered in the
lisping accents of intoxication, and em-
bellished with frequent interjections of
hiccup. He made known his qua-
lity, his distress, and solicited a night's
lodging for himself and his people.
When the Superior understood the dis-
tinction of his guest, his features relaxed
into a smile of joyous welcome; and
taking him by the hand, he placed him
by his side.
The table was quickly covered with
luxurious provisions, and orders were
- given


( 2 Io )
hopes. The shades were deepened by
thick and heavy clouds that enveloped
the horizon, and the deep sounding air
foretold a tempest. The thunder now
rolled at a distance, and the accumu-
lated clouds grew darker. The duke
and his people were on a wild and
dreary heath, round which they looked
in vain for shelter, the view being ter-
minated on all sides by the fame desolate:
scene. They rode, however, as hard
as their horses would carry them; and
at length one of the attendants espied
on the skirts of the waste a large man-
sion, towards which they immediately
directed their course.
They were overtaken by the storm,
and at the moment when they reached
the building, a peal of thunder, which
seemed to shake the pile, burst over
their heads. They now found them-
selves in a large and ancient mansion,
which seemed totally deserted, and
was falling to decay. The edifice was
- diſtin-


( 211 )
diſtinguished by an air of magnificence,
which ill accorded with the surround-
ing scenery, and which excited some
degree of surprize in the mind of the
duke, who, however fully justified the
owner in forsaking a spot, which pre-
sented to the eye only views of rude
and desolated nature. .
The storm increased with much vio-
lence, and threatened to detain the duke
a prisoner in his present habitation for
the night. The hall, of which he and
his people had taken possession, exhi-
bited in every feature marks of ruin and
desolation. The marble pavement was
in many places broken, the walls were:
mouldering in decay, and round the
high and shattered windows the long
grass waved to the lonely gale. Curio-
sity led him to explore the recesses of
the mansion. He quitted the hall, and
entered upon a passage which conducted
him to a remote part of the edifice. He
wandered through the wild and spacious
- apart-


( 212 )
apartments in gloomy meditation, and
often paused in wonder at the remains
of magnificence which he beheld.
The mansion was irregular and vast,
and he was bewildered in its intricacies.
In endeavouring to find his way back,
he only perplexed himself more, till at
length he arrived at a door, which he
believed led into the hall he first quitted.
On opening it, he discovered by the
faint light of the moon, a large place,
which he scarcely knew whether to
think a cloister, a chapel, or a hall.
It retired in long perspective, in arches,
and terminated in a large iron gate,
through which appeared the open coun-
try.
The lightnings flashed thick and
blue around, which together with the
thunder that seemed to rend the wide
arch of Heaven, and the melancholy
aspect of the place, so awed the duke,
that he involuntarily called to his peo-
ple. His voice was answered only


( 213 )
by the deep echoes which ran in
murmurs through the place, and died
away at a distance; and the moon now
sinking behind a cloud, left him in total
darkness.
... He repeated the call more loudly,
and at length heard the approach of
footsteps. A few moments relieved
him from his anxiety, for his people
appeared. The storm was yet loud, and
the heavy and sulphureous appearance
of the atmosphere promised no speedy
abatement of it. The duke endeavoured
to reconcile himself to pass the night in
his present si uation, and ordered a fire
to be lighted in the place he was in.
This with much difficulty was accom-
plished. He then threw himself on the
pavement before it, and tried to endure
the abstinence which he had so ill ob.
ſerved in the monastery on the preced-
ing night. But to his great joy his at-
tendants, more provident than himself,
had not scrupled to accept a comforta-
ble


( 216 )
They were now almost within his pow-
er, but the difficulty was how to des-
cend the rocks, whose stupendous
heights and craggy steeps seemed to
render them impassable. He examined
them with a scrutinizing eye, and at
length espied, where the rock receded,
a narrow winding sort of path. He
dismounted, and some of his attendants
doing the fame, followed their lord
down the cliffs, treading lightly, left
their steps should betray them. Inime-
diately upon their reaching the bottom,
they were perceived by the lady, who
fled among the rocks, and was present-
ly pursued by the duke's people. The
cavalier had no time to escape, but
drew his sword, and defended himself
against the furious assault of the duke.
The combat was sustained with much
vigour and dexterity on both sides for
some minutes, when the duke received
the point of his adversary's sword, and
fell. The cavalier, endeavouring to eſ-
Cape,


( 219 )
plains, they might not be the same who
had been secreted in the cottage, and it
was therefore possible that Julia might
have been the person whom they had
for some time followed from thence.
This suggestion awakened his hopes,
which were however quickly destroyed;
for he remembered that the only per-
sons who could have satisfied his doubts,
were now gone beyond the power of
recall. To pursue Julia, when no tra-
ces of her flight remained, was absurd ;
and he was therefore compelled to re-
turn to the marquis, as ignorant and
more hopeless than he had left him.
With much pain he reached the vil-
lage which his emissaries had discover-
ed, where fortunately he obtained some
medical assistance. Here he was ob-
liged by indisposition to rest. The an-
guish of his mind equalled that of his
body. Those impetuous passions which
so strongly marked his nature, were
roused and exasperated to a degree that
L 2. ope-


( 220 )
operated powerfully upon his constitu-
tion, and threatened him with the most
alarming consequences. The effect of
his wound was heightened by the agita-
tion of his mind; and a fever, which
quickly assumed a very serious aspect,
co-operated to endanger his life.
º
CHAP.


( 224 )
ing for some time without hearing the
sounds renewed, he laid himself down
to sleep. On the following day he men-
tioned to the man who brought him
food what he had heard, and enquired
concerning the noise. The servant ap-
peared very much terrified, but could
give no information that might in the
least account for the circumstance, till
he mentioned the vicinity of the dun-
geon to the southern buildings. The
dreadful relation formerly given by the
marquis instantly recurred to the mind
of Ferdinand, who did not hesitate to
believe, that the moans he heard came
from the restless spirit of the murdered
della Campo. At this conviction, hor-
ror thrilled his nerves; but he remem-
bered his oath, and was silent. His cou-
rage, however, yielded to the idea of
passing anothor night alone in his pri-
son, where, if the vengeful spirit of the
murdered should appear, he might even
die of the horror which its appearance
would inspire.
The


( 225 )
The mind of Ferdinand was highly
superior to the general influence of su-
perstition; but, in the present instance,
such strong correlative circumstances
appeared, as compelled even incredulity
to yield. He had himself heard strange
and awful sounds in the forsaken south-
ern buildings; he received from his fa-
ther a dreadful secret relative to them—
a secret in which his honour, nay, even
his life, was bound up. His father had
also confessed, that he had himself there
seen appearances which he could never
after remember without horror, and
which had occasioned him to quit that
part of the castle. All these recollections
presented to Ferdinand a chain of evi-
dence too powerful to be resisted; and he
could not doubt that the spirit of the dead
had for once been permitted to revisit the
earth, and to call down vengeance on the
descendants of the murderer.
This conviction occasioned him a de-
gree of horror, such as no apprehension
L 5 of


( 226 J
of mortal powers could have excited ;
and he determined, if possible, to pre-
vail on Peter to pass the hours of mid-
night with him in his dungeon. The
strictness of Peter's fidelity yielded to
the persuasions of Ferdinand, though
no bribe could tempt him to incur the
resentment of the marquis, by permit-
ting an escape. Ferdinand passed the
day in lingering anxious expectation,
and the return of night brought Peter
to the dungeon. His kindness exposed
him to a danger which he had not fore-
seen; for when seated in the dungeon
alone with his prisoner, how easily might
that prisoner have conquered him, and
left him to pay his life to the fury of
the marquis. He was preserved by the
humanity of Ferdinand, who instantly
perceived his advantage, but disdained
to involve an innocent man in destruc-
tion, and spurned the suggestion from
his mind.
Peter, whose friendship was stronger
- than
.


( 228 )
from within, and the discovery of the
fallen roof; but declared that neither
he, nor any of his fellow-servants be-
lieved the noise, or the obstruction pro-
ceeded from that, “ because, my lord,"
continued he, “ the door seemed to be
held only in one place ; and as for the
noise—O! Lord I never ſhail forget
what a noise it was l—it was a thousand
times louder than what any stones could
make.” -
Ferdinand listened to this narrative in
silent wonder wonder not occasioned
by the adventure described, but by the
hardihood and rashness of the marquis,
who had thus exposed to the inspection
of his people, that dreadful spot which
he knew from experience to be the
haunt of an injured spirit; a spot which
he had hitherto scrupulously concealed
from human eye, and human curiosity;
and which, for so many years, he had
not dared even himself to enter. Peter
went on, but was presently interrupted
by
!


( 229 )
;
s
by a hollow moan, which seemed to
come from beneath the ground. "Bless-
ed virgin ſ” exclaimed he . Ferdinand
listened in awful expectation. A groan
longer and more dreadful was repeated,
when Peter starting from his feat, and
snatching up the lamp, rushed out of
the dungeon. Ferdinand, who was left
in total darkness, followed to the door,
which the affrighted Peter had not stop-
ped to fasten, but which had closed,
and seemed held by a lock that could be
opened only on the outside. The sensa-
tions of Ferdinand, thus compelled to
remain in the dungeon, are not to be
imagined. The horrors of the night,
whatever they were to be, he was to en-
dure alone. By degrees, however, he
seemed to acquire the valour of despair.
The sounds were repeated, at intervals,
for near an hour, when silence returned,
and remained undisturbed during the
rest of the night. Ferdinand was alarmed
by no appearance, and at length, over-
COInC


( 231 )
of Ferdinand, neither did he suppose
that Ferdinand had failed to escape;
he, therefore, attributed the voice to
the being he had heard on the preced-
ing night; and starting back from the
door, fled with his companions to the
great hall. There the uproar occasion-
ed by their entrance called together a
number of persons, amongst whom was
the marquis, who was soon informed of
the cause of alarm, with a long history
of the circumstances of the foregoing
night. At this information, the mar-
quis assumed a very stern look, and
severely reprimanded Peter for his im-
prudence, at the fame time reproaching
the other servants with their undutiful-
ness in thus disturbing his peace. He
reminded them of the condescension he
had practised to dissipate their former
terrors, and of the result of their exa-
mination. He then assured them, that
since indulgence had only encouraged
intrusion, he would for the future be ſe-
were ;


( 233 )
º
anſwered to your calls, you have trans-
formed into unknown sounds. "Speak,
Ferdinand, and confirm what I say."
Ferdinand, did so. "What dreadful
spectre appeared to you last night? re-
sumed the marquis, looking stedfastly
upon him : gratify these fellows with a
description of it, for they cannot exist
without something of the marvelous."
"None, my lord," replied Ferdinand,
who too well understood the manner of
the marquis. “ Tis well," cried the
marquis, “ and this is the last time,"
turning to his attendants, “ that your
folly shall be treated with so much le-
nity." He ceased to urge the subject,
and forbore to ask Ferdinand even one
question before his servants, concern-
ing the nocturnal sounds described by
Peter. He quitted the dungeon with
eyes steadily bent in anger and suſ.
picion upon Ferdinand. The marquis
suspected that the fears of his son had
inadvertently betrayed to Peter a part
of the secret entrusted to him, and
he


( 235 ).
>
s
º
upon a young Italian cavalier, a visitor
at the castle, who possessed too much of
the spirit of gallantry to permit a lady
to languish in vain. The marquis, whose
mind was occupied with other passions,
was insensible to the misconduct of his
wife, who at all times had the address
to disguise her vices beneath the gloss
of virtue and innocent freedom. The
intrigue was discovered by Madame,
who, having one day left a book in the
oak parlour, returned thither in search
of it. As she opened the door of the
apartment, she heard the voice of the ca-
valier in passionate exclamation; and on
entering, discovered him rising in some
confusion from the feet of the marchio-
ness, who, darting at Madame a look of
severity, arose from her seat. Madame,
shocked at what she had seen, instantly,
retired, and buried in her own bosom
that secret, the discovery of which
would most essentially have poisoned
the peace of the marquis. The mar-
chioneſs,


( 236 )
chioneſs, who was a stranger to the ge-
nerosity of sentiment which actuated
Madame de Menon, doubted not that
she would seize the moment of retalia-
tion, and expose her conduct where
most she dreaded it should be known.
The consciousness of guilt tortured her
with incessant fear of discovery, and
from this period her whole attention was
employed to dislodge from the castle,
the person to whom her character was
committed. In this it was not difficult
to succeed; for the delicacy of Ma-
dame's feelings made her quick to per-
ceive, and to withdraw from a treatment
unsuitable to the natural dignity of her
character. She therefore resolved to
depart from the castle; but disdaining
to take an advantage even over a suc-
cessful enemy, she determined to be
silent on that subject which would in-
stantly have transferred the triumph from
her adversary to herself. When the
marquis, on hearing her determination
to


~.4.~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~.~~


）***--------